I predominantly write Kylo Ren, but on occasion I will spark something up that involves the Knights of Ren. I write about Mando/Din Djarin and other AD characters on occasion.
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Full length fics:
Captivated
Kylo Ren x Reader
Teacher!AU (Complete)
Description:
Photography was your safe haven. You depended on it for a source of tranquility, which was a steel factor as to why you have been retaking the class for years. Things change for the better (and the worse) when your photography teacher retires and a new and young, brooding man-- 𝗞𝘆𝗹𝗼 𝗥𝗲𝗻-- fills her position with a mysterious demeanor that captivates you. Between the lust and the chaos that has taken over your life since the moment you met him, the chaos always seemed to win.
**This is an older fic, it was my first one ever. I apologize for grammar mistakes and just the chaoticness of it all. I have improved tremendously, and I plan to revise Captivated once I find the time to do so.**
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Allured
Sequel of Captivated
Modern!AU *ON HIATUS*
Description:
Ten tedious months have passed since your skin was last caressed by the calloused hands of your dignified lover, Kylo Ren. He was engrossed with his work in Chicago, and you, were a freshly graduated student from your strident high school; and you had been offered an internship with an infamous photography company in the exact city Kylo Ren had scampered off to. With the havoc of your bustling lives, would there be time to rekindle that flame of inclination and love that once set your worlds ablaze?
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Dangerous Affection
Kylo Ren x Reader
Hitman!Kylo x Hitwoman!Reader
*Complete*
Description:
Kylo Ren was cruel. Poisonous and diabolical. You were the assassin hired to fulfill the task of obliterating the anarchic man. Cutting the loose ends he had wired with your commuting "employers" the Resistance. Only instead of cutting those ties, Kylo Ren enraptures you with the rope of his deception, embracing you with a new tie that would forever hold you firm. You thought abolishing him would be easy: and oh... was this monster going to prove your judgement wrong.
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Beautiful Liar
Adam Sackler x Reader
In progress...
Description:
As a dysfunctional, recovering alcoholic, you move to New York to establish your life priorities as a journalist. Only, the past is as vibrant as ever, when you run into a man just as tragically broken as you. With a lack of differences between you, and 𝗔𝗱𝗮𝗺 𝗦𝗮𝗰𝗸𝗹𝗲𝗿, a lost, temperamental actor-in-rising, it's simple to get lost in the infatuation of feeling understood.
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One-shot Series’:
Content marked with * is NSFW.
Content with an ❕Icon are heavy, particularly involving intense sadism/masochism, dub/noncon situations, and dark content in general.
Warnings: Affairs/Infidelity, Massive Age-gap, Teacher/student relations, the Reader is a nymphet— and Charlie glamorizes the fuck out of it, Sexually explicit thoughts, Innocence Kink, Size difference, Filthy talk, Daddy Kink, Fingering, Sex in the photography darkroom, Heavy cheating kink, seriously, it's crazy, Homewrecker Kink (yes, It's a thing)
Mr. Barber's hands were splintered with a magic that only he possessed. Capable of eliciting the most pain— and applying the most pliantest of touches.
They were tasked with many things; writing in his signature, sloven cursive, slashing markings with the pen his hand dwarfed, gesturing ardently as he lectured.
But they were better at touching you.
Caressing you, inflicting an elating pain out of you, rousing bliss from the center that anchored you down.
Your thighs were his favorite to explore... winding up that supple, jiggly, stretch-marked flesh... kneading, venturing, slithering up the backs, sneaking under the flowy breadth of your skirt. The skirt that tested his craving for a curious, innocent little girl like yourself.
He loved a curious little kitten, so eager to pounce and gnaw and play....
His fingertips ghosting the curve of your ass, fondling gently, but with sinister intent. Nails embellishing tenderly into the flesh, as his teeth embark on a quest that involves exploring your throat, brushing, but never fully nipping.
Like that one evening on a picnic blanket somewhere, with the suns scorning summer rays and the breezes humidity— where that short, chastily white, bohemian dress clung onto your skin where the sweat harvested, accentuating your curves, glistening your features with perspiration.
Wind tousling your hair, billowing through those locks that his fingers skimmed and tangled through, roughly, because it always evoked a primal, stunned squeak from your mouth.
The wind would jostle with the flowing hem of your pure, docile, nearly transparent dress, and reveal just enough of your cotton baby pink panties that had that silky little bow he loved embedded into the top.
The way your sweat-slicken features were painted golden under the suns evening hue, as you straddled his lap and only slightly gyrated your hips, cupping his cheek, grinning that pearly, glowing smile at him as he only basked in your glory. Watching you with a stoic ripple of his brow and a faint curl of his lip.
"Mr. Barber," a boyish voice chides.
Charlie blinks profusely, bewildered. His nose skewers up, chest swelling with his deep breath, when dozens of pairs of concerned, inquisitive eyes gape back at him.
"Yes?" He appoints gruffly, clearing his throat. Scratching at the sweat beading on his brow.
The boy swallows nervously. "Uh, you... were just saying how we need to improve for... next weeks show." He states heedfully.
Charlie's throat bobs as he gulps, eyes flickering around the plethora of intrigued students— darting to you. Doing a thorough, calculated survey of your persona, that radiated prudence.
Your cheeks were famished red with timidity, smile feigning innocent, false purity. Short skirt riding tumultuously up your thick fucking thighs, that he would love to just be smothered by right now.
Your fingers twiddle, fidget with the fringe hem. Toying with the small, tethered strand that unroots from it. Your doe eyes blink back at him coyly.
"Yes," he felt as if the simple word punched through his lungs, hoarse and uncertain. He shakes his head vehemently, "Yes." He confirms assertively, gesturing towards the curious student with his ink pen. "You know how much I appreciate your compliance, and dedication to my class— but there is much altering on my and your behalves to be done before we premiere next Thursday."
Considering his meticulousness; it should've wounded him to mandate modifications at a time so close to curtain call, but it didn't. Maybe because something, or someone else, was torpedoing throughout his easily tantalized mind instead. That somebody gleamed at him with poisonous, candied eyes, making it hard to relish in the task at hand, as being the director of one of broadways most critically-acclaimed stage adaptations of Don Quixote.
His eyes flicker to the standard clock mounted to the wall— the tedious ticks taunting him with each, beating chime.
"I've wasted your time today," he apologizes haphazardly, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, pen still stuffed between two slender, thick fingers. "We'll be reconvening in the East auditorium this evening, as preparation for tomorrow's rehearsal. It's not mandatory— but if you ever want to see a stage with me behind those stage-lights ever again; I suggest you attend."
The clock strikes noon as he affirms his potently delivered speech. The bell rings boisterously, dismissing the cluster of students as they file out of the dome-constructed classroom giddily, yapping murmurs.
He eyes you as you flounder charily through the group, sandwiched between the congested crowd, your shoulders high-strung, binder embraced tightly to your chest. Scrambling out of the room in those tiny, polished black clogs you always paired with those chivalrously pastel skirts.
He saddles up his tawny, worn-leather bag, cramping it full of overflowing portfolios, scripting logs, and the canister of beefy-vegetable soup he prepared for himself yet refused to touch, slinging it over his broad shoulder once the class was cleansed of students.
He glanced around the lecture hall, glimpsing the pristine face of his watch, sloppily shoving up his sleeve with his index finger, narrowing his eyes to squint out the digits articulating on his watch. 12:02. Two more hours, and he could have his hands of expertise exploring your body.
That imperfectly-flawless body that belongs to him, belongs to the curves and crevices and callouses of his palms. Belongs to the breadth of his body that was a slab of pure formidability and muscle, triple the size of yours, brittle and brisk with natural goddess-like curvature.
The fantasies that vanquished his mind just moments before would shift to reality in just a couple more hours of leisure lectures and diligent planning for next weeks substantial events.
***
A neon, scarlet, beaming red illuminates your frame, tainting your skin with its scandalous sheen. The darkroom was secluded, a dominion for you, and you alone, as you horizontally dip one of your freshly curated photographs into the tank of polyvinyl fluid registered before you.
It was quaint— the distant clank of the air conditionings robust blast rattled the darkroom, that was small enough to encompass just a cranny of the campuses main Art colony.
It was your safe place.
The diabolical shading of the compact rooms blinding, cherry red lights was enough to submerge you in an essence of something purely pacifying, and yours to tranquilly bask in. The majority of the academy turned a blind eye to the entire photography region of your school, so the darkroom remained rather vacant and desolately lonely at times.
You hum a mellow tune, fingers coated in the creamy, transparent substance glossifying the photographs you snapped at your local German-villiage (with Mr. Barber by your side, big hand engulfing yours) only a couple days before.
Wispy baby-hairs scraggle into your face, shielding your eyes, as you work gently at the pictures you perfected. Allowing them to absorb the liquid, and the enhancing nutrients from the frivolous red LED's.
You were at peace, content just bathing in the artificial lights automatic warmth, singing off-key under your breath, swirling about the darkroom as you maneuvered from station to station; smothering the photographs in the liquid, swiveling around to clip them up to dry.
That was before the corridor screeched open, broadcasting the white, fluorescent lights from the classroom just outside the darkroom. You hiss, using your body to shield the progressing photographs as best as you can before they got exposed to the shift in brightness.
"Darling," Mr. Barber leers, voice low and mystifying, as if his tone was accommodating to the silence filtering the space. The corridor emits one final string of creaks as he cautiously latched it shut behind him.
