𝗜'𝗠 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗬 𝗧𝗢 𝗖𝗥𝗢𝗦𝗦 𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗘 .
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 : 𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 ─ 𝘊𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘛𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘦
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 : 𝟣𝟪+ 𝘮𝘥𝘯𝘪, 𝘷𝘪𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘯.ᐟ𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘧𝘦𝘮.ᐟ𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘧𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘳.ᐟ𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘶𝘵𝘰𝘳.ᐟ𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 (𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘳), 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘵, 𝘯𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘰𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘥 (𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥 𝘪𝘵.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ), 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘭𝘭- 𝘐 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘵, 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴, 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘢𝘭, 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴, 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘦, 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵.ᐟ𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘳, 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘱 (𝘧: 𝟤𝟢𝘴 / 𝘮: 𝟥𝟢𝘴), 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘹, 𝘱𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘤 𝘴𝘦𝘹, 𝘦𝘹𝘩𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘮, 𝘴𝘶𝘣/𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘥𝘺𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘤𝘴, 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘶𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘬, 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘬, 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨/𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘥𝘳𝘺 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘦𝘹 (𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨), 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘺, 𝘫𝘦𝘳𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧𝘧, 𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘵, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘺
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑 : 𝗎𝗁𝗁𝗁𝗁𝗁, 𝗒𝖾𝖺hhh𝗁. 𝖲𝗈, 𝗒𝖺 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅'𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝖾 👀....𝖨 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝟣𝟣 + 𝗄 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍. 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗁𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗇𝗈 𝗉𝗅𝗈𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝗂 𝗄𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖨 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖨 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝖺𝗒, 𝖨 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾, 𝖻𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝖼 𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖶𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖨'𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍! 𝖨'𝗆 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗅. 𝖨 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗅. But 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌, 𝖨 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖪𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖪𝖺𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝖼 (𝗎𝗉𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒'𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍) 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗎𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 (𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖺) 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾, 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾, 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 ♡♡♡ ! ── 𝜗𝜚
𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗠𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗛𝗦, you had buried the truth under layers of indignant silence and sharp-tongued deflections. The denial was a physical weight, a pressure in your chest that drove you to reckless extremes—actions that defied your usual composure. Beneath that curated innocence lived a restless, filthy imagination, a vivid contrast to a body that remained frustratingly shy and desperately curious.
He had seen the storm brewing long before you were willing to admit it.
He caught it in the smallest betrayals of your composure—the way your gaze clung to him a heartbeat longer than it should, the subtle hitch in your breathing when he closed the distance, the sudden edge in your voice whenever he tried to avoid it. Those tells were familiar to him, almost painfully so. He recognized them because he’d spent far too long wrestling with the same reactions you stirred in him.
The only difference was that he’d learned how to bury his. Years of discipline had taught him how to smooth over every flicker of feeling, how to keep his expression steady even when something in him tightened at the sight of you. He knew exactly what was at stake, exactly how quickly a single misread moment could unravel everything he’d built. So, he hid it—carefully, relentlessly, with the kind of precision that comes from knowing the cost of being careless.
But because it was you—your stubbornness, your restraint, that quiet, searching curiosity—you made the whole dangerous dance impossible for him to ignore. You pulled him in forbidden places he had no business being in.
So whenever the tension edged toward something he couldn’t control, he retreated behind that low, professional voice and warned you not to cross that line. He framed it as responsibility, as guidance, as him doing the right thing.
But underneath all that discipline was fear—real, bone‑deep fear—because he knew exactly where this kind of curiosity led. Curiosity leads to obsession, and obsession spirals into a lust that would end in ruin for you both. One single slip up could cost him his career, his reputation, and the carefully maintained order of his life.
But the warnings only fed the fire. They sharpened the contrast between what you had and what you wanted. Tired of the fumbling uncertainty of boys your age—tired of the boys who mistook confidence for carelessness, boys who didn’t understand nuance, who couldn’t read a room, let alone a body. They lacked the intuition, the steadiness, the quiet authority that made you feel seen rather than overwhelmed.
You wanted a man who didn't have to guess. A man who understood the intricate labyrinth of a woman’s body with patience and intentin—someone who could balance dominance with the kind of care that actually leaves a mark.
You wanted a man who could balance firmness with gentleness, someone whose presence alone could steady you, someone who wasn’t intimidated by your hunger but didn’t exploit it either. You wanted to know what it felt like to be guided by someone who understood the responsibility that came with desire—someone who could take you apart emotionally and put you back together with the same deliberate care.
And he noticed that. He noticed it allー every shift, every urge, every contradiction— he’d try not to, but that day in the pouring rain behind the secluded campus building made it physically impossible. It wasn't worth it. You, him, arguing? It wasn’t worth it. It was useless. Pathetic. Unprofessional. Unadulterated and uncanny.
Your argument peeled back the last of your defenses, the last of his sanity, and for a split second, he saw the truth in your eyes—undeniable, unguarded, and far more dangerous than either of you had prepared for. As you stood there in the mud, screaming your frustrations and flailing your hands in a desperate attempt to maintain your anger, he was listening to your words, watching the way you expressed them.
Captivated by the raw, unrefined energy of your attitude, his focus eventually drifted to your silhouette that truly broke his resolve. The rain had rendered your white button-up transparent, the wet fabric clinging ruthlessly to the curves of your tits.
His breathing grew heavy, his jeans getting painfully tight as he watched your sensitive nipples perk beneath the soaked material and the weight of your breasts shift and jiggle with every dramatic gesture. Between his legs, he was fucking oozing, the ache becoming an agonizing reality just by watching you project your anger at him.
He remained deadly calm, silent, refusing to give you the satisfaction of an answer, but his body betrayed him. You watched the way his frame went rigid with tension, his lidded gaze traveling slowly from the heavy swell of your chest back up to the frantic, hormonal fire burning in your eyes.
“God, you’re such a fucking brat when you don't get your way, doll.” He murmured and when a smug, knowing smirk finally tugged at the corner of his mouth—mocking your own shocked realization—the last of your restraint suddenly snapped.
Eyeing him up and down in irritation, you let out a sharp, exasperated scoff.
Without thought and on pure impulse, your fingers caught the damp lapels of his button-up, yanking him into your space until your breath hitched against his lips. A low, vibrating "Nngh" was lost between your lips as he surged forward. It was a messy, open-mouth invasion—tongues tangling with a starving necessity that made your head spin.
You wanted him close—closer than you’d ever dared to want before. Close enough that he could feel the depth of everything you’d been trying so hard to bury. You were done hiding. Done pretending you could outrun it. Some part of you was ready to give in, to risk whatever it cost, because wanting him had already become bigger than your fear.
Every excuse you’d built to stay apart shattered in that one breath, replaced by a wave of wanton that felt like a ton of bricks. He steered you toward the building, his leather shoes scuff the pavement as he crowded you into the shadows of the building, his body a solid wall of muscle pinning you against the cold stone.
With one hand surged upward, wrapped possessively around the column of your throat—enough to slightly choke, but enough to remind you who was in control. His other hand was less restrained, diving down to grope at the swell of your breast, palming the heavy, aching weight of it with a mix of rough hunger and expert care. He massaged the soft tissue sweetly before his thumb found the hardened bud of your nipple, brushing against it with a rhythmic pressure designed specifically to coax a broken whine from your throat.
