Godddd so horny thinking about doing kink and consent discussions with somebody...just sitting across from one another, discussing limits and boundaries and fantasies you want to try, looking the other in the eye and seeing how excited they get at the ideas put on the table, at sharing the things they want to do to you, at hearing the things you want to do to them...
Summary: Joel sits downstairs, reading by the stove, trying to pretend he doesn’t hear the footsteps of his son’s girlfriend. Trying to pretend he doesn’t remember what the two of you have done and feel. But when you appear in the dark—barefoot, wide-eyed, floaty-headed and call him Daddy like you still mean something by it, he knows you’re about to break the rules again.
Warnings: 18+, smut, fluff, slight angst, age gap! (60s and 20s), fingering, praise kink, slight mean!joel, daddy kink, ddlg undertones, subspace, infidelity, power imbalance, taboo relationship dynamics, needy!reader, no outbreak,
A/N: i’m not feeling very well lately. this is just an unfinished draft that I never finished, but I wrapped it up now to kinda ease myself back into writing. I also want to finally get to some requests that have been sitting in my inbox. Things might move a little slower for now, I’m sorry about that! But i hope yall enjoy this one in the meantime: filthy, taboo nonsense that just hits right when you’re horny hehe😋
The fire crackled low in the stove, its orange glow flickering across the old wooden floorboards. The room was dim, lit only by the firelight that danced around Joel’s chair. He sat still, legs stretched out, reading glasses perched low on his nose, the spine of a thick book resting in one hand.
Outside, the wind knocked against the windows, but inside it was warm and real quiet. The kind of quiet that settles into your bones and makes you forget the day.
Joel turns a page slowly, his eyes moving steady across the lines, but he wasn’t really reading anymore. Not with the fire murmuring besides him. Not with the weight of the day finally easing off his shoulders.
And then—
a sound.
Soft and unmistakable. Footsteps.
He stilled.
The book lowered an inch. His jaw tightens just slightly. He didn’t look up, not yet. Just listened. One step. Then another. A pause. Then the creak of the top stair.
Joel closed the book gently, thumb marking the page.
He didn’t need to look to know it was you.
His eyes flicked towards your figure in the hallway, dressed in white like a ghost. The room was dark, but Joel could still make out the tremble of your lips, the flush blooming across your cheeks.
He doesn’t want to know what you did upstairs with his son, he didn’t even want to think of it.
And more than anything, he didn’t want you coming to him—disturbing the only ounce of peace he ever feels, that quiet hour when the house is asleep, and it’s just him, a book, and the soft crackle of the fire.
You slip into the room without a word, the hem of your dress brushing your thighs as you move gently to the couch besides him. He doesn’t say anything. Just watches. Swallows. His jaw tightens. And you can already see his knuckles going white from gripping the book too hard.
With a quiet sigh, legs are drawn up as you settle besides him, eyes fixed on the way he turns the page—his hands broad and steady, the book looking small in his palm.
You close your eyes and take a deep breath, thoughts wrapped in cotton. Everything feels soft, distant—like the only thing keeping you tethered to the moment is Joel.
He clears his throat, making you look up to him.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks, voice low and hoarse, the sound of it rumbling deep in your chest.
You shake your head. “No, it’s too quiet up there.”
“You’re not used to country,” he answers with a hum.
He was right. Staying at Joel’s farmhouse—just because your boyfriend insisted that spending the holidays at his dad’s place would help you relax—was a mistake. Instead of peace, you were face to face with the very thing you’d been trying to avoid for years.
And now you can’t keep it together anymore. Joel knows it.
He saw it already on your glassy eyes on the breakfast table. Or on the way you gently touched him when you tried to slip past him.
“Do you always read in the dark?” You ask.
“Sometimes. When my eyes get used to it. Helps me wind down, you know?”
You nod, and you feel it in your chest—knowing that once, you knew everything about him. That he once told you everything. Every little quirk he had and has.
Silence stretches between you. Joel’s head dips, trying to make something of the words he is reading, but the only thing his mind allows is to hear your little breaths and your voice looping inside his mind.
He can feel you staring.
“You should go back to bed.” He says, finally.
Your heart thuds in your chest. You tilt your head, eyes glassy looking at him.
“Doesn’t feel right,” you murmur. “Up there. Without you.”
He shakes his head, jaw clenching, hands closing the book.
“We’ve talked about this.”
You nod.
“Remember?”
“I remember.” Your voice is just above a whisper.
“And?” His eyebrows go up, reading glasses moving with them. His voice makes your skin crawl; it makes you want to curl yourself further into the couch and disappear. You just needed him.
“I-i’m not trying to start anything.” A lie.
“Bullshit.” His voice cuts through the warm atmosphere of the room—sharp, hitting right into your heart. Your bottom lip wobbles as you look at him, breath picking up.
“Look at you.” His hand sways in your direction, eyes scanning you up and down. “You look like a mess.”
“I—I don’t mean to be.” Your voice is breathy, almost like a whimper. “I just…I don’t feel right.”
Joel scoffs, his heart breaking a little too—from being so mean. He doesn’t want to be. But you two were never meant to be. What happened between you has to stay in the past, forgotten. That was the deal: to never talk about it again. To never seek each other out. To never ask for more.
“You should go,” Joel says again, quieter this time. “Ain’t right, you sittin’ here like this.”
You don’t move. Just look at him, eyes wide, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t wanna be alone.”
“That ain’t my problem.” You flinch. “You have your boyfriend right upstairs, you don’t need me.”
Silence falls again.
Neither of you move or say anything. Joel doesn’t look at you—his eyes are focused on the way the fire plays shadows on the walls and the way it lights up the place.
You, on the other hand…are almost on the verge of crying. Not because of sadness, but because you’re locked in a headspace that won’t let you think straight. One that just wants to be cradled, to be held, and to be told that everything is going to be okay.
And that should be from Joel.
Because your boyfriend doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand your headspace, your needs. He doesn’t listen, and when he does he misinterprets what you say.
Joel doesn’t. He never did.
After a while Joel releases a big breath, and rubs his forehead.
And then he hears it:
“daddy, i’m sorry.”
It lands like match on dry grass.
Joel freezes. That word hangs in the air—thick, trembling. He squeezes his eyes shut, his mind already drifting to the past, to when you laid underneath him and called him that word like he was your anchor.
When he opens his eyes again, they’re darker. But they’re not angry. Not anymore. They’re wrecked. He knows he has been fighting this way too long, and he knows that a single word can break him. And that happened now.
“Jesus,” he mutters, just under his breath.
Your cheeks flush, embarrassment runs through your body.
He drags a hand down his face, then looks at you—really looks. At the way you’re still curled in on yourself, flushed and trembling, eyes wide, lips swollen, wet and waiting for something.
“You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me,” breathes out.
But he’s already moving. The book slides from his lap to the floor with a soft thud. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and opens his arms.
“C’mere,” he says, voice gentler now. “Come here.”
You move fast. You climb into his lap like you’ve done it a hundred times before—knees on either side of his thighs, arms already reaching to curl around his neck, face nuzzling toward the warm space beneath his jaw.
But his hand comes up, firm against your shoulder.
“Hey.”
You pause, blinking up at him, dazed and soft. Sou try again, leaning in, seeking the comfort of his chest, but his voice sharpens.
“Hey…hey. Hey.” He catches your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up to his. His eyes focused on your lips.
“You know we can’t keep doin’ this,” he starts, voice low. “We said last time was the last time.”
You whimper, barely a sound, but it’s enough to make his grip falter for a second. His thumb brushes your cheek, gentler now.
“Last time,” he says again, quieter. “You hear me?”
You nod, slow.
“Promise?” he asks.
You nod again, eager. But he doesn’t let go.
“No,” he says, firmer. “Words.”
“Promise.”
He watches you for a beat longer, then exhales through his nose. His hand slides from your chin to the back of your neck, pulling you in.
“Good girl.”
And just like that, you curl into him, breath soft against his neck, while he can feel how far you’ve gone—how quiet, how warm, how gone. Your body’s heavy in his lap, boneless, like you’re melting into him inch by inch. And Joel knows what that means.
His hand moves slowly over your back, steady and grounding, trying to soothe you.
“You’re real quiet now,” he murmurs. “That little motor of yours finally ran outta steam, huh?”
You don’t answer. Just nuzzle closer, your lips brushing the side of his neck, barely there.
“You’re deep in it, ain’t you,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Didn’t even see it happen.”
He shifts slightly, adjusting you in his lap, cradling you closer. His voice drops to a whisper.
“You always do this to me,” he says. “Come in here all soft, all sweet…and I try so damn hard to be good.”
You let out a tiny sound—half sigh, half whimper—and it breaks something in him.
“Shh,” he soothes, pressing his lips to your temple. “I know, baby. I know.”
His hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.
“You’re safe,” he whispers. “Daddy’s got you.”
You feel soft in his lap, breath already hitching, hips starting to shift just enough to make him feel it. You need him.
Joel’s hand tightens on your hip, his jaw clenching like he’s trying to hold something back.
You nod, whimpering softly, and he exhales like it hurts.
“Can you tell me what you need?” he asks, brushing your hair back. “Just wanna make sure you’re still with me.”
“Want you,” you whisper. “Please, Daddy.”
He closes his eyes for a beat, then nods. “Yeah. You want Daddy to help you come back down.”
His hand slides lower, slow and steady.
“S’okay,” he murmurs. “I got you.”
And just as he shifts you in his lap, his mouth close to your ear, you hear it—barely a breath, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud: “This the last time.”
But his hands don’t stop.
“Y’stay real quiet, yeah? Don’t want him hearin’ that his dad’s takin’ care of his girlfriend better.”
It’s not a threat. It never is. It’s resentment, but not at you—god, never at you. It’s at the boy, his own son, who gets to have you in the daylight, while Joel only gets the dark.
He presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard while looking into your hazy eyes. You whine again, signalling that you’re ready. Ready for him to take you. He chuckles under his breath in response.
So, Joels hand slides down, slow and warm, slipping beneath the hem of your dress, then lower. He cups you over your panties, real gentle, but firm—and lets out a quiet breath when he feels the dampness.
“Messy girl.” he coos.
You whimper, hips pressing desperately into his palm.
“Shh,” he soothes, lips brushing your temple. “I know. Daddy’s here.”
He quickly hooks a finger around the edge of your panties, tugging them aside with care, while your head rests on his chest—breathing in his wooden scent. His fingers find you, slick, soft, sticky and he strokes through the wetness, slow and teasing. His fingertip brushes over your clit gently, and you gasp.
“Just like that,” he whispers. “Let me feel you.”
After letting you settle, he eases one finger inside—only one, because he knows you need time to adjust in this headspace. His finger settles into your cunt, and you breathe out, clinging to him, as he holds you tighter.
“There you go,” he murmurs. “Nice and easy.”
He waits for yuou, lets you adjust, then begins to move—gentle, curling thrusts, deep and slow, while his other hand cradles your back.
You were already feeling sensitive—like your body knew Joel was near, like your cunt could sense the weight of his big, steady hands cradling you. And you were always extra needy when you started to float.
He shifts just enough to see your face, brushing your hair back with the hand not inside you. Your eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, cheeks flushed. You look dazed, dreamy, like you’re floating somewhere only he can reach.
Joel swears under his breath. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “All gone, huh?”
You hum, barely even able to nod, and he smiles: absolutely wrecked by how beautiful you are like this.
His fingers keep moving, slow and sure, coaxing you through it, fingertip curling into that one spot that only Joel can reach. He leans in, presses his forehead to yours.
“You stay with me, babygirl. Don’t drift too far.”
You move softly in his lap, breath hitching, but hips shifting just a little more desperately—like you’re chasing something just out of reach.
Joel notices. Of course he does.
“Still restless, huh?” he murmurs, voice still against your ear. “One ain’t enough for you, baby?”
You shake your head, your body answering before your mouth can.
He smiles knowing. “S’okay,” he whispers. “I got you.”
He eases his hand back, just enough to press a second finger to your entrance. He waits—feels the way your body flutters, how you cling to him tighter.
“Breathe for me,” he whispers. “Let me in.”
And when you do—when he slides that second finger in, slow and careful—you sigh, your cunt fluttering around him. The stretch is deeper, fuller, and your whole body melts around him.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “That’s what you needed, huh?”
Joel starts with his thrusts again. Slow, deep and grinding. Every thrust now pressing into you more fully, brushing against that sweet, aching spot inside you. You can already feel the stickiness between your thighs, the way your slick clings to him, to you, to everything. It’s warm, messy, perfect.
“Daddy…” you sigh, burying your face into his chest.
“Yea? Like that?” He asks, placing a kiss on your temple. “Daddy’s filling you up nice and slow?”
You nod your head softly, coming closer to his chin, pressing a peck on his lips and then a faint one on his stubbles.
The chair under you two groans as your hips shift, chasing the rhythm of his hand. You’re trying to stay quiet, but every slow thrust makes you tremble, makes you cling to him tighter.
His fingers continue to move slow and deep inside you, while the room is quiet, so quiet that you can hear it. That soft, wet sound each time he thrusts in. It’s intimate.
A slick little whisper between your thighs, hidden in the space where your bodies meet.
He presses in deeper, and the squelch is louder now—squelching, needy. You feel it in your belly, on your skin.
The slick sounds between you grow wetter, messier, and your breath comes in soft, broken gasps. Joel feels it—the way you’re clenching tighter, the way your body’s starting to shake.
“You’re close, yea?” he murmurs, voice thick with warmth. “I can feel it, baby.”
You can’t answer. You just whimper, pressing your face into his neck, trying to hold on.
And then you feel it—his thumb, warm and steady, sliding down to circle your clit. Gentle at first, just enough to make you gasp.
“There we go. So puffy for daddy, aren’t you?” he whispers. “Let Daddy help you.”
His fingers keep moving inside you, while his thumb works soft, perfect circles over that aching spot. The rhythm is steady and grounding.
“That’s it, babygirl. Just come for me. I’ve got you.”