"Mr. Barber." You whisper through the smile you start to suppress, shimmying away from him to check on the progress of your photos.
His hands clasp your hips, kneading pliantly, thumbs rolling tenderly into the dips. "Mm." He hums, a husky growl of appreciation, as his chest expands to swell into your back. The way his hulking figure towered over you was tactile; his shadow looming over you in the pool of red-tainted polyvinyl.
His wedding band chafes on the fabric of your plaited, demurring skirt, as his hands slither from the curves of your hips, up to your waist, brushing the breadth of your underboobs, then trailing back down.
His hands escape your frame, sliding beneath your underarms, bracing the edge of the scuffed-up counter. Barbing you in with his bulky arms. His colossal frame moves ethically to pin you, softly, into the counter. He slovenly kisses across your shoulder, pecking sweetly, purposely distracting you from your objective.
He suckles pliantly into the seam of your neck, groaning, teeth navigating your skin as you whimper at the graze of his teeth and subconsciously arch your back. Fingers now clammy, quivering, as you move to release them from the frigid liquid and hang them dry.
You stand on your tiptoes, to retrieve the previous batch of dried photos— Charlie's mouth follows your movements, lips delving into your neck, higher up, tongue flicking at that tender spot encompassing your earlobe. This elicits a primal squeak from you, as you wrack forward, hanging the freshly waxed photos up to dry with trembling digits.
You deliberately resume the cycle you had accustomed yourself to, starting a fifth batch. He huffs through his nostrils, as you quiver with each subtle movement, the air ghosting your pulse— creating a ripple of goosebumps that flake across your skin, a shudder surging up your arched spine.
He snickers, finger lazily brushing at a tendril of your hair, "Is my little girl happy to see me?" He murmurs gravely, a hint of amusement clinging to his dark tone.
You nod skittishly, stifling a whine, as his face lowers vehemently to your ear. He observes you from this angle, head stoically tilted, hands aimlessly peeling the drenched photographs out of your grasp.
"That was a silly question of me to ask, huh?" He croons, lips lowering to your jaw, passionately etching in a kiss on the brim. One hand abandons the counter to snake down your leg, cold wedding-ring indenting into your thigh as he gives it a pliable squeeze. "These legs are already shaking, and you haven't even looked at me yet."
At that, he whips you around, pivoting your body to face him. His hands plant back to the counter, his face hovering over yours, gaze captivating an intensity that made inclination stir and harvest in your core. He smirks, eyes penetrating through your lips.
He was doused in a devious red hue, every contour of his brooding face was blanketed in a neon-scarlet. Even the quirk of his plump lips as he smirks down at you dauntingly was painted a devilish red.
"You've been my distraction all day." He accuses sinisterly, jaw clenching, fingers ascending to level with your face. His wedding-ring ricochets the red glow, mimicking the wicked gleam in Charlie's eyes when the symbol of his infidelity reflects off of your enthralled pupils. "Now suck."
His long, stout, strong fingers wriggle in your face— without reluctance you dive for his ring and middle finger, taking them rigorously into your mouth. Your lips seal brashly around his knuckles, sucking, tongue swiping brazenly at the ring garnering his finger.
You ogle at him with wide, obliging, submissive eyes, staring him straight in the eye, as he guides his fingers through your lips.
Your tongue laps at the ring, ravenously flicking across it, easing it off of his finger leisurely. When it reaches his fingertip, you apply a final lick to the calloused pad of his finger, as his wedding ring loops around the tip of your tongue.
"Show me." He commands monotonously, sneering at you from the length of his long nose, pinching your jaw to quirk your mouth open. Your tongue shoots out to broadcast his ring, shimmering with saliva at the edge of your tongue. "Good. Now show me where it belongs."
Bewitchingly, your fingers wind up to your bottom lip, propping it open with the bare ring finger of your left hand. You tweak the ring with your tongue, using the drool that laps in the back of your throat to ease the ring down your finger, tunneling it all the way down to the ridge of your knuckle. It dangled, slick with spit, as it rests multiple sizes too large and wet around your ring finger.
"That's right." He purrs, corruptly satisfied, damp finger resting on your chin and tipping it upwards. His thumb untucks to caress your jaw bleakly. "That's a good girl..." the words rumble huskily from the depths of his chest.
You mewl, protruding into his touch that was like silk— coercing and soft— when a flicker of dull light emerged from the corner of the darkroom.
You squint your eyes to adjust to the salaciously red lighting, surveying the object that conveys a small, appending flash.
It was one of the Cameras that one of the photography students potentially misplaced or disregarded the idea of storing.
And it was recording.
He follows your bewildered gaze, a smirk instantly toying with his placated expression.
He uses his mouth to retrieve his ring back from your finger, tongue working skillfully, methodically, calmly to gather it. His hazel eyes boring through yours, deadpan, as he removes it from your finger and sucks it into his mouth. Placing it delicately back on his finger.
"Spread those legs." He orders, pointing with his saliva-slicken digits. He glances ominously at the camera, smirking. "We're gonna show my wife the way this pussy cums for me."
He scoops you off of the ground, settling your ass at the ledge of the counter, urging your legs open, spreading them for his own lecherous, greedy access. The proof of your libido was visible, even beneath the red glow, the puddle of your arousal seeping through those little cotton panties Charlie adored.
"Did you wear these for me, baby?" He husks sinisterly, caressing your wet folds through your panties, evoking a shaky whimper out of you. He fidgets with the tiny, sleek ribbon at the top of your dainty little panties, smirking. "You know how much Daddy loves these..."
"Y-yes," you admit bashfully, breathily. Nodding friskily to confirm.
His fingers twirl around the hem of your panties, securely looping them around his digits. Tediously, he pulls them down, unraveling your glistening pussy— to his gloriously smug eyes, and to the camera.
He situates them in the pocket of his crisp, suave blazer. "Show her how wet you get for me... a married man." He snarls, gripping both of your thighs, expanding them to broadcast the juices that leak from your core and drizzle shamefully upon the counter. "Let her know that nothing compares to this pretty little pussy. Let her know it belongs to me."
The tips of his ring and middle finger swirl at your entrance, teasing, easing in, and then out, lashing you with a leisure torment.
"You want me to fuck you with my fingers... hm." He coos, voice raspy and sweetly amatory, as he slides the tips in belligerently. "Tell Daddy what you want."
You clamor, bucking your hips up out of dire desperation for his touch, "I w-want you to fuck me with your f-fingers." The words squeal pathetically from your lips.
He hums gruffly, chest huffing. "What ever happened to please, daddy?" He feigns a pout, antagonizing you.
"Please, daddy!" You whine enthusiastically.
He rewards you by wisping his thumb over your needy clit, sheathing your entrance with two long, rough fingers.
You gasp, air forcefully smothering your lungs, nails clawing fraughtly at the counter as his fingers fill you to the hilt, wedding ring grating your slick walls.
He grunts, pounding his fingers into you, the squelch of his digits slamming into your dripping pussy reverberating around the room. Your moans hitch with the force of his ravenous pumps, one of your hands escaping the counter to fist his blazer raunchily.
His ring persistently catches on your folds, grazing your walls, that clench lewdly at the thought of the cold titanium being wedged into your cunt— his betrayal was the catalyst of your craving, that sent ripples of wreathing desire through every crevice of your being— for you know that despite these illicit affairs, and his disposition being owned by another woman; you were the downfall of his fidelity... and there was something empowering in revoking ones loyalty to another.
"That's right," he rasps, curling his fingers, plucking that tender spot that extorts a guttural, wanton moan out of you, your legs spasming vigorously. "My ring feels good, doesn't it. It feels good to know that even a married man would play with this tight little cunt."
The tub of polyvinyl-liquid rattles and splurges around, as you jiggle the table with the rocks of your hips, meeting the deep, ravenous thrusts of his fingers.
"Yes, fuck, yes." You groan croakily, nearly frothing at his words, fluttering eyes reeling to the back of your head— ascending to your peak, brinking on the edge of ecstasy.
He shreds his fingers from your blazing core; you choke on a cracked sob of defeat, jaw slacking as you mewl meekly. His digits glisten with your juices, as he takes them into his mouth, sucking them dry of your creamy slick.
"Now. Let's show her how well you take Daddy's big cock, hm?"
He lurches you off of the counter, briskly wreathing you off, hauling you to the opposite side of the room— slamming your face into the rigidity table, squished only a couple of feet away from the still-rolling camera. The little red light blinking haphazardly to indicate it was catching every moan, and cry, and whimper that crawls up your throat. Your eyes bore through the lens with a quiver of desperation.
His fingers thread through your hair, wrenching your head back, molding your back into a subsequent arch. Ass grinding back into the bulge that tints through the dress-pants he was cladding.
"You're not the only one who loves this..." he murmurs gravelly, "Do you feel what you do to me, little girl?"
He prods his bulge into your ass, stroking it against your wet cunt, his belt-buckle dragging across your tingling slit. You stifle a whine.
His free hand works methodically at his belt, flawlessly unclasping the buckle, tearing it off of his waist. He unzips his pants, and caresses your back with the leather, trailing all the way up to the back of your neck. You stiffen, when he loops the belt around your throat— cinching it in the back, clasping it, keeping it loose enough to not restrict your airflow.