He was enjoying this more than he should—more than he needed to—but he didn’t stop himself. He let the moment pull him in, savoring every bit of softness and trust you offered. The way you yielded to him so easily, the way you bent without hesitation, it lit something in him. His touch stayed gentle, but there was a quiet authority in it, a confidence that made your breath catch.
It was like he stripped your senses away in an instant. Whatever control you thought you had slipped right out of your hands as he read your body with an ease that felt almost practiced. He moved with intention, like he’d been studying you long before this—learning the tilt of your shoulders, the hitch in your breath, the exact pressure that would make you squeak. And the way he took that initiative, the way he seemed to know you so well already, sent a thrill through you that nothing else ever had.
His calloused palms trailed a searing path through your soaked sides as they tracked the curve of your hips. With a low grunt, he hooked his large hands firmly under the fat of your thighs and hoisted you upward with a blunt, effortless strength that stole your breath.
You felt the world tilt as he drove you higher, your toes left dangling, barely grazing the grit of the muddy concrete. The rough, unforgiving bite of the brick scraped against your shoulder blades as he pinned you into the shadows. "You’re already soaking through, aren’t you?" he rasped, his voice a jagged vibration that settled in the deepest parts of your bones.
His hands were a blur of motion as he bunched the fabric of your skirt up to your waist between your bodies as he forced his way into the intimate space between your thighs. He suffocated the air between you, crowding your frame until the world narrowed down to the unyielding, blunt press of him against your aching center. The friction is a slow burn, a steady heat that makes your head light and your pulse jump.
Even with layers of clothes in the way, every movement felt like a live wire against your skin, a heavy, rhythmic grind that made it impossible to think about anything else. “Fuck," he rasped, his voice a shattered noise against your jaw. "You're sopping for me, princess.”
"O-Oh fff-uck," you gasped, the words splintering as you thumped your head back against the biting cold of the masonry. You became a total mess, fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer because the space between you felt too much. You practically had him molded against you, heavy grunts and breathless huffs that sent shivers down your spine. You weren’t thinking clearly—not about the consequences or where you were, not about the line you might be crossing. Your mind couldn’t hold onto any of it. All you could feel was that pull, that steady, insistent gravity drawing you closer.
It wrapped around you like ribbon before you even realized it, tightening until the rest of the world blurred at the edges. There was a need in you that wouldn’t quiet down, a need for the moment to solidify into something real, something you could actually hold onto. Something that wouldn’t vanish the second you stepped back.
Every rational thought you tried to summon slipped right through your fingers, drowned out by the intensity of wanting—wanting him, wanting this, wanting the feeling to anchor itself in something lasting. And in that rush, you wanted nothing more than to finish right there against the wall, to leave him soaked and marked so he wouldn’t forget exactly what he’d done to you.
“You feel so good,” you moan.
You felt his forehead press gently against yours, a quiet, steady point of contact that made your breath catch. His gaze stayed locked on you, watching the way your brows drew together in that deep, overwhelming rush of feeling. Your lashes fluttered halfway, brushing your cheeks as they dipped—just in time to catch the way his eyes were fixed on you, studying every shift in your expression as if he were memorizing it.
There was a yearning in him you could feel even before you saw it, something unspoken but unmistakably present in the way he held you there. And when your own eyes lifted to meet his, there was no hiding the mix of pleasure and ache tightening your chest, a kind of beautiful anguish that made it impossible to look away.
“Don't stop. Justー Just keep going . . . please.”
Every time he moved, it felt like a silent promise that things were about to change for good. Whatever professional distance or bullshit attitude you had between each other, it was long gone, replaced by a desperate, heavy kind of hunger that was beyond avoidant. He looked like he wanted to lose himself in you, to slide right at home until the world outside this alley ceased to exist.
You could see it in his eyes—the way he was imagining finally filling that space, the way your puffy brown lips would clench around him, swallowing him deeper until his tip kissed the sensitive entrance of your cervix, stretching you out and leaving you ruined in the best way possible. He wanted to claim you, fill you until you were overflowing, and marked with a heat that would never cool.
He wanted that, and it made you hum in satisfaction.
"C'mon, baby,” You’d whisper, nudging your nose against his, eyes searching. “I know you wanna feel me. Make me cum on it," you provoked, voice dangerous, coaxed in twisted persusasion that made his jaw clench. Your hands cup his face, nails scratching lightly at the end of his hair line, your thumb swiping across his lower lip, watching it part as his breath hitched. His eyes were dark, boring into your taunting ones with a look that was indeed half-agony and half-need.
"Please, sir… I can't take it anymore.” You let out a soft, breathy sound—somewhere between a whine and a whimper—as your lips skimmed teasingly along his. Your nose brushed his in a feather‑light touch, the kind that made the space between you feel impossibly small. You tilted your head to the side in that instinctive, almost playful way, a quiet invitation wrapped in something shy and sweet. “I need you. I need you to just fuck me already. Make me cum.”
Air seemed to vanish at that single word. He went still, every muscle tightening against you as the “Sir” slipped out in a fragile, breathless whisper. For a heartbeat, something shifted in his expression—hunger sharpening into a deeper, more focused intensity. It wasn’t harsh, but it carried a weight that made your pulse jump, a quiet, possessive heat that said he was holding himself together by the thinnest thread. And for a moment, you could feel how close he was to giving in, to answering the plea and giving exactly what you’d been begging for.
His breath hitched—a sharp, involuntary sound in the quiet space between you—and his hands tightened around your thighs with a sudden, trembling urgency. He didn’t hurt you, but the strength in his grip made your pulse jump. His eyes dropped to your parted lips, lingering there, his own mouth hovering just inches from yours. You could feel the faint tremor in his fingers, the way he was fighting to stay grounded, to just bury himself in you and be done with it.
Then, the tension broke—but not the way you wanted.
His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping as he forced his hands to release you. The sudden loss of his warmth was like being dunked in cold water, shocking enough that your legs slid down his body before you could catch yourself. Your feet hit the muddy concrete with a dull thud, your knees threatening to give out for a second.
He didn't help you find your balance. He didn’t even reach for you. He just stepped back, his chest heaving as he smoothed out his jacket, his expression settling into that distant, professional mask you’d come to dread. But his eyes—They were still burning, still fixed on you with a look that said he’d heard every word, felt every second… and wasn’t about to let any of it go.
Because at that moment, something clicked for him. He’d realized you needed him just as much as he needed you—And every bit of teasing, every push and pull, every little game you thought you were winning had handed him the perfect moment to turn the tables.
You thought you had the upper hand.
He was the one in control—always had been—and the realization hit you harder than you expected. You hated it. Hated that he wasn’t giving you what you wanted, hated that he wasn’t softening, hated that he wasn’t indulging you. He wasn’t going to overlook the stubborn streak you’d been flaunting. Not tonight.
He wanted to make a point.
And you could feel it settling over you like a warning—slow, deliberate, impossible to ignore. It wasn’t cruel, but it was firm, a reminder that he wasn’t going to be swayed by impulse or by the heat of the moment. He was choosing restraint, choosing distance, choosing to let the tension sit heavy between you until it shaped you both into something steadier
“Not yet,” he murmured, his voice dangerously low.