His fingers find that tender spot inside you again—just as his thumb circles your clit just right, and his voice drops low in your ear. “Yes, that’s it, baby. I’ve got you.”
And then you do.
Your whole body tenses, then breaks. You cry out, soft and wrecked and he holds you tighter as your release rushes through you. He feels it immediately—the way your walls flutter around his fingers, the way your slick gushes over his hand, warm, wet and so desperate.
It runs down his fingers, over his knuckles, dripping onto his wrist and soaking into the fabric of his jeans. But he doesn’t care. He loves it.
“That’s my girl,” he whispers, kissing your temple. “Let it all out. I’ve got you.”
He doesn’t pull away. He keeps his fingers inside you, gentle now, nestled deep, cradling the soft, fluttering squeeze of your walls as you come down. The chair creaks beneath you, the room still thick with heat and breath and the soft, wet sounds of your release.
“You’re making such a big mess, baby girl…” he murmurs. “Daddy has to clean ya up, hm?”
His other hand strokes your back, grounding you, while his lips press soft kisses to your temple.
“Still flutterin’,” he whispers, almost in awe. “So sweet. So soft.”
You whine, your body coming down from your release—still overwhelmed, and he hushes you gently.
“I know, baby. I know. You gave me everything, didn’t you?”
He stays there with you, fingers still inside, until your breathing evens out and your body stops trembling. Even then, he doesn’t pull away. He just holds you, full and warm and safe in his arms.
“You’re okay,” he says softly.
You hum, content. His scent is everywhere—smoke, leather, wood. You feel like you could stay here forever.
“You feel better, babygirl?” he asks sweetly.
You nod, slow and lazy. “Mhm. Thank you, Daddy.”
You’re curl into his lap, limp and trembling, your cheek pressed to his chest. His fingers slip from you now, but his arms don’t move. One hand strokes your back in slow, grounding circles. The other rests on your thigh, warm and steady.
The chair creaks softly beneath you both again, but neither of you moves. You’re still slick between your legs, the mess of your release soaking into his jeans, but he doesn’t care. He just presses a kiss to your hairline—gentle, lingering.
“You were so good,” he says softly. “So damn sweet.”
There’s a pause. Like he wants to say more. Like there’s something sitting heavy in his chest. But instead, he just holds you tighter.
“Let’s just stay like this a while.”
“Just let me have this,” he says, barely audible. “Just for a little longer.”
And you do. Because right now, in this hush, in his arms—you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
Okey i’m gonna be honest…i don’t like this but i also missed writing for daddy Joel sooo…I hope you guys enjoyed it! Also this is not proofread🫣 please let’s just ignore all the mistakes and things that don’t make sense
Now i’m gonna concentrate on some requests, and then i’ll probably post ex hitman!joel! He is miserable, bleeding but still soft for her <3
pairing: contractor!joel miller x phone sex operator! reader
summary: turns out your favorite client, mr. miller, was also renovating your parents kitchen.
warnings: phone sex, MDNI 18+, needy!joel, sub!reader, masturbation, mutual masturbation, voyeurism (slight), age!gap, pinv, FINGERING, f!reader, bossy!joel, lots of dialogue, SWEATY CONSTRUCTION JOEL, dirty talk, smut with 0 plot
word count: 7,6k ( masterlist)
a/n: just thought joel would love phone sex and had to write about it (didn’t proof read ughh!)
Joel wasn’t the kind of man who went looking for things like this. Hell, he’d barely even used his damn cell phone for more than work calls and the occasional “you need anything?” to Tommy. But work had been slow, evenings long, and his bed cold for far longer than he cared to count.
It started the way everything bad always does— by accident. He’d been working late on a kitchen remodel for an older couple across town, staying after to make sure the grout set right. When he finally packed up for the night, he was sore, tired, and just needed something to take his mind off the gnawing quiet of home.
Stopped at a corner store on the way back— needed smokes, a drink, maybe a snack. That’s when he saw it. A little card by the register. Neon pink with black print. “Lonely tonight? Call now.” The girl on the front wasn’t real— he could tell. Too glossy, too airbrushed. But the number was real. He thought. He’d shoved it in his back pocket without thinking.
That night, the house was too still. He sat in his recliner, TV on low, beer sweating on the side table, thumb rubbing over the edges of that card like it was something dangerous, giving himself a little poke at the corners. He wasn’t lonely, he told himself. Just… curious. Which was probably worse.
By the time he dialed, he already felt foolish. A grown man, calling a stranger for God knows what. He almost hung up when the ring clicked over, making him freeze with the phone hovering over his ear.
“Hello,” came a warm, easy voice. Not too high, not too sugary. Like you were smiling without even meaning to.
He cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh… this the number from the—”
“Yes, baby,” you cut in smoothly, like you’d done this a hundred times. “Do you want me to tell you how it works, or do you want to tell me what you need tonight?”
Joel’s mouth went dry. He could hear the smile in your tone. You weren’t rushing him, weren’t fake-giggling. Just… waiting.
“Not sure,” he said finally, leaning back in his chair. “Ain’t never done this before.”
“That’s alright,” you said, and God, your voice was soft. “You can just talk to me. We’ll go slow. You can tell me what you like… or I can help you figure it out.”
Something in him— the part that had been tight and knotted for months— loosened at that. Maybe he can make this work, maybe he’d like this. Maybe he needed this.
“What do I call you?” he asked.
“You don’t have to call me anything, if you don’t want,” you said. “What do you want me to call you?”
He hasn’t done this at all. Fuck. Without even fucking thinking much of it, really, he says, “Mr. Miller.” Like he has nothing to hide. But what kind of rookie mistake was that.
“Mr. Miller,” you repeated in that same soft voice, like velvet. Seductive. Thank you.
That did something to him, the hum that left him gave him away. “Alright then,” he said slowly.
“Now, Mr. Miller… what do you like? What gets you going?”
The bluntness caught him off guard. His ears went hot. “Uh—don’t really… talk about that kinda thing.”
“You’re not used to it,” you said gently, “but you can. There’s no right or wrong answer. You can be as detailed or as vague as you want. Just… tell me something.”
Joel let out a slow breath. “Guess I like… softness.”
“Softness,” you repeated, like you were tasting the word. “You mean… the way someone talks to you? Or their body?”
He thought about it, thumb rubbing the edge of the phone. “Both.”
You hummed. “What about right now, Mr. Miller? If I were in front of you, what’s the first thing you’d notice?”
His mouth went dry. “…Your mouth.”
You let out the faintest little sigh, and Joel felt it low in his gut. “Would you touch me?”
“Yeah,” he said before he could think. He hadn’t even seen you. But fuck.
“How?”
His throat bobbed. “Gentle. At first.”
You smiled in your voice. “At first.”
There was a pause, and Joel swore the silence was heavy with something that wasn’t just talk. You let it stretch before asking, “What are you doing right now?”
Joel shifted in his chair, heat prickling the back of his neck. “…Think you know.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
He huffed a laugh, low and self-conscious. “Touchin’ myself.”
“Mm. That’s good. Think about my mouth, then. Think about me on my knees for you.”
Joel’s eyes shut. The sound of your voice in his ear was more than he expected — less like a stranger, more like someone who already knew how to get inside his head. The image of someone he doesn’t quite know, on her knees in front of him. The feeling of soft hands pressed on his thighs, squeezing gently– anchoring themselves to better take his hard cock.
“You can take your time,” you murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And he did take his time. You kept him talking— little nudges, gentle questions, painting pictures in his head until his hand was moving without thought, until his breathing had gone heavy into the receiver.
When you finally whispered, “That’s it, Mr. Miller. Just like that. I want you to let go for me,” Joel bit down on a groan and came hard, shuddering in his seat.
For a moment, the line was nothing but his breath in your ear. Joel’s head was tipped back against the recliner, eyes shut, his voice rough with the kind of pleasure he hadn’t felt in years. His thick release dripping down his knuckles, making a mess all over his jeans. Then—“Goodnight, Sir,” you said softly, smirk obviously on your lips. And before he could answer, the line went to the automated payment system you had in place, leaving Joel staring at the phone while he pulled out his card from his wallet, wondering why he already wanted to hear you again.
. ₊˚ ☎︎₊˚✧
Joel had told himself it’d be a while before he called again. Weeks, maybe. Let it cool off. It’d been four days. He’d spent those nights trying not to think about the sound of your voice— the way you’d called him Mr. Miller, not like everyone else did. Just the way you did. Like it actually needed to be pronounced that way always.
So by the fourth night, he caved. Sat on the edge of his bed, card in hand, number already burned into his memory. The ring was shorter this time.
“Hello,” you said, voice warm like you’d been expecting him.
Joel swallowed. “Yeah… it’s me.”
A smile slid into your tone. “I know.”
That shouldn’t have hit him like it did. “That right?”
“Mhm. You sound the same— like you’re not sure if you should be calling me.”
Joel huffed a small laugh through his nose. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”
“But you want to.”
“…Yeah,” he admitted.
“Then let’s not waste time, Mr. Miller. What do you want tonight?”
He shifted on the mattress, rubbing the back of his neck. “You start.”
“Mm,” you hummed, “I want to tell you how wet I am for you.” The breath left him sharp. “I’ve been thinking about your voice. The way you sounded when you came for me the other night. Bet your face gets all soft when you’re close… bet your mouth parts and your eyes close real tight. I think about that while I touch myself.”
Joel groaned low— a deep, unsteady sound— hand already pressing at the front of his jeans. “Tell me what you’re wearing,” he said, voice rough.
“Black panties,” you said immediately. “They’re soaked right now. And nothing on top.”
He inhaled hard through his nose. “…Jesus.”
You smiled in your voice. “Do you want to touch me, Mr. Miller?”
“You know I do.”
“How would you do it?”
Joel shut his eyes, breathing heavier now. “Slide my hand between your thighs… thumb on your clit. Gentle at first, then harder ‘til you start whinin’ for me.”
“I’m already whining for you,” you murmured, and Joel’s head tipped back.
“Good girl,” he rasped.
You let a few beats pass before asking, “What about your cock? Is he hard for me, sir?”
Sir. Holy fuck. He grunted— deep, strained. “Yeah… fuck… he is.”
“I want you to take him out. I want you to stroke him for me. Slow.”
Joel obeyed before he could think, his hand wrapping around himself, shuddering at the contact.
“That’s it,” you coaxed. “I want to hear you. Don’t hold back for me.”
And he didn’t. His breath was rough now, his chest rising and falling faster.
“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” you whispered.
He swallowed hard. “Your mouth… around me.”
“Mhm. I’d suck you slow. Lick you from the base all the way to the tip… take you so deep my eyes water, Mr. Miller.”
Joel’s groan cracked in the middle, his hips shifting up into his hand.
And then you fucking say, “Would you fuck my face, Mr. Miller?”
“…Christ, sugar…”
“I’d let you. I’d take every inch of you, choking on your cock while you tell me how good I am for you.”
His breathing was ragged now, the slick sound of his hand unmistakable.
“Mm, I bet you taste so good.”
He grunted. His hand pumping up and down his length faster, squeezing just that bit of precum out. His thumb flicks across his glistening bulb.
“I’d swallow every drop. I wouldn’t waste a thing. I’d be so good for you, sir.” You’re a little breathless– you know they like when you sound spent.
That tore a deep, guttural sound from him— one he didn’t even recognize as his own.
“Come for me,” you breathed. “I want to hear it.”
Joel’s fist tightened, his hips jerking, and he came hard with a broken groan into the phone. For a long moment, the line was nothing but his breath and the faint hum of your satisfaction.
“You sound so good when you let go,” you murmured. The truth. You usually lied at most men. But not this one. Not Mr. Miller.
Joel swiped a hand over his face, trying to steady his breathing. “…You’re somethin’ else.”
You laughed softly. “Goodnight, Mr. Miller.”
After hearing his payment go through , Joel sat there with the phone still to his ear, wondering if he’d make it more than a couple of days before calling again. He’d give you all of his damn money to just hear you breathe.
. ₊˚ ☎︎₊˚✧
By now, Joel didn’t even bother pretending he wasn’t going to call. He’d learned your schedule— or maybe you’d learned his— because every time, you picked up on the second ring.
“Hello, Mr. Miller.”
His chest loosened at the sound. “Evenin’, sugar.”
“How’s my favorite caller tonight?”
He smirked faintly. “Don’t know ‘bout favorite… but I’m here.”
“You’re always my favorite,” you said easily, and Joel felt heat curl low in his gut — and not just from the words themselves. There was a pause, then you purred, “You hard for me yet, Mr. Miller?”
Joel exhaled through his nose, already palming himself. “Think you know the answer to that.”
“Mm. Take him out for me.”
He obeyed, boxers shoved down just enough, his hand wrapping around himself with a hiss of breath.
“That’s it,” you coaxed. “Stroke yourself slow. I wanna know what you’re thinking’ about.”
Joel’s head tipped back again. “Your tits,” he said, voice low. “Thinkin’ about havin’ ‘em in my hands.”
“Mmh, yeah? I’d let you squeeze ‘em, play with my nipples… would you suck them for me, sir?”
“Hell yes.” His voice was already fraying at the edges.
“I’d put your mouth to work,” you teased. “Make you suck ‘til they’re aching. Make you beg me to let you fuck me.”
Joel groaned, hips twitching. “You’re filthy.”
“That’s why you keep calling.”
“Yeah…” His breathing deepened, the slick sound of his strokes faint but steady. Then, almost casually, he asks, “What’s your name?”
You laughed softly. “You know I can’t tell you that, Sir.”
“First name. Just a first name.”
“Mm-mm. We’re not doing that,” you murmured, voice still smooth but laced with a smile. “You’ll just have to keep calling if you want to know me.”
Joel grunted. “Already do.”
You let a beat pass, then shifted the tone right back to filth. “Bet your cock’s leaking for me, isn’t it?”
He exhaled sharply. “…Yeah.”