He fists the end, giving you a sharp, aggressive jerk backwards. Your chin cranes automatically, a scraggly little moan fleeing your lips, hands planting to the cold surface of the random desk.
Every muscle in your body strains when his cock sheathes your cunt, stuffing you full with his dangerous length, easing in through the slick that coats your already clenching walls.
Both of you emit salacious, breathy groans, your features scrunching together in pure pleasure at the elating pain of his big cock expanding your walls, stretching to take every inch of his girth.
"Fuck," he hisses, pumping his hips into your ass savagely, cock plunging into your pussy, railing you into the table. "This pussy's so wet."
His tip nearly reached your cervix, dick thrusting ravenously, as if the whole objective was to plow you through the creaky desk.
"Oh my god, Charlie," you gurgle pleadingly, gasping, eyes rolling back, cheeks famished with your appending high, lips parted.
He prominently strokes your sweet spots with his cock, constantly hitting you in all the most rigorous places. The fap of his dick spearing through you resounds; loud, slushy, delicious.
"I-I'm gonna cum, Mr. Barber!" You squeal, voice hoarse and strained, as you harbor your breath in your lungs, tears streaming down your cheeks.
"Do it... show her how you cum for me baby, come on." He heaves, hand slithering down your front to spread your folds, fingers rubbing swiftly at your clit. "Cum on this cock."
The humidity surfacing around the compact space flushes your cheeks, whipping them with a ferocious heat, breaths wheezing out and moans hiccuping purely from your stomach. Your body convulses as you milk his cock, squeezing his dick, wringing out every last drop of his cum.
His chest slams into your back, hands pinning to the table around your frame, pants ricocheting into your ear. You were completely spent beneath him; drool tumbling from your lips, lapping your cheek to the desk. Mascara clumping all over your cheeks, smudged and streaked. Sweat greasing your forehead.
He slips out of you, tucking himself away quaintly, both of you recovering from your climaxes. He examines the indentations that the belt had embed into your neck, before securing the belt around your throat, leaving it gripping your pulse tightly.
"I want you to walk out of this room just... like... this..." he murmurs haphazardly, adjusting the belt on you, eyeing every disheveled part of you; from your dripping, bare, ransacked pussy, that the hem of your short skirt barely concealed, to your bunched up knee socks, to the leather that garners your throat.
His eyes flicker to the camera, and he smiles a wicked, pearly grin. "Come here, little one." He directs, hoisting you from the table, bending you over the crook of his elbow like you were a ragdoll easy to be mobilized. He flashes the camera your ass, spreading your cheeks, to showcase the creamy mess he had made of your pussy— still leaking his seed, drizzling it down your thighs.
He aids you in ascending fully to your feet, rubbing your arms in alleviation, helping you stand as your knees threaten to buckle. He strokes your chin with his thumb, smiling at you, radiating a riveting pride.
"I'll take care of all of this," his eyes rake over the pictures you were in the midst of soaking before he interrupted, "All you need to do is leave this room just like this... and let everyone know who you belong to."
Warnings: Sex slavery, Dub/Non-con, Semi-delirious Reader, Orgy (Gangbang), Anal, Double Penetration, Facefucking, Forced handjobs, Slapping, Extreme degradation, Knife play + flesh carving, Force bondage and force torture, Physical Abuse + depictions of torture, Blood play, Spitting, Overstimulation, Dehumanization, Humiliation.
Word spread around the village like a wildfire: brisk, torrid, and alerting every trivial civilian, a flame of fear consuming each individual that once lived peacefully on the neutral plains of Mina Bonteri.
The notorious First Order was under the reign of a new Supreme Leader, and everyone had fabricated the idea that the new ruler— Kylo Ren— had Snoke beat at the dirty game of immorality. He always lugged around a... ravenous, poignant disposition. Things have escalated since the unforeseen death of Snoke, and his reputation had only ascended the ladder of cruelty.
His evil enigma was known amongst the Galaxy, memorized, by those that dreaded the loathing Supreme Leader and his clan of ominously promising men.
The words of anarchy, that you spread, were saturating the village in a pandemic-like state of heedfulness and vigilance. Everyone was painstakingly alert, observant. On their tiptoes, anticipating the moment havoc would be inflicted upon the surface of your bleak planet.
You were guilt-ridden by the panic you had stirred by simply transmitting the detrimental information you enquired... from a man that worked amongst the First Order, with recalcitrant ties to the Supreme Leader himself.
Vicrul Ren. Prestigious, liable clansman of the Knights of Ren. A trusted member of the dark alliance Kylo Ren had formed under the influence of Snoke. He started as one of your regulars: your occupation as a sex worker involved copious amounts of frequent visitors, but you harbored endearment for Vicrul specifically.
He was different. Despite his menacing reputation abroad the walls of the Pleasure House, he was tender and benign, in a way. He would pay double, just to spend time with you after you... well, pleasured him. He listened to you ramble and complain about your drab, degrading life as a woman bound to sex slavery, as if you were linked to it with barbed wire, anchored by fate.
Vicrul succumbed to the feelings that he had sprouted for you before you could even fabricate yours. You both harbored immense, inadmissible emotions for one another. Therefore leading to an ultimatum to be embellished. The relationship between you was declared confidential, even though anyone with a pair of eyes that sauntered into the doors of the Pleasure House could notice your lovestruck-behaviors.
He ordered a visitation with you once a week, if his diplomatic rule under the First Order granted him the spare time. You spent genial time with him, not only engaging in sexual affairs.
The thrill of your relation sizzled out shortly after the relationship blossomed to begin with. The schedule of his duties, and your non-commutable job in general, started to test his patience. Men of his breed were tetchy about things.
In the long run, he had his fun, luring you in with his coaxes, even though through the perception of his emerald-green irises, you were just his personal rag-doll that had been piped and worn to the very foundation that had rendered you.
He got bored of you. When his world was as coruscating and abysmal as it was, it was simple for a drab sex worker with a pitiful life spent shackled to the stone walls of a tarnished sex-club to bore him.
Vicrul Ren never returned to your chamber, for an evening filled with laughter and quips, nor for the pure source you truly were, a slave for him to abuse with his starving carnal needs. He simply vanished, and the bliss you endured in your short-lived bubble of happiness vanished along with the cryptic man himself.
You adapted to your sensual, agile routine as a feeble sex-slave once he was gone. Things were darker than before, though. The special treatment you were appeased with by your owner was only temporary like Vicrul was. Now that the Supreme Leaders right-hand man refused to visit the Pleasure House, the blame was pined on you for scaring away Beeka's wealthiest customer.
Beeka sentenced you longer nights amongst the dehumanizing stage of the club. Where the air reeked of poisonous concoctions and stale cologne, and where the men barked obscenities that stirred the thinning of your blood and the malice that coated your heart. Nights were spent flashing a crowd of bawdy men as you twirled in sultry ways beneath the neon glow of invigorating lights. Days were spent rotting in shackles and a grimy cell, where you hummed your desolation away in anticipation for your next client.
When a client waltzed into your designated sector for pleasuring, you indulged him with sexual release in exchange for a futilely low ransom of credits. From there your credits were collected by your owner, Beeka. He claims he deserves the credits you earn because he: "Tames the ragged bitches."
The craving for vengeance throbbed within your core like a swelling tumor. Not only for Beeka, or the regular clients that blatantly harmed you. For Vicrul. You wanted revenge. He molded you into a servant for his love, only to whip you with lies, similar to the leather one that Beeka threatens you and the other girls with if you lack compliance.
And vengeance came free, when Vicrul had already set himself up for disaster that would be detrimental for his fate. He had spoken openly about the First Orders ploys for the Galaxies fascist future ahead. He presumed that with your devotion to him, and your imprisonment amongst the club, there would be no way for his word to spread.
You had outside sources. All you had to do was coax a client into conversing with you about modern politics. It was as simple as that. You 'accidentally' let the information— that could make or break the First Orders nefarious plans— slip. And it was already done. That customer would blabber to the next. That customer would sputter the gossip to his pals over a glass of whiskey at the bar. Word would traverse from there, and Vicrul would be in ruins.
Little did you know, that you were subjected to the same fate that you had curated for Vicrul.
***
Beeka commanded your name. Barked it through a glower. There was a hint of... heedfulness in his tone. Reluctance. His approach was wavering as he pried the velvet drapes margining your chamber open.
"Get up, skank." He hissed, poking his scaly, humanoid head in, as you staggered up. Your shackles clanked, rubbing your skin raw as the cold metal jerked. "Clean ya'self up. You have an important visitor today, requested ya' specifically. Bitchin' bout you up front."
A ripple surfaced in your brow, sweat beading and dripping off of the skin underneath it. Beeka waltzed into your chamber, idly kicking around any momentum of your poor-living condition. He aggressively grappled with the steel restraints bound to your wrists. He grumbled curses to himself as he unclasped the cuffs, leaving them to dangle unyieldingly from the rusting rack of pipes mounted to the wall.
You kneaded the blotches of purple and fading yellows that tainted your skin, eyeing Beeka cautiously. "W-who?" You murmured meekly.
"Fucks' sake, shut that trap mouth!" He hollered at you, and you flinched as his navally voice scolded you. "You good for nothin', just a cheap cumbucket."
You were accustomed to his disgusting words. When he pivoted away from you, you glared at him with a snarl so cold it could freeze a flaming rod of steel. His greasy, stout figure waddled out of your chamber without another word. Thundering complaints as he strolled away with a yap.