Then he turned on his heel and walked into the shadows without a single glance back, leaving you shaking and breathless against the cold brick. Painfully aware of the hollow ache he’d left behind with the taste of him still on your tongueー an ache that was going to make the next few weeks absolute hell.
⁺ ˳*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ( 𝜗𝜚 ) ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
It took an entire month before you finally came back to your senses. You’d spent those weeks thinking far too much—turning everything over in your mind without meaning to. You weren’t sure if it was guilt or shame or some messy combination of both, but it gnawed at you. You paced your dorm room until the floor creaked, trying to rationalize what happened, trying to make sense of the guilty pleasure you couldn’t shake. No matter how hard you tried to bury it, the memory kept resurfacing..
You’d canceled your tutoring sessions just to avoid him.
If you spotted him at the end of a hallway, you turned around without hesitation. And somehow, he was everywhere—passing by the library, stepping out of a classroom, walking across campus. It felt like the universe was mocking you, and it infuriated you more than you wanted to admit.
But now, after a month of silence and avoidance, you found yourself standing outside his office on a Friday afternoon. A day he usually reserved for paperwork and meetings, not students. Yet he was here. And so were you.
Your nerves were a mess. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears like a drum, each thud louder than the last. You hated how jittery you felt, hated that you couldn’t get a grip on yourself. But you knocked anyway. His low, quiet “come in” slipped through the door, leaving you no room to retreat.
You took a single steadying breath, wrapped your fingers around the doorknob, and stepped inside.
You’d been in this office countless times, but never like this. Never with your stomach twisted into knots. He stood near his desk, blazer hung neatly on the coat rack behind him. His glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, his wristwatch ticking softly in the stillness. The white button‑up he wore pulled cleanly across his torso, shifting with every subtle movement, tucked into black slacks that fell to polished shoes. He looked composed—untouched by the chaos you’d been drowning in.
You walked in with every intention of offering a formal apology, rehearsed lines tucked neatly behind your teeth. But the moment you crossed the threshold, the air shifted—sharp, heavy, unmistakable.
The office fell into a silence that made your pulse stumble.
And before you could speak, his gaze lifted to you.
That dark, knowing look unraveled everything. Every prepared word. Every excuse. Every carefully practiced sentence.
They all dissolved on your tongue, useless against the quiet authority in his eyes… and instead of the apology you had practiced, you found yourself lying on the cool, espresso sofa of his office.
With your legs spread wide, knees to chest, shaking with your hand instinctively diving between your thighs, fingers slapping against your clit, toying between the slick of your folds. You teased yourself with a desperate, shaky touch while he stood before you from a short distance, taking his sweet time stripping off his jewelry. The metallic clink of his rings hit the desk, echoing in the quiet room as he tosses them aside without second thought.
The room is silent except for moans and the wet lewd slide of your middle fingers slipping into the sweet confines of your entrance. The pace was torturous and deliberate, your fingers buried deeper inside your pussy, sliding in and out at a punishing, steady pace. You’d been chasing a high he’d dangled in front of you for months, reaching for that same sharp, breathless rush—but it kept slipping away from you.
No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t get back to that burning point, couldn’t recreate the intensity that had once felt so immediate. The harder you pushed, the more impossible it became. Something in you had shifted, and you couldn’t tell if it was frustration, longing, or the hollow space he’d left behind.
The motion was slow, deliberate. He didn’t even look at you at first—just worked the fabric loose with practiced ease. But halfway through, he turned his head, glancing at you over his shoulder. That dark, triumphant look in his eyes said everything—how deeply he felt your unraveling, how aware he was of the effect he had on you.
You could feel yourself coming apart behind him, and he knew it. The simple act of watching him shed the last pieces of his professional composure was enough to push you past the point of no return, a reminder of just how easily he could unsteady you without even trying.
It wasn’t taunting. It wasn’t cruel.
It was controlled. Intentional. A reminder of how easily he could pull you off balance without ever laying a hand on you.
And the worst part was how quickly it worked.
The sight alone pushed you right back to the edge you’d been trying—and failing—to reach on your own, leaving you suspended between anticipation and the ache you’d been carrying for weeks.
“Mm‑mm‑mm… poor thing,” he murmured, the sound low and rough enough to send a ripple of goosebumps across your skin. His fingers slipped the buckle loose with practiced ease, freeing the fabric before tugging his shirt from his waistband and letting it fall aside. He didn’t rush. He simply stood there for a moment, taking in the sight of you unraveling on the sofa, your composure slipping faster than you could catch it.
“So worked up you couldn’t even wait for me, huh?” he added, a quiet thread of dark amusement curling through his voice.
Your rhythm slipped—just for a moment, but it was enough for him to catch it. The second your movements slowed, he let out a quiet, disapproving hum.
It wasn’t loud, but it hit hard. His voice dropped into that deep, steady tone that always managed to get under your skin. He walked toward you without rushing, watching every detail as your glossy fingers froze in place. The disappointment in his eyes was obvious—sharp, controlled, and aimed right at you.
“You don’t get to slow down now,” he said, calm but firm. “Not after everything you’ve been doing these past few weeks.”
He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could feel the shift in the air. His gaze moved from your face to your hands and back again, taking in every tiny reaction you couldn’t hide. “Show me how you handle it when I’m not around. When you’re alone in that dorm of yours, thinking about me instead of your work.”
The words hit harder than you expected.
Your eyes flicked away, your teeth caught your bottom lip, and your body sank back into the cushions before you could stop yourself. His quiet exhale—half amused, half knowing—told you he noticed all of it.
“Hm,” he tilts his head slightly. “Looks like I’ve hit a nerve.” His voice softened, but the authority stayed right where it was.
“Don’t hide from me.” He stepped closer, close enough that the warmth of him brushed your skin even without touching you. His eyes stayed locked on yours, steady and unyielding.
“Show me,” he repeats, quieter now but even more certain. “Show me what you do when I’m not around. Show me how you fall apart before I even think about touching you again.”
The room felt smaller after that—heavier, tighter—like everything was waiting on your next move. And the worst part was how easily he pulled you right back into that space. How fast your composure slipped the second he stepped into your orbit as he forced you to be your own source of ruin while he stripped the rest of his clothes off. Your eyes observed his athletic frame, muscles flexing at every subtle shift as he made himself comfortable beside you.
His gaze is unblinking and curious, tracking every twitch of your muscles and the way your fingers disappear and reappear through your slick hole. Studying you, his eyes lingered on the wet, rhythmic scissoring of your fingers as they stretched and pulled at your entrance.
Hissing at the throbbing ache between his man-spread legs, his large, calloused hand wrapped securely around the base of a length that was nothing short of imposing, he had recently trimmed his pubic hair to perfection, making the sheer scale of him impossible to ignore. He was thick, the kind of heavy, blunt girth that looked meant to stretch and claim. He began to pump with a slow, torturous ease, he took his time, tightening his fist until the prominent veins snaking along his shaft pulsed and throbbed beneath his touch.
He savored the friction, circling a thick thumb around the sensitive, flared crown of his head with deliberate gentleness. You watched, breathless, as he coaxed the pre-cum to emerge, smearing the clear, sticky bead over the plush, reddened tip until it glistened under the dim office lights like polished marble.