“I’d lick it up. Run my tongue over your slit, suck you into my mouth… make you watch me swallow him.”
Joel’s groan was deep, almost a growl. “Jesus Christ.”
“Would you pull my hair while I do it?”
“Hard,” he rasped. “Hold your head still while I fuck your mouth.” His breathing heavy. He’s close.
“That’s it. Just like that, Mr. Miller. I want you to come for me.”
His strokes sped up without thought, his breath ragged in your ear until he spilled over his hand with a long, low groan. You waited until his breathing slowed before saying, softer this time, “One day, I’ll tell you my name.”
Joel blinked at the ceiling, pulse still thundering. “…Promise?”
“Mhm. But not yet. Goodnight, Mr. Miller.”
Joel sat there with a knot in his chest that wasn’t entirely about what just happened. He hadn’t meant to ask that. But god, he wanted to know so badly. Wanted to moan your name off his lips when he came. Wanted to feel how easy it would be to say it.
. ₊˚ ☎︎₊˚✧
Your parents’ kitchen had smelled like coffee and fresh paint, the air thick with the noise of men working. You’d barely set your bag down before you heard it— deep, gravel-warm, wrapping around your ribs like a hand you knew too well.
“Yeah, hand me that drill, would ya?”
Your breath caught. It couldn’t be. But it was. Even muffled through walls, even casual, even directed at someone else— it was him. Your favorite client. Mr. Miller. You didn’t see him. Didn’t dare peek around that corner. You just stood frozen, heart pounding, before excusing yourself early with some flimsy reason.
That night, your phone rang. Joel was sitting at his kitchen table, jeans loose around his hips, the card with your number worn soft at the edges.
You answered with a steady, “Hello, you.”
“Evenin’, sugar,” he drawled, always the same, and your stomach flipped because God, it was definitely the same voice you’d heard by daylight in your parents’ kitchen.
You forced a smile into your voice. “I didn’t think I’d hear from you tonight.”
“Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you,” he said, and you could hear him shifting— the faint scrape of a chair, the creak of wood under his weight. “Been a long day.”
“I bet it has,” you murmured. “What were you doing?”
“Workin’ on a house. Old place. Lotta repairs.”
Your pulse pounded in your ears. “Did you finish?”
“Not yet. Gotta go back in the mornin’.”
You swallowed. “Bet you’re tired.”
“Tired,” he agreed, “but not too tired for this.” His breathing deepened, slow and steady. “You touchin’ yourself yet?”
Your thighs pressed together. “…Not yet.”
“Start,” he ordered, voice dropping into that tone that always made you melt.
You slid your hand down, fingers parting your folds. “Mmh… wet.”
Joel’s exhale was sharp. “Good girl. Wish I could see her. Put my fingers in you, feel how warm you are.”
Your breath hitched. “You’d like that?”
“Hell yes,” he groaned. “Push two fingers in, slow. Stretch that little pussy for me.”
You obeyed, biting back a sound that still slipped into the line.
“That’s it,” he coaxed. “Fuck yourself nice and slow. I wanna hear every bit of it.”
You let the wet sounds carry through the phone, and Joel’s groan cracked in the middle. “Think about me,” he said, voice rough. “Think about me right there, thumb on your clit while I fuck you with my fingers.”
Your body clenched hard around your hand. “…Fuck—.”
“Come for me, sugar.”
You did, shuddering into the receiver, and Joel let out a deep, broken moan, chasing his own, that made your head spin all over again When it was over, you were breathless, heart still racing from more than just the orgasm.
“Sleep good, sweet girl,” he murmured.
And when the line went dead, you just lay there in the dark, your body still humming, knowing you’d see him tomorrow— for real, this time.
. ₊˚ ☎︎₊˚✧
You smelled the coffee before you smelled the sawdust. The low hum of men’s voices drifted in from the kitchen— your father talking to someone, laughing about something. You froze in the hallway because there it was again… that voice.
“Yeah, we’ll get the backsplash up today. Should be done by the end of the week.”
Your stomach tightened. You knew that tone. Knew that slow, easy cadence and the grit in it. Last night, you’d heard it thick with need, telling you to spread your legs wider. Now it was broad daylight, grounded, businesslike— and still warm enough to slide right down your spine. You smoothed your hair, took a breath, and stepped into the kitchen.
Your father looked up first. “Morning, sweetheart. Mr. Miller and his crew are here renovating our kitchen.”
And there he was. The man whose name you don’t know. The man who’s been paying you to get him off over the phone. The man you begged to come for you a few nights ago. Joel– Mr. Miller.
Broad shoulders under a faded flannel, work jeans worn white at the knees, a rag in one big hand. You’re mesmerized. Nothing at all what you envisioned. Handsome. Dear fucking god, so handsome. He straightened when he saw you — not because he recognized you (he didn’t, not yet) but because… damn. You were pretty. More than pretty. Something in his chest gave a little pull he hadn’t felt in a long time.
“Joel,” your father said, “this is my daughter.”
Joel’s hand twitched before he set the rag down and stepped forward. “Nice to meet you,” he said, his voice a touch lower, his posture straighter, like he needed to square up in front of you.
You slid your hand into his— warm, calloused, strong— and looked him right in the eye. “Nice to meet you too, Mr. Miller.”
Something flickered in his gaze at the way you said it — maybe pride, maybe something darker. Every hair on his arms stood on end. He knew that voice.
Knew the way you let Mister slide like a tease. Knew the lilt at the end, the hint of a smile curling around the words. It was you. The girl who’d made him groan into the phone six times in the last month. The girl who’d told him, in that same sweet tone, that she’d take his cock down her throat until her eyes watered. And you were… young. You couldn’t be more than twenty-five. Jesus Christ.
His hands were big and warm around yours, mind scrambled. Images he’d only ever built in his head flashing in real life— except you were smaller, prettier, softer than he’d imagined. But you knew. Oh, you knew. The faint squeeze of his palm, the way his eyes darted over your face like he was matching the sound of you to the sight of you.
“I’m sorry,” he’s watching you intently, “didn’t catch your name.” There it was. Fuck, this guys good. He watches your lips curl into a small smile, cheeks blushing. You tell him. He repeats it, nodding almost as if he’s confirming the thoughts he had– yes, it sounds like he’s supposed to say your name. Sounds like it belongs to him. And it’s true, you hearing your name fall from his lips, it’s perfect. And you begin to wonder why the hell you hadn’t told him sooner. To make him tell you who exactly he’s cumming for.
Joel released your hand slower than he should have, rubbing his palm against his thigh, like maybe he could wipe away the memory of how you’d sounded moaning his title into the phone.
“Joel’s the best in town,” your father went on. “We’re lucky to have him.”
Joel shrugged, but his eyes kept finding yours, like he couldn’t quite help it. “Just doin’ my job.”
Your father kept talking, but Joel barely heard him. His first clear thought in that haze was dangerous and heavy: Christ, she’s even prettier than I pictured. His second was worse: I’m in trouble. And you? You smiled sweetly, Oh yeah. You need him.
Your father moved toward the coffeepot, talking about tile colors, but Joel barely heard him. He had a pencil in one hand, a clipboard in the other, and his brain was still back on the moment you’d said Mr. Miller in that sweet little voice— the exact same voice that had purred Yes, Sir into his ear more times than he could count.
He bent to check the edge of the countertop, mostly so he wouldn’t have to look at you, but his eyes found you anyway— leaning against the doorframe, watching him with a polite smile that he could already tell was trouble. You didn’t speak, but your eyes said everything– I know you know.
He shifted his weight, straightening up, rolling his shoulders like he needed to remind himself to breathe. “We’ll have the backsplash prepped by this afternoon,” he said to your dad, voice even, hands steady. But the second he glanced your way again, that steadiness frayed.
You tilted your head, eyes dropping briefly– deliberately, on his work belt sling around his waist, then back up at him with that little smirk he’s heard behind the phone more often than not. Joel’s grip on the pencil tightened.
Your father handed him a mug of coffee, oblivious. “You take sugar?”
Joel shook his head. “Black’s fine.” He took a sip, burning his tongue, and set it down harder than necessary.
You stayed quiet, almost prim, as you walked to the counter where he stood marking measurements. “Need help with anything?” you asked lightly.
Joel’s jaw ticked. “Nah. We got it handled.”
But your father piped up behind you. “You can hand him those brackets, sweetheart— top of the box over there.”
You crossed in front of Joel, close enough that he caught the faint scent of your shampoo, and bent slightly to grab the hardware. He looked away, but his ears burned.
“Here you go, Mr. Miller.” You handed him the brackets, your fingers brushing his just a little too long.
He swallowed. “Thanks.”
Your smile was polite for your dad’s sake, but Joel saw the glint underneath— the same glint he’d heard in your voice when you told him you’d lick him clean. He turned back to his work before anyone could notice the way his breathing had gone deeper. His mind betraying him, putting a face to all those words you’ve told him. He’s dying. Dying to fucking talk to you. Touch you. And he will, even if it kills him.
. ₊˚ ☎︎₊˚✧
You were waiting for it. You’d been waiting since the moment you walked out of that kitchen and left Joel standing there with a handful of brackets like he didn’t know which way was up. The phone rang late— later than usual. Almost as if he was fighting with himself if he should call you or not. Or maybe it was embarrassment. That maybe you thought he was too old for you and maybe you thought it was digusting and you’d probably not answer. But the way you looked at him? He couldn’t deny that.
You answered slow. “Hi, Joel.”
Silence for a beat. Then, that low voice, he says your name, “fits you.”
You smiled against the receiver. “Told you I’d tell you my name someday.”
You could hear him breathing, heavier than usual, and imagined him sitting in the dark, elbows on his knees, phone tight in his hand. T-shirt tight around his biceps. That scruff on his face, jaw tight. Those brown eyes dark with lust.
“You didn’t tell me you were…” He trailed off, exhaling hard. “…younger than I thought.”
“How young did you think I was?” you teased.
“Old enough I didn’t feel like a fuckin’ pervert.”
“Mmh.” You shifted on the bed, letting your voice go silkier. “So now you do?”
“Don’t start,” he warned, but his tone was already slipping.
“You stood up straighter for me today,” you said. “Shook my hand like you wanted me to think you were impressive or something.. I noticed.”
“You’re impossible,” he muttered, but there was a faint groan in it. He dragged his palm down his face.
“I’ve been thinking about you all day, Mr. Miller,” you whispered. “About how big your hands looked holding those tools. About how they’d feel between my thighs.”
Joel inhaled sharply. “Jesus Christ…”
“Do you want to know what I did when you left?”
“Yeah.”
“I got in the shower… and I touched myself. Thought about you behind me, work jeans still on, pulling my hips back onto you. That handsome face watching me come undone for you.”
He let out a sound that was more growl than groan. “Fuck… keep talkin’.”
“I pictured you telling me to keep quiet so my dad wouldn’t hear. One hand over my mouth, the other on my clit while you fuck me.”
Joel’s breathing had gone ragged now, his faint grunts carrying through the phone. “You dirty little thing.”
“You’d like that though, wouldn’t you? Getting me all messy while we’re just a room away from my parents.”
His groan cracked. “Goddamn it—” The thought of that getting him even harder than he’d thought.
“Are you touching yourself for me, Joel?”
“…Yeah.” His voice came out breathless. The way you say his name wrecks him.
“Faster. I want you to come for me thinking about bending me over your workbench in the garage.”
That did it. His moan came deep and rough, drawn out until his breathing slowed, the silence stretching between you.
“You’re trouble,” he said finally, voice low.
“You like trouble, Mr. Miller.” He didn’t deny it.
. ₊˚ ☎︎₊˚✧
It was late again when your phone lit up with Mr. Miller in your mind.
You smiled as you answered, stretching out in bed. “Joel.”
“Didn’t see you today.”
The way he said it— low, almost accusing— made your smile widen. “Oh? Were you looking for me?”
Joel grunted softly. “Maybe.”
“Maybe you missed me.”
“…Maybe,” he admitted after a beat, voice rasping like he didn’t like being caught.
You rolled onto your stomach, twirling the cord of your phone charger between your fingers. Little butterflies. “Well, that’s sweet.”
“You around tomorrow?”
“Nope,” you said lightly. “I’m already home.”
“…Home?”
“Mhm. I don’t live there. Out of state, actually.”
There was a pause, a low sound in his throat that almost sounded like a frown. “So when’s the next time I’ll see you?”
Your grin turned wicked. “Oh, you wanna see me, Mr. Miller?”
His inhale was sharp. “…Yeah. I do.”
“What do you wanna see me do?” you asked, voice soft and dangerous.
“Christ…” He let the word drag, like he was chewing on the thought. “Wanna see you smile like you did yesterday. Wanna see those pretty eyes lookin’ right at me while you—”
“While I what?”
Joel’s breath came heavier now. “While you’re sittin’ on my lap, skirt pushed up, no panties on.”
You bit your lip, letting a beat pass before murmuring, “You’d like that?”
“More than like it,” he said, voice dropping, “I’d fuckin’ need it.” Then a pause. “How old are you?”
You smiled into the receiver. “Why do you wanna know?”
“Just… curious.”
“Old enough, Mr. Miller.”
“Yeah, but how old?”
“Twenty-four.”
There was a quiet grunt on the other end, followed by a long breath. Then you say,“Is that a problem?”
“Problem?” His voice dipped lower. “No. Just means I should be careful with you.”
You laughed softly. “Careful? Who says I like careful?”
He shifted, you could hear the faint creak of a chair. “Do your folks know what you’re up to?”
“Mmm… no.”
Joel exhaled slowly, the sound thick. “I wanna see you.”
Your pulse skipped. “And do what, handsome?”
“Things I can’t do over the phone,” he said, voice gone rough. “Things I’ve been thinkin’ about since I saw you in that kitchen.”
You let the silence stretch, your tone almost playful when you answered, “I don’t usually sleep with my callers.”
He made a low sound— something between a groan and a chuckle. “Yeah?”
“But…” you went on, softer now, “I might make an exception for you.”