You adjusted the lace-embroidered lingerie that garbed your sensual frame. The scandalous black attire cladding your descollage was diminutive— lascivious and eye-appealing. An array of makeup candied your face, with a swoop of mascara to clump up your lashes and a brand of nude lipstick to cake your busy lips. Your freshly combed locks were free and styled to be down and accessible for your clients. Nearly every single man fostered the tendency to sniff your hair, by impulse. When customers with expendable kinks for the scent of hair started showing up, Beeka banned updos or any style that denied the client access to your hair.
Leather garners adorned your legs, paired with black fishnets that left zagged indents into your flesh in all of the supple spots it clung to. Black pumps guarded your feet from the repulsive men with foot fetishes: and believe it or not, there were an abundance of them that entered the Pleasure House in search of a foot to lick up. You were forged to submit to any kink your client may have, though, including foot fetishes if that were relevant to your customer.
The clack of heavy boots reverberated around the hall just outside of your curtain. Loud, hefty and minacious. The squeals of fellow sex workers lingered, as the scampering of feet paired with their shrieks. You disregarded them, assuming it was just another threat from Beeka that elicited that reaction.
You were catastrophically wrong.
Plowing through the velvet drapes that offered you little solitude, the ravenously built man eyed you with a glint of resentment. His frame was monstrous, hulking, a slab of muscle garbed in black cloaks and a gnarly scent of desolation.
Your frittering heart was lodged in your throat, pulsing with a persistent, petrified thump. Blood streamed to your face, your cheeks scorning with a flame of pure terror. Your eyes raked in the expanse of his heaving chest, his pulsating neck, before locking on his grueling face.
It was the Supreme Leader.
Every form of life that habilitated the Galaxy could determine the carrier of that diabolical, glorious face. Those whiskey-honey eyes that were molten like molasses, pooling a deadly venom, gleaming ominously with spite. That prominent aqualine nose twitching in fury and betrayal.
Those plush lips housed a pink sneer that could curdle dairy. His monotonous voice was deep and titillating as he growled your name through gritted teeth, tilting his head by a minuscule to observe the way you jolted out of your own shell.
"The girl I've heard so much about." He sneers, eyeing you up with hostility, drinking in your immodest personnel.
You were frozen. Limbs immobile, breaths ricocheting inside of your chest. You swallowed the lump kindling in your throat. Mimicking an aghast deer caught in the headlights.
"I'm s-sorry Supreme Leader, but I don't know what you're referring to..." You feigned obliviousness. Words scratched at your dry throat, only to die feebly, vanquished by the lack of saliva you produced.
He invited himself into your chamber. Circling you with calculated strides, eyeing you predatorily, as if you were the victim to his heinous claws and his sharpened canines. As if he were the Lion, and you, the poor lamb.
Your clammy digits quivered at your side. Nails plucking at your cuticles. Your eyes were sheepishly trained on his. Not out of bravery, but out of fear for the consequence if you dared look away.
His expression was solemn and lethargic. As if he was everything but impressed with the sensual lack-of-clothing that garnered your appealing body. He nearly looked appalled, offended, as the ghost of a grimace lingered on his mouth.
"We're dancing on technicalities here." His voice was boisterous. Guttural and stoic. His default facade that was warped with all things malevolent never relenting. "You know what I've come for. You'll submit. Or you'll take it the hard way."
You supplied him with a meek nod. There were no words that you could muster that would save you from the wrath of Kylo Ren.
An invisible force sweeped you off of your feet. Body plummeting into the cement ground. Knees wobbly and bruised from the impact, as you bleated out a signal of distress.
He shucked his cape away from his broad hip, fumbling with his utility belt. His leather clad hand ripped the hilt of a hefty weapon from his belt. The weapon that chafed, and slashed, and impaled on countless occasions.
You cowered and trembled as you peered up at him through hooded eyes. The tips of his boots deliberately connected with your knees. His brawny build and menacing aroma only a tantalizing foot away.
The crimson flame fused from the hilt and you stifled a yelp, as the blazing tip hovered only an inch away from your nose, your skin threatening to melt and liquify from the nefarious heat.
The heat of his lightsaber would never amount to the sting of his diabolical smirk, though.
Your bottom lip wobbled. "I- I didn't mean to ruin your plans. It won't happen again." Your breathy voice trembled pathetically.
The Supreme Leader let out a husky snicker. His cowl clad chest rumbled with his dark chuckle, as he swivels the fiery sword of his saber to be resting merely an inch away from your throat. The scarlet pique of his lightsaber glistened in his blackened, depraved shark eyes, as he scowled down at you.
"It's too late for mercy." He snarled, his nostrils flaring acutely. "But you'll be pleading for something else soon."
His gloved hand intertwined with a bushel of your hair with the excruciating grip of a vice. His crooked teeth barred together. The invisible force mounting your body into position strengthened. An anguishing throb persisted your brain and you grimaced, seething in pain.
"Poor little girl." He tsked blatantly, his gruff voice hefty with dark, diverting charm. "At this rate, you'll be dead in a matter of minutes."
The crimson flame crackled and you howled out a weak cry as the sparks brushed the flesh of your neck. "So what's it going to be, Kitten?" He feigned a coo, his fingers feathering through your hair. He maliciously yanked you back, your chin craning towards the ceiling. "Are you going to submit to your Supreme Leader? Or shall I just take what I want from you instead?"
You clamored, your body rapturing and the sensibility of your mind going fried. "I submit!" You bleated through strained breaths, tears spilling down your ruby-flushed cheeks.
The agonizing, crushing force sheathing your brain vanished. The invisible embrace around your body disappeared. Your trembling body collided with the grimy cement, as you peered up at him with glossy doe eyes. He diffused his lightsaber, clipping it back to his belt, as he prowled around you methodically.
Then, the force returned: a torrid pressure sent you plummeting into the wall. A scream crawled up your throat, as your back slammed into the scalloped duracrete wall of your cell. The Supreme Leaders head simply tilted to follow your body as it wisped by briskly.
His malignancy was tactile, radiating off of him in hot spurts of revolt. His expression was deadpan as he watched you helplessly thrash and squirm. Pinned to the wall by a non-perceptible apparition.
Your body palpitated with a conjunction of fear and anticipation. He strode his way over to you guilefully. Prudently. As if he was clairvoyant, the curator of your fate. As if he knew every moment to come like the back of his calloused hand.
His approach was menacing. Evil. He reeked of all things sadistic and ignoble. If the Devil had a scent, it would be the cologne that feasted on the Supreme Leaders dark robes.
There was no time to calculate his next action before the sting already burned upon your cheek. His hand had collided with your face, sending your head whipping to the side. Volts of tingles ricocheted in the wake of his forceful slap. Then the burn of warm leather returned. Once, twice, an umpteenth amount of times. Until your cheeks were numb and swollen, and your neck was sore from wacking from side to side.
You mewled out a heedful whine and the corner of his plump lips twitched upwards in satisfaction. "Poor little Kitten..." He cooed with faux empathy, his voice laced with abhorrence. His gloved hand that was hot from the impact of his smacks caressed the welts surfacing on your skin.
You purred, his knuckles studying the length of your cheeks gingerly, before his fingers captured your chin and pinched. Angling your scarlet face towards his, as he folded at the waist and leveled his brooding face with yours.
"Let's try the other side." He murmured in that deep, tantalizing tone.
His fingers abandoned your jaw and twirled in an abrupt gesture at his side: sending you pivoting around, your stomach wedged into the wall, limbs stretching and opening for his own access.
He wasted no time before fondling with your ass. Groping them with aggressive kneads, those leather fingertips digging into your flesh. He growled in approval when you jutted your ass back into his clutches.
He supplied you with an abundance of wrathful spanks to the rear. They grew harder and vigorous with each venomous slap. You wailed out croaky sighs and whines, your body wincing every time those leather garbed hands laid a strike upon your ass.
Once he was satisfied with the bubbling, raw surface of your ass, he housed three backhand slaps on the puffy flesh just for good measure. Little did you know, that each tormented moan you croaked out was sending waves of infatuation straight to his groin. A lustful heat scorning the innards of his muscular thighs.
There was an appending amount of silence, as he loomed over you observantly. Drinking in the submission and agony that emitted from you in sweet, intoxicating fumes of fear. You whimpered and latched onto the wall like a leech, the sweat of inclination matting you to the bricks.
You had only a second to recover from the torture that your ass had just amounted to, before something warm and blissful teased your entrance. It was pressurized air. The hefty air swirled around your cunt, caressing your slit, and you stifled a perplexed moan.
"Ah." He clicked his tongue dauntingly. "You like that, hm? Does that feel good?"
You nodded, as the pressure increased, prodding at your entrance. You bucked your hips into the pleasuring phenomenon. The air started to lap up the wetness leaking from your core, dragging your juices to your clit.
"You fucking bitch." He sneered, the force deliberately plucking and massaging your clit as you moaned. "You don't even realize how much chaos you have conjured, just by simply blabbering that whore mouth of yours."
The force picked up its pace, flicking your clit with precision, and your legs stammered as you choked down any proof of your arousel. He flipped you back over, your back molding into the wall, as you slide down to your knees due to the accord of his miraculous powers.
As the force continued rubbing your clit, it started to pry at your folds. It abruptly began to thrust into you, your walls expanding for the invisible force that replicated fingers. You gasped, as the force sunk into you at a rabid speed, working and stimulating your clit.