Every slow, gradual slide of his hand was a taunt, synchronized perfectly with your own movements to create a heavy, mounting tension in the air. He would pull his large hand all the way down to the base, his knuckles grazing his testicles, before gliding back up to the top and twisting his wrist slightly to catch the sensitive ridge of his glans.
The air in the room seemed to vibrate with the rhythmic, tacky sound of his palm working over his own skin, a steady beat that matched the frantic pounding of your heart. He enjoyed the power play of it just as much as you do; he knew he could make you unravel just by letting you watch him prepare to take up every inch of space inside you.
“God, I’ve missed you . . . so much . . . Did you miss me?”
Your breath hitches at the firm touch of his free hand, warm callouses grazing up over your leg, persuading you to open a little more. The heel of your foot dug into his thigh, giving him a front-row view of your fingers working, your body trembling, and your skin turning sticky and warm. As you pushed your fingers deeper, the obscene squelch of your own juices echoed in the room.
“Mm─mhmm,” you whimpered, the admission slipping out as a bashful confession, “s-so… fucking… much.”
His focus followed the movement of your body as you sunk deeper into the leather cushions. The dark material yields under the weight of you as you spread your legs wider, offering him an unadulterated view of your vulnerability. His eyes darkened, the pupils blooming until they nearly swallowed the iris.
"S-Shit . . . keep going,” he breathed out, his voice a low vibration that rolled over you. “You're doing so well for me, pretty. Such a good girl."
His gaze shifted slightly upward, tracking the frantic, rapid motion of your other hand as it blurred against your clit. He continued to jerk himself with that agonizing, heavy rhythm, his thumb occasionally dipping into the opening at his tip to spread the moisture. He watched with fixation as your fingers disappeared into your walls only to slide back out, coating and glistening between your folds. Your hole clenched around the empty air the moment you pull back, visibly pulsing as it missed the pressure he was providing for himself.
“She’s a hungry little thing, isn’t she?” he mused, not bothering to break eye contact as he gathered a thick glob of saliva between his lips, letting it slide onto the flushed tip of his dick. He used his fingers to smear the wet substance down the entirety of his length, taking his time coating himself until every inch of his shaft was shining, the veins standing out in stark relief under the dim lights. The wet, repetitive slap-slide of his hand was a blunt, auditory taunt. He held his aching length just out of reach, watching your entrance ache in time with his hand.
You hummed in response as you started to lose your mind, your rhythm turning urgent and uneven. His voice dropped, sternly. "Steady yourself, ( 𝜗𝜚 ). Don't rush it. You’re almost there.”
“But I'm so close~” you whined, pouting. Face twisted in deep anguish as you could feel the knots working in your stomach, “I can feel!”
Your fingers were moving on instinct now, a frantic, desperate blur as you tried to bridge the gap between pleasure and agony. The air felt thick, charged by his unwavering, intense focus. He hadn't blinked in minutes, observing the glistening sheen of your skin, his expression a mix of absolute ownership and dark amusement.
The pressure in your lower belly coiled into an unbearable, tight knot. You were whimpering his name now, a broken, rhythmic chant as your pace turned frantic, babbling praise and telling him how badly you needed him to finally slide deep inside you. Right as your eyes rolled back and your breath hitched in sharp, shallow stabs, you finally slammed into that jagged edge.
He watched with a fixated intensity as your back arched violently off the leather, your knees pulling tight toward your chest while the orgasm rips through you in heavy, crushing waves. “Ooh I'm coming!” you gasped.
"There you go, darling," he murmured, his hand finally slowing its pace on his own length as he watched the wet, slapping sounds of your ruin. "You got it."
A ragged cry is torn from your throat, echoing off the office walls as your hand tightens convulsively. You drive your fingers in profoundly one last time, burying to the knuckles as your walls seize and pulse in a rhythmic, punishing grip, anchoring you to the sensation until every muscle in your body finally goes slack.
You lay there for a long moment, the world spinning as you slowly regain your composure. The silence of the office is broken only by your jagged breathing until his hand finds your leg. His firm fingertips graze the curve of your shin before his palm wraps securely around the underside of your ankle. He leans in, pressing a lingering, warm kiss to the delicate bone of your ankle before his lips begin a slow, upward trail. He tastes the skin of your calf and the back of your knee, his fingers skimming lower down the side of your thigh with a proprietary touch.
“Can I taste you, sweetheart?” he mumbles against your skin.
He savors the way your muscles jump and quiver under his touch. His lips land heavy, heat-drenched kisses along your inner thigh, the velvet texture of your flesh yielding to the slide of his nose and the prickle of his stubble. His eyes burn into yours, dark and hungry, watching as you offer a breathless, quick nod. Clarity is a distant memory as you gaze at the ceiling, whispering a desperate, “Yes, please.”
He shifts his weight, moving between your legs with practiced ease. His large palms eventually settle at your knees, hooking firmly behind them to hoist your legs back until they are pinned against your chest, leaving you completely open and at his mercy.
You were still twitching, your body hyper-sensitized and raw from the first peak, but the second he dipped his head low—using his thumbs to split your folds and expose the deepest, darkest pink of your interior to the dim office light—his long tongue found its mark. The sensation of his warm breath hitting your damp skin was enough to make your spine arch. An overwhelming rush of heat shooting straight up your body as he treated the exploration like a map, tracing you with a measured curiosity that unraveled your composure piece by piece. He lingered there, watching your pulse thrash against the surface of your slick skin.
“Oh my— Hah!—” You let out a sharp gasp, your fingers blindly fisting his dark hair to hold him to you as a low, throaty groan tore out of his chest.
“So sweet, mama. So sweet,” he murmurs, his brows furrowed in serious concentration as he begins to trace the outer edges of your folds, outlining every responsive ridge with excruciating slowness.
The exploration was thorough and relentless, his tongue started at the very base, tracing the thin, delicate skin of your perineum with steady, broad strokes that made your hips stutter against the leather. He focused on the tender contours where your thighs met, his stubble providing a grounding contrast to the wet velvet of the pink muscle as he licked upward in long, dragging strokes that coated you in his heat.
Every time he reached the top, he refused to give you the quick release you were already beginning to ache for. Instead, he navigated your sensitivity with unspooling pressure, circling the base of your clit and teasing the hood with sharp, flicking motions that made your back curve off the couch in a pressing, urgent bow.
He moved deeper, using his nose to nudge your folds further apart to create even more friction as he nuzzled profoundly into you.
“O-oooh, si-sir…” you moaned.
It was a sensory overload—the scent of you filling his lungs, the taste of you marinating on his tongue, and the sound of your voice breaking in the quiet office. He dipped the tip of his tongue into your entrance just enough to devour the overflow of your juices, testing the way your cunt thrummed and wept against him before leading that moisture back up to the delicate nub.
"So fucking responsive," he groaned, muffled by your own heat. He sucked the nub of your clit deep into his mouth, using his teeth to graze the skin just enough to make you bolt upright. Your fingers dug into his scalp with a tight-knuckled grip as he forced you to endure the sheer weight of his focus. The room was no longer quiet, filled with raw, pornographic sounds as he worked, the lewd cadence of his tongue filling the air.
He began to alternate the texture of his touch, using the rough, slightly textured tip of his tongue to flick rapidly against you before switching back to those painfully slow licks that felt like they were pulling the sensation straight out of your chest.
