waningpoetic | inno @innominatewrites - Tumblr Blog

Jun 29

𝕷𝖔𝖘𝖊𝖗

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ꜱᴜʙ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ᴅᴏᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ɪꜱ ᴅʀᴀɢɢᴇᴅ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ʙʏ ʜɪꜱ ʟᴏꜱᴇʀ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴀ ᴡɪʟᴅ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴇᴄɪᴅᴇ ʜᴇ ᴅᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇꜱ ᴀ ʀᴇᴡᴀʀᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜱᴏ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛꜰᴜʟ.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴀᴜ - ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴇʀᴀ, ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɴᴏ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ʟᴏꜱᴇʀ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱᴜʙ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜰ!ᴅᴏᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ʜᴀɴᴅᴊᴏʙ, ᴇᴅɢɪɴɢ, ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ, ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ꜱᴇx, ꜱɪᴢᴇ ᴋɪɴᴋ, ᴘʀᴀɪꜱᴇ ᴋɪɴᴋ, ᴅᴇɢʀᴀᴅᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴋɪɴᴋ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ꜱᴘɪᴛᴛɪɴɢ, ᴅʀᴏᴏʟɪɴɢ, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴏʀᴀʟ ꜰɪxᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴘʟᴇ ᴏʀɢᴀꜱᴍꜱ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ, ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ? (ᴡᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴋɴᴏᴡ).

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 6k

The sound of the doorbell yanks you out of the half-slumber you were slipping into. You lower the volume of the TV program you were serenely watching and get up from the couch, tugging your oversized shirt further down with a lazy gesture as you walk down the hallway. You haven’t even thought about putting on something more decent: the shirt falls off your shoulders, short enough to reveal the edge of your panties when you take that longer step—but you don’t care. You’re a guest in your brother’s house, not in some random guy’s, and that comforting casualness feels good on you.

You open the door and the smell of alcohol reaches your nose before your eyes can focus on what’s in front of you. Your brother is leaning on an unfamiliar arm, completely slumped against the shoulder of whoever is holding him up. The man who’s with him stiffens the moment he notices you, but hides it well and quickly.

“Here we are, lad” the guy says with a gentle voice, slightly rough from the cold or the effort. He supports your brother carefully, though not without difficulty. His movements are precise: not clumsy, but slow and cautious, like someone experienced with collapsing bodies.

You step aside to let them into the house and close the door behind you, watching them disappear around the corner. The guy must have been a regular guest here, since he found your brother’s bedroom door on the first try.

He comes back out after a few seconds, wiping his sweaty hands on his pants and fixing his shirt as best he can.

When he sees you standing in the middle of the room, his gray eyes flicker over you, and when he notices your gaze lingering longer than necessary, he drops his own to his feet.

A faint smile curls your lips as you move toward the table where you had left your wine glass.

“Thanks for bringing him home,” you murmur, your tone halfway between serious and joking. “If it had been me, I’d have left him in some bush.”

He lets out an amused puff, a small grin on his lips, as if unsure whether he’s allowed to really laugh. “I’d never do that. We’ve been pals all our lives, 'twas the least I could do.”

That awkward air of his strikes you, so different from the men you’re used to. You amuse yourself by staring at him without saying anything, until he shifts uncomfortably, as if the silence were an unbearable weight.

Then you step closer, unhurried, with measured steps. You see him swallow dryly, his shoulders tightening. You get close enough to force him to take a step back. “Wait… maybe I remember you.”

His eyebrows lift slightly, surprised.

“Remmick, right? You played the banjo at one of my brother’s stupid parties, years ago. I remember.”

The recognition does something to him: his features open up, and for a second you see a fragile glimmer in his eyes, as though he hadn’t expected that detail to have stuck. “A-Aye, ma’am. That was me,” he replies, and the word trembles, full of surprise.

You stop to look at him. But not with a distracted glance: you truly scrutinize him, from head to toe, like a predator sizing up prey. He still has to be your brother’s age, around 35 or so. He’s not extremely tall, just enough, with fine lines, a hint of stubble lighter than the dark brown of his hair, and a slightly curved nose. His shirt is tucked sloppily into his pants; the suspenders stretched tight against the fabric, wrinkling it. You like how they outline and sculpt the muscles beneath the cloth.

You see the flush rising from his neck to his cheeks. And the more he tries to keep his eyes fixed on your face instead of letting them drop, the more you relish pushing him further. He’s clumsy, but in a tender way.

“Well,” you whisper, “you’ve grown quite a bit since then.”

Your hand moves on its own toward the strap of his suspender. Your fingertip brushes the fabric, and against your knuckles you feel the muscles of his chest tense beneath the shirt. You don’t know if he’s aware of the gesture or if it’s just his body betraying him, but you enjoy it all the same.

You toy with it. You tug the strap slightly and let it snap back: the crack against the fabric and his skin makes him let out a low, almost involuntary yelp. You smile, amused. That small vulnerability makes him immediately more interesting.

“Do you still play?” you ask suddenly.

He’s caught off guard, his mind short-circuiting. “W-what?” he answers, lost. The hesitation slips out like a mistake.

“The banjo, boy.” You bite your lip, letting the nickname fall on him like a caress and a blow all at once. “I remember you were good.”

His eyes light up for a moment, embarrassment easing into a flash of pride.

“Oh… oh! Aye, of course I do.”

“Mhm.”

The sound slips out slow, almost like a judgment, as you tilt your head toward the couch.

“Want to sit for a while? Clear your head from the hard liquor of the night…”

He follows your gaze and seems about to accept before glancing back at you, a crooked, embarrassed smile on his lips.

“No need,” he replies quickly, as if even such an innocent question were a test he couldn’t afford to fail. “I haven’t been drinkin', so I can drive no bother at all.”

You tilt your head slightly, surprised. So it wasn’t alcohol making him so stiff, so awkward. It was you. You were the reason for that tension.

“Really?” You narrow your eyes at him, probing as if you were reading between the lines of his body. And he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously.

“I… I'm not much for the drink,” he admits quietly, honest. No excuse, no polished phrase. Just the truth.

“What a good boy.”

The compliment slips from your voice like honey, and you immediately see his pale skin flush a deep red. There’s no escape: he blushes like a kid caught stealing cookies.

You rise calmly, turning your back to him, and the rustle of your long shirt brushing your thighs fills the silence. You walk to the little table, grab the bottle, and pour yourself another generous dose of wine. The liquid slides golden into the glass, rich and gleaming in the light.

“I, on the other hand, go crazy for wine,” you say, in a conspiratorial tone. “One of my weaknesses.”

You raise the glass and sit on the armrest of the couch, right next to him. Your legs cross slowly, the hem of the shirt rising just enough to reveal a little more skin and the edge of your panties. You bring the glass to your lips and let a rebellious drop escape the rim, sliding down your neck and stopping at your collar.

Remmick swallows. You hear it, you see it: his eyes follow the trickle with near-religious attention, inevitably traveling further down until they land on your bare legs. You don’t move right away: you like letting him stare, you like seeing the struggle in his eyes between desire and guilt for looking too much. Then you snap your fingers, and the sharp sound makes him jump.

“My eyes are up here, Remmick.”

He stammers, his blue eyes darting back to you, full of guilt and shame. “I-I’m sorry, ma'am… maybe I oughtta—”

You don’t let him finish. Your legs spring forward, wrapping around his hips, pulling him toward you with an abrupt but firm gesture. His body tilts forward, forced to place one hand on the back of the couch and the other on your shoulder to keep from falling onto you. He’s trapped, and you know it.

“Don’t get nervous,” you whisper, swirling the glass in your free hand. “I never said I didn’t like the attention.”

You look up at him, your voice both caress and command. Remmick inhales, his eyes darting from you to the glass, then back again. His hand on your shoulder tightens slightly, an uncertain reflex: unsure whether to push you away or cling to you. The second option seems to win.

“You know, I think good boys deserve to be rewarded.”

You lift your free hand and bring it to his raven-black hair. Your fingers sink in, soft at first, then your nails barely scratch the back of his head. The reaction is immediate: his eyes close, his breath breaks, and a sigh slips from his lips. Without you asking, he leans toward you, as if your hand were a leash tied to an invisible collar he wears, dragging him closer.

“What do you think, Remmick?”

You get no answer. Not right away. His eyelids flutter, his body trembles slightly, yet he stays silent.

You click your tongue, pull your hand away from his hair, and the emptiness hits him like a sudden punishment. His face twists into a grimace of disappointment, and a small whimper, almost like the yelp of a dog, escapes him.

“When I ask a question,” you say coldly, “I expect an answer.”

“Yes… yes…”

“Yes what?”

Your voice is steady, and your gaze pins him in place. The tension is almost cruel, but he yields without resistance.

“Yes, ma’am. Please…”

You smirk with satisfaction. Just a few sentences, a few touches, and you’ve already bent him. You watch him reach out a hand to grab yours and place it back on his neck, with an almost desperate dependence. You like this fragility of his, this docility he offers you without realizing how much it’s worth.

“And what do you think a good boy like you deserves, Remmick?”

His breath stutters, words tangling before they can even be born. “I-I dunno…”

Your gaze hardens, a flash that freezes him. Fearing he’s disappointed you, he rushes to fill the silence. “A kiss… a kiss…”

You blink. You didn’t expect that answer. You thought he’d throw it immediately onto sex, onto the most immediate desire; instead, he asked for the simplest thing, the sweetest. You can’t hold back a genuine laugh, softer than you’d planned.

“Bend down a little more, pretty boy.”

His ears flush red, as if the compliment were more destabilizing than your command. Yet he obeys: he leans closer with hesitation, and your lips close over his.

The kiss is timid at first, almost chaste, as if he feared getting the rhythm or intensity wrong. You guide him, decisive: you part your lips slightly, suck his tongue into your mouth, and this transforms his awkwardness into ardor. Breath mingles, heat rises, and when you rise to your feet you don’t break the contact: you drag him with you, step by step, until you force him to retreat.

The taste of his mouth is unexpected. There’s no alcohol, no smoke, nothing to ruin the freshness of his breath. It’s clean, authentic, almost naive. And for that very reason it overwhelms you.

When he reaches the couch with his back, you push firmly. He falls with a soft thud, confused, short of breath. You set the glass on the low table and, without giving him a chance to breathe, straddle him.

His expression is a mixture of shock and adoration. He looks at you as if unsure whether to touch you or not. Then you, with a fluid gesture, grab the hem of your shirt and lift it. The fabric catches on your breasts, but with a bit of force it slides away in an instant, leaving you in your panties.

His breath halts. His eyes widen, unable to decide where to rest. It’s as if he had in front of him a revelation too big for him.

“I can’t believe this is goin' on…”

His voice is a strangled whisper, broken by disbelief.

His hand, uncertain but hungry, slides along your bare thigh. The fingers, rough and calloused, betray hours and hours spent strumming strings and manual work. They’re not soft nor elegant: they are real hands, imperfect, alive. Their touch sets your skin ablaze.

When he reaches the thin elastic of your panties, he holds his breath. You expect him to push them aside, to tear them off, to take what he wants. But he doesn’t. His fingers stop there, as if suspended. He doesn’t pull, doesn’t shift, doesn’t dare. He waits for you.

“If this is another one o' them dream,” he murmurs, and in his voice there’s a thread of despair, “don’t be wakin' me…”

His confession draws a low, warm laugh from you. A laugh that vibrates between you and makes him shudder. You like seeing him like this: trembling, incredulous, consumed by desire and fear all at once.

“Am I a recurring dream, pretty boy?” you ask with irony, though something shines in his eyes you can’t ignore.

He swallows, and then, as if a truth had slipped out that should have remained hidden, he lets those words fall: “For over ten years…”

Time seems to stop. His fingers remain still, still clutching the edge of your slip. His eyes, instead, immediately shoot to yours, seeking forgiveness, or perhaps complicity. He hadn’t meant to say it. Not so soon. Not like that. But now it’s out, and both of you know you can’t pretend otherwise.

You whistle softly, a drawn-out sound that breaks the heavy silence of the room. In an instant, you see the blush reclaim his cheeks, run down his neck, warming his skin like an uncontrollable flame. He realizes he’s said too much, too soon, too openly.

Yet you smile. A languid, amused smile.

“That’s a damn long time, Rem. I’m flattered.”

Your voice caresses his name, and he stiffens as if you’d touched him inside. He bites the inside of his cheek, lowers his eyes, unable to withstand the weight of what you’ve just acknowledged.

“Are ye?” he asks, hesitant, like a child who has just given away his biggest secret and doesn’t know if he’ll be embraced or crushed.

You nod, tilting your head with that fake lightness that is actually calculated down to the last breath. “Shouldn’t I be?”

“Ye're…,” he whispers, gripping tighter the fabric of your panties, not realizing his fingers are trembling. “And I… fuck,” he cuts himself off, as if the words burned in his throat. “I’ve seen the lads ye go out with… we’re nothin' alike…”

There’s bitterness, envy, a thread of pain in his voice. As if he’d watched you from the shadows for too long, seeing other men possess you, never able to even approach.

Your smile twists into a smirk. “Wow,” you murmur, tilting your face closer to his, “a stalker too.”

“I’m not!” he blurts immediately, voice cracking, almost childish in his defense. “I’m not a stalker—”

You press a finger against his lips. A quick, decisive gesture that silences him at once. You feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, the dampness of his choked words dying under the light pressure of your finger.

You lean down, slowly, invading his space, your breath tickling his face, your lips a breath away from his.

“Lower your voice,” you whisper, sharp and sweet at the same time. “You don’t want my brother to find you fucking his sister, do you?”

Remmick’s eyes widen, terrified. He looks at you as if you’d just conjured his worst nightmare, and yet there’s something else there too: pure, wild arousal, the adrenaline of being on the brink of something forbidden.

“Strictly speakin'—” he tries to reply, perhaps to defend himself, perhaps to cling to a shred of logic to save him from the vertigo but you don’t give him time. Before he can finish, before he can say anything that might break that perfect tension, you grab his face with both hands and bend down over him.

This time you are not gentle in the kiss. You force his lips open with a bruise-making bite and shove your tongue into his mouth like a blade carving its space, claiming what is yours.

He moans, a muffled, broken sound, and his body tenses beneath you. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, whether to hold you or let you free. He remains trapped between the instinct to worship you and the fear of losing you.

It’s as if he can’t contain everything he’s feeling, as if you’re destroying in a few minutes ten years of repressed fantasies.

Your hand slides down, decisive, sure. He’s too busy letting himself be kissed to notice at first, and when your fingers start working at his belt buckle, you realize he doesn’t offer the slightest resistance. His hips move to hurry you, but you act with merciless calm.

The buckle comes undone, the zipper slides down with a metallic sound that cuts through the air and makes Remmick flinch. He stiffens, his eyes flying wide, and pulls his lips away just slightly as if to catch his breath. Your hand slips past the fabric, you feel him hot, throbbing, already swollen against your palm even before you free him.

With a smooth motion, you pull him out of his pants.

The sight nearly slaps you: hard as rock, incredibly long, heavy in your hand, with that smooth skin that slides just a little, uncircumcised, the glans flushed and glossy. Your tongue pricks against your teeth at how struck you are by the sight.

“Well, look at that pretty cock…” you murmur, in a tone that’s half compliment and half tease.

And to underline your words, you lift your fingers and give him a little tap on the tip, a quick, light touch that makes him jolt instantly. His shaft bounces like a spring, almost ridiculous in its automatic reaction, and you can’t help but laugh. It’s like one of those toy cat paws they sell at the Chinese shop downstairs: just a finger, and it flicks.

Remmick lets out a strangled moan and the hand resting on your thigh claws at your flesh, as if searching for an anchor to keep from losing his mind.

“You could have a career as a porn star with a cock like this,” you continue, tightening your grip just enough to feel him throb against your palm. “Ever thought about it?”

His blue eyes, clouded with lust, rise to you. And then he remembers: he has to answer. You’ve already trained him, in a sense. He knows that if he wants your attention, he has to give you the satisfaction of a reply.

“No, ma’am,” he pants, without even a hint of hesitation this time. The embarrassment that might have held him back minutes ago is gone, burned away by the fire devouring him. “But I can be yer slut, if ye want.”

You freeze for a second, surprised by his sudden boldness. Then you smile, a slow, feline smile that slides over him like a mask.

“How sweet.”

His mouth is flushed from kissing, slightly swollen, with a strand of saliva trailing down the corner. You stare at it for a moment, watching the droplet glisten in the soft light, and decide you can’t leave it there.

With the tip of your tongue, slow and precise, you catch the spit that escaped from the corner of his mouth. It tastes salty, warm, intimate in a way that excites you more than you expected. But before you can swallow it, he opens his mouth.

It’s not a conscious gesture. It’s pure instinct. His tongue reaches toward you, lips parting like a hungry pup, as if he’s willing to drink anything you’ll give him.

So you spit.

A transparent string falls from your mouth to his, slow and heavy, and he takes it all, swallowing at once as if it were nectar. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, his face tense with pure devotion.

You watch him, and your hand, still wrapped around his cock, moves just slightly, stroking him with a sluggish, almost absent touch. With the other, you trail up his neck, massaging his throat gently, feeling the motion of his swallowing beneath your fingertips.

“Little twisted pervert…” you murmur, your tone dripping with satisfaction.

Remmick moans softly, the sound vibrating right under your hand. His cock throbs in your grip, impossibly hard, and you realize this man is complete. Compliments and insults excite him just the same.

Your hand glides along his shaft with certainty, lethargic, attentive, as if you’re exploring a precious object worthy of care. Every time his hips try to chase more friction, you tighten just enough to remind him it’s you who decides. Not because you want to torture him, but because you want to savor every single shiver of his surrender.

“You like it, don’t you?” you whisper, bending just close enough for your breath to tickle his ear. “Tell me how much you like it. Tell me what you imagined doing to me all these years.”

Remmick’s eyes fly wide, and he turns his face to bury it against your shoulder and neck. You can tell he wants to resist, but your fist closes around the head, your palm pressing down on the tip, and all his resistance melts into a pleading whimper.

“I… I can’t…”

You pause, keeping your hand still on his cock. You lean down, brushing a feather-light kiss to his temple. “Yes, you can. There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re doing so well.”

His resistance cracks. “I… I thought about ye when I was on me own…”

“When you were alone?” You encourage him, firm but gentle, without cruelty.

“A-Aye… when I jerked off… it was always ye in me head.”

You resume moving your wrist, soft and steady. “So good… keep going. Tell me what I was doing in your thoughts.”

“I thought… I thought I was… down on me knees before ye… with me mouth full…” he stammers, gasping.

“Mmh, your mouth full of what, sweetheart?” you press, nudging your finger against his balls.

“Of… of yer taste…” he blushes like he’s about to combust. “Of yer wet cunt…”

The awkward, desperate way he says it makes you smile. You love dragging the dirty words out of him, as if they were forbidden confessions to a priest.

You squeeze a little tighter and shift rhythm, fast for a few seconds, then slow again. His head knocks against the back of the couch, a desperate sob spilling from his lips.

A shiver shoots through your stomach. “Yeah? You want to taste me, baby?”

Remmick’s breath shatters as you wring every confession from him with the hypnotic, faster swing of your hand.

“So much… so much, ma'am…”

He lets out a broken moan, and you press harder, quickening your pace. Your hand moves quick, wrist twisting, fingers gripping and releasing, dragging every ragged sound from him.

He’s right on the edge. You can feel it in the way his thighs tremble, in the way his moans tumble out unchecked. And as you watch him writhe beneath your touch, you feel the tension building inside you too, impossible to ignore.

Your free hand drifts slowly down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your panties. You touch yourself lightly, already finding yourself soaked, hot, ready. A smile ghosts over your lips as you gather the slickness pooling between your folds.

Remmick’s eyes, wet and dark with appetite, track every movement of your hand as it rises slowly in front of his face.

He swallows.

Your fingers glisten with your arousal, sparkling under the lamp’s soft glow. You hold them up before his eyes, slow and deliberate, as if you want to carve that image into his mind.

“Open your mouth,” you order, hanging.

For a moment he freezes, breath caught. Then he obeys, his lips parting, trembling.

You slip two fingers between his teeth, brushing against his tongue, and you feel the warmth of his mouth welcome you without hesitation. He whines faintly, and the wetness you let slide onto his tongue makes him moan even louder.

“Good boy…” you praise him, caressing his cheek with your thumb while the other hand brings him closer to the edge. “So obedient.”

He closes his lips around your fingers and sucks softly while you feel the throbbing of his cock under your hand, the way it strains, desperate.

“That’s it, baby. I want you to cum for me right now.”

He moans something indistinct, his mouth still full of your fingers, and the vibrating sound sends a shiver down your spine. Then you feel it: his whole body stiffens all at once, his hips jerking forward as pleasure overwhelms him.

With a strangled cry, Remmick explodes in your hand. The hot seed floods your fingers, running thick down your palm and wrist, and you don’t stop stroking him, squeezing out every drop, forcing him to remain suspended in that abyss of pleasure.

Your fingers stay in his mouth while he moans, trembling beneath you, swallowing your taste as he empties himself completely. Or so you think.

You gently wrap him against your body, feeling the heat radiating from him as he rests his face on your chest. His kisses are warm and damp, lips lapping and caressing your skin with an almost trembling devotion. Your hand, the one not messy with cum, slides into his hair, caressing the nape of his neck as he clings to you.

Every breath he takes vibrates against you like a warm wave running over your skin and seeping into your body. You feel the rhythm of his heart racing beneath his shirt, the beats thudding faintly against your chest as he holds you tighter. His hands close over your ass, kneading the flesh there.

His mouth climbs upward, hungry, until it settles on your neck, and you can clearly feel his teeth scraping at your throat.

The gesture sends a shiver through you that forces your torso forward, riding his hips until your inner thighs come into contact with his dick.

You thought you’d find him soft by now, spent and satisfied. Instead, he presses hard and vigorous against your flesh, smearing you with cum and fresh pre-cum.

The heat radiating from him spreads through your legs, rising along your thighs until it reaches your lower belly with a current mixing pleasure and anticipation.

His head rests on your chest, breathing against your skin with a frantic but controlled cadence. The warmth of his breath strokes you like a veil, and you’re surprised at how intense the desire he radiates feels—not aggressive but deep, palpable.

“Fuck me… please, ma'am, let me have this pussy just for tonight…” he begs, his hands gripping your back, pulling you closer. His voice is delirious but respectful.

You frown and grab his hair between your fingers, tilting his head back. His eyes widen slightly, shiny, as he stares at you, and in that look there is all the devotion he feels for you.

“We’re getting a bit too greedy. Isn’t what I already gave you enough?” you ask, wiping your hand still smeared with his release on his open shirt, the gesture as soft as it is firm.

Remmick lets out a low moan, lowering his gaze just a little. “Darlin'… ma'am… ye can’t leave me like this, please… I can make ye come, I promise. I’ll be good, so good…” His voice trembles, sincere, full of the need to please.

You shake your head. “Listen to yourself. Totally out of control. All for a wet, hot hole…” you chide as you move slowly against his cock, rubbing yourself with panties drenched in your arousal.

His hands fly to your waist, barely holding you back from teasing him further.

“Not… not just any hole… it’s special, ye’re special…” he whimpers, pressing his head just beneath your chin, his voice an fervent murmur.

You huff, amused by his devotion, and yet he doesn’t push further. He doesn’t force you, doesn’t rush: he waits, patient, completely undone. Other men would have already acted without measure, without regard for your timing, bending you over the first flat surface to fuck you quick and hard, but Remmick is different. He’s obedient, servile, and every gesture seems crafted to make you happy.

“Remmick…” you whisper, velvet-voiced.

He pulls back just slightly, his eyes locked onto yours. With gentleness, you massage his face, sliding your fingers along his cheeks and chin, letting every touch be a soothing caress. Then, with a slow, deliberate gesture, you smooth his hair back, deepening his gaze.

You feel his breath quicken as you move calmly, and you watch him carefully before leaning in to kiss him.

Your lips meet his with a tenderness that contrasts with the tension built up: a soft, lingering kiss that lets him feel loved, desired, and respected all at once. Remmick’s hands clutch at your hips, feeling the warmth of your body, and you encourage him, letting him feel he can surrender—without fear, without shame.

You pull one hand from his face only to push your panties aside, letting your body be ready to welcome him. You feel the warmth in your stomach surge immediately, a heat that spreads like an irresistible call. Your hips tilt slowly, guiding Remmick with a near-theatrical ease.

When the tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, you see his eyes widen in surprise and pleasure. The moment lasts a heartbeat before he closes them immediately, unable to withstand both your gaze and the sensation at once.

You sink down slowly, letting him slide inside you, one inch at a time, savoring every throb, every tension of your inner muscles as you adjust to his size. The whimpers that escape him are swallowed by your tongue and your mouth—along with your own sighs and moans.

Every inch that enters makes you tighten and breathe deeper, and the press of his shaft against the most sensitive walls of your entrance already makes you edge closer to climax.

When you reach the bottom, you feel the tip of his cock kiss your cervix, and pleasure bursts inside you like an unstoppable wave. Your eyes close, your head tilts back slightly, and a moan breaks from your throat, deep and involuntary. “Fuck, you’re so big…” you manage to whisper.

Remmick watches you with adoration. He gently brushes your hair from your face, as if to have a clear view of your expression, to see every single detail, every mark of your reaction. “D'ya like it?” he asks hoarsely, probably tense with the need to move. “D'ya like how I fill ye?”

You nod against his face, your lips brushing his, your breath mingling with his. “Fuck yes… I love it…” you manage to reply, the sound vibrating with sincerity and passion. The sensation of being completely filled by him, of feeling every movement and every pressure of his body against yours, makes you forget everything else.

“Yes? Will ya let me fill ye again?” he asks, and the tone of his voice is a mix of question and plea, a desire to keep being part of your pleasure, not to stop here. To make it so that it isn’t just this night but all the nights to come.

You nod again, and your contact becomes even more intimate. Your noses brush, your breaths mingle, your gazes meet.

You start moving on top of him with firmness, your hips gliding slowly upward and then all the way down.

“I won’t let anyone else have this cock. You’re mine, Remmick, understand?” you whisper, the words laced with sweet possessiveness. You want him to know how special he is, how this moment belongs only to you both, and how impossible it would be to replace what you’re sharing.

Remmick swallows hard and nearly rolls his eyes when your pussy clenches around him in a particular thrust. “Yes, yes, bloody hell, yes…” he answers, his voice broken by pleasure.

You feel him stiffen every time your hips meet again, his body moving just slightly to seek more depth. Whimpers and moans escape from his throat like silent pleas, each sound from his lips making you even more aware of how ridiculously close he is to the edge again.

“Yes what?” you ask, tilting your head slightly, your gaze scrutinizing him carefully, every detail of his face, every micro-expression which told you he hadn't forgotten.

“Yes, ma’am. This cock is yours, I am yours.” His voice is thick, and you can’t even tell if he’s speaking consciously given how undone he is beneath you. “So close… so close, fuck!” he mutters between breaths.

His hands clutch your hips, his thumbs lightly massaging your skin as he tries to make contact, but not enough to take control. You’re still in charge, the rhythm in your hips remains yours.

“Now…” you say, your voice both threatening and mischievous. “I hope you know you have to ask my fucking permission, right?” The words come out forcefully and decisively, and the imperative tone makes the air around you vibrate. As you say it, you grasp his throat firmly to bring him back to attention and receive the focus you deserve.

Remmick nods almost instinctively, unable to say anything else. His body stiffens, but after a moment, a hand slowly, almost hesitantly, lowers to rest on your clitoris. The pressure is gentle, uncertain, yet enough to make a moan escape your mouth, a mix of pleasure and laughter. Biting his throat, you laugh as your body reacts immediately, your hips moving even more decisively on his.

“You’re a clever little man, God… I’ll give you that,” you observe, full of approval. You love men who learn fast.

The rhythm intensifies, the tension in your stomach cord stretching to the limit.

“Remmick… Rem—”

“I’ve got ye, darlin'.”

That desperate tone alone seems enough to break you. The heat flooding your body is intense, penetrating, and you feel every drop of excitement pouring out of you, releasing your system. Your walls squeeze around Remmick, and he barely has time to desperately seek your gaze and approval before letting go inside you.

His moans grow longer, deeper, an echo of surrender and satisfaction resonating against the walls of the room. The movements of your bodies stays synchronized even as his orgasm leaves him trembling and vulnerable, every contraction passing through you like an irresistible call. You feel him press his head just under your chin, as if seeking more intimate contact, an embrace to confirm your connection—but you pull him back.

You lean slightly forward, your face close to his, breathing deep so you can look him in the eyes. You feel the hand on your back supporting your weight so that you rest against his chest.

You both pause, panting but satisfied, your bodies still entwined on the couch.

“You’ve wanted to fuck me for ten years, seriously?” you ask, your voice warm but incredulous, an ironic smile on your lips.

Remmick widens his eyes slightly, his skin still glistening with sweat and hair tousled. He looks at you with that mix of shyness and ardor that makes him irresistible, then lowers his gaze for a moment, as if carefully choosing his words.

“Fifteen… but I didn’t want to seem too pathetic.”

You burst out laughing, a clear, contagious sound that fills the silence of the room. You tilt your face and give him a small kiss on the nose, soft and playful.

But a sudden noise interrupts the laughter. The clang of dishes in the kitchen echoes through the room, making you both jump. Remmick snaps his head in that direction, and you widen your eyes, clinging to each other’s bodies to hide your nudity.

“If you’re going to fuck in the living room, make less noise next time…” your brother’s voice carries from the kitchen, a tone oscillating between irritation and hilarious resignation.

Remmick immediately buries his head in your chest, as if he wants to disappear entirely under your protection, his ears red. You can’t help but stroke his hair, letting him tremble slightly in your arms. Oh, tomorrow will be embarrassing for him.

#remmick

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