The hand controlling the pleasure was dangling stiffly at his side. The other snatched your jaw, pinching your cheeks, propping your mouth open. "Pathetic Kitten." He glowered the words bitterly, collecting a wad of spit in the back of his throat and blasting you in the face with it.
The saliva that missed your mouth drizzled down your face. It was warm and sudsy, trickling down your cheek, as you purred and devoured the tingling sensation brewing in your core. The fear that bubbled in your gut was being abolished by the bliss replacing it.
The pleasure was ripped away from you when the hilt of his lightsaber rammed into your jaw, a sickening crack following his antagonistic action. The metallic taste of blood lapped on your tongue, as an array of colorful dots peppered your starry vision. The swollen area throbbed audaciously, as blood tumbled from your lips, and you howled out in pain.
The saber rested on your jaw. The pad of his thumb hovered over the button that would cause it to fuse and crackle. "You thought that vengeance would come easy? When it came to the First Order?" He spat words of venom, as if they discarded an appalling taste upon his tongue. "Poor Kitten... you'll be shattered once I've had my way with you."
Blood pooled on your lingerie as it spilled from your lips. He swiped it up with his thumb, thrusting it past your lips, gagging you with the puddle of burgundy that had escaped your mouth. A string of red saliva connected your lips to his fingers.
Once again, he clipped his lightsaber to the designated spot on his utility belt. His gloved fingers fiddled with the zipper clasping his taut black pants together. He circled his red, throbbing shaft— that was jeering a bulge through his trousers— and opened his free palm in front of your mouth.
"Spit." He demanded. His dark eyebrows forming an earnest hardline.
You obliged without reluctance, glaring up at him as you spit into his palm, a puddle of red saliva pooling in the crevices of his glove.
He untucked his swollen shaft, and you nearly drooled as the yearning pink tip glistened with a welcoming coat of precum. His palm that harvested your spit curled around his massive cock. He fisted it teasingly, hissing in pleasure, as he pumped himself slowly, eyeing you up with malice.
"Open that mouth wide, Kitten." He ordered, and you complied without haste, propping your sore mouth open.
His cock jumped as it neared your mouth. The tip caressed your lips. Smearing his precum around your mouth, before he took you by a chunk of your tousled hair and rammed his shaft past your lips.
You gurgled, as he relentlessly plowed his monstrous girth down your throat. You managed to bob your head just enough to aid him, even though his hips rutted into your sweaty face with little to no regards on if you were even breathing.
Droplets of mascara tainted tears, and blood, splattered on the floor and stained your cheeks as you whined into his cock. Your tongue was numb, as his cock coasted in and out, grazing your inner cheeks aggressively.
The tip collided with the back of your throat, as he grunted in pleasure and fucked your face until your lips were raw and puffy and your throat was scorned.
He abruptly jerked your head away from his cock, drool spilling from your lips as your fatigued eyes darted up to his in befuddlement. You panted hoarsely like a damned dog. Cheeks scarlet, lips bruised, eyes glossy and bloodshot. Mind discombobulated.
Those honeycomb eyes raked in the sight of your vulnerability. You searched for a glimpse of empathy in his ravenous gaze, only to be rewarded with nothing, other than his scrutinizing stare in return.
The force bondage evaporated. Your joints were free. You wrung out your wrists arduously, wiggling your toes to alleviate the tautness of your muscles. He barked out a condescending laugh when he observed your hopeful avail.
"How adorable." He mused, with a patronizing edge to his dark tone. "I was only testing the waters, Kitten. It's time for you to undergo the treatment of a true traitor."
His words chimed like infernal bells in your dazed mind, the deplorable dings ricocheting around your dreary, pulsating brain.
Your weak body became pliable at this point: peeling off of the tarnished cement with the next lethargic wave of his gloved hand. You pummeled across your dimly lit cell, your frame being lurched into your creaky cot.
His mundane demeanor unsettled you, as he strode over to your cot with ethical stomps. They were nearly tedious. Building the longing up brick by brick. Your limbs were reacquainted with the force restraints: this time molding your figure on its own accord.
You were scooped up by the force, your limbs being tampered and tugged into a position that could represent a starfish. Face mushed into the sheets, back arching, ass pointing to the chipping ceilings overhead. Arms extended and pinned into the cot.
There was silence for a long time. All you could hear were your labored breaths as they wafted back into your face. You attempted to thrash out of the invisible grasp pinning you down, only for it to be useless. You contemplated asking the Supreme Leader himself for assistance, but he would only abolish your pride with a snarky remark.
"S-sir?" You rasped. Nothing.
All you could hear was the shuffling of boots, and the gritty mumbles of masculine voices from beyond the drapes of your cell.
The luminescent light from the hallway peaked through the curtains as they were forcefully drawn. Heavy thuds of boots: not one pair, nor two, nor three. But six. The skid of their collective, leisure strides echoed around your brittle bones. Your heart stammered in your chest, your body shuddering in trepidation.
The Knights of Ren.
The atmosphere was bawdy, brisk, their colossal presences filling the room and thickening the air to be a thousand ions staler and hotter than it was before they surfaced through the compact cell.
"Have your way with her." The Supreme Leader commanded, a heap of inflamed murmurs eliciting from the assemble of aroused men.
"Leave some for me." He acknowledged them, before accounting you. "You'll have me last, Kitten. Don't fall apart without me."
You envisioned him glaring at all of the Knights, as you heard the way they shifted from foot to foot.
"She's all yours." He subtly mused.
The men pounced without haste.
First, you were stripped bare of any fabric that clung onto your body.
Hands were fondling with your ass. Groping your tits. Roughly caressing every crevice and curve of your body. You glimpsed every miscellaneous mask, as the drab helmets stared back at you lifelessly. Their hands were full of vitality, though, as they explored you like you were a slab of fresh meat, and they were the starving wolves indulging in a feast after their thrilling hunt.
Your body was overstimulated by the amounts of fingers prying and clawing at your skin. They all argued over different portions of your body, as if you truly were just an inanimate object designed for pleasure. Just a hole to be ransacked. It was dehumanizing and exhilarating all at once.
The moment came once all of them were situated amongst the parts of your body that they would annihilate.
One was located in the prized spot: underneath your body, lodged into your cunt. Gloved hands grappling at your hips as he rammed his cock up into you and forced you to ride him. Obliterating your insides with each thrust. Another mans cock was housed in your backside, stretching your tight hole with his big dick, hissing breathy curses through the modulator of his mask.
The others cock was sheltered in your aching mouth, jaw slack as you accommodated to the unfamiliar Knights vigorous thrusts down your throat. Your whole body was bouncing as two cocks filled your lower half, the other cramming into your mouth mercilessly.
Both of your hands were bound to two other cocks. One of them fucked your fist, pumping his dick into your faltering grasp, as your body convulsed with pleasure and agony. You lazily glided your hand up and down the other shaft, as raspy, masculine groans filtered the air.
Cum splattered on different origins of your body. Yours, and the Knights. It leaked from your core. It squirted around your condensed bodies. It lapped up on your body when it sprayed in white jets from their busy cocks.
Your wheezy moans and breathy screams of bliss and severe pain were nearly drowned out by the exuberant fap of cocks plowing through and into you. You were on the verge of fainting, as dehydration and overstimulation worked your bustling, writhing body.
The Knight that fucked your face finished after the men pleasuring themselves with your fists did, leaving his creamy seed to drip down your chin and collide into the helmet below you. You raked in air greedily, snorting in the warm, erotic scent of sex.
The Knight below you plucked off his helmet, and if you would've been sober of the immense torture being inflicted upon your body, you would've cried at the sheer sight of Vicrul as he fucked himself up into you with loud grunts. His hands clasped both of your cheeks, his tongue slipping into your agape mouth, kissing you with raw passion and spite.
"You fucking bitch." He growled into the hateful kiss, snagging your bottom lip, eliciting more blood to flow from your mouth as it coated his face in a downpour of crimson and the other mans cum.
"Look what you made us do, hm?" He rasped with hostility, his cock pounding into you harder, nearly sending you into your fourth oblivion of euphoria. "Naughty slut."
He angled his head in peculiar ways to take your bloody tongue into his mouth deeper, as your tears and blood mingled to drizzle all over his face. Beads of scarlet slithered down his straining neck, as you zoned in on Vicrul and the rapturing kiss, nearly forgetting that three other men were pillaging you with their own dicks.
You moaned into his mouth, your body jolting and clamoring on top of his, rocking back and forth forcefully. Everybody was starting to descend their orgasmic highs, slowing the paces of their thrusts. Vicrul hit his peak last, his broad arms embracing your body with the grasp of a vice, pumping his seed deep within your core as he groaned through gritted teeth.
As he recovered from his climax and relentlessly pulled out of you, your eyes caught his for a moment, and something somber gleamed in his emerald specks. That look was replaced by fury and betrayal in the matter of seconds, as he shoved you off of him and stumbled off of the cot.
You were immobile. Trembling, quaking, as all of the sensitive parts of your body throbbed and belched in agony. Every inch of you was overstimulated and feeble by the lightest of touches. You squirmed in the sheets, rasping a series of slurred whines and sobs, feeling beaten and deprived of vitality. Used. Torn.
Vicrul brought his helmet over his head, only to hesitate before slipping it on. "You're a fucking traitor. A disgrace to the First Order." He sneered wickedly, before spitting down on you, and latching his helmet on as it hissed and thunked itself into place.