He was exploring the anatomy of your pleasure, finding exactly how much pressure it took to make your thighs go tense. He used his lips to tug at you, grazing his teeth—just enough to be dangerous—against the most sensitive parts of your labia until you were a sobbing mess beneath him.
Finally, he swirled his tongue in a wide, demanding circle around your small peak, teasing the edges until you were frantic, only to suddenly suck the whole thing deep into his mouth with a sharp force that sent your vision into a blur of white light, keeping you suspended right on the fractured edge of another collapse.
When he finally shoves a finger inside you, buried all the way to the knuckles, the unexpected stretch blooms through you like a tremor, moving and hooking his finger upward to find the spongy, sensitive ceiling of your canal. He drags his pad across the ridges in a slow, rhythmic scrape that makes your toes curl.
From the blunt pressure of his finger filling you up to the wet, relentless heat of his mouth still working on your clit it's almost just too much to handle. Your hips buck instinctively, but he’s a solid weight, pinning you down.
Eyes filled with carnal desire, he tracks every twitch of your face as he slides a second finger in right alongside the first. With unhurried manners, he spreads you out with calculated precision, forcing your walls to give way until you're wide and slicked with your own arousal.
He scissors his fingers open, testing the elasticity of your entrance with maddening accuracy that makes your breath hitch in broken gasps. His hand is grounded, keeping you from thrashing off the leather as he continues to hollow you out, his knuckles bumping against you with every deep, demanding thrust.
“You love this, don’t you, princess?” he murmurs, his face hovering just inches away from your wrecked core. His exhale hits your damp skin in scorching, rhythmic bursts—a sharp contrast to the air-conditioned chill of the office air. He lingers there, savoring the frantic thud of your pulse against the shell of his ear, letting the silence stretch until the anticipation becomes its own kind of tortureーmaking it clear he’s in no hurry to finish what he started.
“Y-yes,” you choke out, the word splintering into a jagged, uneven sigh. Your brow knits together, your mind struggling to process the sensory overload as your hands move instinctively to your chest. Your fingers squeeze the soft weight of your breasts, thumbs rolling over your hardened nipples in a frantic, desperate motion. “I love it… I love it so much. I love that I’m yours... that you're the only one who can make me feel this helpless.”
“All mine?” He hums at the thought, the sound a low, resonant vibration that’s part dark amusement and part possessive growl. He pulls back just enough to catch your eye, his heavy-lidded gaze tracking the way you’re groping yourself just for his benefit.
“You’re my girl, pretty?”
“Y-yes… all yours, sir. This pussy's all yours."
"Is that so, doll?" The dark smirk on his lips sharpens, his eyes drinking in the absolute wreck of your submission. “You like feeling small for me? You like knowing I’m the only one who holds a leash on this pussy? Knowing I’m the only one allowed to see you this fucking desperate? You’ve been begging for me, dying for me to use you, fuck you like a rag doll…you’ve been dreaming about it, haven't you? Touching yourself to the thought of me being in total control?”
“Mm-mhm~” You whimper out, your spine arching off the leather as the raw honesty of the confession spikes your arousal to a fever pitch.
He lets out a low, mocking click of his tongue, almost amused. His gaze narrows with soft, heavy satisfaction, entertained, like he’s watching something unfold exactly as he expected. “Tch, poor thing. So easy to rattle.” He coo’s crudely before bringing his full attention back to your core. He works his tongue in deep, heavy strokes that go straight to your center, his movements calculating and pulsating. The wet, slapping sounds of his mouth against your slick skin fills the quiet room, echoing off the mahogany bookshelves and the leather of the couch.
“It’s too much, it's too much . . . it’s t-too . . . mmu-uuch!” you stuttered, gasping, but he’s completely deaf to your pleas. Instead, he drives the pace faster, finding a dark, sadistic joy in the way your thighs begin to shake uncontrollably. He watches your expression fracture—your lips parting in a silent 'O' and your eyes losing focus—as your body tenses toward the edge. He savors the sight of you finally submerging in the peak, caught between the desperate need for him to keep going and the raw agony of being completely overwhelmed─ a beautiful disaster he wanted to drown in.
“Take it, baby. Just take it,” he rasps, increasing the pressure, his tongue flat and firm as it drags upward over your clit before diving deep into your opening, mimicking the blunt thrusting you’ve been starving for. The friction was relentless, a searing, wet heat that builds behind your navel until the sensation is overwhelming.
“I can’t~” You whined, eyes clenching close. “I think I'm bouta c-cum!—” Your voice breaks into a shy, high-pitched wail, the sound small and desperate in the spacious area. Your hands tangle frantically in his dark hair, your fingers curling into the strands as you try to pull him even deeper into you, needing him to take every last bit of the mess you’re about to become for him.
The pressure in your chest finally snaps as your hips collide with his face. Screaming his name into the thick air, your body surrenders to a violent, crushing peak. Instead of pulling away, he leans directly into the climax, his grip on your thighs tightening until his knuckles turn white.
“There you go, mama. Just give it to me. Give it all to me . . . mmph~”
He drinks you in, catching every drop of your release while his tongue continues that rhythmic invasion, milking you to keep releasing with every shudder. He doubles down with renewed appetite, forcing broken whimpers from your throat as your heels dug into his shoulders. Feeling a sudden, sharp spike of overstimulation at your clit, your hands instinctively move to pry his head away.
When he finally pulls back, the wet, tacky sound of his mouth leaves you echoing in the silence. He steadies himself over you, breathless and flushed, his lips were swollen, glistening with the evidence of your ruin. His tongue lolls out slightly with small, heavy huffs of air, silver strings of saliva still connecting his mouth to your spent core. He looks down at your wrecked form, his calloused thumb stroking your hip as he watches your eyes roll back into a hazy, post-orgasmic daze.
"You alright, baby?" he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that vibrates against your inner thighs. He doesn't pull away just yet, staying anchored between your knees as he studies the beautiful wreck he’s made of you. His hand comes up to swipe the excess cum and saliva from his mouth and chin, his gaze never leaving yours.
Even with the rich bronze of your skin, he can see the feverish maroon bloom across your cheeks. You’re glistening under the sharp office lights, your breath still coming in those shallow hitches that tell him exactly how far gone you are. He can tell you were nearly spent but not enough to quit.
“Wanna take a break?” He reaches out, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw to clear a stray curl with a touch that’s uncharacteristically gentle and lingering. When you don't respond, it takes him a second to start shifting from his place.
His weight lifting as he eyes a water bottle on the mahogany desk, a small, desperate whine hitches in your throat. “No...” you protest, your voice small but certain. “I wanna keep going,” To make sure he doesn't budge, you hook your heels behind his waist, pulling him back into the heat of you and locking your ankles to anchor him right where he is. You weren't ready for the cold air to hit the space where he was just buried and surely wasn't ready to waste another minute.
When he settles back between your legs, a slow, thoughtful frown tugs at his mouth, dark eyes searching yours, trying to read the depth of your haze. Your brows knit together, a soft pout forming on your swollen, reddened lips as your hands reach out to beckon him back. You cup his cheeks, your palms were warm and trembling against his jaw, pulling him down into a kiss that tasted like you and absolute surrender.