Joel’s breath caught, his voice dropping to a rasp. “…Careful, sugar. You keep talkin’ like that and I’ll be in my truck before the night’s over.”
And you felt it. That familiar ache. You have a crush. And when he called you again, it confirmed it. It was only two nights later when your phone buzzed with that familiar number.
“Joel,” you said sweetly.
“Been thinking about that exception you said you’d make.”
You smiled. “Oh? Losing sleep over it?”
“Maybe.” His voice was heavy. “Figure if I’m gonna do this… I oughta know the rules.”
“The rules,” you repeated, leaning back against your pillows. “Alright, Mr. Miller. Let’s talk terms.”
He chuckled under his breath. “Terms.”
“Mhm. First one— you do exactly what I say when we’re together.”
Joel grunted. “You think you can boss me around?”
“I don’t think, sir,” you teased. “I know.”
A beat of silence, then: “…Alright. What else?”
“If you do it right…” You let your voice slow, silk over steel, “I’ll pay you.”
Joel actually laughed — that deep, warm rumble you’d never heard from him before. You heart fluttered. “Pay me?”
“Mhm. Contractor rates, even. You are the best in town, after all.”
“You’re trouble,” he said, but you could hear the grin in it. “And what if I don’t want your money?”
“Then I guess you’ll have to make sure I can’t stop thinking about you,” you murmured.
There was a pause, then his voice dropped. “You put me on a job like that, I’ll work you over ‘til you can’t walk straight.”
“That’s the idea,” you whispered.
Joel exhaled like he was picturing it right then. “When?”
You hummed, letting him hang for a moment. “Soon. If you’re good.”
“Baby…” his voice was low, almost dangerous now, “you have no idea how good I can be.”
. ₊˚ ☎︎₊˚✧
You spotted him before he spotted you.
Joel was out by the back porch, leaning against the railing, talking easy with your dad — one hand curled around a bottle, the other resting in his pocket. The golden evening light hit him just right, making the silver in his hair gleam, his flannel stretched across his shoulders. You stepped outside, all smiles. “Hey, Mr. Miller.”
Joel’s eyes flicked to you, just for a second, but in that second there was the tiniest smirk, the barest flicker of memory from every call. “Evenin’,” he said, voice even.
You lingered just close enough to be part of the conversation, tossing in little remarks, laughing when Joel said something— leaning forward when you laughed so his eyes had somewhere to go.
Your dad, oblivious, clapped Joel on the shoulder. “You oughta stay for another drink or two. Long week like yours, you’ve earned it.” Oh, he definitely has, you wanna scream.
Joel almost glanced at you— almost— but kept his eyes on your dad. “Yeah, I could do that.”
And so he stayed. Beer after beer, the sun sinking low until the porch light was the only glow outside. Your dad was a stickler about no drinking and driving, and you knew exactly how to nudge the evening toward that inevitability.
“Another one?” you offered from the kitchen doorway, bottle dangling between your fingers. Joel’s gaze met yours — a silent, I know what you’re doing. But he took it.
By the time the night had stretched well past sensible, your dad was leaning back in his chair, satisfied with the evening, and saying exactly what you’d been waiting for: “You’ve had a few, Joel. Stay here tonight. Sofa’s free.”
Joel didn’t argue. “Appreciate it.”
You smiled, leaning against the wall like it was just another Friday night. “Goodnight, Dad.”
“Night, sweetheart.”
The house went quiet after that. Joel lay on the sofa for maybe twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant sound of you moving around upstairs. Every shift of the sheets, every creak of the floorboards, tightened something in his chest.
Eventually, he sat up. Stood. His boots were off, footsteps soft as he made his way down the hall and up the stairs. He didn’t knock. Just eased your bedroom door open, the dark spilling around him. You were sitting up in bed, like you’d been waiting.
“Mr. Miller,” you whispered, a smile curling slow and knowing.
Joel shut the door behind him, the dim light from your bedside lamp painting everything in soft amber. He looked bigger in here, the space making his shoulders seem broader, his presence heavier. “You gonna invite me in proper,” he murmured, “or you just plan on starin’ at me like that?”
You tilted your head, your lip tugged between your teeth. This man was so beautiful. “I was just wondering… how many times you’ve pictured me in here.”
His jaw flexed. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, come on.” You slid out from under the covers, padding toward him barefoot. “You’ve pictured it, haven’t you? Me in bed, hand between my thighs…”
Joel’s throat worked as he swallowed, his voice low. “Yeah.”
“I bet you’ve imagined me finger-fucking myself for you every night.”
His breath hitched, his eyes darkening. You stepped around him and pointed to the chair in the corner— the one angled just enough toward the bed. “Sit.”
Joel didn’t move right away, his gaze fixed on yours like he was deciding if he’d let you have this. But then he obeyed, lowering himself into the chair, elbows on his knees, watching you like he could eat you alive.
You dragged yourself to the edge of the bed— right in front of him — and sat with your knees parted just enough to make his breath deepen.
“I bet you like to watch,” you teased, fingers skimming up your thighs. “Don’t you, Mr. Miller?”
His eyes tracked your hand like it was prey. “You’re pushin’ it, sugar.”
“You’re the one who called me every night to hear me touch myself,” you said sweetly. “Now you get the real thing. Lucky you.”
Joel’s hands flexed on his knees, the muscle in his jaw ticking. Your little voice ringing in his ears. “You like this, don’t you?” You slid your fingers beneath your panties, dragging a slow circle over your clit. “Pervert.”
Joel let out a sound— low, almost a growl— leaning forward but not quite reaching for you, like he was giving you the chance to keep going.
“Keep talkin’,” he rasped. “Wanna hear you ruin me.” Joel was already leaning forward in the chair, elbows braced on his knees like he couldn’t stand the distance. His eyes were locked between your thighs, tracking every slow, lazy drag of your fingers. Watching you slide off your panties and toss them aside.
You let your knees fall open wider, silk camisole slipping over your hips as you tilted back on one hand. The thin straps barely covered you, your nipples pressing against the fabric, tight and aching under his stare.
“Look at you,” you murmured, rubbing slow circles over your clit. “Just sitting there, watching me make myself feel so fucking good.”
Joel’s chest rose and fell heavy, his jaw tight. His eyes flicked from your hand to your breasts, back to the wet heat between your thighs, and he swallowed hard.
“I imagined you watching me. How hard I’d get you just from touching myself.”
“Jesus Christ, sugar…” His voice was already breaking.
You slid two fingers lower, parting yourself so he could see everything — the slick stretch, the way your folds glistened. “Pretty, isn’t she?”
Joel’s hands fisted on his thighs. “Fuckin’ beautiful.”
“I’m so wet for you, Mr. Miller,” you whispered, your hips lifting to meet your own touch. “And you’re just sitting there. Bet your cock’s so hard right now.”
His gaze dragged up to your mouth, back down again, and the bulge in his jeans twitched under your words.
You bit your lip, moaning softly. “Mmh… I’m so close. My pussy’s so fucking needy for you. You like watching me work her open?”
“Maybe I want to,” you teased, curling your fingers inside yourself, your free hand coming up to squeeze your breast through the camisole. The thin fabric darkened where your nipple rubbed against it, peaked and hard.
Joel made a low, guttural sound, like it had been ripped out of him. His knees spread wider, one hand shifting to the bulge in his jeans without even meaning to.
You watched him touch himself and smiled wickedly. “You gonna come just from watching me, sir?”
His head tipped back, eyes shut tight for a second before finding you again. “Keep talkin’, pretty girl.”
“I’m so fucking wet,” you breathed. “My fingers are dripping… wish it was your cock instead. Wish I could ride you until I can’t take anymore.”
Joel’s hand flexed on himself, his breathing gone ragged, and you could see the restraint starting to slip from his face.
“You can’t touch me yet,” you warned, curling your toes as your orgasm started to crest. “Not until I make myself come for you. Not until you watch me do it right.”
“Goddamn…” Joel’s voice was hoarse, his eyes wide, glued to you. “You’re… fuck, you’re perfect.”
It hit you hard. A soft, quiet moan escaping your lips. Your back arched, your knees trembled, and your fingers worked you through it, hips jerking as the heat rolled over you in thick, pulsing waves. You were still catching your breath, still trembling, when Joel moved.
One second he was in the chair, the next he was between your knees, his big hand wrapping around your wrist to yank your own fingers out of your pussy— replacing them with his.
Two thick, calloused fingers drove deep, knuckles pressing against your swollen entrance. You gasped, chin dropping to your chest, propped up on your elbows, your mouth hanging open. “J-Joel—”
“Sound so fucking sweet moanin’ my name like that,” he growled, eyes locked on where you stretched around him. “Feel how you’re flutterin’ on me? How you’re suckin’ me in?”
You whimpered, nails digging into the sheets, eyes blown wide and fixed on his. “Goddamn, sugar,” he rasped, curling his fingers until you moaned, your slick running down his hand. “All this for me? All that drippin’ just from showin’ me what’s mine?”
Your breath hitched, your hips rolling into his palm without thinking.
“That’s it,” Joel murmured, his thumb pressing against your clit now, his fingers fucking into you deep and filthy. “Milk my fingers, baby girl… fuckin’ wring ‘em dry.”
You were half-gone, body clenching around him in desperate pulses, and Joel’s eyes burned into yours, dark and hungry.
“Pretty little mouth hangin’ open… you got no idea what you’re doin’ to me,” he panted, voice gone rough with it. “Gonna fuck you so full you’ll still be leakin’ tomorrow.”
Your head tipped back, a raw moan ripping from your throat as you clenched down hard, his fingers buried to the hilt. He feels around the bed for your discarded panties and stuffs them in your mouth, “shh, sweetheart. Don’t wanna wake your daddy now, do we?”
You knit your brows together, shaking your head. The ache in your core so unbelievably heavy.
“So fuckin’ pretty,” he whispers. You moan. Eyes rolling back at how the words innocent as “pretty” can be coming from a man knuckle deep inside your pussy. Your head falls back, chest heaving up and down, feeling that orgasm creeping in.
“Yeah,” he grunted, watching every twitch, every flutter. “There she is. That’s my girl.”
Joel didn’t give you a chance to breathe. The moment your body stopped quaking around his fingers, he pulled them out, slick coating them to the knuckle, and shoved them into his mouth with a low, wrecked groan.
“Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever tasted,” he rasped — and then his belt was hitting the floor.
Your eyes went wide, heartbeat slamming in your ears as he tore his jeans open, the heavy line of him springing free. Thick. Flushed. Veined. Bigger than you could’ve even conjured up in your little head.
You yank the panties from your mouth to say,“Joel—”
“Shh,” he cut you off, his voice low and dark as he pushed you back onto your mattress, head hitting your sheets softly, one big hand sliding up your thigh. “I’ve been dreamin’ about this since the first night I called you, sugar. Since the first time you said sir in that sweet little voice.”
He dragged your hips to the very edge of the bed, his cock slapping hot against your swollen folds, smearing you open with every slow grind.
“Look at that,” he muttered, eyes locked where he was lining himself up. “Pussy so wet for me she’s beggin’.”
And then he pushed in. The stretch burned in the best way, forcing your mouth open on a gasp as he bottomed out, thick and deep and there.
“Fuuuck,” Joel groaned, head tipping back for a second before his gaze snapped to yours. “Tighter than I imagined. You’re squeezin’ me like you don’t wanna let go.”
Your nails clawed at the sheets, your eyes locked to his. “Y-you feel—”
“I know,” he rasped, hips pulling back only to drive in harder, deeper. “Been thinkin’ about this every goddamn night, baby girl. Every moan, every little gasp I heard through that phone—” He punctuated each couple words with a thrust that shoved you up the bed. “—I pictured this.”
His hand came up to your jaw, tilting your face so he could watch your expression as he fucked into you. “That’s it. Let me see how good I make you feel.”
You bit your lip, but a moan still slipped out, high and helpless. Joel’s eyes went darker. “You keep lookin’ at me like that and I’m not gonna last, baby girl.”
He slammed in again, groaning low, his other hand sliding down to your clit, rubbing tight circles as he fucked you deeper. “You’re gonna come for me,” he growled. “Gonna make this cock all messy while I’m still inside you. Do it, sugar. Give it to me.”
Your back arched, the tight coil in your belly snapping hard, and you came with a strangled cry, clenching him so tight he cursed into your neck and buried himself to the hilt.
“God—fuck—”
Joel held you there, hips pressed flush, filling you in thick, pulsing ropes until his jaw went slack and all that was left was the sound of your panting in the dark. He stayed inside you a moment longer, his hand still cupping your jaw, his eyes still drinking you in like he couldn’t believe you were real. Joel stayed buried, his hips pressed flush, one hand heavy and warm at your hip, the other still cupping your jaw like he didn’t want you to turn away.
His breathing was slowing, but his eyes… his eyes were still roaming every inch of your face like he was memorizing it.
Your cheeks were hot and pink, your lips swollen from biting back moans, hair a little messy against the pillow. You looked wrecked — and dreamy, and soft, and younger than you’d let on with your words over the phone. Innocent, almost.
Joel’s thumb brushed over your cheekbone, rough against the softness of your skin. “Pretty little thing,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Look at you… all fucked out for me.”
You swallowed, your voice small, almost too shy for the room you were in together. “I’ve… never done that before.”
His brows pulled together slightly. “What d’you mean?”
Your gaze flicked from his eyes to his chest, then down to where you were still joined. “Never… had sex with a client.” A pause, your breath catching. “Never had sex with an older man, either.”
Joel went still, his hand at your jaw tightening just slightly. “You tellin’ me I’m the first for both?”
You nodded, your blush deepening. “Mm-hm.”
Something shifted in his eyes — softer, heavier, like the words were settling somewhere deep in his chest. “Christ, sugar…”
You let your lashes lower, voice barely a whisper. “Was I… any good?”
Joel’s head tipped, like he couldn’t believe you’d even ask. “What?”
You bit your lip. “Did I… live up to the person I was on the phone for you?”
For a beat, he didn’t speak — just looked at you like he wanted to burn this exact moment into his memory. Then his hand slid from your jaw into your hair, tugging gently so you’d look right at him.
“You were better,” he said, slow and certain. “Nothin’ I pictured even comes close to the way you feel… the way you look right now.”
Your chest tightened, the sincerity in his tone sending a shiver down your spine. Joel leaned in, brushing his lips over your temple. “You were more than good, sugar. You ruined me.”
Joel still hadn’t pulled out, his weight heavy and grounding between your thighs, his hand threaded through your hair like he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go. He still felt hard, somehow. You could feel his heartbeat in the press of his chest against yours, the way his breath was still warm on your cheek.
“This ain’t gonna be a one-time thing,” he said low, almost like it was a decision he’d just made aloud.
You blinked up at him, eyes still hazy. “…No?”
He shook his head, lips curving just faintly. “Not a chance in hell. You think I’m lettin’ you go after this? After the way you just milked me and looked that pretty doin’ it?”
A little rush of heat rolled through you, your blush deepening again.
He studied your face for a long moment, his thumb stroking lazy along your jaw. “Gonna see you again before you leave.”
You hesitated — and then your voice came soft, testing the waters. “Joel… did you ever imagine kissing me?”
His eyes sharpened, the line of his mouth tightening like you’d just pulled something from deep inside him.
“More than I should’ve,” he admitted, voice rough. “Had to stop myself plenty of times, even just over the phone. Always figured if I got the chance, I wouldn’t stop.”
You swallowed. “So what’s stopping you now?”
Joel’s gaze dropped to your mouth, his hips pressing forward just slightly, like he could remind you exactly where you were still joined.
“Nothin’, sugar,” he murmured— and then his lips were on yours, slow but deep, tasting you like he’d been starving for it since the first call Joel’s mouth was warm, sure, and slow at first — the kind of kiss that sank straight into your bones. He kissed you like he was claiming something, his thumb brushing your jaw while his other hand stayed heavy at your hip, keeping you anchored beneath him.
You sighed into it, lips parting, and the second his tongue slid against yours, his hips shifted— a deep, unhurried roll that reminded you he was still inside you, thick and hot, filling you in a way you could feel in your ribs. A quiet, broken sound slipped from your throat. Joel swallowed it, groaning low into your mouth like he’d been waiting weeks to hear it up close.
You shifted under him, your thighs widening just a little more, and his grip on your hip tightened. “Mm, baby,” he murmured against your lips, “you keep movin’ like that and I’m gonna make you cum again.”
“Maybe I want you to,” you breathed, kissing him again, slower this time, your hand sliding up to the back of his neck.
His chest rumbled with a half-laugh, half-growl. “Goddamn insatiable.”
Another roll of his hips had you gasping into his mouth, your nails curling into his hair. You could feel the way he shuddered when you clenched around him, his cock twitching to life, his kiss turning hotter, filthier— his tongue sliding deeper, his teeth catching your bottom lip before he soothed it with a soft suck.
You pulled back just far enough to whisper, breathless, “Do you like kissing me, Joel?”
His eyes were dark and locked on yours, his mouth slick and swollen from you. “Sweetheart… I fuckin’ love it. Might love it too much.”
And then he kissed you again, harder this time, hips starting to move in a slow, deliberate rhythm that had your toes curling and your mind going hazy all over again. “Gonna gimme another one?”
Summary: you tiptoe into Joel Miller’s home like a stray cat, always giving him a heart attack, always flashing those doe eyes, tear-spilled and aching, and making his heart twist. So he protects you—cares for you, cooks for you, calls you pet names. But that night feels different. Heavy. There’s an ache crawling through your body, one you don’t understand and can’t quiet. You try. You fail. And when you get caught—by the same man who just called you “kiddo”—you can’t help but ask him for help.
Warnings: 18+, smut, MDNI, age gap! (60s and 20s), pillow grinding, masturbation, really inexperienced!reader, one (1) light thigh spank, fingering, joel teaches you how to touch yourself with a mirror, soft!joel, like the sweetest Joel, he is super flustered, fluff, pet names, lot’s of praise, joel calls reader kiddo/kid, implications of abusive household, implications of abusive father, drunk father, outbreak, kind of dbf!joel but not really
A/N: if anyone can still remember this from the poll i made monthsss ago, you are a real one🤞🏻 but i loved writing this, it’s filthy but also so incredibly soft, sweet and joel is just a sweet old man :((( (he is alive and well) anyways, i hope yall enjoy this!!🫶🏻
“Jesus Christ, girl. Told ya not to scare me like this.” He huffs out, boots creaking on the old wooden floor as he turns to face you. “Sneakin’ up on me like a damn cat.”
The light outside is slowly fading, as his eyes scan you—quick, instinctive. He takes in the flushed skin, the way your dress hangs crooked on your frame, the tremble in your fingers. Then his gaze lands on your tear streaked cheeks, and something shifts.
His whole face tightens in worry.
“Did ya daddy say mean things again?” He pinches your chin in his hand, making you look up to him.
You can only nod, unable to speak—because if you did, you were sure the knot in your throat would unravel, and you’d sob, just like you did hours before coming to Joels house.
He softly coos, one arm wrapping around your body as he pulls you into his chest. “Oh, babygirl,” he whispers, resting his chin gently on top of your head. “I’m sorry.” Then he presses a kiss there, steady and long.
His words sink deep into your bones, steadying your heart—not with judgment, but with understanding and care.
“S’okey.” You mumble, burying your face into his flannel shirt further, taking in his musk.
“Hell, I probably stink, don’t I?”
Joel just came back from chopping wood. His hands were rough—calloused, streaked with dirt as usual. Sweat clung to his skin, glistening along his neck and brow, soaking into the collar of his shirt. The scent of him was musky, edged with pine and smoke, but also of course, a hint of sweat lingering behind.
You loved burying your head into his chest.
“Not really,” You mumble. “Can I stay here tonight?” You ask, pulling away from his embrace and locking eyes with him—the question making your cheeks all flushed, a hint of embarrassment behind them.
“We can’t keep doin’ this, bug.” Joel murmurs, finger twirling a strand of your hair. “You come back every single time, like a damn stray cat.”
You roll your eyes at that, but a smile tugs on your lips.
“What? it’s true. I feed her, give her some milk and she always tip toes into my house back and gives me a near damn heart attack.”
You couldn’t quite pinpoint when it all began.
Maybe it started when your dad and Joel, being neighbors, began visiting each other—trading food, clothes, medicine like good old friends. Or maybe it was when you and Joel started talking about everything and nothing, while you found yourself trusting him with things you hadn’t told anyone else. Then again, it might have been that night you tiptoed into his house without asking, desperate for a place to stay after your dad had been cruel to you again.
Even then, he never asked questions. Even then, he knew what you needed in that moment, as if he could read you.
They all say in town: Joel Miller is a rough, stern, stubborn, and gruff man. But you always saw the opposite. You saw the way his fingers shifted patterns on your skin, careful not to let his dry hands scrape you. The way he’d place a cold hand on your forehead and leave it there—steady and quiet—until your migraine melted away. You heard his voice becoming softer when he talked to you.
And then there were the quiet actions. Like replacing the kitchen clock with a quieter one, just because you once told him—without meaning to—that the ticking reminded you of the one in your father’s room: loud and fast.
Or how he never locks the door anymore. Always leaves the porch light on, so you know—you can come in, even if it’s the middle of the night.
You sometimes wished he was your father.
“I tell ya what. You help me with bringing those logs inside and then you can stay here.”
You nod, eagerly.
So, he gestures towards a pair of worn boots by the step—his, clearly too big for you, but the only option he’s got.
“Go on,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Slip into those. Ground’s cold.”
You glance down at the boots, then back up at him, one brow raised.
He sighs, already exasperated. “Why ya always gotta come barefoot anyways? Ya gonna catch a cold.”
You roll your eyes, a little smirk tugging at your lips. “I’m fine.”
And before he can argue, you step past him, bare feet brushing over the cool stone, then the grass, then the packed dirt of his garden path.
Joel watches you go, but then shakes his head, chuckling. He can’t stay mad at you. Never.
The wood’s already stacked neatly near the shed, thick logs piled in a criss-cross pattern. You bend to grab one, arms wrapping around the weight of it, and carry it back towards the house. Joel moves the same, grabbing two—instead of one—and moving them into his house.
You come back for another, but as your foot shifts on the ground, something sharp presses into your sole. You hiss, stumbling slightly, and glance back at him.
He’s already shaking his head.
“Told ya to wear the boots, honey bun.”
You stick your tongue out at him, giggling as you hobble a step, then straighten and scoop up the log anyway. Joel smirks, eyes accidentally lingering on your legs as you walk back towards the house, the hem of your dress swaying with each step.
You’re halfway through stacking the last of the wood before Joel disappears into the hallway. You don’t think much of it—just keep moving, barefoot on the cool floor, arms full of logs that leave little flecks of bark on your dress.
When you place them down, and turn around, he’s back. Holding something.
A pair of thick, worn, brown socks.
He tosses them onto the couch, then goes to close the door to his garden. He jerks his chin towards his couch. “Sit.”
You blink. “What?”
“Sit down, kiddo.” His voice is calm, but firm. “You been runnin’ around barefoot like a damn forest sprite. Floor’s cold. You’re gonna catch somethin’.”
You roll your eyes, arms crossed. “I’m fine.”
Joel gives you a look—that look—the one that says, “I could bend you over and spank you,” and you know better than to argue. With a huff, you drop onto the couch, legs swinging slightly.
He kneels in front of you, knees popping—followed by that quiet dad groan he always makes as he lowers himself. His hand comes up, wraps around your ankle real gentle but firm.
You try to pull back, but he doesn’t let you.
“Quit squirming. Let me take care of you.”
You go still, cheeks flushing.
He slips the first sock over your foot, slow and careful, as if you’re something fragile. His fingers brush your ankle, your calf. He doesn’t look up, his eyebrows are pinched, concentrated
“Can’t have you gettin’ sick. Cold floor like this’ll mess with your stomach. You’ll be cryin’ to me about cramps in a day or two.” He murmurs.
You snort. “You sound like an old man.”
He smirks, sliding the second sock on. “Yeah, well. Old man knows how to keep you warm, bug.”
When he’s done, he pats your knee, then leans in—just a little and presses a kiss to the inside of your ankle. Soft. Barely there.
Your stomach does a small flip. And your toes curl against the rug, like your body’s reacting before your mind can catch up. It’s just a kiss, soft and low on your ankle, but it sends something warm skimming up your spine.
Then he stands up slowly, “There. All better.”
You wiggle your toes in the socks, quiely recovering from the kiss. They’re too big, smell like cedar and laundry soap—just like Joel smells whenever he changes clothes. You don’t say thank you. You don’t have to.
Joel’s already watching you with that quiet, unreadable look—the one that says he’d do it all over again, every day, just to keep you safe.
Then he clears his throat, voice low and lazy.
“Whatcha want to eat, huh, hon?” You glance up. “We can make some pasta,” he adds, already turning towards the kitchen.
You hop off the couch, socks slipping slightly on the floor, and trail after him. “You always make some pasta.”
Joel shrugs, pulling open a cabinet. “It’s easy. And you love my pasta.”
You climb onto the counter, legs swinging, watching him move m—sleeves pushed up, hands steady, the taught rhythm of someone who’s done this a hundred times before. He grabs a pot, fills it with water, sets it on the stove.
“You gonna help or just sit there lookin’ all cute?” he mutters, not looking at you.
You grin. “I’m moral support.”
Joel snorts, tossing you a clove of garlic. “Then start peelin’, bug.”
So, you do. Slowly. While watching him out of the corner of your eye as he moves around the kitchen and hums under his breath. The silence between you isn’t awkward…it’s warm. Familiar.
And when he brushes past you to grab the salt, his hand grazes your knee. He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t even look at you.
But you feel it. And so does he.
Slowly, the air starts to smell like olive oil and tomatoes. The kitchen, warm now, feels like home—the kind you never had, but Joel made for you.
He glances over his shoulder at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You’re gettin’ more garlic on the floor than in the bowl, bun.”
You shrug, grinning. “You’re the one who made me help.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he stirs the sauce.
Then—suddenly—a knock on his door.
Your heart jumps. The garlic slips from your fingers, forgotten. You freeze, eyes wide, breath caught in your throat.
Joel looks up, brows furrowing. “Relax,” he says, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “It’s probably just Tommy.”
But you’re already sliding off the counter, feet hitting the floor with a soft thud, knowing what it could mean if your father finds you. You duck behind the counter, heart pounding, curling in on yourself like instinct. Joel watches you for a beat, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“Alright,” he mutters, more to himself now. He walks to the door, slow and steady, and opens it just a crack. And the smell hits him first—sharp, sour, unmistakable. Then the voice.
“You’ve seen my girl, Miller?”
Joel’s jaw tightens. Your father stands on the porch, swaying ever so slightly, eyes glassy, breath thick with liquor. His shirt’s half untucked, belt askew, like he got dressed in the dark.
Joel doesn’t blink. “Nah,” he says, voice flat. “I was home all the time.”
Your father squints at him, leans in too close.
“You sure?”
Joel’s eyes narrow. His voice drops, low and dangerous. “You callin’ me a liar?” And hell, he could punch the shit out of him if you weren’t behind the counter.
There’s a beat of silence. Then your father scoffs, mutters something under his breath, and stumbles back down the steps, disappearing into the dusk.
Joel watches him go, jaw clenched, hand still on the doorknob, trying to calm himself down from the anger he is feeing. Only when the sound of retreating footsteps fades does he shut the door, slow and deliberate. The lock clicks into place.
He turns around.
You’re still crouched behind the counter, peeking up with wide, sad eyes. Your hands are clenched in your lap, shoulders drawn tight.
Joel’s face softens instantly, the anger washing away as fast as it came. He crosses the room in a few strides and kneels besides you, his knees popping as he lowers himself down.
“You stayin’ here tonight,” he says gently, “Maybe even tomorrow.”
You don’t answer. You just throw your arms around his neck, burying your face into his chest. He catches you so easily, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapping around your waist.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispers, pressing his lips to your hair. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you here. I got you.”
You nod against him, breath shaky, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, brushing a thumb under your eye. “It’s alright now. Let’s keep cookin’, yeah? My tummy’s grumblin’”
You manage a small smile. He helps you up, steadying you with a hand on your back, and guides you gently back to the counter.
The garlic’s still there, waiting. The water’s boiling. And Joel—Joel is right beside you, like he always is, and always be.
—
The pasta’s gone cold, but neither of you seem to notice.
You’re sitting across from Joel at his little wooden table, legs tucked under you, fork still in hand.
Joel leans back in his chair, watching you with that unreadable look. You can feel it—the way his eyes linger, the way his fingers tap slow against the rim of his glass.
You set your fork down. Swallow hard.
“You know…” you start, voice soft. “I don’t really trust people. Not anymore.”
Joel’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“But I trust you.” You look up to meet his eyes. “With everything.”
He shifts in his seat, like the words hit somewhere deep. He looks away, jaw tight.
“Don’t do that,” he mutters. “Don’t go puttin’ that kind of faith in me. I ain’t no good man, baby.”
You shake your head, voice steady now.
“Well… you’re better than my father.”
That lands like a stone in the room. Joel’s eyes snap back to yours, something raw flickering behind them. He doesn’t speak right away. Just stares at you, like he’s trying to figure out what to say that won’t break the moment.
Finally, he leans forward, elbows on the table, voice low. “That ain’t sayin’ much.”
You smile, sad and small. “It’s sayin’ enough.”
Joel exhales, long and slow. Then he reaches across the table, rough fingers brushing yours. He doesn’t grab your hand—just lets his rest there, close enough for you to choose.
And you do.
You slide your hand into his, and he closes his fingers around yours tightly. You expect him to let go, to change the subject.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he lifts your hand slowly, eyes never leaving yours, and presses a kiss to your knuckles—soft, sweet, delicate, like he’s done it a thousand times in his head but never dared to do it for real.
Your heart warms.
It started with safety. With wishing he was the kind of man who could’ve raised you. But now, when he looks at you like that, and kisses you— you know it’s something else entirely.
And then there is another thing. The one where Joel makes you feel different. Not in your heart but rather…down there. Deep in your belly, where butterflies loom whenever you look at his calloused hands, whenever he stands in front of you—broad shoulders and as a big man who could handle anything.
A giggle slips out before you can stop it.
Joel raises an eyebrow. “What’s funny?”
You shake your head, cheeks warm. “Nothin’. Just… your hands are so big.”
He laughs, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—something darker, deeper. “Yeah? That a problem?”
You shrug, trying to play it off, but your tummy does a little flip as his thumb brushes over your knuckles again, slow and absentminded.
The room is dim now, the outside fully dark. And if it weren’t for the gentle brushes of his thumb over your knuckles, it would be the silence that let’s you a yawn slip. Stretching your mouth wide before you can stifle it.
Joel catches it instantly.
“Looks like somebody’s tired already?” he says, voice low and teasing.
You blink at him, eyes heavy, lips curved in a sleepy smile. “M’not.”
He chuckles, his hands leaving yours before standing up and offering the same hand. “C’mon, honey bun. Let’s get you tucked in before you fall asleep on my damn table.”
You take his hand without hesitation, letting him guide you down the hall—his thumb beginning to brush over your knuckles again.
He stops in front of the small door and pushes it open with a quiet grunt. The hinges groan slightly, like they haven’t been used in a while. The room beyond is cozy, if a little dusty—a twin bed tucked against the wall, a faded quilt folded neatly at the foot, and a big mirror leaned against the other side of the room.
Joel steps inside first, flicking on the light. Dust motes dance in the glow.
“S’been a while since you were here,” he murmurs, running a hand along the edge of the mirror. His fingers come away gray, and he wipes them on his jeans with a quiet huff. “Should’ve cleaned up better.”
You smile, stepping in behind him. The room is small, but it’s yours. Always has been. He never says it out loud, but he keeps it ready—just in case.
Joel walks over to the bed, pulls the blanket back with a dramatic flourish, and pats the mattress. “Alright, bug. Hop in.”
You climb in, the sheets cool against your skin, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight. Before you can settle, Joel grabs the edge of the blanket and throws it over you, tucking it in tight around your sides.
Then, with a grin, he starts rolling you—gently, playfully—wrapping you up like a burrito, like a cocoon. “There we go,” he mutters, half to himself. “All wrapped up. Ain’t goin’ nowhere now.”
You giggle, squirming a little under the snug weight of the blanket. “Joel!”
He chuckles, crouching beside the bed, one hand braced on the mattress, the other smoothing your hair back from your face.
“You always do this,” you murmur, eyes soft.
Joel grins. “You always giggle.”
You peek up at him, voice quieter now. “You always kiss my forehead.”
Joel’s expression shifts—something tender flickering behind his eyes. His voice drops, warm and low. “And I always will.”
He watches you for a beat longer, then leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead—slow, gentle, lingering just a second too long. A silence settles between you, thick with something unspoken. Then he clears his throat gently.
“I’ll be downstairs,” he says, softer now. “Still need to work on somethin’. If ya need anythin’, just come down, yeah?”
You nod, cheeks warm, eyes already heavy.
“Okay.”
“Night, honey bun,” he whispers.
And then he stands, walks to the door, and slips out without another word, closing it behind him with a soft click.
—
It hits you just minutes after the door clicks shut. A slow, pulsing ache deep in your belly. A thrum of want, right where your hands have never wandered before.
You shift on the bed, the sheets cool beneath your thighs, the air still holding the warmth of where he was. Your fingers twitch at your sides, unsure. You glance towards the door, half-expecting him to come back. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.
The silence stretches.
You sit up, then lie back down. Pull the blanket up, then push it off again. Your skin feels too tight, like it’s holding something in. Like something wants to release, but it can’t.
Your eyes flick to the mirror across the room. You don’t recognize the girl staring back—flushed cheeks, parted lips, pupils wide like she’s seen something she wasn’t supposed to.
You think of Joel.
His voice…low, steady, rough. The kind that settles in your chest and stays there.
His hands—big, calloused, careful. The way they brushed over your hand, the way he kept you wrapped up around his chest. The way he looked at you—not like you were fragile, but like you were worth protecting.
You close your eyes and breathe him in, even though he’s gone. The scent of him still lingers—soap, cedar, something with wood.
Your hand moves without thinking. Just resting. Just curious.
You’re not sure what you’re doing. But you know what you’re feeling.
You never touched that place. But today, something in your body wants more. Something aching to be touched, something that makes your pulse go faster, your breathing deeper.
So your hand starts moving—slow strokes over your damp panties. Your cheeks burn as the first waves of pleasure stir beneath your skin, soft and startling.
It feels good.
Too good.
A spark flares, sharp and sweet, and for a moment you think—maybe this is it. This is what your body wants. But it fades too fast. Dissolves before it can crest. You’re left with a pulse that won’t settle and a need that won’t quiet.
So you try again.
Stroking up and down. Left and right. Your body responds—hips shifting, breath catching. It’s good. More than good. But it’s not enough. Like trying to drink from a glass that’s just out of reach. You taste it, but you’re still thirsty. Your breath comes out in sharp waves and your hand moves faster, chasing something that’s there something you are not quite sure how to reach.
But you fail. The burning sensation on your cheeks grow, and you’re breathless when you let your hand fall.
You shift again, restless. Your thighs press together, trying to chase that feeling. Your gaze drifts across the bed, landing on the pillow near your hip. You hesitate. Then, slowly, you pull it between your legs, the fabric cool against your skin and the now, more dampened fabric.
You close your eyes, hips rocking against that feeling.
You don’t know what you’re doing—only that it feels good. You sit up, straddling it. The pillow is soft beneath you, and your hips begin to move faster without permission. You bury your face in the sheets, breath catching, heart pounding.
And somewhere in the dark, his name flickers on your tongue.
Joel stands at the kitchen sink, cleaning the dishes from the pasta. He should’ve gone to bed by now, leave all of that and just relax. But something’s keeping him up—a restlessness in his chest he can’t shake. If it’s guilt, or love—he can’t decide.
He thinks of you. The way you looked at him tonight, the way your eyes peaked from behind the counter. The way you wrapped your arms around him like he is the only person that can save you.
He runs a hand down his face, exhales slow. “Get a grip,” he mutters to himself. “She’s just a kid.”
Still, it lingers. He folds the same dish towel twice. Stares out the window like it might give him answers.
And when he finally heads to the hallway, to wash his face, put on his something more comfortable—he hears it.
Upstairs, Joel freezes.
He’s halfway to his bedroom when he hears it—your voice, muffled but clear, calling his name in a tone that makes his stomach twist. It’s not loud, but it’s enough. Enough to make his heart lurch.
He doesn’t think. Just moves.
Two long strides and he’s at your door, pushing it open with a sharp breath.
“Baby?” he calls, voice tight with worry. “You okay—”
Then he sees you.
You’re on your knees, straddling the pillow, frozen mid-motion. Your breath catches. Your eyes go wide. Your mouth is parted, lips swollen, cheeks flushed a deep, blooming pink.
Joel stops dead in his tracks.
His heart drops straight into his boots.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice low and stunned. He turns his head, suddenly aware of what he’s walked into. “Sorry, I— I didn’t mean to barge in like that.”
But then you say it again.
“Joel,” you breathe, voice trembling, needy. “Please.”
He doesn’t know what you’re asking for. Doesn’t know if you know. But the sound of it—the way you say his name like it’s the only word you’ve got left—hits him like a punch to the chest.
His cheeks flush hard. His hands find his hips, like he needs something to hold onto.
“Gosh,” he says, voice rough. “The hell are ya doin’, bug?”
He doesn’t even know why he asks. He sees it. Clear as day. But his brain’s still catching up to his heart, and his heart’s caught somewhere between panic and something he doesn’t dare name.
You sink down on the pillow slowly, heart pounding, shame already rising in your throat. “I… I can’t help myself,” you whisper, voice thin and breathless. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes flick back to you, going soft. “S’alright,” he says, voice low. “I’ll just—”
“Will you help me?”
The words tumble out before you can even stop them.
Joel freezes. Really freezes. His whole body goes still, like the air’s been knocked out of him. He looks at you, disbelief written on his face, and something shifts. His mouth parts, but no sound comes out. He’s searching for words and finding none.
“I don’t know what I’m doing…” you whimper, voice cracking. “I just—I don’t know how to make it stop.”
Joel’s hands fall from his hips. He rubs his forehead, dragging his palm down his face like he’s trying to wake himself up from a dream.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “Nah. Not happening.“
“Please, Joel.”
He shakes his head, backing towards the door. “No, baby. I— I can’t. You can just… do whatever you need. I’ll leave ya alone.”
He turns, hand on the doorknob, already halfway out.
And then you say it.
“It hurts…”
Just two words. Barely a whisper. But they hit him like a bullet.
Joel stops.
His jaw clenches. His eyes squeeze shut. He curses under his breath—not at you, god, never at you—but at himself. At the way his heart twists. At the way his body responds, his cock wakes up in his pants. At the way he wants to help you, even while he knows he shouldn’t.
So, he turns back around.
Steps into the room again, slow and quiet. He walks awkwardly and sits down besides you, careful not to touch.
His eyes land on your flushed skin, sweat on your forehead, the way your hands are gripping the pillow as if it’s going to run away from you. And then the small wet spot you left—on his pillow. His. Joel’s head turns into mush.
“W-what do ya want me to do, bug?” he asks, voice almost broken.
You should be embarrassed. You should be hiding your face, pretending it didn’t happen. You shouldn’t be asking him for help. But you don’t feel shame anymore. Because it’s Joel. And with him, you don’t feel ashamed. You feel safe.
You look at him, eyes glassy, lips parted. “Touch me.”
Joel flinches. His jaw tightens. He shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut. “God, baby… it ain’t right to do things like that when you’re visitin’ someone.”
He rubs his face, voice cracking. “You’re young. You’re hurtin’. And I’m supposed to be takin’ care of you, not—” He stops himself, breath shaky. “Not this.”
You look at him, heart breaking a little, eyes wide and wet, voice barely a whisper. “But you said you would help me with anything.”
Joel freezes. That line hits him like a punch in the ribs. And he swallows hard, jaw clenched, eyes flicking away. “I did,” he murmurs. “I did say that.”
Why did he have to say that, for fuck sake.
He rubs his palms together, like he’s trying to scrub the guilt off of his skin. “Didn’t think it’d be this, bun. Didn’t think you’d be askin’ me for somethin’ like this.”
Silence stretches between you two. His eyes on you. On your skin. On your dress that’s hitched up. And on the small bit of your underwear that he can see. He lets out a shaky breath, seeing the way the fabric is completely soaked. He huffs, soft and low.
“Y’really are needy, aren’t you, huh?” His voice is deep, but soft.
You nod your head silently, shifting your hips to show him the mess you made. He swallows, muttering something under his breath that comes close to “christ.”
“Ain’t gonna touch you,” he says, finally. “But you can listen to my voice, yeah? Let me take care of you like that.”
You blink at him, confused. Lips parted, brows drawn.
Joel sees it immediately—sees the flicker of doubt, the question in your eyes—and his heart damn near cracks. He knows you’re just needy, just desperate to feel something. And he feels like a real bad man for denying you.
“I just…” he starts, then stops. Rubs a hand over his mouth. “I don’t wanna mess this up, bun.”
You tilt your head, still quiet. Still waiting. Like a cat.
“You’re all soft right now, all sweet. All needy.” he rambles, “and I know you trust me. I know you feel safe. And I ain’t gonna take that and twist it.”
He shifts, nervous. His hands twitch like they want to reach for you—but fhey don’t. They can’t.
“So I’m gonna talk you through it. Just my voice. You’ll still feel good. I promise. But this way… you’ll know I ain’t just takin’ advantage.”
You nod, slow, understanding what he is trying to say. You see it in his eyes, guilt written on them. You don’t want to make him feel bad. So, the tension in your shoulders eases, and you trust Joel to make the ache go away.
“Okay,” you whisper. Joel exhales, shaky and repeats: “Okay.”
“Alright then,” he murmurs. “Do what you were doing before I came into the room.”
You hesitate, eyes flicking to his. He nods, just once. “Go on. I’m right here.”
He shifts where he’s sitting, his body turning towards you. Now, his whole attention is on you.
So you move—just like before. Still unsure, still not a damn clue what you’re doing. Your hips begin to buck in that familiar rhythm, slow and searching. A soft whine slips from your lips as the now cool, damp pillow brushes against your aching heat. The sensation is new, startling, and you want to chase it.
You glance at him, eyes wide, waiting.
He sees it—the unsureness in your gaze. The need. And his voice comes low, steady, like a hand on your spine. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Just like that. You’re doin’ good. So damn good.”
You inhale sharply. The words settle over your skin. You hadn’t expected it to feel like this—how his voice alone could make your body respond, how praise could feel like touch. You move again, tentative. His voice follows you, steadying.
“Go slow, baby. No rush. Let yourself feel it.”
Each slow grind of your hips draws a quiet squeak from the mattress, rhythmic and raw. Your breath stutters, a whine escapes your mouth.
He hears it, so his voice dips lower. “You’re so beautiful like this. So sweet. Look at you.”
And Joel feels guilt in his chest rising from the words that leave his mouth. He swallows hard, jaw clenched. His voice is steady, but his hands are clenched into fists at his sides, like he’s holding himself back from reaching for you.
You glance at him, always. Only at him, awaiting something. Cheeks flushed, lips bitten bloody.
He gives you a nod, eyes warm but careful—not trying to let you see the guilt. “Keep goin’. I’m right here, bun.”
You move faster, shaky, needy, guided by his voice.
The tension starts to build, hips stammering in that rhythm he coaxed from you with nothing but words. You’re right there, teetering, the edge rising up to meet you—
And then it’s gone.
The pressure breaks, not into release, but into absence. A gasp tears from your throat, sharp and helpless. You freeze, blinking hard, chest heaving.
Frustration prickles at your skin.
“I—I can’t,” you whisper, voice cracking. “It’s not working.”
Joel’s jaw tightens, he sees the frustration. Sees the way your hips messily buck, your chest rising up and down quickly.
“I wanted to,” you whisper. “I really tried.”
He nods, brushing a hand down his face, like he’s trying to steady himself. Then, quieter: “I know. I saw you.”
Your breath hitches, frustration bubbling up in your chest. You blink fast, trying to swallow it down, but the words slip out before you can stop them.
“I—I never did it.”
Joel stills. His brow furrows. “What?”
You look away, cheeks burning.
“Touched myself I mean,” you whisper. “I tried before, but… I don’t have any privacy in that goddamn house. Someone’s always around. I never—” You shake your head, voice cracking. “I never got there.”
Joel’s face softens. He nods, slow and quiet, like he’s piecing it all together.
“That’s why you’re so worked up, huh?”
You nod, eyes downcast, lips trembling. You feel embarrassed for making such a scene tonight—keeping him up, begging him to touch you. But you don’t know any better. You don’t have anyone else.
He hesitates, then shifts closer, voice low and careful. “Can I… can I try somethin’ else?”
You look up, confused. He swallows hard.
“Still not gonna—” He stops, starts again. “Still not gonna take more than you give me. But maybe if I just…”
He lifts his hands, palms open, hovering over your hips.
“Just here,” he says. “My hands. That’s all. I’ll guide you. Help you move. Nothin’ more.”
You whisper, “please,” and reach for him without hesitation, your fingers curling around his hands like you need him to stay grounded. Joel exhales hard by your reaction, as if the wind’s been knocked out of him. His hands settle on your hips, warm and trembling.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice thick. “You’re going to fuckin’ ruin me, bug.”
You blink up at him, breath catching, feeling the throbbing get worse now that his hands are on you.
He shakes his head, eyes locked on yours. “Always fuckin’ using those eyes on me,” he murmurs. “Always knowin’ you get what you ask for, don’t you?”
You blink up at him, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you squeeze his hands.
“I just look at you.”
Joel huffs a breath, something like a laugh but heavier. “’Course you do, baby.”
His gaze drops, catches on the slow, unconscious roll of your hips on the pillow—like your body’s still chasing the rhythm, even if your mind hasn’t caught up.
He swears under his breath, voice thick.
“C’mon then,” he says, shifting closer, hands squeezing gently on your hips. “Let’s get you there.”
You start moving your hips again, while Joel’s hands guide you, slow and sure now, his voice a low hum in your ear. And every time you falter, his grip reminds you: he’s here. He’s watching. He wants this for you.
And somehow, that makes it easier. Makes it deeper.
The friction is good, but it’s his hands that make you tremble. His hands that coax the heat higher. His hands that tell you it’s safe to fall apart.
“There we go,” he murmurs. “Movin’ so good for me.”
You whimper, chasing that edge again, feeling it coming closer and closer. He leans in, lips brushing over your cheek.
“Sweet little thing,” he breathes, “So fuckin’ good for me.”
Something in you breaks open at that—soft and aching. You can’t help it. You lean forward, forehead pressing to his shoulder, breath hot against his neck.
Joel stills, just for a second. Then his hands tighten firmer on your hips.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “You rest right there, baby. I got you.”
You nod against him, breath trembling. He keeps talking, voice low and steady, every word a touch. You feel more wetness soaking the pillow, more mess forming between your legs. And he notices it.
“Didn’t know you had all that in you, honey bun.”
You bury your face further into his neck, heat rushing to your cheeks. You don’t say anything—can’t. Your body’s trembling, and his words only make it worse. Or better. You’re not sure anymore.
And he also notices the way your hips go faster, the way your thighs clench, the way your breath hitches.
“You’re shaking, baby. You gonna make another mess for me?”
And it hits you right in the chest. You whimper, barely, and lift your head. Your eyes meet his—wide, glassy, desperate. You nod. Just once. Small. Needy. Like you’re asking permission and giving it all at once.
Joel groans, his hands tightening on your hips.
“You’re doin’ so good. So proud of you. Let it come, bun. Let it take you.”
“J-joel.” You whimper out.
“M’right here. M’right here, baby.” He whispers, gently squeezing your hips and moving you against the pillow faster.
“I think—it’s coming, Joel.” You whimper, breathless.
Joel nods, his hands guide you on the pillow with a steady, fast rhythm, with the right amount of pleasure. You fall back to his neck, releasing a hiccup, hands holding down on the sheets, feeling that coil in your tummy finally about to snap and then—
…It’s gone again.
You freeze, breath caught in your throat, eyes wide with disbelief. Your face stays buried in his neck, hot with frustration, your breath hitching in little gasps.
“It’s gone.” you whisper, voice cracking.
Joel holds you tighter, one hand smoothing slow circles down your back. He doesn’t say anything at first—just breathes with you, steady and warm.
“What am I gonna do with you, bug, huh?” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.
You lift your head, eyes glassy, almost crying lips parted.
“Please,” you whisper. “Do something. I don’t care what. Just… please.”
Joel’s jaw flexes. He looks at you, then away, scanning the room like he’s searching for an answer. That’s when his eyes land on the mirror. On the long, full-lengthed one, leaning against the wall. He stares at it for a beat, then huffs a breath.
“Your father’s gonna kill me,” he mutters.
You blink, trying to figure out what he is thinking. “No,” you say, voice trembling but sure. “You’re stronger than him.”
Joel lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “You got no idea what you’re sayin’, baby.”
Then, you put your hand on top of his again, squeezing gently. “I do. I trust you.”
Joel’s mind spins with possibilities—how this idea could play out, how it might shift the shape of your relationship, how it could make him look like something he’s not. Like he’s crossing a line. Like he might ruin you. He looks at you for a long moment, searching. Then he nods. Slow. Decisive.
“Alright,” he says, voice almost broken. “Let’s try somethin’ different.”
He stands up, the bed dipping as he rises. Then he turns, reaches a hand out to you.
“Let me show you somethin’.”
You blink up at him, confused, but you take his hand. He pulls you up slowly, the pillow that just sat between your legs, now completely wet and ruined laying there in the corner. He steadies you when your knees wobble, and pulls down your dress again.
Together, you walk across the room, his hand warm around yours. The mirror looms ahead—tall, full-length, catching your reflection in the dim light.
He steps behind you, his hands resting on your hips. You meet his eyes in the mirror.
“You trust me?” he asks.
You nod, almost too quickly. Because you do. You trust him with everything you have.
He leans in, lips brushing your ear.
“Then let me see you, baby.” A shiver runs down your spine. “Can I take your panties off?”
Your breath catches. No one’s ever asked you that before. No one’s ever seen what lies behind the fabric.
And for a second, you freeze. Not because you don’t want it—but because it’s him. Because it’s real. Because this isn’t about being used. It’s about being seen. Because you trust him.
You nod. Slow. Careful. Then whisper, “Okay.”
Joel nods, pushing your dress up and hooking into the waistband of your panties, slow and deliberate. He kneels as he draws them down your thighs, his eyes never leaving yours in the glass.
His eyes land on your pussy, and he licks his lips without even noticing.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “So god damn pretty.”
You let out a shaky laugh, burying your face in your hands. “Joel…”
“What?” he says, looking up and grinning. “I’m just tellin’ the truth.”
You peek down at him through your fingers, cheeks burning, but your cunt still pulses. Still asking. Still open for him.
“Sit,” he says softly, guiding you down.
You lower yourself onto the floor, the plush rug cool against your thighs. Joel kneels behind you, his presence a wall of heat at your back. Then he shifts, legs sliding out on either side of yours, bracketing you in.
You’re nestled between his thighs now, your back against his chest, his arms resting loosely around your waist.
He leans in, his voice a low murmur against your ear.
“There we go. You okay?”
You nod, breath catching, looking at yourself in the mirror.
Then, with slow hands, he reaches down, his palms gliding over your thighs. He nudges your knees apart, spreading you gently until your legs rest over his.
“Just like that,” he says. “Let me hold you open.”
You glance at the mirror, at your swollen pussy, then to Joel. Your cheeks flush, but you don’t look away. Not this time.
“I don’t want you to just feel it. I want you to watch how your body moves. Watch how it wants this. You ain’t broken, bug. You’re just learnin’.”
You nod, but your voice is small. “I don’t even know where to touch.”
Joel’s hands settle on your thighs, grounding you. He leans in, his voice a low hum in your ear. “Then I’ll show you, baby. Just once. So you know where to start.”
Joel’s hand hovers just above your center, not touching yet.
“Before we get there,” he murmurs, “you gotta learn how to tease yourself. Build it up slow. That’s how you make it last.”
“I know you’re already worked up with two ruined orgasms…” his eyes softly find yours in the mirror. “But I want you to also learn it for other times, yea?”
You nod before you even realize it, breath catching in your throat. You don’t fully understand what he means—not quite yet—but you trust him. You trust that whatever he’s teaching you, it’s not just about your body. It’s about you.
“Okay,” you whisper, voice shaking. “I’ll try.”
He smiles, just a little. “That’s my bun.”
And when his hands return to your hips, guiding you again, you let go of the fear. You let him lead. You let yourself feel. He brushes his fingers along the inside of your thigh, featherlight. You shiver.
“Start here,” he says. “Skin’s soft. Sensitive. You touch yourself here, you’re tellin’ your body what’s comin’.”
He drags his fingertips up, tracing the curve of your thigh, then across your hip, your lower belly.
“Then here,” he whispers. “Your mound. Just a little pressure. Not too much. You’re not tryin’ to rush it—you’re sayin hello.”
You watch in the mirror, mesmerized by the way his hands move, by the way your body responds.
“You feel that?” he asks, his palm resting just above your center. “That heat?”
You nod, lips parted.
“Good,” he says. “Now we go lower.”
His fingers dip between your folds, still avoiding your clit, just gliding through the slickness there.
Joel’s fingers glide through your slick, slow and deliberate. He doesn’t rush—just lets himself feel you, lets you feel it.
He groans, low and wrecked.
“Goddamn, baby…” he murmurs. “You’re soaked.”
You squirm, cheeks burning, but you don’t look away. Not this time. You watch how his big fingers explore your cunt, how the pleasure feels tingly.
He pulls his fingers back, glistening with your arousal. Then, without a word, he brings them to your mouth.
“Open,” he says, voice rough.
You do. Lips parting, breath trembling. He slides his fingers past them, slow, letting you taste yourself.
His eyes stay locked on yours in the mirror.
“Tastes sweet?” he asks, voice low and wrecked.
You nod, your heart beating faster, your tongue curling around his fingers. His fingers are big, and you need quite a while until you suck your arousal off.
He groans, deep in his chest. “Good.”
Joel watches you suck his fingers, slow and shy, your tongue curling around the taste of yourself. His breath is ragged behind you, chest rising and falling against your back.
Then, he pulls his fingers free again, slick and warm, and you gasp like you’ve lost something.
Suddenly, he pulls away from you and mutters, almost to himself: “Hang on.”
He reaches for his glasses tucked into the collar of his shirt. Slips them on with one hand, slow and deliberate. You catch his reflection in the mirror—the way his eyes narrow behind the lenses, the way his jaw tightens.
“There,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. “Now I can see exactly where she is.”
His hand slides down, slow and deliberate, until his fingers hover just above where you ache. Then, just when you least expect it; his fingers part you gently. The cold air meeting your slick coated cunt.
You shift in front of the mirror, thighs trembling, eyes flicking up to meet his in the glass.
“See this right here?” He taps on the little nub once, featherlight. You jolt. “That’s your clit, baby. That’s where all that ache’s comin’ from.”
“This little thing’s what makes you fall apart. You ever touched it like this before?” he asks.
You shake your head, quietly, your cheeks flushed.
“That’s alright,” he taps on your little clit again. “You feel that? That little twitch? That’s your body beggin’ for more.”
A gasp leaves your mouth when he gives you one rub. You squeeze your eyes shut, your head falling back against his chest. And suddenly, Joel lands a spank on your thigh making you jolt against him and open your eyes wide. “Keep your eyes on the mirror. I want you to see what I see.”
His hand smoothes over the spot. “Easy bug,” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean to scare ya. Just want you here with me.”
His hand stays steady between your thighs, fingers gliding through your slick, slow and reverent. You’re trembling, breath shallow, eyes locked on the mirror like he told you.
Joel’s voice is low, almost hypnotic.
“Slow circles,” he murmurs, brushing over your clit with the lightest touch. “Not too fast. Not too hard.”
You twitch, hips jerking, but he holds you still.
“Just like this,” he says again, rubbing in a lazy rhythm. “Slow circles. That’s how she likes it.”
You whimper, your head falling back again on his shoulder. You feel the pleasure in your tummy slowly building—just from feeling his middle finger on top of your clit. And he doesn’t stop.
“There she is” he whispers. “All swollen and pulsing.”
He keeps rubbing, patient and precise, and your body starts to melt into his.
“She’s real sensitive,” he says. “You rush her, she’ll shut down. But you take your time…”
He presses just a little firmer, and you gasp.
“That’s it,” he breathes. “That’s the spot. You keep her there, she’ll take you all the way.”
His fingers never stop moving, and his voice keeps repeating, grounding you in the rhythm.
“Slow circles. Soft pressure. Let her talk to you.”
Joel’s fingers keep working you in slow, deliberate circles, never rushing, never faltering. The pleasure builds like a storm, tight and trembling in your belly. Your thighs are shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps.
You can’t hold it in anymore.
“Joel,” you whine, the sound broken, desperate. “I—please—”
He stills. Just like that.
You cry out, hips jerking, chasing the friction he’s stolen. But his hand stays still, warm and maddening between your legs.
He leans in, “Now you continue,” he says. “Let me see if you listened.”
You blink, dazed, your whole body buzzing.
“Wha—?”
He guides your hand down, curling your fingers over your clit, still slick from his touch.
“You’re so close, baby,” he murmurs. “Don’t stop now. Show me you remember.”
Your hand trembles, but you start to move, mimicking the slow circles he taught you. Your breath catches. It’s not the same as his touch—but it’s yours. And it’s working.
Joel watches you in the mirror, his hands resting on your thighs, grounding you.
“That’s it,” he says, voice thick. “Look at you. So fuckin’ pretty like this. Wrecked and tryin’ so hard.”
You whimper again, your body arching, chasing the edge he left you on.
“Keep goin’,” he whispers. “You’re almost there.”
Joels hand circle your thigh and before you even notice it, his other hand is gently rubbing on your nipple over the fabric. You gasp, trying to keep the rhythm of the circles on your clit, but it’s hard to do when you feel his hands and his gaze watching you.
Your breath stutters. Your legs shake. Your vision blurs.
“Joel,” you gasp, voice breaking. “I—I think—”
And then it hits.
Your body arches, a cry tearing from your throat as the orgasm crashes over you—sharp and deep and endless. You collapse back against him, your whole body trembling, your hand falling away from your center.
Joel catches you, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you close. A hand sneaks down to cup your cunt, pressing his palm on your clit to make you ride out your orgasm. You bury your face in his shoulder, breath ragged, heart pounding.
“There you go,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “That’s it, baby. You did so good.”
You whimper, still shaking, overwhelmed. Your first orgasm.
“Shh,” he soothes, rocking you gently. “I got you. I got you.”
He presses a kiss to your hair, his voice warm. He slowly removes his hand, making sure that the throbbing slowly fades away.
“First one always hits hard,” he says. “You held on so long. Now you let it out, bun. You earned that.”
You’re still trembling, your body boneless and warm, your breath slowing in Joel’s arms. He doesn’t rush you. Just holds you there, your back pressed to his chest, his hands gentle on your thighs.
One of them drifts up to your waist, rubbing slow, soothing circles into your skin. The other stays low, massaging the sore muscles of your inner thigh, where you’d tensed so hard.
You melt into him, your head resting on his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed.
“Did so good,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “So proud of you, bug.”
You hum, barely awake, your voice a sleepy whisper. “Thank you.”
Joel smiles, soft and warm.
“’Course, baby,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Ain’t nothin’ I wouldn’t do for you.”
You sigh, content, your fingers curling around his wrist where it rests on your belly.
For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing, the weight of his arms, and the quiet hum of something new blooming between you.
And then your voice comes out, soft and sweet, but bold.
“Now I want one from you.”
He stills, breath catching. Joel looks at you in the mirror, searching for your eyes. Then a low chuckle rumbles in his chest.
“That so?” he says, voice rough with restraint. “You really bringin’ me to my limits today, aren’t you, bug?”
You smile into the mirror, still dazed, still glowing. Joel’s always been careful. Too careful. He’s guided you, watched you, whispered praise—but never let himself touch you the way you crave. And you understands why. You know he’s afraid of taking too much, of being too much.
“You said you’d do anything for me,” you whisper, the words soft but sure.
Joel groans, tipping his head back with a quiet curse.
“Y’gonna always play that card now?” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. Just awe. Just surrender. So, this time—Joel does not argue, he doesn’t let guilt take over him. His fingers find their way down, on your clit and resume their slow, sweet rhythm, just like before. You twitch beneath his touch, still sensitive, still trembling.
“You still sensitive, hm?” he murmurs, watching your body react, watching your eyes flutter in the mirror.
He spreads your pussy lips, creating a v-shape with his fingers. Your cheeks flush again, looking at your aching cunt—your hole clenching.
“So fuckin’ sweet,” he murmurs, then goes back to rubbing your clit.
But you wonder. What does it feel like? When something is inside, when the pleasure comes from there instead of your clit. And then you wonder: how would his big fingers feel in you, and you can’t help but arch your back, a whine escaping from your throat.
“Inside.” You mumble out before you can stop yourself.
Joel stills, his breath catching. His eyes flick to yours in the mirror, dark and steady.
“You want it inside?” he asks, voice low, reverent.
You nod again, cheeks flushed, body aching.
Joel leans in, lips brushing your ear.
“You sure, baby?” he asks, “It might hurt a little. First time always does.”
Your breath stutters. You hadn’t thought about that. Not really. But you nod anyway. Because it’s him. Because you want to learn. Because you want it to be him who teaches you.
Joel leans in, lips brushing your shoulder.
“I’ll go slow,” he murmurs. “Real slow. You tell me if it’s too much, yeah?”
You nod again, more certain this time. Your body aches, but your heart is louder—beating with trust, with want, with the quiet hope that this will be different. That he will be different.
He nudges his middle finger against your opening, and your breath hitches.
“Relax for me, bun.” He gently coaxes. “I wanna feel you take me in soft.”
You try to breathe, slow and deep, but your body’s tight—nerves coiled, thighs trembling. You’ve never done this before. Never let anyone in.
But Joel’s voice is there, smooth, wrapping around you like a blanket. “That’s it, baby. Just breathe. You’re doin’ so good.”
His finger presses again, gentle but sure, and this time your body yields—just a little. Just enough.
It’s strange at first. Not painful, not really. Just… full. New.
You gasp, eyes fluttering shut, but Joel’s hand is on your hip, grounding you.
“You okay?” he murmurs, still. Waiting.
You nod, breath shaky. “Yeah. Just… it feels weird.”
“First time always does,” he says, voice warm. “But you’re takin’ me so well, bun. So fuckin’ sweet for me.”
And with that, he eases in a little more, slow and careful, watching your face in the mirror the whole time. When his whole finger is in, he hums.
“Tight little thing, aren’t you?” Kissing your temple, he presses in just a little deeper, slow and careful. “You’re makin’ it real hard not to lose my mind here, bun. You feel what you’re doin’ to me?”
Your body jolts when he curls his finger just right, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat before you can stop it. Your thighs twitch, your breath stutters, and your eyes fly open—wide, startled, overwhelmed.
Joel’s watching you in the mirror, gaze dark and steady, lips parted like he felt it too.
“There,” he murmurs, voice thick. “That little spot right there?”
He presses again, slow, and your hips buck before you can stop them.
“That’s your G-spot, bun.” He kisses your temple again, his free hand stroking your side. “Feels good, don’t it?”
You nod, breathless.
Joel’s fingers start working you slow and sweet, in and out while rubbing your clit with his thumb. Your body trembles, your breath catching with every stroke. You’re close again, the pleasure building fast, and you can’t hold it in.
Your body arches into him, still trembling, still so sensitive. The second wave is building fast—hotter, sharper, like your body’s been waiting for this all along.
His voice right at your ear. “That’s it, baby. Let me take care of you.”
You whimper, your hips rolling into his hand, chasing every stroke.
“You’re gonna soak my hand, aren’t you? Gonna make a mess all over me.”
You nod, breathless, your fingers digging into his thigh. You can’t even process all the dirty things he is saying into your ear. It feels like you’re floating.
“Please,” you whisper. “Don’t stop.”
His breath catches, and his hand stills for just a second—just long enough to feel the way you clench around him, desperate and trembling.
He murmurs, voice thick. “You beg so fuckin’ sweet.”
He curls his finger again, slow and deep, dragging it right over that spot that makes your thighs shake.
“Oh, bun… you’re right there, huh?” He asks, “So close I can feel it. You’re flutterin’ around me, squeezing me so tight. Cunt’s begging to come.”
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t rush. Just keeps that steady rhythm, dragging his finger over that spot again and again.
“Come on, baby. Let go for me. Wanna feel you make a mess on my hand.”
Your breath catches—then breaks. The pressure snaps, and you fall.
Your whole body seizes, thighs clamping around his wrist, a cry ripping from your throat as your orgasm crashes through you—hot, blinding, endless. Your cunt pulses against his finger, and wetness gushes out of you.
Joel holds you through it, one hand on your belly, the other still deep inside you, grounding you as you ride it out.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs. “So good. So fuckin’ good. You’re perfect. You hear me?”
You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks, your body limp and warm. He kisses your temple, his voice soft now, reverent.
“You did so good for me. My sweet girl.”
Slowly, carefully, he begins to ease his finger out. You whimper at the drag, the sudden emptiness making your body clench around nothing.
“Shh, I know,” he soothes, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. “You’re so so good.”
Joel wipes his finger on his jeans as you sag against him, your legs barely holding you up. He catches you without a word, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you back into his chest.
Your heart’s still racing, but his hands are warm, his voice soft, and you feel yourself start to come back—slowly, gently, safely.
You’ve never felt this way before. Not just the pleasure, but the after. The way he holds you like you’re something fragile and precious. Like he’s proud of you. Like he’s not going anywhere.
The room slowly begins to fill with silence, the kind that hums with everything unspoken.
And then you shift, just slightly, and feel it—wetness, warm and unexpected, seeping through the fabric of his jeans where you’re sitting in his lap.
You blink, dazed, and glance down. Then up. You turn around.
Joel’s face is flushed, his jaw tight, eyes flicking away like he’s been caught.
You tilt your head, lips parting. “Joel…?”
He exhales, low and rough, then meets your gaze.
“Couldn’t help myself, bun,” he murmurs, voice thick with something between awe and apology. “You—watchin’ you like that… callin’ out for me… I just—”
He shakes his head, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.
“You undid me.”
You blink, lips parting, and then something soft blooms in your chest. You reach up, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing the stubble there.
“You came… just from me?” you whisper, wonder in your voice.
He nods, eyes searching yours.
“Yeah. Just from you.”
You smile, slow and sweet, your heart fluttering. You lean in, pressing your forehead to his.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” you whisper, and it’s not a joke—it’s the truth.
Joel lets out a shaky breath, his arms tightening around you.
“You’re somethin’ else, baby,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”
You nuzzle into his neck, your voice barely a breath.
“I like that I can make you feel good too.”
He kisses your temple, ”You do. More than you know.”
Then he murmurs, voice low and a little rough: “C’mon, let’s get us both cleaned up.”
You nod, barely awake, but you don’t move. You just hum and nuzzle into his chest. Joel chuckles softly, his hand smoothing over your waist. Then, after a beat, he adds—almost shyly:
“And then… maybe you’d like to sleep in my bed tonight?”
You blink up at him, eyes soft, lips parting.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’d like that.”
Joel exhales, something easing in his chest. He presses a kiss to your temple, his voice low and steady.
“Good,” he murmurs. “’Cause I ain’t gonna let you go back to your father anyways.”
You look up at him, and he’s already watching you, jaw tight, eyes soft.
“You’re safe here,” he says. “With me. Always.”
PART TWO!
okey so this is HALF proofread…if you find mistakes or something doesn’t make sense, just ignore or let me know🥹 I feel like i’m using the word “like” too much…
Well anyways, i know this took a hot minute…i’ve been sick. forgive me pookies 😩 If you liked this, i’d love to hear your thoughts! Comments, messages, little keysmashes…i cherish all of it. you make it worth it 🫶🏻
need to collar a pretty boy so bad. need to slide my fingers between the collar and his neck and tug him forward and hear his gasps. need to leash him up and use it to keep his head out of reach when he’s desperately trying to kiss me until he’s whimpering and whining. using it to pull his head away from pillow when ‘m fucking him and watch him drooling and crying.
I wonder when the first instance of a gasmask as a fetish object is. you have to imagine that at least one tommy in the trenches heard the gas alarm and put on his gasmask, felt the confining rubber squeezing his face and his breaths becoming that much harder to draw and got so hard he looked like he was packing a spare bayonet
domming is great until you hit a decision fatigue wall likeeeeee i think youre a fucking grownup and you can decide whether to cum or not on your own. be proactive for once
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