He left without another word. The rest of the Knights reluctantly followed. A couple of them stirred heedfully and even glanced at you from over your shoulder with what you presumed to be remorse. They waddled out of the room regardless, not even granting you any reassurance or praise for your infidelity.
If you wouldn't have been able to feel the persistent pounding of your heart drumming against your ribcage, you would've sworn you were dead. Your brain was scrambled mush, incapable of producing a coherent thought.
You thought the torture was over: you prayed that it was. Only, there were no Gods nor genies to grant you your biddings when you coveted them in this insidious Galaxy.
Things only escalated. Just when you thought you had produced enough blood and cries, the Supreme Leader emerged from the drapes nearly cautiously, as if he was abiding by your worn-down state. Mollifying you in a way.
Your senses were haywire and off-key, but you could render the warmth of his gloved hand as it caressed your cheek... softly? You instinctively recoiled at the touch that inflicted this pain upon you, jolting when static zapped your broken body from the swift movement.
"I see they've left you... alive..." He considered with a grunt, cocking his head. "Kitten.”
You mustered a nearly unintelligible hum when he beckoned your title. Eyes taped shut. Sweat-clad face scrunching at him.
"What lesson have you learned?" He demanded. His deep voice was a coo.
If you were stable enough, you would state your devotion and understanding to the First Order. You would even bow before him. But you couldn't even open your swollen, bloodied mouth, or lift a limb without the muscles cracking and bleating.
You only slurred out grumbled jibberish, and a smug smirk splayed on his lips. He released something sharp and reflective from his cloak, tilting it to allow the auburn gleaming lights that flickered overhead to catch onto the silver surface.
"Mm." He huffed. "You've learned your lesson. But I'm not completely finished with you yet."
He rolled you over blatantly, and you only whined as he laid you flat on your stomach. A keen blade grazed the back of your thigh and you jolted, incapable of screaming. You were numb to the sharpness, anyways.
He carved diligently. You could feel the blood trickling down your flesh, cascading all the way down to your sheets. He embedded fleshy... words? Into your skin. Humming once he was satisfied with his work.
He beckoned his Knights with a gruff holler, and the scamper of their boots caused your gut to churn with revolt and fear.
"Carry her to the shuttle." He ordered them, and you limply succumbed to the grasps of the Knights as they all lulled you out of your cot. You were faint in the brawny arms of one of his men. "Get her cleaned up."
They obliged to his orders, all of them billowing through the Pleasure House like the nefarious clan they were. Scaring off the meek, as they hauled around your disfigured, unconscious frame.
Kylo Ren watched as you disappeared with the group. The rigid, dismantled title 'Traitor' that he had carved, oozed blood from your thigh. The proof of your betrayal forever. An emblem of treachery on the back of your dominant leg.
Your owner, Beeka, was shouting protests to the Knights as they dragged his most precious slave away. Kylo was feeling generous after the exploits him and his men had bestowed upon you, so he slammed a stack of credits on Beekas desk and mumbled a bleak, "Keep the change." as he strutted out of the Pleasure House with his pride weighing his shoulders, and a new prisoner in the hands of his men.
Dom!Kylo, Teasing, Instructional Masturbation, Voyeur & exhibitionism, Pleasure denial, Hatefucking, Sex in the classroom, Spanking, Nearly caught, Degradation and praising, Possessiveness, Older man-younger woman, no aftercare.
The forenoon sun bestowed warm, golden rays of hospitality upon the dormer window of the elevated walls of the classroom. Birds chirped in harmony, as they jestled with the lengths of their feathers, and rhymed in benign song.
Students nimbly scribbled down notes, compacted and smushed in rows and rows of conjoined desks— listening attentively, or contrarily not obtaining a word, that Mr. Ren hollered over the clank of the thermostat, and the boisterous whir of the rustic heater kicking on.
Conveniently, your assigned seat was in the center of the narrow row at the bottom of the classroom; offering you a tempting view, of the dubious Mr. Ren, as he avoided your sultry, liquidated gaze of yearning, and instead directed his wavering attention to the tarnished chalk board mounted to the scalloped brick wall.
Every time those honey-speckled orbs drifted in your direction with reluctance and vain, you found that your dainty fingers had grown dangerous, salacious minds of their own; as they subconsciously, leisurely hiked up the plaid hem of your skirt, and grazed the flesh of you inner thighs.
His inclination was tactile, at the tip of your tongue, as you mimicked the candied, pearly grin of a nymphet, swiping your slithering tongue along the scarlet path of lip gloss tainting your puckering lips, observing the way he adjusted the bulge stimulating in his pants with prudence.
"Over the course of the past few weeks, we've studied numerous capabilities of Gods and Goddesses that originated from Greece," his voice was velvety and mundane; and only you saw the hiccup of his breath when his eyes loitered on you for a moment longer than configuratively appropriate.
"With winter break just around the corner, and me, being the generous professor that I am," he paused and smirked astutely, as snickers erupted from the enclosed corners of the classroom, "I decided that to end off the semester, we will be doing a project that I think you'll find manageable."
One of the bashful boys, with swooping, sandy hair, waved his hand around, and you blatantly rolled your eyes as he directed Mr. Rens attention to him, as opposed to you.
"Yes, Nate?" He accounted him with the point of his ink pen, his eyebrows raised inquisitively.
"Does that mean no exam?" Nate chirped, wiggling his eyebrows and flashing Mr. Ren a witty smile, as Ren chuckled monotonously and pursed his deliciously plump, rouge lips.
"No—" His snicker was hoarse, and keen, like lethal acid, as his hazel eyes darted to you, and back to Nate. "It means you have a project, and an exam due before winter break."
The class groaned in response, and you barked out a poised laugh, as Mr. Ren narrowed his eyes at you in a subtle warning. You would pay for that, and your titillating greed was devouring the thoughts of your punishment lusciously— your panties were soaked, and they had been, since the moment you sauntered into class ten minutes late, with a skirt that was just the perfect amount of short to drive Mr. Ren despicably, and ultimately wild.
He vocally disregarded your shifty cackle, pivoting back to his chalkboard, that had sequences of scrambled words in his ornate cursive handwriting, that were clouded with an ivory abyss of chalk dust.
"The project will be simple." He assured, crossing his bulky arms, as the complexion of his sculpted muscles peaked through the restricting material of his blue button-up shirt; glaring at you pretentiously. "You will each be assigned a God or Goddess to do detailed research on." He plucked off his black margin glasses, raking in the sight of tedious students.
"A one page paper would've sufficed, if you all hadn't decided to collectively groan about it," he grinned diabolically, eyes training on each individual attentively as they murmured curses, before his gaze locked on yours— the satin flesh encompassing his undereye twitching agilely, when he noticed the way your hand dipped past the surface of your desk, and rested virtuously on your thigh.
"I want three full pages. Complete sentences, proper grammar, the usual." He rambled, rounding his mahogany desk, and plopping down into his squelching office chair. "I'll give you the remainder of class to begin your research. Check your emails, I've forwarded each of you credible sources that may help."
Everyone clamored for their notebooks and untucked their laptops, arduously slamming their digits into their keyboards. But not you. You stared at Mr. Ren, with a lecherous stare, that was palpable on his tantalized end. His veiny, calloused hand twitched, his pen faltering in his grasp, as he clenched his jaw and peered up at you through the vail of his dark eyelashes.
You batted your own eyelashes, purity etched into your mechanisms, as you traced raunchy designs into your thigh softly; smiling innocently, as his eyes followed your hand, as it slithered closer and closer to that wildfire of amatory blazing your core.
He briskly shook his head, to shuck the erogenous visions of you away; those lustrous thoughts that were articulating in his mind, that was once stone; and was now infatuated mush, being molded by the hands of his persistent student, that he had claimed as his muse without piecing the consequences together.
He blinked exuberantly, as if the luminescent white lights beaming down on him from the buttressed ceilings were scorning his quarrying retinas. He slipped his glasses back on, and typed methodically into the flat keyboard of his desktop computer.
You opened your own laptop, browsing your email folder. The majority of it was just a collection of junk and advertisements— except a few unopened reports from infuriated professors— and then one, fresh email, from Mr. Ren.
Ren | just now — Nov. 17 |
I'm assigning you Aphrodite.
Open the tabloid for credible sources.
Now behave yourself.
You nibbled on your bottom to suppress a judicious smile, glimpsing him over the barrier of your computer screen; he was staring at you, with that competent, flamboyant arch in his brow, and that scolding curl of his upper lip.
You typed your response tediously, systematically, feeling that heartbeat pulse in your panties as his hooded eyes watched the way your fingers skimmed over the keyboard like it was the plushest of silk.
You | just now — Nov.17 |
Yes, sir.
I'll be good for you.
Until after class.
You successfully sent the reply without revealing your candor through a mischievous smirk. You feigned the endeavorment that you were researching the Goddess he had assigned you; and that he had assigned you, due to the relativity that her abilities were based off of lust and fertility.
Mr. Ren's whiskey-hazel eyes drank in the diligently poured words of your email; his irises fogged with lust, as he glanced at you diminutively, rolling his shoulders and emailing you back.
Ren | just now — Nov.17 |
Theres my good girl.