It’s slow—agonizingly so. Your lips moving against his with a soft, rhythmic pressure. Deepening the connection until your tongues tangle and the taste of your shared release is traded between you, you finally pull back just an inch, your eyes lidded and dark with a heavy, salacious heat.
You let your gaze dart between his gentle glare and reddened mouth before murmuring against his lips, “I wanna feel you inside of me.” Your words are sweet, punctuated by the soft nudge of your nose against his. While your arms wrap securely around his neck, your legs tighten and your hips buck up teasingly against him. “All of you.”
The possessive spark returns to his gaze when he spots the raunchy twinkle in your eye—the obscene challenge of wanting to push right past your limits. A slow, dark smirk replaces his focus as he drinks in the admission. He lingers there, his forehead resting against yours, searching your face one last time to ensure you’re truly present enough to mean it.
“You sure, princess?" he rasps. Beneath the edge in his voice, there's a flicker of genuine concern; he doesn't want to overwork you, knowing your body is already trembling. "Cause once I start, I’m not stopping.”
You nod, a soft, shaky smile breaking through the haze as your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, I’m sure,” you whisper, the words vibrating between your lips even as your muscles continue to shudder against him. “I want you. All of you, please?”
The smirk that had been playing on his lips vanished, replaced by a ravenous glare. He leaned in, his mouth crashing against yours to consume the taste of you, his tongue dragging over yours in a slow, possessive sweep. His hand dropped from the couch to his throbbing length, his fingers wrapping tight around himself to pump his cock a few times, feeling the periodic twitch of his pulse as he reached his limit for self-restraint.
He shifted fully onto his knees, keeping your legs pinned in their original position—knees to chest, feet dangling at his sides. Reaching up, he gathers both of your wrists above your head, pinning them firmly against the arm of the couch.
He began to tease you, dragging the underside of his cock up and down against your entrance. The traction felt unbearable as the broad, blunt head caught on your sensitive folds, smearing your own slick back and forth in a messy rhythm. You began to squirm beneath the weight of him, whines breaking from your throat as you begged him to “please put it in,” telling him how badly you “needed him.”
He found the desperation cute, but he needed a final confirmation. “You gonna be good for me, pretty?” he murmured, his lips barely parted from yours, punctuating the question with small, teasing pecks. He watched your face like a tracker, searching for the specific look that told him exactly where your head was. He had expected a challenge—a slick comment, a pout, or a bit of back talk—but all he found was a raw, unshielded yearning to be used.
When you gave him that simple, breathless “yes” of acceptance, it was the only green light he needed to finally take action.
When he finally hitches your hips, his large, calloused hand guides the throbbing weight of his length to your entrance, he begins to push, allowing you to endure every excruciating fraction of an inch as he breaches you. He invades the warmth of your space with a terrifyingly gradual slowness, stretching your walls wide until the air is forced from your lungs in a shaky hiss. Your brows knit together, your jaw drops in a silent plea as your entire body clinched around the tight intrusion, resisting before finally surrendering to the mass.
“Oh f-fuuck—” you whimper, the punishing sensation of the stretch burns, becoming a blurred line between pain and pleasure.
He was only halfway in, the broad girth of him still threatening to split you, but you find the strength to urge him forward, whispering through the haze that you can take it. He responds with a rain of kisses against your cheek and jaw, his voice low and steady coaxes you to relax, promising that it’ll feel better soon, and in the heat of his office, you believe him. He makes you feel safe, projecting a silent vow that he understands every flinch, every involuntary noise, and every desperate gesture. He monitors you with relentless focus, spotting for the slightest sign of true discomfort, ready to stall the moment if needed, but you take the entirety of him like a champ. Your creamy walls seizing around his dick, pulsing in a desperate attempt to accommodate his girthy size.
He maintains his grip on your wrists, his bicep muscles bulging with the effort of looming over you. He ensures you have no choice but to lie there, pinned and utterly full of him.
"There you go, doll," he grunts, pausing for a moment, burying himself to the hilt and holding still. Memorizing the way you feel—the fullness, the overwhelming warmth of you and intense weight of his body pressing you into the cushions─ he can feel the involuntary twitching of your muscles spasming, trying to pull him even deeper, as if trying to swallow him whole. He peppers a few light kisses to your neck, traveling up the underside of your jaw to your lips.
He teases you, offering only fleeting, shallow brushes of his mouth that leave you whining in frustration..He smirks at your irritated face, enjoying the way your eyes flash with a need for more, before he nudges his nose firmly against yours.
You nod, a quiet, breathless “yes” escaping your lips. He begins to move then—opting against frantic speed and leading with a steady weight that feels pivotal. Each thrust profound and grounding, his hips smacking against yours with a wet, heavy thud that echoes through the quiet walls. With your arms trapped above your head, your chest was left arched and vulnerable, your nipples grazing the soft skin of his pecs with every slide sent a tickling sensation through your body.
His eyes remained locked onto yours, tracking the way your pupils blow out into the abyss every time he bottoms out against your cervix. He watches the flicker of your eyelids as he drags back out, slow and taxing, careful to savor the way every ridge of his dick rubs against your tender walls. His veins pulse against your interior, his length twitching in the suffocating warmth of you sucking him back in until there is nothing left. With his tip nearly kissing your cervix with every stroke, the sensation is almost impossible to articulate—a toe-curling, soul-crushing completeness that is both wonderful and overwhelming.
A dark, pathetically racy thought takes root: you never want him to pull out. You never want to feel the cold void that his absence would leave. You want to be tainted by this, to have him vacuum every ounce of your senses away until you are nothing but a delirious, drooling mess, brain-fucked to the point of no return.
He hears the small, broken noises in the back of your throat; he feels your fingers clenching around his wrists and your legs pulling back voluntarily to accept the full depth of his stride. Your lip gets caught between your teeth as you try to stifle the volume of your cries, your eyes watering with the sheer fervor of it, though you refuse to let a single tear fall. You’ve had sex before and it wasnt anything new, but this was a different category of existence—having this man fuck you like some vengeful god was a level of humiliation that feels intoxicatingly right.
"Mhm . . . you feel that don't you?" he murmurs, his pace starting to pick up just enough to make your head toss back against the leather.
“Y-yes . . . y-you feel . . . s-so . . . big!”
The steady, rhythmic thud of his hips against yours becomes the only clock in the room. A carnal metronome measuring out the seconds as he systematically deconstructs your composure. You felt exposed— a captive audience to the vigorous map of him.
You find that he isn’t rushing, but savoring a long-awaited meal, delighting in the way your cunt stretches and yields around him. He ensures you feel the exact displacement of his mass, the way he claims every fraction of available space inside you until there’s no room left for even a breath.
“So tight for me… so goddamn warm,” he rasps, his voice a dark, velvet weight that settles deep in your ear. “Look at that. Just taking it all. Taking exactly what you begged for, right, princess?”
“Ye— yes—” You try to form a coherent answer, but the words die in your throat, constricted by sensation and replaced by a broken, high-pitched whimper. Your concentration focused entirely on the white-hot point of consciousness centers on the grit of his thick length hitting against your g-spot.
The wretched ache makes your body go numb, your vision blurring at the edges, the lights smearing into golden halos. Every thrust feels like it is reaching deeper than the last, claiming territory you didn't know you had, and the fact that you can’t move your arms—can’t even reach out to steady yourself against the crushing momentum—only heightens the intoxicating reality of being utterly dominated.
He observes your struggle with a consuming pride, his thumbs digging into the soft skin of your wrists to maintain his iron grip, drinking in the sight of your jiggling tits, the way your ribcage draws toward him with every deep, brutal slide.
"No matter how deep I go, she just opens up more for me. It's like. . . fuck. . .like she's trying to swallow me whole," he chuckles, a low, tectonic vibration that you feel more than you hear. "I mean, you can hold on as tight as you want, but I promise you, I'm not going anywhere. Not until I've wrung every last cry out of you. Not until you're completely empty."
The pace shifts then, transitioning into something truly torturous—slow, grinding circles of his hips that makes you say his name. You find yourself instinctively tilting your pelvis upward, seeking more of that pressure. You’re a mess of shallow hitches and quiet, needy sounds. Your mind turns to static under the constant barrage of his movements. The air in the room feels thick, charged with the scent of expensive cologne and the salt of your combined sweat.
“Have you gone mute already, my love?” He's taking his time, enjoying the way your frame trembles and how your eyes roll back into a hazy daze. He makes you feel every bit as helpless and owned as you craved, right down to the way your pulse thumps against his pinning hands.
The deliberate stretch finally snaps as he loses the last of his composure. His rhythm fracturing, shifting into something far more urgent and primal. His hips begin to piston into you, driving his cock home with a blunt pace that has the springs of the couch squeaking frantically under the impact. The air is knocked out of your lungs with every wet visceral thud, his size stretching you until you’re a shaking, incoherent wreck beneath him.
“C'mon mama, tell me. Tell me how it feels. Does it feel good? Tell me how much you needed this,” he demands, his voice cracking with the strain of his own pleasure.
He finally lets your wrists go, but only so his hands can roam. He catches your waist, his fingers digging into the plush of your hips, pulls you even harder against the downstroke. His mouth becomes a searing trail of heat, traveling from the crook of your neck with open-mouthed kisses that linger and taint against your soft skin.
“Does it feel good being this pathetic for me?" he asks softly, nipping at your earlobe between words, his teeth grazing the skin just enough to make you shiver. "Knowing that I'm the only one who can make you fall apart like this? The only one allowed to break you?”
You can feel the smooth, hot slide of his tongue against your flesh as he works his way down the valley of your chest, leaving a glistening path of saliva in his wake, only to be warmed by the frantic heat of his body pressing back down onto yours. Every ridge of him is a vivid brand against your interior, a constant reminder that for this moment, the world outside that door doesn't exist—there is only the weight of him and the way he is ruthlessly filling the void.
“Y-yes,” you cry out, your hands flying to his head, your fingers knotting into the thick, dark silk of his hair. You pull at the roots with ruthless desperation, anchoring yourself to the only solid thing in a world currently dissolved into friction and heat. "So... goddamn good. I love the way you feel... the way you’re stretching me. Making me feel so full... like I’m just your toy. Taking it all. Taking every fucking part of me."
"That’s it, mama. Just keep talking for me," he grunts, the sound vibrating through his ribs and straight into your own. His focus shifts, his head dipping low as he finally reaches the jiggling swell of your breast. He latches onto your nipple with a starving hunger, his tongue swirling in a hot, rough circle around the hardened peak before he sucks the entire nub deep into the hot suction of his mouth.
"I just want you to keep going... don't stop... just keep fucking me," you ramble, your voice a fractured, incoherent stream of consciousness. You’re losing all tether to reality, the clinical surroundings of the office vanishing behind a veil of pheromones as he continues his ministrations.
The sensation of his cock driving you deep into the leather cushions while his mouth pulls at your skin with possessive suction. He works you over so thoroughly with such a concentrated lack of mercy, trailing warm saliva down the curve of your breast, sending a feverish heat of him against your glistening skin.
A low, guttural groan vibrates through his chest into yours. Muffled against your damp skin, he continues to suckle and tease the sweet, aching nub. Growing relentless now, resonating and punishing with each shift that drives the pleasure toward a sharp, jagged peak, he threatens to shatter the final remnants of your sanity.
You’re utterly entombed beneath his heavy frame, your fingers alternately digging into the hard planes of his shoulders or tangling back into his hair as you attempt to ground yourself against the unbridled intensity of him.
"I love the way you feel against me," he growls, the words vibrating against your collarbone like a physical brand. The slow, taunting buildup finally ignites into a frantic fire that consumes the last of his restraint. You find your voice again, not in a whisper, but in a broken, ravenous plea that scrapes the back of your throat.
"...Just fuck me dumb. Ruin me. Please, just ruin me." You beg him, wanting nothing more than for him to simply finish the job.
And he doesn't hesitate to answer with soul bearing momentum. His hips slamming into yours with an animalistic force that sends your lips to part. The sound in the room is absolute ruin—the wet, obscene squelch of his cock buried to the hilt, punctuated by the sharp cadent slapping of his balls against your core. It’s a percussive symphony of skin on skin that echoes off the walls, marking every punishing, greedy inch he claims.
Your head thrashes back against the leather, your eyes rolling until only the whites are visible. Your vision fractures into a kaleidoscopic haze as he abandons all pretense of resolve. His body becomes a tireless engine of motion as he begins to piston into you like a man possessed by carnal fever. Every rhythmic strike is tactical, reaching that deep itch you could never hope to satisfy on your own. He hits your G-spot with such driving precision that your entire structure feels like it’s vibrating apart, the resonance of his impact humming through you.
The exhilaration is paralyzing, a sensory coup that leaves you gasping for air that won't come. You’re wailing now—high, jagged, wordless sounds that you don’t even recognize as your own—while your fingers claw at his skin, dragging your nails at his back as you try to take the sheer velocity of his movement.
"That's a good girl," he rasps, the words vibrating against your damp skin. "Just keep taking it. Show me just exactly how much more of me you can handle."
He looms over you, a silhouette of raw power, his muscles taut and glistening with a fine sheen of sweat that drips onto your heaving chest. His face is a mask of dark, possessive focus, his jaw clamped tight as he plunges profoundly, bottoming out so hard the air is surged from your lungs in a sharp, airy gasp. Every time he draws back to the very tip, he leaves you feeling cold and hollow for an agonizing second before slamming back home, making his way into the deepest, most receptive warmth of your canal. The friction is blinding—a localized heat that ignites in your lower belly and radiates outward through your limbs until your stomach curls into tight knots.
"Oh, darling. . .you were made just for me. A perfect fucking fit," he growls, the words barely audible over the lewd slapping of his body against yours.
He was no longer the patient, careful protector you once knew. Only a man taking exactly what he knew belonged to him. He watched with a voyeuristic glare as your composure unspools, his hands shifting to grip your waist territorially. He pins your hips to the cushions so he can drive even harder.
Every thrust is a blunt invasion that compels your knees closer to your chest. Your body acting on its own accord, you swallow more of him, keeping him trapped within the pulsing heat of your surrender.
The wet, squelching sounds of your slickness being churned into a froth by his cock fill the room and become a melody that serves as the only soundtrack to your ruin. He plunges faster, his breathing coming in harsh pants as he nears the precipice, his movements becoming more rushed as he prepares to break you once and for all.