Blood rushed to your face, scorning your cheeks a sheepish pink— the diabolic tug of his alluring lips doused your arousal in lecherous gasoline. You scrambled for your mechanical pencil, swallowing your abrupt trepidation, and scribbled down notes from the credible sources he provided you in your journal.
If Aphrodite would've been less flamboyant and custodious over her tempting reputation; Mr. Ren would've compared the two of you. You were an aphrodisiac, to the artistry of his electrifying veins— the equivalent to the libido of Cupid's arching arrow, that pierced his clad soul, and pumped his heart full of affixless toxins.
Time ticked tediously, as it always seemed to when you were anticipating the venereal exploits to come, once that boisterous bell chimed and all of the other students filed out of the classroom.
When the screech of chalk emitted from the slender white stick in Mr. Rens grip, you grimaced, and glanced up at the board. The tendons in his back muscles expanded and strained, his shoulder blades jeering softly, as he briskly scrawled down jumbled notes— presumably for the next course he would be teaching in a couple of hours— for he knew that with you on his hands, he wouldn't be able to get any of his complex work done.
The bell dinged, the irksome chime reverberating around the dull bricks margining the classroom, as students mumbled their farewells and spilled out of the room. A few students stranded behind the mass of people to ask Mr. Ren questions, and you were prolongingly bunching your belongings together and slipping them into your bag, so you had a feasible excuse for being the last to leave.
It was routine, now, blending in with the scenery of other curious students, just to be ladled by the hands of your professor. Both of you had adapted to this endeavoring ploy; watching the clock strike tortuously, itching for the moment it would dismiss the platoon of college kids and leave you with the promiscuous Mr. Ren.
"Have a great day," he said, and you could hear his feigned smile as he waved the last bushel of kids off. They scampered out of the dome constructed classroom— and shivers lined the expanse of your skin when the brawny corridor latched shut.
There was a beat of silence, as Mr. Ren strokes his jaw in contemplation, and blinks down at the scuffle of papers sprawling his desk— that was stained, with the remnants of last weeks events, that accumulated on the surface and was never affixed.
"You were late," his voice was hoarse with vexed mundaneness, as he interlocked his fingers together, and rested his chiseled chin on his thick knuckles. "For the third time this week." He hissed, narrowing his eyes at you provocatively.
"Was I?" You feigned bewilderment, smoothing the rippling fabric of your plaid skirt as you strutted to his desk with tantalizing strides.
"Mhm," he narrowed his eyes into smaller slits, as you slipped into the mahogany seat perched on the opposite end of his desk, batting your eyelashes virtuously. "What has gotten into you?"
He leisurely ascended from his swiveling chair, the clack of his oxfords ricocheting off of the vacant walls of the elevated classroom, as he rounded his desk tediously, until he was merely two feet away from you.
His brawny aroma was intoxicating, pumping the blood that flowed to your brain with infatuation, and salacious greed. "You'll have to be a bit more specific, professor." You mused, nibbling on your bottom lip lewdly and meeting his murky irises, that were fogged with lust.
He caresses your jaw, with the serpentine stroke of his calloused finger, tracing the supple skin until he reached the tip of your chin. He nudged your chin upward, forcing you to peer up at him, as he hovered above your frame, that was compact into the chair.
"You used to be such a good girl," he murmured, his ravenous eyes like a kaleidoscope of disdain and sapience. You purred at the warmth of his caresses, grinning coyly at him, nuzzling into his touch.
"Always on time. Sweet, open-minded," he listed the amiable features, that you once portrayed and coaxed your peers with, his fingers slithering up your chin. "Innocent." He breathed, just as his long, rough fingers slipped past your lips, pressing firmly on your tongue, as you sealed your lips around his knuckles.
"And you used to dress appropriately." He chuckled prudently, thrusting his fingers into your mouth, as you swirled your tongue around his fingertips and sucked eagerly. His other hand ghosted the fringy hem of your skirt, "I'm not going to complain about these little skirts you love to tease me with, though. Because I know your ass is mine."
He spanked your thigh, and you mewled around his fingers, your eyebrows knitting together as the flesh tingled and pulsated.
"Is that right?" He seethed, slowly slipping his fingers out of your mouth, as a ribbon of saliva attached your lips to his fingertips.
"Yes, professor." You mumbled bashfully. "All of me, is yours."
His tempting smirk deepened. His fingers latched onto a chunk of your hair, and you bleated, wincing as he jerked your head forward and growled in your face with minty breaths, "Then who the fuck do you think you are, dressing like my little slut, where every other man can see you?"
He craned your neck backwards sharply, with his fingers intertwined with a clump of your tousled hair. "Hm?" He breathed, his clad chest swelling with contempt, and possession. "Those pathetic dogs were practically salivating at the sight of you in that skimpy skirt."
He spat down on you, his drool dripping down the valley of your perky, unswathed breasts. "And these breasts, bouncing and begging to be groped," he seethed, cupping them in his large, veiny hands, kneading them with precision as you mewled at the friction of his thumb caressing your hardening nipple.
"All of them wish this were them," he whispered monotonously, cocking a brow at you and massaging your breasts harder, as you chewed on your bottom lip to suppress a strained moan. "But only who gets to touch you, baby?" He murmured in his menacing, husky voice. "Is it me?"
You nodded vigorously, a whine of pleasure crackling past your lips, as you arched your back and shoved your breasts deeper into his tantalizing grasp. "Yes, sir. Only you." You rasped, your eyebrows woven together with salacious desire, as your blood runs thin with a hounding, animalistic craving for professor Ren.
"Good." He mused, snickering lewdly. The bronze face of his pristine watch reflected the nimble white rays of the dull sun emitting from the window, as he released the cluster of your unruly hair, and propped his calloused palms on the rigid surface of his desk. "Now, go sit in your seat."
Your eyebrows knitted together in bewilderment, but you complied to his demands regardless of the lethargic aptitude of your dull trudge. You plopped down in your assigned seat, glaring at him audaciously, with a sassy side-smirk.
Those raven, silky tendrils of wavy hair that you loved to skim your fingers through, were framing his brooding face in perfectly ornate ways, that kindled a flame of scorching desire and lechery in your core. He pawed a loose coil out of his stoic face, his plump lips pursed and twisted into a frown.
"Hike the hem of your skirt up," he demanded, and you obliged, your cheeks blemished with sheepishness, as you leisurely lifted the fringy hem of your skirt, revealing the supple flesh of your thighs.
"Mm," he hummed navally, nodding curtly, as he watched the way you shimmied the hem of your skirt higher and higher— up until the point the dampness accumulating in your panties was visible.
"Trace your inner thigh," he commanded, a ripple surfacing in his brow when you relented. "Do it. Put on a show for me, like you were so eager to do as I taught."
You reluctantly swallowed your saliva, that was thick and hefty like molasses with self-revolution, and supply kneaded one of your thighs. Your fingertips carved soft rivers of lethargy into your flesh, as you met his attentive stare, and guided your own fingers towards the bundle of heat accumulating between yours spreading legs.
"Good," he acknowledged huskily, nodding appreciatively in response to your eager compliance. "Now, slowly slip your hand into your panties, just like I do."
He squared his shoulders, applying the pressure of his weight to his palms, crossing his legs and furrowing his brows, as you obeyed his demands and dipped your hand into your panties.
Your fingers ghosted your mound, and your breath hitches, as you chewed on your bottom lip to suppress a mewl, your fingertips creeping down your slit.
"Mmm," he groaned, and you perked up when your eyes darted to his twinging bulge, being restrained by the tight dress pants cladding his long legs, "Theres my pretty girl."
A sugary whine escaped your pouty lips, as you shuddered, your fingers stroking a line up your wet slit. The sweet, velvety sounds that emerged from your parted lips doused Mr. Ren in a divine, succulent trance, as he devoured every gasp, and mewl, and whimper. As he inhaled the debauchery emitting from your body, and thrived off of your tactile libido.
"Play with yourself," he clicked his tongue, voice gruff with domination and intemperance, "I can see how wet you are from here, you're practically dripping at the sound of my voice, aren't you?"
You nodded, failing to stifle the prolonged, strained moan of contempt that reverberated around the depths of your throat. Your fingers brushed your clit, and a jolt of electricity zapped the tendons in your thighs, as you winced at your own touch.
Rubbing precise, calculated circles into your clit, your toes curled salaciously in your boots, as you choked on a bleat of pleasure.
"Dirty slut," Mr. Ren barked, seething the words through gritted teeth, as he clasped his veiny hands behind his back and deliberately paced the mosaic-tiled floor. "So desperate and needy for your professor."
You kneaded swifter, choppy circles, as your core tingled with the carnal craving to be filled. All of that prudence that filtered your system just moments ago had evaporated, as you crumbled under the penetrative stare of Mr. Ren.
You massaged your clit in concupiscent, wanton ways, pinching and plucking, flicking and kneading, up until your legs were shaking with each strum of your damp fingers, your pussy pulsating and drenched in your wetness, and your untamable whines and sputters of gratitude echoed around the confined walls of the exuberant classroom.
Even without the assistance of being stuffed, your peak was ascending the latter of raunch, as your fingers cramped up and your chest swelled with each laboring breath.
"Sir, I-I'm—" Your babbles were intervened by the crude snarl contorting Mr. Rens face.
"Stop," he demanded mundanely, and you whined in protest, only for him to ball his hand into a fist and clench it at his side, "I said stop!" He scowled bitterly, and your breath hitched in denial as you ripped your tense fingers away from your panties.
"Now get on your fucking knees, and crawl to me." He aggressively pointed towards the floor encompassing his black leather oxfords.
You obliged, blinking sheepishly, as your breath quivered with disdain. Dropping to your knees with deceleration, you withheld his grueling gaze, wiggling your hips as you slowly meandered towards him, knees scuffled from the grimy tile.
The black, glimmering surface of his oxfords articulated your coy, submissive reflection, and you only grinned sardonically at yourself before biting your bottom lip and peering up at him, anticipating directions.
"Hi." He cooed, in his velvety, monotonous tone, a supple smirk tugging at his lips as he caressed a strand of your hair. "Is my little girl ready to take her punishment now?"
You only nodded. The words were hot and agile at the tip of your tongue, words that were laced with sin and an abundance of immorality. You choked these venereal words down, silently itching for his touch.
His wrist twisted arduously, as he clambered a chunk of your hair in his vice grasp, and hoisted you off of the floor with a disgusted grunt. His upper lip was curled pruriently, as he eyed you sensually from head to toe, and proceeded to methodically exchange positions with you, pivoting you in his merciless grasp.
He bucked his hips into your backside, and you croaked out a moan, as the force of his brawny build sent you toppling over the desk. Your breasts were smushed into the cold surface, your body squirming under his, as your back arched in response to his licentious yank of your hair.
Your neck was craned, chin tilted towards the elevated ceiling, as he folded at the waist, his broad chest swelling against your back.
"You're mine," he sneered, his jaw barred as his strained voice dripped like poignant vexation in his acidic tone, his breath hot and callous in your ear. His fingers were feathered through your hair, nails embedding crescents into your scalp, as you suppressed a rasp. "Isn't that right?"
The tantalizing skewer of his bulge jeering your ass was fogging your brain with lust. His long digits tampered with the clamp of his belt. Your wrists were voluntarily latched onto your sides. Your flushed cheek was sapping to his desk, papers matting to your clammy skin.
"Yes, sir." You heaved in inclination.
The clank of his belt colliding with the glacial floor, stirred the kindling warmth in your lower belly, and you sighed in relief when his hands slid up your skirt and groped the backs of your thighs, rounding the curve of your ass, protruding your flesh with his rough fingertips.
His calloused hand snapped with greed, as he embarked his palm into your ass. You jerked forward, moaning in anguish, as he kneaded the reddening flesh, only to slap the spot repeatedly.
You clawed at the mahogany surface of his desk, flakes of chipped wood embedding into the pooch beneath your nails, as you grimaced and moaned croakily, thrashing with the force of his ruthless palm.
Just as he alleviated you by smoothing his hand over your puffy skin, the warm tip of his swollen cock ghosted your slit, and you mewled, pushing your hips back into him.
His hands slithered higher up your skirt, grasping your hips, as he teased your clit with the head of his cock, humming gruffly under his breath. You could hear his smirk as he exhaled richly, swirling his tip around the pool of wetness surfacing at your entrance.
"Please, just fuck me." You breathed, your voice high-pitched with yearning, as you spread your legs wider. "Please."
He paused, his fingers threading through your hair and yanking your head back, cracking the muscles in your neck, "Shh, baby." He mused brashly, and your limbs tingled at the grittiness lacing his tone.
In one slick motion, his thick, pulsating shaft sheathed your entrance. He hissed in pleasure, as your walls embraced his dick with the grip of a vice, as if your stability relied on it. You gasped, your eyes rolling to the back of your head, as he flagrantly pounded into you.
"Oh," you rasped, the forceful slap of his hips ramming into your ass ricocheting off of the walls, as the desk creaked and belched beneath you. "Fuck, Kylo—"
He loomed over you then, one hand crushing your windpipes with his ginormous hand, the other coasting your hip as he thrusted into you with deep, rough plucks of his cock, that collided with your cervix brutally.
"What the fuck did you just call me?" He growled maliciously, spit sputtering from his barred teeth and splattering all over the desk, as his pelvis rocked in savage, perfectly tormenting rhythm with the bucks of your hips.
"I-I mean," you moaned lewdly as he removed his hand from your throat and slammed his palm into your head, smushing your blubbering face into the desk, as drool spilled from your flapping lips. "Professor!"
He huffed throatily in amusement, his breaths quipped and raspy, as he plowed straight into you and blowed a strand of coiled hair out of his face, "That's right."
He snickered, as he observed you thrash in pleasure underneath him, melting and molding into his body with howling whines and guttural moans. The thought of a student sauntering past the unlocked threshold only spurred Mr. Ren and his sardonic needs beyond moral adequate, as he gritted his teeth and enraptured himself deep within your dripping core.
"Mr. R-Ren, I'm going to c-cum," you bleated, as the warmth plateaued in your gut, and the inevitable euphoria of your climax teetered towards its edge.
"Do it," he glowered, sweat accumulating in the crevices of your snapping bodies. "Cum on my cock."
And you did. You clamored and clenched around him, shrilling out wanton moans, coating his cock in your juices as you spasmed and latched onto the desk. Your brain was scattered and discombobulated, as you raked in breaths by the lungful, limply rocking with his hefty thrusts.
Just as he was prepared to finish inside of you, there was a quaint, subdued knock at the door. His reaction was ravenous, compared to the heedful response you thought he would conjure. Instead of relenting, and scrambling to slip out of you and button up his pants— he paused, mid-stroke, before chuckling ominously— and fully slipping out of you, just to slam into you again.
You harbored your breath in your lungs apprehensively, stifling the croaky moan crawling its way up your throat, as he rolled his hips into you, fucking you with calculated precision, plucking your sensitive sweet spot.
Apparently, Mr. Ren would grant any student or bypassing professor the motives they needed to report him to the counsel, just to fill you with his seed. It was as if his demeanor was to captivate any lingering persons attention, to declare his ownership over his prized, delicate student to the entire bustling campus.
He craved everything about you, with an infatuation so sensual and scrutinizing, his barbaric soul was beginning to believe that his intoxicating, kaleidoscope of emotions for you could stray beyond excruciating lust. No. No, he loved claiming you as his possession, because you were young, naive, and brittle. Simple to break, even easier to piece back together.
"Stay quiet, little one..." He warned prudently, the slick fapping of his cock inserting and emerging from your quaking core quiet and sinful in your buzzing ears.
You sloppily pushed your hips back into him, just as another knock, that was louder and earnest, rattled the carcass of the doorframe. Mr. Ren pawed a sweaty gland of raven hair out of his dewy face, glimpsing the heavy corridor in his peripherals, as the silhouette of an antsy student bounced beyond the foggy, rectangular window.
"It feels so good..." You whispered drearily, soft, hitched gasps passing through your trembling lips, as you succumbed to his uncharitable thrusts.
"Mhm," he drawled, his head lulling back, as his breaths shallowed and his cock twitched deep inside of you, "Fuck, you're so tight."
He leisurely slipped in and out now, his jaw trembling as he stifled a pleasured grunt, and pumped his hot jets of cum deep into your core. Small, guttural sounds harboring in his chest, as he exhaled through flared nostrils.
Without a proper warning, he eased out of you brashly with a hefty sigh, and you whimpered at the emptiness, as cum drizzled from the tip of his cock and coated the floor.
Another boisterous knock. "Mr. Ren?"
He glared at the threshold, tucking himself away, and twining the buttons of his pants together with steady digits. Your body was convulsing, as cum leaked down your thighs, jerking your soiled panties back up.
Mr. Ren smoothed out your skirt, giving you a soft, nimble pat on the bum, his fingers ghosting your hip as he aids you in removing yourself from his desk.
He swiveled you around sensually, his hand briskly cupping your cheek, as the other brushed your hipbone. "You have to go," he whispered breathily, his lips latching onto yours in a swift, passionate kiss.
"Yeah," you rasped, raking your fingers through your unruly hair. He smirked at you benignly as he adjusted the collar of his button-up shirt, and you cracked a candied grin, reaching on your tiptoes to press another hasty kiss to his lips.
"Finish doing your research for me, okay?" He cocked an inculpating brow, his smirk lingering, as he tightened his tie.
"Yes, sir." You batted your eyelashes, winking at him coyly as he chuckled and scuffled with his wavy hair.
As you collected your bag from your seat, you hoisted it over your shoulder, preparing to shuffle out of the classroom, only for Mr. Ren to interject you.
"Make sure you wear a coat, it's freezing out there," his eyes darted up and down your frame attentively, maternally. "I'll see you tomorrow."
You smiled, your Doc's trudging over to the door, "Maybe. Expect me thirty minutes late though." You teased, circling the silver handle, glimpsing him from over your shoulder with a wry smirk.
He smirked bleakly himself, as he shuffled the scattered papers on his desk around, "I wouldn't expect anything less, from you, my dear." He mused, not lifting his gaze.
You peeled the door open, being greeted with the irritated face of a random student. You grinned at him amiably, waving at him with the wiggle of your fingers, hopping down the foyer with a limp in your left leg.
With one sock higher than the other, a loose, dangling bra strap, rouge lip gloss smeared all along your cheeks, and the creamy liquid glistening on your thighs— you skipped through campus, flashing your legs to strangers, blatantly showcasing your disfigurement.
If only they all knew that professor Ren was the instigator of this walking disaster.
**Authors note: I had to narrow the post down a bit to fit everything, so if the format appears a bit wonky, that’s why!**