"God, I want you to be mine. I’ve wanted you for so long, and now that I have you, it feels like I’m losing every fucking sense," he moans, his voice a wreck through the ramble. His teeth graze the sensitive slope of your shoulder, marking you with love bites that send a fresh bolt of heat straight to your stomach.
But then, the world tilts.
In a sudden, fluid whirlwind of movement, he pulls you forward, hoisting you upright until you’re the one towering over him.
Your palms are flat against his taut, sticky chest, you find yourself straddling his lap, the leather of the couch creaking under the combined weight. Your curls spill around your face like a lion’s mane, shielding the two of you from the rest of the room as you look down into his dark, blown-out eyes.
The power dynamic resets in an instant. You begin to bounce, your thighs burning with the effort as you ride the length of him feverishly, slamming down with wanton. His reddened tip kisses against your cervix with every downward stroke that gravitates a long, shaky huff from your lungs. The drag is wet and gushy, strings of your combined slickness painting his thighs and yours in a lewd, glistening map of your shared undoing.
In this position, you feel no shred of shyness. The exposure is total, yet it feels like armor. Your eyes stare deep into his longing ones, watching him unravel as you take the reins. Your hands shift from his chest to the arms of the chair on either side of his head, bracing yourself so you can drive your hips even faster against his upward thrusts.
Your lips are gaped, releasing high, whiny whimpers that cut through the heavy air of the office. You’re cussing up a storm, a string of incoherent, filthy praise for the way he’s filling you, finding it impossible to maintain your composure when he’s looking at you like you’ve grown a new set of devil horns and angel wings at the same time—a terrifying yet beautiful vision of his own ruin.
"You look so fucking perfect like this," he murmurs, his voice a low, melodic rumble that settles deep in your marrow. "Just my little toy to play with. No thoughts, no pride... just my dick filling you up until there's nothing else left."
He moves one hand, cupping your breast with a firm grip, the warmth of his palm a shocking contrast to the air-conditioned chill biting at your damp skin. "Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me you want this. Tell me just how much you love being my favorite little toy. Tell me how it feels to know that no matter where you go after this, you’re always going to be carrying the weight of what I’m doing to you in here. That you'll feel me in your walk for days."
"I... I want this. I want you. I need you. I love the weight of you, the reminder of you, of being your favorite toy," you cry out, your head falling back, exposing the pale line of your throat as his thumb begins to rhythmically circle your nipple.
"Mmph, s-shit, love—" A broken whimper escapes him, a sudden, rare crack in his armor as his own submission comes into view. He can’t seem to hold back his own resolve when he feels you lean into the movement, your pussy clamping around him in a warm welcome.
Despite your own crumbling sanity, you devour the sight of him—the way his head lolls back against the pillow, the way he’s guiding your hips with an impatient hand. You’re taking in every ounce of longing he’s harbored for you, swallowing his desire whole, exactly the way you’ve craved since the very beginning. Pathetically, you weren't just taking him in, you were consuming the very idea of him, riding him into the ground until the storm, and the world outside simply ceased to exist.
“Say it,” you command, your voice a fractured sliver of authority cutting through the thick air. “Say my name. Tell me I’m yours. Tell me you’re mine. I want to hear it. I want to hear how pathetic you’ve become for me, the same way I am for you.”
The challenge hangs between you, heavy and ripe, until he finally shatters. He gives you exactly what you crave, but he delivers it with a salacious and dangerous intent that makes your blood run hot. Every syllable is a jagged confession, every breath and muffled whimper sealed with an unregrettable promise.
He rasps your name with a deep, guttural whimper—a sound that is half-prayer and half-growl—causing a violent tingle to race down your spine. As he stares into the depths of your eyes, he can see the obscene, wanton beginning to tremor, reflecting his own ruin back at him.
The office, no longer a place of business, was a chamber of chaotic, raw noise. The heavy, rhythmic thud of the furniture colliding with the wall punctuates every strike─ a percussive backdrop to the wet, alarmkng slapping of his body against yours.
Your breath is gone, replaced by broken wails that tear from your throat, echoing off the walls. You’re completely unraveled, your thighs burning with effort, but you only press down harder, needing to feel every grueling ounce of him as you both sprint toward the edge of the cliff.
“F-fuck, I’m close. I’m so goddamn close,” he breathes, his pupils so dilated they’ve swallowed the color of his eyes.
“Cum in me,” you moan, the words slick with tears that have begun to stream down your face unexpectedly. You press your forehead against his, your skin glistening with sweat, as he strikes that tender spot over and over with precision that borders on cruelty. “Please… just cum in me.”
Even through the blinding haze of his lust, the request hits him like a physical jolt. A dark, triumphant smirk tugs at the corner of his swollen mouth. He looks you in the eye, his gaze lidded and feral, his chest heaving in hitches.
"You sure you want that?" he rasps, his eyes devilishly dark. He doesn't wait for the answer before his thrusts turn into short, sharp, punishing ruts.
"Uh-huh, I’m sure. I want it. I want it so bad," you choke out, nodding feverishly. "C’mon, baby, just fill me up… give it to me, please. I'm yours. I'm all yours. Just fill me—"
He didn’t need to be told twice.
A low, primal whimper—a sound of pure, unadulterated ownership—escapes him as he slams into you one last time, burying himself as deep as humanly possible, his pelvis grinding into yours. His entire body goes rigid, every muscle in his arms and chest bulging, corded with a tension that looks like it might snap him in two.
“Shit...Shit, I’m yours.” He huffs, “I’m yours, darling...I'm all yours,” The admission tears from his lungs. You could feel it instantly—the hot, rhythmic pulse of him surging into the depths of your womb, filling your nerve wrecking, creamy core until you felt like you were overflowing with a passion of him.
The sensation is the final spark required to burn down the rest of your composure. Your own climax rips through you with a violent, bone crushing wave. Your muscles clench down around his shaft in tight, delirious pulses, trying to trap every drop, to swallow him whole. You’re shaking, your back curved into a rigid bridge, your head knocked back as a long, ragged cry of total surrender echoes off the walls.
He stays buried within you, his large palms cupping your ass to hold the contact as his hips continue to twitch with the aftershocks. You can feel the last few ripples of his release filling you to the brim, the excess seeping past your spongy walls to paint the underside of his length and balls, staining the dark leather of the couch. With his head still pinned against the cushion, his eyes shut tight as he draws in sobbing breaths.
Eventually, your strength gives out, and your body falls into the solid, radiating heat of his chest. He moves his hands to the middle of your back, his touch surprisingly gentle as he feels the way your body heaves breathlessly against him. With your head tucked just below his chin, he feels the soft tickle of your hair and the flustered thrum of his heart against your ear.
The only sound left in the sex-scented office is the synchronized throb of your heart and the quiet, sticky sound of his release settling into you. Your pussy giving one last, involuntary spasm around him, a final clench of ownership, before you feel yourself lulled into deep slumber, protected and entirely possessed within the warmth of his embrace.
©𝗺𝘁𝗰𝗹𝗼𝘂𝗱𝘀 ─ 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽. 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅, 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒, 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾 ─ 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡
