Y’all remember when Wattpad authors and fans used to make edits for their stories and post them on YouTube? Those little fan trailers used to hit so hard. They made us feel the stories in a whole new way. So, I started thinking… why not do the same for Black fanfic on tumblr?
For years, Black fanfic writers have carried this community on their backs, The representation, the storytelling, the way these stories make us feel seen, it’s unmatched. They’ve given us everything, and so I thought this could be like a way to celebrate them in a new way!
Fan edits inspired by Black fanfic.
So I started by making an edit inspired by the Aaron Pierre fics y’all have been writing. (😩🔥) it’s not tied to one specific fic, but I wanted to bring that romantic, sexy, and cinematic energy we’ve been getting from these stories to life.
This is just the first of many.
So what do y’all think? What fics need an edit? Drop your recs, I wanna hear from you! Let’s make this a thing!
Little puffs of air, warm and wet against her shoulder blade, followed by a sticky hand slapping down on her chest like he owns her heartbeat.
“Up, Mama,” Messiah mumbles, voice thick with sleep and snot, “Cartoo?”
Malaya doesn’t open her eyes right away. Her back hurts. Not sharp pain—just that deep, stretched ache that comes from sleeping on her side too long with a toddler pressed to her spine. The kind of ache that says you made it through another day, now do it again.
Messiah shifts beside her, his couls wild, matted, and damp from sweat. His tiny sock is halfway off. He kicks once, like he’s dreaming of something fast, then kicks again on purpose, hard enough to jar her ribs.
“I’m up,” she groans, voice cracked, “Damn, boy.”
She doesn’t curse in front of him often, but it slips sometimes in the early hours, when her bones are heavier than her body and her soul feels like it got folded in the wrong drawer. The bedroom is dim, a single strip of light cutting in through the crooked blinds. Her sheets are half off the mattress, tangled around one of her legs. The baby monitor on the nightstand blinks blue even though Messiah’s already beside her. On the floor by the closet door is a pair of leggings, a half-folded towel, and the old tripod she kicks out of sight with her heel.
They start slow. She sits up with him in her lap, lets him rub his face against her stretched T-shirt like it’s a napkin, lets him drool a little on the neckline. Her T-shirt smells like yesterday. Baby wipes, cocoa butter, and the faintest trace of strawberry lube.
He climbs down with a grunt and waddles toward the bedroom door, “Snack!” he says. A declaration.
Malaya rolls her shoulders, feels the stretch pop down her spine. Her belly—still soft and full under the fabric—shifts slightly with the motion. She tugs down her T-shirt. Doesn’t bother with a bra. She rarely does unless she’s heading to work or logging in.
The hallway outside her room creaks as Messiah darts toward the kitchen, Jurassic Park socks sliding. She follows behind, bare feet padding over the plush carpet that covers the real floors beneath—cheap laminate hiding older scars.
The duplex is quiet, but it’s not still.
The living room has toys everywhere, plastic food in the play kitchen, a blanket crumpled on the couch from when she passed out watching Bluey alone. One of Messiah’s juice cups rolls across the floor when she nudges it with her toe. In the corner, by the window, her plant is dying. The leaves are yellow at the tips. She waters it anyway. Out of habit. Or hope. The kitchen’s narrow, with cabinets painted the wrong shade of white and fake-new appliances that buzz louder than they should. The stove clock is flashing 12:00. She hasn’t fixed it since the last outage. There’s a small pantry beside the fridge, barely enough space for snacks and ramen and the box of wipes she keeps hidden from visitors.
“Cheerios?” she asks, already reaching.
Messiah nods like a king.
She pours a handful into a bowl, no milk. He eats standing up on the couch, balancing one foot on the cushion like a little rebel.
She leans on the counter, arms crossed, eyes on the small strip of sun now widening across the floor. Her stomach growls. She ignores it. Her head hurts. She swallows that too. Outside, the city’s already moving—sirens, tires, the deep rumble of bass from someone’s too-loud car speaker. Inside, it’s just her and him and the weight and the stretch.
Messiah crunches dry Cheerios from the couch while cartoons mumble in the background, and Malaya steps into the narrow hallway, barefoot. Her duplex is small, but it holds her. Two bedrooms, one bath, and a little more space than the rent should allow. Landlord slapped some vinyl flooring in the kitchen and called it “newly remodeled.” The carpet’s fresh too, though she can still feel the unevenness of the floor beneath it. Messiah’s dinosaurs and action figures are lined up along the hallway wall, like they’re guarding something ancient. Her bedroom door sticks a little when she pushes it open.
Inside, it smells like sleep and yesterday’s body oil. The blinds are uneven, casting warped shadows over the dresser where her worn makeup bag sits untouched. Clothes are everywhere. Not messy—just lived in. A hoodie draped over the headboard. Her favorite pair of leggings folded wrong at the foot of the bed. Her work bag slumped against the side of the laundry basket, zipper half-open, badge peeking out like it’s tired too.
She peeks in on Messiah’s room. It’s chaos. Blankets on the floor. Toddler bed messy. A book open to the wrong page. A half-naked stuffed Mickey Mouse wedged under a tiny chair. It smells like powder, juice, and the lavender spray she mists at bedtime. She’ll clean later. Or not. She never pretends for nobody.
“Messiah,” she calls gently, “Potty time. Come on, baby.”
He shuffles down the hall, chubby legs moving fast, and plops onto his training seat in the bathroom like he owns it.
“I poo poo,” he announces. Confident. Serious.
Malaya exhales a soft laugh and steps out of her T-shirt, then peels down her panties. The c-section scar pulls faintly when she bends. Her reflection in the mirror is blurred from the steam already building up. She avoids looking too long.
The shower is fast. Has to be. Water costs and Messiah gets antsy if she’s gone too long. She pins her long Marley twists up into a high, loose bun. Some strands fall free anyway—new growth coils acting as baby hair tight against her damp forehead. She turns the water on hot, tests it with her hand, then steps in slow. A low hiss slips through her teeth as it hits her skin.
Her body isn’t the same as before. Softer now. Heavy in new places. Her stretch marks shimmer like whispers in the steam—silver along her belly and hips. She scrubs her arms in hard, fast circles, suds slipping down to her elbows. Over her inner bicep, she moves slower—right where her ink reads: What doesn’t kill you breaks you soft.
Her hands move down. Across full breasts. Beneath them. Over her soft belly. Down thicker thighs. She cleans between her legs carefully—rinsing, pressing. There’s a deep, dull ache inside. She doesn’t linger on it.
Just something she lives with now.
She turns off the water before she’s ready.
The mirror’s fogged. Her face swims behind it. She wipes the glass with her palm but doesn’t look long. She’s got thirty minutes before they’re late. Messiah’s still babbling to himself on the potty. She dries off fast—body still dripping—pulls on a soft T-shirt with a cracked graphic print and thick socks. Her nipples poke through the fabric, but she doesn’t have time to care. She scoops Messiah up, wipes him down at the bathroom sink, wrangles him into a onesie with dinosaurs on it, then moves like clockwork.
She grabs:
Scrubs (grey today, slightly faded)
Her badge and lanyard (Parkside Outpatient— Midtown Campus)
Messiah’s bag with snacks, wipes, cracked tablet, and extra socks
Her work bag with her charger and the cheap deodorant she keeps forgetting to replace
Messiah’s starting to fuss, arms flailing as she zips his jacket.
“I don like it, mommy.” he whines.
“I know, baby. Just a little longer,” she whispers.
Her hands are full. Her throat feels tight. She presses her forehead against the front door for just one second before unlocking it.
Just one second.
Then she exhales and opens it to the world.
Her car is loyal. Ugly, but loyal.
A dusty gray 2015 Nissan Altima with a dented driver’s side door and a cracked back taillight covered in red tape. The radio only plays two stations without static. The air conditioner groans before it works. She keeps one of Messiah’s pacifiers on the dash like a totem. Dice hanging from the rear view mirror. The inside smells like apple juice and exhaustion—baby wipes, old fries, and whatever Black ice air freshener is losing its grip on the rearview.
The engine clicks when it starts. She waits, then reverses slow. Hollowell Parkway is already alive—school buses, mopeds, folks walking in neon uniforms toward the MARTA stop. Messiah kicks his feet in the backseat, half-asleep again, holding his stuffed Elmo like it might get snatched. The daycare is a small brick building tucked between a rundown convenience store and an old church that’s been boarded up for two years. A colorful sign above the door reads: Bright Futures Learning Center with faded cartoon animals dancing around the letters. The front windows are decorated with construction paper cutouts of autumn leaves.
Miss Tonya opens the door before Malaya can knock. She’s wearing a t-shirt with “Unbothered & Booked” printed across the chest and leopard print leggings. Her locs are pulled up in a pineapple. She’s got that voice that’s soft enough for toddlers and sharp enough for parents who test her.
“Morning, Mama,” she says, holding the door open.
“Morning,” Malaya spoke softly, lifting Messiah from the car seat. He clings to her neck.
Miss Tonya lowers her tone just enough, lYou got that payment?”
Malaya doesn’t answer right away. Just reaches for her wallet with one hand while shifting Messiah’s weight to her hip.
It’s all crumpled bills and quarters—cobbled together from tips, change, a ten from Tamra, and what she was supposed to save for groceries. She pulls out $150 and hands it over.
“That’s the rest from two weeks ago,” Malaya says, her voice quiet, “I’ll have the next one on time.”
Miss Tonya eyes the bills, then nods slowly, “Alright. I know you tryna keep up. But we tight this month, okay?”
“I know. Thank you.”
“You know I love that baby. Just…don’t make me chase you again.”
Malaya nods again, stiff. Swallows hard.
She kisses Messiah’s cheek before handing him off. He doesn’t cry, but he looks back once as Miss Tonya carries him inside. The door closes with a soft chime. Malaya just stands there for a second. Watching the sun rise behind the building like it might burn something clean.
Then she turns and gets back in the car.
Parkside Outpatient Clinic sits just off a busy Midtown intersection, wedged between a Walgreens and a dentist office with busted blinds. The building’s flat beige exterior does nothing to hide the tension inside. The moment Malaya walks through the glass front doors, the smell hits: antiseptic, old carpet, microwave popcorn from the break room, and a little sweat from patients who’ve been waiting too long.
It’s always bright in here. Too bright. Lights that make you look sick, even when you’re not. Reception sits in a U-shaped desk straight ahead. Behind it, the clinic opens into a long hallway with numbered exam rooms on both sides. There’s a small nurse’s station in the back with a fridge for samples and a clock that ticks too loud. Posters on the wall tell people to cough into their elbows and schedule flu shots nobody wants.
Malaya’s station is halfway down the hall, next to a filing cabinet that never shuts right. She has a drawer with her name on it, a chipped plastic label from a label maker that barely stuck. Inside: pens, gloves, a phone charger, and a half-used bottle of ibuprofen. She clocks in on a mounted tablet near the break room. The screen is greasy.
Patients are already piling in—coughing, complaining, slamming clipboards on the counter. One man with a limp is shouting about how long he’s waited. A woman with three kids and no appointment is pretending not to hear the staff asking for her insurance.
Malaya smiles like she means it.
Her boss, Miss Denby, walks past in nude flats and a too-tight blazer. Doesn’t say good morning. Just nods like a queen barely recognizing her court.
Malaya’s head starts to pound before 9AM.
She checks vitals, processes urine samples, logs notes into the system that always crashes mid-entry. She eats her granola bar while standing. Takes two sips of cold coffee from her tumbler before it disappears. Someone always needs something. At 10:42, she follows a coworker—Nisha—out the side door for a smoke break. Malaya doesn’t smoke, but she needs the air.
Nisha lights up with the speed of a woman on edge, “Girl, you hear they tryna bring in some temp for front desk? Said we ‘undermanned.’ I said, ‘Bitch, we been undermanned.’”
Malaya chuckles, dry, “They gon’ pay her more than us, too.”
“Mmhm. Watch. Bet she can’t even spell phlebotomy.”
They stand in silence for a moment. The sun is warm on their forearms. The trash bins smell like old gauze and last week’s pot luck.
“You alright?” Nisha finally asks.
Malaya shrugs, “I’m breathing.”
“Let me know if you need help hiding a body.”
“Bet.”
She almost smiles. Almost. Then she tucks her badge back into her scrub pocket and heads inside.
The last four hours drag like wet laundry.
A man yells about his refill. A little boy throws up graham crackers on the waiting room floor. One of the nurses is crying quietly in the break room, pretending she’s just tired. Phones ring. The printer jams. Malaya’s feet ache. She walks the same hallway over and over. Exam room three. Back to station. Lab fridge. Front desk. Repeat. The armpits of her scrubs are damp. Her ponytail’s slipping, twists growing heavy. There’s a cramp starting behind her right eye, and she knows it’s the kind of headache that’ll outlast the sun.
At 2:08 PM, she gets a text.
Twan 🙄: u good? what time am I getting him?
Her jaw tightens. She replies quick, thumbs moving faster than her breath:
Malya: 5:30 at the latest. I paid the daycare fee u were supposed to handle. $150. You owe me.
Read. No response.
Of course.
She slides the phone into her pocket, breathing slow, swallowing back the heat bubbling under her tongue. That was grocery money. Gone. She’s tired of chasing men for things they should be doing without a prompt.
At 3:14, the notification hits. Just a soft buzz against her thigh. Her phone screen lights up under her badge.
[You have a new message.]
Could I get a pic? Sent 200 for it. Just the top.
No name. No real context. But she knows exactly where it came from. Malaya doesn’t hesitate. Just grabs her phone, slips down the hall, and turns into the staff bathroom. Locks the door.
She’s got two minutes.
The mirror hums under the fluorescent lights. The floor is cold tile. The soap dispenser’s busted. She sets her phone on the paper towel dispenser and rolls her shoulders back.
Then she peels her scrub top up and over. Her breasts fall naturally, full, wide-set, and soft with weight. The kind that don’t sit up on their own anymore, not since breastfeeding. Not since motherhood changed her body. Silver stretch marks lace along the sides like lightning beneath her dark skin. Her nipples are thick and dark, resting low, one slightly more sensitive than the other.
She cups them in both hands for a second. Lifts them gently. Tilts toward the light.
No face. Just chest. Just flesh. Just survival dressed up as seduction. She angles the camera. Clicks. The photo looks raw. Real. She doesn’t edit it. Doesn’t need to.
Upload. Done.
She breathes out.
Back on go the scrubs. She fixes her shirt, smooths the fabric, splashes water on her neck. One more look in the mirror—her eyes are tired, lips chapped, but her posture is solid. Stronger than most would guess.
She steps out like nothing happened.
Clock-out time hits at 5:37. She doesn’t stay a minute longer.
The city is dipped in honey light by the time she pulls out of the clinic lot. That slow, golden hour where the streets look soft even when they’re loud. People walking fast, leaning into their hunger or fatigue. Car horns echo. Somebody’s blasting trap gospel from their window. Malaya rolls hers down an inch to feel the air and doesn’t even notice when her eyes get glassy.
Her phone vibrates in the cupholder again.
Still no reply from Twan.
She lets the red light hold her in place, then taps into her private Instagram account. The one with less than 100 followers, no posts since last year. Her profile picture is blurry now, pixelated from too many crops and re-uploads. But it’s there. Him, too.
The last post still pinned.
A blanket in the grass. Messiah in her lap, cheeks shiny with drool and sunlight. Malaya looking off to the side, not quite smiling. No makeup. Curls pulled back tight. Tank top strap slipping off her shoulder.
The caption just said: “Everything I do.”
She remembers that day. The way Twan took the picture like he was doing her a favor. Like he wasn’t already texting some other girl ten minutes later. Like he hadn’t already decided he wasn’t staying.
She scrolls down and there it is—Keisha’s reel.
“It’s glow-up season, sis. Soft life only. If it don’t spoil you, it don’t deserve you.”
The music behind it is bass-heavy and fake happy. Malaya watches in silence, thumb hovering over the heart. She doesn’t press it. Just tosses the phone onto the passenger seat like it burned her.
Twan’s voice leaks into her head like rot water.
“I got you, Ma. I promise.”
“You stressin’ too much. Just sing, baby. Let me handle the rest.”
“You think I don’t care? Damn, why you always like this?”
She remembers the studio. Not the real kind, just a backroom with foam on the walls and a mic that didn’t work half the time. She remembers him standing behind her, hands on her hips while she tried to record. How she never finished a single track. How she wanted to sing, but all she did was swallow silence.
The car turns onto her street. Her duplex rises ahead like a tired sigh. She parks, engine ticking as it cools, and rests her head against the steering wheel for a second. She catches her reflection in the rearview—her twists loose around her face, her eyes heavy, lips dry.
That damn tattoo on her inner arm peeks out from her sleeve as she reaches for her bag.
What doesn’t kill you breaks you soft.
It was supposed to be strength. A reminder. But today it just feels like surrender.
Inside the house, the air is warm and quiet. Her dying plant looks a little deader. The lights stay off as she moves through the living room. She pulls off her shoes with one foot, lets them thud. Her scrubs feel glued to her skin. Her body is begging to collapse.
She hears her mother in her chest.
“You wanted to be grown. So be grown.”
“Always caught up in your feelings, girl. That’s your problem.”
The words cling to her ribs like grease. She opens the fridge. Stares. Closes it again. She exhales through her nose. Rubs her hands over her face. Then she moves. Messiah will be home soon and tonight, the camera’s little blue light will blink again.
The knock is too light for a stranger.
Two quick taps, then silence.
Malaya opens the door with one hand still on the deadbolt. Messiah’s giggles burst through before she even sees him. He’s in Twan’s arms, gripping a juice pouch and sticky with sleep. Her son—all thick curls and cheeks and Velcro sneakers—reaches for her instantly.
“Ma-maaa,” he says, dragging the sound out like a song. Malaya softens without meaning to, arms already out. Twan passes him over too fast, like an item—not a child. Messiah’s bag hits the floor with a dull thud. His stuffed Elmo falls out, face-first.
“You good?” Twan says.
Malaya doesn’t answer. Her hand moves to support Messiah’s bottom, the other stroking the back of his head. His skin is warm, his breath sugary with whatever snack he was eating. She leans into him. Smells his hair.
Then looks past Twan.
His car is still running, headlights dim. In the passenger seat: her. The girlfriend. Baby hair gelled down, long lashes, scrolling her phone like this is a pit stop. She doesn’t look up.
Malaya’s voice dips low, “You owe me a hundred and fifty dollars.”
Twan blinks like he didn’t hear her, “What?”
“For daycare. You said you had it. You didn’t. I paid it. You owe me.”
Twan shifts his weight. Breathes in slow through his nose, “Damn, Malaya. You always—”
“Don’t,” she snaps, quiet but sharp, “Don’t start.”
He reaches into his pocket, exaggerated, like digging through gold. Pulls out crumpled bills and counts with a sigh.
“Eighty. That’s all I got till Friday.”
She stares at the cash. Doesn’t reach for it. Messiah squirms against her chest, tugging at her hoodie string. Her jaw clenches.
“Take it or not, damn,” Twan mutters, pushing the money toward her.
She snatches it. Not out of anger out of necessity. Their fingers don’t touch.
“I shouldn’t have to chase you,” she says, barely a whisper.
“And I’m here now,” he shrugs, “That count for something.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
She doesn’t look at the girl in the car. Doesn’t check if she’s listening. Doesn’t care. She just closes the door in his face. Not loud. Not petty. Just…final. Messiah hums against her chest, his thumb now in his mouth.
She presses her lips to his forehead, “Let’s get you a bath, baby.”
Bath Time
Messiah is perched on his little potty like royalty, cracked tablet in front of him playing some bright, chaotic YouTube Kids video about talking trucks and friendship. His chubby legs swing as he watches, juice-stained cheeks glowing in the dim hallway light.
Malaya doesn’t rush the bath. She never does. She crouches in the bathroom, legs already sore from the day, and turns the water on low. Checks the temperature twice with her fingers. Pulls the sweet almond bubble bath from under the sink, even though it’s halfway empty and not on sale anymore. She pours extra. Always does. The lights are dimmed, she screwed in a soft purple bulb a few months ago. It calms him. Makes the bubbles glow like clouds at dusk.
She arranges the toys.
The little slide suction-cupped to the tub wall.
Three plastic dinosaurs.
Marvel superhero’s.
His yellow boat.
A cup he insists is for “water magic”.
And a rubber duck with a bite mark in the tail.
“Okay, baby,” she says softly, “Let’s wash the day off.”
Messiah comes running, butt-naked and wobbly, tablet still playing in the distance. He climbs in without hesitation, squealing at the warmth. Water sloshes. Bubbles rise. He starts throwing the duck like it’s in battle. Malaya kneels beside the tub, rolling up her sleeves. Her bones pop. Her knees ache.
But her heart…her heart swells. She takes the soft washcloth and begins gently scrubbing him—behind the ears, under his arms, between the little rolls on his legs. He splashes, cackles, yells “Mama look!” every few seconds. Her hoodie gets soaked. Her arms drip.
And still, she smiles. Through it all.
She watches him, really watches.
That goofy grin. Those long lashes. His coils, soft from the water. His little hands trying to pour one cup into another and missing completely.
Tears prick her eyes. It hits all at once. That swelling, stinging, proud ache. Because she made this boy. She’s raising him. Alone. And some days, it still doesn’t feel like enough. She blinks fast. Doesn’t let the tears fall.
Just whispers, “I love you, Messiah,” into the steam.
He doesn’t hear her. But that’s okay.
She lets him play for a few more minutes, then drains the water, lifting him gently into a towel—the one with the little bear ears. He’s still giggling, legs kicking as she carries him to the bedroom. She lays him down on the bed and rubs him down with cocoa butter, slow and sure. The scent fills the room—warm, sweet, nostalgic.
“Feet up,” she says, and he obeys, still watching her with bright eyes.
She slips on his Buzz Lightyear jammies, then the tiny slippers he insists make him “go faster.” He dashes off to his play area, crawling into the tent full of pillows and action figures like he’s on a mission.
Malaya exhales, heading for the kitchen. Dinner is what she always makes when she’s too tired to think but still wants him to smile. Baby carrots. Dino nuggets. Kraft mac and cheese with a little extra butter. She sets up his high chair in front of the TV, slides in the tray, and turns on Trolls. His plate is colorful and warm, and he eats with his fingers, humming between bites. She sits nearby with her own plate—leftover shrimp and broccoli, barely warm, eaten with a plastic fork because the others are in the sink. She watches him. She chews slowly. Doesn’t taste much.
For two full hours, she is only his.
They color. They stack blocks. They scream along to the Trolls songs. He falls twice. She kisses both elbows.
At 8:45, it’s time.
She scoops him up, already blinking heavy. They brush teeth, fight over the toothpaste, and finally settle with a hug that smells like cocoa butter and toddler sweat. She turns on his nightlight, the one with the little rotating stars. Tucks him in. Kisses both cheeks. Pulls the blanket up just right.
“Love you, stinka,” she whispers.
“Wuv you too,” he mumbles, eyes already shut.
She shuts the door halfway, then turns on the baby monitor. Blue light hums quietly in the hallway. She stands there for a moment. Just breathing. Then moves toward the closet.
The Mask Comes On
“No face. Just fire.”
The house is quiet. Not peaceful…just quiet.
Messiah is down, his soft breathing caught on the baby monitor’s faint static. Nightlight on. Stars rotating on the ceiling. His Mickey Mouse tucked into the crook of one arm. He had fallen asleep mid-sentence. She’d kissed his forehead, turned out the light, and shut the door with a whisper behind her teeth.
Now she moves like shadow.
Light off in the hallway. The small squeak of the closet door and the rhythm of her breath. She pulls the basket from the back corner—not Messiah’s toy basket, not the laundry one—the one with the handles wrapped in satin ribbon and the faintest hint of strawberry lube clinging to the lining.
Her cam gear is inside.
She lays each piece out on her bed like tools in a sacred ritual. Phone. Ring light. Tripod. Mic. Clip adapter. Oil. Her robe. Next, she wipes down her camera lens. Always. Doesn’t matter if she did it yesterday. The screen has to reflect clean. No prints, no grease. No traces of the real woman who held her baby thirty minutes ago and whispered lullabies. She undresses in silence. Hoodie first. Sports bra. Then the leggings that peel away like second skin, still warm from Messiah’s hug.
Her body is real.
Not porn-perfect, not Instagram-polished. Full. Heavy in places. Her stomach bears the stretch of motherhood— the soft belly with skin that doesn’t lie. Her navel pulled slightly lower now. A map of silver-gold streaks curves along her hips and the underside of her breasts, shimmering faintly under the ring light.
She oils her thighs. Slow. Not for pleasure. For the sheen. For the way the light dances over her dark skin, turns softness into spectacle. She rubs the oil down her legs, across her lower belly, lets a small moan slip—not arousal, just the relief of warm hands meeting sore flesh. Her breasts are next. She lifts one in her palm, squeezes gently. Full. Weighted. Her nipples darker now. Fuller. A little sensitive. She wears the bralette—the faded burgundy one. No padding, just lift from memory. Then the black thong with the rip on the side. She tugs it so the tear’s out of frame.
Over that, her robe. Black, silky, cheap, but drapes like money on camera. She doesn’t tie it. No perfume. Just the cocoa butter from earlier, mixing now with vanilla scented body oil. She glosses her lips—clear, thick, high shine. Checks the angle. Adjusts the mic. Pulls her twists up into a messy bun. Slips on clear strap heels. Her toes curl inside them. Not for them. For her. For balance. For the click when she stands and turns.
She turns on her VPN. Opens ObsidianPlay.
Logs in as LaceyBlaze69.
The screen flashes. “No face. Just fire.”
She exhales. Checks the angle again. Face cropped, always. Just collarbone down. A tease of jawline if she leans in too close.
Chatroom open. Room fills slow.
Camera0ff logs in within sixty seconds. 1,000 tokens drop. No message. No request. Just that sterile username sitting quiet like it always does. Watching.
Her breath hitches.
She clicks “go live.”
The screen floods with hearts, requests, messages she won’t read until they tip. She leans into the mic, lets her gloss catch the light, then whispers:
“Hey baby. Miss me?” Her voice is syrup. Low and breathy. Barely real.
Tips roll in. Thigh oil. 175 tokens.
Close-up bounce. 400 tokens.
Finger suck. 100 tokens.
“Ride for me?” 300 more.
“Do it slow.” “Say you need it.”
She smiles soft. Doesn’t break eye contact with the lens. Which is to say—she never really makes it in the first place. She turns. Straddles her riding pillow. Slides her hips slow, deliberate, until the bralette slips just enough to expose the top curve of one breast. She lets it. Doesn’t fix it.
More tokens. More noise.
She adds more oil. Lets it drip down the slope of her chest, across her belly, gliding over her stretch marks like a second skin. She lifts her breasts in her palms, squeezes them together. Lets her fingers roll over her nipples until they shine.
Another tip comes in. POV request.
She presses record.
No face. Just moans.
Fakes a climax at 47 minutes in. Loud enough to make them believe it. Quiet enough to hear her baby monitor if it changes pitch. Her thighs tremble. Not from pleasure. From holding the pose.
When it’s done, she clicks “end stream.” Tips: $638.
Not the best. But good enough to sleep on. She pulls the hoodie over her head. Wipes the oil from her chest. Sits on the bed, lets her feet breathe, then glances toward the hallway, the faint hum of Messiah’s nightlight still glowing through the crack under his door. She lies down sideways. One arm under the pillow. Eyes open.
She doesn’t cry. Not tonight. But her lips part, just barely. And the words slip out like breath.
“We still here.”
Twice. Always twice. She closes her eyes. Baby monitor steady. Phone screen dark. Oil still drying on her thighs.
LaceyBlaze is gone.
Malaya’s just a mama again.
Her Balance, Her Body
Time: 10:24 PM.
She was already exhausted before the day began.
Malaya had woken to Messiah’s whimpering cries from the bassinet beside her bed, her back stiff from sleeping half-curled with one arm draped over him like a shield. Her phone buzzed before her feet even hit the floor, a low battery warning and a string of unread texts from a co-worker asking to switch shifts. She ignored it. She scooped Messiah into her arms, kissed the warmth of his cheeks, and started the morning.
Bath. Oil. Pull-ups. Socks he kept kicking off. Feeding him oatmeal with mashed banana, wiping more from his chin than what made it in his mouth. He cried when she put him down to wash the bottles from the night before, and again when she tried to put on eyeliner with him on her hip. By the time she slid his diaper bag over one shoulder and balanced her lukewarm coffee in the other hand, she was already five minutes behind.
She dropped him off at the daycare off Hollowell, gave Miss Tonya a tight-lipped smile when she asked how things were going, and rushed out before the baby could start crying again. The only thing worse than the sound of it was leaving while it echoed behind her.
She made it to work just in time. Her badge didn’t scan the first time, and her manager raised an eyebrow when she clocked in two minutes before cut-off. The outpatient clinic was short-staffed again. She spent the entire day standing—prepping rooms, taking vitals, holding back a migraine while the phone rang, rang, rang. No time to eat. No time to breathe. She answered patient questions with a tight smile and a throat that burned from swallowing what she really wanted to say.
Her phone buzzed again at lunch. Miss Tonya.
Need someone to pick up Messiah. You said his daddy would come today. He ain’t show.
Malaya stood in the alley behind the clinic, one hand clutching her phone, the other fisting the fabric of her hoodie. She called Twan. No answer. Called again. Straight to voicemail. She texted him once.
Don’t play with me. Come get your son.
Then she called her mother.
That turned into a fight. Her mama picked up with a tone already steeped in judgment, talking about how tired she was, how she wasn’t the one that laid up with a no-good boy and made a baby. Malaya begged through clenched teeth, promised it wouldn’t take long, promised to send a little money from her next check. Her mother still sighed. Still made her feel like she was seventeen and stupid. But she went.
By the time Malaya picked up Messiah and got home, she was running on fumes. He wouldn’t settle down. He wanted to be held. He wanted to be rocked. He cried when she sat him down to change her shirt. She fed him applesauce and soft chicken with one hand while scrolling her bank app with the other. Overdraft. Her heart dropped low and heavy in her chest. Rent was due next week. Her phone bill was past due. The streaming platform would take their cut in the morning.
The only thing she could think of to eat was ramen. She gave Messiah his bath first, wrapped him in the softest towel they owned, kissed the curve of his damp forehead. She whispered soft nothings to calm him, slow him down. He giggled when she kissed his belly, and for a moment, she smiled too. But the heaviness didn’t leave. It sank deeper. She held him until he dozed. Slid him into his toddler bed with the quiet care of a thief. She closed the bedroom door partway, leaving the baby monitor screen angled toward the living room.
She ate her ramen standing up in the kitchen. No music. No TV. Just the crunch of the seasoning packet against the bowl’s edge and the echo of the microwave beeping long after the food was out. She cried halfway through. Not the kind that shook her shoulders or made her gasp. Just slow, hot tears running down both cheeks as she stood there, slurping noodles, tasting salt that didn’t come from the broth.
It was already 10:17.
Seven minutes later, she sat on the living room floor and pulled off her hoodie. Left it in a pile beside the book-stack she used as a camera stand. She peeled off her leggings, rolling them down to mid-thigh. Her tank top clung to her body, nipple outlines showing through the worn cotton. Her stomach wasn’t flat anymore. Her thighs had small stretch marks. She didn’t hide them.
She reached over and opened the laptop. The soft hum of it booting up was the only sound in the room. The hallway light buzzed faintly through the open door, washing just enough glow across her skin to be visible in shadows. The living room had been cleaned earlier—sort of. Messiah’s toys were pushed to the side. His water bottle rested on the coffee table beside a crumpled burp cloth.
She didn’t fix her hair. Her twists were hanging down her back heavy and dull. No gloss. No lashes. No perfume. She didn’t turn on the ring light. There was no soundtrack tonight. Just the low hum of the TV. A faint chirp from the dead battery in the smoke detector. The rhythmic click of her mouse. She stared at the login screen of ObsidianPlay for longer than she meant to.
It was a choice. Every time. And every time it felt like giving herself away one frame at a time.
She clicked the button.
LIVE.
The feed opened in silence. Her face wasn’t visible. Just the low-angle view of her thighs parted slightly on the floor, her stomach rising and falling with every slow breath. She shifted, sighing softly. No music. No smile. No show. The screen filled with viewers faster than usual. Notifications pinged silently on the side. She didn’t acknowledge them. Didn’t wave. Didn’t ask how anyone’s night was.
She just let them watch.
Her hands moved slow. She didn’t spread herself wide or arch her back in some performance-ready pose. She rubbed soft, absent circles over the fabric of her panties, then slid them down one leg at a time. Her breaths were audible now. Shaky. Tired. Real. She leaned back slightly, legs bent, her heels pressed into the carpet. Her head tipped back. Her fingers moved again—slower now, slower than any clip she’d ever sold. Her other hand reached up, held the hem of her tank to her chest. Her nipples were stiff against the fabric, her lips slightly parted.
Comments poured in, but she didn’t read them. Her eyes barely opened.
“Yeah,” she said, so quietly the mic barely caught it, “Right there.”
Her voice cracked just a little.
There was no moaning tonight. No over-the-top gasp. Just breath. Her body rocked gently, thighs twitching from effort. Her brows pinched at one point. She came without warning—low, quiet, like a tremble passing through her. She exhaled, shivering a little, and then she stilled. She didn’t thank the tippers. Didn’t flash a smile. She sat there for a while, still breathing hard, eyes locked on the baby monitor screen in the corner. And then her face turned, just slightly, toward the lens. For one fleeting second, she let them see the pain that came after.
She shifts her weight on the carpet and reaches just out of frame, fingers curling around silicone still cool from the air. She brings it back into view slowly, not teasing, not presenting it like a prize. Just honest. She doesn’t look at the screen when she settles it between her thighs. Her lips part as she guides it against herself, her free hand bracing on the floor. The first press makes her flinch. She exhales through her nose, steadying. There’s no rush. No theatrics. Just the slow push as she sinks down, inch by inch, her brows knitting together while her body adjusts.
Her hips roll once, experimentally. Then again.
She’s not fully gone yet. Her mind is still on rent. On the number she saw in her bank app. On the way her mother sighed like Malaya was a burden she never put down. But her body responds anyway. Her thighs tense. Her shoulders drop a fraction.
She starts moving with more intention.
Not fast. Just deliberate. Her tank rides up slightly with the motion, exposing the soft stretch of her stomach. The toy glides easier now, slick with her warmth. She presses her lips together, a quiet sound catching in her throat when it finally starts to feel good in that slow, sinking way that makes everything else blur.
Then the notification hits.
A large one.
Her eyes flick to the screen before she can stop herself.
Camera0ff tipped.
The number makes her inhale sharply. Her hips stutter. Her grip tightens. Something shifts in her chest, not joy exactly, but relief mixed with pressure. She sits up straighter. Rolls her shoulders back. Gives more than she was giving before.
“Okay,” she breathes, barely audible.
She rides it now. Still restrained, still tired, but present. Her movements grow steadier. Her thighs lift and fall. Her hand slides to her chest, fingers brushing beneath the hem of her tank. Her nipple presses against the fabric, dark and obvious now.
Her breathing deepens. Her eyes close.
She comes again quietly. No cry. Just a sharp exhale and a tremor that moves through her whole body. She stills with the toy seated deep, her head bowing forward as she rides out the sensation. When she lifts it, thick slick clings and stretches before breaking. It drips down the length, catching the dim light from the hallway.
She watches it for a second.
Calculating.
She swallows, then looks toward the screen.
“Y’all want me to,” she starts, stops, clears her throat, “Want me to clean it?”
The chat explodes.
She doesn’t wait for confirmation. She leans forward and wraps her mouth around it, slow and deliberate, lips slicking over what she just left behind. Her cheeks hollow slightly. Her tongue traces. She keeps her eyes down, lashes casting shadows on her face. It’s intimate in a way that feels almost too much. When she pulls it free, she doesn’t wipe her mouth.
Instead, she shifts position.
She sets the toy aside and spreads herself open with both hands, silent. No smile. No commentary. Just showing. Her folds glisten. Wet, messy, honest. She lifts one leg high, knee bent, opening herself further. The angle changes everything. Her tank slips again, revealing the curve of her breast, the edge of her nipple peeking out fully now.
She stays like that.
Breathing.
The chat goes wild.
Another tip hits.
Camera0ff again.
Her lips part in something close to a smile this time, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. She glances once at the baby monitor, then back toward the lens, holding the pose just a few seconds longer. Then she lowers her leg, reaches forward, and ends the stream without a word.
She clicked end stream.
And the screen went black
$700.
She stares at the screen a moment longer than she needs to, index finger resting on the corner of the trackpad. Her thighs are still sticky with drying oil, her tank top clinging to her back where the sweat gathered. The light from the TV fades as she clicks it off, and the room dips into shadows. The baby monitor hums. Messiah turns over in his sleep. A rustle. A sigh. Then stillness.
Malaya exhales.
She doesn’t cry tonight. She doesn’t smile either. Just drags the oversized hoodie over her head, its hem brushing against her thighs. It smells like cocoa butter and detergent. Safe. Quiet. Not sexy.She wipes the toy down in silence, the towel already stained from the last few shows. She puts everything away like she’s locking up the register. Phone in hand. Screens closed. Earnings saved. She crawls into bed sideways. One knee bent. One hand beneath the pillow. The hoodie slips slightly at the neck, exposing the damp slope between her shoulder and chest. Her fingers scroll out of habit. Nothing to see. No one to talk to.
But then—the a message appears.
One new DM.
From a name she doesn’t recognize.
GodbodyAnon.
No icon. No bio. No posts. Just a message.
You always look tired after the ride. I’d take care of you if you let me.
Her thumb freezes above the glass. Something about the message stills her. Not the words, but the weight behind them. It doesn’t read like a demand. It reads like… observation.
She clicks the profile.
New account. No followers. No comments. Just silence and that single message. Not even a token trail. He’s either smart or watching from a distance. Possibly both.
Her first instinct is to block him. A man noticing her fatigue isn’t always kindness. Sometimes it’s just strategy. A soft angle to slip in before the hard push. But something holds her there.
She rereads it.
You always look tired after the ride...
Ride. Not show. Not bounce. Not “stream.” Ride. Like he was really watching. Her stomach tightens. Not fear. Not desire. Something more complicated. Something that coils near the ribs and stretches under the skin like memory.
She taps her nails against the glass. Types.
You new?
Waits. A full minute passes.
Not really. Just never had something to say until now.
She shifts on the bed. The baby monitor clicks once, then settles. Her legs are bare beneath the hoodie, toes flexing against the sheet. She tells herself this is curiosity. Not need. Not attention-seeking. Not loneliness.
Just curiosity.
You talk like you know me.
Another pause. Then:
You looked beautiful tonight. But your shoulders dropped when you thought nobody noticed. That’s what made me write.
She stares at the message. Her throat tightens.
She types, then deletes. Types again.
I’m not really the fantasy tonight. That’s what made it better.
He doesn’t ask for anything. No photos. No tip menu tease. Just stillness.
Then another message.
You ever let someone rub that oil in for you?
She clenches her legs together. The robe beneath her shifts. Her body remembers how long it’s been since hands touched her with care instead of cost. Since someone asked without expecting a transaction in return.
You don’t even know my name.
I don’t need it. I see you.
The lamp on the nightstand flickers low. Her chest rises once, slow. Then again. She looks at the monitor. Messiah is still. Peaceful. The one pure thing she’s managed to protect.
She shouldn’t keep typing.
She does anyway.
Don’t catch feelings over fantasy, baby. It’s dangerous in here.
He doesn’t respond right away. And that somehow feels worse than if he had. She leaves the thread open. No block. No warning. Just a flick of her thumb, a glance at the time, and the quiet breath she holds too long before she lets it go. In the dark, across town, Smoke watches the screen light up. He doesn’t type again tonight. He lets her linger.Malaya pulled her hoodie to her chin, closes her eyes without realizing she never locked her heart back up.
She doesn’t know who GodbodyAnon is.
Saturday Morning —8:12 AM
Messiah’s soft whine was what woke her. Not a cry, not a scream, just the slow, rising sound of his discomfort. Malaya stirred before she opened her eyes, hand instinctively reaching across the sheets for her phone. The screen glowed. Almost 8:15. The sun was already pressing light into the corners of the room, filtered through crooked blinds and dust in the air. She sat up slow, blinking the crust from her eyes. Her body ached— not sharply, but in that dull, mother-worn way that clung after days of doing too much with too little.
“Hey, baby,” she said quietly, voice still cracked from sleep. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and padded to his bed.
Messiah kicked his feet at the sight of her. One sock missing. Pull up full. She kissed his forehead and lifted him into her arms, holding him against her chest as she moved into the kitchen. The floor creaked under her heel. There was no rush today. No badge to clip. No scrubs to wear. No clock to race. She changed him on the couch, humming something low as he babbled broken words at her. After, she set him gently into the high chair and snapped the tray in place.
She had $650 in her account. It wasn’t enough, not for everything, but she pulled out her phone while the water boiled for grits and she prepped the eggs and bacon. She’d push it towards rent anyway. Left herself with $42 and change. She’d get the rest on Friday. They ate together, him clapping his hands when the spoon danced in front of his mouth, her smiling soft between yawns and bites of toast.
It was their ritual.
Saturdays were slower.
Quieter.
After wiping his mouth and setting the dish in the sink, Malaya glanced toward the front door.
Something felt…she didn’t know. Just felt.
She opened it to check the mail, barefoot on the step in her oversized tee. The morning was cool, but not cold. Dew still clung to the railing.
That’s when she saw them.
Boxes.
A stack of them.
Three piled neatly, two others just off to the side, like the driver had run out of balance. Her name was printed on each label. Correct apartment number.
No mistake.
Malaya blinked. Looked up the street, then back down. Nobody was around. She gathered them slowly, carrying two at a time. Had to nudge one inside with her foot. Her chest was tight with curiosity. She hadn’t ordered anything. She slid a knife from the drawer and sliced through the first box.
A new cam stand. Adjustable. With a ring light mount and USB adaptor. The kind she bookmarked months ago but never bought.
Her brows lifted.
The second box had a sleek tablet. For kids. Protective case. Preloaded with learning games. She swallowed. The sound stuck in her throat.
Third box: LED lighting strips. New webcam. Velvet throw blanket. Microphone with a pop filter.
The fourth was smaller. Labeled discreetly. She opened it in her bedroom.
The air changed.
Inside was a Bluetooth toy, still in its high-end packaging. Glossy black. Remote-enabled. Retail price burned into her memory from all the nights she window-shopped it. Two cute plugs in pastel pink. One with a gem at the base. Another with a rose-shaped tip. There was a note card tucked between tissue paper. No words. Just a barcode. Underneath that was a small glass bottle of perfume. Soft, powdery, with notes of honey and sandalwood. It smelled expensive. A new lip gloss. High shine. Nude brown.
And finally…
Lingerie.
Wine-colored lace, sheer with delicate embroidery. Her size. Malaya sat on the edge of her bed and stared at it all. Her hands were shaking a little. She reached for her phone, opened the tracking app she used to monitor wishlist deliveries.
MoTh3rL0ad88
All of them. Every single one. Whoever they were, they’d spent good money. On things she needed. On things she wanted but would never admit out loud.
Not just for the camera. For her.
Malaya blinked hard, the sting behind her eyes catching her by surprise. She turned away from the boxes and glanced at the monitor. Messiah was still in his high chair, gumming his spoon, humming to himself. She pressed her palms to her thighs then back to her chest then over her lips.
She smiled. Just a little.
She stood slowly, still half-dazed. The boxes were open now, contents spread across her bed like a strange altar, one of softness and pleasure, of being seen in ways she hadn’t felt in months.
Her phone buzzed in her palm.
Venmo.
She hadn’t even remembered checking it lately. Wasn’t expecting much. A few tips here and there. Maybe a stray twenty if someone had been generous during the last show. She opened the app without thinking.
And froze.
$2,175.42
Her heart stopped. She stared. Closed the app. Opened it again. Still there. Still real.
Messiah let out a squeal from the kitchen, banging his spoon like a little drum. She turned and looked at him, stunned. He burst into a giggle—that full-body kind that made his curls bounce and his nose scrunch.
Malaya laughed too, hand pressed to her chest like she needed to catch her breath.
“You see this, baby?!” she called, walking back to him with the phone raised, “You see this?”
Messiah just slapped his tray, beaming.
She glanced down at the payment note. It was split across three transactions. Anonymous tip amounts. No cute messages. No emojis. Just a username:
MoTh3rL0ad88
Her brows furrowed. She’d never seen that one before. Sounded like some old man. Some sugar daddy behind a burner account. Probably watched her show in silence. Probably the type to jerk off slow in a recliner while calling her “baby girl” in his head. Still, she didn’t care. She was grateful. More than that, she was lit up inside. The kind of lit that felt like fresh oxygen after being underwater too long.
Rent was covered now. Groceries too.
She could even stop at Marshalls, get Messiah a few new onesies, maybe that paw patrol blanket he pointed to last time. Malaya scooped him out of the chair and held him close, kissing the side of his head.
“Somebody lookin’ out for us,” she whispered, “Somebody out there…”
She didn’t finish the sentence. Just closed her eyes and let the moment settle.
8:42 AM–Smoke’s House, West End, ATL
Silence. Darkness. That’s the way he liked it, dim and disciplined, still holding the scent of eucalyptus from the cold steam that hissed under his bathroom door earlier. Fog lingered in the mirror, but not on his skin. His muscles glistened faintly, the sharp lines of his back twitching each time he flexed his grip around the mug.
He was shirtless now, black durag tied clean and flat, a soft knot resting at the nape of his neck. Black joggers hung low on his hips, waistband folding as he sat deep into the black leather sunken couch, one leg stretched long across it, the other braced against the floor.
His place was all restraint and ritual. Nothing cluttered. Nothing soft except the weight of the silence. The living room was curated in Smoke’s image—sharp, sensual, unbothered. Framed black-and-white photography along the wall, most too dark to read unless you studied them. The biggest one? A nude Black woman, faceless, her back turned to the camera, spine like a soft blade beneath skin. Strong. Still. Private.
The vinyl in the corner hadn’t been touched this morning. But the D’Angelo record stayed propped against the turntable like a holy book left open. He didn’t need the needle to move to hear the rhythm. He sipped his coffee slowly. No cream. No sugar. Mug heavy in his hand, warm against his rings. Silver kissed ceramic every time he drank. His other hand held a book—“Black Skin, White Masks.” Worn spine. Pages dog-eared, underlined, annotated.
Smoke always read with a pencil tucked behind his ear.
He underlined the sentence.
Not only must the black man be black; he must be black in relation to the white man.
But his mind slipped.
A flicker from the phone on the end table.
Small screen. New alert.
Malaya had received the packages. Safely. Untampered.
He’d set it up that way—each delivery scanned and tagged with tiny RFID slips. The moment she brought them inside and tore the tape, he knew. No interference. No porch pirates. No missing pieces.
He took another slow sip.
And for a few seconds…just let himself see her.
Not the curated, filtered LaceyBlaze69 version.
But her. The girl who sighed when her feet hurt. Who rubbed her shoulder after holding her son too long. Who still wore cheap slippers from Family Dollar with the fur curling off the edge. She didn’t even like doing cam shows every night.
He could tell.
He’d watched enough to know what her real moans sounded like…and which ones were forced out just to hit a tip goal. She didn’t even smile half the time anymore.
And still—she did it.
Did it tired. Did it hungry. Did it lonely. Trying to be everything at once: woman, mother, provider, soft and strong in a world that didn’t know how to handle either.
That was what got him. Not the show. Not the flash of thighs or spit on toys. The ache she tried to bury. The softness she never got to show.
“Im see everything you try to hide, and that’s what I want to touch.”m
That was how his obsession worked. Not loud. Not entitled. It bloomed in the quiet. In the in-between. He lifted his phone and pulled up the secured tracker connected to the final package. The one he packed himself. The one that hadn’t been opened yet. It sat in her apartment still sealed—he’d chosen every piece inside like a man sculpting the shape of a confession.
A Bluetooth toy, sleek and glossy black. Still warm from where it rested inside its molded case. Remote-enabled.
Two butt plugs in pastel pink. One tipped with a jeweled base. One shaped like a rose bloom.
A small bottle of perfume—powdered, faintly sweet, with notes of honey and sandalwood. A scent meant for the back of her knees. Her pulse points. Her sheets.
A nude gloss with high shine. Kissable.
And the centerpiece…lingerie. Wine-colored lace. Sheer. Floral embroidery at the cups. Scalloped trim. Backless. Cut to reveal. Her size. Perfectly matched. He’d studied her frame for months to get it right.
Smoke’s jaw tensed. She hadn’t opened it yet.
He liked that.
That it was still waiting.
Like him.
She’d put it on one day. Even if just for herself. Maybe while she fed her son, or cleaned her living room, or lay back and caught her breath before logging on. She’d tug those straps over her thighs. Adjust the bust. Smell that perfume drift off her collarbone.
And she’d feel it. The weight of being wanted. By someone she didn’t even know…was already in love with her bruises. He flipped the page in his book, but didn’t read it. His mind was already on the next move. The next name. The next message. Her next breath.
The closet light flicked on low—motion sensor.
Soft glow washed over neatly arranged black slacks, pressed tees, two rows of designer sneakers boxed like inventory, and the upper shelf with his locked case: cash, crypto, watches, weapons. That day’s mood dictated what went on the body. Today?
All black.
Smoke pulled a fitted thermal over his head. Fabric whispered against his skin. Muscles flexed, tensed, relaxed. He didn’t rush. He never rushed.
That was the secret to control. Don’t move fast. Move smart.
He fastened his dark wash jeans.
Gold chain, hung low against his chest. Faint scorpion ink peeked from his fade as he leaned in to lace up his sneakers—minimal, quiet. Like him.
But his mind was loud.
Malaya.
The name dropped in again like it always did—uninvited, unshaken loose. He gritted his teeth and reached for his watch.
Been a year since he last fucked. Drier than he’d ever been in his life. Not cause he couldn’t. Cause he didn’t want to waste the nut. Most women felt like noise now. Clingy. Clout-thirsty. Chaotic. They wanted the myth of him, not the man. Wanted the dick, not the damage. And he was too old, too sharp, too damn obsessed to let his body become someone else’s vanity project.
He didn’t chase women. He tracked purpose.
But her?
That damn girl with the soft voice and slow eyes. That postpartum belly she never tried to hide. That pussy he hadn’t even touched but knew—knew—would wreck him. That voice that made his breath hold.
LaceyBlaze69.
She had no idea what she was doing to him. Or maybe she did. Maybe that’s what made it worse.
He’d watched. Too long. In the dark. Quiet. Hand gripped firm, jaw clenched, breath tight. Not even dirty strokes. Hungry ones. The kind where he imagined her thighs shaking against his chest. The kind where he whispered her username like a psalm against his wrist. Where he stayed hard after, breathing deep, like he’d been starved and fed too little.
He stared at himself in the mirror now. Cold. Focused.
But his mouth twitched.
He’d played out whole scenarios. How he might show up at her door after dropping that package. How he’d stand quiet, all black, eyes low, voice deeper than need.
“Let me in.”
Or maybe he’d wait. Make her come to him. Watch her from the car, memorize the way her hands moved with her kid, the way her tank tops didn’t hide a damn thing. Wait for the day she looked into the dark and felt him watching.
He had plans, he just hadn’t picked one.
Yet.
Smoke stepped back into the hallway. Sunlight crept past the edges of the velvet curtains—thick, gold-dusted things that barely let the world in. A single sliver of light caught the back of his neck. Warmed the skin between his shoulder blades.
That spot had been on his mind for weeks. Right between the blades. The only place he hadn’t inked yet.
Hidden. Centered. Weighted.
He didn’t know the design. But he’d been feeling it. Like an itch beneath the skin. Like something needed saying that only pain and permanence could spell out.
Sol would know. She always did. She read bodies like prayers. Inked truths you didn’t say aloud.
Smoke rolled his neck, felt the tension there.
You didn’t stumble on The Parlor. You were led.
Down a tight brick alley behind a shuttered Black bookstore in West End, past rusted fire escapes and faded murals still bleeding protest. One door. No sign. Just peeling red paint, a black veil curtain behind cracked glass, and an old knocker shaped like a serpent swallowing its own tail.
Smoke rapped three times.
Waited.
The door cracked open. Not wide. Just enough for the scent to curl out—vetiver, tobacco, isopropyl, melted wax. Then Shay pulled it wider and stepped aside.
“You late,” she said, like always.
Shay was Sol’s wife, tall and sarcastic, with golden-brown skin and arms covered in black ink roses. She had a tiny blade tattooed under one eye and wore cropped denim with a black bra top. A septum ring. Chrome stiletto nails. Every part of her said don’t ask dumb shit.
Smoke grunted, stepping inside, “I brought it,” he said, lifting the brown paper bag.
She took it without breaking stride—12-year Japanese whisky. No label. She sniffed it once and nodded.
“Always coming through. She’s ready if you wanna go back.”
The shop was dim, as always.
No overhead fluorescents. No harsh light. Just one stained-glass lamp over the back station and the flicker of candlelight tucked in corners. Walls were charcoal, but you could see hints of something older beneath—red wallpaper curled at the seams like shed skin. Wax bottles lined the shelves, each dripped like it bled. A massive alligator skull sat near the register, jaw parted just enough to hold crumpled bills.
The only sound was The Internet’s “Get Away” playing low. Vinyl. Needle hiss. Nothing digital.
Sol was already in the back, barefoot.
Black linen jumpsuit. Hair wrapped in a dark cloth, but the thick black locs still trailed down her spine, bone beads swaying like wind chimes in a crypt. She stood with her back to him, laying out fresh needle packs with surgical calm.
Smoke’s jaw relaxed. He stepped close.
She turned—slowly, fluidly—and offered him a quiet look. Hazel-green eyes, ringed in darkness. Her gaze moved over his face. Down to his chest.
He didn’t speak.
Instead, he leaned in and kissed her cheek. She let him. This was their ritual. No words. Just silence and inking. He stepped past her to the chair. Unzipped his hoodie. Peeled off his thermal. Bare from the waist up.
“Where?” she finally asked. Her voice was low. Raspy. Like wind on burnt sugar.
“Back,” he said, pointing, “Center. Just below the neck. No bigger than your palm.”
Sol nodded once. No more questions.
She began to prep.
No music back here. Just the soft squeak of gloves and the buzzing flicker of her antique lamp. Her station was spotless—everything covered in silk cloth until needed. She wiped down the chair, then cleaned his skin with a chilled antiseptic. Smoke didn’t flinch, but his breath slowed. That was Sol’s magic.
She picked up the stencil l—her design. One she’d drawn without asking. A hollow triangle, clean and minimal. Beneath it, three thin stacked lines. Like a personal cipher. Sacred geometry meets encryption. Symbol of control, of unity. Of power kept hidden. She placed the stencil between his shoulder blades. Pressed firm. Peeled. He sat still, elbows on knees, spine bowed just enough.
Sol moved around him silently, checking angles. Then she dipped her machine in black ink. Adjusted her grip.
The needle began to buzz.
Smoke exhaled.
He didn’t speak. He never did during the first line. Sol’s hand was steady. She worked in slow, deliberate strokes—never rushed. Her own breath matched his. Her nose ring caught the overhead light once when she leaned in. Her foot tapped once against the creaking floor. Outside, the world didn’t exist but inside, there was just needle and nerve. Skin and scripture.
Smoke didn’t flinch. He didn’t need to see it. He knew what it meant. This tattoo was for no one’s eyes but his own. Hidden like the rest of him. Shielded behind silence and obsession and layered control. A triangle for sight, mind, and discipline. Three stacked lines for everything he never says out loud. A new mark, placed by the only person he trusted to ink him.
Sol wiped the fresh line and pressed down gently.
Smoke closed his eyes.
And the work continued.
1:12 PM – Saturday Afternoon, Marshalls
The sun had warmed the day just enough to feel like a soft kind of forgiveness. Not too hot, not too loud just quiet and easy. Malaya pulled the sleeves of her loose top down over her wrists and adjusted the strap of her purse across her chest as she pushed the cart inside. High-waisted jeans hugged her waist, hugging the stretch she used to hide with longer shirts. Her top hung off one shoulder like a shrug, breezy and effortless, while her twists were tucked into a tidy bun she’d thrown up before leaving the house. She didn’t have on much, just lip balm, a little brow pencil but she still felt good. Not because she looked like somebody, but because she didn’t have to rush. Messiah was perched in the child seat of the cart, legs kicking in his little velcro sneakers, pointing excitedly every few seconds.
“Dat!”
“Wassat, mommy?”
“More!”
She laughed, shaking her head as she wheeled the cart down the baby aisle first. He reached for a stuffed Sonic The Hedgehog. She let him hold it.
“You gon’ name him or naw?” she asked, He babbled something back and stuffed the Sonic teddy in his mouth.
They moved slowly. Malaya let herself enjoy it. She picked up a few more little toddler tops, some little sneakers, a book with flaps and mirrors. Messiah slapped the pages as she flipped through.
They lingered by the home goods section next. A throw blanket she didn’t need but couldn’t resist. A new shower caddy. Cinnamon-scented candles she’d never light but liked to sniff anyway. She let Messiah help pick out a new bath towel. He chose the one with blue sharks. She smiled and dropped it in the cart. By the time they reached the beauty section, he was slouched, thumb in his mouth, eyes drooping.
“Stay up,” she whispered with a grin, “We got two more aisles, then we hittin’ Chick-fil-A.”
He perked up at that, making a sleepy noise of agreement. Malaya scanned the shelves for new makeup sponges, a fresh brow pencil, a deep berry gloss that reminded her of a show she did months ago. She reached for a travel-sized lotion that smelled like clean cotton and added it to her basket. Then she spotted a small carry-on travel bag in muted olive. Sleek. Understated. Hers was raggedy. This one had gold zippers. She ran her fingers across it, then set it gently in the cart. It wasn’t for a trip. Not yet, but maybe one day. At checkout, the total didn’t make her flinch. She tapped her card without hesitation and grabbed Messiah’s little juice pouch from her purse while they bagged up the items. As they stepped into the parking lot, the wind picked up just a little. Messiah squinted against the sun, still clutching his new stuffed animal and other toys.
“Say bye-bye, Marshalls,” Malaya said playfully.
“Buh-byyyye,” Messiah echoed, waving his fat fingers at the automatic doors.
She loaded him into the back seat, buckled him in, then leaned into the trunk to fit the bags. For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t calculating what had to be returned. She wasn’t worried if she’d have to dip into her backup fund, or hold off on groceries to make rent. For once, the world was still, just her and Messiah and a full backseat of things that didn’t have to be begged for.
She climbed into the driver’s seat, adjusted the mirror, and smiled.
“Chick-fil-A,” she said out loud, tapping the wheel, “Then home.”
From the back seat, Messiah clapped his Sonic stuffed animal’s hands together.
The line inside Chick-fil-A was long enough to make her rethink the stop, but Messiah had spotted the cow through the window and lost his little mind with excitement. Malaya sighed, pushed open the glass door with her hip, and maneuvered the stroller inside, her purse tugging on one shoulder. Messiah kicked his light-up Buzz sneakers, a sticky straw wrapper clinging to his pants from the car ride. He was humming his little tune, clutching his tablet to his chest like it was a shield, though it had been dead for the last fifteen minutes.
She was tired but trying. That was the rhythm of her life. Every small joy scraped from the edge of exhaustion. She bounced a little on her feet, trying to keep Messiah occupied as they waited for their order. He was giggling now, asking for sauce he wouldn’t eat and poking his fingers into the cupholder on the stroller. The man behind the counter called her number, and she leaned over to grab the bags when a voice stopped her.
“Malaya?”
She turned. At first, her mind scrambled, searching for something familiar. Then it clicked.
“Jordan?” she blinked.
He laughed, stepping forward, and it hit her all at once same smile, same skin that always looked warm no matter the season, but grown now. Grown in a way that made her heart stutter for just a second. His face was broader, beard filled in, and he carried himself with a quiet, settled ease. Not flashy. Just…content. His hair styled in a tapered curly fro with a clean hairline. and his black hoodie pulled snug over strong shoulders. Still had that soft anime nerd sweetness in his light brown, expressive eyes, though.
“Damn,” he said, flashing a grin, “I wasn’t sure that was you.”
She laughed, shifting the tray onto the stroller and adjusting the strap of her purse, “Yeah. It’s been a minute.”
“At least ten years, right? Since high school?”
“Something like that,” she nodded, “You still in the city?”
“For now. Just came back from visiting my mama. She’s still in the same house, yelling at the same neighbors.”
Malaya chuckled, then motioned to the stroller, “This is Messiah.”
Jordan crouched slightly, offering the little boy a wave, “What’s up, young king?”
Messiah blinked up at him, shy, then leaned back with a small smile. Malaya reached down and tugged the napkin over his lap.
Jordan straightened again, looking her over in a way that was gentle, not greedy. “You look…good,” he said carefully, “I mean, I always knew you’d grow into something special, but—yeah. You look happy.”
“Do I?” she asked, not bitter, just amused.
He tilted his head, “You got that mom tired look, but otherwise…good.”
She smiled, soft and private, “Thanks. You got kids?”
“One. A boy. Shiloh. He’s four,” he said, pulling his phone out and flipping it around to show her a lockscreen photo. A little boy with big eyes and wild curls grinned up at the camera, popsicle in hand.
Malaya tilted her head, admiring the photo, “He’s adorable. Got those big ‘I get away with everything’ eyes.”
Jordan chuckled, “Yeah, he gets that from me. The trouble too.”
She laughed—warm, full. The kind that caught her off guard, that made her feel like herself again for just a breath.
Jordan rubbed the back of his neck, his grin softening. “It’s wild seeing you here. I mean… I’ve thought about you before. Like, damn…I wonder what Malaya’s up to these days.”
She didn’t jump to fill the silence, just smiled a little. Then said, “Working hard. Dealing with this little guy. It’s hard but…he’s my heart and soul.”
Jordan’s eyes dropped to Messiah, who was now trying to eat a fry and hum at the same time, “He got your smile.”
Malaya looked at her son and nodded, “Mm. That he does. His good-for-nothing daddy took over the rest. But at least he got my chocolate skin.”
Jordan chuckled, gaze lingering on her a second longer than necessary, “Sho’ nuff.”
She nodded, folding the straw wrapper in her hand. She hadn’t had a real conversation with a man in weeks that wasn’t wrapped in DMs or veiled requests for more. This was…different. Familiar in a way.
“Look,” he said, stepping a little closer, “I don’t wanna hold you up, but…if you ever feel like catching up—just talking or whatever—can I get your number?”
She hesitated.
Not because she didn’t want to. But because everything in her life required calculation now. Every new connection could cost her peace. But he wasn’t a stranger. He was Jordan. The boy who used to doodle on his sneakers and wear Naruto shirts. He used to sit behind her in chem and pass her his extra pencils when she always forgot hers. He wasn’t flirting heavy. He wasn’t pressing. He just looked like somebody she used to trust.
So she pulled out her phone, handed it over.
He typed in his number and texted himself.
“Alright. I’ll let you go feed your boy,” he said, smiling again, “Don’t be a stranger.”
She nodded, then watched him leave—hoodie half-zipped, jeans cuffed, walking like he had nowhere to be but still meant to be there. Messiah tapped the stroller, impatient. She gave him a nugget. Her phone buzzed. She looked down.
[New Message from: Jordan — 404-xxx-xxxx]
For the record…your smile’s still the same.
She shook her head, half-grinning, then took a sip of her lemonade. Messiah crunched into his nugget, ketchup on his cheek.
5:41 PM – Saturday Evening Malaya’s Apartment, East Point
The front door clicked shut behind her, a soft thud of tired satisfaction. Malaya pressed her back to it for a second, exhaled slow through her nose, then hoisted the shopping bags up one more time and made her way inside. Messiah was still chattering about fries. “Fry fry fry fry fry,” he sang from the crook of her arm, legs kicking with toddler glee.
“You lucky you cute,” she muttered under her breath with a smirk, stepping around the scattered sneakers near the door, “Always get a toy and fries outta me.”
She set the bags down on the couch first, then carried Messiah to his high chair—an old hand-me-down from a cousin but still sturdy. She snapped him in, kissed the top of his head, and got him a plastic bowl filled with cut-up nuggets, apple slices, and half of her Chick-fil-A fries.
“Mickey?” she asked, already reaching for the remote.
“Mih-mouse,” he nodded, wide-eyed. “Mihhh-key!”
She flipped to the channel, and like clockwork, the intro music filled the apartment. Messiah’s eyes lit up. His feet swung back and forth in rhythm, hands sticky with juice from the apples. Malaya grabbed her bag and slipped into the small kitchen just off the living room. She poured herself a little sweet tea, popped the lid off her salad, and sat at the corner table, their “dining area” pressed into the far wall of the living room, right by the heater vent. The table was wobbly. She balanced her plate with one hand and grabbed her phone with the other.
Jordan had already texted.
Jordan: Made it home yet?
She smiled and bit into her salad.
Malaya: Just sat down to eat. Mickey Mouse on blast lol.
Jordan: Classic. That was Shiloh’s favorite too when he was little. It still is 😂 He acts like it’s brand new every time.
Malaya: That’s how you know he happy. Repeats are for the soul.
She paused, fork halfway to her mouth, thinking about how easy the messages felt. No pressure. Just back-and-forth. He didn’t flirt heavy — not yet. Just smooth, friendly… lowkey sweet. She glanced at Messiah, who now had fries in his lap, ketchup on his cheek, and was giggling at Goofy trying to hula hoop.
She took another bite and typed slowly.
Malaya: You ever come back to the old neighborhood?
Jordan: Sometimes. Moms moved though, so it’s rare. You still in East Point?
Malaya: Yeah. Been here a few years now.
Jordan: You ever go out?
She hesitated.
Her phone buzzed again before she could decide how to answer.
Jordan: I mean like for fresh air. Farmer’s market, music, whatever. Not tryna put you on the spot lol 😂.
That made her laugh, soft and soundless. She took a sip of tea, letting it cool the bite of vinaigrette on her tongue.
Malaya: I try. Depends on the day.
Messiah made a sound like “ta-da!” and flung his cup off the tray. It rolled under the table.
Malaya set her phone down and stood up, grabbing a baby wipe and scooping him out, “You a whole mess, man-man,” she whispered, holding him close as he wrapped his arms around her neck and leaned his head on her shoulder. She checked his pull-up, clean enough, and wiped his hands and face. Once he was wriggling again, she let him loose inside his playpen, a square of padded foam tiles and bright plastic toys. He crawled over to his musical drum set and started banging with glee.
Finally, finally, she could breathe.
She waited until Messiah was settled in his playpen, blocks scattered around him, Mickey Mouse still chattering softly in the background. Once she was sure he was content, Malaya stood and padded down the short hallway to her bedroom.
The door stayed cracked. Always.
The box sat exactly where she’d left it earlier, tucked against the foot of the bed like it belonged there. Plain brown. No branding. No drama. Just weight.
She sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled it into her lap. This time, she opened it slower. Inside, cushioned in smooth black tissue paper, was the Bluetooth toy. Still sealed in its high-end packaging. Glossy black. Sleek. The kind of design that looked more like modern art than something meant to disappear inside a body. Her breath caught when she saw it. Beneath it were two plugs in soft pastel pink. One capped with a small gem that caught the light. The other shaped like a rosebud, delicate and intentional. She touched the edge of the packaging with the tip of her finger, then pulled her hand back like it might burn.
There was a small card tucked between the layers of tissue. No message. No handwriting. Just a barcode printed clean and centered. Below that sat a small glass bottle of perfume. Heavy for its size. She uncapped it and inhaled without thinking. Honey and sandalwood bloomed warm against her senses. Powdery. Deep. The kind of scent that lingered close to the skin instead of announcing itself. A new lip gloss followed. Nude brown. High shine. She rolled the tube between her palms, imagining how it would look under low light.
And then the lingerie.
Wine-colored lace. Sheer, with delicate embroidery that traced curves like it already knew her body. Her size. Exactly. She lifted it carefully, letting it drape between her hands, the fabric catching on her fingertips.
Malaya sat there for a long moment, surrounded by the quiet hum of the apartment and the distant sound of her son laughing at something on the TV.
Her hands were shaking now.
She reached for her phone and opened the tracking app she used for her wishlist. Scrolled past the item list. Past the delivery confirmations.
There it was.
MoTh3rL0ad88.
Every item. Every purchase.
Grateful. Overwhelmed. A little afraid of how seen she felt.
She stared at the name, lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling as if she’d just run up a flight of stairs. She didn’t know who he was. Hadn't seen the name pop up in the chat before. Didn’t know why he’d done this. Didn’t know what he expected, if anything at all. She set the lingerie back in the box carefully, closed the lid, and rested her palm on top. But if she where being honest with herself, she knew what most men wanted. The ones who tipped big, who watched every night without blinking. A taste. A touch. A chance to fuck the girl behind the glass. Didn’t matter how soft their messages sounded, eventually, they all circled the same flame. But she didn’t do meet-ups. Never had. Never would. That line stayed thick and final, no matter how badly rent pressed against her spine.
From the living room, Messiah let out another happy shriek, banging two toys together like cymbals.
Malaya smiled despite herself.
She wiped her hands on her jeans, stood, and went back to him.
11:19 PM — Malaya’s Apartment
Messiah is asleep, the baby monitor steady on the dresser, screen dimmed but close enough that she can glance and know he’s still breathing, still safe. That knowledge settles her shoulders before anything else does.
Malaya pours herself a small glass of wine and lets it warm her chest. Not enough to make her sloppy. Just enough to loosen the tight coil she carries through the day. She locks the bedroom door, pulls the blackout curtains closed, and pins the black satin sheet to the wall behind her. The fabric catches the low light and gleams faintly, like it’s already wet.
She switches on the purple LED. The room changes. Not brighter. Thicker. Intimate. Private in a way that feels almost conspiratorial. She steps out of her clothes slowly. Not for the camera yet. Just for herself. Oil goes on first, warmed between her palms. She works it into her thighs, over the soft swell of her hips, across her stomach where skin still bears the quiet evidence of carrying a life. The oil turns her dark skin luminous, highlights catching on the curves she used to try to hide. Tonight she does not hide a thing.
The lingerie comes next. The wine-colored lace from the box. She slides it up her legs, the fabric gliding easily, crotchless and unapologetic. It fits her like it was designed with her body in mind. The plug goes in after, pink and smooth, gem cool against her fingers before it disappears inside her. She exhales, slow, steady, grounding herself in the feeling. A quiet fullness. A reminder that she is still capable of wanting.
Clear strap heels click against the floor as she steps into them. She fastens the anklet, settles the velvet choker at her throat, and lets her twists hang loose down her back. Her lips get one pass of nude-brown gloss. Nothing else. Her face stays out of frame anyway.
She sets the camera low, angled up. Thighs first. Stomach. The curve of her ass when she turns. She presses the suction dildo into place, adjusts the riding pillow beneath her, and brings the wand close enough that she can feel its promise without turning it on yet.
Music hums low in the background. Kut Klose slipping into the room like a secret. SZA after that. Brent Faiyaz. A rhythm that makes her hips move even before she tells them to.
She goes live.
The chat fills slowly. Names she knows. Names she pretends not to know. Tokens start to trickle in, soft chimes that barely register compared to the pulse in her body.
Camera0ff appears without announcement. No greeting. No words. Just there.
Her breath stutters anyway.
She doesn’t look at the chat when he’s in the room. Never does. But her body reacts like it knows. Her thighs spread wider. Her hand goes back to the oil, slicking more over her skin, letting it drip between her legs, letting it catch the light as it slides.
Another thousand tokens drops. Exact. Clean.
She rolls her hips forward and sinks down onto the dildo, slow enough that it makes her gasp. Not loud. Just honest. The plug shifts inside her, presses where she needs it, and her head tips back out of frame. She rides like she has nowhere else to be. Like she has all the time in the world.
DIYDemon23 pops into the chat, tipping with a familiar rhythm. A request scrolls by about tightening bolts, about hands and effort and sweat. She smiles to herself and shifts her weight, pretending to brace against something invisible, thighs flexing, body moving like she’s working at a problem that requires concentration. The tips follow. Predictable. Comfortable.
JustForTheTaste sends a small tip and a message about oil, about how sticky she looks. She drags her palms over her breasts, slow squeeze, letting the lace darken as it absorbs the shine. She says nothing, just breathes into the mic, lets the sound do the work.
NothinButNecks asks for her mouth. She leans closer to the camera, just enough that her collarbone and throat fill the frame. Glossy lips part. She tilts her head, exposing the long line of her neck, fingers tracing where a mouth might go. The tip lands heavier this time. She hums softly, low in her chest.
BILLS4U arrives like a storm. Big numbers. Heavy drops. A message flashes asking her to ignore him, to use him, to let the money talk while she rides. She obliges without comment. Turns her back to the chat, focuses on the mirror angled just enough to show the arch of her spine, the way her ass moves as she picks up speed.
She straddled the clear dildo in reverse, knees spread wide on the plush throw she kept laid out for nights like this. The soft LED lights glowed low behind her, catching on the slick sheen across her thighs. She wasn’t in a talking mood. No teasing. No tip menu. Just riding. Just fucking. Just giving them a show.
She’d started slow—rocking her hips like she was warming up for something deeper. Her fat pussy wrapped the toy with a wet sound that filled the mic even without her saying a word. A pastel pink plug winked between her cheeks every time she lifted, then dropped again with a bounce. She was oiled up to the shine, body glowing like she’d been dipped in desire. Breasts jiggling with every roll, Her mouth parted. No words. Just little sounds. Soft, breathy gasps that got sharper when the toy hit the right spot inside.
And it did.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Her rhythm got filthier. Not rushed. But filthy. Like she was sinking into it. Like her body took over and she was nothing but hips and thighs and wetness now. The suction toy beneath her pulled at her clit in slow pulses—one hand anchored on the floor, the other sliding up to squeeze a breast, fingers slick with her own mess.
Tokens fell in steady. But then it hit.
+1,000
Camera0ff has tipped 1,000 tokens
Camera0ff has tipped 1,000 tokens
Camera0ff has tipped 1,000 tokens
Somewhere out there, he was watching her just like this—still, quiet, obsessed. She fucked the dildo harder. She arched, bracing herself as she pushed down until the toy disappeared all the way into her soaked cunt. Cream spilled down the base, thick and glistening. Her cheeks bounced with every slap of her hips against the toy.
Her pussy sounded so wet the audio glitched.
Squish. Squish. Squish.
The suction toy buzzed louder now. She spread her knees more, back bowed, bouncing in tighter circles. The plug kept her open. Made her more sensitive. Kept her needy. Her thighs were shaking, ass jiggling with every stroke. It was the kind of show that made the chat explode.
But she didn’t give them anything back.
No name drops.
No thank yous.
No dirty talk.
Just fucking.
She grabbed the toy beneath her and held it in deeper, grinding down slow while her fingers found her clit and rubbed in tight, messy circles. Her breathing got ragged. Her back flexed. Her pussy spasmed around the toy, dripping so much now the mess had soaked into the pillow beneath her.
And still, she didn’t cum.
She paused. Caught herself. Stayed right on the edge and let her body throb with it. Her eyes fluttered closed, head falling forward as she rocked again. This time slow. Deep. Her plug shifted with every grind, making her hips stutter and her mouth fall open again in a silent moan.
She wanted to give it to them. She almost did.
Across town, Smoke sat still.
Shirtless. Durag pulled low. Joggers tented. One hand slow inside the waistband, the other gripping the glass of dark liquor he hadn’t sipped since she started.
He didn’t blink.
Not once.
Her pussy looked unreal—glistening and stretched around that dildo like it was made just for her. Cream laced the toy, the base, her thighs. Her ass looked tight and soft, plug shimmering pink between her cheeks. He adjusted in the chair but didn’t stroke. Just watched. Obsession thick in his chest. Jaw clenched.
The camera shook for a moment when she switched angles—reversed herself just enough to show her spread pussy from the back. Lips swollen. Messy. Pushed apart by the fat toy buried inside her.
He exhaled through his nose, finally taking a sip of his drink.
She was everything.
Everything.
She slowed her ride with a trembling gasp, thighs slick, cunt clenching around the last thrust before she lifted off the dildo with a wet pop. The sound was loud. Filthy. The mic picked up everything—drip, squish, her breath catching as she settled back onto her heels, hair stuck to the sides of her face. The clear toy was soaked. Glazed. Cream coating the shaft and pooling at the base. She brought it to her mouth without a word. Just a look.
Eyes half-lidded. Lips parted.
She sucked the mess off slow at first, letting the tip glide across her tongue like a treat. Her lips wrapped around it, mouth hollowing as she cleaned herself from base to head, then deeper—until her gag reflex hit and she choked just enough to make spit bubble at the corners of her mouth. Her fingers gripped tighter. She pushed again, tried to take more, gagging louder now. Saliva dripped down to her tits, joining the streaks of sweat and oil.
She laughed. Low. Nasty. Smirk curling on her lips as she pulled it free and licked up the side, tongue flat. He couldn’t see her eyes but he just knew she looked dead into the camera. Like she knew what it was doing to him. She tossed the dildo aside with a little flick of her wrist and leaned back, planting both palms behind her. Spreading her legs.
That pussy was still creamy. Still twitching. Lips fat, glistening, parted just enough to tease the view of her clit. She grabbed the dildo again, slapping it between her folds a few times—sharp, juicy smacks that echoed. Each one louder than the last. Her pussy drooled on contact. The chat went wild.
slap slap slap
Wet strings of arousal stretched from her to the toy with every tap. Then she reached for the hot pink wand. It buzzed to life in her hand.
And that was all it took.
She brought it to her clit like she was desperate now. No teasing. No buildup. Just need. The vibrator met her with a sharp jolt and her hips jumped, knees knocking together before she spread them again—wider this time. She let the camera see everything. Her pussy wide open. Cream still leaking. Her clit twitching under the wand.
She started to moan. Short, broken sounds that spilled out whether she meant to or not. Her head rolled back. One hand slipped to her tit, squeezing while the other held the wand steady. The closer she got, the sloppier her movements became. She bucked into the toy now. Back arching. Thighs trembling.
Smoke leaned forward in his chair, jaw clenched.
His dick was rock hard. Veins bulging. Head pushing up against the cotton of his joggers like it wanted to tear clean through. That thick, long piece of him lay heavy across his thigh, twitching once when she started moaning louder. His hand slid back beneath the waistband, slow. Grip tight. He didn’t stroke yet. Just palmed it. Felt how big he’d gotten.
He couldn’t look away.
The screen showed every slick detail. That pussy—fat and stretched, still pulsing from the toy, twitching under the wand. The sound of her moaning. The buzz of the vibrator. The sticky slap of her mess dripping onto the pillow.
God, he wanted her under him. Wanted to slide that plug back in, hold her hips down, and make her scream into the mattress. He tilted the glass of liquor without drinking it, annoyed now. Not at her.
At the wand. That wasn’t the one he sent.
She hadn’t used the Bluetooth vibe he gave her. The one he could control. The one that let him tease her from across the city with a tap on his phone. She chose her own tonight.
He took a breath. Shook it off. Let the irritation melt into obsession again. Because she was close. She was fucking close.
Her legs were shaking. Wide open. Toes curled. Ankles flexed hard as her thighs trembled with the effort of staying upright, staying present—but her body was gone now. Gone to pleasure. Gone to that buzzing wand pressed tight to her clit.
The wand was soaked. Her pussy was messier than ever. Every pass across her clit made her hips jolt, made her eyes roll, made her breath catch in ragged little sobs of sound. She was close—so close it was crawling up her spine, clamping around her like a fist.
And then she started talking.
“Y-you’re making my pussy cum…fuck…you’re making my pussy cum…”
Her voice broke on it. Again.
“You’re making my pussy cum—”
The chant left her lips in breathless repetition. Like she couldn’t stop. Like she needed to say it to get there.
“It’s right on my clit…fuck…it’s right on my clit… feels so good…”
Her head tilted, lips trembling, bottom one caught between her teeth like she was holding on to her last bit of control. But her eyes—those eyes looked gone.
“Keep tipping me,” she gasped, barely able to say it through the moans, “if you wanna see this phat pussy squirt.”
The chat exploded.
+1000
+500
+1000—Camera0ff
She moaned louder. Back arched. Hips rolled. Her pussy flexed hard around nothing. Just twitching in the open air, on full display. Her cream had already soaked the pillow. Her clit looked swollen, shiny, almost trembling under the wand.
Smoke’s jaw locked tight. His hand was finally moving now—gripping his dick through his joggers as it jumped in his palm. That big, fat length twitched every time she said pussy. Every time she moaned through another wave. Every time she begged for tips like the whole room wasn’t watching her come undone.
And then she came.
Hard.
Her whole body jerked. A strangled moan punched out of her chest. Her legs tried to close, but she held them open with sheer will, forcing them wide as her orgasm tore through her.
She squirted. Once. Then again. A messy gush soaked the wand and sprayed down her inner thighs, making her cry out louder. Her hips bucked into it, chasing more, chasing the tail end of it while her voice got high and tight and shaky—
“Fuckfuckfuckfuck—”
She nearly dropped the wand. Managed to hold it just long enough for one final pulse, one last desperate moan as her cunt clenched hard, leaking and twitching. And then she collapsed back, chest heaving. Body twitching in the aftershocks. Her pussy was a mess. Raw and creamy and wide open.
Smoke let out a sound between a groan and a growl.
He needed her.
Bad.
The kind of need that made his throat tight and his balls ache. His dick strained so hard against his joggers it hurt. He sat there, eyes burning into the screen like he could brand her with his stare alone.
She hadn’t said his name once.
But that pussy? That pussy was his.
She giggled.
Not shy. Not sweet. That giggle had drip to it.
She was still sprawled out, legs wide, pussy glistening and open, a fucking mess between her thighs. Her body trembled just slightly from the comedown, but she didn’t close. Didn’t hide. She spread herself wider. Fingers at the lips, pulling her pussy open for the camera—fat, raw, creamy pink, glistening under the studio lights. The chat exploded.
I’d tongue fuck that til you passed out.
Bet you taste like fruit. 👅
On my knees already, Queen 😍
Let me slide in raw. Cream for me just like that.
Why it look that juicy tho?!
I’d ruin it slow, you don’t even know 😮💨
Line after line. Filth pouring in from hard, horny men who couldn’t keep their hands off their dicks. They were ready to worship. Ready to pay. Ready to beg.
She lifted one leg high. Planted her foot flat. And started grinding slow—tiny rolls of her hips that made her still-leaking pussy glisten even more as DVSN came through the speakers soft in the background. A low, moaning R&B groove that matched the wet circles she rode on air. She licked her lips, tilted her head, smiled like she already knew how every single one of them would nut thinking about this later.
Then her voice came through, low and slick, “I’m about to log off now…but I’m accepting private chats from top tier members only.” She sucked her bottom lip. Let it pop back out, “If I’m feelin’ the vibes…might be down to talk dirty. Don’t be dry, though. Come correct.”
She blew a kiss.
Gave the camera one last spread. Pussy still twitching faintly, clit still swollen, thighs wet.
“Goodnight, freaks.”
And ended the stream.
The screen went black.
Across the city, Smoke sat in silence.
Still shirtless. Still hard.
That thick dick lay heavy in his hand, pulsing in his palm, fat at the tip and leaking. He hadn’t even finished. Couldn’t. Not yet. Not when his mind was stuck on her. That pussy. That fucking smirk.
He sat there for a beat.
Thinking.
He had never messaged her for dirty talk. Not directly. Not from Camera0ff. He kept that account quiet. Sterile. Eyes only.
But now?
He reached for his phone.
Opened a different profile. One he hadn’t used in weeks.
@YungCipher 🕶️
Verified. Still active. He cracked his neck. Wiped his hand on his thigh. Typed slow.
And started the private chat.
You said come correct. So let’s talk. I’ve been watchin’. You been fuckin’ up my sleep.
Now I want your attention. Just for me.
No music, no chat chimes. Just the soft whir of her mini fan and the sound of her own breath, still unsteady, still thick with the rhythm of what she just gave them. Her thighs were parted, one knee cocked up, the other draped low, toes touching the floor like an afterthought. Cream glistened on her inner thighs—slick, messy, the kind of mess that lingered when the show ended but the need didn’t.
Malaya shifted slow, lazy, her silk robe clinging wet to the curve of her hip where her body had gotten too warm, too sticky. The robe was barely tied, a soft sage green thing she always reached for post-show when she wanted to feel pretty. Luxurious. She liked how it looked against her skin, the way the sheen picked up the low light of her desk lamp and kissed her curves. Her nipples poked through the thin fabric—fat, round, still stiff, still aching. Her pussy? Still creamy. Still throbbing. Still open.
She kept the cam room up in the background just in case someone sent a late tip or left a filthy review, but her eyes were on her DMs. Waiting. Thirsty in more ways than one. That creamy POV she just did? Slurpy, moaning, talking dirty into the cam like she could feel every inch of the dick she was pretending to ride? She knew it went crazy. Knew it had ‘em gripping themselves, leaking, moaning back. She knew how they got. How they begged. How they paid.
She was just about to close the app when the message pinged.
💬 Yung Cipher: What’s good, mamas? Down to chat wit’ me? I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.
Malaya blinked at the name.
She knew that username.
YungCipher.
Didn’t show up often. Only during certain shows. The ones where her pussy was on full display—glossy, slow strokes, cream gliding down toys. That was when he’d appear. Never right away. Always late. He’d drop in, say something filthy in the chat—short, bold, blunt—and vanish just as quick, usually leaving behind a clean tip with no message.
She’d never paid him much mind. Until now.
Now he was DMing.
She sat up a little, adjusting her robe, tucking one leg underneath herself as she stared at the message again.
Something about it…felt different. Not desperate. Not thirsty. Just…smooth. Intentional.
She smiled slow, fingertips grazing her lips.
💬 Malaya: Well hey there, stranger. Sure, we can chat. We’ll see if it’s worth my time 😘”
She sent it and waited.
Curious. Tempted.
Still a little creamy.
Still thumping.
Just like he liked it.
Malaya sat up a little straighter, the tension in her belly returning like heat blooming under her skin. Her heart tapped quick against her ribs. She saw it—bottom right corner.
💬 Yung Cipher: Still creamy, huh?
Her lips parted. She bit the lower one. The robe slid open just enough for a sticky string to stretch between her lips, creamy and slow. She shivered.
She clicked it with her thumb, pulse fluttering like a moth trapped behind her breastbone.
💬 Malaya: Mmm…figured you were watchin’. Took you long enough, nasty.
She hovered, waiting, still gently rocking in her chair like her body didn’t know the show was over yet. Her legs squeezed together without her permission. That text had her sitting up—robe sliding further off one shoulder, nipples dragging against silk, heat flashing behind her knees. Something about the way he said it. So casual. So knowing. Like he wasn’t guessing—he knew she was still creamy. Like he was still watching her now. She leaned her elbow on the desk, fingers brushing her lower lip as she stared at the screen. There was a new message.
💬 Yung Cipher: I seen how you creamed all on that toy. Shit was glossy. Fat, too.
Her breath caught. Her thighs twitched. Not even a full minute passed before another came in—
💬 Yung Cipher: You still dripping?
She didn’t type right away. She adjusted the camera even though the stream was off, instinctual. Turned the chair slightly so she could spread her legs again. The robe slipped open completely. She looked down. Cream still there. Puffy, parted lips glistening, folds sticky, twitching like they missed the toy already. It was obscene the way she was still open. Still needy. She sucked her fingers clean out of habit, then typed with her other hand.
💬 Malaya: Still dripping, baby. Wanna taste?
She giggled to herself, but it wasn’t sweet. It was thick with lust. With the type of hunger that curled up in the belly and wouldn’t let go.
The dots appeared. Then vanished. Then came back.
Her pussy throbbed again.
💬 Yung Cipher: Nah. I wanna see it. Real close. Name your price. How much for a picture of that fat, creamy pussy?
Malaya’s mouth fell open just slightly. She sat there, robe wide, pussy glistening, heart thudding. This wasn’t just tipping tokens in the chat anymore. This was direct. Intentional. A transaction of desire so specific it made her whole body hum. Her breath left her slow—like steam—and she tilted her hips in the chair without thinking, letting the air touch her.
She stared at the screen. Thought about the angles. Thought about how it would feel to send it. Thought about how bad he wanted it. Her fingers danced across the keyboard.
💬 Malaya: Depends…you want just the pussy? Or you want my fingers in it too?
She bit her lip.
💬 Malaya: $100 for the pic. $150 if I dip two fingers and show you what creamy really look like.
And then she waited. Dripping. Throbbing. Waiting for his answer like she’d already spent the money. Like her body wanted to be sold tonight.
The silence was syrupy.
Then—ding.
💬 Yung Cipher: $150. With two fingers. Slow. Creamy like you said.
The cash came through seconds later.
Cha-ching.
That PayNote alert hit her like a slap to the ass.
💸 Payment received: $150 from Yung Cipher
Malaya blinked, then grinned slow, teeth catching the inside of her cheek. Her nipples tightened again, responding before her brain even caught up. Her pussy gave a greedy twitch like it knew it had been purchased. Like it was proud. She clicked off the desk lamp. Let the screen glow light her.
Phone in hand now. Knees wide. Camera angle just right. She clicked to video mode. Took a deep breath and looked down.
Fat. Creamy. Puffy. Still leaking.
The lips were thick and plush, a dark rose shade flushed with blood, the inner folds glossy with wetness. Her slit still pulsed slightly—sensitive from her earlier release but greedy for more. The cream had pooled, coating her folds in milky white gloss. Her clit peeked out, shiny and swollen, practically begging for breath. She slid her fingers down once. Just to prep.
They came up glistening. Her breath hitched.
“F-fuck,” she whispered to herself.
The filth of it had her smiling. Wicked and pretty. She leaned back further. Raised her phone. Started the slow glide of her middle and ring fingers between her folds—just like he asked.
Two fingers. Slow.
She let the tips part her. Cream stretched in globs. Wet noises loud even without the mic. Her pussy opened like it missed being filled. Her fingers sank in just a little, just enough for the shot. Cream eased out, coating her fingers, dripping back onto her palm. It was a mess.
She snapped the pic.
Previewed it.
Her thick, wet pussy glistening under the glow of the screen. Fingers dipped and shining. A perfect strand of cream gliding across her middle knuckle like icing.
She sent it.
📷 Attachment sent: “malaya_creamy2fingers.jpg”
Then followed with a message:
💬 Malaya: You sure you don’t wanna upgrade to video? I’m still warm, baby. Still wet.
She hit send.
Her heart beat fast. Her robe slipped further. Her free hand drifted to her thigh again.
Another ping.
She didn’t even flinch—just licked her lips and leaned in. Eyes glowing in the light of the screen, the air around her humid with heat and musk and money.
💬 Yung Cipher:
“Nah.”
“I want that video.”
“Show me what them fingers do. Slow. Messy. Talk to me while you stroke it.”
Another notification hit.
💸 Payment received: $400 from Yung Cipher
With note: “Make me cum, mama.”
Malaya moaned under her breath, just at the message.
There was something about this one.
Yung Cipher wasn’t like the others. Didn’t fumble. Didn’t hesitate. His money came correct, his words came low and nasty, and his intent sliced through the screen like a hand at her throat. Malaya was slick just reading him.
She adjusted her camera.
Set her phone on the tripod, angled low—real low. The frame just showed the curve of her thighs, the dip of her hips, and the dripping heaven between. No face. Just raw, ruined, pussy.
She pressed record.
The first thing the camera caught? Her fingers spreading herself open.
Lips parted, folds swollen and glistening, clit hard and standing like it knew it was being watched. Her cream was thicker now—milky, wet, coating her entrance in glossy white where she’d clenched and released too many times tonight already.
She brought two fingers back to her opening. Eased in. A low moan slipped out her throat. Sticky. Sloppy. The sound of wet pussy filled the room. Her other hand lifted the bottom of the robe so her stomach and tits were visible too, jiggling slightly with every pump of her fingers.
Then came her voice. Sultry. Soft. Soaked in heat.
“You see that, baby? That mess right there? That’s your fault…”
She pulled her fingers out. Cream spilled. She pushed them back in, slower this time. Grinding in circles. Her hips rolled with the motion, her clit twitching from proximity alone.
“These fingers just fillin’ in for you. I been creamy all night. Drippin’ down my ass. You wanted messy, daddy? Mmmph…fuck…you got messy.”
She whimpered as her fingers curved inside. Hit the spot just right. Her stomach jumped. She kept stroking, kept talking, her voice lowering to a hush.
“This pussy loud, huh? Sloppy for you. You like watchin’ it stretch? Creamy little fuckhole just soakin’ for you…”
Her pace picked up. Her body rocked. She was close. Too close. And she didn’t care. Back arched, thighs trembling, her other hand lifted to pinch her own nipple through the robe. Her clit screamed for contact, but she kept edging, kept fucking herself for him. The sound of her fingers was obscene. Messy. Wet.
And through it all, her voice purred, “Gon’ let daddy watch me cum…gon’ let him see all this cream…you ready?”
She moaned long, sharp—hips locking as the orgasm finally hit. A wave of cream spilled past her fingers, dripping down her ass and onto the towel beneath. Her pussy pulsed around her hand, still creamy, still fluttering.
💬 Malaya: You cum yet, baby? Or you need me to watch you too?”
She leaned back. Grinning. Sticky. Spent. Soaked in money and wetness.
The message preview flashed before she could even catch her breath.
📹 New Video from Yung Cipher
No caption. No words. Just a timestamp and a fire emoji.
Malaya’s pussy clenched on nothing. Her body still pulsed from her own release, the creamy mess between her thighs sticking to the inside of her robe now, still hot, still fresh. Her nipple throbbed from how hard she’d pinched it. She was soaked. Boneless. Breathless.
But her thumb moved fast. She tapped the video open.
First frame? A thick, dark dick filling the screen—heavy, glistening, jumping. Her mouth dropped open. She almost choked on a gasp. The tip was swollen, flushed dark, glistening with a pearl of cum pushing from the slit. The shaft twitched like it had its own heartbeat. Veins thick. Base wet. The whole thing dripping. It wasn’t even moving, not yet. Just standing proud like it knew it had her attention.
Then, slow stroke. Just the fingers—gripping the base, gliding up with a fist full of cum coating the length.
“Mmmf—fuck…”
His voice was low. Raspy. Almost growled. He wasn’t talking to the phone. He was talking to her. The strokes got faster, wet sounds sticky and deep. Cum leaked in thick globs. His breathing got ragged. He grunted once. Then twice.
Then came the deep moan, “Unnnhhh—fuck. That’s all you, baby girl…”
Another thick pulse shot from the tip—cum oozing, gliding down in slow strings over his knuckles. The dick twitched violently once, then twice. And then he spoke—low, deliberate, like he needed her to feel it.
“This what you do to me, Miss Pretty Pussy.”
Video cut. Ended there. Like a slap.
Malaya just sat there—open, wet, unable to move. The cream between her legs warmed again like her body was responding. Like it wanted round two without permission.
Her thighs pressed together. She whined out loud—soft, helpless. She messaged back, trembling fingers on the keys.
💬 Malaya: I need to taste it next time. For real.
The cursor blinked. Her lips parted.
She added one more.
💬 Malaya: You always gonna call me that? Miss Pretty Pussy?
And she waited. Heart still pounding. Whole body humming like he touched her without even being here.
Then it came.
💬 Yung Cipher: Yeah. I’m always gon’ call you that. ‘Cause that pussy too pretty to go by anything else.
Her breath caught. She was already smirking, heart skipping, body tilting toward the screen like he was speaking in her ear.
The next message hit harder.
💬 Yung Cipher: Soon as I get you? I’m pullin’ those thighs open wide and buryin’ my whole face in it. I’ma suck that creamy clit till your knees give out. Talk all that nasty shit in my ear while I’m tongue deep.
Malaya’s lips parted. She inhaled sharp.
Fingers dipped. Just barely.
💬 Malaya: I’m gon’ cry. I already know I am. You eat pussy like you got a vendetta, huh?
The dots danced again.
💬 Yung Cipher: I eat pussy like I’m tryna survive it. Like the messier it get, the longer I live. I want it in my beard, on my tongue, runnin’ down my neck.
💬 Yung Cipher: You moanin’? I’ma keep suckin’. You twitchin’? I’ma keep lickin’. You creamin’? I’ma spit on it and fuckin’ slurp.
Malaya whimpered, rocking in her seat again.
💬 Malaya: Shiiit…I’m wet all over again. This chair got a stain now. And my thighs sticky, daddy. Sticky and shakin’.
He responded quick.
💬 Yung Cipher: Good. Keep that pussy sloppy for me. Next time? I ain’t talkin’. I’m spreadin’ you out like a meal. Tongue in your hole while I thumb your clit.”
💬 Yung Cipher: And after I eat? I’m liftin’ that pretty ass up and slidin’ in raw. No condom. No mercy. Just thick dick stretchin’ you slow…till I bottom out.”
Her pussy jumped.
💬 Malaya:I can’t even lie…I’m clenching. You got my whole body thumpin’. And I want it raw. Wanna feel every inch. Feel that nut fill me up when you cum.”
💬 Yung Cipher: I’m gon’ cum inside, Miss Pretty Pussy. Slow strokes. Moaning in it. You callin’ out my name. You gon’ squirt or cry or both?
💬 Yung Cipher: And when I pull out? I’ma rub that cream into your pussy lips like lotion. Then flip you over and do it again.
Malaya could barely sit still. Her fingers were back in her pussy, slow. Wet. Curling.
But she wanted more.
💬 Malaya: Say it again. Say what you gon’ do when you finally get this pussy.
And just like that—
💬 Yung Cipher: I’m gon’ fuck you like I paid for it. Like I own it. Like nobody else ever had it but me. Gon’ make you my nasty little throat and cumhole.
💬 Yung Cipher: You ready for that, mama? Ready to get used like the nasty lil wet thing you are?
Her hand was moving faster now.
💬 Malaya: I been ready. You wanna own me? Claim me? Say it, daddy. Say that pussy yours.
The response was instant.
💬 Yung Cipher: It’s mine. That fat, creamy pussy? That mouth that moan my name? Them legs that shake soon as I talk nasty? All that—mine.
Malaya moaned. Low. Raw. Shameless. She came again with her phone in her hand, his words still glowing on the screen, her body soaked and owned in every way but physical. Her skin was damp with sweat, thighs spread again, the air slick with sex and steam. She couldn’t stop replaying that damn video—his dick, thick and twitching, that fat tip leaking just for her. That low grunt. That final line.
This what you do to me, Miss Pretty Pussy.
It haunted her in the best way. And now, was still typing.
The dots danced.
Her body responded like it belonged to those three dots. She sucked in a breath and waited.
Then—
💬 Yung Cipher: That lil creamy pussy keep talkin’ to me, huh? Beggin’ for my tongue like it missed me. Let me tell you what I’m really gon’ do.
Her pussy clenched. She rubbed herself slow, fingers sliding through her own cream like syrup. Legs trembling. Chest heaving.
💬 Yung Cipher: First? I’ma have you laid back, ankles damn near by your ears. Make you hold ‘em. That way I can see all of it—pussy lips spread, hole twitchin’, cream waitin’.
She whined.
💬 Yung Cipher: Then I’ma spit on it. Real thick. Let it drip right into your hole. Then I’m lickin’ it up. Long slow tongue from back to front.
💬 Yung Cipher: I ain’t rushin’. I’ma kiss every part of it. Left lip. Right lip. Suck on your folds like they my bottom lip.
Malaya’s toes curled. She had three fingers inside now. Eyes fluttering. Pussy soaked.
💬 Malaya: I’m leaking. Fuck, I’m leaking just reading this. I wanna feel that tongue in me so bad.
💬 Yung Cipher: You gon’ feel it. I’ma tongue-fuck that creamy hole until your hips lift off the bed. Gon’ make you cream in my mouth. You ever scream through a nut, baby? Gon’ have you doin’ that.
Malaya gripped her phone, knuckles tight. She could barely type.
💬 Malaya: I’ma be cryin’. Shakin’. Legs gon’ give out. You eatin’ pussy like you tryna steal my soul.
He didn’t stop.
💬 Yung Cipher: Exactly. I’ma trap your soul in my throat. Then suck that lil clit like I own it. Two fingers inside you, tongue flickin’ your clit…until you cum all in my beard.
Malaya’s legs spasmed.
She was panting. Whining. Her other hand was pinching her nipple raw now.
💬 Yung Cipher: I’ma talk shit with your pussy in my mouth. Let the sound of me slurpin echo while you cry. Then I’ma look up at you, face soaked, and say…
He paused. Malaya’s whole body paused with him.
💬 Yung Cipher:…You taste like heaven, Miss Pretty Pussy.
Malaya snapped.
She cried out, back arching, pussy squirting in a sudden gush against her own palm. Her robe was soaked. Her desk chair dripping. She shook through the release, biting her lip hard to keep from screaming. She collapsed, trembling.
Phone buzzed again.
💬 Yung Cipher: You cummin’ right now, huh? Creamin’ off my words alone.
She barely managed to type.
💬 Malaya: Yes. Daddy. You own me now.
💬 Yung Cipher: Send me a voice note. Let me hear how wet you are. And moan for me while you do it.
Malaya bit her lip hard. She felt the throb again. That heavy ache in her pussy that never seemed to go away when he typed like this. That ache that whispered Obey him. That ache that had her already reaching for her phone before she even replied.
Her fingers were shaking. Not from nerves. From need. She slid two fingers back inside.
Schlllk.
The sound was loud—messy, wet, slick. She knew he’d want to hear that. She cranked the phone volume low, just to test, and the squelch echoed off her walls like sex in surround sound.
She hit record. Didn’t speak at first. Just moaned.bSoft at first. Breathless. Then deeper.
“Mmmm…fuck…you hear that?” Schlick-schlick—wet fingers plunging into cream again, “It’s so wet, daddy…so messy…so loud…You got my pussy screamin’. All this mess? Just from your voice…” moaning again, whimpering on the tail end of a gasp, “You got me creamin’ like you already here…wish your tongue was in it while I talk like this…wish I could ride your face ‘til you couldn’t breathe…”
She ended it with a sharp little cry—raw and soaked in lust.
📤 Voice Note Sent: 0:46
She didn’t even wait. Sent another message right after.
💬 Malaya: You hear how wet you got me? Tell me what that did to you…
She was trembling. Phone in one hand. Fingers in the other. Still not satisfied. Still craving.
He listened to it four times.
The voice note.
Every breath. Every wet sound. Every moan shaped like his name even if she didn’t say it.
She was soaked. Squelching. Fuckin’ creamy. Her pussy was singin’ for him. And it made his dick twitch so hard it jumped in his palm. He’d already pulled his sweats down, fist gripped around the base, head swollen and leaking just from the sound of her.
He sat back, legs wide, stroking slow. Deep. Face lit only by the glow of his phone screen, her moans still echoing in his head. Still hearing.
“All this mess? Just from your voice…”
He let out a low breath, thumb teasing his slit to collect the drop of precum gliding down. His jaw was locked. Eyes half-shut. That same picture of her messy pussy flashing behind his lids. That creamy, pulsing, needy little cunt.
He hit record. His voice came out low. Rough. Deep like smoke caught in his throat.
“You got my dick hard as fuck, girl,” he released a slight groan as his fist moves slow over his shaft—wet strokes, audible, “Listen to that…that’s you. That’s yo nasty lil voice got me strokin’ like this…” shhk, shhk, shhk—his rhythm steady, thick, wet, You want this nut, don’t you? Wanna feel it warm inside that pretty pussy…” he grunts—low, chesty, sharp, “Fuuuck… yo voice got me ready to explode. Soon as get you? I’m pullin’ them thighs apart and eatin’ every drop. Cream in my mouth while I talk shit between licks…” his fist speeds up—slap of skin now louder, “That moan? That lil cry you made at the end? That shit made me cum, Malaya…” He sucked in a final sharp breath, then a raw, heavy groan as his nut hits—long and thick, Unnnghh…fuck… look what you did to me…you got this dick throbbin’, Miss Pretty Pussy…”
📤 Voice Note Sent: 1:02
He exhaled. Chest still rising, hand slick with cum, dick twitching in the aftershocks.
And he waited.
Knowing she’d listen to that with her fingers already back inside her.
She pressed play with a trembling thumb. Held the phone to her ear like it was sacred. His voice—thick, husky, dripping with control—slid into her like a wet tongue. His words weren’t rushed. They were paced. Drawled out. Like every syllable was chosen to own her.
“You got my dick hard as fuck, girl…”
Her knees buckled.
She wasn’t even standing. Just curled up, naked in her desk chair, but her knees buckled. She whimpered before the rest of it even landed. That low breath. That stroke. That wet shhk, shhk, shhk of his grip on his cock? It had her cunt clenching like it missed something it never even had. His voice was everywhere. In her ear. In her chest. In her pussy.
And then—
“Soon as I see you? I’m pullin’ them thighs apart and eatin’ every drop.”
Her lips parted in a soundless moan, fingers already sliding through her folds again, hot and swollen and dripping from just hearing him grunt.
She closed her eyes. Listened harder.
“That moan? That lil cry you made at the end?”
She bit her bottom lip so hard it almost bled. That moment? She’d been convulsing. Creaming. And he heard it. Claimed it. Owned it like he had a hand around her throat.
And then came the final blow—
“Look what you did to me…you got this dick throbbin’, Miss Pretty Pussy…”
Her whole soul short-circuited. No name. No pretense. Just that title. That possession. Miss Pretty Pussy.
She whispered it to herself, “Miss Pretty Pussy…” like it was a spell.
And the dam broke.
Her fingers plunged deep, palm grinding her clit, thighs shaking as she sobbed through her next orgasm—loud, uncontrollable, mouth open wide with no shame. She came so hard it made her dizzy. Body locking. Toes curling. Pussy gushing. She slumped back, dripping down her own thighs. A full mess now. Nails trembling, she finally lifted the phone again, vision blurry.
She typed.
💬 Malaya: I came so hard just now I saw fuckin’ stars. You talk to me like that again I might squirt all over my chair. You always this nasty, daddy?”
Then another.
💬 Malaya: Say more. Please. Miss Pretty Pussy want you in her ear again…
She didn’t even try to hide it anymore.
He had her.
Completely.
💬 Yung Cipher: Miss Pretty Pussy been a good girl. You made that pussy cum just for me. Your biggest fan. You got the prettiest moans and the creamiest pussy. But that throat? We gon’ have to work on that, baby. You can’t take dick down your throat?
Malaya’s breath caught mid-exhale. Her fingers twitched where they rested. That switch in tone. From praise to challenge. From sweet to sharp. He wanted more. He wanted all of her. And her throat? That was next. She stared at the message, heart racing. Her pussy gave another slow throb, pulsing at the idea of him gripping her jaw, nudging the tip of his dick against her tongue with that same voice in her ear. She could almost hear it now
“Open up, Miss Pretty Pussy. Show me what that throat can do.”
Her body ached at the thought. She typed, thumbs moving slower than usual, like her hands were shaking again.
💬 Malaya: Mmm…I can take it…just gotta hold my head and guide me. Show me how you want it…”
She added a second one.
💬 Malaya: You want me sloppy, daddy? Make this throat your toy?
The messages had been filth before. Obsession dressed up in dirty talk. Sweet ruin painted over hunger. But now? Now the words came in darker.
Tighter.
Like the leash had finally been pulled.
💬 Yung Cipher: Don’t send no voice notes. Don’t moan. Don’t beg. Just listen.
Malaya froze. The command dropped like weight in her lap—heavy, absolute. It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t flirty. Her breath caught, fingers stilled, spine straightening like her body knew better than to move without his say-so. Her skin prickled. Her mouth parted. She could feel him in the room with her, even though he wasn’t.
And then the next message hit.
💬 Yung Cipher: Miss Pretty Pussy don’t make no rules. You do what I say. And when I get my hands on you? You ain’t askin’ me what I want. You givin’ it.
Her thighs clenched. That deep ache returned.
💬 Yung Cipher: That throat gon’ learn today. You ain’t never had dick like mine. I ain’t fuckin’ your mouth to be gentle. I’m stretchin’ that throat ‘til you tear up. Until you got spit runnin’ down your chin and your lashes blinkin’ fast like you can’t breathe.
💬 Yung Cipher: I’m holdin’ your head still. Lookin’ down while I slide in slow…feelin’ your gag all around me. Then I’ma fuck it. Deep. Fast. Dirty. With your hands tied so you don’t run.
Malaya moaned, her hips rolling into the empty air.
He kept going.
💬 Yung Cipher: When I nut? I’m not warnin’ you. I’m shootin’ it straight down your fuckin’ throat and holdin’ you there. And you gon’ swallow every drop.
Her whole body tensed. She was dizzy. She typed with shaking fingers, eyes glassy, cunt throbbing with no mercy.
💬 Malaya: Yes daddy. Please teach me. Please take it. I want your nut in my throat so bad I could cry.”
💬 Malaya: This mouth yours. This pussy yours. Do whatever you want to me.”
She hit send. Then collapsed back into the chair, overwhelmed, wrecked, completely owned.
And then he told her. Not asked. Not invited.
💬 Yung Cipher: Here’s how I’ma break you in.
She exhaled sharp.
💬 Yung Cipher: You gon’ come to me dressed how I like. Not what you wanna wear. No panties. No bra. Just somethin’ soft and short enough for me to pull up quick. The second you walk through my door, I’m puttin’ you on your knees. Not speakin’. Not thinkin’. Just kneelin’.
She was whimpering.
💬 Yung Cipher: I’ma walk slow ‘round you. Let you feel it. The weight of what’s about to happen. The way you already soaked just from bein’ near me. Then I’m liftin’ you up by your throat. Bend you over the first surface I see. Couch, table, fuckin’ floor. It won’t matter.”
💬 Yung Cipher: I’m spittin’ on that pussy. Smackin’ it. Watchin’ it jump. Spreadin’ you wide just to see how messy you got for me. Then I’m slidin’ in slow…deep… until you scream.
Malaya’s mouth was open. Her fingers clenched the sheets. Her robe had slipped completely off now. She was bare, breathless, and throbbing.
He wasn’t done.
💬 Yung Cipher: You gon’ take it all. Every inch. Every nut. You gon’ leak down your thighs, legs shakin’, beggin’ me not to stop. And I won’t.
💬 Yung Cipher: I’ma fuck you stupid. Until you can’t remember what day it is. Until your eyes roll and your mouth can’t say nothin’ but ‘daddy.’ That’s how I break you.
💬 Yung Cipher: You ready for that?
Her reply came broken, typed in bursts between breathless moans and soaked sheets.
💬 Malaya: I want it. I want all of it. Please break me, daddy. Make me forget my fuckin’ name.
Because that’s what he did. He didn’t flirt. He rewired.
Her screen lit up again.
💬 Yung Cipher: Soon. That’s if you ain’t scared to meet up.
She still felt soaked. Still ached between her legs. Still had cream sticky on her thighs and a flutter in her chest just from the way he said “soon.” But that sentence? That word—meet—it landed different. Malaya’s body leaned in, but her mind pulled back. She’d never done meetups. That was a rule she never broke. No matter how fine they looked. No matter how much they tipped. No matter how nasty the chat got. She sat there for a beat, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Still wanting. Still tempted. But…
She typed slowly.
💬 Malaya: Mmm…I don’t do meetups, baby. Sorry. Just not my thing. Hope that doesn’t disappoint you. ❤️
She hit send.
Her heart ticked fast behind her ribs. It wasn’t from fear, but from the tension. That line between control and consent. Between fantasy and reality.
He didn’t reply right away.
She sat in that silence, wondering if it had ruined the mood. Wondering if he’d vanish like most do when they can’t have her.
But then…
💬 Yung Cipher: It’s cool, baby. No pressure. I respect that.
Another ping.
💬 Yung Cipher: Just know I’m here whenever you change your mind. ‘Cause I’d love to show you. Real slow. Real deep. Real good.
💬 Yung Cipher: I’d take my time. Give you exactly what you need.
💬 Yung Cipher: I promise to be your favorite big dick.
Her whole body shivered.
Not from fear. But from the smoothness. The patience. The promise. He didn’t push. Just laid the offer out like a silk sheet and stepped back. And somehow…that made her want him more.
She replied without thinking.
💬 Malaya: You damn sure tryna make it hard to forget you. Favorite? That’s a big promise.
Summary: Zariah Saint-James is everywhere. Runways. Campaigns. Magazine covers. Private dinners packed with people rich enough to hide their intentions behind polished smiles and designer tailoring. The world knows her face before they know her voice, and lately her career is moving faster than she can keep up with.
Smoke lives in a different kind of world.
Warnings: Smoke x BRATTY OC SMUT. Spoiled, rich dark skin baddie x Daddy Dom/Strict!Smoke. Heavy dirty talk. Very descriptive smut. Spanking. Discipline.
[I didn’t tag since I am currently working on a new taglist. Apologies in advance. Wanted to give you guys something while I work on these updates!]
The car drops her a half step past the entrance like the driver doesn’t want to block the curb too long. Zariah steps out into a slice of low overhead light and the door shuts behind her with an expensive thud. The building doesn’t announce itself. There was no line, no loud music spilling out. Just a matte black door and a man who looks like he’s part of the wall until you meet his eyes.
Zariah gives her name. The man checks it once, then again without looking like he’s checking anything at all, and opens the door.
Inside, things felt different. Not quite the music, more like a pulse under everything. Velvet seatings. Dark wood. People who speak in half-voices and don’t repeat themselves.
Zariah pauses just inside, long enough to take it in. It was just a breath, nothing obvious. Her shoulders settle into their usual line, chin level, eyes forward. Zariah belongs in rooms. That part is muscle memory.
A hand touches her elbow lightly, her spine goes rigid.
“Saint-James.”
Zariah turns. Malik. He’s familiar enough to ease the first second of it. Zariah’s seen him at fittings, at a campaign wrap, once backstage where he talked too smoothly to be anyone’s assistant. Tonight, he looked sharper, but same smile though. Same confidence that assumes a yes before it’s given.
“You made it,” he says.
“Mm.” A small nod. “For a minute.”
Malik steps in beside her, hazel eyes boring into hers, not blocking, just aligning.
“Come on. I’ll show you around.”
Zariah lets him guide the direction not the movement. There’s a difference. He knows people here. That’s useful. He speaks in low tones as they move, greeting without stopping, names traded like small coins. When he introduces Zariah, his hand rests at the small of her back for a second too long, then lifts.
“This is Zariah. Saint-James.”
Heads turn. Not many. Enough.
She offers the version of a smile that doesn’t invite questions.
“Hi.”
A woman in a silk slip dress made by some foreign designer studies her, then softens, “I know your face.”
Zariah dips her chin once. “That happens.”
A glass appears in her hand without her asking. She doesn’t drink it yet. She holds it, lets the cool settle into her palm. Malik leans in to say something near her ear. His breath brushes too close. Zariah tilts her head just enough to hear without giving him the rest of the space.
“Good room,” he says. “Keep your face around.”
“Mm.” She takes a small step forward, easing the distance. “I’m not staying long, Malik.”
They drift to a cluster near the bar. Four men, maybe five. Conversation tight. Phrases that loop around meaning instead of landing on it. Numbers, but not spoken like numbers. Very mysterious in a way that makes you wonder. Zariah listens without looking like she’s listening. That’s a skill she learned early. One of them glances at her, then at Malik. A beat. A question that never becomes a question.
Malik answers it anyway.
“She’s good,” he says, easy. “She with me.”
One of the men drags their eyes over Zariah.
“This you, Malik? Whatever happened to that French model you had on your arm during fashion week?”
“You know that was all business,” Malik leans into Zariah, placing his hand on her lower back. “This is Zariah Saint-James. She’s gonna be the new face taking over the fashion industry. Ain’t that right, baby?”
Hums of approval circulated.
Zariah stills. Not a freeze. A correction. She turns her head, just enough to catch his eye. Her voice stays light, even.
“I came by myself, actually.”
It lands clean. No edge. No apology.
A couple of the men look away first. Malik’s smile doesn’t falter, but it tightens at the corners.
“Yeah,” he says, like he meant it that way. “For a minute.”
“For a minute,” she repeats, and lifts the glass to her lips without drinking.
Zariah notices the details in the room now. How people stand angled instead of square. How no one laughs too loud. How eyes track movement without turning heads. This isn’t a creative room. Not really. It wears the shape as a disguise but the weight under it is something else. Something she clearly didn’t prepare herself for. Because this space was dressed up like any other she’d been in. But clearly, this room full of powerful people was another side of stardom she didn’t understand enough.
Malik introduces her again, this time to a man in a dark suit with a watch that probably costs more than what Zariah is worth. Older. White. The man’s gaze rests on her a fraction longer than it needs to.
“Pleasure,” he says.
Zariah meets it, steady. “Mm.”
He smiles like that answer told him something. Zariah blinks away quickly.
Malik’s hand returns to her waist, guiding her half a step closer to the circle as if to anchor the introduction. She lets it sit there for a second, then shifts her weight, a small turn of her hips that leaves his hand with nowhere natural to land. It falls away.
“I’m gonna grab something,” she says, already moving. Heart racing.
Stay,” Malik whispers, soft enough that it could pass for a suggestion.
Zariah doesn’t stop.
“I’ll be right back.”
At the bar, she can breath better. She sets the glass down untouched and rests her fingertips on the smooth marble of the bar top. Her reflection glides along the surface, broken by light. Zariah smoothes the line of her dress at her hip, more to ground herself than to adjust anything.
Her phone buzzed once. Zariah glanced at it. A text from a stylist about a call time tomorrow. She types back a quick answer, then locks the screen. Behind her, the private lounge continues like it didn’t notice her stepping away.
Malik returns, closer than before. Zariah stiffens.
“You good?”
“I’m fine.” Zariah keeps her gaze on the bar, then turns to Malik. “I’m heading out in a second.”
“Already?” Malik smiles, but there’s something under it now. “You just got here, baby.”
“I said a minute.”
Malik leans in again, voice low. “Don’t do that, Zariah. It’s a good look for you to be seen here. I called some connects. Got you on the list…the least you can do is play along. Don’t you want that Vogue spread?”
Zariah holds his gaze.
“I’ve been seen.”
There was a pause. Malik’s eyes search her face like he’s trying to decide how far to push. It was making Zariah feel uncomfortable.
“Come meet one more person,” he says. “Then you can go.”
Zariah considers it. Quick. The room presses at the edges of her awareness.
“One,” she says.
Malik nods like he won something. They cross the floor again. This time, the path feels longer. Or maybe she’s more aware of it. The man Malik wants her to meet stands near a corner where the ambiance is softer. He looks up as they approach, already informed.
“Saint-James,” Malik says. Like he’s placing a piece on a board. “Told you.”
The man’s eyes take her in without apology. Dark. Unreadable. A face so chiseled it could only be described as a plastic surgeon’s work.
“I’ve seen you. That shoot with Alberto Rodriguez. Stunning. Versace.”
“Thank you.” Her tone stays even.
“I’m Westley.” He smiles. “You’re in the right room.”
Zariah meets that without returning it, “I’m in the room I walked into.”
Malik laughs under his breath like she said something charming. The man doesn’t laugh.
For a second, no one speaks.
“…well. It’s nice to finally meet you, Saint James. Hopefully the next time we meet, It’s us working together.”
Zariah lets it sit. Then, she inclines her head, gives Westley a faint smile, small and final.
“I’m heading out.”
Malik’s hand ghosts at her back again, then stops when she doesn’t slow. “I’ll walk you.”
“No, you’re good.” Zariah turns slightly, enough to keep it polite, not enough to invite him to follow. “I got it.”
Zadiah moves toward the door with the same pace she walked in with. Composed. The man at the door opens it before she reaches for the handle.
Outside, Zariah exhales, a real one this time, and steps onto the curb. For a second, she stands there, looking back at the black door like it might explain itself if she gave it long enough.
It doesn’t.
Zariah pulls her phone out to call her driver, thumb hovering over the screen. Then, she stills.
A small thought crosses her mind.
I should’ve said something.
The ride back felt longer than it should have. Zariah sits angled toward the window, city lights dragging across the glass in streaks of gold and white. Her phone sat in her lap, the screen dark. She picked it up once, unlocked it, then locked it again without doing anything. Her reflection stared back at her faintly in the window. Same face. Same poise. But there was something tighter around her eyes now.
She exhales and leans back.
By the time the car pulls up, most of the lights in the surrounding units are off. Her driver tells her goodnight. Zariah answers without thinking and steps out, her heels landing soft against pavement. Inside, the elevator ride was short. Too short. She watches the LED numbers climb, arms folded loosely, thumb brushing over her wrist. Not nervous. Just…aware.
The elevator doors open. The hallway leading into the hall of her apartment building is dim, lined with soft recess lighting along the ceiling. Her steps are steady and cloaked by the hand-tuffted carpet runner in dark green as she walks to her door. Zariah reaches into her bag, pulls out her keys, and unlocks it.
The door opens with a hiss.
And the first thing she notices is the light. It’s already on. It wasn’t every light, but enough. The living room. The kitchen.
He’s here.
Smoke is sitting on one end of her sectional, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. No TV. No phone. Just him. And that was enough to make her pause.
He looked up when she stepped in. Zariah pauses just past the foyer for half a second. Then, she sits her bag down on the coffee table.
“When did you get here?” She asked, proceeding to take off her heels like everything is normal.
Smoke doesn’t answer right away. His eyes stay locked on her.
Then—
“Where you come from?”
Flat. No extra weight in the words. That’s what makes it land hard. Zariah slips her other shoe off, placing them beneath the coffee table.
“Out.”
A beat
“With who?”
Zariah straightens, smoothing her dress down at her hips before turning to face him.
“Some people from work.”
Smoke’s gaze doesn’t break.
“What people?”
Zariah tilts her head slightly, studying him now.
“Why you askin’ like that?”
Smoke leans back just enough to rest against the sectional, but his eyes remained glued to her like he was seeing past the guard she was trying to obtain.
“Answer the question.”
Zariah’s jaw sets for a second.
“I told you. Work people.”
Silence. It stretched just enough to be felt.
Then—
“You was at that lounge on Mercer.”
It wasn’t a question. Zariah’s eyes flicker once. She wasn’t surprised. Just confirmation that she knew he would be keeping an eye on her location.
She folds her arms loosely.
“…Yeah.”
“Who took you there?”
“My driver dropped me off. I went by myself.”
Smoke’s gaze sharpens just a fraction.
“Don’t do that.”
Zariah’s brows pull together. “I just told you—”
“Who brought you in?”
His voice doesn’t rise. It just tightens. Zariah exhales through her nose.
“A creative I know. Malik was there.”
Smoke leans forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees again.
“Malik.”
Smoke repeats it like he’s placing it somewhere. Then, he looks back at Zariah.
“And you thought that was somewhere you should be.”
There was no question in it. Zariah shifts her weight onto one leg.
“I’ve been in places like that before.”
“No,” Smoke says, cutting through it. “You haven’t.”
That hit. Zariah’s arms drop from where they were closed. Her posture straightens.
“You don’t know every place I’ve been,” Zariah replies, voice firmer now.
“I know that one.”
Zariah studies him, eyes narrowing slightly. “You actin’ like I walked into something crazy, Smoke.”
He holds her gaze. “You did.”
Zariah’s lips press together. For a second, she looks like she might push back harder.
“I was fine,” she says instead.
Smoke’s expression doesn’t change. “No, Z. You wasn’t.”
Short. Final.
Zariah’s breath catches slightly, more from the certainty than the words themselves. She looks away for a second, then back at him.
“I handled myself. Like I always do.”
The corner of Smoke’s mouth twitched. Enough to part his full lips and reveal silver slugs. He watched her with a slight squint of his eyes. Because he knew. He always knew.
“I’m sure you think you did, baby.”
That stung more than anything else he’d said.
Her chin lifts just a touch, fighting the urge to roll her eyes.
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Silence again. This time more overbearing. Smoke leans forward more, closing some of the space between them without standing.
“Look at me.”
Zariah’s eyes snap back to his. She holds it.
“I am.”
Then, Smoke asks, calm and direct. “He put his hands on you?”
Zariah stills. Her fingers curl slightly at her sides.
“It wasn’t like that.”
That’s not an answer.
Smoke’s gaze doesn’t waver.
“Did he touch you.”
Zariah exhales. “…Yeah.”
Another pause.
“Where.”
Her jaw tightens.
“At my back. My waist. He was just—guiding me.”
Smoke nods once, slow. “Guiding you.”
He repeats it, but it wasn’t like he agrees.
Zariah shifts her weight again. “I moved. I corrected it.”
“I know you did.”
That catches her off guard. Her brows lift slightly.
“You know?”
“I know how you move.” His tone hasn’t changed, but something underneath it has. “And you still stayed.”
There it is.
Zariah’s shoulders drop just a fraction.
“I was trying to leave without making it a thing.”
Smoke sits back again, dragging a hand over his face once before letting it fall.
“You already was a thing the second you walked in there.”
Zariah’s gaze softens, just a little. She looks at him for a long second, then speaks quieter.
“I didn’t know it was like that. That he…that it was more than making connections. Helping my career. I–I didn’t realize he was tryna push up on me, Smoke.”
Smoke watches her. And for the first time, something shifts in his expression. Edged with something else. A softness rarely seen.
“I know you didn’t, Z. That’s the problem. Because he could have taken advantage. Like that nigga always do.”
Zariah exhales, slow. Her shoulders ease. She steps a little closer now, enough to close some of the distance.
“I hear you.”
It’s quieter than anything she’s said so far. Real. Smoke holds her gaze a moment longer. Then, he leans back against the sofa, one hand resting on his jaw.
“Next time,” he says, voice steady, “you tell me where you goin’.”
Zariah nods once. “…Okay.”
She means it, but she looks away right after she says it, eyes drifting toward the kitchen like the conversation might loosen if she doesn’t hold it.
It doesn’t.
The sofa creaks as Smoke Stands. He steps toward her, closing the space she left between them. Zariah’s shoulders tighten just a fraction as he stops in front of her.
“Don’t look away.”
Smoke’s voice stays low and firm. Her eyes lift back to his, slow and steady. Smoke studies her for a second. Then, his hand comes up, fingers settling under her chin, thumb along the side of her jaw.
“Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.”
Zariah’s breath shifts. She doesn’t pull away.
“Mkay,” she replies with a soft voice.
“You walked into a space where nobody in there is who they say they are,” he says. “Not to you.”
Zariah watches him, listening.
“…That wasn’t no industry lounge,” Smoke continues. “That’s a place people use to meet when they don’t want nothin’ traced back to ‘em. Deals get made in there that don’t got nothin’ to do with clothes or cameras. People walk in there one way and come out different. This industry will chew you up and spit you out, baby. I know it.”
Zariah’s brows pull together slightly. “I didn’t hear anything like that.”
“You wasn’t supposed to,” he answers, just as even. “That’s the point.”
Zariah’s lips part, then press together again. Smoke’s thumb shifts against her jaw, grounding her attention back to him.
“And that nigga, Malik?” Smoke goes on. “He ain’t no creative you just ‘know’. He move with people who use faces like yours to get in rooms easier. To make things look clean.”
Zariah’s posture straightens. She exhales.
“He didn’t do anything to me. I wouldn’t have let it get that far, Smoke. I had it under control,” she says, a little firmer. “And I didn’t even expect to see him tonight. A friend of mine put in a word. I…I just…I figured it was just some exclusive party for A listers and I could—I could walk in there and—”
“I didn’t say he did anything.” Smoke cut her off. “I said he put you somewhere you shouldn’t have been. And that friend? I wouldn’t be surprised if they a part of it. So you need to cut them off.”
Zariah’s gaze flickers, then steadies again.
Smoke leans in just slightly, enough to make sure she’s locked in with him.
“I’m in this enough to know how that goes,” he says. “I seen how fast it turns. You walk in thinkin’ it’s one thing, and next thing you know you tied to somethin’ you don’t even understand yet.”
Zariah swallows lightly. Smoke’s eyes stay on hers.
“And I don’t play about what’s mine.”
There’s no rise to his voice. No dramatics. Just fact. Zariah feels that one’s it sits heavy on her chest. Her fingers curl slightly at her sides, but she doesn’t break eye contact. Smoke lets that hang for a second before continuing.
“So listen to me,” he says. His hand drops from her chin, but his presence doesn’t pull back. “When you go somewhere, you let me know first.”
Clear.
“You don’t just show up anywhere off impulse. I don’t care who invited you.”
Zariah nods, lips scrunched up. “Okay.”
“If you walk into a spot and somethin’ feel off,” he continues, “you don’t stand there tryin’ to figure it out. You leave.”
Zariah’s lips part slight like she’s about to speak but she lets him finish.
“You call me,” he says. “I’ll come get you. I don’t care where you at.”
Certainty.
“And if somebody put their hands on you,” Smoke adds, voice still low, “or make you feel any type of way…”
He paused, enough to let Zariah know he’s dead ass serious.
“You tell me. And I’ll handle it. My way.”
Zariah’s breath slows. “I will.”
Smoke studies her, making sure.
“Say it again.”
Zariah’s eyes stay on his. “I’ll tell you.”
Smoke hums, then he nods his head before leaning down to kiss her forehead, then her cheek, and ending with her lips. A soft peck that stirs her. Zariah breaks the kiss, exhales, then she looks at him.
“I didn’t know—”
“I know, baby girl. Just…listen to me, okay? You know this shit triggers me when you go off doin’ shit that make me worried. I’m serious, Z. Don’t do this shit again.”
She purses her lips, but ultimately gives him another kiss, falling into his big embrace that swallows her.
Correction.
Weeks pass. At first, Zariah tells herself Smoke is just being attentive. Protective. Present.
After the lounge incident, Smoke starts rearranging his life around hers in ways that don’t announce themselves immediately. It begins small enough to almost feel thoughtful. He starts picking her up from late shoots instead of sending a driver. He waits outside fittings in black SUVs with the engine running while she changes out of couture and campaign makeup under bright studio lights. When she lands in another city for a show, he’s already there before she reaches baggage claim, one hand wrapped around a coffee cup, eyes scanning the terminal before they settle on her.
Smoke never makes a scene. Never acts possessive in public. That’s what makes it harder to argue with. To everyone around her, Smoke looks dependable. Solid. The type of man women brag about having.production assistants smile when he takes garment bags from their hands. Publicists relax when he quietly checks exits and entrances before an event. Designers greet him like they trust him instinctively, even when they don’t know why.
And Zariah hates that part a little because he’s so good at it. Too good at it.
Her world keeps moving at full speed while his begins orbiting around it with frightening precision. Editorial spreads in Paris. Beauty campaigns in New York. Fashion week dinners packed with actors, athletes, stylists, investors, people who speak in air kisses and coded conversations. Zariah is everywhere lately. Her face is in windows three stories high. Magazine covers. Digital campaigns looping across giant screens downtown. And somehow, Smoke is always there now too.
Not beside her. Near her. Outside the room. At the car.
Watching.
Waiting.
The first few times, Zariah lets it go. She tells herself it’s temporary. That he’s going to go back to work doing what he does that’s so top secret and get bored of all the glitz and glam. That he’s trying to make a point after what happened with Malik and the lounge. But the weeks stretch and instead of easing up, Smoke becomes more involved.
More structured.
He starts asking for schedules in advance. What event. Which hotel. Who invited her. Who’s attending. What time she expects to leave.
Not interrogations.
Expectations.
And that’s what starts irritating her. Because Zariah has spent her entire adult life moving independently through spaces exactly like these. She built her career on instincts, timing, reading energy, staying graceful under pressure. Men in fashion flirt. Men in entertainment hover. Wealthy people invite you places with hidden motives attached to every smile. She learned how to survive that years ago. So when Smoke starts appearing downstairs before she even calls for a car, something in her begins pushing back automatically.
She stops texting updates as quickly. Leaves details out. Answers questions vaguely.
“Just work.”
“A dinner.”
“Somewhere in SoHo.”
Nothing technically disrespectful. But it was enough for Smoke to notice she’s testing the edges of what he said in that apartment weeks ago. And Smoke noticed everything. Especially patterns. Especially when someone starts moving different on purpose.
The irritation builds on both sides slowly, layered beneath long workdays and late nights. And the worst part is she can’t tell where protection ends and control begins anymore.
Zariah’s up early, wrapped in a robe, hair slicked back into a bun, glass skin and fuzzy Louis Vuitton slippers on her pedicured feet. She’s standing at the kitchen counter with her phone propped against a glass of hot water with lemon and ginger. A call time gets pushed. A fitting added. A dinner penciled in. Her voice stays even, professional, the version of her that never slips.
“Yeah, I can make that,” she says. “Send me the address.”
She doesn’t mention it to Smoke. Not when she hangs up. Not when she toasts her sourdough bread to add slices avocado and sliced smoked salmon. Not when she walks past the living room where Smoke is sitting, reading.
He glances up when she crosses. Zariah doesn’t stop.
“I got a dinner tonight,” she says like it’s an afterthought. “Brand people.”
Smoke nods, “what time?”
“Eight.”
“Where.”
Zariah takes a sip of her water.
“I’ll text it.”
Smoke studies her for a second longer than usual. Then, nods again.
“Aight.”
And Zariah doesn’t text it. Not at eight. Not at nine. She’s already dressed and out the door by the time the reminder crosses her mind, heels clicking down the hallway, phone buzzing in her hand with another message that isn’t his.
When she comes back, Smoke’s in the same spot. That’s the first thing she notices. Not the fact that he’s there. The fact that he hasn’t moved much.
Zariah steps in, sets her bag down, slips her heels off.
“You been sittin’ there all day?” Zariah asks, light, like she’s asking about the weather.
Smoke’s eyes lift to her. “Where you just come from, Zariah.”
Zariah walks past him, heading toward the kitchen. That little fancy plate of French food wasn’t enough to settle her hunger. She considers ordering in some Pho from her favorite Vietnamese restaurant.
“I told you,” she says. “Dinner.”
“With who.”
Zariah opens the fridge, bends over, little cocktail dress rising up, almost revealing no panties. She scans it like she’s actually looking for something.
“People from the brand.”
Smoke doesn’t say anything right away. But his jaw ticks. Zariah pulls out a bottle of water, shuts the fridge, leans against the counter.
“You ask a lot of questions,” she says, taking a sip.
There’s a small edge to it. A sassy little tone that reeks of an attitude that needs to be checked.
Smoke watches her unblinking.
“I asked you where, Zariah.”
She shrugs one shoulder. “It was in the city.”
That’s it. That’s all she gives him. And she knows it. Something stills in Smoke. He’s locked. Smoke sets his phone down on the table beside him. Slow. Then, he stands. Zariah watches him this time. She doesn’t look away. Smoke walks toward her, closing space like an imposing shadow. Zariah straightens a little as he stops in front of her. She braces her hand on the counter behind her. Smoke’s eyes narrow slightly, orbs darkened with frustration.
“You ain’t text me nothin’.”
Zariah takes a sip of her water, avoiding his eyes as if the vase across from her on the dining room table was more interesting.
“I was busy.”
Smoke tilts his head. “I told you, Z. You go somewhere, you let me know.”
Zariah lifts her gaze, chin lifting slightly. Defiantly.
“And I heard you.”
There it is. That fucking tone.
Dismissal.
Smoke’s gaze tightens just a fraction. “But you ain’t do it.”
Zariah shrugs, “I got there, everything was fine. It wasn’t a big deal.”
Smoke stepped in closer to where she was nearly pressed between his solid frame and the countertop behind her. Her breathing shifted but she checked it as best as she could.
“It was to me.”
Zariah rolls her eyes. She pushes off the counter, standing fully now.
“You can’t expect me to check in every time I step outside, Smoke,” she argues. “That’s not how I move and you know that.”
More edge now. More bite. Zariah knows she’s pushing. Smoke watches her for a long second. Then, he exhales once through his nose.
“You think that’s what it is.”
It wasn’t a question.
Zariah folds her arms. “I think you’re doing too much.”
The silence was heavy.
Then. “Say that again.”
Zariah holds his gaze. Doesn’t flinch.
“I said you’re doing too much.”
Smoke’s haha comes up, firm fingers gripping her jaw, turning her face just enough so she can’t angle away.
“Don’t do that.” Smoke said, low. Controlled yet deep.
“I’m just sayin—”
“NO,” Smoke cuts in, sharper. “You talkin’ like what I said don’t matter. And that’s a problem for me.”
Zariah’s eyes flash. “That’s not what I—”
“That’s exactly what you doin’.” Smoke’s grip tightens. “You hear me them weeks ago. Loud and clear.”
Zariah’s chest rises and falls a little quicker now.
“I did.”
“But you moved like you didn’t.”
There’s no way around that. Zariah looks at him, really looks this time. There’s something building in her too. It wasn’t fear. It was friction.
“I’m not one of your operations,” she says. “You don’t get to run me like that.”
Smoke scuffs. “Aight.”
He releases her jaw. Steps back half a step, and that almost feels worse.
“You right,” Smoke says. And it’s too calm. “I don’t run you.”
Zariah’s shoulders ease slightly. But only for a second.
“Which means,” Smoke continued, “you make your own decisions.”
Zariah watches Smoks cautiously now.
“And you deal with whatever come with ‘em. You don’t call me. You don’t tell me where you at. You don’t move how I told you to move—”
Smoke pauses. Not long.
“You on your own with that.”
Zariah’s brows pull together. “That’s not what I—”
“You wanted independence,” he says, cutting in, still calm. “I’m givin’ it to you.”
Zariah studies him.
This isn’t him trick to control her. This is him stepping back. And that doesn’t feel how she thought it would.
“You serious?” She asks.
Smoke nods. “I don’t chase grown decisions, ma. But don’t stand in my face and act like what I said ain’t carry weight.”
Zariah exhales. She folds her arms and juts that hip out. Lip poked. She looks at Smoke for a long second. Then, softer, but still holding onto herself:
“That’s not what I was tryin’ to do. And you don’t mean none of that shit. Soon as I leave you gon’ be right there , outside, waitin’ on me. Tell me I’m wrong?”
Smoke cuts his eyes at her. Then, he walks off. Leaving Zariah fuming.
Zariah spends the rest of the evening like she lives alone. That’s the first thing that gets under Smoke’s skin.
Just…dismissal.
She moved through the luxury apartment with that polished calm of hers, never quite looking at him, never quite acknowledging the weight sitting in the space between them. She replies to texts on the sofa with one knee tucked under her, laughing softly at something on her screen, walks past him like he’s furniture.
Smoke says her name once.
Zariah hears it. He knows she hears it because her shoulders tighten for half a second. But, she keeps on walking. That does more than attitude ever could because now she’s choosing it. And one trigger of Smoke’s, one thing that really ticks him off—being ignored. He watched her enter her bedroom. Smoke sits there another few seconds, jaw working once.
Then, he stands. No rush to it. He rolls his shoulders once, loosening the tension sitting there. Smoke reaches for the watch on his wrist and sets it on the side table. Neatly. That alone would tell her everything if she saw it. Smoke never tosses things. When he starts setting items aside with care, he’s making room for discipline. He walks to the kitchen, pours a glass of water, drinks half, sets it down. Runs both palms over his face, then drags one hand across the back of his neck.
Collecting himself. Not cooling off. Centering.
By the time he reaches the bedroom, the bathroom door is cracked open from the steam, he pushes the door open wider and steps inside. Zariah is standing in front of her vanity, fingers hooking the thin straps of her sleek black cocktail dress. She tugs one strap down her shoulder, exposing smooth dark skin inch by inch, the fabric whispering at her elbows while she twists to face the mirror, grabbing her hair to pile it high, pinning it loose but secure with a claw clip.
Smoke leans against the frame, hoody heavy against the door jamb, arms crossed over his chest, fitted black tee stretching across his pecs. His eyes track every peel of fabric like he owns the view. Tension crackles thick from the kitchen standoff earlier, her defiance still simmering hot under her skin.
She sees him in the mirror, and now she’s taking off her strapless lace bra and matching thong. Completely naked and glowing like her body was slathered in liquid gold. That little performance almost makes him smile.
Almost.
“You done?” Smoke asks.
Her voice stays light. “With what?”
“With this act you tryna put on to piss me off.”
Zariah grabs a plum-colored silk robe from a wall mounted hook, hiding that beautiful body.
“I’m getting ready to shower. Then I’m going to bed. I have a busy schedule tomorrow, Smoke.”
Smoke closes the bedroom door. The click of the latch is small but it lands. Zariah’s fingers pause over the tie of her robe. Only for a second. Then, she resumes, adjusting the front of her robe like nothing changed. Smoke walks up until he’s directly behind her, watching her reflection instead of her directly.
“You been real busy not seein’ me tonight.”
Zariah shrugs one shoulder.
“I’ve been minding my business.”
“That so.”
“You got something to say,” she says, voice even, “say it.”
“I did.” His tone is lower now. “You ignored it.”
Her chin lifts a little in the mirror.
“Maybe I was tired of hearing it.”
Smoke’s hand comes to the robe knot at her waist, fingers brushing the bow but not pulling it loose. Zariah finally turns them, eyes lifting to meet his.
There’s a challenge there. Smoke matches that, boring his eyes into hers like he was asking her telepathically ‘you really wanna take it there, baby girl?’. His gaze dropped briefly to the robe that barely hugged her frame, the one she loved to put on after her showers. The one she wore whenever her skin was slicked with body oil so it could mold to her body in ways that had Smoke dickin’ her down to put her to bed properly.
“You been pokin’ at me all night.”
Zariah folds her arms over her chest.
“Maybe you’re easy to poke.”
That earns a quiet breath through his nose. And he wasn’t amused.
He steps closer until there’s no way for her to forget he’s there. The heat of him reaches her before contact does. Her spine straightens automatically. Smoke notices. His hand slides to her jaw, thumb settling near her chin, guiding her face up.
“Wrong answer.”
Zariah’s lips part.
She means to say something slick. He sees it forming.
But the words stall when his other hand reaches down, tugs the robe knot loose in one pull, then lets it fall open on its own. He takes a small step back, eyes downcast to admire her. Take in the view like she was modeling nudity for his eyes only. Robe parted wide and framing that long, elegant frame without hiding a damn thing. 5’10 of slim-thick lines hit different up close. Her long torso stretched down to a waist he could circle with both hands and still have room, dipping into hips that curved fuller from the side, that rich brown skin glowing warm.
Her chest rose steady with each breath, full and natural, nipples tightening just from the air or maybe his stare, elegant shape softening the sharp edges of her shoulders and collarbones. He clocked the subtle give in her stomach, toned thighs long from runway miles pressed together slight, calves flexing strong as she held runway poise even now.
Smoke’s eyes never leave hers.
“That attitude you got,” he says quietly. “I’m ‘bout done with it.”
“You ain’t my bodyguard no more, Smoke,” Zariah snaps, voice laced brat-sharp. “Stop actin’ like you run shit. I do what I want.”
Smoke chuckles low, rumble deep from his chest rolling out gravel-thick, his hand shoots out to snag her wrist before she grabs the front of her robe, pulling her half-turn into him, cedar scent faint mixing with her floral perfume.
“Yeah, but who you come runnin’ to when you needed help? Who handled things to make shit easier for you? Roughed niggas up that got too close? Would kill anybody that so much as try you?” Smoke drawls slow, southern thick, free hand palming the front of his joggers where his thick bulge thickens obvious. “Yeah, but you was feenin’ for this dick. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you beggin’ me to fuck you in that dressing room. Remember? Or you forgot just like you forgot who the fuck I am. And when I say somethin’, you do as you told.”
Smoke’s eyes never left yer face, unblinking and coal-dark, jaw set under stubble.
Zariah yanks her wrist free, twisting away but stays close, turning full to shove her palm flat against his chest, pushing half-hearted, his pecs unyielding under her spore as fingers. Zariah leans in, chin high, lips curling into a smirk.
“And wasn’t you the one that couldn’t wait to fuck me?” She fires back, hip cocked. “Ain’t never had a bitch like me in yo’ life. Soon as you got a taste, you obsessed, right? That’s why you still actin’ like a good little soldier. Now who’s in control now, big bad Smoke?” Her voice pitches taunt, one hand sliding down to trail the ridge of his abs where his tee clings, nails scraping light to test the flex.
Zariah walks off, brushing past him. Smoke snorts breath.
“Control? Lil’ girl, you testin’ ropes right now.” Smoke growls. His large Pam clamps her hip, yanking her flush from behind, his hard dick against her ass. His beard grazes her cheek as his head dips. “That dressin’ room…you hiked that dress, spread your legs wide, pussy was drippin’ and beggin’ for my tongue first. Then you rode this dick cryin’ daddy til you squirted all on this dick. Obsessed? Yeah…I ain’t got a reason to deny shit. But you hooked, baby girl. Chasin’ this nut every night since.” Smoke’s fingers trail up the arch of her spine, his other hand cupping her ass cheek.
Zariah gasps sharp, twisting her hips, bucking against him, but eventually she breaks the hold.
“Hooked? Please. You stalkin’ my every move like a lost puppy.” She spits, laughing brittle, backing toward the bathroom door. “Body guard days over, but you still guarding this pussy like it’s yours. And I’m glad you know exactly how obsessed you are.” Her eyes flash, lips parting to rest her tongue at the corner of her mouth.
Smoke steps forward, hands shooting out to brace the doorframe over her head, caving her without touch.
“Mine? Damn right. Till you prove otherwise.” He rumbles. “Go ‘head, shower off that dinner, but don’t think slamming doors gon’ end this talk.” His eyes rake over her body, dick tenting the front of his joggers. Zariah places her palm flat against his chest before giving him a final shove to the ripple of muscle, the door swinging hard bang latch catching. The shower turned on beyond the door and as much as Smoke wanted to open that door, he waited. Waited until he heard that shower shut off.
Zariah is standing at the vanity in nothing but a towel, lotion bottle in hand, acting deeply interested in the label. She bends to reach for her toner in the cabinet beneath the sink. The bathroom door opens, the humidity in the bathroom turning the air chill. The fog on the glass began to disappear. The way she knows exactly where he is behind her without turning around. She just wants him to know she can ignore it.
Zariah rises slowly, and sets her toner on the sink with careful precision.
Still won’t turn.
Zariah swallows. Her arms start to cross over herself instinctive. Smoke catches both her wrists and lowers them back at her sides.
“No.”
Zariah looks at him now, fully. Some of the bravado thinning at the edges. Because she knows this version of him. The one who gets calmer the more serious he is. He releases her wrists only after they stay where he put them. Then, he steps back half a pace and gestures toward the counter.
Smoke steps behind her, broad hand spreading over the back of her neck for one steady second, claiming her attention.
"Good," he says.
The steam from her shower clings to the air, thick and warm, fogging the mirror above the sink in faint swirls. Zariah stands there naked, skin dewy, water droplets tracing slow paths down her shoulders and the curve of her back. The towel lies discarded on the floor by her feet, leaving her fully exposed. Smoke’s hand lingers at her neck a beat longer, thumb pressing firm against her pulse, anchoring her in place. The heat of his palm seeps into her, carrying that familiar cedar scent that always seems to cut through everything else. Smoke's chest brushes her back as he closes the space. Zariah can feel the expansion of his black tee against her shoulder blades when he draws a controlled breath.
"Hands on the sink," he tells her, voice low and even.
Zariah does not move right away. Her chin lifts a fraction, eyes flicking to his reflection in the mirror, holding his gaze there. Bold still, testing.
“For what?” she asks, tone carrying that edge she knows gets under his skin, words clipped.
Smoke doesn’t rise to it. His free hand slides down her side, large fingers splaying over her hip, gripping just enough. The veins in his forearm stand out as his muscles flex.
“You know why,” he says. “All that mouth. Ignoring calls. Acting like rules don’t stick. Time to fix it.”
Zariah exhales through parted lips, a subtle shift, but her hands stay at her sides. Her posture remains upright, feet planted on the cool tile. Inside, she feels the pull, the way his presence makes the steam feel heavier, but she pushes back one more time.
“I was busy. You act like I owe you every second.”
Smoke's grip tightens on her hip, thumb digging into the soft flesh there. He leans in closer, lips near her ear, breath warm against the damp shell.
“Busy playin' games. Poking. Now I’ma show you. But that’s what you wanted, right?” His other hand lifts from her neck, trails down her spine, ending at the swell of her ass. He cups one cheek fully, squeezing hard enough to make her shift her weight.
"Hands. Sink. Now."
This time, her body responds before her mouth does. Palms flat on the cool porcelain edge, fingers splaying wide. She arches her back slightly without meaning to, ass pushing out toward him, skin prickling under the humid air. Her eyes stay on his in the mirror, defiant spark still there, but her breathing picks up, chest rising faster.
“That's better. So, you do as you told then?” he says, stepping fully behind her now. His feet plant wide on the tile, knees bracketing her legs as he positions himself. One hand stays on her hip, holding her steady. The other rears back, large palm open, veins bulging along his wrist.
The first smack lands solid across her right cheek, skin meeting skin with a sharp crack that echoes off the tiled walls. Her ass jiggles from the impact, flesh purpling instantly under his handprint. Zariah's fingers curl against the sink, a hiss escaping her teeth, but she bites down on anything louder.
“That all?” she throws back, voice tight, trying to keep the bold front.
Smoke sees it. The way her thighs tense, pussy lips glistening between her legs from more than just the shower. He knows she’s wet, knows the defiance is her last push before she settles. His dick barely had room to grow in his joggers, that thick length pressing against the seam as he watched her in the mirror.
“Keep talkin',” he warns, hand coming down again, harder this time, left cheek taking the full weight of his swing. The slap rings out wet in the steam, her ass bouncing, a fresh mark blooming dark against her skin.
Zariah gasps, knees buckling a touch, but his grip on her hip keeps her upright. Heat spreads across her backside, stinging deep.
“Fuck,” she breathes, eyes narrowing at him in the glass. “You mad at me daddy?”
Smoke doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he delivers three quick spanks in succession, alternating cheeks, each one heavier than the last. Palm cracks against flesh, her ass rippling with every strike, turning hot and swollen under his assault. Her pussy clenches visibly, slickness dripping down her inner thigh, betraying how much she needs this correction. Smoke's free hand slides between her thighs from behind, thick fingers parting her folds roughly, middle finger plunging into her soaked pussy without warning.
“This what you wanted?” Smoke growls low, pumping in and out once, twice, feeling her walls grip him tight. She moans despite herself, hips bucking back. But he pulls out just as quick, smearing her juices over her ass before landing another brutal smack right where her cheek meets thigh.
Zariah's head drops forward a second, elbows locking on the sink, but she lifts it back up, meeting his eyes again.
“Keep goin' then,” she challenges, voice breathier now, the bold cracking at the edges.
Smoke's chest rumbles with a low sound, approval mixed with hunger. That big dick throbs, straining as he tugs his joggers down with one hand, freeing the curved shaft and wide tip. Pre-cum beads at his slit, heavy length slapping against her bruised ass. But he ain’t done punishing her yet. Smoke grabs a fistful of her wet hair, pulling her head back gently but firm, forcing her to arch deeper.
“Count 'em,” he orders.
His hand cracks down again, full force, the loudest yet. Her ass quivers, marked deep purple, heat radiating.
“One,” she grits out, pussy aching empty.
Another on the other side, palm stinging his own skin from the velocity. “Two.”
Smoke spreads her cheeks with his thumbs, exposing her tight asshole and dripping slit, then spanks right across both, the impact jarring her whole body.
“Three,” she moans, thighs shaking. Teeth chattering.
Smoke leans over her, his dense midsection pressing into her back, shirt damp from the steam and her skin. His beard scraping her shoulder as he bites down lightly there, marking her while his hand rains down five more measured strikes, each one pushing her closer to breaking that last wall. Her counts come faster, voice turning needy, ass on fire, pussy clenching around nothing as viscous arousal slicks her legs. By the tenth, she is panting, body trembling in his hold, bold facade shattered into raw want.
P-Please,” Zariah whispers finally, not begging wildly but settling, hands gripping the sink.
Smoke pauses, rubbing his palm over the abused flesh, soothing the burn while his tip nudges her entrance, thick head parting her lips.
“Good girl,” he says, voice thick with possession.
Then he thrusts in deep, stretching her pussy wide around his girth, filling her completely. His hips snap forward once, deep and punishing, fat dick buried to the hilt in her dripping pussy, stretching her walls tight around his thickness.
When he eased that fat length inside her it opened her pussy with a slow burn, the girth demanding space as it sank deep. The curve to the right caught along her slick walls, dragging firm pressure against the sensitive ridge there with each inch that followed. Long and solid, bottoming out steady, filling her to the limit while her body adjusted around the thickness pulsing hot and full. Every shift would send that curve nudging the same spot over and over, building a tight coil low in her belly that made her thighs tremble without her meaning to. Zariah's breath catches sharp, body jolting against the sink, but Smoke pulls out slow, leaving her clenching empty, creamy slick coating his shaft. Not done yet. Her ass still needs more work, cheeks blazing hot under his palm prints.
Smoke's hand cracks down again, heavy and mean, right across both bruised globes. The slap echoes wet in the bathroom, her flesh rippling, thighs quivering from the sting. Zariah whimpers low, knees buckling inward, but his grip on her hip locks her straight.
“I don’t know why the fuck you act like you tough, baby,” Smoke growls, voice thick with that Mississippi drawl, low and gravel-rough, breath hot on her neck. His free hand fists her wet hair tighter, yanking her head back so her eyes lock on his in the fogged mirror. Dark brown gaze bores into hers, heavy-lidded and unblinking. “Why the fuck you keep actin’ up? Huh?”
Another smack lands harder, palm flattening her left cheek, sending fire blooming deep. Zariah’s legs shake harder, pussy leaking fresh wetness down her inner thighs, mixing with shower droplets on the tile. Zariah bites her full lip, trying to hold the sound, but a needy whine slips out anyway, body arching despite the burn.
“Why? Answer the fuckin’ question,” Smoke demands, leaning his solid chest heavier against her back, tee clinging damp to his thick torso. The weight of him pins her forward, broad shoulders eclipsing her reflection. His cream-coated dickthrobs hot against her thigh, pre-cum smearing her skin, but he holds off, rubbing her sore ass roughly with his rough palm, veins popping along his forearm whenever he would grip the flesh with his fingers.
Zariah exhales shaky through parted lips, fingers digging into the sink edge, porcelain cool under her palms. That bold edge frays, but she pushes one last time, voice breathy and tight. “I heard you...just didn’t think…”
Crack. His hand swings full force, spanking the spot where ass meets thigh, jolting her whole frame. Her pussy clenches hard, clit twitching, inner lips trembling from the impact, visible drip falling to the floor. Her legs trembled bad now, barely holding her up.
“Didn’t think what? That I mean what I say?” Smoke presses closer, beard scraping her shoulder as he leans in to kiss the spot where his teeth was minutes ago, soothing it. He spanks again, rapid fire—three in a row, alternating sides, each crack louder, her ass swelling fuller, hot to the touch.
“You went out there actin’ like my words ain’t shit. Ignorin’ calls. Playin’ like you run this. Nah, baby. That stops now.”
Zariah’s whimper turns into a gasp, body softening under the onslaught, shoulders dropping a fraction. She feels his control sink in deep, the dense gravity of his frame making the steam thicker, her vanilla-musk scent mixing with his cedar smoke.
“Y-Yeah... I hear you,” she admits quieter, chin lifting less defiant, eyes holding his with that flicker—irritation yielding to the weight.
Smoke pauses, large hand soothing over the fiery flesh, squeezing possessive. But his voice stays mean, drawl dragging slow.
“Too late for that hearin’ shit. You gonna learn tonight.” That dick nudges her slit again, thick head parting her soaked folds, teasing that creamy entry without giving it what it wants. One more spank, brutal across the fullest part of her right cheek, making her cry out soft, hips bucking back involuntary.
“Count the rest. And don’t make me ask twice.”
Her voice comes steady now, reined in, body present under him. “E-Eleven.”
Smoke’s hand lifts off her throbbing ass cheek, fingers digging into the heated flesh one last time before shoving her shoulders down firm. Enough with the slaps. Time to shut that mouth up proper. Her knees hit the wet tile with a soft smack, water slick under her shins. Zariah’s dark eyes lift to his, breath still ragged from the burn, but she don't hesitate. Her body shifts smoothly, settling low, full tits swaying as she balances on her heels.
Smoke steps up close, black tee clinging to his broad chest, sweat and shower mist beading on his deep brown skin. One thick hand wraps the base of his dick, pulling it free from where it hung thick and heavy between his muscular thighs. Almost as thick as her forearm, easy nine inches stretching out straight at first, then curving wicked at the tip like it know exactly where to hit deep. Girth thick around, veins bulging ropey along the dark shaft, skin a rich chocolate shade fading near the fat, flared head that's glossy with pre-cum leaking steady. Heavy balls swing low underneath, plump and full, hanging loose in that wrinkled sac, dark and musky from the heat. Whole thing pulses alive in his grip, smelling of clean soap mixed with his natural cedar-earth scent up close.
“See this dick right here, baby? You wanna talk back, runnin’ yo’ mouth like you run shit? Get this dick in that throat,” Smoke growls low, drawl dragging thick and mean, free hand tangling rough in her wet curls. He yanks her face forward, smearing the leaking head across her plump lips, leaving a shiny trail. “Suck big daddy’s dick. Put that mouth to work since you actin’ all tough. Throat it deep, show me you learned somethin’ tonight.”
Zariah parts her lips wide, tongue flicking out to lap the salty bead from his slit before she stretches her jaw open. Head disappears first, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks hard around the ridge, pulling him in inch by girthy inch. Those full Saliva spills quick, dripping down her chin. She trained for this, months of him working her down slow at first, gagging her till she took every curve without choking. Now she slides forward steady, throat relaxing open, feeling that bend nudge the back of her mouth then slip past her tonsils smooth.
The soft flesh of her lips stretches wide and presses flush against his shaft as she sinks lower, creating a tight seal that drags with each slow pull. Wet suction fills the quiet with each bob of her head, the sound thick and wet as her mouth works to take more. Heat and pressure builds around Smoke from the way her lips clamp and slide, her tongue pushing up from below while her throat opens to pull him deeper with every descent.
Zariah’s face pulls tight around that thick girth filling her mouth, her cheeks drawing inward in deep hollows that frame the shaft with sharp definition as she sinks lower. She maintains a steady rhythm of long, controlled pulls, her tongue pressing firm and flat underneath while her throat opens to swallow more with each descent, creating a constant wet drag and suction that tightens on the upstroke. Her jaw works visibly with the effort, lips sealed flush and sliding in a smooth, milking motion that builds pressure without pause.
Smoke groans deep in his chest, hips bucking shallow to feed her more. “Yeah, that's it, fuckin' swallow this big dick. You know how I like it, don't play. Deeper, baby, choke on it if you gotta, but don’t stop.” His voice rumbles harsh, hand guiding her head, thick fingers pressing her nose toward his trimmed pubes. His fat nuts slap light against her chin as she bobs, throat bulging visible with his length buried fully. Zariah gags once soft, eyes watering, but pushes through, humming low around him, tongue pressing flat underneath to stroke the bulging vein.
Smoke watches her work in the mirror, heavy-lidded eyes narrowing mean. “Look at you, all that fire earlier, now you slurpin' dick like a good lil’ girl. Shoulda did this from jump, keep that ass in line and yo’ throat full. Mmm, suck harder, baby. Drain these nuts dry.” His grip tightens in her hair, fucking her face, pulling out to the tip with a wet pop before slamming back in, curve hitting her gag reflex perfect every thrust. Her hands brace his thick thighs, nails digging into the dense muscle, feeling him flex under her palms as drool strings from her stretched lips.
Zariah’s pussy aches empty between her spread knees, thighs slick with her own drip mixing on the floor, but she focuses, hollowing her cheeks tighter, swallowing around his girth to milk him. Her nose buries in his coarse hairs finally, balls snug against her chin, holding him deep till her lungs burn. She pulls off gasping, strings of spit connecting her mouth to his shining shaft, then dives back, faster, head twisting side to side for friction.
“That’s my girl, train that throat right. You ain’t goin’ nowhere till I bust down yo’ neck,” Smoke grunts, free hand cupping her jaw rough, thumb smearing spit back in. His heavy balls draw up tight, dick twitching hard in her sucking mouth, but he holds off, drawing it out mean. “Keep goin’. Earn that forgiveness, baby.”
Zariah’s right hand wraps around the base of his thick dick, fingers barely meeting around the girth as she strokes up slow, twisting at the swollen head slick with her spit. She sucks deeper on the pull back, lips sealed tight around his veiny shaft, tongue swirling under the curve that presses her cheek out. Her left hand steadies on his heavy thigh, nails scraping light into the dense muscle as she bobs faster, throat opening wide to take him balls-deep again, humming vibrations along his length.
Smoke's eyes narrow sharp, watching her work from above. His big palm cracks down quick on her stroking hand, slapping it off his dick with a wet smack.
“Nah, baby. Hands where I can see ‘em. Up behind yo head or on them thighs. This mouth mine now.”' He grabs a fistful of her wet curls tighter, yanking her head back just enough to pop his dick free, strings of saliva stretching long before snapping. Then he thrusts forward, burying every curving inch straight down her throat in one push, balls smacking her chin heavy.
Zariah gasps around the invasion, eyes watering, but puts her hands in her lap. Her throat bulges with his girth, the bend lodging deep, cutting off her air till black spots dance. He don't let up—hips snap forward, fucking her face, pulling out to the flared head where she gasps ragged, then slamming back in, pubes grinding her nose.
“Fuckin’ tired of yo games, Zariah. All this bullshit you pullin’,” he growls low, thick and gravelly, voice echoing off the tile. Smoke picks up meaner, dick pistoning her mouth, heavy balls swinging to slap her jaw each thrust. “Back when I was yo’ bodyguard, dealin' with yo’ spoiled, uptight, prissy ass barkin' orders left and right. Actin’ like you own the world, snappin’ at me like I'm one of yo’ lil' errand boys. Had to bite my tongue, watchin' you strut ‘round thinkin’ you untouchable.”
Zariah’s knees spread wider on the slick floor, thighs quivering as drool pours down her chin, soaking her tits glossy. She gags hard on a deep plunge, throat convulsing around his pulsing shaft, but holds the position, hands laced tight in her lap, fingers twitching to grip something. That wet ass pussy throbbed neglected, juices trailing down to puddle under her.
Smoke grunts deep, free hand bracing the sink edge, muscles flexing in his thick arm as he rams harder, curve dragging her tonsils raw. “And now? Now you on this dick, slurpin’ like you starved, and still think you run shit? Nah, baby girl. I run it. Always did. Just lettin’ you play pretend till I remind this lil’ ass who in charge.” He yanks her hair sharper, holding her nose-deep, balls snug on her chin, grinding slow circles to stretch her throat wider. “Feel that? Feel daddy ownin' this mouth? You gon’ take every inch till I say stop. No more actin’ brand new.”
Zariah’s chest heaves desperate around the blockage, tears streaking her cheeks mixing with spit, but her eyes stay locked up at him, defiant spark fading to raw submission. She swallows around his girth, milking the veiny underside, tongue pressing frantic when he pulls back for air. Her hands stay put, obedient, elbows trembling from the strain as he resumes pounding, wet gurgles filling the humid air, his heavy balls tightening with each brutal thrust.
Smoke abruptly snaps his hips back, dick leaving her throat. Zariah sucked in a lung full of air, sniffling, teary eyes cloudy as she looked up at her daddy with a bite of her bottom lip. She’d sucked a few dicks in her twenty-nine years of living but she would have never thought a nine inch, veiny monster would fit down her throat. Normally, she would pat herself on the back, but right now, Smoke was pissed off. Her reward would come later. Right now, she’s a throat to fuck and nothing more. Her eyes went hazy from staring at his hard dick bobbing and twitching in her face, glossy and dripping with saliva. She knew he was close because his tip was a deep purple and it flared so wide it left the corners of lips raw. The map of veins along his shaft bulged in size, and his nut sack sat full and loaded with cum.
“Open up.” Smoke commands.
Zariah does as she’s told, eager for more. That big dick slid in smooth and full, making her eyes roll.
Smoke's hips jackhammer faster now, thick dick plunging her throat raw brutal snaps, the curve battering her tonsils. His balls draw up tight, slapping her chin wet and relentless, his breath turning into ragged grunts as the pressure coils low in his gut. Sweat beads down his solid chest, tee clinging damp to the full slabs of pecs heaving with each drive. He feels her throat spasm greedy around his girth, milking him closer to the edge.
“Eyes up here, Zariah. Look at me while I feed this throat,” he snarls, free hand clamping her jaw firm, thumb digging into the hinge to force her gaze up. Watery brown eyes meet his dark, heavy-lidded stare, hers wide and pleading, his burning with ownership. “Hands in yo’ lap. Fingers laced. Don't move ‘em.”
Zariah shifts quickly on her knees, pulling her elbows in to drop her hands to her thighs, palms up and fingers interlocking obediently in her lap like a proper slut. Her thighs quake wider apart on the tile, pussy clenching empty and dripping strings of arousal to the floor. Her jaw slackens under his grip, relaxing loose as he demands, lips stretched obscene around his pistoning shaft, drool bubbling out the corners to sheet down her neck and pool between her heaving tits.
“Good girl. There you go, relax that jaw. Let daddy bust,” Smoke growls deep, gravel scraping rough, pace turning erratic, hips stuttering as his dick swells thicker in her gullet. His balls contract hard, and he slams balls-deep one final time, grinding his pubes flush to her nose, holding as ropes of hot cum erupt straight down her throat. Pulse after thick pulse floods her, warm, slightly salty jets coating her esophagus, forcing her to gulp convulsively around the buried length.
He don't budge an inch, big hand locked on her curls, the other on her jaw, keeping her pinned nose-deep while she swallows every drop—no spill, no waste. Her throat works visible under the skin, bulging swallows pulling his load down greedy, chest fluttering desperate for air around the blockage. Her eyes remain locked on his, tears carving clean tracks through the spit mask on her face, but that defiant spark's gone fully, replaced with raw, owned surrender shining back.
Smoke holds till the last twitch fades, dick softening just enough in the wet heat, then eases out slow, dragging the sensitive underside over her lolling tongue. Strings of cum-mixed saliva cling thick, snapping as the flared head pops free. She coughs hoarse, sucking air in big whoops, hands twitching in her lap but staying put, lips puffy and glossy. He strokes her cheek with his thumb, smearing the mess, voice dropping low and satisfied.
“Every drop. That's how you take what’s yours. Don’t forget who run this shit.”
Smoke’s thick fingers loosen from her curls, sliding down to hook under her arms with that unyielding grip, hauling her up off the tile slow and steady. Her knees wobble jelly-soft, thighs slick from her own dripping need, but he steadies her full against his sweat-damp shirt, broad chest rising firm under her cheek. His big hand cups her elbow, the other spans low on her back, guiding her bare feet over the bathmat and out the steamy bathroom door.
He snags a clean washcloth from the sink edge first, soaking it under hot tap water till steam curls off, then presses it gentle but thorough to her chin, wiping away the glossy streaks of spit and tears. His thumb traces her swollen lips, the cloth dragging over puffy cheeks and her jaw, leaving her skin flushed warm and bare.
“There. Clean slate, baby girl,” he rumbles low, voice that quiet thunder rolling deep from his chest.
The king bed dominated the dim space, sheets rumpled from earlier. He sinks onto the edge, thighs spreading wide like tree trunks, then tugs her forward to drape her naked body across his lap face-down. Ass up high, cheeks still blooming hot from the spanking, pussy lips peeking swollen and slick between spread thighs. His weight shifts the mattress deep, one massive palm flattening broad on her lower back to anchor her still, the other dipping into the jar of balm on the nightstand. A cool, thick shea and aloe mix he keeps stocked for nights like this.
His fingers dig in generously, spreading the cream in firm circles over her left cheek first, kneading the stinging heat away, thumb pressing into the tender underside where it meets thigh. Smoke switches to the right after a while, palms gliding slick, parting the globes slightly to smooth the balm down the cleft, grazing her puckered hole and dipping low enough to tease her soaked folds without mercy.
“You know why that ass got lit up, Zariah,” he starts, tone even, dangerously calm wrapping each word like barbed wire, dragging vowels long and weighted. “Pushin’ me like that, testin' boundaries when I done told you how it's gone be. Mouth runnin’ reckless, darin’ me to snap. I spank you again and again if you keep triggerin’ this fire. Don’t make me prove it twice more tonight.”
His hand keeps working, the balm sinking in as her skin drinks it greedy, cooling the fire to a throb. Smoke’s palm cups one cheek full, squeezing soft, then leans down to press open-mouth kisses along the curve—lips dragging hot and wet, tongue flicking out to taste the salted balm on fevered flesh. Peck after peck trails inward, nipping the fullest swell before soothing with flat laps.
“Mmm,” he draws back, biting his bottom lip, her slick sticking to his goatee, “pussy puffy from me popping that ass,” Smoke takes two fingers, tapping her pussy lips, labia peeking through like petals. “I know you love it when daddy turns you out like a fuck doll…pussy leakin’ for it. But safety first, always. Top of my list. You play brat, defy what I say to keep you whole, that shit upsets me deep. I’d kill anybody—end ‘em slow—who so much as touches a hair on your head. Bleed ‘em dry for less.”
Smoke’s voice stays level, no rise, just that steel edge slicing through, breath ghosting her skin between kisses, one hand landing square on the sit-spot welt. Smoke pauses, hand stilling to pat her ass possessive, waiting till her breath evens soft against the sheets.
“Now, you know what I want you to do. Say it clear.”
Zariah shifts slightly across his lap, thighs clenching, posture holding upright even prone, spine straight, hands smoothing the bedspread once to ground herself. Her voice comes soft, that self-possessed edge threading through.
“…I’ll listen to what daddy says.”
“Good girl, keep goin’.”
Smoke’s palm resumes stroking the balm in, fingers parting her cheeks wider for a deep kiss right above where her puckered hole sat, his tongue circling lazy.
“…I—I’ll stop being m–mean to daddy…and understand t–that he’s trying to protect m–me, not control me,” her full lips press thin a beat, exhale parting them tense, brown eyes flicking back over her shoulder to hold his gaze steady. Even though her body couldn’t stop shaking.
“Mm. That’s my girl,” another peck lower, between the under cuff of her ass where her thighs met, “finish it.”
“H–He wants me to continue t–to be independent…but understand that m–my man w–wants and needs to step up. To provide, protect, a–and spoil me. To create a life for me w–where I can continue to be t–the phenomenal women that I am. The beautiful woman t–that I am. The sexy woman that I am.”
Her words came out even in some ways and shaky in others. No plea. Only quiet dominance and echoing his, her body relaxing fuller into his lap as the balm soaked deep. Smoke nods once, satisfaction etching his heavy-lidded stare. He gave his girl a final kiss planted firm on her tailbone, one large, calloused hand sliding up her slick spine to tangle light in her hair, tugging her head back gently for more eye contact.
“That’s my girl. Good job. Now…rest that ass here while daddy thinks up how to spoil you next.”
Smoke positions Zariah on her stomach across their bed. He spreads her thighs wide from behind and lifts her hips into the right tilt. Smoke dips his head and admires her pussy lips sitting in the shape of a heart below her ass that glistened from the balm. His tongue moves in slow strokes from the base of her pussy upward, gathering every bit of wetness. He seals his lips around the folds and sucks them clean with steady pulls before pressing soft kisses along the slick skin. His tongue dips inside to lick deeper then returns to lap and suck without rushing, working through the mess until only his mouth leaves her glistening.
Zariah’s body rocks with small shifts under his hold. “Yes daddy." Her voice comes thick. “Thank you daddy.” She pushes back a fraction as his suction holds on her clit. “I love it when you eat my pussy.”
Smoke keeps his pace while his voice rumbles low against her. “Stay open for me. Let daddy clean every drop. You taste so good when I take my time like this.” He kisses her tender entrance then sucks again, tongue circling slow. “That’s it. Give it all to me.”
Zariah shifts her hips back in a slow roll, pressing her soaked folds against Smoke's mouth. He meets each motion by sealing his lips around her clit and sucking with firm, steady pressure, drawing the swollen bud between his lips in a gentle pull before releasing. Her thighs tremble under his grip as she rocks again, grinding back for more contact.
"Oooo," she breathes out, the sound stretching long. “Fuck. Yes.” The words slip free between moans while her body keeps moving, seeking that same suction each time she pushes her pussy toward him.
Smoke's tongue works in skillful laps, flattening broad against her entrance before dragging upward to circle her clit again. His voice stays low and even, vibrating right against her skin.
“That’s right, keep bringing it back like that. Let me suck on this pretty pussy. You feel how wet you stay for me?” Smoke proves her opening with the tip of his tongue to catch some of that wetness. “I can taste every bit of it, so sweet and thick on my tongue. Gon’ fuck you so deep after this, stretch you open slow with every inch until you can't think straight. This pussy gon' take it all, and I'ma give it to you proper.”
Snoke sucks with more pressure on her clit as she rocks back once more, holding the pull for a beat longer before easing off to lick through her folds. “Tastes so damn good, baby. Can't get enough of how you drip down my chin.”
Zariah’s voice comes out husky between her moans. “You love this pussy, baby?”
Smoke answers without lifting his mouth, the words rumbling straight into her. “Daddy love this pussy. Best fuckin’ pussy I ever had.”
Zariah’s voice lifts soft and questioning as she rocks back once more. “Daddy?”
Smoke answers with a low hum that vibrates against her folds, the sound deep and steady while his tongue continues its work.
Zariah pushes again, her words coming clearer now. “Daddy I wanna watch you eat my pussy.”
In one smooth motion Smoke flips her onto her back, his hands guiding her body with controlled strength. He pulls the black tee over his head and drops it aside, leaving him fully naked as he settles between her open thighs. Zariah spreads wider for him, and he eases down to keep his mouth on her, licking and sucking with focused attention. She grinds her pussy into his mouth, hips rolling to meet each pull of his lips. Smoke gently pushes her thighs open further, holding them apart so he can slurp directly on her clit with wet, smacking sounds. He stays right there, working that spot alone because it builds her up fast. Her body tenses and then releases in a sudden rush as she squirts, the warm fluid spilling over his tongue and chin while he keeps sucking through every pulse.
Smoke stays locked between her thighs, refusing to ease up. His tongue drags in long, wet strokes that feel heavy and thick against her folds, each one landing with pressure that makes her hips twitch. Zariah’s pussy quivers under the attention, the sensitive skin pulsing and tightening as he circles her clit again and again. He holds her legs open wider with firm hands, keeping her spread so nothing interrupts the steady motion of his mouth. The wet sounds grow louder with every lick, and he focuses right there, building the heat until her body starts to tighten once more. She grinds down into him, chasing the sensation as the pressure coils deep inside. His tongue works without pause, thick and insistent, pushing her straight toward the edge until she breaks again, fluid spilling over his lips while he keeps sucking through the pulses.
Smoke stays locked in place, his mouth sealed over her pussy as he sucks deeper, pulling her swollen clit between his lips with steady pressure. His tongue follows in thick, wet drags that lap up every fresh trickle of her arousal, working in firm circles that make her thighs shake in the air. Zariah keeps her legs spread wide, knees bent and feet towards the ceiling, giving him full access while her hips roll in small, desperate circles against his face.
Her body reacts in waves. The muscles in her lower belly tighten and release with each pull of his mouth, sending ripples across her frame. Her rich brown skin glistens with sweat, the soft curve of her waist flexing as her back arches off the bed. Her breasts rise and fall faster, nipples tight and dark against the air. Inside, her walls pulse and flutter around nothing, clenching with every lick that drags from her entrance up to her clit. More slick heat spills out, coating his tongue and dripping down his chin as he swallows it down without pause.
“Uhuh, yeah baby.” Smoke rumbles against her, voice low and thick with command. “Keep those legs open. Let me feel you gettin' close. I want every drop this time. Right in my fucking mouth. Feed me.” His words vibrate through her core, pushing the tension higher. Smoke sucks again, lips sealed tight while his tongue flicks quick and firm right on that sensitive spot, building the pressure until her moans turn ragged.
Zariah’s hands fist the sheets. Her pussy quivers harder now, the inner walls squeezing in quick spasms that grow stronger with each pass of his tongue. The heat coils low in her belly, spreading outward until her toes curl and her breath hitches in short gasps. "Haah—Fuck," a sharp inhale caught in her throat, then she breathes out, the word breaking on a moan as another rush of wetness floods his mouth. Her hips jerk upward, chasing the sensation while her thighs tremble around his shoulders.
Smoke doesn't let up. He slides two fingers inside her, curling them against that spongy spot while his mouth keeps working her clit in wet, insistent pulls. “I know you feel it buildin’. Don't hold back on me. You gon’ give it all, you hear me?” His free hand presses her thigh wider, keeping her open as her body winds tighter. Her stomach flutters visibly, the muscles jumping under her skin. Her pussy clenches around his fingers, gripping and releasing in a steady climb toward the edge.
"I'll be your good girl—” Zariah gasps, voice cracking as the pressure peaks. Her whole frame locks up for a beat, then shatters. A hot rush pours from her, squirting in pulsing waves straight into his mouth. Smoke groans low and drinks it down, tongue still moving through the contractions that ripple through her walls. Her orgasm rolls on, body shaking as fresh slick spills over his lips and chin, her moans filling the room while he holds her through every last spasm.
Smoke lingers between her thighs after the last tremors fade, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses against her slick folds. Each one lands soft, his lips brushing over the swollen heat while his tongue gives the lightest flick to catch the lingering taste.
“That’s a good girl," he whispers low against her, the words vibrating through her sensitive skin. “Took every bit of it just like I said. Look at you, still shakin’ for me.” His praise comes steady and warm, laced with that deep southern drawl that settles right into her bones.
Zariah’s breath hitches in the aftermath, her body still sprawled open on the sheets. Her rich brown skin gleams from the vanilla oil, a fine sheen of sweat tracing the narrow dip of her waist and the soft flare of her hips. Her breasts rise and fall in quick, shallow pulls, nipples drawn tight from the rush that just tore through her. Inside, her walls continue to flutter in small, involuntary pulses, the aftershocks making her thighs twitch around his shoulders even as she keeps them parted for him.
Smoke trails those kisses upward, dragging his mouth across the smooth plane of her lower belly. Each press of his lips leaves a ticklish, wet mark that cools against her heated skin, moving higher with unhurried purpose. His hands slide along her sides, palms broad as they frame her ribcage. When he reaches her chest, he pauses at one peaked nipple, drawing it between his lips with a firm, wet pull. His tongue circles the tight bud then strokes while he sucks, the pressure sending fresh sparks straight down to her still-throbbing core.
Zariah arches into the contact, a broken moan slipping free as her fingers thread into the sheets again. The pull at her nipple feels sharper now, heightened by how raw everything still feels below. Her other breast settles against his cheek when he shifts to give it the same attention, sucking deep while his tongue works in lazy, insistent laps.
“So damn responsive,” Smoke rumbles between pulls, voice thick with approval. “Every part of you knows who it belong to.”
Zariah’s legs ease wider on instinct, the earlier tension melting into a loose, pliant sprawl. The muscles along her stomach quiver visibly under his path, and her hips give a small, involuntary roll upward as if chasing more of the contact even though he's moved on. Smoke keeps his mouth latched, alternating between gentle suction and firmer draws that make her back bow off the bed, her full lips parting around another shaky exhale.
Smoke stays latched on her nipple, drawing it deep into his mouth with sucks that make her whole chest tighten. His tongue works in firm circles, pressing and flicking against the stiff peak while his teeth graze just enough to send sharp little jolts straight through her. Zariah’s rich brown skin flushes darker across her breasts, the full weight of them rising and falling with every breath as he switches sides, sucking the other nipple just as hard, his broad hand cupping the first one to keep the wet heat from fading.
Her pussy responds fast, slick folds parting on their own as fresh wetness slips out in a steady drip that trails down toward the sheets. The sensation builds low and insistent, her clit twitching in time with each strong suck, the tiny bud swelling and pulsing without any direct touch. Her slim-thick thighs part wider on the bed, hips rolling in small, helpless circles as the throbbing between her legs grows heavier, matching the pull of his mouth.
Zariah’s long legs tremble as another rush of heat floods her core. She can feel it clearly now, the way her pussy clenches around nothing, dripping steadily while her clit jumps and aches for friction. Smoke doesn’t let up, his lips sealed tight around her nipple, sucking with that deep, focused technique hat leaves her gasping. His free hand slides down her side, palm broad against the curve of her waist, holding her steady as her back arches higher off the mattress.
“Look at that,” he says low, voice rough against her skin between pulls. “Your body tellin’ on you. Drippin’ all over just from this.” He drags his tongue across the sensitive tip one more time, then seals his mouth around it again, sucking harder until her clit twitches visibly with the next wave of wetness sliding free.
Zariah’s breath comes in short, shaky pulls, her full lips parted, eyes half-lidded as the pressure builds. Every strong draw from his mouth sends fresh heat straight down, making her pussy clench and release, more slick gathering and spilling out in warm trails. Her clit keeps twitching, swollen and sensitive, the empty ache growing sharper with each passing second. She rolls her hips again, seeking something, anything, but Smoke keeps her pinned with his weight and his mouth, focused entirely on working her nipples until the dripping and twitching leaves her shaking.
When he could see that pussy weeping the way he needed it to, Smoke releases her nipple with a slow drag of his lips, the wet pull leaving a shiny trail across her deep brown areolas. He rises over her, his thick frame blotting out the light above the bed as he lowers his mouth to hers. The kiss lands heavy and unhurried, his tongue pushing past her parted lips to stroke deep, carrying the taste of her own sex. Zariah meets him without hesitation, her full lips pressing back while her breath hitches against his. Her hands slide up his arms, fingers curling around the dense muscle there as the kiss stretches on, turning hotter with each slow pass of his tongue.
Her body stays open beneath him, thighs spread wide on the sheets. The steady drip from her pussy continues, warm slick sliding down the curve of her ass and soaking into the sheets right along with the puddle she made from squirting. Her clit keeps twitching, swollen and sensitive, each pulse sending fresh heat through her core. Zariah rolls her hips upward, seeking the press of his weight, the hard length of him brushing her inner thigh as he settles closer. Smoke's hand moves to cradle the back of her neck, holding her still while the kiss turns rougher, his teeth catching her bottom lip for a brief tug before his tongue claims her mouth again.
His hand lingers tangled in her curls, thumb stroking the nape of her neck in lazy circles
“Spoil you proper now,” Smoke rumbles that reminder, voice vibrating through her bones. His big palms slide down her sides, gripping her hips firm to flip her upright in one smooth hoist, straddling his thighs now, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. That heavy and rigid, curved dick all thick-veined and standing tall from those low-hanging balls, say wedged between her pussy lips, tip glossy from pre-cum beading thick.
Zariah braces her hands on his full chest, fingers splaying over his pecs, feeling the dense muscle shift under her palms as he breathes deep. Glossy brown eyes lock on his heavy-lidded stare, lips parting on a soft exhale, posture straight even perched like this, thighs flexing to lift her hips. Zariah sinks down slowly, pussy lips parting wide around his girth, swallowing the flared head first with a wet stretch, inner walls clenching greedily as inches disappear inside. Halfway down, she pauses, breath hitching, hands smoothing over his pecs to steady herself.
Smoke’s arms snake around her, one thick forearm banding her lower back, the other spanning shoulder blades, yanking her flush against him. Chest mashes to chest, her nipples dragging hard points over his skin, his beard scraping her jaw as he nuzzles close. “
“Ride daddy, baby girl,” Smoke growls low in her ear, hips snapping up suddenly, thrust punching deep, balls slapping her ass with a meaty smack. Zariah gasps, spine arching but Smoke holds her locked, pumping from below relentlessly now. Each buck rolls his pelvis up hard, curved dick spearing her g-spot dead-on, grinding the base against her swollen clit with every bury.
Thighs like steel pistons flex under her, driving up fast then slow, varying the rhythm to make her chase it, his arms crushing her closer, one hand fisting her ass cheek to spread her wider, fingers teasing her hole while he rails her pussy. Sweat slicks their skin, her juices coat his shaft glossy, dripping down to soak his balls.
“Feel that? Daddy fillin’ you full, protectin’ this pussy ‘cus it's mine. Phenomenal woman takin’ every inch.” His voice stays that dangerous calm, breath tickling her neck between grunts, lips sucking marks along her collarbone.
Zariah rocks with him, hips circling intentional, walls fluttering tight around his length. Her voice was soft, edged with that self-possession.
“Yes, daddy...feels so good.” No begging, just owning the ride, thighs quivering as tension builds. He ramps it harder, arms vise-tight, fucking up into her like a machine, wet slaps echoing loud, her ass bouncing on his thighs, pussy creaming thick down his dick.
Zariah’s moans spill out breathy at first, soft exhales pitching higher with each deep punch,,starting as hushed mmh's from deep in her throat, lips parting wider to let ahh's drag long and throaty, vibrating against where her mouth presses open near his collarbone. Tension coils her core tighter, breaths coming measured but ragged now, moans layering into nngh-ahh-mmh, each one punched out precisely by his upward drives, voice never cracking loud but husky-thick with need, edges fraying just enough to feel raw.
“Yes, daddy,” Zariah breathes into his neck, her hips working bolder, starting to throw it down now, lifting high to slam her ass back onto his thighs with snaps and deep grinds, pussy gripping his girth on every drop. “You fuck me so good. Fuck this pussy. Fuck me with that big dick.” Her thighs flex hard, bucking wilder to meet his thrusts, wet hole sucking him deeper, creamy froth building at the base where her pussy lips stretch taut around his veined curve. “Fuck, I love this big dick.” Her voice stays in that self-possessed tone, edged needy, no shrieks or pleas because she was owning every word as she grinds down, clit dragging his pelvis, walls pulsing greedy.
Smoke’s grip tightens, one forearm locked across her lower back to mash her tits flush to his chest, the other palm cupping her ass full, fingers digging into the balm-slick cheek to yank her harder onto each buck. His toned hips piston up relentless, thick thighs bulging under her weight, curved length spearing her depths over and over. Those heavy balls swinging up to tap her perineum with heavy thwacks.
“Fuck yes, baby girl, throw that pussy on daddy's dick like you ownin’ it, good girl, get your dick,” Smoke rumbles low in her ear, thick and commanding. “Look at you ridin’ this big Mississippi meat, creamin’ all over my balls. Feel how deep I'm feedin’ this wet hole? Huh? Stretchin’ you wide, hittin’ that spot ain’t I’m?” Smoke thrusts up and holds, tapping Zariah on the rump as she shakes all over. “All that boss shit disappear when I give you dick. You safe wit’ me, act like it.”
Smoke rolls his pelvis on the upthrusts, grinding the fat base against her clit, varying the pace from slow deep grinds to three fast snaps, making her chase the friction. Sweat beads on his chest, his beard rasping her jaw as he turns her face to capture her lips in a messy suck, tongue thrusting in time with his hips. “Keep talkin’ to me, bad girl. Tell daddy how this dick rearrangin’ that tight pussy. You takin’ it perfect.” Smoke’s thumb teases her back entrance light, pressing the puckered ring while he rails her pussy, arms crushing her immobile against him, and Zariah was owning it even as she bucks wild.
Her pace picks up frantic, hips slamming down to swallow him balls-deep every time, pussy squelching loud around his girth, juices dripping warm down his sack to soak the sheets. Her moans turn into throaty-soft pleas now.
“Ahh-nngh-yes!” blending with his grunts, body trembling. Smoke feels her tighten vise-like, knows she's close, but holds back his own load, hips snapping sharper to drag it out.
Zariah’s walls clamp down vise-tight around his thick length, that deep coil snapping loose as the orgasm rips through her, body seizing rigid in his iron hold, thighs locking hard against his hips, back arching sharp but pinned flush by his forearm across her back. Her pussy floods him in hot gushes, creamy release squirting thick around his pistoning shaft, soaking his heavy balls and dripping messy down to the sheets below. Zariah can’t buck anymore, stuck impaled balls-deep on his curved girth, every ridge dragging her fluttering walls as Smoke keeps snapping up relentless, his hips rolling precisely to grind that swollen spot inside her over and over, forcing wave after wave to crash harder.
Moans pour from her throat uncontrolled, delicate but fractured, starting as a long, drawn out ‘ahhhh’ vibrating deep in her chest, pitching into sharp ‘nngh-nngh’ gasps punched out by each thrust, lips trembling open against his neck where her face buries hot and slick with sweat. They layer ragged, breathy exhales fraying at the edges ‘mmh-ahh-mmh’ blending into a throaty hum that shakes her frame, her voice husky-thick and edged raw, never shrill but owning the depth of it, body quaking helpless as she creams all over his big dick.
Smoke doesn't let up, thick arms crushing her immobile against him, his biceps bulging under her sliding palms, one hand palming her ass cheek deep to spread her wider, fingers splayed to feel her hole pulse and leak around him. His pelvis snaps up in deep strokes, curved head battering that g-spot without mercy, balls wet against her perineum through her flood. That thick length gleamed with her juices and he just kept fucking her pussy straight through the peak. Smoke turns her face to lock eyes with him, his heavy-lidded gaze burning steady into hers, full lips parting on a low grunt.
“Yeah, cum on this dick, baby girl, keep cummin’ on this dick.” Smoke growls thick in her ear. “Pretty pussy grippin’ me so tight, squirtin’ all over daddy’s balls. Stuck right here takin’ every inch while I hit that spot. Keep cummin’ for me, baby, flood this big dick, bad girl. You own this nut, pussy milkin’ me deep.” He varies the drives—three short punches to her depths, then a slow grind circling her clit with his base, drawing out the spasms, her walls sucking greedily even as she trembles locked.
Zariah’s body jerks in aftershocks, pussy clenching around him, more cream bubbling out to coat his veined length shiny, her thighs quivering helpless. All Zariah can do is moan throaty into his collarbone, ‘ahh-nngh-yes’ spilling fractured as he rails her sensitive hole. He feels his own sack tighten heavy, but holds it back, hips powering through her mess to chase every drop from her. He’d continue to edge himself as long as he gives his bad bitch plenty of orgasms.
Smoke eases out of her spasming pussy with a wet pop, Zariah’s cream clinging thick in strings to his veined shaft, glossy from tip to base where her squirt and cream mixed in slick trails down his heavy balls. Smoke wastes no time and flips her over rough but steady, large hands gripping her hips to yank her ass high at the bed's edge, face pressed flat into the rumpled sheets, knees spread wide under his direction. One palm presses firm between her shoulder blades, forcing that deep arch in her spine until her spine hollows out perfectly, ass cheeks parting naturally from the stretch, lower back dipping sharp.
Her pussy blooms open in that position, lips puffy and flushed dark from the pounding, inner folds glistening raw and swollen, stuck slightly agape from his girth, unable to close full after the stretch. Cream leaks steady from that stretched, creamy hole, thick white rivulets bubbling out slow to trail down her inner thighs, mixing with squirt sheen that soaks the sheets beneath her knees. Above it, her pretty asshole winks in the cool air, the tight ring pulsing faint with each aftershock clench from her pussy below, pink-brown rim flexing open a fraction before snapping shut, begging subtle under the exposure.
Smoke stands planted at the edge, bare feet firm on the floor, thick thighs framing her as he lines up, messy dick heavy in his fist, curved length slapping once against her leaking slit to smear her own juices back over her clit. Then, he sinks in, crown breaching her folds with a squelch, inch after girthy inch parting her walls until his pelvis meets her ass full, balls nestling heavy against her clit. Slow strokes start, pulling back to the tip so her pussy lips drag reluctant along his ridges, then driving deep again, his hips rolling weighted to bottom out each time, grinding her depths before he withdraws again.
“Zari…you daddy’s little bratty girl, huh?” Smoke rumbles low, thick and edged mean, one hand sinking deep into her left ass cheek, fingers digging to spread her wider. He watched his curved dick emerge shiny-coated in fresh cream, veins pulsing as her hole grips and tugs. “You piss me off just so I can fuck you like this? Bend you over and drill this good pussy deep?” Smoke popped her ass. “See how sweet you get when you finally let go?”
“Yes, daddy,” Zariah gasps throaty into the mattress, voice husky-fractured from the stretch, ass pushing back instinctively to meet his plunge, her walls fluttering around the slow invasion. “Yes, sir, I do—want this dick so bad.”
Smoke grunts his approval, other hand claiming a full handful of her right cheek—palms rough and veined, overflowing with soft flesh, kneading hard as he pulls her onto him deeper, pace still controlled but forceful, balls tapping her clit wet on each burial. Her leaky mess coated him fresh, pussy slurping audible around the drag.
“That’s right. Act up so daddy give you some dick, stretch this bratty hole wide. Piss me off on purpose, gettin’ that arch just right for me too. You love bein’ face down, ass up, leakin’ all over my balls while I stroke it slow like this? Huh?”
“Mmm-yes sir,” Zariah moans soft-edged, body rocking forward with each deep seat, tits dragging along the sheets, back holding that arch under his palm's pressure, thighs quaking faint as the slow grind builds the pressure anew.
“Love it daddy, love pissin’ you off for this—fuck me deep, please sir.”
Smoke’s grip tightens on her ass, spreading her cheeks farther to stare down at the sight, thick dick disappearing into her gripping pussy, lips hugging tight on the outstroke, cream frothing at the base where her hole milks him greedy. He picks up a fraction, strokes still deep but adding a twist at the end to nudge her g-spot, heavy balls swinging to smack her clit. Sweat beads his sculpted chest, biceps flexing as he holds her steady, heavy-lidded eyes tracing the messy union.
Each withdraw dragged her puffy lips outward, clinging to his veined length before he fed it back in full, pelvis slapping her ass cheeks with a meaty thud that echoed off the walls. His large hands overflow with her flesh, thumbs digging into the crease where thigh meets cheek to pry her wider, exposing the way her hole stretches taut around his girth, inner walls visible in flashes of pink and slick as cream bubbles fresh at the seam. Her asshole keeps up its subtle pulse above, ring contracting in time with her pussy's greedy squeezes, a faint sheen of her own leak trickling down to gloss it further.
Zariah twists her neck, cheek lifting off the damp sheets, eyes glassy and desperate locking onto his over her shoulder, those lips he loved so much parted on heavy breaths, kinky hair spilling wild across her back.
“Daddy–yyy,” she pleads raw, voice cracking high as one of her hands snakes down between her spread thighs, thumb finding her swollen clit to rub frantic circles, chasing the building coil. “Please sir, harder—gimme more dick, I need it deep.” Her hips buck back insistent against his controlled pace, ass jiggling faint in his grip, pussy slurping louder on the next plunge as her walls clamp down fluttering.
“Not yet, brat,” he growls thick, voice rolling low, free hand sliding up her spine to press her chest flatter, keeping that arch locked while his hips roll weighted, grinding the curve of his dick against her front wall on every bury. “You gon’ beg pretty for daddy first. Tell me how bad this pussy want it—how you act up just to get stretched like this, leakin’ all over me, nasty girl.” He watches her fingers blur faster on her clit, the way her thighs start quaking harder. “You feel how hard you holdin’ onto me? That stress been sittin’ in your body all damn week. Use me then, go ‘head.”
“Daddy, yes, I'm your bratty girl, piss you off for this dick every time,” Zariah whines, head turning full to hold his gaze, eyes pleading wide while her fingers grind her clit ruthlessly, body rocking violently now between his strokes and her own touch. Her eyes go cross eyed as she gushes fresh around him, walls rippling wild as the pressure crests, her back bowing deeper under his palm, ass pressing back to take him to the hilt. “Daddy, daddy—I'm squirting, oh fuck sir, it's comin’—don't stop, talk me through it please!”
Smoke leans forward slightly, chest brushing her back as one hand releases her cheek to tangle in her hair, yanking her head back gently but firm to keep those eyes on him, the other palm smacking her ass once sharp to jolt her higher. His strokes stay slow but deepen, twisting at the base to nudge her g-spot while her fingers strum.
“Good girl, there you do, baby girl, let it go for daddy. Feel that pussy squeezin’ me tight? You squirtin’ all over this dick, you can't help it. Push back on it, rub that clit harder—gimme that mess. You like bein’ handled, huh?”
“Yes—”
“That’s my baby right there.”
His voice stays gravel-rough, guiding her edge with words as her body seizes, thighs locking, toes curling into the mattress, a sharp cry ripping from her throat.
Her squirt hits explosive, clear jets pulsing out around his buried length to spray his pelvis and thighs, puddling hot on the sheets below as her pussy convulses violently, clenching him in waves that force more cream to froth at the base. She stares back at him wild-eyed, mouth slack on gasps, fingers slowing sloppy through the aftershocks while he holds steady inside her, hips grinding minimal to prolong the clench, watching her leak mix with the spray in rivulets down her legs.
“Good girl, just like that—daddy got you, keep cummin’ good tonight. There you go, let all that pressure out. Ain’t nobody gon’ take care of you like me. Daddy got you. Been a mean bitch for so long ain’t nobody fuck you stupid til I cam around,” Smoke pops her on the left cheek. “Quit actin’ tough and come get this comfort. Say, yes sir.”
“Y–yes, sir.”
“Now we gettin’ to the good part. I’ma move when you ready, but when I do, you gon’ feel every stroke. You with me? Say it.”
Zariah exhales, “I’m with you, daddy.” She grips the sheets.
“Talk to me, Zari. Words. You ready or daddy gotta give you a break?”
Zariah sucks in air and lets it out meditating slow.
“I’m ready, sir.”
Smoke's grip shifts lightning-quick from her hair to her shoulders, thick fingers clamping down over the knobs of bone there, palms splaying wide across her upper back to yank her torso up off the soaked sheets, forcing that spine into a brutal arch. Her head snaps upright, chin tucking toward her chest while her eyes glaze over fucked-out, pupils blown wide staring dead ahead at the headboard, mouth hanging slack on drooling whimpers, tongue lolling faint as spit beads at the corner. The new angle spears his dick straight down into her core, her ass cheeks spreading obscene on his pelvis with every hilt, pussy lips puffing out bloated and raw around the veined stretch, cream and squirt foaming thick at the root to splatter his heavy balls on the upstroke.
Smoke rears back tall behind her, knees digging wider into the mattress for leverage, broad shoulders rolling fluid as his dense core tightens, abs flexing solid under sweat-slick brown skin that gleams. Those rounded delts bunch heavy, veins popping along his forearms as he hauls her back onto him harder, his hips snapping forward with punishing force now, no more tease, full throttle wrecking. Each thrust lands weighted and final, his pelvis crashing her ass with claps that ripple flesh outward in waves, her cheeks clapping back against his thighs while her entire frame jolts forward violently, tits swinging beneath her to smack her ribs. The bed frame groans protest under the onslaught, pure power uncoiling from that grounded stance, thighs thick and corded pumping relentlessly.
Zariah’s body's a live wire in the pound, pussy walls seizing erratic around his plunging length, clenching desperate to hold him but fluttering loose on the withdraw, gushing fresh squirt in erratic sprays that arc down her quaking thighs to puddle wider on the sheets. Every bury shoves her forward an inch before his shoulder grip reels her back, her ass meat compressing flat against him then bouncing rebound, ripples traveling up her spine to make her curls lash wild. Her thighs attempt to lock rigid then spasm open, toes scrabbling, curling into the mattress as her belly sucks in hollow, ribs heaving under sweat-sheened skin, fucked-out stare fixed unblinking ahead, lashes fluttering half-mast while tears streak silent from the corners, jaw slack wider on guttural cries that pitch higher with each rip through her depths.
“That little mean streak disappear fast when I touch you right. You been wantin’ this all day. Nah, stay right there I wanna watch you take it—look at my girl—take this dick tearin’ you open,” he rasps, drawl thickening hot over the wet slaps, one hand sliding from shoulder to tangle back in her hair—yanking her head higher to deepen the arch while the other digs into her shoulder, pinning her steady for the ram. His chest heaves, heavy breaths fanning her neck as he leans over partial, hips pistoning machine-like, balls swinging to batter her clit, smearing her mess back up her folds.
“Feel daddy rearrangin’ your guts? You soaked the whole damn bed beggin’ for it—now wet this dick up again while I pound you stupid. Arch that back deeper, push this ass on me—gimme that grip, baby. You gon’ relax for me or keep fightin’ me, baby?”
Zariah chokes out a keen, body betraying full surrender—hips grinding back frantic despite the overwhelm, pussy convulsing in fresh spasms that squeeze him vise-tight, walls undulating a massage along every vein as another squirt builds from the core. Her arms buckle, elbows to the sheets, fingers clawing fabric while her tits drag heavy across the damp cotton, nipples scraping raw. Her entire frame shudders electric with the force, ass lifting instinctively to meet his slams even as her vision blurs white-hot ahead. Sweat rivers down her cleavage, pooling in her navel before dripping off to mix with the flood below, thighs slick and trembling spread wide around his pistoning thighs.
Smoke grunts approval low, pace ratcheting inhuman, thrusts blurring to a frenzy that shakes her teeth, his solid midsection slapping her ass endless while those large hands anchor her, veins throbbing prominent down his forearms from the haul. Sweat beads thick on his brow, trickling into the heavy stubble framing his jaw that’s set hard, dark eyes locked on the destruction between her legs, watching her hole gape briefly on pulls before swallowing him balls-deep again.
“FUCK, just like that—pussy talkin’ back to daddy, on every stroke.” His voice coaches steady through the chaos, drawl wrapping command around her haze as her body hurtles toward shatter again, the room thick with their slap-echo and her broken pleas. “Breathe through it. You can handle it. This what happen when you act like you don't need me tellin' you what to do. Next time you think about steppin’ out of line, you remember how this dick feel stretchin’ you open and makin’ you cum so hard you can't even talk.”
Smoke yanks free with a wet pop that leaves her hole gaping, pink inner walls fluttering visible, clenching air desperate around nothing while thick strands of her cream stretch and snap between his retreating length and her wrecked folds. Frothy white coats his dick heavy from root to tip, balls glossy-slick swinging low and heavy beneath, veins pulsing prominent along his curved shaft.
“Flip over, clean this dick spotless, baby,” Smoke orders, cutting sharp through her haze as one large hand strokes himself base-up lazy, smearing her mess while the other pats her ass firm to roll her.
Zariah twists compliant on trembling limbs, spine sinking into the drenched mattress as she sprawls supine, hair fanning wild across the pillow, belly quivering faint under the aftershocks. Her thighs splay wide, knees bending hooks toward her shoulders to bare everything, pussy on full display. Lips swollen fat and parted like it wanted to stay just like that from now on, flushed deep around the edges from the tear-up, inner pink glistening obscene under a sheen of her own squirt that drips lazy from her stretched entrance. Her clit hood peeled back partial, pearl throbbing exposed and raw, folds puffy-ridged from friction with cream beading fresh in the creases, entire slit pulsing like a heartbeat begging refill.
Smoke kneels up tall between her legs, knees bracketing her hips as he feeds his dick forward, tip bumping her lips expectant. Zariah cranes her neck, tongue darting out to lap broad from balls upward, tracing the heavy seam salty with her tang before sucking one orb full into her mouth, cheeks hollowing while her hand cups the other, rolling it. Up the shaft next, flat laps cleaning veins groove by groove, swirling the flared head to hollow her cheeks around it vacuum-tight, sucking her cream off audible with slurps that echo wet, spit mixing fresh to dribble down her chin as she moans low vibrations against him. His free hand dives between her thighs unhurried, palm cupping her mound full before thick fingers part those bloated lips wider, middle and ring sliding through the slick valley, parting her petals to expose that clenching core.
Feels like firework sparks when he rubs. Thick fingers coarse-knuckled dragging pressure perfect over her clit first, circling the hood lazy to make it twitch and swell fatter under the pad of his thumb joining in, then dipping lower to trace entrance rim where her walls suck greedy at the intrusion. That sweet pussy yields butter-soft inside, hot velvet clamping instant on the shallow probes, gushing syrupy response that coats his digits knuckle-deep. Each pass through her folds sends jolts electric up her spine. Zariah’s thighs jerked, spread while her hips buck faint to chase. Her outer lips drag sensitive along his palm skin, inner ridges fluttering as he massaged with his fingertips that scoop cream back up to smear her clit renewed, building that coil tight again with every glide.
Zariah polishes him thoroughly, tongue polishing the underside ridge before popping off clean with a gasp. Her hand wrapped around the base firm now to stroke with a upward twist, the skin gliding smooth over the cleaned glans while her gaze locks with his from below. Sultry heat simmers there, lids heavy-lidded fuck-drunk but sharp with desire, full lips curving wicked as teeth catch the bottom one, dragging slowly, holding his stare unblinking, challenge wrapped in surrender. Smoke groans deep, torso folding forward lean as his mouth crashes hers hungry—tongue thrusting his claim deep to tangle hers messy, tasting her own flavor shared while fingers keep working her pussy, two now plunging knuckle-deep to curl and hook against that front wall.
The kiss breaks on her whine, his beard rasping her chin, then his lips trail fire down her throat, nipping her collarbone before his palms scoop under her breasts heavy, thumbs flicking her chocolate nipples side-to-side to make them diamond-hard. Smoke kneads them, fingers sinking deep into the yielding flesh to shape and bounce them palm-to-palm, mouth latching hot over one peak to suck with a vacuum pull while his teeth graze faintly. His tongue lashes flat on her areolas before nibbling gently. Her strokes quicken on his dick, thumb swiping pre cum at his slit.
Smoke releases her nipple with a wet smack, lips glossy from the pull as his gaze lifts heavy to lock hers, dark eyes boring deep, one thumb still circling the slick peak lazy while the other hand squeezes her other titty, flesh spilling between fingers.
“Good girl, Zariah,” Smoke rumbles faintly, voice dipping low like thunder. “Daddy proud of you…takin’ this dick so deep, stretchin’ that pussy perfect. Handlin’ yo’ punishment like a champ too, ass sore but you stayed right there, took every lick without runnin’.That's my baby.”
Zariah gasps sharp, hand tightening its stroke on his girthy dick, twisting from base to tip with precum and spit slicking the glide. Her eyes fluttered half-shut before snapping back to him.
“Yes,” she breathes out needy, hips rolling faint into his stalled fingers still buried knuckle-deep in her folds.
Smoke chuckles low, free hand sliding up her thigh to anchor as he pulls his fingers free with a squelch, strings of her arousal snapping clear.
“Mmm, yeah…and that's why daddy spoil you rotten. Fuck you good whenever you crave it, eat that sweet pussy till you flood my face. You mine to treat right.” His mouth brushes her earlobe feather-light, beard scraping her chin.
“Yes, baby, you always know what I need,” Zariah moans velvety, arching her back to press her titties fuller into his palm, legs parting wider. “I love how you treat me. I'm your princess.” Her lips part on a whine, gaze sultry, locked.
Smoke nods slow approval, torso unfolding tall as he nudges her knees wider, settling heavy between her thighs, dick bobbing thick upright against her mound, tip nudging her clit. Zariah’s body's pliant now, limbs loose-jointed from the haze, so he hooks his elbows under her knees easy, folding her double with her thighs pinned to her chest, calves framing his shoulders tight. That pussy blooms upward obscenely, outer lips mashed flat from how spread open she is, inner folds splayed wide and quivering, entrance winking creamy-pink around the void, clit mashed prominent and pulsing under the weight of his dick resting heavy along her slit. Cream pools fresh in the crease, dripping backward to lube her puckered hole.
Smoke notches his tip at her entrance, eyes never breaking hers, heavy-lidded stare pinning her soul-deep and thrusts in one long stroke, dick disappearing inch-by-thick-inch till his balls nestle snugly against her upturned ass, stretch burning visible in the way her walls bulge around all that girth.
“Damn, princess, pussy grippin' daddy tight like I ain’t fucked you open,” Smoke praises, drawl stretching vowels lazy as his hips draw back on a slow drag, veins dragging friction along the inner ridges of her walls before snapping forward to bury fully again, pelvis slapping her ass with an audible wet sound. His Stroke pulls half-out next, her inner lips clinging reluctant to the retreat, then he plunges renewed, hitting that bottom with a grind that mashes her clit under his pubic bone. “You know who this belong to. Don't you? Say it for me.”
“Daddy’s pussy…daddy’s pussy.” Zariah whines.
“I see you. See how you holdin'm’ on. How you lettin’ me own this. You doin’ so good for me, Zari. Real good, baby.”
Zariah’s folded frame shudders, tits squished between her thighs as her walls clamp on the invasion, sparks exploding core-deep from the deep hits that kiss her cervix. Each thrust sends ripples through her puffy, pussy lips, cream frothing white at the seal where he bottoms out, her breaths punching out on the reentries while her eyes stay fused to his, wide and glassy with the lock, lips mouthing silent pleas.
“All this dick, baby, take it all—daddy got you,” Smoke coos, pace building like a piston now, balls swinging tap-tap against her tailbone with every deep drive, his gaze unwavering intensely as he watches every twitch, every flutter, every jerk, every silent scream, every shake.
Smoke's stare sharpen like a predator, jaw clenching, eyes narrowing to slits while his hands clamp on the backs of her thighs, thumbs digging meaty divots to pin her folded frame immobile. He snaps his hips downward piston-hard, big dick plummeting into her splayed pussy with a wet schlap that echoes off the walls, balls slapping her ass crack heavy before the recoil yanks him half-out only to hammer back in, burying full.
No words now, just breath hissing through his teeth, chest heaving as he tunnels, each drop stroke burying to the hilt, dick dragging brutal against her clamping walls that suck reluctantly at the retreat. His pace ratchets machine-steady, bedframe groaning under and the mattress dipping deep where his toes anchored. Sweat beads his temple and trails down, dripping onto her upturned tits that jiggle chaotic with every impact, nipples peaked tight from the frenzy.
Zariah's moans rip free raw, high-pitched keens fracturing into throaty wails that bounce off the ceiling, back arching futile against the fold as her thighs quake trapped in his hold. Her manicured acrylic nails rake fire-trails down his bulging biceps, carving pink welts into the sweat-slick skin that flexes corded under the gouge. Her calves locked rigid around his shoulders while her toes splay then curl tight, soles cramping from the building blaze. That battered pussy convulses wildly around his invading girth, cream gushing frothier at the seal with every plunge, inner muscles fluttering desperately to milk on those veins pulsing hot inside her. That curve hitting spots that make her dizzy. That tip kissing the back of her pussy, making her stomach clench.
Tension coils her belly taut, breaths punching erratic as sparks ignite white-hot, walls seizing brutally on the next drop that kisses her spot, and she shatters. Squirt erupts forceful, clear jets arcing from her spasming slit to splatter his abs, soaking the shaft still lodged halfway as her pussy clamps and ejects, flooding the crease between her ass cheeks in hot rivulets that puddle onto the sheets, dampening it dark beneath her. Zariah’s body bucks helplessly in Smoke’s fold, eyes rolling on a scream that shreds hoarse while her nails dig crescent moons into his forearms.
Smoke grunts low once, chest rumbling the sound, before yanking free with an obscene squelch, dick springing upright glossy and throbbing, veins livid against the slick sheen of her release coating every inch from balls to tip. He unfolds her legs, thighs blooming wide as gravity settles her limp, then shoulders between them rough—head dipping low to seal his full lips hot over her quivering pussy. That thick tongue plunges flat and broad through her splayed folds, lapping the gush pooled in her entrance like a glutton, tongue flicking up to swirl her clit hood and those lips start sucking the pulsing nub vacuum-tight. Smoke smacked his lips wet, devouring every drop. His thick fingers splay her lips wider, exposing the pink inner clench still fluttering post-squirt, and he tongues deep inside to scoop the cream hollowing her out, beard scraping thighs raw as nose buries into her mound drag her scent full lungs.
Zariah stared down at him dumbfounded. She didn’t have the capacity to form words. He was eating her pussy up and even her twitching didn’t stop him from overstimulating her.
Her vision blurred as aftershocks ripple through her, body slack against the soaked sheets, chest rising and falling shallow while her pussy throbs exposed, folds. Moans spill lazy from her throat, fracturing into his name drawn long and needy
“Smoke...Smoke…” her hips canting, rolling her slick pussy against his locked mouth, grinding her clit over his probing tongue that flicks non-stop like a propeller. Her thighs clamp his ears, heels digging into his back to pull him tighter into her drenched heat, cream smearing into his beard thick as she chases the friction through the daze, palming the top of his low cut ceasar with the deep waves.
Smoke’s growl vibrates low against her pussy before he lifts, his face slick-shined, eyes burning dark into hers, jaw set granite
“Gon’ nut so deep in this pussy, lock it down tight.” No pause, Smoke surges up fluid, knees bracketing her hips, one hand fisting the base of his dick slick-heavy to notch his tip bluntly at her fluttering hole, then he slams home in a single thrust, burying balls-deep with a meaty thwack that jolts her tits.
Silence is only broken by skin-slaps wet, his powerful hips snapping, pulling that dick to drag slow, veins bulging against her pussy grip before dropping to grind deep with a roll of his hips. His pace builds, thighs flexing like steel under sweat rivers carving paths down his obliques, abs clenching ridge-defined with every plunge that stretches her walls around that curved dick invading her pussy. The headboard thumped the wall with dull thuds while his heavy balls swung to slap her ass cheeks spread wide, drawing creamy froth at the seal to drip down her crack.
Zariah’s moans pitch frantically while her hands claw his shoulders, gouging fresh welts into the flexing traps. Her Legs hook his waist and she locks her ankles to pull him deeper, pussy clenching, ridges pulsing hot inside, and her words tumbled desperate to coach him through.
“This yo’ pussy, Smoke—cum in yo’ pussy, big daddy...fill this pussy up, give it all...show me who this pussy belong to. Tear it up, big daddy…stretch me out…ahhh–nnghhh–big ass dick…oh…big dick—yes, right there, right there, don’t stop, stroke it—yessss.” Her voice cracks husky, hips bucking in a counter-rhythm.
Smoke’s groan shreds guttural, throat raw cords straining as his eyes bore into hers unblinking, heavy-lidded slits flaring wide with the lock. His muscles are cable-tight across his shoulders, biceps ballooning veins livid under her rake, traps bunching while his quads quake to brace the final drives. That big dick swells thicker mid-thrust, tip flaring to kiss her depths, and he erupts—balls drawing up tight, contracting, pulsing thick-hot ropes to flood her clenching channel and paint her walls white. His thrusts stutter shallow, grinding his thick seed deeper, damn near churning it to froth with her cream, that veiny beast jerking erratic against the flutter, that pussy milking every drop while an overflow seeps slow down her ass. His groan drags endless, chest heaving bellows against her neck, forehead dropping to hers sweat-slick as the last pulse fades, his body a heavy drape over her pinned frame.
Smoke eases his thick, curved dick out of Zariah's soaked pussy inch by inch, letting her feel every ridge and stretch as he pulls free. The wet slide leaves her entrance fluttering, slick with their mixed fluids. He stays close, one broad hand resting on the curve of her hip while he watches her body settle.
“You took all that dick so good for me, baby. Real good. My pretty girl handled every inch. See? Ain’t gotta fight me all the time. C’mere, pretty girl.”
Smoke leans down and presses his lips to her forehead, then again just above her brow, then once more near her hairline. Three kisses that linger each time.
“Stay right there. Don’t move.”
Smoke stands, his heavy frame casting a shadow over her sprawled form. Zariah lies on her side like a goddess, long legs slightly parted, rich brown skin glowing with sweat and satisfaction, full lips curved in a lazy smile from being fucked so thoroughly. Her narrow waist and soft hips look even more inviting in the afterglow. Smoke steps away toward the bathroom first, turning on the jacuzzi tub so warm water starts filling with steady jets. The sound of bubbles fills the space. He then leaves the room entirely to head for the kitchen.
On his way out. He glances back at her again.
“Stay right there. I'll be back to get you in a minute.”
About ten minutes goes by and Zariah’s phone rings while she’s still sprawled on the bed, freshly fucked and glowing. She reaches for it lazily, answering with that professional tone she keeps for work.
“Hey, it’s Z. Ellie…hey. Yeah, I’m here. What’s going on?”
Ellie, her publicist starts rattling off a packed schedule—more shoots, events, back-to-back bookings for the next month. Zariah listens, nodding along even though no one can see her, her voice calm and composed.
Smoke walks back into the room carrying the tray with her herbal tea and water. He sets it down, eyes locking on her. That look says everything without a word. He steps closer, takes the phone right out of her hand, and brings it to his ear.
“Ellie, right? Listen, she gon’ need a week off. Clear the next seven days—yes, a week. Y’all can make it happen.” His voice is final. He hangs up before the publicist can reply.
Zariah sits up a little, mouth opening to protest. “Smoke—”
He leans in and kisses her, slow and with tongue, cutting off whatever she was about to say. When he pulls back, his hand cups her jaw, thumb brushing her full lower lip.
“You gon’ need some rest and relaxation. I plan to fuck you and eat that pussy in every room of this place. You hear me?”
Zariah stares at him, that familiar tension flickering between them—her independence brushing up against his weight. Smoke doesn’t move. He just waits, eyes steady on hers. Slowly, she melts, no need to fight him when truthfully she could use a little break. And seven full days of back-to-back sex with her big, bad, man? Hell yeah.
“Say it. Yes, daddy.”
Zariah exhales, shoulders softening the way they do when she chooses to meet him. Her voice comes out quiet but clear.
Summary: Modern AU — Elijah and Elias were separated as toddlers following their parents' traumatic divorce and conditioned to believe they were the only child. Decades later, they've established successful lives on opposite ends of the country, without ever knowing the truth. When Stack travels south for work, a bizarre encounter at a local grocery store disrupts all they thought they knew. As buried lies emerge and family secrets come to light, the twins are forced to confront the past that was stolen from them.
Pairings: Elias “Stack” Moore x Black Fem!reader and Elijah “Smoke” Moore x Annie
Warnings: 18+, explicit language, use of the n-word, family dynamics, uncovered secrets, angst, hurt/comfort, family trauma, parental lies, emotional distress, sibling separation
Word count: 6.8k
(ch. 1), (ch. 2), (ch. 3), (ch. 4)
The first thing that Stack noticed was that Smoke didn’t rush the tour. He didn’t move like a man trying to impress him. Instead, he moved like a man who already knew what he built was solid.
“C’mon,” Smoke said, pushing the office door open.
Stack followed him back onto the gym floor, and this time it felt different. He felt less out of place and more in sync.
“That’s cardio." Smoke nodded toward a row of ellipticals and treadmills. “Don’t nobody like it, but everybody need it.”
Stack huffed. “Figures.”
A woman with a braided bun jogging glanced between them twice and then did a full double take.
“Hold up,” she said, slowing her pace. “Am I trippin’ or—”
Smoke didn’t even look at her. “You trippin’. Keep runnin’.”
She squinted harder. “Nah…cause why y’all—”
Stack smiled politely. “We get that a lot.”
She blinked. “A lot of what??”
Smoke kept walking. "Don't you got 10,000 steps to hit? I know you barely halfway there now. Get to it.”
Stack had to bite back a laugh as he followed.
They moved past the weight section, where a group of middle-aged guys paused mid-set.
One of them—Lamar—lowered his dumbbells slowly, eyes bouncing between them.
“Aight nah,” he said. “What the hell is goin’ on?”
Smoke finally stopped, turned to look at the longtime members of his gym, and jerked his chin toward Stack. “This Stack. My brother.”
The floor was suddenly filled with dead silence. Somehow, within a matter of seconds, the harsh pants and clinking weights vanished.
“OH SHIT.”
“Like…fraternal?”
"Nigga, they literally have the same goddamn face, so it’s identical, not fraternal!”
“You ain’t gotta talk shit, Willie. You know the only twins I’ve ever seen is Tia and Tamara!”
The entire section lit up.
Stack blinked before uttering, “Well, that’s one way to announce it.”
Smoke shrugged. “They was gon’ figure it out anyway.”
Lamar walked closer, circling Stack like he was inspecting a doppelgänger.
“Y’all dead serious?" he asked. “Like…twin twin?”
Stack nodded. “Apparently.”
Lamar pointed between them. "Nah, this is crazy. You just been hidin’ this nigga??”
Smoke’s jaw ticked. “I ain’t know about him either.”
That sobered the room quick as hell.
Stack noticed that. The way everyone seemed to respect his brother. Now that he got to know him a little bit better, he understood why.
They didn’t press or make any more snide comments. They just nodded and picked their weights back up.
“Damn,” Lamar sighed deeply before nodding at the younger twin. “Well…welcome, bro.”
Stack nodded back. “Appreciate it.”
Smoke kept walking once the men resumed their strength training.
“Locker rooms back there,” he said. “Office you seen. Smith machines over here.”
Stack followed, hands in his pockets now, more relaxed.
“You built all this yourself?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“No partners?”
“Hell nah.”
Stack nodded slowly as understanding crossed his face. “Same.”
Smoke glanced at him.
That was the first real moment of mutual recognition again. Not just blood but mindset and work ethic.
“You know what’s crazy?” Stack said after a beat.
“What?”
“We did the same thing.”
Smoke raised a brow. “How?”
“Built something from nothing,” Stack explained. “Different industries. Same drive.”
Smoke considered what Stack was saying for a second and then nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I see that.”
They walked back to the lobby, Smoke a stride or two in front of Stack.
Stack smirked as a thought crossed his mind. “You still should’ve gotten a better logo though.”
Smoke stopped mid-step and then turned slowly. “…You got jokes?”
Stack shrugged. “I run branding too.”
Smoke stepped closer. “You saying my shit ugly?”
“I’m saying it could use a little refinement.”
Smoke stared at him, then a slow grin spread across his face. “Yeah, you my brother for real.”
By the time Stack left Sunrise Athletics, the Mississippi sun had started melting gold across the streets. His chest felt lighter. Not even close to being completely healed but lighter in the way a locked room felt once somebody finally cracked a window open.
He drove back to the Airbnb with one hand on the wheel and the other resting against his mouth, replaying everything Smoke had said.
You got me now.
The words wouldn’t leave him alone, and neither would the image of Smoke laughing. It had changed his whole face. He wondered why Smoke didn’t smile often.
Stack pulled into the driveway slower than necessary, staring at the house for a second before killing the engine. The front porch light was already on. You always left a light on for him no matter where you were. Something about that tiny detail always pulled at his heartstrings.
He grabbed the grocery bag before stepping out of the car and climbed the steps two at a time before unlocking the door.
The smell of garlic and butter hit him first. Then something sweet underneath it he couldn’t place.
Ricotta? Mascarpone?
Your voice floated from the kitchen, interrupting his thoughts. “Baby, if you didn’t bring me a sweet tea, don’t even come in here.”
Stack chuckled instantly, and before he could respond, you appeared around the corner wearing one of his hoodies and fuzzy socks, stopping short the second you saw his amused face.
“Oh,” you murmured as your expression softened immediately. “You look…refreshed.”
Stack shut the door behind him quietly. “I think I am.”
That alone told you everything. You crossed the room quickly and wrapped your arms around his waist. Stack folded around you on instinct, burying his face into your neck for one long second like he needed to recalibrate.
“How’d it go?” you asked softly as you cupped the back of his neck and hugged him tighter.
Stack exhaled sharply against your skin. “I got a brother,” he whispered, like he still couldn’t believe he was saying it out loud.
Your chest tightened. “You guys have a good talk?”
“Mhm.”
“And?”
Stack pulled back slowly, looking at you with eyes that still carried traces of earlier tears.
“He’s…” Stack laughed softly to himself. “He’s real as hell.”
You smiled faintly. “That’s your type of person.”
“Nah,” Stack corrected immediately. “That’s my big brother.”
The pride in his voice almost made you emotional.
You guided him toward the couch, sitting beside him while he talked, and for the next twenty minutes, Stack unraveled.
He told you about the gym first. How solid the facility was and how people respected Smoke without him having to demand it. How swiftly Smoke moved through the building like he’d bled for every square foot of it.
“He built all that himself,” Stack said quietly. “No partners. No handouts. Just…him.”
“Just like you, huh?” You noted as you watched the admiration spread across his face.
"You're proud of him already,” you observed gently.
Stack looked down at his hands. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I really am.”
Then he told you about the office they had in Smoke’s office. The lies and timelines. The realization that both parents had made separate choices to erase half of their children’s lives.
You held his hand tighter through that part, and when he mentioned a picture from it, he squeezed your hand tighter and stopped talking.
Your thumb brushed over his knuckles. “What picture frame?”
Stack swallowed hard before announcing, “He has a kid.”
Your breath caught. “What?”
“Little girl named Elisa.” Stack nodded slowly, eyes distant now. He chuckled weakly before continuing. “Pretty kid too. Missing teeth. Smoke said she runs the whole house.”
You smiled despite yourself, but Stack didn’t. His brown eyes filled with more unshed tears.
“That shit broke me, baby,” he admitted quietly as tears finally fell down his cheeks.
Your heart cracked a little at the honesty in his voice.
“I realized…” He paused, jaw tightening. “I realized I’m somebody’s uncle, and I missed her whole life.”
You moved closer immediately, pressing against his side. “Elias…”
“I know it sounds dramatic—”
“It doesn’t.”
Stack looked away quickly, embarrassed by the emotion threatening to crawl back up his throat.
“I just kept thinking…” he sniffled. “What else did we lose?”
You rested your head against his shoulder carefully. “I know it’s a lot to adjust to, baby,” you said softly. “You still have the future. Make every day count.”
Stack closed his eyes. “Smoke pretty much said the same thing.”
You smiled faintly. “See? Big brother already making sense.”
That finally got a laugh out of him.
“There’s more,” he said.
You lifted a brow. “More than surprise siblings?”
“He asked why we came down here.”
“You tell him about the kid Sammie?”
Stack looked at you like he still couldn’t believe the sentence he was about to say.
“Sammie Moore is our cousin.”
You slapped his chest. “Get the fuck out.”
“I’m dead serious!”
You blinked at him in disbelief. “The singer??”
“Yes!”
“The one you’ve been stalking on social media for three weeks?”
“I was scouting talent,” Stack countered immediately.
“You had post notifications on that young man.”
“He can sing!”
You laughed so hard you almost slid off the couch.
Stack laughed with you this time, head falling back against the cushions. The sound filled the room and your heart warmly because for the first time since Mississippi, he didn’t sound defeated. He sounded alive and ready to navigate this new relationship with his twin.
When the laughter settled, you studied him carefully. “You like him.”
Stack’s smile softened instantly because he already knew who you meant.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I really do.”
“Was it awkward?”
“At first.”
“And now?”
Stack thought about the hug and the way Smoke had looked at him like he mattered already.
“…No,” he said honestly. “Not anymore.”
You squeezed his thigh gently. “I’m so happy for you, honey.”
Stack looked at you for a long moment before leaning over and pressing his lips to yours in a slow, grateful kiss.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“I don’t know how you always know what to say.”
You smiled. “Contract lawyer. Expensive skill set.”
He huffed softly, then his expression shifted again—more thoughtful this time. “He wants you to come tomorrow night.”
Your brows lifted. “Me?”
“Mmhmm. We’re meeting Sammie at this place called Club Juke.” Stack paused. “And confronting our Dad there too.”
You blinked once. “What kind of Tyler Perry multiverse is this?”
Stack groaned loudly. “That’s exactly what I said.”
You laughed again, but then your expression softened. “You nervous?”
“A little.”
“About meeting Sammie?”
Stack shook his head. “About confronting Dad.”
That sobered the room immediately.
You reached for his face gently. “Just remember you’re not alone. You got me and Smoke now.”
His eyes searched yours. “Smoke said something like that too.”
“See?” you teased softly. “Your brother and I are already sharing dialogue.”
Stack grinned despite himself, then his phone buzzed with a new message.
Smoke: Annie said y’all should come by for dinner before Club Juke tomorrow. Don’t wear nun fancy. Elisa gon’ probably spill juice on you.
Stack stared at the message for a second, then smiled so wide it almost looked boyish.
“What is it?” you questioned.
He turned the phone toward you, and your heart melted as you read the text from Smoke. Because somehow, less than forty-eight hours after learning each other existed…they were already trying to become family.
—
The next evening, Stack spent entirely too long deciding what to wear. Which was objectively ridiculous because he owned a modeling agency. He styled editorial campaigns for a living. He had personally sat front row at Fashion Week while people twice his age begged for his approval.
“You’ve changed shirts four times,” you called from the bathroom doorway, already dressed and glowing with amusement.
Stack glanced up from fastening his watch.
“Three.”
“Four.”
“Three and a half.”
You snorted.
The Airbnb bedroom smelled faintly like your perfume and his cologne, the warm Mississippi evening drifting through the cracked balcony door. Outside, cicadas buzzed loud enough to sound electrical.
Stack checked himself in the mirror again. Dark jeans, fresh sneakers, and a black fitted tee under a lightweight jacket. An effortless casual look.
“You look fine, honey,” you told him.
“That’s not the issue.”
“Then what’s the issue?”
Stack adjusted the sleeve of his jacket unnecessarily. “I don’t know what the protocol is.”
You blinked. “For what?”
“For…” He gestured vaguely. “Brother—uh, family stuff.”
That almost took you out. You laughed so suddenly Stack frowned at you.
“Don’t laugh, Y/N. I’m serious.”
“No, baby, I know,” you giggled, walking over to smooth your hands down the front of his shirt. “It’s just cute.”
“I don’t want to be cute.”
“Well, unfortunately for you, that’s the only reason why I’m marrying you and trying to give you a kid.”
Stack rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
You fixed the collar of his jacket gently. “There’s no protocol. Just be yourself.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It’s not fake,” you said. “Your brother already likes you.”
The word still visibly affected him.
Brother.
Every time somebody said it, Stack looked like part of him still couldn’t believe he’d earned the title. Before he could answer, his phone buzzed.
A text from Smoke.
Stack opened it immediately.
Smoke: Y’all better not be dressed like y’all going to the Grammys. Sammie performing at a juke joint not the BET Awards.
You burst out laughing after reading over his shoulder.
“Oh my God, he knows you already.”
Stack typed back quickly.
Stack: I naturally have range and elegance. That’s not my fault.
Three dots appeared instantly.
Smoke: You sound irritating as hell.
Stack grinned.
Stack: And yet you texted me first.
This time, the reply took longer.
Smoke: Shut up and hurry up. Annie already made too much food.
Something warm spread across Stack’s chest again. Not in an overwhelming way but in a sense of grounding. Like roots finally growing where there had been nothing but empty space before.
—
Smoke’s house sat in a quiet neighborhood lined with broad trees and deep porches, the kind of street where people still waved from driveways and kids rode bikes without anybody panicking every five minutes.
Warm light glowed from the windows. It was a beautiful home. Pastel blue with eggshell trimmings. A real home.
Stack slowed as he parked along the curb. His stomach flipped relentlessly as his fingers fidgeted with the keys.
“Hey,” you said softly, touching his arm. “You sure you okay?”
Stack stared at the house.
“Yeah,” he exhaled sharply. “I just…” His throat tightened unexpectedly.
This was the first time in his life he’d ever walked into a sibling’s home. The first time he’d be meeting his niece and sister-in-law. A family he didn’t know he already had.
You squeezed his hand. “C’mon, Uncle Stack.”
He looked at you sharply and then groaned. “Don’t start.”
You laughed and climbed out first.
By the time Stack made it to the porch, the front door swung open, and here stood Smoke. He was wearing a black tee, grey sweats, and glasses low on his nose this time, which immediately caught you and Stack off guard because something about it felt weirdly intimate and domestic.
Smoke looked between the two of you, then his eyes zeroed in on Stack’s outfit.
“…Nigga.”
Stack blinked. “What?”
Smoke pointed at him. “Why you dressed like you about to accept an NAACP award?”
You burst into laughter instantly.
Stack looked offended. "Man, this is casual.”
"No, it ain’t,” Smoke deadpanned. “You look way too moisturized and expensive.”
“You say that like it’s a crime.”
Smoke stared at him for another long second. Eventually he stepped aside with a muttered, “Man, come on in here.”
Stack walked in smiling and immediately got hit with the smell of cornbread, seasoned meat, and something sweet baking in the oven.
His chest tightened again because the house sounded lived in. Gracie’s corner was playing somewhere in the distance, with tiny footsteps upstairs. Pots and pans clanging in the kitchen.
A family.
Real, warm and alive.
“Annie!” Smoke called toward the kitchen. “Your new brother-in-law here dressed like he sellin’ luxury watches.”
“Leave him alone!” Annie called back immediately. “At least somebody in this house got style.”
Smoke looked betrayed.
“See?” Stack said smugly.
Smoke sucked his teeth loudly and shut the door behind him.
Suddenly, tiny footsteps thundered down the stairs.
“Daddy?!”
Stack barely had time to turn before a little blur launched down the staircase at dangerous speed.
“Elisa, slow down—”
Too late.
The little girl skidded around the corner, beaded braids bouncing wildly before she stopped dead in front of Stack.
Big brown eyes blinked up at him, and Stack couldn’t help but stare right back.
Because Jesus Christ. She really did have his face. Not completely but enough. More than enough to knock the air clean out his lungs.
Elisa tilted her head slowly and then pointed. “You look like my daddy.”
The room went quiet.
Smoke leaned against the wall, watching carefully.
Stack crouched slowly to her level, heart pounding so hard he could almost hear it.
“…Yeah,” he said, nodding gently . “I know.”
Elisa squinted harder before gasping dramatically. “WAIT.”
Smoke rubbed a hand over his face immediately like he already knew chaos was coming.
"Your daddy's brother?” Elisa asked as she poked Stack’s nose.
Stack blinked. “Uh…”
“She’s been asking questions all day,” Annie announced, appearing from the kitchen, drying her hands with a towel.
Stack nearly forgot how to speak again because Annie was beautiful. Smile warm and eyes soft but sharp at the same time. The kind of woman that immediately explained why Smoke had built his whole life around protecting his peace.
Annie smiled at Stack gently.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Annie.”
Stack stood quickly. “Hi. I’m Elias—uh, Stack.”
“I know." Annie laughed softly. “I’ve heard about you for twenty-four hours straight.”
Smoke groaned. “Baby—”
“You too,” Annie said sweetly as she extended her hand to you. “Y/N, right?”
You nodded and grabbed her hand. “Yes, I’m Elias’s fiancé. Very nice to finally meet you.”
Elisa tugged Stack’s sleeve suddenly. “So you my uncle?”
Stack looked down at her, and hot tears welled up in his eyes again. That grief resurfaced and made his heart ache. His eyes flicked briefly toward Smoke, almost uncertain.
Smoke held his gaze for a second and then nodded once in certainty.
Stack looked back at Elisa slowly.
“…Yes, Elisa,” he whispered. “I’m your uncle Stack.”
Elisa grinned so wide it nearly killed him. “COOL.”
Then, before Stack could even process the emotional damage of being claimed by a four-year-old, she grabbed his hand.
“C’mere,” she ordered.
Stack blinked. “Where we going?"
“To my room.”
Smoke immediately snorted. “Yeah, good luck.”
Annie pointed toward Smoke without even looking at him. “Don’t start.”
"Elisa, don’t show rooms,” Smoke muttered. “She likes to interrogate people.”
“I do not!”
“You absolutely do.”
Elisa ignored both of them and tugged Stack harder. “Uncle Stack!”
The title hit him right in the chest again.
Not Elias or mister.
Uncle.
It was as if she had made the decision in under thirty seconds, and that was that.
Stack let her drag him halfway toward the stairs before glancing back at you helplessly.
You were trying so hard not to laugh and failed miserably.
“Save yourself,” you mouthed.
“Coward,” he mouthed back.
Smoke folded his arms, watching the whole thing with poorly hidden amusement. “Go ahead. She gon’ ask you your favorite color, your blood type, and your credit score.”
Elisa gasped loudly. “Daddy!”
“What?” Smoke defended. “I’m warning him.”
“She only asked for my credit score once,” Annie recalled casually before disappearing back toward the kitchen.
Stack barked out a laugh.
Then Elisa tugged again. “C’mon!”
Stack finally surrendered. “Alright, alright.”
The staircase creaked softly beneath them as Elisa pulled him upstairs with the urgency of somebody unveiling a museum exhibit.
Halfway up, Stack glanced down. Smoke was still standing near the front door. Watching with curiosity and something else he couldn’t define.
Like he was witnessing something he never thought he’d get to see.
Their eyes met briefly, and Stack realized something that almost unraveled him all over again. Smoke wanted this. Not just the uncovered truth but this family folding together naturally.
Smoke gave him one small nod.
Go ahead.
Stack swallowed and followed Elisa upstairs to her room, and it looked exactly how Stack imagined it would.
Neon pink and chaotic. Tiny sneakers kicked beneath a pink beanbag chair. Stuffed animals lined up against the wall like they paid rent. Crayon drawings taped everywhere. One crooked picture frame held a photo of Smoke asleep on the couch with newborn Elisa sprawled across his chest.
Stack smiled before he could stop himself.
“He drools in his sleep,” Elisa informed him seriously.
Stack coughed to hide a laugh. “Good to know.”
“He says he don’t.”
“He lying?”
“Yes.”
Stack nodded solemnly. “Damn—I mean, uh, dang. Starting the relationship off with secrets already.”
Elisa giggled, then she climbed onto her bed and patted the comforter beside her expectantly. Stack hesitated only a second before sitting carefully. The mattress dipped beneath his weight.
Elisa studied him openly for a long moment. No fear or uncertainty in her eyes, just curiosity.
“You really Daddy’s brother?” she asked.
Stack nodded slowly. “Looks like it.”
“How come I never seen you before?”
And there it was, the million-dollar question. Simple from a child. Devastating for everyone else.
Stack’s throat tightened as he searched carefully for an answer a four-year-old could carry.
“Sometimes grown-ups make mistakes,” he explained. “Big ones.”
Elisa considered that deeply before she said, “Daddy says 'sorry' a lot when he make mistakes.”
Stack let out a surprised chuckle that helped ease the ache in his chest. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.” She leaned closer confidentially. “Mommy too.”
“That sounds healthy.”
“What’s healthy?”
“Your house. Your family.”
Elisa beamed proudly like she personally paid the mortgage.
Downstairs, laughter drifted faintly from the kitchen. Warm and inviting. Stack listened to it for a second too long because suddenly he could picture their family dynamic.
Smoke carrying Elisa through the house after bath time. Annie scolding because somebody tracked mud through the kitchen. Movie nights, birthday parties, and Christmas mornings.
Years of memories Stack hadn’t even known existed. Grief brushed against him again quietly this time—not sharp enough to cut, but enough to still sting.
Elisa noticed immediately. She was such an observant kid.
“You okay, Uncle Stack?” she asked softly.
Stack blinked quickly and smiled.
“Yeah, Peanut.”
That nickname slipped out naturally.
Elisa smiled so wide it revealed the little gap in her teeth again. “You talk like Daddy.”
Stack looked down for a second, laughing under his breath. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
A knock sounded softly against the doorframe. Smoke entered and leaned against the door, arms folded across his chest.
For a second, nobody spoke. Smoke’s eyes moved between Stack and Elisa sitting together on the bed. Something unreadable flickered across his face. It wasn’t sadness or anger, something deeper. Wonder, maybe. Like he was staring at a piece of his life he thought was nonexistent.
“Elisa,” Smoke said gently, “let your uncle breathe.”
“I am letting him breathe.”
“You been interrogating that man for ten minutes.”
“She asked for my credit score,” Stack deadpanned.
Smoke pointed immediately. “See?”
Elisa dissolved into giggles.
Smoke shook his head, but Stack caught the smile pulling at his mouth before he hid it. Then Smoke’s expression softened again.
“Dinner ready,” he said.
Elisa hopped off the bed instantly and sprinted past him. Smoke stepped aside just in time.
“Don’t run, Elisa Moore!” Annie yelled from downstairs automatically.
Tiny footsteps somehow sped up even more.
The brothers were left alone in the doorway for a moment.
Smoke looked at Stack carefully. “You good?”
“No,” he admitted as he sighed deeply. “But…I think I will be.”
Smoke nodded like he understood exactly what that meant. Then his gaze drifted briefly toward Elisa’s room. Toward the life they were standing inside.
“You already got her attached,” Smoke muttered.
Stack huffed softly. “Think she attached herself.”
“Yeah,” Smoke agreed. “She do that.”
A comfortable moment of silence passed, then Smoke clapped a heavy hand against Stack’s shoulder.
“C’mon, lil bro,” he said. “Before Annie start yellin’ at both of us.”
This time when Smoke called him "lil bro," Stack smiled without any sadness attached to it at all.
The dining room felt expensive in the kind of way that couldn’t be bought. Not curated but lived in.
The table was already set by the time Stack and Smoke came downstairs—plates stacked neatly, glasses sweating with sweet tea, cornbread still steaming beneath a towel-lined basket. Music played softly somewhere in the background, something old-school and smooth humming through the house while Annie moved around the kitchen with practiced ease.
Stack noticed immediately that Smoke stayed close to her without even realizing it. A hand brushing her lower back as he passed. Annie stealing roasted potatoes off his plate while he pretended not to notice. Years of domestic choreography.
“You gon’ keep standing there staring or sit down?” Annie teased, pulling Stack from his thoughts.
Stack blinked. “Sorry.”
“She does that to people,” Smoke mentioned.
Annie pointed a spoon at him immediately. “Don’t start.”
Smoke held his hands up. “See what I deal with?”
“You love what you deal with,” Annie corrected.
Smoke’s mouth twitched. “Unfortunately.”
“Daddy!” Elisa gasped dramatically from her booster seat. “That’s rude!”
Smoke walked over and kissed the top of her head. “You right, Peanut. My bad.”
Stack watched the interaction quietly, chest aching again—but softer this time. Not so much as grief but a healthy kind of longing. The kind that made him want more of this new life instead of mourning the old one.
By the time everyone sat down, the atmosphere had shifted fully into something easy and comfortable. It was almost as if the house itself had decided Stack belonged there.
“You better eat before Elisa start stealing,” Smoke warned as Stack reached for his fork.
“I do not steal,” Elisa argued.
Annie took a sip of tea calmly. “You stole three of my fries at lunch.”
“That was sharing.”
Smoke looked at Stack. “See what I’m saying?”
Stack chuckled around a mouthful of pot roast. “She definitely yours.”
“Elijah swears she only acts like me,” Annie said.
“She do.”
“Liar.”
“Baby, she just argued semantics over french fries.”
You snorted into your drink.
Elisa pointed at you suddenly. “What your job do?”
The table quieted slightly.
You blinked. “My job?”
Elisa nodded seriously while chewing cornbread. “Daddy said Uncle Stack got a model business. You one of his models? You not that tall.”
Smoke nearly choked on his sweet tea.
Stack covered his face instantly. “Oh my God.”
Annie burst out laughing.
“Elisa!” Smoke coughed. “That is not what I said.”
"Yes, it is,” Elisa argued confidently.
“No, baby, I said she’s a contract lawyer.”
“Oh.” Elisa thought about it. “That sounds boring.”
You smiled at Elisa warmly. “I help people understand really important paperwork before they sign things.”
Elisa blinked. “Like homework?”
“Honestly? Kinda.”
“Ew,” Elisa said immediately.
The entire table laughed.
“But it’s important,” you added dramatically. “Because if people don’t read contracts carefully, they can lose money.”
That caught her attention. “Daddy likes money.”
You nodded. “So does your uncle.”
“How much money do people lose?” She pressed.
Stack leaned back in his chair. “Enough that your daddy would start raising hell.”
Smoke nodded immediately. “Facts.”
“Elijah Moore,” Annie reprimanded.
“What, woman? I ain’t curse.”
Yet somehow that made everyone laugh harder.
Elisa pointed at Stack next now. “So you the model boss?”
Stack sat up straighter. “I am.”
“What that mean?” She questioned as she picked at the vegetables on her plate.
“It means I help talented people become stars.”
Smoke glanced over. “That was smooth.”
“Thank you.”
Smoke rolled his eyes. “You definitely from Chicago.”
“You say that like Mississippi ain’t produced greatness.”
“Name five things.”
Stack pointed around the table instantly. “You, Elisa, Annie’s cornbread, Sammie apparently, and…” He paused dramatically before adding, “This sweet tea.”
Annie laughed so hard she nearly dropped her fork.
Smoke looked offended. “Oh, so you flirtin’ with my wife through beverages?”
“She made the tea!”
“Still.”
“You sound jealous.”
“I am.”
Annie shook her head fondly while Stack grinned into his drink.
Then Elisa asked you a question so simple and direct. Childlike in the most dangerous way.
“So…” she started, swinging her legs beneath the chair. “Are you Uncle Stack’s wife?”
The table quieted for half a second.
You nearly inhaled your sweet tea wrong. Stack blinked once before looking over at you instinctively, and the second his eyes landed on you, his whole face softened.
“Not yet,” he said warmly. “But she will be.”
Heat bloomed instantly in your chest.
Across the table, Annie smiled so wide she had to hide it behind her glass.
Smoke leaned back slowly, eyebrows raised. “Oh, so we being serious tonight.”
Stack pointed his fork at him immediately. “Don’t start.”
Annie laughed. “See? She already planning the reception.”
Smoke shook his head. “This family moves fast as hell.”
The word settled warmly around the table.
Family.
Not heavy this time. Easy. Like it was second nature.
Annie’s expression softened as she looked toward you. "How's wedding planning going, Y/N?”
You exchanged a quick glance with Stack before answering.
“It’s been really good,” you gushed. “Stressful sometimes.”
“And expensive,” Stack added.
Smoke pointed across the table. “There go the honesty.”
“You paid for doves to be released?” Stack asked.
“Nah,” Smoke replied. “We courthouse people.”
Annie looked at him sharply. “We are not courthouse people. You are courthouse people.”
Smoke grinned into his drink.
Annie rolled her eyes before looking back at you warmly. “Don’t let him fool you. He cried during our first dance.”
Smoke almost choked. “BABY.”
“It’s true!”
Stack immediately burst into laughter.
“Oh nah,” he said. “Big bro emotional?”
Smoke pointed his fork aggressively. “Watch yourself.”
“You cried?” you asked your soon-to-be brother-in-law.
“Daddy a crybaby!” Elisa blurted in between giggles.
Smoke looked deeply betrayed now. “Why everybody attacking me in my own house?”
“Because it’s funny,” Annie teased.
Smoke muttered something under his breath about being “surrounded by enemies,” but Stack noticed the way his brother looked around the table afterward.
At Annie.
At Elisa.
At you.
At him.
His brother was content. Like despite all the pain of the last four days…something beautifully inevitable had started growing anyway.
Elisa tilted her head at you again. “Mommy says babies come after weddings sometimes.”
You and Stack went still for exactly one second too long. Just enough for Smoke and Annie to sense the shift. Your hand instinctively found Stack’s beneath the table.
Smoke’s expression softened immediately. Annie glanced between the two of you carefully, warmth replacing curiosity.
Stack handled it beautifully.
“We’re hoping for that someday,” he said gently.
Elisa nodded seriously like that made perfect sense.
“Well,” she declared confidently before taking another bite of cornbread, “I think I want a cousin.”
A softer yet more tender silence hit the table this time. Because none of the adults were prepared for how hard that sentence would land. Especially not Stack after everything they’d lost already.
Dinner stretched longer than any of you intended. Not because the conversation was extraordinary but because nobody wanted it to end.
You were hoping for a child soon. You didn’t care if it was a boy or girl; you just wanted a healthy child.
At some point, plates became empty while nobody noticed. Elisa migrated from her booster seat into Stack’s lap halfway through dessert like she’d known him her whole life instead of less than two hours. Annie disappeared briefly to pack leftovers “because men never feed themselves properly,” while Smoke argued weakly from the sink that he literally owned a grill.
The house settled around everyone naturally, and Stack kept catching himself drifting. He was soaking in every single interaction.
Smoke carrying Elisa upside down over one shoulder while she squealed dramatically. Annie threatening both of them with bedtime. Elisa teaching you the steps to the Veggie Dance. The framed family photos lining the hallway. All the little things. The things he should’ve had the chance to experience years ago.
By the time the night started winding down, Elisa was fully asleep against your shoulder on the couch, tiny fist curled into your blouse.
Annie smiled softly from the doorway. “She likes you.”
You looked down at the sleeping child fondly. “I noticed.”
“Usually she terrorizes people first.”
“She did interrogate me.”
“That just means she trusts you.”
Smoke emerged from the kitchen as he was drying his hands on a dish towel. His eyes immediately landed on Elisa sprawled across you, and something in his face softened instantly.
“She knocked out?” he asked quietly.
“Apollo Creed style,” you whispered.
Smoke snorted softly as he walked over carefully and scooped Elisa into his arms with practiced ease. The little girl barely stirred, immediately tucking her face into his neck.
Stack watched the whole thing silently. His chest started to ache again. Smoke glanced at him over Elisa’s sleepy head and immediately understood.
No words needed to be exchanged because he just understood.
“Imma put her down,” Smoke announced quietly.
Annie nodded. “I’ll be up in a second.”
The house felt quieter after they disappeared upstairs.
Annie started gathering dishes while you followed her automatically toward the kitchen.
“Oh no,” Annie said immediately. “Guests don’t clean.”
“Good thing we family now,” you shot back.
Annie grinned. “Okay, I like you.”
Stack watched you disappear into the kitchen with Annie, your laughter blending together almost instantly.
Then suddenly it was just him. He took advantage of the short window and took some deep breaths. Dinner was great, but he was still overwhelmed with this feeling of impending doom. He was about to meet his father. All his life he was told his father died. He was so angry but mostly terrified. What if his father wasn’t who he imagined? What if his father didn’t like him? Maybe Mom kept him away from Dad for a reason? But that still wasn’t fair to him and Smoke.
Smoke reappeared a minute later, calmer somehow after putting Elisa to bed. Tired in a good way. The older twin leaned against the doorway, arms folded loosely.
“She still sleep?” Stack asked.
“Out cold.”
A quiet beat passed, then Smoke jerked his chin toward the front door. “Walk with me.”
The Mississippi night air wrapped warm around them as they stepped onto the porch.
Crickets buzzed loud in the dark. Somewhere down the street, music drifted faintly through an open window.
Smoke sat down on the top porch step first.
Stack followed. He didn’t realize how close he sat next to his big brother until their shoulders brushed, but Smoke didn’t move, so Stack didn’t either.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward, just heavy.
Smoke rubbed his hands together once and looked over. “You really love her, huh?”
Stack smiled immediately like he always did whenever you were the subject. Like his body answered before his mouth could.
“Hell yes,” he admitted quietly. “More than anything.”
Smoke nodded slowly like he’d expected that answer. “I could tell.”
Stack glanced over. “How?”
“The way you look at her,” Smoke said simply. “Like she keeps you steady.”
That hit embarrassingly close, so Stack chuckled softly under his breath. “She do.”
Smoke leaned back against the railing behind him.
“You was really out here wild before her?”
Stack groaned loudly. “Oh my God. You really know me, huh?”
Smoke snorted because he had a feeling Stack had his fair share of women. “Nah, nigga. Answer the question.”
“I was not wild.”
“You was what then?”
“I was…exploring adulthood.”
Smoke looked unconvinced. “That sound like community service dick.”
Stack nearly choked laughing. “Damn, you ain’t gonna even pretend to cut me some slack?”
“Hell nah.”
Stack scrubbed a hand over his face, grinning despite himself.
“I just…” He exhaled slowly. “I didn’t think relationships lasted. Not real ones anyway.”
Smoke’s expression shifted slightly at that.
Stack stared out into the dark neighborhood.
“Mom loved me,” he said quietly. “But it always felt like she was surviving something she never talked about.”
Smoke stayed silent as he listened.
“So I dated,” Stack continued. “A lot. Nobody serious. Nobody permanent. Then I met Y/N.”
A small smile pulled at his mouth again.
“And your slutting was over?”
“Immediately.”
Smoke huffed softly. “Damn.”
“She’s…” Stack shook his head like words weren’t enough. “She makes my loud-ass life quieter.”
“I didn’t even know life didn’t have to be so goddamn chaotic until she walked in my life, man.”
That landed because Smoke understood exactly what that meant. He could write poetry about all the ways he loved Annie and still run out of pages.
“She knows every version of me,” Stack sighed deeply. “The polished one. The arrogant one. The insecure one. All of it.”
Smoke nodded slowly. “That’s your person.”
“Yeah,” Stack whispered. “That’s my person.”
The porch fell quiet again, and then Stack’s voice got softer.
"We've been trying to have a baby.”
Smoke looked over immediately.
Stack swallowed hard. “For almost a year now.”
The night suddenly felt heavier.
“She’s been taking all these fertility medications,” Stack groaned in frustration. “Shots. Hormones. Doctor appointments. The whole thing.”
Smoke’s face tightened slightly. “And still nothing?”
Stack shook his head once. The grief in that movement almost hurt to witness.
“I think…” Stack paused. “I think sometimes she blames herself.”
Smoke frowned immediately. “That ain’t fair.”
“I know.”
“And you don’t let her talk like that, right?”
“Never.”
Smoke nodded once, approving.
Stack looked down at his hands.
“I just want that life with her,” he expressed. “A family. Kids running through the house. Her yelling at me for teaching them nonsense.”
Smoke smirked faintly. “You definitely would teach them nonsense.”
“Absolutely.”
“But you want it bad.”
Stack’s eyes drifted toward the upstairs window where Elisa slept.
“Yeah,” he said honestly. “I really do.”
Smoke was quiet for a long moment after that. Eventually he broke the silence and said, “It’ll happen.”
Stack glanced over.
Smoke shrugged slightly. “Might not happen how or when you planned. But if it’s meant for y’all? It’ll happen.”
Something about the certainty in his tone settled deep into Stack’s chest.
“Thanks.”
Smoke nodded once, and then his expression darkened slightly.
“Aight,” he muttered. “Now we gotta talk about the hard part.”
Stack’s stomach tightened instantly.
Their father.
Smoke leaned forward, forearms braced against his knees. “You need to prepare yourself before we confront Daddy.”
Stack’s jaw flexed. “That bad?”
Smoke let out a humorless laugh. “Worse.”
The night air suddenly felt colder.
“He ain’t loud all the time,” Smoke warned carefully. “That’s what make it tricky. He knows how to cut people up calm.”
Stack listened closely.
"He's proud,” Smoke continued. “Real mean when he wanna be and he's damn good at making you feel guilty for questioning him.”
That sounded familiar in ways Stack hated.
Smoke glanced over slowly. “If he thinks he's losing control of a conversation, he gon’ attack.”
“Verbally?”
“Any way he can.”
All Stack could do was let out a nervous laugh as he wiped a hand over his face.
Smoke’s jaw tightened.
“I ain’t tellin’ you this to scare you,” he assured. “I’m tellin’ you so you don’t walk in there thinkin’ he all soft just cause he older.”
Stack nodded slowly, and after a beat he asked, “You scared?”
Smoke looked out into the dark for a long moment.
“…Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I just got a bad feeling.”
The honesty surprised both of them.
Smoke exhaled heavily. “Cause if he could lie about this…” He shook his head once. “What else is he capable of?”
Neither of them had an answer for that.
The porch settled into silence again as the two brothers sat side by side beneath a Mississippi sky. Trying to figure out how to walk back into the wreckage of the people who brought them into this world.
𐔌 17.9K 𐦯 • 𝘕𝘖 𝘔𝘐𝘕𝘖𝘙𝘚.ᐟ | 𝑷𝒍𝒖𝒈.ᐟ𝑶𝒏𝒚, CollegeAU, drug use (weed), intoxication, s*x under the influence, or*l (fem. receiving), f*ngering, p -> v (missionary, sideways, backshots), dirty talk, safe s*x (condom use) “good girl” trope, virgin mc (she can’t take dick), shy/awkward mc, inexperienced mc, subtle size k*nk, gentle/caring Ony, nonchalant Ony, teasing Ony, hoe Ony, slow-build interest, light mention of him fucking other women, explicit language, use of the n-word (all characters & Author are Black)
pronounced (awe • meh • ray) | never did one of these, so here’s my take on it—enjoy & don’t forget to reblog/like/comment directly from this post <𝟑 .ᐟ
ᝰ♡.ᐟANYWHERE ELSE. SHE WOULD RATHER BE ANYWHERE ELSE THAN THIS ROOM. It could be the highlighter fumes. It could be the blue light radiating from their laptops—Solayne’s screen is a hell of a lot brighter than hers. It could even be the extra fine print of these textbooks.
All she knows is that her capacity to be here is dwindling by the second.
“This is frying me.”
From the corner of her eye, she sees those deep orange braids slide over Solayne's hiked up shoulders as she throws her head down on the desk. Her hands over her eyes cushion her fall.
She doesn't need to outwardly acknowledge the other woman's dramatics, but she definitely resonates with them; Being stuck in this small room—that can stand to be a few degrees warmer—with its shitty fluorescent lighting, rereading the same chapter and still not understanding the concept, has her feeling dumber and dumber.
It’s probably not even her fault, maybe it’s the arbitrary way of teaching her professor has that makes it so difficult for her to understand his notes. Either way, she's ridiculously close to throwing in the towel. Who needs to stress over words when she could be relaxing with a self-care day or going to parties like her other peers?
The thought of her parents hearing that is enough to snap her back to reality.
“Ámerei, I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
She blows out a breath, tucking a couple loose strands of her sew-in behind her ear. “Me neither.”
Sitting up with the rush of a new idea, Solayne's eyes widen with excitement. “You tryna eat? Matcha and brownies on me!”
It’s a tempting offer. Too tempting. An immediate ‘yes’ comes into her mind before she can even think twice about it … until she does.
Her teeth gnaw at her bottom lip, the last smudges of her lipgloss stuck to the pink skin despite having licked most of it off in the stress of studying.
She can’t take another “study break.” Messing around with Solayne, she’s already pushed this off more than she should have. And now, her midterm for Qualitative Analysis is just two days away and she’s nearly clueless about the most heavily covered chapter on the test. This could make or break her grade for this class, and a dropped class is not something her parents can afford.
Solayne’s face falls before she can even break the news of this truth to her.
Worry folds creases in her forehead and drags the corners of her lips downward. “I want to, Sol', but I can’t.”
A groan. “I knew you were gonna say that.”
“I’m sorry!” A remorseful laugh tumbles out of her. “I can’t fail this midterm. That’s gonna be my ass if my parents see that.”
A second is spared by the other woman to dwell on the misfortune, only for her sadness to vanish within a second, leaving behind a look of indifference.
“Well!” She shrugs. “I know how I’m going to spend the rest of this study sesh.”
And with that, Solayne stretches across the table to collect her books, notes, laptop, and any pen or highlighter left behind—likely even sneaking some of Ámerei’s.
“Enjoy one for me,” Ámerei smiles sadly.
"Of course.” As she stands to shove her laptop into her purse, Solayne looks to her. "But, seriously, don't stress yourself out too much. You've been studying for this test for like a week straight now, and that class is notoriously hard. I'm sure your professor's gonna give y'all a curve."
Leaning back in her chair, butt aching from how long she's been sitting, Ámerei exhales softly. "I hope so. I could honestly really use it, because the way I've been failing these quizzes is ridiculous."
Solayne purses her lips with the shake of her head, zipping up her tote bag. "You'll be fine, you always are."
"I don't think so, Sol'." Her lips twist into a frown. "I've really been stressing—"
"And that's your problem right there," she announces as she throws the hefty bag over a shoulder. "You're stressing when you don't need to. If you've already done all that you can, there's nothing left for you to do but trust yourself."
There’s not much Ámerei can say to that. All she can do is bring her laptop close to continue studying.
Solayne scoffs. “You need to relax. You don’t gotta stop studying now, but at the very least, let tomorrow be your day off. You can’t cram the day before the test.”
“No … but I can review.”
“Review my ass,” she rolls her eyes. “What you need to do is have a nice, good smoke sesh. Use that to calm your ass down.”
Ámerei kisses her teeth, the sound slipping out before she can stop it. “Or I can use that valuable time to study some more, so I can boost my chances of passing this midterm.”
Dismissively, Solayne waves a hand, turning for the study room’s door. “Blazè-blah. Good luck with that,” she shrugs. “And, by the way, access to this room expires at four, so make sure you’re out of here before one of those fucking monitors catch you. They are not about to fine me for this.”
Chin resting in her palm, Ámerei doesn’t spare her a glance. Instead, she squints her strained eyes at the small text on her screen. “Stay safe.”
“You too, text you later!”
A second later comes the abrupt shut of the study room’s heavy door. Alone in peace and quiet, she lets out a sigh.
‘Time to take this chapter from the top.’
ᝰ
TRUE TO SOLAYNE’S IMPRESSION OF HER, Ámerei is cramming the day before the test. Or at least, she’s trying to.
A set alarm had her up by seven, and after rushing to get ready, she raced her way to the campus library to snag a room before they were booked out.
Now, it’s almost half-past 10, and she hasn’t been able to retain a single word of information splayed across her screen.
She pulls her scrunchie free from her hair to retie her ponytail for about the fifth time in the last fifteen minutes. Her eyes steal yet another glance at the time. She’s been here for almost two hours, and it’s starting to scare her how hard it is for her to focus.
Honestly, she’s starting to get the idea that Solayne was onto something. But, she can’t prove her right just yet.
So she thinks.
As she stares at the laptop, the words begin to swirl and the sentences stop making sense. Her eyes jump from line to line, unable to keep their spot. And the diagrams? They’re complete nonsense.
“Fuck me,” she mumbles, dropping her head into her hands.
For a moment, she stays frozen in that position, her mind searching itself for a solution to this madness. Her notes are useless, all the tutors for this class are booked up, and clearly reviewing this chapter isn’t doing anything.
She’s ready to admit it.
Picking her head up and out of her hands, Ámerei reaches for her phone with bleary vision. It only gets to ring once.
“Well if it isn’t my gorgeous friend! What can I do for you, my love?”
Her eyes flutter shut, holding back a sigh. “You were right—”
“Oouu!”
She squeezes her eyes tight, the shrill sound of Solayne’s voice piercing her ears.
“If those aren’t my favorite words to hear—so what does this mean?”
Peeling her eyes open, Ámerei peers down as she toys with the small, pink Tiffany pendant resting on her chest. “It means … I think I wanna take the edge off.”
Boisterous cackles fill her ears, the corners of her mouth rising.
“You so fucking dramatic,” Solayne muses, her laughter dying down into an easy chuckle. “But, I got just the thing for you.”
She shifts in her seat, eager to hear her suggestion.
“Now, unfortunately, I am busy today.”
The easy smile that graced her lips is wiped off in an instant as her spine straightens. “What?” She glares at her phone in betrayal.
“I know, I’m sorry! I owed Malaysia a favor, and she chose to cash it in today: I gotta drive her to and back from the mall.”
A soft groan leaves her as she throws her head back.
“Don’t worry, though. A nice smoke by yourself every once in a while is the best thing you can do for yourself, swear. Just spark up, play some music or watch a show, eat some good food—you’re lit!”
Thinking about it for longer than a second, Ámerei finds herself taking to the idea. Smoking will definitely take her mind off of the stress of this midterm. And with that weight off of her shoulders, she can probably catch up on some of her hobbies. Like, playing in her makeup. It’s been too long since she last got cute or even played The Sims.
“M’kay.”
A squeal has her flinching. “Perfect! You’re gonna have so much fun. I know a guy that sells on campus. Good shit, too. He’s cool with Eren.”
“Who’s Eren?”
“You don’t remember? That one guy on the swim team Aneesa used to fuck with?”
Her face screws up in confusion, threaded brows pulling together. “No?”
“Uh—anyway—he’s friends with Eren, I bought from him a couple of times. Y’know, supporting a Black-owned business ‘n’ all that. But … y’know, I am loyal to my plug.”
Staring ahead at nothing in particular, Ámerei raises a brow as one corner of her lips quirk up. “Connie?”
“Well … yes!”
She laughs at her friend.
“And speaking of, I might link him tonight—y’know … for weed.”
“Weed, yeah, right,” she giggles.
“Mhm, anyway, I’ll send you his Insta when I find it. It’s the only way to cop from him.”
“Thanks, Sol’.”
“No problem,” she sings. “Let me know how the high goes. Kisses!”
“Bye.”
With a clear decision made, Ámerei wastes no time in packing her belongings and freeing up this room for the next suffering soul.
When she returns to her dorm, empty of Solayne’s presence, she picks out a simple outfit: black capri leggings and a cropped white tank top.
As she pulls the skimpy top over her head, her phone pings with a notification from Instagram. Shirt on, she smooths the soft wrinkles out of it before grabbing up the device from her bed.
It was DM from Solayne—a shared profile. Before she can even respond, her phone buzzes with a new message:
His name is Onyankopon btw
Ámerei ‘hearts’ the message before clicking onto his page. There isn’t a face present anywhere on it, and no highlights to skim through. No tagged posts or even a name in the bio. There’s only one post up: a three photo carousel.
The first photo is of his hand, the dark skin marked heavily with ink. One finger is adorned in a glistening ring and a tennis bracelet on his wrist.
‘Well … at least he takes care of himself,’ she thinks, noting his clean nails and trimmed cuticles.
The second photo is an interior shot of a car, the model she isn’t sure of. All she recognizes is the sleek emblem that glints on the steering wheel—Genesis.
‘Expensive.’
The last photo is a perfect “off-guard.” A clear shot of his outfit. It’s crisp definition and high quality tells of the use of a professional camera. He had turned his face away just in time for it not to be caught in the photo.
His arms were hidden by a Pelle Pelle jacket, but from the peak of his wrist, she can tell he’s covered in ink. At least his arms are.
‘Mysterious … okay, sure.’
The ‘like’ count on the post is off, and the comments are tame—limited, too. But, she can only imagine what the counts for each would be, seeing as he has a little over a thousand followers. She presses her lips together, telling herself that these little details about his account shouldn’t matter.
It’s not like she needs to know much about his morals or his character anyway, however, he does seem like the flashy type. She’s only hitting him up for a service—a product, really.
Heading to his chat, she shoots him a quick message:
Hey, I was told you sell
Crashing onto her bed, she chews on her lip as she watches the chat. She’s not sure why she decides to wait on a response. Maybe it’s a testament to how much she needs this.
But luck is on her side. As she blinks, a new message appears in their chat:
Yea
She swallows, trying to think of what will be enough to cover her. She doesn’t buy often, and she definitely isn’t a casual smoker. After about a minute, her fingers type quickly.
How much for a gram?
Don’t sell less than a dub
Her head jerks back, stumped. What the hell is she going to do with all of that weed? Sure, it isn’t necessarily a huge amount, but she's definitely not going to make more than one blunt any time soon.
She guesses she’ll just have to leave the rest for Solayne. It’s that girl’s lucky day.
But Ima let it slide for uu
First time client deal
An unexpected scoff burst from her lips. A crinkle becomes evident in her brows as she ‘hearts’ his message.
Ty
This time, he ‘hearts’ her message.
Whn uu want it ?
Today
Soon if you can, lol
2 ,by the big fountain statue ?
That's good, thank you
Aii
With just a small bit of time before their meetup, Ámerei does the next best thing to distract herself from the fate of her Qualitative Analysis grade: scroll through her TikTok’s 'For You' page.
ᝰ
THE SUN HANGS HIGH IN THE SKY, partly obscured by thick clouds. Crisp yet light winds blow gently, pushing around any stray leaves that have fallen to the ground.
It isn’t too cold, the slight breeze is something that Onyankopon doesn’t mind. He’s more concerned with the punctuality of this customer.
Her name, he doesn’t quite remember. Something with an ‘A.’ When he skimmed through her profile, he remembers thinking that it had a pretty spelling—that’s about as much as he recalls.
His saving grace will be recognizing her once he sees her, he’s always been good at remembering faces. That, and he doesn’t think he could forget hers.
She’s pretty from what he saw. Cute. But, that’s about as extreme as his thoughts went. A girl with a simple look, not that there’s anything wrong with that. Clean and minimal makeup, hair neatly styled and out of her face, and an affinity with the color blush pink.
A well-curated aesthetic to fit that of an influencer. If he has to bet, she probably has a sizable following on TikTok, posting content of her getting all done up for her viewers: “Get Ready With Me to Run Some Errands;” “Outfit of the day;” “Come With Me to Try This New Matcha Drink—”shit like that.
He doesn’t have a strong opinion regarding that. Just a blanket assumption regarding the information he was able to garner from her page.
It’s funny; when she first messaged him, part of him thought it was someone else talking to him through her account. Simply using her face to lower his guard—possibly a nigga trying to set him up for something petty like another woman.
Then she asked him how much for a gram, and he went scouring through her account. It started making sense. It’s likely that she doesn’t smoke much, she doesn’t look like the type. And he doesn’t remember ever talking to her, so it couldn’t be a set-up … not from another man, at least.
So, he chose to be nice—this once. A first-time deal for a new client, even if this little $10 transaction is a waste of his time. His weed is good, he’s got confidence in his product. And hopefully, in seeing that he’s a business man willing to cater to any type of customer, she’ll admire that enough to become a regular.
For a split second, he’s adverse to his own idea; A pretty girl like her doesn’t need to be facing blunts like that. Yet, just as quickly, the thought evaporates, because how much she smokes simply isn’t his business. And if she wants to smoke more of his weed, then that’s just more money for him.
His useless hypotheticals are put to stop when he notices movement in the near-distance; A sort of rushed walk of determination, heading in his direction.
For some reason, Onyankopon bites back a scoff. Everything about the way she is dressed confirms the character he’s created of her in his head.
‘Come With Me to Buy A Gram On My Way to Pilates!’
He almost laughs at the thought.
Glancing at the time on his phone, he notes that she’s almost ten minutes late. He’ll let it go just this once; “first-time client deal” and all. She’s just lucky today is one of his slower days.
Black hair, pressed flat and shining under the sun, sways with body behind her. It’s tucked behind her ears, showing off dangling earrings. A cropped, half-zipped sweater hangs boxy on her smaller frame and off of one shoulder, keeping her upper-half somewhat warm in this breeze.
As she gets closer, he notices the finer details of her. Like the subtle dewiness of her skin, the quiet definition of muscle beneath her moisturized skin, and the wispy lashes that perfectly frame her slender eyes.
Her pace slows as she comes to a pause before him, apprehension covering her like a shroud. Onyankopon relaxes his stance, trying to give off an air of gentleness so as to not spook her off. Then, he reminds himself that she’s not some deer in the forest that’ll run off at the faintest sound of a twig snapping.
“H-hi, Onyankopon? Did I say it right?”
Of course, her voice is soft. Real gentle, like … plush mink fabric.
The blow of wind barely shifts in direction, yet that’s all he needs to smell the clean scent wafting off of her; warm and spicy, with an overall powdery essence. Not an overbearing smell. In fact, its projection is personal. She’d have to let him get close to smell more of it.
Admittedly, it’s enticing enough to lure him in.
“Yeah,” he half-nods, staring down at her, conscious of making no sudden movements.
“Okay.” A shy piece of laughter breaks from her, the corners of her eyes crinkling as her mouth opens to let the airy sound free.
He gets a generous peak of her pink tongue and gums, and her white teeth—a “perfection” in hygiene that seems naturally characteristic of her.
“I was scared I approached the wrong person,” she says, laughter dying off.
He wonders if she practiced this interaction. If she thought more than twice about what she’d ask him and how she’d ask it. Then, he tells himself to stop being a dickhead.
She’s not doing too bad. Someone like her—if she’s not smoking often—likely doesn’t get her own weed. She probably doesn’t even roll her own blunt, let alone crush the bud.
No, she can’t risk getting anything under her nails or having her fingertips stink. Unless she uses a crusher, and not just any old crusher. It has to be cute, something pink to match her aesthetic.
“Nah, you good.”
His gaze dips below her face for a split second, stealing a peak at her hands. As he suspected; a soft, milky pink color is painted over square-shaped nails that barely reach over the tips of her fingers.
She nods, glancing off to the side before clearing her throat. “Um—how much?”
“Ten.”
He sees the minuscule jump in her brows as she tries to conceal her shock.
‘How much did she think it would cost?’
Nodding, she reaches for the tiny purse he hadn’t even seen tucked beneath her right arm. She barely rifles through it for more than a second.
“You don’t gotta give cash, just Zelle it.”
She freezes, eyes wide as she looks up at him. “Oh,” she mumbles. She fumbles to readjust the purse on her shoulder before getting her phone out.
The large iPhone is adorned in a powder-pink case. Her thumb does a great deal of stretching across the screen as she tries to type one-handed. She eventually gives up, using both hands.
“What’s your, um, number?” She stares down at her screen, thumbs hovering over the glass as they wait to enter his digits.
“You don’t wanna see the weed first?”
That same caught look returns to her face as she picks her head up. “Oh—shit. Sorry—”
A dry, amused snort leaves him as he finally allows himself to smile—albeit, a faint one. “I’m just fucking with you.”
“Oh, alright,” she snorts. The tense energy in her shoulders releases a bit.
“It’s in my car, can’t do this out in the open.”
She nods quickly, like she suddenly remembered the nature of this exchange. He turns to head to his car, silently calling for her to follow along. And she does.
Just a few inches from his side, he watches her from his peripheral vision. Another new thing he notices: the simplistic, earthy green slides on her feet, showing off her toes that match her nail set.
When they reach his car, he isn’t surprised that she’s stopped a few feet from it. He takes no offense to it, either. Instead, he opens his door, sliding into the driver’s seat. He does a quick reach over the console to retrieve a small dime bag from the glove box.
Holding it between his thumb and forefinger, he toys with its seal as he nods over to her. “Take my number.”
Springing into action, she opens her phone back up to enter his number for the transaction. As he recites it, her fingers move quickly.
“I’m sending a dollar first.” She peers up to look at him, her shiny lips parting as she inhales. “Just to make sure it’s the right … thing.”
“Do what you gotta do.”
He turns his head away to survey the scene—campus is quieter than usual, most students crowding the libraries or indoor lounge spaces to study for midterms.
It’s silent for a minute before his phone pings with a deposit notice. He gives her a confirming nod when she looks at him. Soon, she sends the remaining balance, asking him “ten dollars, right,” as if she didn’t remember the total. He answers her anyway, unsurprised by her trepid thoroughness.
Before his phone can even sound with the confirmation of the remaining money sent, he outstretches his hand, offering the baggy.
She blinks, going “O-oh,” before gingerly taking it.
“‘Preciate it,” he nods.
“Thank you.”
She gives him a genial, close-lipped smile before tucking the baggy away in one of her sweater pockets and turning to leave. He doesn’t check to see where she’s going or to even watch her go.
The encounter went just about how he expected it to.
He can’t tell if she’d be back, though it’s not something he’d take to heart if she doesn’t. Girls like her are usually one-time customers, just from experience.
As he shuts his door, his phone pings with the notice of the rest of his money. He doesn’t check it, sure that she’d sent him those nine dollars, just like she was supposed to.
He turns on the engine, shortly pulling out of the parking space to continue the rest of his day.
WARM VANILLA, SUGARY CHOCOLATE, AND ANY OTHER GOURMAND SCENT she can think of, fills the small off-campus apartment, courtesy of the women present. There isn’t a moment of silence here.
And it helps, not having to think too hard about how she’s still barely afloat in that class (which shall not be named); head just above water. All Ámerei wants to think about is how lit she can get tonight with her friends.
“And you’re sure y’all won’t get a violation for this?”
Resting across the short length of the olive green couch, Solayne watches the next woman closely, seated on the floor before her.
“Girl, yes,” Aneesa responds. Face buried in her phone, she doesn’t even spare a glance. “You know how many times me and My-My smoked in here?”
“Nah, facts,” Malaysia backs up, showing all thirty-two teeth as she recounts the many times they’ve gotten away with breaking the strict off-campus apartment rules. “We just gotta stick a towel under the front door and open some windows, we’ll be good!”
Her boisterous, raspy confirmation brings Solayne and Ámerei peace.
“Oh, then, say less,” Solayne sighs out in relief.
“Yeah, and no one’s gonna snitch, even if they do smell it,” Aneesa adds.
Seated at the small kitchen island, Ámerei pulls an open bottle of a cranberry Prosecco wine closer to her as she watches her friends work out the plans for the night. Grabbing her cup, she replenishes on the bubbly drink as conversation continues amongst them.
“Only thing is … I'm out.” She bares her teeth in an expression of awkwardness, sucking in a breath of air. “All I got is papers."
Aneesa's confession comes out with apprehension. Quickly, Solayne turns to Malaysia for hope.
"Facts," the second choice frowns, reaching to tug on a stray curl at the nape of her neck. "I do got cones, though."
"Fuck!" Solayne groans out. However, she quickly remembers Ámerei, looking to her roommate.
"Mei, you have any left?"
Malaysia and Aneesa look at their quiet friend in mild shock.
The unsuspecting business major gawks at them with wide eyes, like she'd been caught in headlights.
"Left? Girl, since when have you ever got any?" Malaysia asks, an incredulous smile on her face.
"I hooked her up with a plug," Solayne answers, popping out her tongue as she flips a good amount of braids over her shoulders.
With pursed lips, Aneesa looks her up and down, holding back a laugh. "And you look proud of it."
"Look at you," Malaysia shakes her head. "Corrupting the poor girl."
Swallowing a sip, Ámerei shakes her head, holding a hand out to catch their attention. "Hold on, she didn't corrupt me. I wanted to smoke—"
"Tell 'em," Solayne defends.
Ignoring the interjection, Ámerei continues smoothly. "And I only bought a gram, anyway. It was supposed to be a once in a blue moon type of thing."
Malaysia raises an eyebrow, watching the other woman with skepticism as she moves to the kitchen for a drink of her own. "You rolled?"
As Ámerei turns her head away to hide the growing smirk on her glossy pink lips, the others burst out into laughter.
"Right," Aneesa laughs.
"Girl, you know she had me roll that shit for her when we came back from the mall,” Solayne confesses.
"I'm crying," Malaysia says, grabbing herself a cup and stealing the bottle of Prosecco.
"Well, I hope you still got that dealer's number, 'cause he's about to make a cute coin tonight." Pushing herself up from the ground, Aneesa heads for her room.
"But was his shit was good, though?" Cradling her cup, Malaysia reenters the living room space.
Ámerei nods. "Yeah, I liked it. Pretty smooth."
Solayne scoffs. "Girl, of course it was good. She got her shit from Onyankopon."
Just as those words had left her mouth, Aneesa emerged from her room, her wallet in hand. She pauses in her tracks. "Onyankopon?"
All heads turn to her, seeing the way her face screws up.
"Yeah, what's wrong?" Solayne asks, eyeing the woman as she rejoins their circle.
She offers a weak eye roll. "Nothing, I just hate hearing about anything or anyone related to Eren." Her legs fold under her body as she takes her seat on the floor near the couch, wallet in-lap. "And what about Connie? We can't just get from him? I'm sure he'll give us, like, a discount—y'know, off the strength that it's you."
Both Ámerei and Malaysia glance at each other, cracking twin smiles as they catch the subtle shade.
Solayne only waves her off. "Oh, girl—please! And Connie not even on campus right now. He went home for the weekend."
Malaysia scoffs, lifting her cup to her mouth. "Yeah, your ass would know," she mumbles into it.
Solayne looks at her with faux confusion. "Something was said?"
Ámerei giggles at the two. "Guys, it's fine. I can text, um, Onyankopon." Licking her lips, a bad habit of hers whenever she gets tipsy, she plucks up her phone to go straight to Instagram.
"How much should I ask for?" she asks as she taps around on the screen, brain lagging for a micro-second between each one.
"A quarter," Solayne offers.
"Bitch—no. Ask for a half, please, Ámerei."
Solayne scowls at Malaysia. "Fucking druggie."
A mini debate over the desired quantity breaks out amongst the women. One side argues that it'd be too much—after all, they're only going to be smoking for the night. The other proposes that they must consider the varying tolerance of the rest.
"Guys, c'mon," Ámerei cuts in. "I don't wanna text him then leave him hanging—"
"Relax, cry baby" Aneesa placates. "Just get the half. We'll split it, and whatever's leftover, whoever wants can get it."
Licking her lips, Ámerei begins to type in hers and Onyankopon's shared chat:
Hey
Can I get a half?
As she waits for his response, she chews at her bottom lip, careful to keep their chat open and her phone on.
"What did he say?" Malaysia questions, leaning over her shoulder to see.
"He didn't respond yet," she mumbles as she picks up her cup. A shallow wave of dizziness hits her, but that only tells her to drink more.
Aneesa scoffs, folding her arms across her chest. "He must not want this money then."
Solayne smirks at her. "You don't wanna buy from this man so bad."
"Ou, he just texted back!" Malaysia announces. Turning back to look at the phone, she tells Ámerei: "Tell him we want it tonight."
"Calm down, you fein," Solayne says.
Blocking out the noise around her, Ámerei reads his response.
Whn uu want it
Tonight, pls
He 'hearts' her message before shooting back a reply.
Gotchu in 20
That's good, how much is it?
Once she sees the bubbles bounce on his side of their chat, she expects to see a response half-a-second later. So, she's a little bit surprised when it doesn't come.
In fact, her surprise morphs into confusion when the bubble disappears and reappears, repeating this dance for about a minute.
"The fuck? He don't know his own prices?" Malaysia says.
Aneesa rolls her eyes. "And this is who we're supposed to be buying from?"
"Shut up," Solayne groans.
Ámerei is about to swipe out of their chat when his message finally pops in.
Picking her head up from the phone, she earns the girls' attention. "He said it's $120."
"That's not too bad," Malaysia says.
The others agree, Aneesa with less enthusiasm than the others.
"Thirty each, okaaay," Solayne nods, a growing smile on her face.
Garnering the responses, Ámerei types back.
That's good. Are we meeting at the same spot?
Yh
"Okay, it's set," she announces, much to the others' relief. "I just have to go pick it up by the statue on campus."
Aneesa blinks. "The statue? On campus?"
"Right, girl that's a cute … twenty-minute walk right there," Malaysia adds.
"Not only that—what do you mean you have to go pick it up? I hope you don't think we're letting you go out there by yourself?"
Ámerei glances around at her friends, noting the shift in energy. "I went by myself last time—"
"Mei, that was during the day," Solayne interjects, though she's careful to keep her voice light.
"Facts, you not about to get snatched up for some weed, going out there by yourself," Malaysia says.
Refraining from rolling her eyes—all too used to the protective nature of her friends regarding anyone belonging to their tight-knit group—she relents: "Okay, we'll all go, I don't care."
She utilizes a tired laugh to disguise her slight irritation, but it doesn't go unnoticed, not by Solayne. However, it's ignored in favor of keeping the mood high. Besides, she doesn’t want to jump to any conclusions just yet.
ᝰ
THE AIR IS PERFECT TONIGHT, far warmer than the night of their last exchange—more humid, too. Her baby tee clings to her skin. With every step, the air brushes against her legs like the smooth pass of a blanket.
Her friends cling to her, their natural conversation floating around them. However, she doesn’t give much of her attention to their words. Instead, the brief memory of her last encounter with Onyankopon keeps her mind busy.
She questions why she was so nervous the first time. It was a simple transaction. Yet, it was all too easy for her to second-guess herself when it came to asking the right questions. She’s sure he could sense her nervousness, too. She likes to think that this time will be different.
As they round the corner on the path leading across the campus yard, Ámerei sees that tall figure leaning against the University’s trademark statue.
The others spot him, too.
“Ugh,” Aneesa groans softly.
“Oh, hush,” Solayne butts in.
As they near him, Ámerei clutches the money tighter in hand, the folded bills soft in her grasp.
Tall street lamps line the path, casting soft warm spotlights around the manicured lawn. The closer they get, she notes how his body seems to evade most of it by where he stands.
Her feet pick up in stride, thong-slippers slapping the concrete as she's pushed to the front of the group as their new lead. Eventually, space grows between her and the girls. To which they don’t fail to notice, of course.
“Girl, where are you going?” Solayne asks.
A half-hearted motion is thrown in the general direction of the man, some odd-feet away, as Ámerei glances back at her. “He’s right there!”
They finally get within a good enough range of him, and a bolt of courage strikes throughout her.
“Hi,” she waves, coming to a stop before him, an easygoing smile on her lips.
Unlike last time, a durag covers the inky black waves on his head—royal blue. He looks every bit as comfortable as he portrays himself to be: Chrome Hearts hoodie, baggy sweats, and slides on his feet.
She wonders if her request had stolen him from the comfort of his bed.
A quick nod is sent her way as he pushes himself off of the statue. “Wassup.”
Going half-a-step closer, she looks up at him with low eyes. Her nose picks up the faint scent of his cologne, something she’s never smelt before; clean, floral yet woody—even a hint of amber.
It almost makes her mouth water. She squeezes the money tighter. Before she lets her mouth run unfiltered, she chooses instead to lick her lips and swallow her spit.
“You bought your friends?”
The question sounds like an after-thought as he reaches down to retrieve a book bag by his feet, which she hadn’t noticed.
“Huh?” She glances back at the girls, seeing them converse amongst themselves, the occasional glance shot her way. “Oh, yeah,” she giggles.
As he reaches into his bag, he’s sure to keep his eyes on her.
“They, um, they didn’t want me to come alone … said it was dangerous.”
A half-hearted snort comes out of him. “They not wrong.” He pulls out a decently sized bag full of his product. The smell hits them immediately. “But how I know y’all not here to rob me?”
As the question leaves his mouth, he hands her the bag, a faint one-sided smirk on his lips.
A laugh bursts free from her. “I’m in flip-flops. I can’t run, even if I wanted to … I’m not fast.”
He hums in thought, glancing down at her toes so quick she almost misses it. “Could’a fooled me … would’a thought you did track or something,” he mumbles, analyzing her figure.
At the confession, her eyes almost bulge out of her head. “Track? I wish!”
If his growing smile is anything to go by, he’s definitely amused.
“I, um, I-I do Pilates.” There’s an attempt to hide her own grin; she chews at her bottom lip.
“Yeah?”
She nods. “I wish I was more consistent, but yeah… I’m sorry, you didn’t ask that.”
Her laugh is awkward, to say the least, yet she tries to quickly move past that; outstretching a hand, she offers him the money.
“You cool.” He takes the rolled up bills, quickly counting the cash before shoving it in the pocket of his sweats.
She nods, clutching the bag to her chest.
For a moment, they stare back at each other, waiting for the next prompt. He goes first.
“Y’all stay safe.”
She blinks, the corners of her mouth dropping just a fraction as she realizes this interaction is over.
“You, too,” she nods before leaving first, heading back to her friends. She doesn’t glance back at him.
As she returns to the group, Solayne is the first one she makes eye contact with.
“Finally, I thought that shit would never end,” Aneesa starts.
Malaysia rubs her hands together, shoulders bouncing with glee. “Ouu, I can already smell it. Tonight’s gonna be so good!”
The journey back to the apartment doesn’t feel as long.
ᝰ
THERE’S A REASON WHY he tries to be on campus as little as possible. The slow-walkers and corny people, the dick-riding ass security guards, the useless administration, and overall atmosphere of the school is too much for him at times.
To make a long story short, Onyankopon doesn’t have the patience for this.
His body twists, narrowly avoiding colliding shoulders with another student. With the quiet kiss of his teeth, he shakes his head, thinking, ‘This exactly why I scheduled these classes back to back.’
He readjusts his grip on the cool grey metal of his laptop, clutching it to his chest.
“Stupid ass nigga,” he mutters with the curl of his upper lip.
Outside’s cool breeze is shut out as he finally enters the second campus building—the location of his next class. He reaches up, readjusting his headphones over his skull-cap.
The journey to his next class is a short one, thankfully: a quick ride up the escalator to the second floor, a walk down the west hall to room 158, and he’s there. Nothing longer than two minutes … usually.
However, this time is an exception.
As he steps off of the escalator, eyes scanning the large hall as they typically do, his attention catches on something.
Someone.
In a small area off to the side is a cul-de-sac of benches for student seating. And it seems that he’s just caught Ámerei getting up from the bench, as she hangs her purse over her shoulder.
He’s not sure how to describe the emotion that fills him as he sees her glance back—in the midst of flipping her hair over her shoulder—at a guy just inches from her.
Mild shock? Surprise?
None of those words seem to qualify, because this is definitely something he should’ve expected.
But, he doesn’t remember seeing a post about a man or even a story-post involving one when he last saw her page—about two weeks ago when he was just curious about remembering her actual name.
Her glossed lips move at an excited pace as she turns to speak to the man, the apples of her cheeks rounded and high with a smile.
His attention flicks over to the man himself, who stares in her face like it would kill him to not pay attention to her for even a second.
Onyankopon’s left brow twitches.
It’s not unusual for people to not post their significant other. But, it makes sense that she has a nigga, he thinks.
A pretty girl that keeps up with herself at all times. Her vibe gives off that she’s a woman of—at the very least—some kind of class, and she’s got money. She keeps herself healthy, dresses good, has good hygiene, nails done, hair done—overall, highly attractive.
And his type.
He blinks, swallowing back at the realization. Once more, he looks at the pair, catching them at the tail-end of a hug.
‘Noted.’
With practiced ease, Onyankopon turns the other way to head to class, right down the west hall.
Hey
Can I get a gram pls
THE MESSAGE FALLS DOWN ON HIS SCREEN AS HE SCROLLS THROUGH TIKTOK, currently in the middle of a compilation of basketball highlights—his idea of decompressing after finals. As soon as it was over, he raced back to his apartment, situated off of the campus.
Onyankopon isn’t too concerned about how he performed on the test. He did too well in that class to even think he could possibly fail.
It took him a moment to recognize the username, confused as to who would be asking him for a gram—especially knowing he doesn’t sell such a small amount. His lips press together with faint irritation as he views their chat.
He hasn’t seen Ámerei around campus since that day … almost two months ago. Nor has he heard from her. Understandable. He doesn’t expect to hear back from or even frequently see the people he deals to often.
Admittedly, after seeing her with that other guy, he decided to keep his eyes to himself. Even if he wasn’t really looking that hard. He’s had enough of the drama that comes with people, especially when it comes to women.
Making money and finishing college, that’s his top priority.
was a new client deal
1 time only
Immediately after sending the message, he swipes back over to TikTok to resume his video. He’s only granted a few seconds of peace when a new message pops up:
Oh right, sorry
An eighth then
Whn uu want it
Rn...
At the sight of the message, Onyankopon squeezes his eyes shut and releases a deep sigh.
So much for decompressing.
ᝰ
ONYANKOPON FINDS HER at the usual pick up location, looking the most stressed he’s ever seen her. He has to admit, he’d much rather see a smile on that face instead of a pout.
With furrowed brows, she stares off at nothing in particular. All the while, the tip of her thumb is pushed in between her lips, jaw working as she nibbles on her manicure.
He doesn’t announce his presence, only walks up to her. And upon seeing him, the tension in her narrow shoulders eases some.
“Hey,” she breathes out, taking a half-step towards him.
His hand clutches the strap of his book bag a bit tighter. “Wassup.”
A tiny sigh falls from her lips as she looks off to the side. “Nothing, really … just stress, honestly.”
A curt hum leaves him as he brings his bag around to his front to get out the baggy.
“Y’know, with, like … finals, and everything…”
He nods. “Felt that.”
She peers up at Onyankopon, watching his face closely for any small signs of irritation. He shows none. However, she does notice something she’d never seen before—the small tattoo printed near his left ear.
“It was just so hard this semester, like…” she groans, looking off to the side again. “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like I’m not cut for this college stuff.”
She chews at her bottom lip, partly noting his silence.
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Ain’t nothing new, though.” Casually, he hands off the weed.
“No, I know, but…” Another sigh. “But this—it’s too much. Especially this round of finals. I honestly felt like … no matter how hard I studied, I still couldn’t understand anything. Like … my professor was so terrible! I just—ugh. I honestly want to get so fucking high I can’t even remember how bad I just bombed this final. I know I failed it.”
Her head drops in her hands, and Onyankopon is at a loss for words. The corners of his lips twitch as he’s actively trying to decide whether he should laugh or at least attempt to console her.
“I mean … you can’t be talking like that … or thinking like that.”
His voice picks her head up out of her hands.
They stare at each other, each waiting to see who will move the ball first. Onyankopon almost cracks first.
Almost.
“Do … do you smoke?”
Confusion flashes across his face as the topic switch almost throws him off.
“Uh … occasionally?”
She nods, staring up at him with big eyes that seem to be soaking up everything in her line of sight—him.
“I only asked because … y’know, you … do this—” She gestures to the baggy in her grasp. “H-how often do you do it—smoke?”
He shrugs again. “Not much...”
Another nod, and it’s quiet again, but only for a very brief bit of time.
“Sorry—do you—did you have finals?”
He makes a face, brows scrunching up as the corners of his lips quirk up.
“I know you sell to people on campus, so—” She shakes her head. “That was a stupid question. I meant, what class did you have finals for?”
Hands in his pockets now, Onyankopon looks down at her. Eye contact is sparse at this point. Her fingers comb through the ends of her hair.
“Why you asking all these questions?”
That gets her attention; Her eyes bulge out of her head as she gawks up at him, seemingly having forgotten herself.
“Sorry, I was just curious—you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to!”
Under his stare, she shrinks in on herself, even begins to create a bit of space between them.
“I didn’t mean to, like, pry into your business—”
“You smoking alone?”
The question is enough to throw her off. Her brain shoots off about a hundred different thoughts before she’s able to stammer out an answer.
“Yeah … w-why?”
He’s quiet for a while, but it’s obvious that an idea has been set in motion. She can see it in his eyes.
“Tryna chill with me?”
ᝰ
‘YOU DIDN’T SAY YOU LIVED HERE, my friends live in this building.’
Those words almost tumbled their way out of her mouth. Until she overthought it and predicted his “would-be” response: ‘Why would I tell you where I lived?’ That was enough to keep her quiet.
Oblivious to the metaphorical cloud hanging over Ámerei’s head, Onyankopon leads the way into his apartment.
His stature—tall with broad shoulders—hides her view of his place for a moment. In that very short period of time, the pleasant scent of his home hits her nose.
The layout is similar to Malaysia and Aneesa’s apartment. The familiarity offers a bit of comfort.
Yet, it’s not enough to push her shoulders down or take the stiffness out of her gait. Following behind him, she is the living definition of meekness. Her palms sweat as they hold on tight to the baggy of weed she has yet to pay for.
“No shoes in the house,” he says, veering off to the side to toe-off his own.
Silently, she nods, removing her sneakers and setting them down near the door.
“You could sit on the couch if you want.”
She glances over at the short sofa, littered with two small stuffed toys—a mini Mario and Luigi pair—sitting at opposite ends.
"Oh, that's cute." The words slip from her mouth without much of a thought.
"Huh?" He glances back to see her heading for the couch, reaching out for one of the stuffed toys. "Oh, shit, yeah," Onyankopon chuckles.
Stealing a spot, Ámerei easily plops down with the tiny Luigi in her hands. And she doesn't plan on letting him go any time soon. She pinches and twists at his little arms, even rubbing the pads of her thumbs over his smooth felt, as she watches Onyankopon move with absolutely no hurry around his home.
She keeps trying to predict when he'll join her on the couch. Whenever he gets close enough for her to think so, her heart rate spikes, before she's flooded with both relief and disappointment as he walks away.
"You want something to drink?"
A light hum leaves her as she pretends to think. "What do you have?"
"Orange juice, water ... some orange Fanta."
"Um..." She rubs her lips together in thought, refusing to look up at him. "Mh ... no. It's okay."
"A'ight."
The soft padding of his feet melts away as he leaves the living room. In his time of absence, Ámerei wills herself to relax, even by just a little bit.
As she’s caught in the throes of trying to get her shoulders to—at the very least—not to hike up, Onyankopon reemerges with full hands.
"You could sit back, y'know. You not gon' get in trouble."
It takes half of a second for the joke to get to her. When it finally does, the corners of her eyes wrinkle as a gentle smile pulls at her face. "Oh, okay, sorry," she laughs lightly, pushing herself back onto the couch.
"You good," he mumbles, making his way over.
On the short coffee table between the couch and TV, he sets down a rolling tray holding the necessary supplies needed for a smoke session.
Although the couch is short, Onyankopon makes an effort to keep some distance between them, trying his best to give her a comfortable amount of space.
"You could roll?" He asks, bringing the tray into his lap and grabbing his crusher.
She glances down at his hands as he prepares his weed. "No. I just have my friends do it."
A scoff, partnered with the gentle shake of his head. "Knew it." A faint smirk lines his lips.
"Shut up.”
She tries not to let her laughter linger for too long, however, her overthinking is done in vain as Onyankopon mumbles out yet another line.
“You and them girly-ass nails … can’t mess ‘em up, right?”
She blinks, her brain making an effort to keep up with this newfound trait of playful teasing within the stoic man. “W-well, of course not.”
His eyes stay glued to the paper in his fingers as he packs it with the crushed weed. “Yeah, they too … expensive, right? Just like all the other … shit you got on.”
Her glossy lips are parted, and they remain that way. Her gaze is no longer passive, but searching now. Searching for some kind of a reason for this teasing, and if it is truly playful.
A quiet scoff comes from him, just before he rolls the paper to form the first blunt.
“You pay for all that yourself?”
The rise and fall of her chest is more noticeable in the quiet that settles between them; him waiting on her answer, and her waiting on him to announce that he’s just playing with her.
“Are you trying to ask if I have my own money?”
His lips press together in a simple smile, almost like he’s laughing with himself, just before he lifts the blunt to his mouth to lick.
“That ain’t what I asked.”
It’s quiet as he finally seals the blunt.
Their eyes meet.
He catches a flash of recognition across her face.
‘There she go,’ he thinks, suppressing a smirk.
“I do…”
Onyankopon grabs the lighter before reaching forward to place the tray down on the table. Sitting back on the couch, he rolls the flame beneath the blunt, turning it over the tiny fire.
She expects him to say something, another response to her answer, maybe? A new topic?
But, nothing comes.
All discussion goes out of the window as Onyankopon lights the packed blunt. He takes the first hit with ease. He only needs about two more pulls before he leaves it hanging between his lips to outstretch a hand her way.
“Hm.”
She looks down, seeing his palm open for something. She glances back up to catch him nodding towards the baggy beneath her arm.
“Oh…” She passes the bag over to him.
Wordlessly, she watches him take out the bud he’d sold her to crush down. It sort of impresses her, how fast he’s able to roll a blunt. And when it’s done, he lights it before carefully handing it over to her.
“Thank you.”
He nods lazily as she takes her first puff.
“‘Thank you.’”
The soft, high-pitched voice almost makes her choke. She pulls the blunt from her lips, face twisted in a mixture of confused amusement. “Did you just … mock me?”
A small grunt leaves him as he readjusts to sit more comfortably on the couch and face her. He’s got an arm resting atop the back cushion, blunt in hand. He exhales the smoke through his nose.
“You got some good manners.”
There’s a calmness present in his voice that makes goosebumps rise on her skin.
His legs are spread wider. If he were to move by just an inch, their knees would bump together. The proximity alone is enough to make her slightly dizzy.
“‘Can I get a gram, please?’” He takes a pull. “‘Onyankopon—did I say it right?’”
A chuckle brews in his chest as her own embarrassment makes itself known on her face.
“Oh my gosh,” she laughs shyly, hiding the lower half of her face behind a hand. “Stop, I was being polite.”
He scratches at his chin, blunt dangling between his plump lips.
“Yeah … you a good girl.”
A gentle wrinkle disturbs the smoothness between her brows. The urge to disprove him rears its head within her. She opens her mouth to retort, but he stops her before she can get the chance.
“Don’t gotta deny it,” he shrugs with the simple shake of his head. “It’s cool …”
Weakly, she rolls her eyes. “But why do I have to be that, though? I can’t just be normal?”
“You is. You a normal … good girl.” As he emphasized the word, Onyankopon made sure to keep eye contact.
Her upper lip twists ever so slightly. It almost makes him laugh. Even her most sour face is polite—hardly offending. Even just chilling on his couch, her poster is straight and her head is held high.
“Nah, matter fact—you more like a princess.”
Ámerei gawks at the word. “A princess?”
His lips twitch into a smirk, clearly having fun with this.
“Stop—” She outstretches a hand towards him. “Stop playing with me.” But her attempt at strict delivery falls flat as a giggle bubbles out of her.
Onyankopon kisses his teeth, taking a hit as he turns his head away. “Acting all proper…” He exhales a thin cloud of smoke.
“Bet you always follow the rules and shit … handing in your homework on time, studying for tests—”
“Like a regular student,” she defends.
Nevertheless, he continues: “Parents don’t even gotta worry about you going away for college.”
“I’m grown?” She raises a brow, a half-smile on her lips.
“Right, a ‘grown,’ goody-two-shoes … probably can’t even take dick.”
The statement almost feels like a stab to the chest—unexpected. Tingles echo through her skin. Those soft-spoken words shut her up immediately, and any semblance of a smile is wiped off of her face.
“Matter fact…” Onyankopon rasps. He reaches forward to ash his blunt on the tray, moving at a relaxed, unrushed pace. “I know you can’t take dick.”
When he sits back, his eyes bore into her again. “Too good to just fuck on any random ass nigga, right?”
She peers down at her hands as she plays with a ring on one of her fingers. For a moment, she loses herself in thought as she twists the dainty metal around.
“Well … I’m glad it’s so obvious that I don’t have sex.”
The words come out in almost a soft mumble. Yet, they’re loud enough to break him out of his weed-induced spell as he sits up just a little bit straighter, a rift appearing between his brows seconds before they lift up high.
“What you mean?”
A quiet groan slips from her. “I’m a virgin … duh.”
For his reaction, she watches him closely out of the corner of her eye. And she can’t lie to herself, what she notices gives her a sense of … disappointment?
Onyankopon sits up entirely, turning his body away from her to look forward. His legs no longer spread as wide as before, increasing the amount of space between them.
‘Is he … not interested anymore?’
It throws her brain for a loop how quick he switched up on her. Was she not supposed to say that? It’s not like she was broadcasting the news to him—he started it!
Her chest caves in the longer she sits in this suffocating silence. She doesn’t even know what to say.
The blunt is fizzling out between her fingers, the paper itself growing damp from how much her hand sweats.
“Um—”
“You watching any shows right now?”
Ámerei doesn’t allow herself to remain stunned for longer than a second before she’s giving a nonverbal response; a shake of the head.
“A’ight,” he groans, reaching forward to grab the remote.
He goes silent as he sifts through his Hulu account, flipping through titles to see what can best fit the vibe for this hangout (and even resuscitate it).
“I-is there a problem?”
His eyes don’t stray from the screen before them, the TV speaker emitting low clicks as he moves onto the next title. “Nah…”
Her eyes narrow. “Why’d you get quiet when I said I’m a virgin, then?”
He takes a slow inhale, finger freezing on the remote. There’s a handful of seconds before he spares her a brief sideways glance.
“You not watching any shows right now?”
Confusion and irritation twists her face up as she glares at him. “So, you’re just gonna be weird now?”
The sigh that leaves Onyankopon only offends her further. “I’m just tryna find something to watch. We don’t gotta talk about nothing—”
“Bullshit.” She sits up straighter in her spot on the couch, leaning over to get in his face. “I know I’m a virgin, but I’m not stupid. I know you’re interested in me … kind of. At least, I am. Obviously, that’s why I came over here, and it’s probably why you invited me over here, too.”
“Listen—”
“Like, why would I come to a random guy’s apartment just to smoke with him? I know what the fuck people do in situations like these.”
He refrains from showing his mild shock at her change in demeanor. Nevertheless, he faces her as he tries his best attempt at showing remorse. “You seemed cool, maybe I was just tryna chill with you. That’s what you came over here to do?”
Her gaze falters under his own, and her shoulders curl in tighter around her. With a shrug, Ámerei confesses, “I just wanted to … try something new.”
His “guilt” melts into something else: amusement. All there is to show for it is the ghost of a smirk on his lips. “Try something new? That’s … funny.”
His words regain her eye contact, and just as easily she shrugs off her humility for anger. “I’m just going to leave.” Ámerei puts out her blunt and pockets it before reaching for what’s left of her uncrushed weed. “Clearly you think … I’m some little fucking girl, and I’m not gonna sit here and be treated like that—”
“Hol’on—”
“No, I’ll just go—”
As she prepares to stand, he reaches out an arm to keep her in her seat.
“Calm down, just—” Yet another sigh is released as he assesses the situation. “You being a virgin isn’t … a issue. I just … I’m not tryna be the guy that you get first—”
“Why? Because I’ll get attached?” She says the words with air quotes. “Please,” she scoffs. Her arms cross over her chest as she falls back against the couch cushions.
Staring at her, Onyankopon licks at his back molars as he weighs his options with this situation. Catching his eyes, Ámerei staunchly raises a brow in question—in challenge, actually.
“A’ight, you wanna fuck?” He nods to himself, shifting in his seat. “Fine, we could do that.”
It takes a second too long for her brain to get a firm grasp of his words. “Wha—a-are you—really?”
An unflinching stare is the only answer he gives her.
With apprehension, her arms unfold to push herself up higher. “O-okay … um.” She swallows. “A-are you clean?”
He wants to laugh, but keeps it at bay. “No, I don’t got nothing. You wanna get tested before we do something?”
“No…?” She doesn’t acknowledge his sarcasm, she doesn’t think she can. “If that’s fine with you?”
He shrugs, eyes softening as he looks at her changing demeanor. “I’m cool.”
The gentle sound of his voice and the heat of his stare boils her in her seat. “Where … should we start?”
His eyes travel to the object of his thoughts: her lips. “I could kiss you?”
Her mouth parts with a silent stutter of words she has yet to mumble. “Y-yeah,” she nods.
Turning his head, Onyankopon ducks in to press his lips against hers. It almost makes her dizzy—them finally touching. Not too wet, his lips are perfectly moist as they slide over her own.
Whereas he moves smooth and fluid, her lips remain pursed against his own, frozen with timidity. And then the wet smooches of each kiss are so loud in her ears, it’s all she can hear.
As he opens his mouth further, he lightly laughs against her. “You gotta kiss back.”
“I am.”
He pulls back to stare at her fully. “You not.”
Brows pulling together, she looks off to the side with a frown and a huff. “Well … it’s awkward.”
“Wha—how you expect to fuck if you can’t handle this?”
Her eyes dart back over to him, growing wide. “I can handle a kiss! It’s just quiet as hell, and I don’t only wanna hear us kissing! Then, it’s just awkward only using our … lips, like—ugh. Can’t we just use tongue?”
“A’ight, if that’s what you wanna do,” he scoffs. “Was tryna ease you into it.”
She doesn’t say anything as she rolls her eyes. Instead, she surges forward to smash her lips against his. This time, she moves with an eagerness that screams she’s trying to prove herself.
And, honestly … she uses just a little too much teeth.
Yet … Onyankopon can’t find it in himself to be annoyed or even the slightest bit peeved. Instead, it’s kind of cute to him how … not great she is at this.
But, of course, he’s still a man; His cradle of her jaw is light, yet guiding as he tilts her head and holds it in its new position, granting him the perfect access to slip his tongue inside.
The muscle is velvety smooth and wet; addicting. Her fingers clutch awkwardly at the closest parts of his shirt, eyes fluttering shut as she loses herself in the action of sucking on him.
Maybe she knew what she was talking about. Onyankopon revels in feeling her body sag against his, the warmth of her more apparent the longer they continue. Even her kissing is more relaxed, slow and perfect.
His hand sinks to her neck—not squeezing. Just ... holding. He pulls back by just a fraction, peeling his dark brown eyes open to stare down at her through his lashes as he laves at her bottom lip.
The pretty pink skin glistens with their spit, bouncing with the release of pressure as he lifts his tongue. As she opens her eyes, the fresh wispy set of lashes framing them so perfectly, the kiss drunk gaze she's got makes something in his stomach drop.
'Fuck it,' is all he thinks before dragging her light frame on top of him. Their lips are back on each other without another thought. In fact, their brains buzz with excitement.
Neither of them can stop.
The only coherent thought he formulates, is the realization of her heartbeat. Her pulse beats like a bunny rabbit's beneath his thumb. His fingers twitch as he barely stops himself from squeezing any tighter.
He's moving purely off of instinct, already knowing which actions to take; his lips veer off of hers, traveling down to the side of her face, underneath her ear, and the column of her neck.
Her mouth hangs open, puffing out swathes of air; it feels empty, missing the feel of something in it.
The hand at her neck slides behind her to cup the back of her head. He pushes her body closer into his. Ámerei's hands clutch his shirt tighter when his lips press firm into the heat of her skin and suck, pulling a hoard of blood just beneath the thin skin.
Yet, the pull isn't strong enough, and she catches herself almost whining out in complaint. When he releases her from his mouth with a weak pop, he licks over the clean skin, pleased that he hadn't left a mark.
In his arms, Ámerei shifts ever so slightly, but it's enough for her to feel him beneath his pants, pressing into the seat of her ass.
'Fuck, I'm really gonna do this,' she thinks to herself.
"Your heart beating fast," he whispers in her ear, his voice sounding distant.
She swallows. "Sorry."
"Don't be."
Before she can think of a response, his hands grip her thighs firmly. In the blink of an eye, she's suspended in the air, held up in his arms as her feet dangle at his sides.
She doesn't ask anything as he whisks her away from the living room, the couch shrinking over his shoulder as they head down the short but dark hallway and towards another room.
The bedroom.
It smells just as good as the living room, but a different scent. One softer, cleaner. The only messy thing in here is his bed, as it was left unmade.
She doesn't judge him, though. She can't remember the last time she's made hers either.
Those thoughts are quieted as she's set down on the pillowy bundle of his comforter. As her back sinks into the gentle warmth, she's engulfed in his natural scent: a faint, manly musk with an air of powdery cleanliness.
She half expects his body to already be on top of hers. Instead, he's standing over her, looking down at her with eyes full of an alertness she hadn't expected.
"What happened?"
"You wanna do this? Like, actually?"
She's nodding, sitting up on her elbows to get a better look at him. "Yes, I want to ... you don't?" The beginnings of her brows itch to pull to each other.
"Nah, I do. I'm just making sure ... don't need nobody crying 'cause I took they virginity—"
"Which is a social construct," she sasses, softly jerking her neck as she does so. "And you’re not taking anything. So stop talking about it, and let's go."
He can't lie, she got that one. All he can offer is a scoff and the shake of his head. "You keep talking like you Billy Badass."
A grin teases at her lips. "Then shut me up."
He pauses for a moment, staring at her as he decides on what he should do to her first. One hand at the hem of his pants, his tongue swipes over his bottom lip. "You just let me know when it gets too much."
His hushed tone gets her wetter, she can feel it. All she gives is a nod of her head.
"Take your clothes off for me."
"Okay," she breathes out, pushing herself to sit up on her knees.
Her capris came off first, leaving her in the pistachio green panties she decided to throw on today. Next is her sweater, which she throws softly to the floor. And then, it's her camisole.
Onyankopon doesn't try to be polite or chivalrous, there's no reason to hide how he feels; his gaze is exactly where he wants it to be.
He reaches out a hand before he can think, warm fingers cradling the side of her ribcage as he runs his thumb over the pert hill of her left boob, lazily playing with the taut, almost maroon nipple.
"Perky ass lil' titties."
Her spine bows, pushing them further into his touch. "Shut up," she mumbles, her lips pulling around her pretty teeth as she can’t keep herself from spilling a smile.
“Mhm,” he hums, moving his hand to hold her jaw and angle her chin up.
His low-lid stare has her feeling stuck in the spotlight. Ámerei can’t tell if she loves all of the attention or if she’s too shy for it.
“Why you still got them fucking panties on?”
Her breath hitches, hearing his soft voice harden around the profanity.
“I-I thought you were gonna take them off,” she says softly.
Kissing his teeth, his hand falls away from her face, leaving the skin cold. “You really think you a fucking princess.”
There was no malice in his tone at all.
Before she can even fake a frown, he gently pushes her back down on the bed. Her mouth hangs open, speechlessly watching as he softly hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of her underwear. He stares for a moment, before he even thinks to pull them down.
Between her legs, he takes heed to how the thin fabric sticks to the curves of her pussy, showing what usually goes unseen. Only slightly does he pull them up, just to further pronounce the outline of her folds. And that’s when he sees the small wet spot previously hidden.
“What’s wrong?”
The fear in her voice is poorly hidden.
“Nothing, you good.”
His smile matches that of his tone: plain and simple.
Without much more delay, Onyankopon takes great care in ridding her of her underwear. The small garment in his hands, he begins folding it with the tips of his fingers, like it’ll rip if he pulls at them too hard.
“Scoot back,” he nods in the direction he wants her to go, just before placing the folded underwear on his dresser.
Ámerei shifts to the middle of the bed, Onyankopon moving into the new space she made for him.
His hands get her by the underside of her legs, pushing them back against her stomach. As he lowers himself between them, she doesn’t lean back, only staying on her elbows to watch with … morbid curiosity.
Once again, he halts, concern befalling his face. “You good with this?”
She nods, chewing at her bottom lip as worry brings her brows together. “Y-yeah, I’m just … kinda scared? Not of you, but, like … w-what if I, like …. stink?”
He laughs softly. “You don’t.”
“I don’t?”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Was you supposed to?”
Her eyes widened. “No—no! I was just—ugh, nevermind, keep going. Sorry.”
For a moment, Onyankopon eyes her, searching for any signs that he should stop. “Do you wanna do this?”
“Yes,” she nods eagerly, never breaking eye contact.
“So lay back, then.” He kisses his teeth, hoping to calm her nerves with a playful tone. “Moving like you supervising me.”
She only rolls her eyes, her back sinking into the sheets.
Face to face with her second set of lips, Onyankopon can’t say that he’s surprised with what he’s seeing, only pleased by the sight of her. A clit, swollen with arousal, heading the curtains of her inner labia which come to peek past her lips.
Right above it, he places a soft smooch on the hill of her mound, feeling the hot and smooth skin under his lips. Then one right beneath it, where her lips part. Just in the crook of her leg and hip, he plants another kiss there.
The hitch in her breath is complimented by a subtle flex of her inner leg muscles.
“You ticklish?”
Her hands, awkwardly tucked at her sides, twist the sheets beneath them as she stares up at the ceiling. “U-um, not really—”
Pressing his tongue to the opening of her pussy, Onyankopon flattens it against her, barely dipping inside. But, he doesn’t let it linger, as he licks a long, wide stripe all the way to her clit.
Her stomach sucks in and her hips press into the bed, thighs fighting to close around him.
“O-oh—”
Another lick pulls his lips over her clit, slowly rolling his tongue over it. “Hm?”
“Mm—I don’t—“ She shakes her head, eyelids lowering by the second.
He pulls back, creating a soft smooch sound, then another lick. All before he pulls her clit back into the warmth of his mouth to suckle on.
“Mh … mmh … mh, uh … uh—”
His lips tighten around her as he holds in a laugh. He readjusts his grip to better handle her hips as they rock against his face.
“Yes … mh—please,” she pants out. She licks at her drying lips, only for her mouth to drop open again as he continues to suck at her clit.
Her knuckles pale, hands twisting and pulling at the sheets as she bears the feeling of his tongue flicking against her clit—each one pushing her towards a familiar feeling.
At the back of her head, the sound of her own voice—moaning in a way that she’s never heard before—is honestly … embarrassing.
But, she can’t bring herself to care. Not with how he has her folded up and shaking against his face.
She can feel his chin moving against her, almost digging into the underside of her thighs, and perfectly so. Right above his head, her ankles cross and her feet arch.
He switches his tempo, tongue swirling circles on it. That pulls a shiver out of her.
“Hmmm, mmh, mh—”
Using all of the strength she can muster, Ámerei pushes her hips upwards to rut against his face, chasing after a fastly impending climax.
And she’s so eager for it, she doesn’t even notice the shifting of his hips against the bed. How contained he’s trying to be. How hard he tries to not to let it be known that he enjoys getting his face fucked by a pretty girl.
Her thighs press harder against the sides of his head, drowning him in the sweet scent of the lotion that coats her skin.
“Ooh—”
Her body jumps, tightening as her body flutters, and her own release leaks down her middle.
As he licks at her, a clammy palm pushes against his forehead. He clutches tighter as she squirms beneath him, broken laughter spilling from her mouth.
“Fuck, stop, stop!” She twists and turns, twisting to slip out of his grasp.
Letting go of a soft chuckle himself, he releases her out of mercy. “You didn’t wanna continue,” he asks, sitting up, a grin on his wet lips.
Through hooded eyes, Ámerei watches him as she tries to regain her composure. She notices a speck of her cum on his chin just before he wipes the bottom half of his face with his shirt.
“That was good for you?” As Onyankopon talks, he comes to stand up.
Immediately, her eyes fall below his waist. Straight to the print in his pants that is impossible to ignore. Wordlessly, she nods, her stare unmoving.
The corners of his mouth raise into a grin as he hooks his thumbs on the waistband of his pants and drags them downwards. It pops out as it's freed from his clothes.
In her eyes, his dick bobs in slow motion, solid and stiff in the air.
She struggles to get a good breath in as he rejoins her back on the bed, his knees sinking into the mattress on either side of her.
“Look at me.”
Her mouth opens, but no words come out. Her attention is wrangled in by the soft grip he adopts on her chin. He tilts her head up, forcing her to meet his gaze.
“Tell me how you felt.”
She blinks herself out of a daze, just barely realizing the soothing rub of his thumb against her chin. “It—I—g-good.”
A soft snort leaves him. “Yeah? It was good?”
She nods, growing bashful again. As she ducks her head, she subtly jerks back, having almost brushed the tip of his dick with her lips. She looks back up at him, noting the almost expectant look on his face.
“You wanna suck it?”
“Mh—I…”
She glances at it again. Sepia blooms over the crown of it. The tip is blunt and wide, a perfect surface just inviting her to curl her tongue around it.
A thought flashes in her mind as she wonders how many women have had him in their mouths. How many women have made him cum, and how fast. How much … better they’d be at it than her.
With a thick swallow, she peers back up at him. “Not—I don’t think I could do it this time.”
He nods, the grin on his face unchanging. “A’ight, that’s okay.”
Bending down, he plants a kiss on her cheek, then, one on her neck. “Lay back, again,” he whispers to her.
“Why,” she questions, leaning back anyway as she watches him lower himself to her side.
“Put your legs up.”
There’s a buzzing present in her brain, like she’s moving on autopilot. And it feels so good. Hence why, she doesn’t think twice when he whispers a command, performing the action as she speaks to fill the space.
She curls her legs into her chest once again, tucking her manicured hands beneath her knees, just to have something to hold onto. Yet still, there’s ample space for him to slide a hand between her thighs. Right where her lips are pushed together.
“G-go slow, please,” she urges timidly.
He doesn’t mind her words as he runs his fingers through the plush skin of her lips. Slow and soft, teasing her as he gets the tips of them wet. They’re relaxed, petting.
Her eyelids start to grow heavy, limbs relaxing into the mattress as he rubs messy circles over the bundle of nerves between her legs. The walls of her pussy hug themselves as they flutter from his touch.
Even as he’s right there—not daring to pull away—her hips chase after his touch. They stutter and roll beneath him.
Her head lolls to the side, eyes barely open as he stares down at her falling apart.
“This good?”
“Mmmhm,” she nods lazily, moaning softly into his arm.
“This how you want it? You gotta tell me.”
Her legs quiver. He feels a trickle further wet his hand.
“Y-yes,” she whispers, the sound barely slipping out past her lips.
“Hm?”
The pads of his fingers rub so perfectly against the small pearl, overwhelming her with their gentle roughness.
“Yesss, Ony,” she weeps, her face contorting in desperate pleasure as she nods against him. “Yess—”
A gentle gasp slices her plea in half; a finger, long and thick, slides through her lips and pushes in, gliding easily. It almost takes another moan from her.
And as that thick, long finger dives deeper, it presses right up against that spot perfectly inside of her. So deep that the knuckle of his hand presses to her opening with a soft squish.
“Mhm,” he hums, peering between her legs as he pulls that finger out. But, only about halfway before he’s pushing back in to hear her body croon around him. He pulls out again.
It doesn’t surprise him, seeing the thin, slimy film coating his skin—viscous and sticky. It’s built up in some spots more than others.
“Creaming already.”
Before she has the chance to get bashful at the off handed comment, he’s sliding his finger right back in, the tip of it just kissing her g-spot.
The pressure is a dull ache that knocks something deep in her tummy.
Her eyes roll shut, shoulders tensing up as her body tries to handle the steady strength of his finger fucking into her. It curls so perfectly in her, pushing against her walls. And yet…
“M-more,” she whimpers.
“More?”
She nods, the crease in her brows deep as her eyes fall closed. She doesn’t even see the way his lips curve upwards as he kisses his teeth.
“Wasn’t you just begging me to go slow?”
His question doesn’t get a real answer, only an irritated whine.
“Huh?” As he works his finger in and out of her, always aiming to hit that one spot, her body gurgles around them, splishing against him. “That wasn’t you?”
There’s an effort to keep her lips pressed together, even as her eyes roll back at the feeling of someone digging her out in the most pleasant way possible. “Mh—Please.” The word drags from her mouth, weighed by an attitude that reeks of entitlement.
He doesn’t mind it. Without a second thought, he gives her just what she asks for, pushing his ring finger in right alongside the middle one. A moan that perfectly encapsulates utmost satisfaction leaves her lungs as her body welcomes him.
She’s sopping, her walls velvety and soft. They mold around his fingers as he presses into the spot right behind her bladder.
“Ouu … shit,” her voice drags, cracked and heavy. Above his head, her feet arch like they’re in Louboutins. Her hips twitch, thighs shuddering perpetually.
She’s a vision that he has to sit up further to see in its entirety. He licks his lips, trying to get a trace of her taste again as her cream seeps around his hand.
“You feel that?”
Bunched up together, her eyebrows don’t separate. She can only manage a weak nod. Her body offers no friction, welcoming him in with weeps of milky arousal all over the intruding fingers.
“Fuck,” he groans to himself, shifting on his knees. “Why you creaming like that?”
His answer is a shaky mewl as her thighs tremble around his wrist. Square acrylics with perfect corners bite into the skin of her legs as her grip only hardens.
His mind is on its own bender, this sight enough of a drug to last him the entire evening. Onyankopon doesn’t question the next thought that pops into his head, he only does it.
With too much ease, he slips a third finger in, curious to see how much she can take.
There is no resistance.
No struggle.
No hiss of pain or tightening to stop him.
Just pretty pink walls, bending and stretching to accommodate the weight and size of three big fingers.
“She greedy like that, huh? Been starving… Why you kept her waiting this long, Ámerei?” He bends down close to push his face into her neck, lips right at her ear. “Hm?” Her pussy spurts around him, the sound of wet clicks accenting his words. “Tell me.”
Her whimpers are too perfect. Anyone could hear them, and here she is, making all of this noise about his fingers. How does she expect to take his dick?
“Wanted to wait until someone could do you right, hm? Give you some princess treatment,” he teases.
He runs his lips, slowly, down her neck and up the hill of a breast. At its peak, he laves at a pearled nipple before suckling. Her hips cant against him, like they’ve been brought back to life.
He’s relentless, fucking her good enough so that she doesn’t even notice when he grabs the condom—only slipping his hand out to tear open the aluminum packet. That’s when she finally has a clear enough head to open her eyes.
To look up.
Her eyes go wide.
“W-woah—wait.”
He freezes, the condom having already been rolled half-way down his dick.
Her eyes flit up to his face, almost shocked by the concern splashed across his face.
“What’s wrong?”
“I … I just…”
She takes another peak at him, noting the way the latex stretches thin around his tip. There’s only one hand around himself, but Ámerei can tell that it’s feasible for him to grip it with two. It curves just slightly to the left. A small web of veins, laying just under the skin, ribs the length of his shaft.
“Look, we don’t gotta do this—”
“I do. I … I do, just … please, go slow.”
“Okay, Ámerei. I heard you,” he stresses. “I’m not doing nothing you not okay with, a’ight?”
She nods, still looking between his legs. Her gaze is torn away when there’s a hand at her chin, pushing her head up.
“I hear you.”
She nods again, rather stiffly this time, on account of the hand still at her chin. And yet, he gently squeezes her in reprimand.
“Something hurts, say it. Don’t gimme that fake-moaning shit if you don’t like it, ‘cause I’ma be able to tell.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
He scours her face for a moment.
“Okay.” He releases her face to finish putting the condom on. “Lay back … I ain’t gon’ tell you again,” he mumbles, voice less stern than it had been in the last minute or so.
Swallowing back her fears, Ámerei does as told. He doesn’t give her room to ruminate. Or, he gives her no space to, rather; his face is back in hers.
There are kisses dropped one after the other on her lips, as a knee of hers is lifted and pressed against her stomach.
“Look at you—” a kiss. “—doing all that worrying … Like you don’t got me this fucking hard.”
Ámerei holds in a gasp as the weight of his tip drops against her lips with a firm tap. She jumps at the impact. It surprises her, that’s for sure, feeling how solid he is.
He looks in her eyes seeing the lust bloom behind her shrinking apprehension. Taking his hand off of himself, Onyankopon gently grabs her other hand to place it around his dick, so that she can see for herself.
“Feel that?” he breathes out as she makes a clumsy fist around him. Her hand is so soft. It’s almost a shame. “Ain’t even have you suck my shit, but you got me giving you dick.”
His stare is unflinching. Her hand tingles, like it’s in shock at how he feels in her grasp. It almost makes her head hurt, noting how even if she really tried, one hand won’t be enough to fully hold him.
“That’s what you used to … getting everything you want, w-without having to do nothing for it, hm?”
He can make a comment about how easy it’ll be to split her open—he’s definitely thinking it. But, Onyankopon watches his words. Tries to keep it tame for her sake.
She bites at her lower lip, nodding shyly as she tries to hide her face in her shoulder.
“Don’t get shy, I ain’t shaming you. S’what you used to…” Staring down at her, he licks at his lips before nodding down to where she holds him. “But you gon’ do some work today. Rub it in, c’mon.”
Huffing softly, Ámerei tightens her grip as she takes the reigns. Onyankopon pulls his hand away, using it to aid in his balance above her.
Where she would typically have a comeback, Ámerei keeps her mouth shut. Her thoughts are hazy, body too eager to make contact with him.
Her eyelids lay low, bottom lip tucked neatly between the rows of her teeth as she gently swipes the head of his dick against herself. It brings a shudder out of her, the feeling akin to the licks he’d given her just moments ago.
‘Heavy,’ she thinks. Thick and weighted, like he’s carrying a pipe between his legs.
It’s slow, her movements, as her body gradually wakes to the feeling of his dick against her. But, it’s inevitable that she starts to gain some sort of confidence, especially when he hums in encouragement.
“Mhm.” His breathing is messy and less composed. Louder, too, even as he rolls his lips into his mouth and tries to keep quiet.
Peering up at him, eyes glossed over, Ámerei chews at her lower lip. Her movements grow surer. She doesn’t stop, even as her wrist burns from the angle made by their closeness and his length.
She pulls him further and further, dipping the head past her clit. For a moment, he catches just where she opens. Where her cunt seeps around nothing.
“Shit … you so wet.”
The soft rasp of his voice sends a fluttering feeling down the line of her stomach. Her clit jumps as she clenches.
“S’for you,” she mumbles, still keeping that eye contact.
When his eyes flick upwards to meet hers, his face twitches with the effort of a man close to losing self-restraint.
Kissing his teeth, he squeezes his eyes shut. “Stop t-talkin’ like that.”
Her brain vomits out a response too quick for her liking: ‘Sorry, Daddy.’
But her lips quiver as the words die on her tongue, unspoken. Can she say that yet? Should she? Maybe it’s best to save that for someone who’s more of a permanent fixture.
Instead, she revises the thought.
“Sorry, Ony.”
The tiny pout on her pillowy lips is enough for him to reach for her face—better balance be damned. He squeezes her cheeks, pushing those lips out further to plant his own on them as he leans in.
“Don’t gotta apologize,” he says against her mouth, the words garbled and smushed.
Her shoulders shoot up, body tensing as the weight of his head starts to press heavier against her.
“Ony—”
Her warmth is inviting, his hips stutter. “It hurts?” His lips are still pressed to hers. So close, suffocating either of them in the best way.
She shakes her head.
“Let me in, then.” He kisses her softly. “You was just taking my fingers, I know you could take this.”
One of her hands slip from behind her knees to grip at his upper arm.
“C’mon,” he pants, gently rocking his hips against her, pushing his tip through her lips to spread her arousal. “Be good, you could take this.”
He presses back against her hole, feeling himself inch inside by way of her wetness.
“You know you could take it … know you c-could,” he groans.
“Oh, G-God—”
Her body widens slowly, the feeling foreign as it stretches around the blunt crown of his dick. He pops it in, her walls doing small spasms around him.
“Fuck,” he pants. “It’s hurting?”
A whine is caught in her throat. She tries to swallow it down.
“Keep going,” she messily shakes her head, strands of her hair getting in her line of sight.
Her face is scrunched up. Onyankopon takes heed to go slow. His hand leaves her face to hold himself at the base.
“Keep holding them legs open … fuck, you real pretty.”
Unexpectedly, a nervous chuckle falls out of his mouth as he looks from where they connect to her face. He breezes past the slip up as he starts to use his body weight to push in. Her breath gets caught in her chest for the umpteenth time with him.
“O-oh—ohh—”
The weak, high-pitched whine hits his ears as his dick slowly sinks into soft, wet heat. Pushing, pushing, pushing. It’s a far bigger stretch than just three fingers. And it only gets wider the farther in he goes.
He’s hardly even half-way in when he meets resistance, like he’s hit a wall inside of her.
“Fuck—stop, please—”
He freezes, immediately looking down. Her lips stretch as much as they can around him, gripping the sides of him as her walls try their hardest to take him. Their contractions are weak, her body giving its best effort to take something it’s never experienced before.
But as his eyes move just inches upward, he finds the real source of the issue: the barely noticeable swell in the pit of her stomach.
Right where he is.
Her face contorts in pain, and immediately he takes action to slowly and carefully relieve her of the pressure sitting in her gut.
“M’sorry—fuck, it hurts—”
“Quit that, you good. It’s me, th-that’s my fault,” he grunts, trying to keep his movements slow and controlled.
When he pulls out, he can’t help but to notice the minor stretch he gave her, the opening of her cunt winking back at him. No doubt, she’s a little more open now.
“My fault, I’m sorry,” he mumbles, reaching for her face. “You want me to stop?”
“Uh-uh,” she shakes her head, peering up at him, a wrinkle still in her brows. “Try again, just—”
“I’ma be careful.”
She nods. Beneath him, she shifts to regain a sense of comfort, reaching down to spread herself open.
French shorties frame shiny wet lips that give away to a pink center, coaxing him in with the promise of a gushy hold. Below her pussy, her second hole puckers tightly.
“You look good like this,” he rasps, smiling as he takes his dick in-hand. “You helping me?”
Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, she nods. Her toes curl in excitement above her. Her hair is messy, in need of a good brushing. A thin sheen of sweat covers her, adding spots of highlight to the high points of her face. Yet, here she is, still so eager to follow through with this.
He grips his dick tighter as another rush of blood makes him pulse.
“Just like that … keep that shit open…”
He guides himself back to her hole and goes for another try. This time, he’s slower, watching carefully as her body accepts him with an ease of familiarity, right up until that spot where he stopped.
She hisses again, body tensing up as she’s unable to hide her discomfort.
“Ow—s-stop—”
“I’m stopping, you good,” he quickly comforts, stilling his hips.
At his sides, her legs tremble. The pain settles, but not completely.
“You want me to pull out?”
She doesn’t give an immediate answer, eyes and lips sealed shut.
“C’mon, Ámi’, talk to me.”
“I … it’s too mu-uch.”
Her voice waivers.
She half expects him to be pleased hearing those words. Isn’t that what most guys like to hear?
“Want me to put you in a new position?”
Her eyes pop open. His face is close to hers. She gets a front row seat to the concern laced within his features. And, through her pain, manages a shaky but grateful smile.
“Yeah,” she nods.
The room spins as he pulls back out, still careful. “Turn on your side.”
Wordlessly, she does so. Her head rests against the arm she has splayed against the pillow, a sigh of relief leaving her as her eyes fall closed.
Scooting closer to her, he lifts a leg, pulling it straight up as he lowers himself to sit just at her cunt.
“You comfortable?”
She peels her eyes open just to look at him as she nods. Fatigue is written all over her face, what little they’ve done enough to zap her of her energy.
A real pillow princess.
“You ready?”
“Yeah.”
Upon pushing back in, Onyankopon is pleasantly surprised to find that he’s able to do so with ease. In fact, they both are.
“Mmph,” she mewls pleasantly, eyes falling back closed as he slips in further than he was ever able to.
“Fuck … there we go,” he breathes out.
She isn’t too taut around him. It’s a perfect stretch that makes him feel elated, because he can tell she’s enjoying it, too.
It takes a while, but he bottoms out; her stretched cunt pressed flush to his balls. The cool skin paired with the light dusting of hair on his sack makes her shudder. It’s such a pleasant feeling, the fullness. There’s still that ache in her lower tummy, but in the sweetest of ways that only makes her want more.
“Onyy,” she whines softly.
“It’s okay?” He’s almost breathless. In this position, he fits a lot more snuggly within her. No awkward poking.
She nods against the sheets, lips parted.
“I’m moving slow.”
“Okay.”
He starts out with a slow rock. Back and forth, back and forth. Until with each one, he’s pulling out more inches. Yet, his strokes remain slow and soft. Gentle and rolling. Amazing.
“Oh … ohh … o-oh,” she whimpers softly, eyes rolling back as she twists and turns, gripping the sheets.
“You enjoying this?”
He doesn’t even need to ask. Not with the way her pussy squelches like she’s got something to tell him. It’s like every time he pulls out, her body cries, only getting wetter.
He finds that he can hit her deeper. "Feels good, right?”
“Uuuh—!”
“Know it does... Could hear it.”
Plap, plap, plap.
Her body claps against him in applause every time he bottoms out. Still going at a moderate pace, still careful with her.
“Ohh, God!”
“I know, I know.” He reaches down to grip her jaw, turning her head to see that pretty face. How much it twists into an ugly expression, hair all over her face, as he digs her out in the best way.
"Had to get you ready, but I'm not gonna go too hard... Too soft for that, can't break you, hm?”
A shrill whines leaves her lungs, the small peaks of her breasts jumping slightly as he fucks into her. All slow, nice, and polite.
"Gotta ... treat you all nice 'n' soften you up. Like you a princess, huh?”
The teasing only makes her clench up.
"Couldn't fuck you in my car … n-not like them other bitches, right?
Before the words cement themselves in her brain, her body is wonderfully stunned by a stroke just an ounce heavier than the last. Meaner.
“Huh?”
She shakes her head, having barely comprehended anything past the first few words of that sentence. He leans in closer, bucking his hips harder against her. Faster.
PlapPlapPlap!
Her whines get chopped and screwed as she writhes beneath him. They turn into silent moans as her mouth hangs open. The whites of her eyes are what he sees.
“Nah, right?”
Her pussy flutters nonstop, sucking him in, begging him to never leave. He grips her ankle tighter, never putting her leg down for rest.
“You want princess treatment... only want niggas to treat you nice and sweet, huh?”
“Oh … mh—mh—mh—ohhh fuuuuuck—”
“Yeaah, right?” A breath chuckle tumbles out of his lips, even as a bead of sweat rolls down his face. “You … t-taking this shit like a … n-natural.”
He sees it: the way she creams around him. How can he not? All of her arousal packs at the base of his dick, translucence building up until it’s thicker and more solid in color; a tight slip and slide for his dick.
“Taking you home … fucking you in my bed like you my girl... This what you came here for?"
It’s like her heart is fighting to get out of her chest. Ámerei struggles to keep a grip on the reality of the situation at hand. Genuinely, it’s like he’s beating her pussy out of its frame. And yet it feels too good for her to want it any other way.
Then again, what does she know?
As expected, there’s a bit of resistance as Onyankopon pulls out. The mild suction tempts him to stay in.
“Please,” Ámerei croaks as Onyankopon gently puts her leg down to rest.
“Relax, I still got you.”
He sits back on his knees, staring down at her with a lust that overpowers whatever fatigue he might be feeling. He can’t tell if it’s the weed or if he’s actually this horny for her.
He’s putting a pin in that thought for later, in favor of putting her face deep in the sheets and her ass high in the air.
“Arch that shit—c’mon, you know what to do… Bet you studied for this shit, too.” Onyankopon wipes the sweat from his forehead with the corner of his comforter. “Deep, too, I don’t do that shallow shit.”
Shifting on her knees, she spreads her legs wider and sinks her back in. And part of her is thankful, relieved that this is the new position. Because being spread open before him, her most private parts on display for him in this manner, has her growing unbelievably shy—she doesn’t want to think too hard about it.
Or about the fact that he might not achieve what he wanted from this position. She’s never had a fat ass, just a noticeable set of hips on a small frame.
But—see—Onyankopon isn’t worried about that. Not when he’s getting the best view from behind; dribbles of slick ooze from her pulsing cunt. She’s dripping, pussy still wanting more of what he can offer.
“Lil’ thing hungry, hm?”
A lazy slap is dropped on the plane of her right ass cheek, before he softly grips and shakes what little fat is there. The little jiggle is too cute for him, especially when another whine escapes her.
It seems that’s one of the only sounds she’s been able to make lately.
“Speak to me, Ámi… Can’t be the only one talking.”
Blindly, she reaches back for him, searching for his hand.
“Y’know I’m not a talker.” He captures her wrist, gently pressing it to the small of her back. With his free hand, he repositions himself, swiping his tip through her lips. “You supposed to be the one doing all that for me.”
His push back in is one of his biggest highlights of today.
“Th-this shit so … f-ffucking perfect,” he groans out, voice wavering as her walls grip him up in the wettest, warmest way he’s ever felt.
His hips are just seconds from colliding with her ass when he hears it:
Pfft … ppfftt!
“Whew!” He smiles, moving his second hand to grip her hip instead. “Mhm, just like that—that’s the kind’a talking I’m trynna hear.”
That fullness has returned to her. And it’s mind-numbingly amazing. Shaking and sniffling, Ámerei only takes it as Onyankopon pounds into her, just like she wanted.
“Oh God, Oh God, Oh Go—”
She tenses up as he uses his strength to pull her ass back on him as he meets her halfway. Each smack of their skin is sharp and quick.
“Oouuuuuuuu—ahh,” she cries out embarrassingly, feeling herself just leaking around his dick as he slips in and out of her.
“Quit … l-losing that arch—fuck I just tell you?”
Every new stroke felt punishing, and in the best way possible. She wants to cry and rejoice at the same time. Her knuckles pale as she clutches the pillow beneath her tight. Lord knows she needs something to hold on to as she tries to inch up on the bed.
All that achieves is a two second break, Onyankopon pausing to yank her back before he continues.
“A-another thing … that running shit—”
The cracks in his voice make her stomach swoop and her pussy flutter.
"Don't know … why you was asking f-for … all this … C-can’t even f-fucking take it—”
The swing of his hips are so heavy against her. The skin on her ass stings and every thrust has her afraid that she’ll lose control of her bladder.
And yet, it’s bringing her closer to something.
“Why you squeezing me like that? You ‘bout to cum?”
His breathy voice gives her enough of a high to ride off of. But, the timid musk of his sweat is something she hadn’t expected to like; it invades her senses as he leans in over her back, hips still working against her.
“Hm? Y-you ‘bout to cum, Ámi?”
A broken whimper is what she manages, aside from a measly nod of the head.
“C’mon then.”
The hand on her waist slips beneath her body, slithering to a slobbering set of lips between her trembling legs.
For a sobering moment, his hips still. He grunts as her pussy spasms around him, still in shock from the way he worked her.
Reprieve ends as he rubs messy but concentrated circles on her poking clit, careful not to put too much pressure on the sensitive bud.
“Cum on me,” he pants.
Her hips stutter, tummy sucking in as her back arches. “Ony—k-keep doing…”
“Uhuh … cum on my dick. Cum on it—”
A violent shiver nearly takes her out as she lets go around him. His strong arms serve as an anchor for her, as she nearly loses herself in the lasting orgasm.
“Keep—oh fuck,” he shudders, finally letting go himself, emptying into the condom as she milks him dry.
Both bodies twitch against one another, riding out their releases.
It’s after that conclusion, Ámerei learns something new about herself: that sex is definitely an activity to put her to sleep.
As Onyankopon separates from her—making it a point to notify her that he was just going to get some wipes—she finds it difficult to keep herself awake.
It only works but so well.
Succumbing to her body’s wishes, Ámerei’s eyes flutter shut seconds before Onyankopon enters the room, still naked yet condom-free. She wants to get up when she hears the sound of a soft snort.
“You sleeping?”
Largely, Ámerei inhales as she stretches against the sheets, turning her head and peeling her eyes open to look at him. “Mh-mh.”
His grin is faint, yet she can tell it’s a product of fatigue. And she’s not surprised, he did do all of the work.
Onyankopon makes his way over to the bed, a pack of wipes in his hands. Her eyes fall back closed before that first wipe even touches her hot, clammy skin.
“Mhm, bet you tired now, huh?”
“Shut up,” she mumbles.
His hands move as his mouth runs, a cocky smile on his full lips. “Don’t know why, I was putting in that work.”
A dreamy smile is all she can muster, too tired to give a genuine laugh.
“Thank you.”
“That polite shit,” he mutters, that smile of his dimming to a genuine grin that he makes an effort to further hide. “You welcome.”
Chucking a soiled wipe on the ground for later, he exchanges it for a new one to wipe the slick that had run between her ass.
Part of her is caught off guard. She hadn’t expected him to be this … chivalrous. But, she’s not going to deny herself of this service. He was absolutely correct in giving her the ‘Princess’ title. And she is going to play the part.
"Ain’t gon’ lie to you, though…” he licks at his lips, brain producing a line of thoughts that he finds himself happily following. “If you wanna keep doing this … you gotta learn how to take dick."
Without a thought spared, Ámerei sits up on her elbows, pure bliss wiped off of her face in an instant. Mild offense twists her face into a scowl.
“Don’t even trip,” he soothes.
Onyankopon doesn’t spare her a glance as he runs the wipe down an inner thigh.
“We gon’ fix that."
𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒔 ᝰ @uzmacchiato @crylynnluv
𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ᝰ @wintrrxxo @vibewshyla @icanmakethedickstandup @toji-dabi-wife @genea-myers @whoareyouuuo @nova2kss @otakufilms @plutobratz @bubblegum-lollipop @junitries @thevelvetwhispers @pussypinkdoll @venusincleo @soupersaldz @synicalslut @nysrevenge @ami-s-k @6slux @hcneymooners @aranisbaee @powdertojinx @thelovewitch2016 @bad4bey @liliacsdelight @cartinextdoor @adoreemxs @phxnomxnal @flyme2plut0 @aizawash0e @tojislittlesluttt @prettypink-princess @asstoofatsworld (message me privately if you'd like to be removed from the taglist)
It's just like Stack to get what he wants under the guise of proposition. Joke's on you, he's the only one who knows it's a premonition spoken under the glitter of sunrise.
angst, profanity, sexual content, familial dynamics, stack is his manipulative self if you close one eye and tilt your head, use of the n-word because I'm black, reader is early-mid 20s, stack is mid 30s, fluff if you squint | minors dni |
wc: 6478
part 1
The soles of two pairs of feet were heavy as you both stepped loudly through the house. The wooden floors almost bouncing as you chased your sister through the kitchen and the dining room. Her voice shaking. Irritation clear as day.
“Nah Sissy you been knew! You not about to turn this around on me. You been knew and you come home telling me you, ‘Got something to do.’ you outta your damn mind!”
Your head is spinning as she yells. Purse, house keys, and baby monitor jangling as you follow her into the garage. The basement door taunting as you race past it. Bare feet barely making it into your slides as her shiny boots click effortlessly across the concrete and through the open garage door.
“Nie wait! I forgot I had something to do! Ple–”, she cuts you off sharply.
“No! No, no, no! You knew we was leaving today! I can’t believe you! Out all night just to come home with some B.S.? Not even in time for us to figure something out? That’s how I know this some mess because ain’t no way the sister I know would be on some shit like this!”
You both stop before Smoke’s truck, the thrum of the vehicle light as she stares you down, eyes big and focused. You knew you were wrong for this. But if you had known what would happen way back when you had agreed to watch the kids, well… it never would’ve happened. Now you were about to be on your sister’s shit list, because sure as hell was hot she wasn’t losing this fight.
You knew it. But you had to try for your own sanity.
Just so you could say you hadn’t just given in. Rolled over and showed your behind. But the way this was going, yelling through your sister’s house, nervous sweat dripping down your chest in this heavy sweatshirt…Lord, you was doing just that in more ways than one.
Eyes closed tight, you blurted before you could stop yourself.
“Why can’t that nigga in the basement watch’em Nie?! He’s the grown one here…”. You opened your eyes and watched her stare you down. Her teeth visible as her mouth opened slightly. The look on her face was one you hadn’t quite seen before. Your knees starting to ache from the chill when she took a minute to respond. Her chin high and her fists resting heavy on her waist through her pretty blue coat.
Your stomach was flipping. Anxiety forcing your whole body to a steep, metaphorical, ledge as the low hum of the refrigerator and his voice pressed fresh in your mind. Heavy hands on your waist, warm like the residual heat of an open fire, melding through the thin layers of your pajamas. His proposition low in your ears. Sticking to the inside of your skull like honey sticking between your fingers. A mess you thought you avoided when you carefully opened the bottle.
You were afraid his proposition wasn’t really a proposition at all, but a premonition. A statement that was never a question. Not a matter of if, but when. You were afraid and you were making your sister mad, but the thought of Stack coming home, the girls being in bed, and you being there too…with him? It was telling you something about yourself you weren’t ready to face. That what happened in that basement wasn’t just a one off you could credit to impulsivity or lack of care. It was need. Need for a man that you knew was never going to need you like you may end up needing him.
Finally your sister looked down, only to look back up quickly. A low burn in her eyes as she stood up tall, gaze hard as she looked you in the eyes. Ones that matched her own.
“This may be news to you cher…but you grown too. And if you ain’t noticed, Stack got a job and for the most part he got a life. You the one that didn’t want to go back to Momma and Granny. And you sure as hell ain’t wanna traipse yo’ ass over to Daddy’s for no help. Now me and Elijah have been more than accommodating. I love you…but whatever you got going on up here–”, her manicured finger pointed staunchly to her forehead, “ –it better be in check by the time we get back. We got enough attitudes to deal with.”
As if on cue, the white baby monitor in her hand crackled to life. Laila’s cries piercing and sad. Swallowing hard, you wetly blinked at her as you backed down. She didn’t need you and the baby screaming for her attention.
Nie’s sigh was heavy as she looked down, her head shaking slightly as all you could do was watch her. The urge to cry was heavy, your nose burning, but crying would just tell her something was eating at you, and if you could help it you were not opening that can of worms with her in the middle of her driveway. Her baby screaming through the monitor. Their weekend away skating farther and farther from her grasp with each argument and cry. You was really making this hard.
“I’ll go get her–”
“Nah. I’ll go get her. Tell Smoke I’ll be right back.”
With the switch of her skirt your big sister was off to comfort her baby. The crack of the door from inside the open garage loud as you pulled anxiously at the fabric of your sweatshirt. Slides scraping the concrete as the hum of the car compelled you. Feet heavy as you walked towards the driver’s side window.
Smoke’s stare was damn near icy as you looked through the rolled down window, and with his jaw tight and brows heavy…you knew he had heard everything. Your whining, your attitude, your disrespect. He looked right through you, and while you knew he loved you like a big brother should, disrespecting his wife, whether you were her baby sister or not, was not something he would tolerate. Especially not under his roof.
Sucking his teeth he scratched lightly at his chin, one hand tapping gently on the center console out of view as he began.
“I’m not gon’ say what I wanna say, cause your sister damn sure shut you up–”, Well damn. His gaze heavy as you avoided his stare.
“ –but me and my wife work hard, so our kids can live soft. Not waited on, not spoiled…but soft. I extend that same care to you because you part of the same heart that make that woman whole. But imma tell you this…even that ‘nigga in the basement’ only got one chance to disrespect me or my wife. This is the first and last time I’m having this conversation with you.”
Looking up from your chipped toes, you began to speak.
“Smo-”
“And one more thing–”, he raised one thick finger in the air. His deep eyes meeting yours as he gave you a funny look. Sighing deep and sucking his teeth again.
“Don’t nothing go on in my house that I don’t know about…so I need whatever went down…to be resolved by the time we get back.”
Stomach dropping to your ass, you knew your eyes were as big as saucers as you looked at him. Mouth moving before your brain could even catch up to what he had said.
“Wha–”
Before you even had time to respond, the door in the garage opened, you and Smoke looking back as Annie came down the driveway. Baby wrapped up in a blanket in one arm and purse in the other. Her eyebrows still knit tight together and pursed lips shining demurely with gloss.
Walking up to the driver’s side, you wordlessly stepped back as Smoke and Annie cooed lovingly at their youngest. Smoke leaning through the window to kiss all over her face, Annie pecking one of her round cheeks as her giggles trickled through the tense air.
Turning to you then, Annie sighed as she handed the baby to you. The little one’s weight anchoring you to the driveway as her tiny fingers reached for your face, pinching your bottom lip lightly as you stared slack jawed at your older sister.
“I love both of you. I know you know, but the twins get out of school at 4:15. If there’s an emergency you know what to do. ‘Course Stack in the house, but we trusting you.”
Still flustered and avoiding her husband's stare, you murmured a soft love you too, before watching her run her fingers through the baby’s curls one more time. You listen as her feet scuff against the concrete, walking around the car as Smoke begins to roll up his window. His stare and past words heavy as you pointedly look down at Laila, her fascination with your lips keeping you and her distracted as you listen to your sister get in the car.
-
“And stop running in the house Vada!”
Reaching into the backseat you unbuckled Laila. Her big eyes wide and framed with pretty lashes as she watched you yell over your shoulder at her sister. Kaia watching through the window from the other side of your small car. None too eager to follow her twin into the house.
“I don’t know why she running through the house like that. Like you not gon’ tell Mama and Daddy.” She deadpans out. Backpack dangling from her fingers as she watches you slam the car door. Following as you walk to the door into the house, kicking off your shoes at the threshold and stepping into the heat.
“Well Kai…I might not for real. Unless ya’ll tear something up, I got other stuff to worry about. Lock the door for me.”
“ –and you know she gon’ do just that…”
Listening absentmindedly as she locks the door, you make your way towards the livingroom. Baby heavy in your arms as you pass Vada, coat and backpack thrown wherever. T.V. already blasting as you enter the hallway to the guestroom; the room you had been calling your own for the past couple weeks.
The door already open you slide in, sitting the baby up on the bed as you unzip her coat. Small hands and feet already trying to stand herself up on the bed as you toss your keys on the bedside table and grab the remote. Fingers running over rubbery buttons, you turn on the T.V., plopping up next to the baby, your arms immediately go over your head. Temples pounding as you take in the reality of your situation. Body taut with tension.
Breath in.
Breath out.
You groan. Removing your arms as you open your eyes. Staring at the back of Laila’s curly head of hair as she looked up at the screen. Bright colors occupying her little brain as you zoned out. Thoughts wild and scattered.
Taking care of the girls was light work, you had done so since the twins were baby babies. But taking care of the girls while trying to wrap your head around how to act around that man? Your sister’s brother-in-law? The man that had put you through the mattress? That was an entirely different beast. Required a different part of your brain even. Because why the fuck had you even let him touch you? And apparently Smoke knew!?! You felt fucked in more ways than one. Even more embarrassed at what had gone down.
It was still confusing. You had never looked at Stack that way, and according to your knowledge, he sure as hell wasn’t interested in you. But what did you know about Stack? About Elias Moore? Mind’s eye flashing to those deep eyes and shiny golds, you wracked your brain for answers. You hadn’t even been around him much until a few years prior. Taking up residence in your sister’s basement when whatever he had going on went south. Any talk about him from your sister full of sarcastic remarks and deadpan looks until whatever beef they had fizzled out, and he was just the live-in uncle.
Turning onto your stomach and scooting closer to the baby you wrap your arms around her, putting your nose to her small shoulder. Breathing in the baby lotion and cocoa butter as she fidgets and squakes at the ticklish air. Her attention being caught again by whatever was on the screen.
What did you know?
He came home late and left early. You knew that. You knew that because he had woken you up that early morning after he had you. Calloused hand running up the smooth skin of your back under your oversized t-shirt. He had tapped your ass lightly. Whispered in your ear, voice like rolling steam.
“You don’t want them seeing you come up from down here.”
His front pressed lightly to your back as he followed you like a ghost to the steps. Bare feet creeping up carpeted stairs and pajama pants thrown haphazardly over your shoulder. Not even thirty minutes later you heard the rumble of his truck, the crank of the garage, and the low purr of his engine as he left. And it had been that way the entire time you’d been staying at your sister’s. His life a mystery but his routine as sure as that man knew himself.
Startled from the clacking of beads and barrets, you look up into the doorway as two heads pop up from around its edge. Vada’s voice loud and sure.
“Titi what we eating for dinner?!”
-
Descending from the last step, the downstairs is dark as you pass through the hallway into the living room. The flashing fluorescents of the t.v. screen stark in the dim room. Curtains pulled over even darker windows and pillows formally strewn from couch cushions snatched from the hardwood, you begin to reset the room. Backpacks and clothing zipped up and relocated. Cups tossed into the sink and paper plates pushed into the kitchen trash. The house is void of noise except for the low hum of the t.v., its volume low and indiscernible. A calming background thrum to your mindless work.
Cutting off first the light in the kitchen and then the dining room, you float through the house. The living room still dim as you feel over soft cushions for the remote, thumb running over rubbery buttons as the room's only light source dissipates.
12:02 a.m.
Flashing green in the dark, you can’t help but see the clock in the living room as you toss the remote mindlessly. Floor creaking as you pass through the hallway to the guest room.
Room bathed in the low golden dim from the small lamp sat tastefully on the night stand, the creamy color of the comforter invites you into its expanse. Its softness a cushion for the turmoil of the day. Unnecessary fights and childish antics burrowing. Settling deep into the spot between your eyebrows.
You need to get ready for bed.
Fishing the baby monitor out of the front of your sweatshirt you let out another groan. Setting it up on the nightstand, you leave the bed. Gathering your night time caddy and heading to the downstairs bathroom to clean up.
-
Left the lamp on.
Peaking through low lashes, you blink up at the golden glow of the lamp. Disoriented, you stare blankly. Mind still in the throes of sleep as you wake up from your snooze. The arm you were laying on shifting as you laid in the quiet of the bedroom. Of the house.
Toes wiggling and blanket ruffling as you breathed through your nose. You eye the baby monitor. Its screen a clear view into the crib of your sleeping niece. Her chest rising and falling gently. Unbothered. Eyes settling on your phone next to your head, moments away from toppling off the edge, your arm slides out from the warm cocoon of your comforter. Finger tapping the dark screen, you watch it light up as the time flashes across your sleepy gaze.
3:18 a.m.
Why were you up?
KNOCK. KNOCK.
Head snapping quickly over to the door, you're spooked momentarily by what greets you. Head in the pillows, you stare into his eyes, a deep black from where you lay. Their chocolate brown hidden by your distance as you watched each other. Seeing him now, you’re unsurprised by his presence. You expected him at some point over this weekend. His body broad in the doorway. Hands heavy in his pockets. Dark work pants almost disappearing into the black of the hallway that framed him.
A spectre in this house. A dream even. A fantasy made up to satisfy the warmth that made itself known late into the night. When the slip of cool fingers between heated thighs or the twisting of hips against lumpy pillows could no longer be stood alone.
Heart a repeated fist against the inside of your ribcage, your lips part. The warmth of your tongue a salve to the dry skin as you wet them quickly. His eyes follow the movement, and when you don’t speak, his posture changes. No longer a lean against the doorway, his stature apparent as he stands to his full height. Shoulders back. Hands still pushed deep into his pockets, he moves. A shift felt deep in your stomach as he passes the threshold. The veil of your sanctuary, a reprieve from the festering phantom that was your shared encounter, broken in the blink of an eye.
He stops at the end of the bed.
Thick hands pulled from his pockets, he sighs and leans over. Palms meeting the creamy sheets as he bends at the waist. His left hand sliding over its expanse. Slithering its way across the pretty printed patterns as he searches. Scratching along its surface until he finds your foot through the blanket. Warmth encompassing your appendage as your stare down continues. It probably hasn’t even been five minutes since you’d opened your eyes. But with Stack staring down at you. Touching you through the only thing concealing you from him.
It felt like it'd been an eternity.
The silence stretches on, heartbeat in your ears until it's not. Chest calming as you shuffle up onto shaky elbows.
“You ain’t got nothing to say?”
The question comes quiet but bold. His murmur passing through thick lips and under fluttering lashes. Fingers firm as they move along your ankle and back down. Almost tickling you as he begins to massage your foot. Eyes unyielding under thick brows. Releasing breath from your lips, you finally look away. Eyes meeting his chest, the heat of his stare no longer making your heart race, but intimidating all the same.
“You the one upstairs, Stack.”
You don’t expect your voice when you speak. It's a soft flutter, a cloud passing through warm wind. Shifting further under the comforter, you begin to pull your foot from his grasp, your breath catching immediately as his grip tightens. The muscles of his forearm shifting under his pushed up sleeve with the firm and surprising tug of his arm. His speed unexpected and your elbows shifting down along soft sheets.
“You the one that’s been runnin’ though.”
He was right. But he was still the one here in front of you. His aura rolling off of him like raindrops down a drenched window pane. Finding his way to you in this dark house the same way bare toes found purchase up carpeted steps after the glamour and heat had broken. His touch burned away by the safety of the rising sun.
“I-I don’t know what you want me to say for real. I—”
You rack your brain for something. A comeback. A retort. But there’s nothing. Your thoughts quiet save for the childish and petty part of you scrambling for higher ground. Really, not even after all that rehearsin’ in the shower?
The silence beats on, until with the clearing of your throat as you speak. Sleep still heavy in your voice.
“ –it should’a never even happened…and you tell me in the kitchen, we can have fun or go back to how it was. Well…I ain’t been back in the basement…”
“Mmm…”
So why are you up here? Is what you really want to say, but the words are caught in your throat. Your eyes finding the chain around his neck. Nerves once again preventing you from looking him in the eye. His hand still wrapped around your ankle, he squeezes gently and finally releases you. Your eyes immediately bulge out of your skull however when both immediately find the bottom hem of his deep grey thermal. Retching the fabric over his head, you’re left speechless as he throws it to the ground. His white beater flush and stark against his chest and abdomen.
Finding his eyes, your lips part as you sit up on your hands. The blanket falling from your chest and revealing the thin, baby pink camisole you slid on without a second thought.
“Wh–,”
“So tell me you don’t want it then. Tell me you don’t want me and I’ll take my ass down there right now. Dick between my fucking legs.”
He reaches for his beater, the ribbed fabric rolling over his torso and over his head as it’s balled up and thrown right at your head. His musk and cologne more tempting than you’d like to admit as you retch it from your face. The fabric tumbling from the side of the bed. The jingling of his belt is all you hear as the blankets are pushed away hurriedly, your brain scrambling to catch up to the moment as you sit up quickly on your knees. The grey sweats covering your lower half slipping with your quick movements. Hands outstretched you wave them as Stack reaches for his zipper. The eye contact intense as he watches you blubber.
“Hold on now! Stop tryna strong arm me into this shit!”
“I’m not! Tell me to stop. Tell me you don’t want me…and I’ll go.”
His hurried movements still. His breath heavy along with yours as you’re left with nothing to say. The shift in his voice a neon sign for what he was feeling. Not just for what he wanted from you. Tell me you don’t want me.
Were you wrong for thinking there was something he wasn’t saying?
Sitting back on your haunches, you could tell your face was twisted up. Your confusion diverging in every which way as the air thrummed with the sparks between you. This was too much. He was too much. Nothing was making sense and the frustration bled into your words as you blurted. Overstimulated and aghast at whatever the fuck was going on right now.
“Stack…I can’t say that! But—but I can’t let you push up on me either when who knows what the fuck else you got going on! I—this is too much, too close to EVERYTHING, when you just finna fuck off and hunch on some new bitch tomorrow E.! We live in the same house and your brother know we fucked and—”
“Hey! Hold on—,”
“No! Elias! Listen! This—”, your arms like lead you gesture between the both of you.
“ —it can’t happen! You don’t even want me for real!”
The room is quiet as you come down. The glimmer of his eyes in the dim light of the lamp a reminder of his attention on you. You deflate a little as he stands there. Shirtless. Your brain can’t help but mention. His face is hard, his mind fumbling like yours no doubt as his jaw tenses. Lips twisting until he finds his words. His tone softer than it had been.
“You think I would’ve ever touched you…if it was in my mind to fuck whoever? Of all people…Annie’s sister. LITTLE sister at that, and you thought I was finna fuck around?”
His question is incredulous. Littered in disbelief at the thought.
“I could fuck any bitch. I could’ve fucked you and ignored the fuck out of you after. But here I am. We right here—,” his fingers point between your eyes and his.
“ —and I’m begging you to tell me you don’t want me so I can get the hell on. I’ll gladly take Smoke’s bullet in my ass if I’m coming on too strong. But tell me you don’t want me first.”
“ …no.”
“Then lay the fuck down.”
Before your head even hits the pillow his hands are back at his button and zipper. Movements quick as thick fabric is pushed quickly down his legs. A single hand reaching to palm the growing print through his briefs. You shimmy out of your sweats, hands sliding smoothly under warm fabric. Before you can roll them off your ankles, his hand is there. Fisting the bottoms and yanking them from your feet. Thrown down into the heap of his clothing below.
Knees meeting the bed, he’s on you quickly. Body crowding yours as you scramble for your top. Reaching to pull your camisole over your head, you’re surprised by the large hand smacking yours away. He smirks then, humor floating with each word exhaled from his chest. His grillz winking at you from the inside of his mouth.
“You and these damn itty-bitty tops. Make a nigga wanna snatch you up everytime I see you in one.”
He grabs it at the top hem, retching it down under your titties and immediately dives in. Thick lips meeting your left nipple in a wet kiss. A surprised breath leaving your lips as a sharp nip follows. A large hand smacking the other. Massaging its same weight with the tender roll of his fingers.
“Ow! Stop bein’ so rough!”
He laughs around your tit in his mouth. Eyes meeting yours across your chest.
“Girl, you ain’t seen rough. You probably not gon’ see rough for a minute the way I be wanting to fuck you slow.”
His words make your stomach flutter, their message sweet but obscenely cloying. Arousal pooling warm and slow when his warm pecks float across your sternum in apology. Their journey over your chest, and up your neck thrilling. The rolling in your belly a testament to his care as your nerves alight. Hands meeting his shoulders, you feel the softness of his skin, nails scratching down warmth and power. His arms barely holding his weight over you as he pushes you down into the mattress. Finding your chin, he leaves a wet peck. Their warmth creeping along your jaw until he finally finds your lips. His kiss like a rolling wave over stagnant shores. Overpowering your own in an experienced fervor. A thrall to his heat and your own arousal as you can’t help but squirm. Pulling away you look him in the eye. Your teeth biting your plump bottom lip, the words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them.
“Touch me…I want your fingers.”
Breathing in the same air, his eyes flit over your face. Their glint mirthful as his lips meet yours once more in a playful mush. Bright teeth winking at you as he responds in a light murmur.
“The way you was droolin’ and cryin’ last time, you really thought I wasn’t finna fuck you on my hand—,” his lips find yours again, their heat quickly becoming a burning distraction as he speaks again.
“ —maybe have you squirmin’ on my tongue?”
His warmth leaves you as he sits up, hands finding your knees and pulling them open. Their warm heat sliding down smooth thighs to your exposed center. His thumbs tickle the skin of your lips as he works up a small massage. Hands splayed over your pelvis and hips, he watches himself work. Lip caught beneath shiny teeth.
“You so goddamn pretty.”
The way he says it, like he means it. Is almost too much under the heat of his gaze. The warmth of his hands. The way his thumb plays in the wetness he made. It’s sticky pull almost embarrassing, a testament to his charm.
He’s intoxicating.
You watch as he spits. It’s wetness hitting your clit before his thumb is there again. Working it into your folds and opening. The image of your fluids mixing a tantalizing feeling and thought. Your moan flitting through the air as your head rolls back. Eyes closing under his touch. Your body a broken faucet as your wetness seeps from your center. His fingers playing in your sticky cunt.
“Oooh…E…please.”
Middle and fore fingers finding your hole he tests its resistance, their girth sliding easily into your wetness. His shallow pumps an agonizing tease as you open your eyes to watch him through your parted thighs. Each breath a sigh as he works you open. His hand speeding up with the frequency of your vocalizations. The squelch of his fingers loud and almost obnoxious. Moans embarrassingly pornographic as you twist and twitch at his work. His other hand working hard to keep your legs from closing.
Between his fight with your legs his dick stands tall through his briefs. The dark grey stained black in a single spot, his arousal giving away his need under his focused gaze and punishing fingers. Mind heavy under his care, your hand reaches for his bulge. Fingers finding the heat of him as your fingers roll over its rigid length. The hum in his throat heard even over the sound of your sopping heat. His voice comes unexpected in the moment. A stark song in a moment filled with moans and wet heat.
“When I get in this pussy…you better look me in my eye.” His fingers slow to a slippery pump, your whine ringing out before he shoots you a look. Your thigh in his hand receiving a mean pinch as he finds your eyes.
“When I get in this pussy you gon know who fuckin’ it…watch me pump my nut in this hole. Feel everything you was running from. You understand?”
Your fingers still as soon as his fingers do. Both of your breaths are heavy as you stare each other down. His eyebrow raising when you don’t answer. Your wet tongue wetting your lips, you watch him follow your tongue, exhaling before you speak.
“I understand.”
“Good, now put them legs up.”
The command in his voice does something to you. Curt and expectant. No room for playing as you pull your legs up to your chest, his fingers stark still in your pussy until your legs are up. Arms wrapping underneath your knees. His fingers pulled from your heat in a slow drag. Wetness wiped on your ass cheek as you feel and hear him move. The removal of his briefs apparent when he scooches closer and leans over you. His dick heavy and firm against your lower half as his thick arms cage you in. His weight is a comforting blanket against the chill in the air. One of his thick fingers reaching briefly to nudge your chin gently.
You’re taken back to the kitchen under the gentle touch.
Staring into his eyes, you whimper under the feel of his fat tip nudging against you. Playing in the wetness he milked from you, hips moving in an irritating grind against your twitching heat. His teasing disrespectful when you were so desperate for his touch. Before you could complain however, his tip was back at your entrance. Pushing against your opening all too quick, he’s pushing in. Dick drawing back and pushing in a couple more times until he’s grinding into his hilt. The yell you let out all too involuntary as he bullies his way into you. His fat lips beneath his teeth as he watches you struggle to look at him.
Lashes fluttering, hands reaching to grip his shoulders, you lay under him and take each heavy push of his hips. Your body a molten glaze as your pussy welcomes him eagerly. Each twitch of your walls beaten and smoothed out by the weight of his burrowing member. Nerves alight under his attention. Your chest thrumming in an unfamiliar ache as you stare into his eyes. Each one of your actions together, the stolen glances, the basement, the kitchen, him here in your bed fucking the shit out of you…it was too much. It felt too good.
Eyes closing and head tipping back, you can’t help but cry into the air as you feel everything he’s giving you. Your mind slipping until his voice is loud in your ears as he scolds you.
“Nuh uh, open you fucking eyes!”
He leans on you in a nasty press that makes you whine, your back arching as he lets up and leans back. His rough hands meeting the back of your knees as he pushes them up to your ears. The stretch an added sensation to the ache between your legs as his hips start up again. Each thrust a mean jab against a spot inside of you that has you seeing stars and leaking heat. His demand an after thought as the pleasure takes you deeper into the syrupy gloop of your mind. His voice now an irritated bark between thrusts.
“Look at me when I’m fuckin’ you! Ain’t no backshots this time! I want you to watch me own this pussy!”
What he was asking was just as mean as his thrusts. Unfair.
Letting out a sniffling sob into the sticky air, knees bouncing next to your ears, you barely knew where you were. Could hardly stop squirming under the weight of his hips, unrelenting. Pussy lips drooling with each plap, plap, plap, of his dick between your puffy walls, and he wanted you to look at him?
“Ss–c-can’t…oh my Goooood—,”
Each punch of his cock is exhilarating. Your eyes rolling as he never lets up, his grip on the back of your knees an incessant reminder of his power over you. The pleasure he’s giving you a gift felt over and over with each pull of his flesh against your own. Each slide of your bare back against the sheets a cradle against his assault.
Through heavy breath, his tone is harsh as he pushes deep. Hips stilling in a mean press that arches your back from the bed fully as his timbre rumbles from his lips.
“I ain’t ask if you could…I said look at me.”
Oh fuck. You’re cumming. Each nerve in your body is alight with small bursts of electricity as you let out a groan. Thighs trembling in rough hands as your hands find your chest. The smooth skin rippling under your grip as you clench and cum on his cock. The wetness of your release an after thought as each pulse tumbles from your body. Knees desperately working to close, but Stack’s grip keeps them open as he watches your pussy gush underneath him. His chest and abdomen reflecting the golden light of the lamp as he perspires.
Your bonnet is probably half way across the room with how much your head is twisting into the pillows and sheets beneath you. Head tilting to the side, your lashes flutter. Vision blurry as you open your eyes against the fatigue already setting in. Eyes cutting to the man on top of you. Chest heaving, your eyes watch his face. Dark brows knit together. His thick bottom lip caught between white teeth, and smoldering eyes glittering over your bottom half. Your pussy still split over his stiff cock. Walls clenching along its weight in the aftermath of your release. He looks up then. Brown meeting brown as he releases his lip.
His hands leave your thighs, and you whimper as he shifts. Heavy thighs falling around his hips as he bends. Forearms meeting the bed on either side of your head as soft lips find your own. His wet mouth a salve to your own. A distraction more so when you suddenly feel the shift of his hips against you. The push and grind of his hips a reminder of this give and take. His knees pulling up into a kneel against the mattress as you feel the pull of his dick from your heat. A shiver rolling up your spine as he forces himself to the hilt again…and again. His rhythm picking up speed as rough hands find your cheeks.
“Now…watch me fuck my pussy.”
Looking into his eyes is like peering into the richness of the earth. Their brown beaconing you. Their pull a spell unknown to you in the heat of this room and the afterglow of your pleasure. The tingle of your hole as she twitches for rest. The hug of your thighs against his slick torso. Your hands a mirror of his own as they find the skin of his jaw. Each pump into your center an overstimulating pulse of pleasure and heat. A stinging euphoria that thrums through each of your limbs. Your insides reaching a boiling point. The hot air from between your lips not unlike the screech of a heated kettle.
“St-Elias…pleeeaaase.”
The murmur of his name from your shaky lips makes him groan, eyes closing, sticky forehead finding its way into your neck as his breaths puff from open lips. Hips pushing again and again, his rhythm steady. Your own groan crooning through the air as your fingers find the nape of his neck. Nails scratching gently as each push of his hips renders you breathless. The head of his cock prodding every point of interest. Nerves alight under the overstimulating push of his sticky, stuttering hips.
“Fuck!”
His voice is strained. The quiver of his body is an intoxicating tell as each pump of his hips turns heavy, shoulders taut with tension and arms curling around your body as he pushes one more time and grinds slow. The first spurt of his release hot and electric. His groan vibrating through your body as he pumps each spurt of his release into your slick cunt. Chest to chest, belly to belly in the soft sheets of your bed.
You both breathe heavily, you into the air above your bodies, and him into the sticky skin of your chest as you both remain silent. The seep of his release as he shifts from inside you eliciting a soft purr from your lips. Eyes heavy with fatigue and body loose from his attention. You might as well be asleep by the time he moves off of you. His lips a wet mush against your cheek as he lifts himself over you, falling to the bed as his front pushes against your back. His facial hair tickling your skin, arm resting under your head and hand finding your stomach.
No words spoken between you under the golden glow of the lamp.
🤷🏾♀️: congrats to Mike on his win, and for giving me this fine shit to work with 🤞🏾 there may be an epilogue but I'm unsure fr, enjoy!
Warning : Smut, Rough s•ex , cum-kink, driving head, degradation kink (soft), after s•ex care, public, anal, creampie, emotional cheating, cow-girl, choking. Minor don’t engage pls.
A/N : there is the part 2 of the chapter Heat & Snow. The next chapter is THE TRIP.
No more playing hide and seek.
With a deliberate slowness that felt infinitely more lewd than a frantic strip, she reached for the buttons of her blouse. Without breaking contact with him, she unfastened her buttons one by one, the patchwork cloth falling open to reveal the generous swell of her breasts. The cold air pebbled her dark nipples, and she arched her back, offering her delicacy to him.
“Like what you see, Mr. Morgan?” she mewled, her mouth watering.
A deep, approving sound rumbled in his chest. “You’re testing my control, aren’t you?” His voice was low, strained, and dripping with both warning and desire. The air between them crackled with tension, his words hanging heavy like a challenge she couldn’t resist.
“Mmh—?” She leaned over the console, her huge tits hanging and bouncing in the rhythm of her car. “You not like it?”
She stretched her hand, her nimble fingers went to unbuckle his zipper, freeing his massive cock already soaked with pre-cum.
“You so hard sir—“ she trailed off the last word, knowingly as she wrapped her fingers around his hot, velvet-steel length.
Ajani groaned — a deep, guttural sound of pure relief, while his head fall back against the headrest.
“Fuck, Annie.”
She jerked his shaft up and down, dousing saliva on it. “Yeah, that’s it, Morgan. Show me much you want me to sing.” She speeded up, her spit slicking her thrusts, “try to not make us crash…”
She bent low, taking him in her mouth. His musky and uniquely male scent, flooded her senses. She swirled her tongue around the broad brown head, lapping at the salty bead of moisture there before sinking down, taking more and more of his length.
Her throat relaxed, yielding to his girth, and she deep-throated him in one smooth motion until her nose pressed into the coarse hair at his base.
His hips jerked off the seat. A choked curse ripped from him. One of his hands fisted in her braids, not pulling, just holding on for dear life as her head began to bob. The other hand gripped the steering wheel so tightly the leather creaked.
“Fuck— baby girl— shit you doing to me?” His demure demeanor cracked, spilling a Caribbean accent mixed with southern charm.
Pleasure was blinding and deafening his senses, so much he didn’t hear nor see the red car cutting in front him. Ajani hit the brakes avoiding the accident.
Then, he swerved the engine back into lane, the tires catching asphalt with a low screech.
“Damn Annie, you gon’ get us killed…” He grunted, yanking her hair up and down.
She released him with a wet, pop, a string of saliva connecting her lower lip to the glistening, purple-hued crown of his cock. She didn’t answer. Instead, she ran her tongue along the throbbing vein on the underside, from his heavy, tight sac all the way back to the tip, tasting the bitter-salty fluid of his arousal.
Annie sloped on his dick, her spitting smeared all long his veiny shaft. She darted her gaze up again, eyeing him through her lashes — Seeing his teeth bared in a grimace of pure ecstasy.
“Just tryna make you feel good,” she hushed, her breath ghosting over his soggy skin. “You still seemed frustrated with the traffic light interruption…” She pumped him up, milking deeper “Let me take care of you.”
She smelled his raw, musky scent, then licked a broad, flat stripe over the tight skin of his balls, feeling them draw up even tighter against her glossy lips.
“Aargh— Fuck Annie— yeah baby choke on my cock,” he snarled, his hips thrusting erratically to meet her relentless bobbing. “Good girl, you gon’ swallow every damn drop, huh? Let me feed you baby.”
The first flood of cum shot hard against the back of her throat, a thick, glutinous burst that made her eyes water. He held her head firmly in place, his grip on her braids tightening as his body convulsed.
Annie forced a choked gurgle, her eyes stinging, tears welling as the sheer force of his release threatened to overwhelm her.
Every muscle in her throat tensed instinctively, struggling to accommodate the large volume of his cream.
“Mmh— just like it baby. Take all of it.”
Her body trembled as another thick glob of milky white seed flooded her mouth. It spilled past her stretched lips, oozing down her chin in warm, sticky rivulets.
Annie gagged, the hot glue-like cum coated her tongue, filled her cheeks, and seeped out of her nose with a wet, snorting sound — the pungent, musky scent of his climax filling the air.
When his spasms finally faded, he eased his grip, letting her pull back. Her face was painted with his release. Thick strings of semen connected her lips to his still throbbing cock, and creamy drops clung to the point of her nose and the dark skin of her cheeks.
Annie panted, her mouth glistening and full, a trickle of it drooling down her neck.
“Look at you,” he groaned with passion, “I was right. You’re incredibly beautiful with white all over your face.” He swiped a thumb through the mess on her chin and pushed it back between her parted lips. “Clean it up. Don’t waste a single drop.”
Annie’s head rested in his lap as Ajani pulled his car off the main road, sliding into a dimly lit spot on a deserted pedestrian side street. He cut the engine and lifted her chin up.
“Get in back bunny.” He commanded with rough voice.
He guided her backseats, laying her down, her head propped against one door, her feet toward the other.
Ajani’s eyes were dark, predatory. With a quick tug, he undid the button of her jeans and yanked them down her hips along with her panties, baring her to the cool air.
His hand came down on her fat ass cheek in a cutting, stinging slap that echoed in the confined space. The flesh jiggled, blooming purple instantly on her smooth, dark complexion.
“Look at this fucking ass,” he growled, his voice dripping with satisfaction as his hand roamed over the curve of her backside.
His fingers dug into her softness, kneading roughly before sliding lower, toward the cleft. “So damn fat and greedy. And this tight little hole—” His thumb circled her anus, pressing just enough to make her gasp. “Bet it’s clenching right now...”
“P—please Aj—“ Annie whimpered, suffocating of delight.
“How you call me?”
“Fu-fuck…please sir…just” she whined. Her stretchy puffed up, dilating.
“Good girl.”
Ajani hooked his hands under her knees, folding her nearly in half, pushing her thick thighs toward her chest and spreading her wide open.
Annie cried, her heart hammering against her ribs, a fresh wave of arousal soaking her exposed folds.
Her vulva was fully on display, gushing and raw. Her big lip were plump, darker shade than the surrounding skin, framing her inners secrets. Her small lip, neat and delicately folded, were flushed a deep, naughty mauve, silky with her own juices. They peeped out from between the outer lips, tender and inviting.
At the apex, her clitoris was erected, an eager pearl peeking out from under its hood, visibly pounding with her heartbeat.
“So yummy” he breathed, more to himself than to her. Ajani used his thumbs to part her further, exposing the creaming, pink inner flesh and the tight, puckered entrance of her vagina. “Such a pretty cunt you got there…”
He lowered his head, flicking his tongue inside, lapping a long leisure stripe up her swollen clit.
Annie moaned, her back arching off the seat. He devoured her pussy, circling her swollen bud with the tip of his tongue, before sucking it gently into his mouth.
He probed her entrance, tasting her essence, then pushed two fingers inside her, crooking them to find that gummy, spongy spot deep within.
“You taste like paradise,” he groaned.Her hips bucked uncontrollably, chasing the exquisite friction.
In the fevered haze, Annie demanded. “Ajani… wait,” she panted. “Do you… do you have a condom?”
He stilled. Her juice coated his lips and beard. “Shit.”
His gaze drove down her curvaceous body, from her well-fucked mouth to her dripping folds, then lower, to the tight, hidden rosebud — the one he played with — , between her peaches.
“I got an idea…” he said, shifting his position. His hands moved to her hips, flipping her over onto her hands and knees.
Annie voluptuous ass was high in the air, her cheeks full and round, jiggling with her every movement.
Ajani spit into his palm and rubbed the saliva over his — newly — hard cock, and then on her rear entrance.
“This is what you really want, isn’t it?” he grunted, pressing the head of his cock, insistently against her tight pucker.
He rocked, grinding to her ass with slow strokes. Each thrust made her gasp, the rub being a blend of pain and pleasure. The squelch sound of their bodies clashing, was loud in the quiet car. With one hand, he reached around to her front, his fingers finding her clit and rubbing it with rapid circles, amplifying the sensations tearing through her.
His pace quickened as his control slipped. The car jolted, leaning him over her, his chest to her back, his mouth near her ear.
“You feel that Annie?” He jammed into her hole, his thrusts deep and relentless. “Shit, you so fucking right, it’s so good—”
Annie fingers scrambled for purchase on the cool, smooth leather of the seat, finding none. Her forehead pressed against the window, her breath fogging a small, frantic circle on the glass.
Outside, the city was a blur of muted streetlights and deep shadows, indifferent to the storm raging inside the parked car.
Her body was a traitor, clenching around the invading thickness in her ass even as it tried to buck away from the delicious sensation of his four fingers in her honey’s pot.
“Fuck— yes…yeah you fuck me so good Ajani ! Mmh—“ Annie wailed.
“That’s it,” he urged, “Let it go bunny. Come on my dick.”
A violent shudder racked Annie’s frame, starting deep within her womb and erupting outward. Her vision whited out, inner walls spasmed, milking his length buried deep in her ass.
She gushed abnormally lewd, her juice dripping his hand, her thighs and the seat beneath them.
The translucent liquid streamed over his palms, leaking onto the dark leather with a soft patter.
With his free hand, Ajani spread her ass, making her cheeks clapped in a wet, squelchy noise.
“Gonna fill you up,” he panted, his harshly and throaty. “I’ll pump this tight ass full. You want that baby? You want daddy to come inside you?”
He didn’t wait for an answer he knew Annie’s limp body wasn’t capable to give. Instead he bucked his hips, emptying himself inside her anus.
Gradually, he pulled out, gaping her hole to the size of his cock.
The next minutes, no one talk. Ajani wrapped Annie with his leather jacket.
A profound stillness settled over the car, thick and heavy, broken only by the ragged symphony of their breathing. Slowly the city cleared, life’s noises getting back to their awareness.
Ajanj remained inside Annie for a possessive long moment. He could feel the faint, involuntary tremors still running through her thighs.
With a gentleness that starkly contrasted his earlier ferocity, he leaned his forehead against the damp skin between her shoulder blades. “Annie? You okay?”
Annie muffled an answer.
“Talk to me, bunny,” he murmured, his lips moving against her spine. “I need to hear your voice.”
“Bunny?” She groaned, barely audible. “Told you to not get too ambitious…”
“Why? Your ex husband can make you feel better than I do?”
“He never fucked me my jaw on window glass so…”
Ouch.
“Still…that was…” he trailed off, shaking his head as if no word could truly capture it. “You are incredible.”
Annie opened her eyes, a dazed smile touched her swollen lips. “You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Morgan.”
Kimberley’s hair waved loose, dark curly strands flowing down, brushing across Smoke’s face with each roll of her hips. Her thighs gripped his waist, her body rising and falling in a steady rhythm that had his fingers digging into the sheets.
If you wondered how he ended up here — laying in Doctor Taylor’s bed, her hourglass body looming over his, her breasts bouncing with each thrust — there’s a few things you should know.
After driving home from Annie’s building completely wrecked, Smoke had given the cookie box to Tiana. His daughter had squealed, grabbed it, and immediately ran three houses down to share with Stack. Without his daughter in sight, Smoke had poured himself some bourbon. He had lost count after the fifth glass, the amber liquid doing little to burn away the cold knot in his chest. When the bottle was half empty and the room had that pleasant fuzzy edge that made breathing easier, he had stumbled out to the porch for a cigarette, — he rarely smoked inside —.
That’s when he saw Kimmie perching on the steps of her own porch, just a few feet away, a lit blunt pinched between her fingers, her hair wrapped in the same neglected blunt she seemed to appreciate.
“You drinking all alone?” she had called out.
Her voice had been low, a little rough from the smoke. It wasn’t a judgment, just a question. He had grunted something non-committal, about it being a long day. But Kimmie had a way of looking at you that felt like an X-ray. She saw the shadows under his eyes, the tight set of his jaw.
She had preyed on his mood with a quiet, sly persistence, and the words had just… spilled out of him.
The alcohol, the need to vent — it was a dangerous cocktail. He had confessed it all, from the bitter taste of seeing Annie with someone else — though he never mentioned her name explicitly — to his own helplessness.
She had listened, her eyes never leaving his, until he was done. Then she had taken a long, slow drag from her blunt, held it, and exhaled a plume of fragrant cloud into the gathering dusk.
“Maybe you need to let go for good.”
And somehow, one thing leading to another, they had ended up here, in her bedroom. A lamp cast the room in a warm, golden glow, illuminating the shelves of medical textbooks and the slight disarray of a lived-in space.
Kimmie was on top, knees planted on either side of his hips, riding him like she had been waiting months for this.
And she had craved for it, Smoke knew that.
In the way her nails scraped down his chest, how she moaned his name like a prayer, her pussy gripping his length tight and wet.
“Fuck, Elijah,” she gasped, head thrown back, spine arched. Her hands braced on his chest for leverage as she bounced faster. “You are so big. Mmh— so fucking good.”
Smoke groaned, his body responding on pure instinct. His hands, which had been lying limp at his sides, came up almost of their own volition. One found her waist. The other slid up her back, feeling the strong, defined muscles there and the ridge of her spine.
This is a bad idea, a distant, logical part of his brain screamed. It never end well using a woman to forget another one.
The thought evaporated as she brought her mouth to his.
It wasn’t a desperate kiss, not like the one he expected. It was deep. Exploring. Her lips were full and moved against his with a confident slowness that made his head swim more than the bourbon he had indulged earlier.
She tasted of mint and that faint, earthy hint of cannabis. His fingers tightened on her back, pulling her closer as he kissed her back, his tongue meeting hers in a lazy, tantalizing dance.
This kiss felt odd. Don’t get it wrong, it was sultry, passionate and delicious. However it didn’t make his stomach pooled of butterflies, his mind fogged with delight, heart racing, needing for more. It was not like the lips he devoured weeks ago. The touch of that pink slippers lady…
When Kimmie pulled back, they were both breathing harder. A crimson flush painted her brown cheeks, and her eyes, usually so calm and analytical, were dark with a different kind of intensity.
His hand at her waist crept higher, thumb daring to sweep over the underside of her breast. Eager by her lewd whimpers, Smoke palmed, cupping the peary size of her tit. he squeezed it, feeling the hard nub of her nipple pebble against his hand. God. He swallowed hard, blood heating, rushing south to his already thick, erected cock.
Kimmie felt his length twitching inside her soaked cunt. “Aah— you love that pussy so bad baby— Fuck…”
Smoke didn’t reply.
She did feel good : hot and slick around his dick, her walls fluttering, clenching every time she sank down and took him deep.
Unfortunately, even if his body was present, his mind was elsewhere. Stuck in that parking lot. Watching Annie climb into that sleek black car. Watching that man hold the door for her.
“Don’t fucking dare wandering,” Kimmie ordered, growling. “Look at me”, she rolling her hips in a way that made Smoke’s breath catch.
Her perky tits left his hand, flapping fast, the dusky brown peaks rippling in the air.
Jesus
He leaned up, drawn to her like a magnet, and gulped one pebbled nipple in his mouth. She squirmed, jumping harder on his huge cock, the squelchy, wet noise, heating her core further.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, not pushing him away from her breast but holding him there.
With closed eyes, Smoke fed on her, biting her erected bud, slurping over her large brown areola before gulping her small tit in one chomp.
Annie’s breast would have just suffocated him in the most pleasurable manner possible. The thought of it threw another jolt down his dick, filling his balls with new desire.
Smoke release her breast, soggy, in a wet pop. He fell back, holding her hips, spanking her ass.
Next seconds, he opened his eyes, scanning her — Kimmie was beautiful like this : her brown skin flushed, lips parted, breasts bouncing with each thrust. Her curls wild around her shoulders, eyes half-lidded with pleasure. She looked like every man’s fantasy, confident, hungry and completely lost in the moment.
But she wasn’t Annie.
Would never be Annie.
“That’s it,” Kimmie purred when their eyes met. She leaned forward, changing the angle, taking him deeper. “You feel that, daddy? Feel how wet I am for you?”
Smoke’s hips bucked, jamming deep inside her, scraping her inner walls down her cervix.
“AAAH— Yes— Fuck me like this— Pound that cake big boy…mmh— just like this…”
Damn Elijah, stop thinking about Annie, he told himself. Kimmie is just right here. Real and aching.
So he focused. Focused on the heat of Kimmie’s body, the way she felt stretched around his dick, the breathy sounds she made every time he hit deep her G-spot. Focused on her perfume : earthy spice mixing with the scent of weed and sex in the air.
her soaked pussy was gushing down his shaft, drenching his balls, making obscene squelch sounds with each stroke.
“Oh shit— your dick stuffed me full big boy” Kimmie cried out, slamming her ass hard on his shaft, her vajay swallowing him whole, vulva burping flat on his belly, leaving rivulets of her cream.
Her stilettos nails dug into his chest, leaving purple marks. “Don’t stop— don’t fucking stop—”
Smoke flipped them.
One smooth motion and Kimmie was on her back, hiccuping in surprise, her legs automatically wrapping around his waist.
He didn’t give her time to adjust—just drove into her hard, shoving his fat cock in her gaping hole. The condom latex taut on his length, struggling to keep him covered.
“Oh God!” Kimmie’s hands scrambled for purchase, grabbing his shoulders, his back, pulling him closer. “Elijah, oh god, yes—”
“Smoke.” He grunted, growling. “Smoke is the one sweetheart”
No. She ain’t got the right to call him by that name. Nobody except her possessed that privilege.
Smoke set a brutal pace. Hips snapping forward, the headboard slamming against the wall with each thrust. Kimmie’s tits bounced, her mouth falling open in a silent plea before tearing loud from her throat.
“Harder!” she exclaimed, nails raking down his back. “Fuck me harder, daddy, I can take it—”
Smoke gripped her thighs, pushed them up toward her chest, folding her nearly in half. The new position allowing him go deeper, hitting spots that made Kimmie thrash beneath him.
“You like that?” he growled roughly. One hand slid from her thighs to her ass, gripping the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks. The other crawled up, seizing her throat. “You like me ruining you like this huh?”
“Yes! Fuck yes, I love it!” Kimmie was completely gone, lost in pleasure, oblivious to anything except the feeling of him inside her. “So deep, baby, you’re so deep—gonna make me come—”
She wasn’t lying. Smoke felt her pussy start to flutter around him, tightening, her whole body tensing. Her moans got higher, more desperate.
“Come for me,” Smoke commanded, pounding into her harder. His hand left her ass to find her clit, rubbing tight circles over the swollen bud. “Let me feel it.”
Kimmie shattered. Her orgasm ripped through her with a piercing wail. Her vagina shut tight around him like a vice, walls pulsing, trying to milk him dry.
Her legs locked around his waist, her whole body shaking, tears pricking on the corners of her eyes from the intensity.
“Smoke, oh fuck, Smoke—”
He didn’t stop. Fucked her through it, prolonging her pleasure, watching her fall apart beneath him. Her face grimacing in euphoria.
And for the first time all night, he was actually there, seeing Kimmie instead of Annie.
His own orgasm built fast. Pressure coiling tight at the base of his spine, his balls drawing up, his rhythm getting erratic. “Shit, Kim, I’m gonna—”
Smoke buried himself and spurred load of cum inside the latex, filling the condom with his milk, before driving out her honeypot.
He stilled one second, letting the spasms in his leg cool down. Then, he removed the condom, knotted it and throw it in the nearest bin, by the nightstand.
“Fuck,” Kimmie breathed, sprawling boneless on the bed. A lazy, satisfied smile spread across her face. “That was… damn. Now I understand why your ex so bitchy to every woman approaching you. I’ll be mad too.”
“Don’t speak on her.” Smoke grumbled.
“What?”
“Don’t speak on her like that. She’s Tiana’s mom and I don’t think she got shit to do with this…” he repeated.
“Aight aight. Sorry, I was making a joke.”
Smoke collapsed beside her, his chest still heaving. His mind was blissfully quiet for the first time in hours. No thoughts of Annie. No jealousy. Just the pleasant exhaustion of good sex and the warmth of another body next to his.
Kimmie curled into his side, her head on his chest, fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin. “Stay,” she murmured. “Don’t go back to that empty house.”
Smoke should’ve left. Should’ve made an excuse about Tiana, about work tomorrow, about anything. But his daughter was at his brother’s place. His house was empty. And lying here with Kimmie felt easier than facing his demons alone.
“You a little greedy doctor, you know that?”
“And you ain’t even discovered half of my greed, big boy. I’m a heart surgeon. Building back wrecked ones is my speciality. Just let me heal you baby.”
Kimmie smiled against his chest, pressed a kiss to his skin, and drifted off within minutes. Her breathing evened out, her body relaxing completely against his.
Smoke stared at the ceiling.
Now that the high of sex had faded, reality crept back in. He had just fucked his neighbor. Had her screaming his name. Gushed all over him.
And yet, he felt… nothing.
No satisfaction. No regret.
Just empty.
Because at the end of the day, no matter how good Kimmie was at mending broken heart.
She still wasn’t his muse.
Not the woman he dreamed of every night.
Not the woman who gave him fifteen delicious years of her life.
Not the woman who gifted him the sacred blessing of being a father.
Not the woman who showed up in her pajamas at his door like uber delivery.
Yeah. Kimmie would never be Annie.
And Smoke was starting to realize that maybe nobody ever would be.
This whole thing is messy...and it's only getting wetter and messier as this goes on! 😂😂😂
We're getting closer and closer to Mountain Trip, y'all !! Will Annie and Smoke share a bed in the dreaded cold? Will they confess their little secret escapades? Will Tiana throw shade towards them both? YES! Will they make it out of this vacation in one piece? FIND OUT ON THE NEXT EPISODE OF HIDDEN TRUTH! 😂
𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count—10.4K, onlyfans!contentcreatorcouple!, vacation!, originalblackfem!reader, boyfriend!erenyeager, bubblyslightlybimbo!femreader, gymrat!eren, gymrat!femreader, southerncoded!femreader, southerncoded!eren, aggressive!eren, dominant!eren, gruff!eren, sweet!eren, submissive!eren, size kink!, pet names!baby!bunny!, sofa!sex, face slapping!, riding, doggy style, slightly aggressive sex!, dick sucking!, squirting!, creaming!, condomless sex, talks of relationship issues, minors aren’t welcome! 𓊇ྀི
メモ。— happy belated birthday, dada. inspired by a twitter video i seen. it’ll be linked, nasties.
pt 4 of na na.
૮₍ ៸៸ ᵜ ก ₎ა
…piscesbimbobunny has made a new post!
click ૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა to open.
˚ ⋆❀ 🐚🫧𓇼 ˖𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝒃𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒉𝒅𝒂𝒚, 𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏. ₎ა✮⋆˙𓆉⋆｡˚⋆❀ 🐚
DEEP, ROSY AND PINK. That was the only way to describe the intense flush of your freckled cheeks, startled by the tan of your skin that went from caramel to earthy brown in days of soaking love from the sun. Being here was a dream—one that you couldn’t bring yourself to wake up from. Not yet.
A vintage filter flickers to life, bathing the screen in golden St. Lucian sunlight that spills through the open balcony of your Mediterranean oasis. The space feels like a dream—terra-cotta tiles underfoot, cream-colored brick walls draped in ivy and trailing flowers, an indoor waterfall trickling softly in the background. The bedroom is an open sanctuary, sheer white curtains billowing around a wooden four-poster bed, its canopy draped lazily over rumpled white sheets.
And there, in the center of it all—him.
Lying sprawled on his back, deep in sleep, his massive frame takes up nearly the entire bed. Dark brown hair—almost black in the shadows, but warm bronze where the sun catches it—fans out across the pillow like spilled ink. The tattoos covering his arm and creeping up his neck stand out starkly against sun-kissed skin, muscular chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. Even in rest, there’s something commanding about him—the natural scowl of his brows, the sharp cut of his jawline, to his full lips slightly parted.
You zoom in slowly, your voice a hushed, adoring whisper—
“Look at you… ‘So handsome.”
The camera lingers on his face—the faint freckles dusting his nose, his lashes brushing his cheeks, down to the stubborn set of his expression even in sleep. You bite back a giggle, leaning closer.
“Baby…?”
No response. Not even a twitch.
Another soft laugh escapes you as you adjust the frame, capturing the way morning light paints him in gold.
“Out cold,” you murmur, fondness dripping from every syllable.
The scene holds—just for a moment—before the camera shifts, panning over the tropical paradise outside, the sound of waves crashing in the distance.
A burgues script title card flashes:
My love letter to you.
The camera catches the delicate flicker of your French-tipped toes as you peel yourself from the bed—moving like a ghost to not disturb him. The lens follows your path through the sprawling villa, gliding over terracotta floors kissed by sunlight, past open-air archways draped in bougainvillea, until you find the perfect spot—a plush, low-slung sofa nestled between an indoor garden and the infinity pool’s edge.
You angle the camera carefully across from you, and there you are.
The sun has painted your skin richer—your freckles somehow more pronounced, scattered like constellations across your cheeks and nose. A faint pink tinge dusts the high points of your face—part sunburn, part blush from pure contentment. Your hair is a masterpiece—long, full French curl braids cascading over shoulders, blending seamlessly with loose ringlets that catch the light like spun gold. They frame your round face perfectly—accentuating full, arched brows, dark cat-like lashes, and lips so plush and pink they look perpetually bitten.
Your neon orange bikini top—streaked with deep pink swirls—clings to your heavy, voluptuous curves, the ruching at the sides straining just slightly from the weight of your breasts. An anklet and sandals in matching pink rest nearby, abandoned for comfort. Your wrists jingle with charm bracelets as you fold yourself onto the sofa, knees tucked under you like a daydream given human form.
You are sinful innocence incarnate—a doll with a devil’s smirk and an angel’s glow.
A delicate hand lifts, waving at the camera as your voice comes out smooth, sweet—yet laced with something deeper.
“Hi, babies. It’s…been a while.”
The camera drinks you in—this vision of sun-soaked serenity—before you finally take a breath and lean forward, ready to tell your story.
But first—a wicked little grin curls at the corner of your mouth.
“Let’s catch up.”
The vintage filter softens your features like a sun faded Polaroid as you tuck a loose curl behind your ear, exhaling with a wistful smile.
“So—You're probably wondering where we've been."
The lens lingers on your face—nostalgia flickering in your dark eyes as you glance past the camera, like you can still see the walls of your old New Orleans shotgun house behind it. That cozy, creole haven with its peeling paint and humming ceiling fans, where the scent of jasmine and Eren’s cooking curled through every room. Home.
“Six months changes things," you murmur, “And, well...life happened."
A breath.
“‘Ren’s meal prep business blew up."
The confession comes with a giggle, like even now it still feels surreal. The Seoul deal had landed like a lightning strike—some high-end Korean health conglomerate offering stupid money for exclusive rights to his keto chicken bowls and Creole-spiced shrimp packs.
“You saw the anniversary live, right? The one where—" You bite your lip,“—Yeah. Anyway. Two days later, they slid into his email with a contract thicker than his arm.”
But? The logistics were brutal. Endless flights between NOLA and Incheon, you both exhausted, missing each other achingly in the stretches between. You mimic Eren’s signature scowl, deepening your voice—
“'Either come with me or I’m burnin’ the passport, Bunny.'"
The move to Korea had been a whirlwind—thrilling at first. Neon-lit streets, steaming bowls of tteokbokki at 3AM, Eren’s hands possessive on your waist as he showed you his Seoul between meetings. But then...
Your smile falters.
“It got lonely."
No Sunday gumbo with your momma. No impromptu BBQs with your cousins spilling onto the porch. Just the two of you in a sleek high-rise, struggling with subway maps and missing the warmth of your people.
“We were happy, but—hollow?"
You press a hand to your sternum, like you can still feel the echo of it.
You then exhale softly, curling your fingers around the edge of the sofa as you confess, “We needed a break—And ‘Ren’s birthday was the perfect excuse to escape."
The waves crash lazily in the background as you tilt your head, sunlight catching the gold hoops in your ears.
“St. Lucia was his dream. Warm water, no schedules, no ’corporate meetings’—" You roll your eyes playfully, but the lightness doesn’t quite reach the tension in your shoulders.
Then, quieter—
“But...he hasn’t been handling twenty-nine the way I thought he would?”
You bite your lip, eyes flickering toward the bedroom where he still sleeps.
“He keeps saying shit like—" You deepen your voice into another gruff imitation of him, “'Damn, Bunny. I’m gettin’ old. Need to settle down before my knees give out.'"
You shake your head, “It’s not just jokes, though. He’s been different. Obsessing over timelines, talking about legacy.”
Your fingers trace idle patterns on your thigh, avoiding the camera’s gaze for a second.
“And then one night, he just—" You swallow hard, “…He said he wanted a baby.”
You curl into yourself slightly, arms wrapping around your middle as if bracing for impact.
“I mean...we always talked about it. But..." you shrug helplessly, "You guys know I don’t plan on doing this—" You gesture vaguely at the camera, “Once we’re married with kids. And I love that you guys have been with us through everything. But..."
A shaky breath.
“I never expected it to be now, you know?”
The air between you and the lens feels thick—charged with something unspoken. Then, abruptly, you straighten, blinking away the wetness in your eyes as a slow, secretive smile tugs at your lips.
“Before I bring myself to tears—well, just watch."
The burgues script appears again.
ST. LUCIA THROUGH YOUR EYES.
A montage flickers to life—each frame saturated with golden sunlight and laughter, the ocean breeze tangling in your hair as St. Lucia unfolds around you both like a dream.
The first day. ‘You in a sheer, plum wrap dress that clings to every curve, standing barefoot on the villa’s terrace as Eren’s hands slide around your waist from behind. His lips brush your shoulder—“My pretty fuckin’ Bunny,” before he nips at your earlobe, making you giggle and swat at him.
That night. A low-lit restaurant nestled right on the beach, lanterns casting a honeyed glow over your faces. You’re seated at a candlelit table, the ocean breeze tousling the loose waves of your dark hair. The camera catches you mid-laugh—a plunging white dress clinging to every dangerous curve of your body, the neckline dipping just low enough to tease the swell of your heavy tits.
You flash a mischievous grin at the lens, dragging your fingertip through the frosting of the miniature birthday cake the staff brought out—“For my birthday boy,” before sucking the sweetness off your finger with an exaggerated pop.
The camera pans to Eren.
Oh, God.
A crisp white button-up clings to his muscular frame like a second skin, his sleeves rolled up to expose those tattooed forearms. His dark hair is slicked back in a low bun—jawline sharp enough to cut glass—green eyes glinting with something between hunger and amusement as he watches you.
Without breaking eye contact with the camera, he leans in—dragging his tongue between your lips, stealing the last traces of frosting straight from your mouth.
You let out a breathy giggle, cheeks flushing as he pulls back with a smirk—“‘Shit tastes better on you."
The second week. A bustling street market. You wear a sage green crochet bikini top and high-waisted denim shorts, sandals dangling from one hand as Eren feeds you bites of spiced plantains off his fork. His thumb swipes sauce from your bottom lip, then slowly licks it off, eyes locked on yours while vendors wolf whistle in the background under your flushed squeaking for him to stop.
That afternoon? A lively, sun-drenched outdoor hair salon tucked under a canopy of palm leaves and strung with colorful beads that clink softly in the breeze. You’re perched on a low wooden stool, surrounded by four St. Lucian aunties—their hands moving in a hypnotic blur as they section, twist, and fold your thick, dark curls into an intricate masterpiece.
Eren’s deep chuckle rumbles behind the camera—“Look at my baby, lookin’ like prettier than the ocean.”
You go to stick your tongue out at him, but that’s when one of the women chides you gently in Kwéyòl—“Hold still, darling!”—before dissolving into warm laughter with the others. The rhythmic swish-swish of hair being braided fills the air, fingers tugging just enough to make you pout.
Another day. The rainforest. ‘You in a khaki mini-skirt and a tied-up tank, shrieking as your sandal slips on a mossy rock—only for Eren to catch you mid-fall, his biceps flexing as he hauls you upright with a growl.
“Watch ‘your feet, woman. You break an ankle, I’m carryin’ you everywhere from now on.”
That evening. A local elder—"Banana Man," as you dubbed him—grinned toothlessly as he guided Eren’s hands around a machete, teaching him to split a ripe banana stalk. Eren listens intently, nodding, repeating phrases in rough-but-earnest Creole while you beam beside him, fingers laced through his free hand in support.
And finally? Sunset. The beach. You in a flowy, butter-yellow sundress, bare feet sinking into warm sand as the Banana Man and another woman chuckles, handing you both each a piece of freshly-cut fruit.
Behind you, you hear the woman fussing at Eren in the same melodic dialect, “Ou pral koupe dwèt ou yo!,” You’ll chop your fingers off!—her tone exasperated but fond.
You bite back a giggle, still focused on your own fruit, not daring to glance over.
"Are you givin' her a hard time?" you call out, voice lilting with amusement.
Eren’s response is soft, almost too casual—
“Not at all, baby."
A pause. Then—
“…Might need some help from you, though."
You roll your eyes playfully, turning with a grin—
And the world stops.
Because there he is.
On one knee.
The machete abandoned beside him, replaced by a velvet box cradled in his trembling hands. His face—usually so composed, so controlled—is raw with emotion, eyes glistening under the sunset.
"Mwen vle ou pou tout rès vi mwen," he rasps—I want you for the rest of my life.
A sob tears from your throat before you can stop it. Your hands fly to your mouth, the piece of fruit tumbling forgotten into the sand as your knees nearly give out.
“Wi—YES—oh my GOD!"
You're in his arms before he can even finish, nearly knocking him over as you collapse against his chest, babbling yes in every language you know—Creole, English, everything—between desperate kisses and tearful laughter.
The camera cuts back to you now—sunlight catching the glint of tears still clinging to your lashes as you hold up your left hand, the diamond glinting like captured starlight. Heavy. Perfect. His.
“We're getting married!” you whisper yell, voice trembling with a giddy, breathless laugh—but it fades too fast.
"...Haven’t been able to get pregnant, though."
A shaky breath. The words taste like salt and something sharper.
“We tried. A couple times. And then...weknew."
Your throat works around the weight of it.
“‘Doctor ran tests. There's—" A tiny, broken noise, “A lot."
Your gaze drops to your lap, where your other hand fists in the fabric of your slip.
“Eren…has given up so much for our content. Let the world into us. But—"
A tear splashes onto your knee. Then another. You don't even notice until your voice cracks.
“All he wants now is privacy. His wife. A baby.”
You swipe at your cheeks with the back of your hand, laughing wetly—“And I couldn’t even—"
The sentence dies.
For a long moment, there's just the sound of the ocean and your unsteady breathing. Then, so quiet the mic barely catches it—
"It felt like I failed him."
Your laughter wavers—thin and watery—as tears streak hot down your cheeks. You swipe at them with trembling fingertips, shaking your head as you murmur, “Sorry, sorry,” to the empty air.
Your voice steadies, even as the tears keep falling.
“But we’re here, in St.Lucia. And I get to spend the rest of my life with the man I love.”
You tilt your face up toward the sunlight, closing your eyes for just a second—
But that’s when the sound of heavy footsteps on tile makes your breath catch.
And there he is.
The camera doesn’t catch his face—just the sheer mass of him, silhouetted against the morning light. Long dark hair, streaked with gold where the sun touches it. Broad shoulders, tattoos creeping up the side of his neck. His bare chest is a canvas of sun-kissed skin, scattered with moles and faint freckles.
But you see all of him—the deep green of his eyes, hazel flecks burning under heavy brows. The natural frown etched into his features, lips full and pink, parted as he rasps—
“Why the hell ain’t you in bed?”
His voice is sleep-rough, edged with concern.
“…’Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur, “Got dressed.”
Silence.
His thumb suddenly grazes your cheek, catching a stray tear. His touch is rough but tender, tilting your face up toward him as he grunts—
“‘You good?”
His hand dwarfs your face, fingers tipping your chin up further. You blink up at him through damp lashes, lips curling into a soft smile despite the lingering tears.
“‘Was just talkin' to our little family," you say, thumb brushing the camera lens gently—“They miss you."
“I miss you in bed," he counters, voice a low, sleep-rough rumble that sends heat prickling up your neck.
A breathless giggle escapes you as you glance at the time.
“Baby, it’s barely noon.”
Your fingers catch his wrist, tugging lightly—“Come sit with me?"
He hesitates—then shakes his head, jaw tightening slightly.
“I’ll ‘show face in a bit," he grunts, “‘Gotta shower first."
“And then you’ll come?"
"Mhm."
The affirmation is gruff, but his grip on your chin tightens as he suddenly leans down, claiming your mouth in a deep, possessive kiss—tongue dragging slow over your bottom lip before pulling away with a wet pop.
And then, he’s gone.
You sigh playfully, shaking your head with a knowing smile as you watch him stalk off—"That's him in a good mood," you murmur, rolling your eyes affectionately before your expression shifts—mischief sparking in your gaze.
“Well, what he doesn't know is I've got a little surprise.”
You bite your bottom lip, fingers tapping against your thigh.
"For him... and you guys."
A sly wink, “You know I can't come on here without giving y'all the other part of our channel."
With that, you hop up from the sofa—bare feet padding silently across the sun-warmed terracotta floors as you tiptoe through the sprawling Mediterranean villa.
The outdoor shower comes into view—a stunning mosaic of turquoise and deep cobalt tiles, sunlight dappling through the latticework. The sound of rushing water meets your ears first, then—
Him.
Eren stands fully nude beneath the spray—a masterpiece of masculine power carved in ink and muscle. Water sluices down the hard planes of his tattooed chest, his biceps flexing as he runs a hand through his dark, wet hair—pushing it back just enough to reveal the sharp cut of his jaw, the sinful curve of his mouth. Droplets cling to his long lashes, framing those deep green eyes as he tips his head back, throat working as the water cascades over him.
His body is ridiculous—abs like forged steel, thick thighs taut with restrained strength. And then—there. Between his legs, heavy and full even at rest, his cock hangs thick against his thigh, the flushed tip glistening under the water.
You carefully prop the camera up, angling it perfectly to capture the outdoor shower's decadent scene before slipping the sheer coverup from your shoulders—letting it pool at your feet in a whisper of fabric. Your neon orange bikini clings to every curve as you step under the arched entrance, hips swaying with playful purpose as you approach his towering frame.
The moment your arms slide around his waist—lips pressing a teasing kiss to the small of his water-slick back—his entire body tenses. Then, slowly, he turns.
One large hand cups your chin, tilting your face up as he looms over you—those hunter-green eyes dark with warning.
“Du kleine Unruhestifterin," he murmurs, voice rough.
You little troublemaker.
His tongue lolls out lazily—a silent command. You obey instantly, your own tongue slipping past your lips to meet his. The slide of them together pulls a shudder from you, your eyes rolling back as he deepens the kiss with a growl—claiming your mouth like he owns it. Because he does.
When you finally pull away—giving his bottom lip one last tug between your teeth—the noise he makes is pure animal. A deep, possessive grunt that sends heat spiraling through your core. You giggle, high and breathless, licking the taste of him from your lips.
“Be nice," you whisper, fluttering your lashes up at him—equal parts angel and devil.
His fingers thread through your French curls, gently cradling your head as he tucks your giggles against his chest—the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your ear. Then, finally, he turns his gaze toward the camera—voice a low, affectionate rumble.
“She’s always been good at persuadin’ me.”
You drape your arms around his neck, pressing your body flush against his as your giggles bubble up—tits bouncing against him playfully.
“‘You happy now? You love all our babies?" you chirp.
His response is a deep, vibrating ”Mhm," as his hands slide down to grip your hips possessively. You snuggle closer, tucking your face into the crook of his shoulder with a satisfied hum, breathing in his scent—sandalwood, something distinctly him.
But while you're nestled against him like a content kitten, Eren has other plans. His lips quirk in that cocky half-smile as he mouths “I lied," directly at the camera—his wink full of mischief before he nuzzles back into you, knowing damn well what he just did.
The camera now cuts to a sprawling deep green sofa bed in a sun drenched corner of the villa, where you're sprawled out in nothing but a skimpy gold bikini—back arched, hips tilted, ass up—your skin glistening under the Caribbean light.
You pout dramatically at the lens, running your hands over your thighs.
“Ugh, I swear I won’t get a full tan here!” you whine, twisting to show the untouched skin of your inner thighs—your fingers tracing the faint tan lines with exaggerated frustration.
Before you can continue your lament, a sharp smack! echoes through the room—Eren’s palm landing firmly on your ass, making the flesh jiggle.
”Move," he rumbles, already nudging you aside—his natural dominance taking over as he manspreads onto the sofa bed like he owns it. His tattoos flex under the golden light, one thick thigh nudging yours apart as he settles in.
Your lips purse into an exaggerated pout, eyes fluttering up at him with faux hurt.
“You're being mean.”
Eren's stares. His index finger then crooks, wagging you closer with that effortless, commanding ease that always makes your stomach flip. You slide toward him, hips swaying playfully, until his hand cups the back of your neck and pulls you into a searing kiss—quick but deep, his tongue swiping possessively over yours before pulling away with a wet smack.
“Tut mir leid, Schatz," he rumbles—I'm sorry, baby—his rough German apology curling around your ears like smoke.
You grin at the camera, freckles standing out against your brown skin as you rub your hands up and down Eren’s tattooed forearms.
“Guess what we have?" you chirp, excitement bubbling in your tone.
Eren arches a brow, his deep voice dry.
“Fan mail?"
"Fan mail!" you squeak, immediately digging into the pretty stack of envelopes beside you—tied together with a silk ribbon. You pluck one out, scanning it before correcting, “Fan question, actually."
Clearing your throat, you read aloud—
“'I love you both so much—your dynamic, the way you tease each other, how passionate you are...Awe!” You pause, pressing a hand to your chest, touched.
“'Okay, okay—so, I'm kind of shy asking this, but I'm in a relationship, and my boyfriend loves when I ride him, but I...don't really know what to do? Any tips?'"
Your lips curl into a sly grin as you shift your hips against Eren’s thigh, fingers drumming playfully on his chest.
“So, let’s talk about cowgirl—fun fact, it actually dates waaaay back," you purr, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“…Some historians trace it to ancient tantric texts, others say it was practically sacred in certain cultures—but let’s be real," your curls sway as you tilt your head, “The real magic? ‘How many ways you can make this classic feel brand new."
Eren’s palm thwaps your ass lightly—a silent get on with it.
“There are several—yes, several—ways to ride," you announce, holding up the corresponding number of fingers, “And lucky for you..." You pat Eren’s thigh like he’s your favorite piece of gym equipment—“..I’ve got the perfect demonstrator right here."
His grunt is half-amused, half-exasperated as you swing a leg over him, straddling his lap playfully.
“Consider this your full tutorial.”
Your posture shifts instantly—shoulders rolling back, lips parting with slow intention as your gaze locks onto Eren’s. The camera catches the way his pupils dilate just slightly when you run your tongue along your mouth, your voice dropping into that tone—the one that’s equal parts instructor and temptress.
“Lesson one," you purr, fingertips skating up his chest, “Start with him comfortable. Relaxed."
Your hips roll in a lazy circle against his lap, the heat between your thighs already unmistakable.
“And obviously...hard. That’s the goal."
You nip at his earlobe, breathing a giggle against his skin when his grip tightens on your waist.
“Baby," you murmur, dragging your tongue along the shell of his ear, “How’re you enjoying St. Lucia?”
Eren’s jaw flexes—the only tell he’ll give you—but you feel him hardening beneath you, the thick ridge of him pressing insistently against your core. Your laugh is velvet-wrapped mischief as you grind down harder, relishing the way his breath hitches.
“Mmm, that’s the reaction we want."
Your fingers glide over the bulging curves of his biceps, kneading the taut muscle with deliberate appreciation.
“Aren’t you having fun with me?" you coo, batting your lashes up at him through the dark fringe of them.
Eren’s eyes—always tracking you—darken further, his voice scraping low from his chest.
“You know how I feel bein’ here.”
“Good boy,” you softly praise, lips curling into that wicked little smile—the one that makes his jaw twitch. Your hands slide down to rub slow, teasing circles over his thick thighs, fingertips ghosting dangerously close to where he really wants them.
“Thank you for being so...communicative.”
Then, with a sinuous shift of your hips, you arch deeper into his lap—your gaze flicking back to the camera.
“Now, tell me—does our birthday boy deserve something…special today?"
The camera catches Eren perfectly—his dark hair pulled into a loose bun, those few stubborn tendrils escaping to frame his glaring, predatory expression. He’s pure power sprawled beneath you—legs spread wide, chest rising with each controlled breath—watching, waiting, like he’s deciding whether to make a move or let you play longer.
Then—your hands hook into the waistband of his sweatpants.
A sharp inhale. A quick tug.
“Oh.”
Your gasp is high, breathy, practically whiny as your big, round eyes drink him in—his cock springing free, thick, flushed and already leaking just from your teasing.
“Look at you," you mewl, voice dripping with honeyed reverence—like he’s something sacred, "’All for me?"
Eren’s smirk is barely there—just a twitch of those sinful lips—before his hand fists in your hair, tilting your face up to his.
“Always."
Your gaze flicks back to the camera with that signature mix of sweet and sinful—letting them in on the moment before your attention returns to him.
“Make him ready for you first," you instruct—your lips parting slightly, tongue swiping along your bottom lip as if already tasting him.
Eren's eyes darken, his grip tightening on your thigh.
“’You thirsty?” he rasps.
You nod eagerly, biting down on your plush lip with those big, pleading eyes.
He doesn't hesitate. His calloused fingers grip your chin, tilting your face up as he spits directly into your open mouth—a thick, wet string of saliva that lands heavy on your tongue.
“Mmm—" You swallow instinctively, eyes fluttering shut as his palm cracks against your cheek.
“Zeig’s ihnen," he growls—Show them.
And oh, you do.
Your tongue drags slow and filthy from the thick base of him all the way up—a long, indulgent lick that leaves a glistening trail along his length. The taste of him—pure Eren—floods your senses as you swirl your tongue around his swollen tip, savoring the bead of precum that leaks onto your taste buds.
Then—your lips part wider, sinking down onto him inch by inch until he’s pressed against the back of your throat. The sound—wet, filthy, obscene—fills the room as your nose brushes against his pelvis, swallowing around him with deliberate patience.
Eren’s groan is low and rough, fingers tightening in your hair as he mutters something in German—praise or a curse, you can’t tell—but the way his hips twitch upward tells you everything you need to know.
“Good fuckin’ girl.”
Your movements grow desperate, hungry—swollen lips struggling to stretch around his impossible girth, every inch of him throbbing against your tongue as you hollow your cheeks and force yourself deeper. The sounds you make—tiny, choked mewls turning into breathless whimpers—only spur him on. His cock hits the back of your throat, again and again, the slick slap of skin against skin filling the air as you drool around him, spit dripping messily down your chin.
When you finally pull away—gasping, lips shiny and ruined—you whine at the loss, your fingers immediately wrapping around what your mouth couldn’t take. Both hands jerk him off in tight, twisting strokes—your tongue darting out to swirl around his leaking tip, collecting the thick beads of precum and licking them up like a starving little thing.
Eren’s voice is ragged, his German words rough and guttural—“So verdammt gierig..."
“So greedy..." you translate breathlessly, giggling around his cock like it’s something adorable, something sweet, despite the filth dripping from your chin. Then? You’re practically bobbing your palms around his dick, going even lower than before.
Eren’s thighs tense, muscles straining beneath ink-stained skin as he curses, fingers tightening in your curls.
“Fuck—" His head tilts back, jaw clenched, as he uses your palms—hips lifting off the bed to fuck up into your hand with sharp, punishing thrusts. You mewl once more as your mouth follows back onto his tip—sucking, sucking down. The camera catches it all—his dominance, your submission, the sinful wetness of every thrust as you put your mouth back on him—until finally, with a growl that rumbles through your bones, he yanks you off with a filthy pop.
“Enough."
Your lips are parted, panting, still aching for him—but his grip on your hair tightens, forcing you to meet his gaze.
“You want to ride?" He rasps, “‘Come fuckin’ ride me.”
“Mm, baby—“ you mewl, “This is a tutorial, shouldn’t we—“
Eren’s response is interrupting—his thick fingers hooking into the flimsy fabric of your bikini bottoms, yanking them aside with a roughness that makes your breath hitch. The sudden slap of his palm against your pussy—sharp, mean—has your hips jerking forward with it.
“Keep goin’ then," he growls, fingers beginning to rub rough circles over your swollen clit, his other hand gripping your ass cheek tight enough to bruise.
“Talk.”
Your body shudders, thighs trembling as you struggle to stay composed—your giggles turning into more breathless whimpers, your voice wavering but still playful as you turn back to the camera.
“O—Okay, so—once he’s ready," you stutter, cheeks flushed deep bronze, “You just—ah!—sink down on him—slow, okay?” You bite your lip, "Especially if—mmf!—if you’ve got someone as big as my 'Ren—“
Eren grunts, dragging the slick, flushed head of his cock through your dripping folds—letting the camera catch the obscene wetness coating him before he smacks your ass hard enough to leave a red handprint.
“Ain’t nobody as big as me," he snarls, voice thick with arrogance—his grip tightening on your waist as he lines himself up, the heavy tip of him pressing teasingly against your entrance.
“Bring it to me.”
Your hand reaches back, fingers curling into the flesh of his thigh as you lock eyes with the camera—your lips parting around a shaky exhale as you begin to sink down onto him.
Eren’s grip shifts suddenly—his calloused fingers seizing your jaw, forcing your face to stay angled toward the lens as he tugs you down with relentless pressure. The stretch is unreal—your walls clenching around his thick cock inch by inch as your breath hitches in your throat.
Your eyes roll back—voice slurring as you try to keep instructing through the haze of pleasure, "Y—You wanna—mmf—take all of it—"
Eren’s his hips jerk up hard, forcing another inch inside—his voice thick with arrogance, “You feelin’ me?”
You whimper, hands gripping his thighs as you force yourself down, your slick walls yielding around him until your ass meets his hips—fully seated. Your face twists—lips parted in a silent moan, eyes squeezing shut before fluttering open to find him instead of the camera.
And then—God—your folds spurt a fresh rush of cream against him, your body betraying you completely as you lose all semblance of control, trembling in his lap.
“Look at you,” he rasps, “Actin’ like a big fuckin’ girl, little one.”
Your arms snake around his neck, clinging to him as you press a soft, pleading kiss to his lips—whispering against them in Creole, just for him—“Lèt mwen mennen, chéri..."
Let me lead, baby…
Eren hesitates—his dark eyes searching yours—before he exhales sharply through his nose. He pulls back just enough to guide your palms onto his chest, lips pressing against your ring, to both of your palms in turn—a silent permission—before his arms drop to his sides, muscles taut with restraint.
“‘Go ‘head.”
Your voice then lilts sweetly, hips rolling in slow, teasing circles against his lap.
“Okay, so first—warm up," you murmur, fingers threading through the loose tendrils of his dark hair, tugging just enough to make his jaw clench.
“You wanna start slow," you breathe, eyelashes fluttering—though your breath hitches when he twitches inside you, thick and impatient.
“It's all about—mm—connection..."
You whine a little—high-pitched, adorable—your folds clutching desperately at his cock with every tiny shift.
“T—Take your time adjusting," you instruct shakily, though it sounds more like you're reminding yourself—your thighs trembling as you rise up until just the tip of him remains, then sink back down with a breathy sigh.
Eren's hands flex against the sofa—his nostrils flaring as he watches you, taunting him with your lazy pace. But he lets you lead, just like you asked—even if his teeth grind together when your nails scrape against his scalp.
“‘Feel good, baby?”
Eren just growls, his hips jerking up just enough to make your entire body twitch.
“Quit playin’."
Your lips press a tender kiss to the tip of his nose—soft, sweet—and he retaliates by bumping his nose against yours in return, making you giggle breathlessly.
“Okay,” you whisper, “First three positions—think of ‘em like gears,” you explain, hips rolling in slow, indulgent circles—your thighs flexing as you shift upward, grinding rather than bouncing.
“First gear—easy, sensual, all about the tease.”
You demonstrate, your back arching beautifully as you rock against him—your gaze locked onto his, heavy-lidded and dripping with intent, “It’s more for your pleasure, but—”
One of your hands lifts, twirling a loose curl around your finger—your French braids cascading over your shoulders, the scent of vanilla and sunshine clinging to them.
“You keep his attention by making him watch.”
Your other hand slides up your own body—fingers trailing over your collarbone before you hook them into the ties of your bikini top. With a flick, the fabric falls away—your heavy breasts bouncing free, nipples peaked and begging for touch.
Eren’s nostrils flare, but he stays still—letting you lead, even as his cock twitches deep inside you.
“Second gear—”
Your breath hitches as you shift again, riding him with more purpose—your hips undulating in slow, delicious waves.
“Third gear—”
And then you grind, your clit rubbing firmly against the base of him with every movement. A rush of pleasure floods your senses—your walls fluttering around him as you struggle to keep your voice steady.
“Th—This one—” You swallow hard, your words slurring slightly, “Might—mmf—hit your spots—“
“Yeah?”
Eren suddenly rasps—arrogant, smug—his fingers flexing against your hips but still refusing to help.
A desperate little whimper escapes your lips—“Y—Yeah”—as your hips roll faster, grinding against him like a toy wound too tight, chasing that sweet, throbbing pleasure building low in your belly.
Eren stays perfectly still beneath you—just watching with those eyes, his low voice taunting as he growls,
“C'mon, baby. Keep goin’.”
Your breath catches—a sharp gasp ripping from your throat as your head falls back, braids cascading over your shoulders. But Eren’s fingers snap up, wrapping around your throat in a firm grip, forcing your gaze back to him.
“Nah, nah—eyes on me," he rasps, thumb brushing your pulse point—“‘Want you to see me watchin’ you.”
Tears well in your eyes—spilling over as your climax crashes into you with a sob, your cream gushing around him, coating his balls in slick heat.
Eren tsks—his grip tightening on your ass cheek, tugging your grinding hips right where he wants them as he murmurs low in German,
"So schön... so verdammt schön für mich…”
So beautiful... so fuckin’ beautiful for me…
Your hips slow to a sensual sway, chest rising and falling with each breath as your curls tumble over your shoulders, framing your breasts like a dark halo. You glance down at Eren through your lashes, lips parted as you try to steady your breathing—but the second your arms wrap around his neck, you let out a soft, shy giggle, turning toward the camera with a sheepish smile.
“Oops—" you murmur, voice dripping with playful sweetness, “Didn’t mean to get so...carried away."
Eren huffs out a rough chuckle, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses between your breasts—“I love watchin’ you like that. Love watchin’ you cum like that."
You bite your lip, suppressing another giggle before looking back at the camera—your expression shifting back into instructor mode, though your voice is still breathy from pleasure.
“See? The three gears—always gonna get you there," you sigh, fingers threading lazily through Eren’s hair—“And trust me... your man’s gonna love it."
Your lips curl into a lazy, satisfied smile as you glance at the camera, breath still uneven.
“Not done yet though,” you hum—“‘Might feel a little sore after that first round, so this is when you just...sit in it. Warm each other up all over again."
Your fingers trail down to nudge Eren's chin, tipping his face up toward you—your eyes softening as you whisper, "’Love you, yeah?"
He doesn't answer with words—just tugs your mouth down to his in a slow, deep kiss, tongues sliding together with unhurried heat. His hands roam over your back, fingers pressing possessively into the curve of your hips as you shift slightly—your folds grinding lazily along the swollen tip of him, drawing a low groan from his chest.
Then, with a breathless shudder, you sink back down onto him—your lips parting against his in a silent gasp as he fills you completely. The kiss deepens, languid and intoxicating, until you finally pull back—turning toward the camera with flushed cheeks.
“This one—" you pant, rocking up and down in slow, shallow motions, “—We call the lazy cowgirl. No rush, no pressure... just breathing together before the next round."
Your hips roll in smooth, rhythmic waves—your tongue dragging teasingly along Eren's neck as you murmur against his pulse, “Keep it playful now... this one's for him."
Your hands glide over the sculpted planes of his biceps and shoulders, fingertips tracing the ink-dark tattoos as you murmur, “You’re too handsome, baby—" between slow, rocking motions. Eren grunts through the praise, dragging you into a deep, appreciative kiss—but you feel it, the way his restraint starts crumbling, the sharp catch of his breath against your lips betraying how badly he wants to take control.
You tuck your face into the crook of his shoulder, braids spilling like silk over his skin as you peer behind you—watching the sinuous arch of your spine, the hypnotic sway of your hips as you move atop him.
“Okay," you exhale once more, pulling back just enough to meet the camera's gaze—your voice dripping with playful mischief, “Next positions are where it gets fun—pleasurable for both of you."
A giggle bubbles up as you admit, “It’s a silly name, but—we call this one the shakedown.”
And then you show it—your ass lifting slightly before shaking in slow, deliberate twists atop him, the motion making your folds clench around his cock in a way that has his fingers digging into your thighs.
A harsh smack echoes through the room—Eren’s palm cracking against your ass cheek, leaving a stinging flush in its wake. You gasp, but don't stop—grinding down harder as he spanks you again, and again, each sharp slap punctuated by his guttural groans.
“Fuck—" he grits out, grip bruising as he watches your body jolt with every strike.
You whimper through it, trembling—but your voice is a pure sultry tease as you murmur to the camera, “Your man's gonna love how this looks…’gonna turn him on completely.”
Your arms tighten around his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at his naught as you continue rolling your hips in slow, decadent circles—French curls cascading like dark silk over his shoulders, tickling his chest as you tilt your head.
“Baby...you still with me?" you tease, breathless laughter lacing your words as you nudge his temple with your nose, "’You’ve been a little quiet…”
Eren’s response is a rough blend of English and German, his voice thick with barely-restrained hunger as his palm cracks against your ass again—harder this time—forcing a sweet little “Mmph!" from your lips as you jolt forward, your mouth brushing his.
“Scheiße—" he growls, gripping your waist as his other hand lands another stinging slap—“Du siehst so verdammt gut aus—"
You look so fuckin’ good.
His words dissolve into a shuddering groan as your walls clench around him, your body squeezing him in a slick, greedy rhythm. You bite your bottom lip, catching the camera’s gaze with a sultry grin—your voice dropping to a low, instructional purr.
“Next one’s called...the swirl.”
And then you demonstrate—your hips twisting in slow, hypnotic spirals, muscles fluttering tight around him in a way that wrings a filthy, wet sound from where you’re joined. Eren’s grip turns vicious—his cock throbbing inside you as your folds suck him deeper with every sinuous roll.
“Goddamn, Bunny. Just like that. Shit.”
His head is tilting back, groaning as he drags the words out.
Your breath hitches, but you keep going—grinding down in relentless circles, your body milking him with every motion as the camera captures every obscene shlick of your arousal coating him. Your hips continue their sinuous swirl, fingertips skimming the hard planes of his chest before crawling up to cradle the back of his neck possessively.
“This is your chance to dominate.”
Eren's head stays tilted back, his hunter-green eyes locked onto yours—jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle twitch. His chest heaves with each ragged breath, his cock twitching as your folds clench in another deliberate, milking squeeze.
“Hell—" he grunts out, fingers digging into your hips, “That feels too fuckin’ good.”
“Yeah?"
“Yeah.”
And you smile, rolling your hips in another filthy, slower, perfect circle.
Your gaze locks onto the camera as you plant your feet firmly on the sofa—tightening your thighs around his hips as your fingers drag lower, tracing the hard ridges of his abs with deliberate admiration.
"And this—" you breathe, “—Is probably your man’s favorite. The expert cowgirl. Where you let him use you to his strength... his advantage."
Your eyes flick down to Eren, lashes fluttering as you coo, “My man’s so strong—‘can fuck me any way he wants to."*
The second those words leave your lips, Eren’s grip shifts—his hands sliding beneath your thighs, fingers digging into the plush skin of your ass as he takes control, tugging you down onto his cock with a slow, purposeful bounce.
“This—ooh!—this’ll also hit your spots if you let it—"
You gasp, your words fracturing as his tip drags directly over that spongey sweet spot inside you. Your eyes roll slightly—a giggle bubbling up as you try to suppress the shiver of pleasure that ripples through you.
"That’s it," he rasps, his grip tightening as he drives you down harder, faster.
“Take it. Take it. Squeezin’ me just fuckin’ right.”
Your thighs tremble—your folds fluttering around him as he uses you exactly how he wants, his cock pistoning into that perfect, blissful spot with every snap of his hips.
“Eren—" you whimper, your control slipping—your body melting under the weight of his dominance.
“Nuh uh,” he grunts, “Feel it.”
Your fingers slide helplessly over the thick ridges of his biceps beneath you—and that’s when a real, broken whimper claws its way out of your throat, voice trembling as you gasp,
“F—Feels too—mmph!—too good—"
Eren’s response is a rough, impatient tch—his grip tightening as he growls, “You ain’t been enjoyin’ yourself enough. Hold onto me.”
At those words? Your head lolls back, your body going pliant against him as he pounds you—his powerful thighs driving you up and down his cock in slow, devastating bounces that leave your vision hazy. Your nails dig into his forearms—your whine pitching higher, dissolving into a slurred “Mmmphfuh—!" as your words fail you completely.
“I c—can’t think.”
And that’s when you see it—that untamed, rough-edged side of him that follows him everywhere. The country boy who doesn’t ask, just takes—who fucks you with the same effortless dominance he carries in every other part of his life. His hands slide up to your waist, fingers bruising as he lifts you—then drops you back onto his cock with a filthy, wet slap, his hips driving up to meet you.
“Don’t gotta think," he rasps—voice dark, mean with desire.
“Just keep takin’ it.”
Eren's hands lock around your hips like steel bands—his thick cock splitting you open with every brutal, upward thrust. This ain't riding anymore. This is him fucking you—claiming you—his deep southern drawl rumbling against your ear as he takes over your lesson with rough, possessive authority.
“Last one, baby. My fuckin' favorite—the Noise Complaint.”
And God, you understand why he named it that the second his powerful thighs flex beneath you. His grip is absolute—those big, rough hands lifting your entire body with terrifying ease before slamming you back down onto his cock in slow, devastating drops. The sound is obscene—a wet, rhythmic clap of skin-on-skin that echoes off the walls, punctuated by your broken little “Ah! Ah! Ah!" with every bounce.
It’s everything that defines him—raw, unfiltered, dominance, that arrogance dialed to eleven. Clap after clap after clap—skin slapping against skin in a rhythm so loud it dares the neighbors to complain.
“Hear that?" Eren growls, “That’s the shit I wanna hear.”
You're sobbing now—pathetic, high-pitched whines of “E—Eren!" tumbling from your swollen lips as your body betrays you, clamping down on him in helpless pleasure.
“Take your reward for bein' such a good fuckin’ teacher.”
Your fingers clutch at his forearms, desperation creeping into your voice as you whimper, “Baby, please—‘wanna cum in my favorite position...”
“‘Thought it was my birthday, huh?”
But you give him those eyes—the ones that always make him cave—your lower lip trembling as you hiccup, “Please?"
It’s almost adorable—the way you beg, your tits bouncing with every ragged breath, those big, pleading eyes. How could he say no?
“Face first, ass up—now.”
You scramble to obey—arching your back sexily, pressing your flushed face into the sofa cushions as you present yourself for him. The contrast is stark—your small frame dwarfed beneath his towering body, your curves trembling as you wait.
Eren’s gaze flickers to the camera—“‘She knows how she submits in this position," he rumbles, gripping his cock at the base as he watches your folds drip for him. He drags the thick head of his dick against you, taunting you as he growls—
“Only givin’ it to you if you take all of me—no fussin’."
You bite your lip—your fingers clenching the cushions—before spreading yourself wider for him, your voice a sweet, breathless whimper.
“Won’t fuss... ‘promise."
His thick thumb presses down on the small of your back, forcing your spine into a deeper arch as he spreads your folds wider with his free hand.
“All of it," he grunts—and then he sinks into you all at once, his heavy cock stretching you to the limit in one relentless push.
You groan—a high, desperate whimper tearing from your throat as your pussy makes a wet pfft sound around him. He doesn’t let you adjust—just tugs halfway out before slamming back in, the sudden stretch making you sob adorably into the cushions.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Over and over—until the pleasure borders on discomfort, his thick shaft dragging against your walls with brutal precision.
“Fuck," Eren curses—his voice rough as he starts bouncing you on his cock, your hips gripped tight in his hands.
“Always so fuckin’ tight.”
His groans deepen—low, drawn-out, almost pained—as your slickness coats him completely.
“Goddamn, you’re drownin’ me—“ he pants, hips stuttering as your pussy squelches around him with every thrust. He’s not even lifting you anymore—just pounding into you over and over, your cries turning into sweet, broken sobs as you drag his name out pitifully, “E—Erennn.”
His breath comes jagged—his own control slipping—as he mutters again, “Fuck—you’re so wet—"
And then—with one final, punishing thrust—he buries himself fully inside you, his hips flush against your ass.
That’s when he moans—really moans—his voice slurring.
“Fuhhhhckkk.”
You whimper back—slurring messily, your words barely coherent as you press your forehead into the cushions.
His thrusts slow as he angles his hips just right, grinding the thick head of his cock against that spot once more.
“C'mon," he growls, voice rough with urgency, his grip tightening on your hip—“Get it out. Wanna feel you drench me—make a fuckin' mess."
He yanks himself out, his cock glistening with your slick as he fists himself hard, head tipping back with a jagged groan.
The sudden emptiness makes you whine—but before you can protest, his palm cracks against your ass hard, the sharp sting forcing another sob from your lips.
“Rub that clit," he orders, his voice dark with command—“Don't stop 'til you squirt all over me."
Your thighs tremble violently as your fingers fly to your swollen clit, circling desperately—your entire body tensing as pleasure coils too tight, too much—
"’Ren—‘M—gonna—!" you wail, your voice breaking into a sweet, shattered sob.
He groans—filthy and approving—his strokes on his own cock speeding up as he watches you unravel.
“I know,” he rasps, his green eyes burning with lust.
“Do it. Cover me."
Your back arches violently as your climax explodes out of you—a gushing, uncontrollable flood that soaks his thighs, the sofa, everything—your pussy pulsing around nothing as you scream his name.
Eren growls, his own release hitting him just as hard—thick ropes of cum painting your trembling ass as he groans through gritted teeth.
“Good fuckin’ job, Bunny.”
Your body shudders as the last waves of your climax begin to ebb—but then, without warning, a different kind of release crashes over you. Soft, warm tears spill down your cheeks, catching you by surprise that you quickly wipe your face. It’s not just pleasure anymore—it’s something deeper, more needed, like your body finally surrenders to the intensity of everything you just felt.
Eren notices immediately.
“C'mere," he murmurs, his voice suddenly tender as he pulls you against him, ignoring the mess between you both. His large hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing away your tears as he tucks you into the safety of his chest.
His fingers slide into your braids, stroking gently—his lips pressing against your temple in slow, soothing kisses as he whispers, “You did so fuckin’ good."
You cling to him, your breath hitching as the last tremors of emotion—and pleasure—rush through you. His warmth, his scent, the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath your ear—it all grounds you, wrapping you in a cocoon of safety.
“I got you,” he rumbles, “Always do.”
Your body melts into him, boneless and spent as you curl your arms around his neck and tuck your face against his skin—hiding from the camera’s gaze, suddenly shy despite everything you’ve just shared. Eren chuckles—a deep, knowing sound—his fingers tracing idle circles against your lower back.
“‘Never done that before,” he muses, voice rough with amusement—but there’s no teasing in it. Just warmth.
You don’t answer—just nuzzle deeper into him, your breaths slow and steady against his chest. And like always, he adjusts—his knees bending slightly to give you what you need, his frame curling around yours protectively.
But then—his phone rings.
Eren tenses—his head lifting with a frustrated suck to his teeth—but before he can dismiss it, you murmur, “Might be your Korean investors, baby… take it."
He exhales through his nose.
"Fuckin’ timin’.”
His lips linger against your temple—warm and rough—before he rises from the sofa, his towering frame momentarily blocking the camera’s view. You curl your knees to your chest, still glistening with sweat, your wide, round eyes tracing his every movement—the way his muscles shift beneath his tattooed skin, the way his damp hair clings to the back of his neck.
“Got me on international fuckin’ hold," he grumbles, glancing back at you with a smirk.
A weak, breathless smile tugs at your lips.
But then your gaze sharpens, studying him—the way dominance radiates off him even now, the handsomeness etched into every sharp angle of his face—and something tender swells in your chest.
"Need me to translate when they pick up?" you offer softly, tilting your head.
His green eyes narrow—defensive.
“What you tryin’ to say?"
“That my Korean’s better than yours."
He grabs your discarded top off the floor, entirely dismissing your insult—“Put this on," he orders, tossing it toward you.
You catch it lazily, shrugging.
“Not like they didn’t just watch me—"
“Bunny."
His voice drops—a warning.
You sigh dramatically but relent, sliding the fabric over your head as he steps closer. His fingers brush your nipples through the material—rough, possessive—before he cups your chin, kissing you briefly, firmly.
A command, not a request.
You don’t kiss back—just nod with another sigh, letting him suck your bottom lip once more before he pulls away, already striding out of frame.
You tie the strings of your top back into place, smoothing the fabric down with a soft, playful smile toward the camera—your cheeks still flushed, curls tousled from Eren’s hands.
“Hope y’all enjoyed fanmail," you hum, "It’s always fun answering your questions.”
Behind you, Eren’s deep voice rumbles in Korean—Yes, I understand. I’ll contact you after reviewing the contract again.
You glance over just in time to see him staring directly at you—chin lifted, green eyes gleaming with challenge—as he over-enunciates each syllable, chest puffed with pride.
You roll your eyes hard, fighting a grin as you turn back to the camera and whisper, “He’s been studying as you can tell.”
For the next few minutes, you chat sweetly with the camera—rambling about random things, laughing as you adjust the camera angle—until Eren reappears, a rare, broad grin splitting his face.
“They doubled the investment,” he announces, voice thick with satisfaction.
Your hands clap together, “That’s huge, baby! I knew they’d love you.”
“Let’s celebrate,” he rumbles, already striding toward the kitchen—“‘You hungry?"
You nod eagerly, rubbing your arms as you follow his movements—watching as he pulls open the fridge, muscles flexing under the dim kitchen lights.
“Could make spicy pork stir-fry," he muses, glancing at you—“Or that creamy garlic shrimp you like. Maybe both."
You rest your head on your knees, watching him move through the kitchen with that effortless, masculine grace.
“Whatever your heart desires, birthday boy."
His shoulders tense slightly—the way they always do when he’s deep in thought, jaw locked tight. You notice it instantly.
“Mon chéri," you say softly in Creole, voice a gentle hum beneath the sizzle of the pan—"Défroncé to mâchoire—li plen de tension."
Unclench your jaw—it’s full of tension.
“‘Force of habit.”
“You’d think you were always unhappy,” you warily murmur—which he hears of course.
Eren pauses.
“Why wouldn’t I be happy here with you?" he counters gruffly, not looking up—but you hear it, the defensiveness.
“‘Just wanna pick your brain," you admit, tracing idle circles on your knee—“Feels like if I don’t...I lose you a little."
Eren stills. Then, finally, he turns—his green eyes meeting yours, really meeting them, as he sets the knife down.
“Alright," he rumbles, “Pick, then.”
You let out a slow sigh, chewing your bottom lip as you search for the right words—your fingers twisting together in your lap.
“We’ve been in St. Lucia for a while now,” you start, “After everything—the chaos, the traveling, the proposal,” Your lips curl into a soft smile at the memory—"I’m so happy here, ‘Ren. It’s everything I never knew I needed. But..."
Your throat tightens—because the unspoken thing hangs between you, heavy and undeniable.
“…I just need to know you’re happy too," you finally say, fingers pressing into your knees—“That nothing’s...disappointed you.
Eren’s expression darkens—not in anger, but in fierce disagreement as he steps closer, crowding your space, his rough palms cupping your face.
“Listen t’ me," he rumbles, “There’s nothin’ more I could ask for. You—this—us—" His thumb swipes at your mouth, “You’re my fuckin’ world, woman.”
You press your forehead to his, closing your eyes as you exhale softly—nodding as you whisper, “Okay."
His hands grip your hips roughly, lifting you just enough to smack your ass—the sharp crack making your body jump as he growls, “Let's have some fun, yeah?"
A soft laugh bubbles up in your throat, but before you can respond, he’s already moving—grabbing a glass, rummaging through the fridge.
“Want me to make you a drink?" he offers, half-turned toward you, already reaching for a bottle of rum.
You shake your head, “You're an amazing cook, baby—not the best bartender. ‘M fine."
“Oh?" His head snaps towards you, “So now my drinks ain’t good enough?"
He turns back towards the fridge grabbing fresh fruit, mint, and crushed ice.
“Gonna’ make you eat those words," he mutters—but there’s a smirk tugging at his lips.
You grab the camera, following him into the kitchen with quiet steps—propping it up at the perfect angle to capture this moment. The lens frames him perfectly—his broad shoulders, the way his muscles flex as he bends into the fridge, rummaging for ingredients. You press yourself against his back, molding your body into the warmth of his frame, breathing him in.
Eren chuckles—a low, rumbling sound—before reaching his arm back, large hand cradling your head gently. He tilts his face toward yours, capturing your lips in a slow, tender kiss.
"Love you too," he murmurs against your mouth before pulling away, returning to his mission—citrus fruit in hand, determined to prove his bartending skills.
“I’m really okay without a drink," you say softly.
Eren immediately shoots you a frown.
“We’ve been in St. Lucia for a month," he points out, voice dripping with faux sadness—“And you haven’t drank with me in two whole weeks. What’s goin’ on, huh? I thought you loved me?”
“Pregnant women can’t drink, baby."
Eren freezes.
His hands still—mid-squeeze of a lime—juice dripping forgotten onto the counter.
Slowly, he turns—his green eyes locking onto yours, darker than you’ve ever seen them.
“Bunny," he says—just that—his voice a growl, rough with shock.
You nod—shuddering out a nervous giggle—your fingers twisting together.
“…Yeah."
And then—his hands are on you, cupping your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks as his forehead presses to yours—his breath uneven.
“Fuck," he rasps—and for the first time in years, Eren Yeager sounds shaken.
“How long?" he rasps, voice rough with emotion.
You bite your lip, exhaling shakily.
“Remember... when we first got here?” you murmur, brushing your thumbs over his wrists, “I cried because I wanted dragonfruit—and you scoured the whole island trying to find one?"
A slow realization flickers in his eyes—because you don’t crave things like that. Not randomly. Not desperately.
“…I knew something was off then," you admit softly, “Took a test a few days later...and I—" Your voice cracks slightly, “I didn’t believe it. ‘Thought I was seeing things. So I waited. ‘Took another one. And another."
Eren’s jaw clenches—his breathing uneven—but you can see it in his eyes, the way his mind races, piecing together every moment, every mood swing, every sign.
“I’m sorry," you whimper, pressing your forehead harder against his, “I was so scared it was a false positive—‘didn’t want you to get your hopes up just for it to be nothing."
His grip shifts—one hand sliding down to press against your stomach, his palm huge against you, like he’s already trying to feel what’s growing there.
“When the doctors told me I was possibly infertile…it terrified me—not just because of what it meant for us, but because... I realized how much I wanted this. How much I wanted your baby."
A tear slips free, trailing down your cheek as you continue, words spilling out in a fragile rush—
“But Korea’s so far from home, ‘Ren. All our family’s back in New Orleans, and I—" Your breath hitches, “I want my momma through this. I want her with me when I’m scared, when I don’t know what’s happening to my body. I wanna be home. But I also don’t wanna be away from you—not for a single second of this.”
Your throat tightens, another wave of fear crashing over you—
“And our supporters... our careers... I’m scared of shutting ourselves away from the love we’ve built. I just don’t wanna feel alone—“
“Stop," he orders, voice raw with conviction, “Stop worryin’—right fuckin’ now. You hear me?"
His grip tightens, eyes burning into yours—
“I’d burn down whole goddamn countries for you. For this baby. You wanna go home? We’re goin’.You want your momma? I’ll carry her ass to Korea myself. You scared of bein’ alone? Not happenin’—not as long as I’m breathin’."
A shuddering little cry escapes you—but Eren doesn’t let you crumble. He crushes you to his chest, his heartbeat thundering against your ear as he rasps—
“You’re mine. This baby’s mine. Not distance, careers, not anythin’ will stop me from takin’ care of you.”
You mewl “I love you" against his lips in a tearful, trembling kiss—his mouth crashing into yours with a devotion so deep, it vibrates through your entire body. The heat of his hands cradling your face—every touch radiates pure, unfiltered love.
Pulling back slightly, you turn your watery gaze toward the camera, your damp lashes fluttering as Eren ducks his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply—like he’s memorizing your scent, grounding himself in you.
“We’re having a baby," you beam, voice thick with emotion, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand.
Eren lifts his head, eyes locking onto the camera—determined, possessive—before he gruffly murmurs, “Y’all been with us through everything. ‘No way we go through this without you. Expect more content—a lot more."
Your breath catches—“You sure?" you whisper, searching his face.
He nods without hesitation, “‘Only want you happy, Bunny.”
And then—without warning—you launch yourself into him, legs wrapping around his waist as you giggle, “We’re having a babyyy!”
Eren grunts as he catches you effortlessly, a playful growl rumbling in his chest as he clutches your body tight—“Let’s go see if we can get you pregnant twice.”
Your laughter echoes as he carries you down the hallway—your limbs tangled around him—and with one last breathless “Bye!" from you, the screen flickers, dissolving into static as the camera shuts off in a nostalgic fade.
Summary: She shows up to her first group meeting, nervous and unsure if she belongs. But the moment the Moore twins lay eyes on her, the tone shifts. What starts as anonymous recovery becomes something else entirely: charged, intimate, and impossible to walk away from.
Warnings: SMUT. EXPLICIT. ONE-SHOT. Degradation. Cream pie. Dirty talk. Heavy sexual themes. Plus sized/dark skinned/baddie. Pet names used. Daddy Dom. Threesome. Slut praise. ⚠️
The smell hit first. Something between hospital soap and dollar store lavender. That overcleaned scent meant to mask something raw underneath. A man’s cheap cologne maybe. Old carpet. Last week’s potluck clinging to the walls.
She stepped inside, tugging her cardigan down over her hips, pretending she wasn’t already sweating through the satin beneath it. Of all the nights to wear satin. She’d stood in front of the mirror for twenty minutes before leaving the house, fighting with herself over whether to go at all. Face beat but not too beat. Black pants hugging a little too tight over her hips. Curves she’d tried to downplay, but they never really went anywhere. And now every inch of her felt too much for a room like this.
The community center was plain. Mismatched chairs arranged in a loose circle. Fluorescent lights overhead casting everyone in a cold, too-honest glow. A folding table sat near the wall with a half-empty coffee pot, powdered creamer, a crumpled box of tissues. Nobody looked up at first. One woman dabbed her eyes with a napkin. Another man stirred his cup too long, like he was buying time. She hesitated at the door, clutching her water bottle tight enough to bend the plastic. Her knuckles were stiff. She took a step inside.
“Come on in,” someone said. A woman. Middle-aged, soft voice, tight afro, gold hoops. The facilitator, maybe.
She gave a small nod and walked toward the only empty chair. It squeaked when she sat. Of course it did.
That’s when she saw them.
Two men, sitting across from each other with a few empty seats between them, but their presence filled the whole side of the room. Twins, clearly. Same bone structure, same rich brown skin, same wide chests that made folding chairs look like toys. But they held themselves different.
The one on the left—Elijah—sat still, forearms resting on his thighs, palms open. His face unreadable. Tall frame folded forward just enough to look like he was ready to pounce if needed. But the way his jaw was tight, his fingers twitching slightly against his denim, told a story. This was a man holding something in his mouth he didn’t know how to say. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The other one—Elias—had a lighter air to him. Still big, still coiled up with something, but he wore it behind a smirk. Spoke earlier, she could tell by the looseness in his posture. He leaned back, legs wide, one ankle hooked over the opposite knee. There was a small laugh line near his mouth, but it didn’t look fresh. Looked worn-in, like he’d been forcing that expression too long.
She tried not to stare, but they were fine in a way that made her chest tighten. Not just good-looking. Built. Cut from something that had seen damage and made it out, barely. And she felt that part of herself—the one that craved the wrong kind of comfort—stir. She didn’t like it. Not here. Not tonight. But there it was.
People spoke. She half-listened. Stories of things they lost. Wives. Control. Sleep. Dignity. One man had been clean for two months and said it like it was ten years. A woman spoke of silence in her house so loud she couldn’t breathe. A younger guy nodded through tears. Everyone took their turn, passing the talking stick—literally, a piece of driftwood polished smooth—and giving their name, what brought them here. A few people went before them. The stick passed to Elijah.
He exhaled once through his nose, slow, then looked up at no one in particular. Voice deep. Southern. Measured, “Name’s Elijah. I don’t usually talk in these.” His leg bounced once. He stilled it with a palm to his thigh, “I was over there twice. Iraq. First time I came back, I stopped sleeping. Second time I came back…I stopped speakin’. People thought I was just quiet. But I was trying not to feel nothin’. Couldn’t talk about what I saw. What I did. What we all did.”
Someone across the room nodded.
Elijah went on, “I got these dreams now. Loud. Bloody. Sometimes I wake up and don’t know where I’m at. Or I do, but I don’t feel safe in my own skin. So I started showing up here. I don’t need fixing. I just need…a place to sit where nobody’s lying to themselves.”
He handed off the stick. Straightened his shoulders. His fingers twitched again. The stick moved a few chairs over to Elias. He spun it once in his palm, like he was about to tell a joke. But his eyes weren’t laughing, “I’m Elias,” he said, “Most folks call me Stack.”
A few raised eyebrows. Someone chuckled, “Served too. Same as him,” he nodded toward Elijah. “Different units, same war. They sent us back out there after it was already bad. I tried to lighten it. Joked around. Played music. Bought everybody rounds. And it worked for a while.” He paused, looking down at the floor like something was still there, “Thing is, when it got quiet…that’s when it got dangerous. You ever feel like your body come home, but your mind still overseas? That’s me. I’m good at faking it. Still laugh. Still flirt. But inside? Everything’s stuck. Like time don’t move forward. Just flashes. Blood. Screams. That smell that don’t wash off, even when it’s just memory now.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, flexing his jaw, “So I come here. To try and unstick the reel in my head. Don’t know if it’s working, but I keep showing up.”
He passed the stick off with a wink, but it didn’t reach his eyes. And just like that, the weight in the room changed. The air shifted around their stories, drawing everyone in tighter. She hadn’t realized her thighs were pressed together or that she was holding her breath.
Eventually it landed in her lap.
The stick felt warm. Too light for how heavy her chest suddenly got. Her throat worked once. Twice. Her mouth opened but nothing came out right away.
She looked up.
Both of them were watching her. Elijah’s stare was direct. Not pushy, not soft. Just there. Like he was listening before she even said a word. Elias tilted his head, brow raised slightly like he was ready to crack a joke if she needed it. But he didn’t speak. Neither of them did.
She cleared her throat and tried again, “I’m here…because I got tired of lying to myself,” she said. Her voice sounded smaller than she liked, but it was steady, “I been putting this off for a long time. Told myself I didn’t need to be here. That I could handle it. But that was bullshit.”
A few people smiled at the word. She pressed on.
“I’ve used a lotta things to quiet stuff. Food. Sex. People. Guilt. I kept thinking if I just stayed busy enough or pretty enough or quiet enough, it would go away. But it don’t. It just sits. Right here.” She placed her hand over her chest, then her stomach, “And I’m tired. I don’t want to live like that no more.”
The stick trembled in her grip. She passed it quickly to the next person and dropped her gaze.
Nobody clapped. That wasn’t the kind of space this was. But the quiet that followed was different now. Heavier. Not judgmental, just full. Like her words had actually landed somewhere and made room. When she peeked up again, Elias was looking at her with a slight tilt to his mouth. Elijah hadn’t looked away once.
She shifted in her chair and pressed her thighs together, heart racing.
God, she hoped they didn’t see that.
The meeting wrapped without ceremony. Just a few nods, a chair scraping, a soft clap on the back from one man to another. Nobody hugged. Nobody rushed. That was the thing about rooms like this. People stayed behind as if walking out too fast might break the spell. Or worse, the silence outside wouldn’t feel as kind.
She sat still for a moment longer, pretending to organize her things. Twisting her water bottle cap open then closed. Tugging at the strap of her purse. She didn’t trust her legs yet. Her chest felt open, too exposed, like she’d peeled something back and forgot how to cover it.
Her eyes moved across the room, not meaning to search but doing it anyway. Elijah was still in his chair, leaned back now, one arm slung over the foldout beside him. His head tilted just a bit like he was listening to something nobody else could hear. His thumb tapped slow against his thigh. A steady rhythm. That same twitch from earlier. The man didn’t move much, but when he did, it felt like the whole room shifted to accommodate it.
Elias was already standing. Taller than she expected, broad and loose-limbed, like he’d filled out in all the right places and knew it. His voice floated across the circle in a low chuckle while he talked to an older woman with grey locs and a soft wheeze to her laugh. He said something else, made her smile wider, and then handed her a Styrofoam cup from the table. Gentleman. Charmer. That was the mask. But even behind that smile, his eyes kept darting back.
Back to her.
She turned quick, pretending to check her phone, though the screen was black. Her thighs pressed together under the table, not consciously. Her body moved first. It always did when something got under her skin like this. And they were under it. Those two fine-ass men who carried war in their shoulders and shadows in their throats. Everything about them was wrong for her healing. And everything about them made her mouth dry. The things they’d said. The way they’d looked at her while she spoke. The stillness of Elijah’s gaze. The slow drawl of Elias’s voice. It stirred up the part of her she tried to sit on like a live wire, the part that got her into trouble, the part she hadn’t satisfied in too long. She stood and reached for her bag, trying to move like nothing was happening. Like she wasn’t wet. Like her fingers weren’t trembling just enough to make her phone slip when she tried to slide it into her purse.
The sound of it hitting the floor felt louder than it should have. She bent to pick it up. Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. By the time she straightened, Elias was already a few feet away. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel. That grin sat lazy on his mouth, a little crooked, like it got there by accident and stayed too long.
“You did good in there,” he said, voice low, warm, and dipped in something syrupy.
She swallowed. Her lips parted, but the words got stuck.
“I’m serious,” he said, “Most folks come in and just say their name and bounce. You said something real. That shit matter.”
She finally found her voice, “I didn’t plan to say all that.”
“I know. That’s why it worked.”
He took a step closer. Not touching. Not even hovering. Just making her aware of his size, his scent. There was something peppery on him. A little citrus. And something underneath that made her stomach flip. Her response caught in her throat again, not from shyness but from the way her body reacted to him. She didn’t want to flirt. Not here. Not now. But her hips tilted, weight shifting to one side like it wanted to show itself off. Elias noticed. His eyes dragged down, slow, from her painted lips to the outline of her chest under that too-thin fabric. His gaze stayed there longer than polite. Longer than it should have. When it lifted again, he didn’t apologize.
That’s when she felt it—another presence behind her. Bigger. Hotter. Closer.
Elijah.
He didn’t say a word at first. Just let his body speak. The air shifted when he stepped up behind her, and her knees nearly gave. She didn’t even have to turn to know it was him. She could smell him—clean skin, cedar, that faint hint of something metallic like blood that never washed off war. He wasn’t touching her. Not even breathing loud. But the way he stood there, quiet and close, made her feel like he was reading everything in her pulse.
Elias glanced at his brother and smiled like he’d been expecting him, “Man always shows up when I start talking too much,” he said.
Elijah’s voice came soft. Low. Rough like gravel in molasses, “Because you always talk too much.”
That made Elias chuckle. Her eyes flicked between them. Mirror images. One warm. One cold. Both dangerous.
She opened her mouth to say something—anything—but Elijah finally looked at her, and her body short-circuited. His eyes were dark, still, focused. No smile. No lift in the brow. Just pure, concentrated attention like she was the only thing in the room worth watching. Her breath caught and her knees locked.
“You got a name, baby?” he asked. Slow. Careful. Like each word had weight.
Her name fell out in a whisper. She hated how breathy it sounded. Hated more how Elias repeated it, like he was trying it on for size.
“Pretty,” Elias said, “Suits you.”
Elijah just kept staring.
“Real pretty,” Elias said again, like he wanted to taste the name, roll it over his tongue.
She shifted her weight, nervous but not scared. She should’ve stepped back. Should’ve excused herself and walked out into the night, but something about the way they watched her made her feel still. Caught. Like a rabbit that wanted to be snared. Elijah stood behind her like a shadow, arms folded across his chest now. His shirt stretched over muscle that didn’t move unless he told it to. His silence didn’t make her feel unsafe. Just watched. Understood. Judged in a way that felt…thorough.
“You from around here?” Elias asked, eyes roaming again, but slower now. Not just looking—mapping, “Don’t think I seen you before.”
“Not originally,” she said, clearing her throat, “Moved here a couple years ago. Still feel new though.”
Elias nodded, “Welcome to the South Side. She’ll get in your bones before you know it.”
“She already has,” she replied, lips twitching, “Even the air here thick with attitude.”
Elias grinned wide, “That ain’t attitude, baby. That’s character.”
Behind her, Elijah let out a quiet sound. A breath that almost became a laugh, but didn’t. It brushed the back of her neck like wind. She stiffened, the heat crawling up her spine, flushing beneath her skin. She could feel the shape of his body behind her without even turning around. Felt the size of him. The quiet power. Like a wall with a pulse.
“What do you do?” Elijah asked finally, voice brushing low against her nape. It made her swallow too quick.
She tucked a curl behind her ear, fingers shaky, “Admin work. Office job. It’s decent. Pays enough. Boring enough.”
“You like it?” he asked.
She glanced over her shoulder and caught his eyes. Still dark. Still heavy, “Some days. Some days I just do it because it’s something to do.”
Elijah nodded once. Nothing else.
Elias leaned in a bit, hands in his pockets, “How’d you hear about this place?”
“My therapist,” she said, her voice softer now, “Been seeing her a minute. Kept pushing me to find community. Somewhere to say things out loud.”
“You picked the right spot,” Elias replied, tone dipping, “People don’t bullshit in here.”
“No,” she said, glancing between them, “they don’t.”
A pause stretched between the three of them. She could feel her pulse in places she didn’t want to admit. Her chest. Her thighs. Deep in the place she usually ignored unless it screamed. They were so damn close now. She hadn’t realized how much they’d shifted. Elias at her front, leaning just enough that her eyes landed on the line of his throat, the way his chain rested against brown skin. Elijah just behind her, not pressing, but her back tingled like it wanted him to.
She was sandwiched.
Soft and thick between two men who looked like they were carved from pressure and violence. Her body wasn’t small by any means—hips full, thighs plush, arms thick with the kind of softness that some men called too much and others never shut up about. But between them? She felt tiny. Felt like a marshmallow fluffed up in the middle of a storm. Like they could close in at any second and there wouldn’t be a damn thing she could do but take it. And the thought made her squeeze her thighs again.
“You really served?” she asked, trying to ground herself in words.
“Twice,” Elijah said.
“Same,” Elias added, rocking on his heels, “Army. First deployment was mostly patrol. Second was messier.”
“What’s it like…coming back from something like that?”
Elijah spoke first, “Noisy.”
Elias followed, “Then quiet. But not the good kind.”
They weren’t looking at each other. Only her. That twin language didn’t need glances. It moved through them like a current.
She nodded, not sure what to say to that, “And now? What do you do?”
Elias shrugged, “I bounce around. Security gigs. Freelance stuff. Keep a side hustle or two.”
Elijah answered with a slow blink, “I do less.”
“Less?”
He nodded, “I work when I need to. Sleep when I can. Stay out the way.”
She caught the flicker in his eyes then. That weight again. He didn’t need to explain it. She understood it in her bones. There was another long silence. Nobody moved. Not the inch that separated her from Elias’s chest. Not the breath that kept her from backing into Elijah’s frame. They were bigger up close. Broader. The kind of tall that felt supernatural. Her head barely grazed their shoulders. Her hips wide enough to brush both of theirs at once if she turned just slightly. She didn’t. Didn’t breathe too loud. Didn’t speak another word.
Just stood there. Between them. Feeling her control slip…one heartbeat at a time. A few more people filtered out. The room thinned until only a handful remained, lingering near the coffee table or shuffling their coats on. The facilitator gave her a wave, soft smile, then vanished down a side hall. The hum of the night slipped through the glass doors. She finally pulled herself back from the weight between them and exhaled slow. Her bag felt heavier now. Body slower. Skin more aware than it had any right to be.
“I should head out,” she said, forcing a light tone into her voice. “Thanks for, um…the company.”
Elias tipped his chin, “Anytime, sweetheart.”
Elijah gave one small nod. His arms still crossed, his eyes still on her like he’d memorized something. She stepped into the night with careful feet. The chill hit her arms through the cardigan, but it wasn’t the cold that slowed her. It was the tingle on her spine. The weight of their stares following her all the way across the parking lot. Her car sat crooked under a flickering streetlight. She unlocked it, climbed in, tried to start the engine, and of course, nothing.
Dead.
“God,” she whispered, slamming her head lightly against the steering wheel, “Not tonight.” She got out, phone in hand, already debating who to call. AAA? Her brother? A stranger?
That’s when she heard the footsteps again. Elias reached her first, holding up his hands like he meant no harm. That smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Everything alright?”
She sighed, a little embarrassed, “Car won’t start. Battery’s been giving me problems.”
Elijah joined, hands in his pockets now, expression unreadable.
Elias turned to him, “You got the cables in the truck?”
Elijah nodded, “Pop the hood.”
They moved like it was nothing. Like it was routine. Elias leaned into the hood latch while Elijah walked back to the edge of the lot where his truck sat in a shadow. She glanced toward it—tall, matte black, tires thick, body clean but clearly used. A man’s truck. Practical. Solid. Powerful.
She didn’t hesitate long. Something about being told what to do, quiet and plain like that, flipped a switch she hadn’t touched in years. She climbed in and settled into the soft leather, the scent of them thick in the cab—cologne, sweat, weed, something metallic and faintly sweet. The seat was pulled far back, and she had to scoot up to sit right. The wheel large in her grip. The center console cluttered with small signs of life—a lighter, a receipt, a pack of gum, keys on a worn black loop. She let herself breathe there. Let the window fog a little while she watched them work. They moved in sync. No words needed. One connected clamps. The other leaned under the hood. That twin rhythm again. Like they were built from the same pulse. The truck rumbled to life under her touch. A few minutes later, her own engine followed, Smoke behind her wheel. Elias waved her out and she joined them again under the hood, heart warm now from something she didn’t have a name for.
“You good,” Elijah said, shutting the hood with one clean swing, “Let it run a few.”
“Thank you,” she said, hugging her arms, “I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome,” Elias replied, voice thicker now, “Still chilly though. You wanna sit a minute while it charges up?”
She hesitated—then nodded. This time, she climbed into her own car. They didn’t leave. They opened the back doors and slid in like it was theirs. Elijah stretched out behind the passenger seat, long legs knocking against the one in front of him. Elias settled behind her, quiet as always, hands on his knees. No fuss. No noise.
“You bring that indigo?” Elias asked.
Elijah nodded, “Always.” He pulled something from his jacket. Rolled tight. Green. Dense.
“Good. That’s that smooth shit. Not the kind that make your brain spin. The kind that just—” he whistled low, “—melts you.”
“Okay if we smoke a lil’ baby girl?” Elijah asked.
She gave them the okay. He sparked it up, eyes half-lidded as he pulled. The window cracked just enough to let the smoke drift.
“You smoke?” Elias asked her, eyes drifting over her lips.
She shook her head, “Nah. I’d be laid out in five minutes.”
Elijah almost smiled, “That’s the point.”
She laughed, “I’m tryna make it home in one piece.”
Elias exhaled and passed it to his brother, “Fair enough. We’ll keep it light then.”
The scent wrapped around her anyway. Thick, earthy, sweet. A deep floral note she hadn’t smelled before. Her eyelids lowered without her permission.
“What you do for fun?” Elias asked after a pause, head resting back.
She blinked, “Fun?”
“That thing people supposed to have in their lives.”
She gave a soft laugh, “I don’t know. Read. Cook sometimes. Go to movies alone like I got friends.”
Elias smirked, “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that. I like movies too. Especially the trash ones—Smoke, don’t,” he added.
Elijah replied without looking up, “Because most of them are trash.”
She grinned, “So what do you do for fun, then?”
A pause.
Elias shrugged, “I smoke. Eat good. Find soft places to land when life get heavy.”
That answer felt like it meant more than it said. She didn’t push it. Elijah said nothing. Just passed the blunt back and looked out the window. The red glow from the tip lit the edge of his jaw, the line of his throat. Her thighs shifted again. The air filled with silence and secondhand smoke. Her limbs started to loosen. The nerves she’d been holding onto fell away, one by one. They didn’t crowd her. Didn’t try to flirt. They just were. Letting her soak in the moment. Eventually she sighed and sat up straighter.
“I should head out,” she said, soft but certain, “Gotta be up early.”
They didn’t protest. Didn’t try to keep her. They opened the back doors in unison. She put her car in drive.
“Wait.” Elias asked.
She turned in the drivers seat, rolling down the window.
He held out his hand, “Lemme see your phone.”
She hesitated, “Why?”
“So you can text me when you make it home. That’s all.”
Her heart thudded hard in her chest. She handed it to him, screen unlocked. He typed something quick. Saved it. Before she could reach for it, Elijah took it next. Said nothing. Typed slower. Saved. When he handed it back, their numbers were stacked side by side in her contacts: Elias “Stack” Elijah “Smoke”
Two names. Two men. Two fires waiting to burn her in completely different ways.
“Drive safe,” Elias said, voice deep and easy.
Elijah didn’t speak. Just gave her a salute.
But she could feel both of them watching her as she pulled off. Still warm and lit up. Still trembling in the center of her seat. And she already knew next week wasn’t coming fast enough.
The apartment met her with stillness. Not peace. Not silence. Just the kind of quiet that made her too aware of herself. Of her breath. Of the damp place between her legs that hadn’t stopped aching since they left her. She locked the door behind her, turned the deadbolt, and leaned there for a second. Purse dropped on the floor like her fingers forgot how to carry anything else. Her keys hit the counter with a sharp sound, but it didn’t pull her out of it.
She could still smell them.
It wasn’t just fragrance. It was body and tension. The stretch of their legs in her passenger seat, the low drag of Elijah’s voice when he leaned in close. Elias laughing behind her shoulder, knuckles brushing her neck whenever he clutched her headrest like it was an accident. That scent had clung to the fibers of her shirt, soaked into the seatbelt, braided itself into her skin. She stood there, staring into the dark of her apartment, not moving. Her thighs shifted once, a slow grind as she exhaled hard through her mouth.
“Get it together,” she said, barely above a whisper.
But her body didn’t listen. She moved through the apartment like she was trying to walk off a fever. That worn black cardigan tugged from her arms and tossed across the back of a chair. Shirt peeled slow over her head. Her bra unhooked with a practiced twist, sliding off her shoulders and falling to the floor. Her breasts sighed when they were freed, heavy and soft, nipples dark and already pebbled from friction and memory. The cool air in her apartment kissed her skin, but it only made everything worse.
In the full length mirror, she caught herself. Curves stacked like survival. A body shaped by softness, by meals that soothed and touches that lingered. Breasts full and low, heavy with the kind of weight men either worshipped or shamed. Arms round. Belly warm and plush. Thick thighs that didn’t apologize for anything, always brushing when she walked. She stared at herself with a kind of quiet hunger, like she finally understood why men looked twice. Why they circled back. Why they didn’t leave empty-handed.
She looked like the kind of woman you lose your mind over. And she was still soaked. The drive home had made it worse. That long stretch of road. That last look Elijah gave her before he stepped out of the car. The way Elias leaned in and let his knuckles trace her thigh one last time before grinning and saying, “We’ll wait on you.” They hadn’t even touched her properly. Not yet. But her body had stored every sound, every shift of breath between them. Every moment of being surrounded by men who watched her like they already knew how she tasted.
She stepped out of her leggings and panties together, sliding them down her legs slow, bending at the waist. The air touched her pussy and she inhaled sharp, startled by just how wet she still was. Her thighs gleamed. Her folds were slick, swollen, open like a mouth begging to be fed. She climbed into bed without turning on the lights.
The sheets were cool at first, then too warm. Her skin felt tight all over. Too sensitive. Too much. She kicked the covers off, let her thighs fall open, and let her hand find that space that hadn’t been touched all night but felt used anyway.
She started soft. Just fingers tracing down her belly. Grazing the top of her mound, dipping slow through wetness that glistened even in the low light of the hallway lamp. She breathed out, slow and shaky.
It was Elias she pictured first.
His hands looked like they could hold her still by the hips and lift her off the bed if he wanted to. She imagined him between her thighs, chin glistening, one hand keeping her legs apart while the other pressed against the softness of her belly like he wanted to feel everything. He looked like the type to talk while he ate. Tease while he stroked. Thumb her clit while he said things like, You like that? You look good stretched open for me. Dripping all down your thighs, mama.
She bit her lip and let her fingers mimic his mouth.
Slow circles. Up. Down. Press. Pull. Her other hand came up and cupped her breast, tugging at the nipple until it ached. She pictured Elias pulling her down to ride his tongue, then spreading her lips wide with both thumbs just to watch her tremble.
But Elijah. Elijah came next.
Quieter. Hungrier. The kind of man who didn’t say much because he meant everything. She saw him holding her ankles in the air while he fed her strokes deep and slow, eyes locked on hers, jaw tight like he was fighting the need to break her in half. She saw herself pinned against the wall with her legs wrapped around him, nails in his shoulders, sweat on his neck. He fucked like he didn’t believe in breaks. Like he’d been hungry his whole life and finally got a taste.
Her fingers sped up.
She cried out once, head turning into the pillow, body arching into her own hand.
She didn’t slow down.
She kept going. Kept pushing. Kept pulling. Rubbed her clit like she was chasing something that had been running from her since sundown. Her body trembled under the weight of it. Her thighs clenched. Her pussy pulsed, slick spreading all over her fingers, leaking down into the sheets as her orgasm hit sharp, then melted.
But it didn’t stop there.
She rolled to her side, breathing ragged. One leg cocked up. Her hand still between her thighs. Her body wouldn’t quit. It wasn’t done with her. It needed more.
Needed them.
Guilt tried to creep in.
She pushed it away.
Instead, she reached for her phone, screen lighting up the shadows around her. Their names sat there, side by side. Still new. Still unfamiliar. But heavy with possibility.
She opened a new thread. Added them both. Typed slow.
hey. made it back safe. thanks again ❤️
Sent.
A few seconds passed. Then another.
No reply yet. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was the flutter in her stomach after pressing send. The thread was open now. The line was there.
She dropped the phone beside her on the bed and closed her eyes, Elijah’s silence still clinging to her skin. Elias’s smile burned into her thoughts.
Next week couldn’t come fast enough.
Sleep took her quick after that. Loose and full-bodied. Her hand still smelled like her own skin. Her mouth curved into the faintest smile, body stretched out like she’d finally let go of something that had been holding her tight for weeks.
She didn’t hear the buzz or feel the soft light flicker across the room.
1:12 AM – Stack: good. i was gon come knock if you didn’t text fr. sleep good, baby girl.
1:16 AM – Smoke: glad you made it. get some rest.
_______
The chairs were set up the same way. Metal legs scraping old linoleum. The circle slightly lopsided, like it’d been rearranged too many times by hands that didn’t care about symmetry. Same off-brand coffee scent hanging in the air, mixed with that generic floral lotion somebody always overapplied.
She stepped in quiet, scanning without trying to look like she was. The room wasn’t full yet, but it was more crowded than last week. More noise. A low buzz of nervous laughter, soft conversation, people catching up on things that couldn’t be said in daylight.
They weren’t there.
Her stomach dipped.
She kept walking anyway, choosing a seat near the edge of the circle, but not too far out. Close enough to be seen. Far enough to pull back if she needed. Her thighs stuck to the foldout chair a little as she sat. She adjusted her sweater. Re-crossed her legs. Tried not to fidget.
It wasn’t like she hadn’t heard from them.
The week had been full of light touches.
Morning, sweetheart.
Sleep good, mama.
Don’t let that job drain you.
Text messages.
Just enough to keep her in orbit.
Elias was the more consistent one. His texts came with emojis sometimes, made her laugh when she didn’t expect to. Told her when he was eating something good. Sent her a song link with a “this feel like you” attached. She didn’t tell him that she played it three times back-to-back before bed.
Elijah didn’t text often. But when he did, it was sharp. Clean.
You up.
You working today?
That picture you posted. You looked good.
That one stayed with her. Especially because he hadn’t liked the post. Hadn’t commented. Just sent the message with no fanfare and disappeared for the rest of the night.
But that was the thing.
They’d both found her socials.
Elias first. He followed fast. Liked a few photos in a row —one of her Sunday fit, one where she was laughing in the passenger seat of her cousin’s car, one full-body mirror shot she nearly deleted because her stomach looked soft. He left a comment on that one.
Curves sittin’ nice, baby girl
She had to sit down after reading it.
Then Elijah came. No follow. No likes. No comments. Just views. Story watches. Quiet profile visits. The kind of presence you didn’t see unless you were looking for it.
But she saw.
And if he was lurking, it meant he wanted to see. It meant he was curious. And that was worse than all the compliments in the world. She tapped her nails against the water bottle in her lap, pretending to focus on a crack in the wall near the clock. The facilitator was setting out the talking stick and a box of Kleenex like she always did. A couple she hadn’t seen before slid into the seats across from her. The woman looked anxious. The man just looked tired.
Still no Elijah. Still no Elias.
She took a breath, long and slow through her nose, and pushed it out through her lips. Don’t be pressed, she told herself. She came for herself. Not for them.
Then the door creaked open behind her. She didn’t turn around. She didn’t have to. Their presence moved through the room like gravity. She heard the shuffle of boots on tile, the low cadence of Elias’s voice as he greeted the woman by the coffee. Heard the silence that followed behind it. That still weight Elijah carried like a second skin.
She felt it before they even reached her.
“‘Scuse us,” Elias said, smooth as ever, stepping up beside her chair, “Traffic had me on ten. My fault.”
Then Elijah was on the other side of her.
Just like that, she was boxed in again. Elias dropped into the chair on her right with a sigh, knees wide, arms stretching back over the top rail like he was settling into his throne. Elijah took the one on her left quieter. Slower. The metal groaned a little under him, but he didn’t shift after. He just sat. Still as always.
They didn’t look at each other.
“Hey,” Elias said, voice pitched just for her now, “You good, sweetheart?”
She turned her head slightly, “Yeah. You?”
Elijah answered first, “Living.”
Elias nodded, “Week was long, but manageable. You?”
She hesitated, then let a soft smile curve her lips, “Same. Just trying to keep myself together.”
Elias’s eyes dropped to her legs for a second, slow, then back up, “You look like you holdin’ together just fine.”
She didn’t respond. Not out loud. But her thighs pressed together under the table again. Subtle. Instinctual.
“You ain’t text back the other night,” Elias added, voice dipping low, “We were waitin’.”
“I was sleep,” she said, “Didn’t see it till morning.”
“I figured,” Elijah said, “You needed it.”
She inhaled. Short. Sharp.
It was the way he said it. Not as some throwaway observation, but like he’d been paying attention. Like he’d been reading between her lines all week. Every good morning. Every late night response. Every gap between replies. Like he’d felt the weight in her texts even when she didn’t name it.
Elias leaned in a little, voice pitched low just for her, “So how you sleep, huh? One of them big ol’ t-shirts with a hole at the bottom? A moo-moo from your auntie’s drawer? Or…” His eyes dragged slow over her face, “Nothin’ at all?”
She turned toward him, lips parted just enough to let a breath out, “You askin’ for a mental picture or just tryna be messy?”
His grin curled, slow and wicked, “Both.”
She leaned in just enough to meet his energy—not more. Her lashes dropped a little as she let the answer roll off her tongue.
“For me to know, and for you to wonder.”
Elias let out a low laugh, that kind that comes from the chest, like she’d said something worth chewing on. His smile didn’t drop, but something in his eyes shifted. Like he’d just added her answer to a list he planned to revisit.
Elijah hadn’t said a word. But his hand had moved. Not toward her. Not obvious. Just from his thigh to his knee, fingers flexing once before curling into a loose fist. Like he needed somewhere to put all that stillness.
The talking stick passed. Another story started. This one from the young guy with the frayed hoodie and tired hands. He spoke with eyes on the floor, about a girl he used to love. About the way she left without saying goodbye. About how it wasn’t even the leaving that broke him, it was the way he’d never hear her voice again.
The circle went quiet. She tried to focus. But all she could think about was how Elijah shifted in his seat just enough that his shoulder grazed hers. The contact was soft. Unintentional. But he didn’t move away.
And neither did she.
The breath caught in her throat felt too heavy to swallow. Her eyes stayed locked on the middle of the circle, but her body…her body was answering to something else. Every inch of her was tuned to the rhythm of the men beside her. The way Elias moved when he crossed his legs. The way Elijah breathed through his nose. The low scent of weed on Elias’s hoodie. The faint cedar that clung to Elijah’s skin like it came from the inside out.
They were just sitting there. Doing nothing.
And she was soaked.
Her thighs flexed again. Slow. Deliberate. Just enough pressure to ground herself.
She could feel Elias glance at her.
Not with his head, with his mouth. The corner of it twitched like he was holding something back. Like he knew what she was doing. Like he approved.
Her fingers tightened around the water bottle in her lap.
The stick passed again. Someone else started speaking. A woman this time. Voice strong. Steady. Talking about learning to forgive herself. The word forgive echoed too loud in her head. Made her jaw clench. Because she knew damn well if she kept walking this edge—the edge she was on right now—she was going to need it.
Forgiveness. Grace. A reason to keep pretending this wasn’t getting out of hand.
The meeting ended like it always did. No applause, no hallelujahs, just a slow uncoiling. Chairs scraping. Deep exhales. People rubbing at their eyes, stretching their backs, pulling on coats heavy with memory.
She stood slower than usual. Took her time collecting her water bottle and slipping her phone into her purse. She felt Elias rise beside her first, his body heat peeling away like a layer of something she hadn’t realized was covering her. Then Elijah—silent, steady—pushed back his chair with a single sound and stood like a question she hadn’t figured out how to answer yet.
The three of them hovered near the exit, caught in that familiar float after hard truths had been shared and nothing felt quite real yet. The night air hit sharp when the door opened, cool on her cheeks, biting at her neckline. The parking lot looked quieter than it had last week. Streetlamp flickering overhead, pavement still cracked from some long-gone winter.
“You straight?” Elias asked, turning toward her.
“Yeah,” she said, pulling her sweater tighter, “Just waiting on my ride.”
“Uber?” Elijah’s voice was low, almost lost in the wind.
“Yeah. My car’s still on bullshit. Been giving me hell since last month.”
Elias nodded slowly, “You hungry?”
The question caught her mid-step. She looked at him.
“I’m starving,” he said, then glanced to Elijah, “You good to hit that spot on 63rd?”
Elijah didn’t answer with words. Just a short nod and a look that said always.
Elias turned back to her, shrugging one shoulder, “We were gon’ stop and grab something. Nothing fancy. Greasy spoon, hole-in-the-wall type. Good as hell though. You tryna come?”
She hesitated. Thought about her Uber being five minutes away. Thought about her fridge with nothing but condiments and regret inside. Thought about how warm Elias looked in his hoodie and how Elijah kept watching her with that still silence that spoke louder than anything Elias could say.
She said yes.
The black SUV sat in the lot like it had been waiting for her. Big, clean, lifted just enough that she had to brace herself with one hand on the console when she climbed in. The inside smelled like skin, cologne, and something earthy like smoked wood and something sweet left in the ashtray too long.
Elias drove. Elijah took the passenger seat. She buckled in behind them, legs pressed together, heart already beating too fast for no damn reason.
The music came on low. A bassline humming beneath a song she didn’t know but wanted to, the kind of track you only played when the night wasn’t over, just shifting.
“You picky?” Elias asked, turning the wheel with one hand, knuckles flashing under the dash lights.
“No,” she said, settling deeper into her seat, “As long as it’s hot and seasoned.”
Elias grinned, “You speakin’ my language.”
Elijah glanced back once, his profile sharp in the reflection of the side mirror, “That’s what she said.”
She rolled her eyes, smiling anyway, “Y’all are real smooth when you want to be.”
Elias chuckled, “Ain’t gotta be smooth when you tell the truth.”
They drove in silence for a few blocks. Not awkward, just quiet. Comfortable. The kind of silence that let her breathe, let her body loosen without realizing it. She felt herself relax into the leather seat, fingers idly tracing the stitching in the door, head tilted just slightly as she watched the city slide past.
“You always come alone?” Elijah asked after a while.
“To the meetings?”
He nodded.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Just wonderin’,” he said, “You don’t talk like somebody who’s been holdin’ it in.”
She considered that, “I been holding it. I just got tired.”
That earned a small nod from him.
The SUV eased to a stop under a flickering streetlamp, the faded sign overhead humming against the night. A red awning curled over the door of the diner, corners wind-worn and cracked. The building looked like it hadn’t been updated since the ‘90s — chipped paint on the bricks, yellow light leaking through blinds that were permanently tilted.
It smelled like fries and something fried in love. And that was enough.
Elijah got out first.
Before she could even reach for the handle, he was there —pulling her door open with one smooth motion, stepping back so she could swing her legs out. He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, holding the space like it was made for her. She placed a hand on the frame and began to step down, but Elias appeared, already reaching. His hands slid around her waist—not rushed, overdone—but steady and sure. His palms warm through her sweater. He helped her down like she weighed nothing.
“You got it?” he asked, low and close.
“Yeah,” she said. But she didn’t move right away.
Not until he released her. Slowly.
They walked up to the door, her in the middle again without thinking. Elias stepped ahead and pulled the door open wide. Elijah stayed at her back, a quiet presence that made the hairs on her neck rise.
She stepped inside.
The warmth hit immediately—fryer grease, old coffee, lemon cleaner. The lights were low, booths cracked in places, walls lined with faded pictures of food that no longer looked like the real thing. Two people sat at the counter, arguing softly over a plate of pancakes. The cook was behind the grill, face half-covered with a hair net over cornrows, eyes watching them from beneath a tangle of steam.
“Sit anywhere,” he called.
They chose the corner booth. The kind that wrapped around in a half-circle, all leather and low light, tucked away from the rest of the room. Elias slid in first, gesturing for her to follow. She eased in after him, letting the seat shift under her hips.
Elijah slid in from the other side.
And just like that, she was surrounded again.
Pressed in leather and warmth. Tension curling low in her stomach. Their bodies not touching hers, but close enough that she could feel the pull. The table had a paper menu under a glass top. Sticky in places. Two napkin dispensers. A cracked bottle of hot sauce.
Elias leaned his elbow on the table and grinned, “You look like you still don’t believe we can eat.”
She smirked, easing back in her seat, “Y’all don’t seem like the kind to get excited about greasy burgers and soggy fries.”
“Shit,” Elias laughed, tapping the menu, “This the kinda place that keep you grounded.”
Elijah picked up a napkin and wiped something off the table that didn’t even need wiping.
“They got peach cobbler here and 7-up cake,” he said, low, “Best in the city.”
She turned her head toward him, “That right?”
He didn’t smile. But the way he said it, like it was a fact, like he’d tested it and would stake something on it, made her thighs press together again under the table.
A server shuffled over. Young. Distracted. Took their drink orders—water for her, strawberry lemonade for Elias, a passion fruit lemonade for Elijah. No pen. Just memory.
The moment he walked off, Elias turned to her, “You don’t talk much outside of them text messages.”
“I’m observing,” she said, “Y’all are…interesting.”
“Interesting good? Or interesting like don’t-trust-that-man-with-your-wallet?”
“Still deciding,” she teased.
Elijah cut his eyes toward her, “You trust too easy?”
“Not even a little.”
He nodded slow, “Good.”
Elias reached over and adjusted the salt shaker like it was in the wrong place, but really, his forearm just brushed hers. On purpose. Not obvious. Not hidden either.
They settled into a silence that wasn’t really silence. The kind of stillness that hums. The kind that’s all breath and body and what-if.
The drinks came. The menus stayed unopened. Nobody was really hungry for food yet. Not with the way their knees brushed under the table. Not with the way her thighs were warm again, and she was right where they liked to keep her.
Between them.
The food came fast.
Baskets of fries steaming on contact, burgers stacked sloppy between toasted buns, syrup glossed over pancakes on a chipped plate. The kind of food that didn’t need to be plated cute just hot and greasy and worth licking off your fingers.
Elias clapped once when the server dropped off the tray, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Bless that nigga behind the grill.”
“Bless?” she teased, “That’s a strong word for a greasy spoon burger.”
“You ain’t tasted it yet,” Elias said, unwrapping his sandwich like it was holy, “You gon’ see.”
Elijah just reached for the hot sauce. Poured it slow across his plate like this wasn’t his first time doing it. His burger already sliced in half. Neat. Intentional. Just like him.
She watched his hands while he worked. He caught her watching.
Said nothing.
Just dipped a fry in ketchup and popped it into his mouth like he didn’t just catch her slippin’.
“Got you quiet now. Food must be hittin’.” Elias asked around a bite.
She sipped her water slow. “I’m savorin’.”
He licked a spot of sauce off his thumb, eyes still on her, “Yeah. That’s my kinda energy.”
“You tryna turn dinner into something else?” she asked, brows raised.
He smirked, “I ain’t tryna do nothin’ you don’t already want done.”
Elijah shook his head, low and dry, “Here you go.”
“What?” Elias grinned, “She grown. She got that look like her thoughts louder than her words.”
She smirked, “Maybe I just like the sound of my food more than your mouth.”
That got Elijah to smile. Not a full one. Just a pull at the corner. But it was there.
Elias leaned in a little, elbow brushing hers, “I like you. You quick.”
She dipped a fry in hot sauce and sucked the tip clean before biting, “You just slow.”
“Ooh,” Elias chuckled, “Okay. So you wanna go tit for tat tonight.”
She shrugged, “I’m just tryna eat.”
But she wasn’t. Not with the way her thighs stayed tight together and the way both of them kept inching closer— Elijah’s knee brushing hers every time he shifted. Elias’s arm resting behind her on the booth like it belonged there.
The jokes slowed. The food disappeared one bite at a time. Then the silence hit.
Not awkward. Just…loaded. The kind of quiet that made you breathe different.
Elias wiped his hands slow with a napkin, “Lap tense as hell. Thought this was just dinner.”
She turned her head, gave him a lazy look, “What makes you think it’s tense?”
He leaned in, “Cause you ain’t moved since we sat down. You sitting too pretty for someone who ain’t feeling it.”
Elijah’s voice came low beside her, “You been quiet ever since you slid into this booth.”
“I been listening,” she said.
“To what?”
She turned toward him, voice lower now, “Everything y’all not sayin’.”
Elias’s tongue wet his bottom lip. Elijah just blinked slow, like her words landed somewhere deep behind his eyes. Elias scooted closer. Not much. But enough that their thighs were flush now. His arm brushed hers when he moved. Rested heavy behind her shoulders. He didn’t touch her. Not yet.
“You cold?” he asked, voice softer now.
She looked straight ahead, “Not really.”
“You sure?”
“Why you askin’?”
He leaned in, mouth near her ear, “Cause you tryna sit still, but your body keep tellin’ on you.”
Elijah was still on her other side. Closer now. His hand resting on the table, close to hers. His fingers didn’t touch. But they were right there. His knee pressed against hers. Firm. Intentional.
And she felt it. She felt everything. The booth wasn’t that big anymore. The air wasn’t light anymore. Her breath wasn’t steady anymore. And nobody said a damn thing about what was happening.
It just was.
The diner noise faded into a soft background blur — plates clinking, somebody laughing near the back, an old radio humming from behind the grill. Her pulse throbbed in her throat. In her wrists. In the space between her legs.
Elijah tilted his head toward her, finally speaking again, “You sure you don’t wanna finish that cobbler?”
She didn’t look at the plate. She looked at him.
And her answer barely made it above a whisper.
“Depends how y’all serve it.”
The cobbler sat untouched.
Sweet peach halves, still steaming, rested beneath a golden crust glazed in syrup. It bled across the plate in amber puddles, warm and slow, curling into the corners like it had nowhere else to be. But nobody at that booth gave a damn about dessert anymore.
Not her.
Not Elias.
Not Elijah.
Not when Elias kept looking at her mouth every time she bit her lip. Not when Elijah still hadn’t moved his leg from where it pressed up firm against hers.
She shifted slightly, spine brushing back against the cracked vinyl of the booth. It hissed beneath her, hugging her wide hips, clinging like it didn’t want to release her. Space was tight. Too tight to run. Too tight to pretend she didn’t notice how Elias’s thigh was all up against hers on the left, and Elijah had boxed her in on the right. When she leaned, her shoulder slid across Elias’s chest, his shirt cotton-soft and stretched tight across a frame that didn’t give. Not one inch. She exhaled through her nose. Tried to focus on the table. The butter knife. The half-finished drinks. Anything but the way both men were just sitting there—still and quiet—like they didn’t already know what they were doing.
Until it happened.
Elias shifted his weight, leaned back, and let his hand fall beneath the table. Slow. Smooth. No rush. No warning. His fingers curved wide before settling heavy right on her thigh.
Not her knee.
Not the edge of her skirt.
Her thigh. The thick, bare meat of it.
Her body jerked slightly. Gasp caught somewhere between her throat and her lips. It was soft, almost inaudible—but he heard it. He felt it. Because his hand didn’t move. Just sat there like it belonged.
Warm. Big. Familiar.
Possessive without apology.
His thumb started tracing lazy circles, slow and low, like he was drawing something sacred. Her breath hitched. Her thighs tensed but didn’t close. She could feel the heat spreading beneath his palm, the way the skin there started to thrum with awareness.
“What you doin’?” she whispered. Tried to laugh. But her voice wavered—half-giggle, half-beg.
Elias’s grin spread slow, “What you lettin’ me do?”
She opened her mouth. Thought of a smart reply. A tease. A deflection. But nothing came. Not a word. Just a breathy sound that damn near sounded like she was already giving in.
His fingers squeezed with intention. Then he started to rub again. Up and down. Thumb grazing the inside edge. Not high enough to make her shift, but close enough to make her need to. She leaned back harder now. Not to stop it. To feel it more. Her thighs pressed together, soft skin flexing. Elias’s hand didn’t stop. Didn’t rush.
He just kept touching her. Calm. Playful. Confident.
“That’s wild,” she said under her breath. Her lip caught between her teeth now, “Y’all ain’t got no sense.”
“You laughin’,” Elias said, voice dipped low, “but your legs ain’t moved once.”
She almost answered.
But then Elijah moved.
His hand came down quiet, like he’d been waiting. His palm landed on her other thigh—same spot, opposite side. He didn’t tease. Didn’t rub. He just pressed his hand flat. Claimed the space. His touch ran cooler. Firmer. No play in it. Just pressure. A quiet grip.
“Yeah,” Elijah said, voice so close to her ear it made her stomach tighten, “She tense.”
Elias let out a low laugh, “Told you.”
Elijah slid closer, thigh against hers now. His fingers flexed once. Then again. Slow. Deliberate. His thumb dragged toward the inner edge of her thigh and stopped just shy of the warmest part. Just enough to make her blink fast. To make her thighs twitch.
“She so soft,” Elijah said, his voice steady, no teasing, “Look how she leanin’ into it.”
Elias leaned in, his lips ghosting near her jaw, “This what you needed, huh? Couple hands on you. Tight little booth. Not enough space to think?”
Her breath left her like she forgot how to hold it. She was full. Caught between them. Nothing but thigh, thigh, thick thigh, and the deep, syrupy ache building right between her legs.
They talked like she wasn’t sitting there pulsing.
Like they didn’t feel her squirm.
Like they weren’t making her come apart in public.
“Bet she act shy when she get out this booth,” Elias said. His hand moved now, rubbing tighter, slower, “But I bet soon as she get home, she gon’ lay back and think on this.”
Elijah didn’t blink. His palm tightened just a little, “She already wet.”
It wasn’t a question.
She gasped, sharp and soft. Her hand gripped the edge of the table, knuckles not white but clenched just the same.
Elijah tilted his head, “Ain’t you?”
She didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Her eyes dropped to the table, chest rising and falling quick now. Both their hands were still on her. Elias tracing his circles, slow and greedy, fingertips creeping closer to the place she was trying hard not to twitch toward. Elijah’s hand holding her steady, thumb tapping once, just enough to make her swallow hard.
They knew. They always knew.
Elias leaned into her shoulder, his breath kissing the shell of her ear, “Say the word.”
She turned her head toward him, lips parting, heart racing like somebody caught in the act. She wanted to say something. Anything. But all that came out was a low sound—guttural, helpless, and real.
And both of them smiled.
Because that was enough.
Her thighs stayed open. Her back arched just enough. The booth creaked low, wood groaning beneath Elias’s weight as he leaned in. The vinyl seat gave under him, guiding her thigh right over his without permission, without apology. Just presence. His other hand pried her open inch by inch, the hem of her dress slipping higher on instinct, breath catching in her chest before she even knew what it was reacting to.
Then Elijah shifted beside her—quiet but heavy, the kind of weight that didn’t need sound to make itself known. He did the same from the other side, trapping her in place. Boxed in. Legs spread. Palms resting casual on either side of his thighs like he wasn’t doing anything at all.
But she could feel everything.
The table shielded what eyes couldn’t see, but not what she could feel. Not the way the air changed. Not the way her breath grew tight in her ribs.
Elias moved first. His hand came low and slow, fingertips dragging up her bare thigh like he had all night to get there. He didn’t rush. He felt. Sank into every curve of her skin with the kind of appreciation that felt close to hunger. His thumb rolled slow as he moved higher, brushing that tender strip of skin just beneath her panties like it was his alone. And when he pressed, it wasn’t fast or frantic. It was mean. Curious. Dirty. His thumb rolled up and traced the soft, soaked fabric between her legs like he could read it. Like her body was saying something, and he was trying to catch every syllable.
Elijah followed, rougher but just as patient. His palm pushed her thigh wider, fingers spreading across the soft give of her skin, gripping the plush curve above her knee and dragging up. He felt for the thickness beneath his hand, rubbed his thumb over the seam of her panties and caught the way her muscles jumped. He didn’t pause.
She tried to breathe. Tried to laugh, “Y’all really wild,” she whispered, voice cracking from where it got stuck behind her teeth.
Elias didn’t laugh. He didn’t need to. He made a low sound in his throat, all gravel and approval, then dragged his thumb hard and slow across the full shape of her pussy again. “Mmm,” he grunted, voice dropped low, “You got a fat pussy.”
The words hit harder than she expected. Her laugh spilled out wrong—high and helpless, trying to escape the way her thighs clenched, the way her hips rocked forward without her consent. Her fingers twitched like she didn’t know where to place them. Lifted, dropped, useless.
Elijah’s voice stayed calm. Steady. Close to her ear like it was meant for nobody else, “That must mean you take well, huh?”
He didn’t wait for her to answer.
She couldn’t.
Her hips tilted just a little, but it was enough. That slow shift gave them everything they needed to keep going. Elias let his palm settle flat against her pussy, thumb still dragging slow lines up the soaked cotton. His hand was broad, heavy, unforgiving. His grip dared her to keep still.
“Don’t need your words,” he said, low and gravel-slick, “Your body loud enough.”
Elijah didn’t move fast. He just nudged her panties aside, slow and disrespectful. Didn’t ask or hesitate. Just let the pad of his thumb press right where she pulsed. His fingers spread across her thigh again like he was proud of what he found.
“Yeah,” he breathed, lips brushing her ear, “She feel ready.”
Her head rolled back against the booth wall. Her breath shook. The lights above blurred and scattered. She blinked, but it didn’t help. Her whole body was aware now. Too aware. Every nerve was standing up, every breath sounded too loud in her chest, and the slick sound of their hands working her over was starting to cut through the diner noise.
Elias didn’t stop. He cupped her pussy full in his palm, fingers sliding lower to press under, thumb circling up top, slow and nasty. Her thighs kept trying to close. He kept prying them back open. The strength in his hand was too much and just right. He dragged that cotton to the side harder to the point of shredding it and dipped his finger down, groaning low as he felt the mess she’d made.
“This how you act when we just touchin’? You gon’ show out when we fuckin’?” He rasped.
She swallowed a sound she couldn’t name. Her legs wouldn’t stop shaking. Elijah just looked down, eyes hooded, rubbing slow with two fingers now. Middle and ring. Up and down, steady pressure, tracing the shape of her without putting them in. Teasing. Watching her hips chase his hand. Watching her lose track of herself.
“Soft,” Elijah whispered. “All this thickness sittin’ pretty. She feel like she need breakin’ in.”
Her thighs jolted. Elias grinned wider.
“Yeah she do,” Elias said, his voice tight now, like his jaw was locked. “She need handlin’. Like a big ol’ plate. Meant to be held with both hands.”
Elijah leaned in again. His nose brushed her jaw. His breath fogged the shell of her ear.
“Or shared.”
She made a sound then. A real one. A whimper choked back behind clenched teeth. Her hand dropped under the table, fingers grasping Elias’s wrist. Not to stop him. Just to hold on.
Elias dipped his finger in.
Just one. Just enough to feel the slick, hot clutch of her wrapped around him. She pulsed. Squeezed. That warm, wet flutter that made his mouth twitch in a nasty smirk.
“You hear that?” he whispered. “She talkin’.”
Elijah watched. Lips parted. One hand still on her thigh, the other creeping up now, pressing low against her stomach like he needed to hold her down while she took it.
“You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he muttered, dragging her panties down slow. “Sit still.”
And she did.
Because she couldn’t move.
Not with Elias’s thick fingers pumping slow. Not with Elijah thumbing circles just above, steady and cruel. Not with both of them focused like that. Hungry. Calm. Dirty with it. Touching her like she was dessert and they had time.
They weren’t playing.
They were getting started.
Elias didn’t rush. His thumb worked over her pussy again, dragging lazy through the wetness that had already spread across his fingers.
“Still drippin’, girl,” he said low, voice thick with approval, “You like this nasty shit, huh?”
She clenched around nothing, her eyes fluttering half-closed.
Elijah touched next, smoother. His fingers pressed into her slick skin with a patient curiosity that made her pulse stutter. He slid upward, thumb grazing the soft shape of her lips, then dragged back down again, feeling how swollen she was. It made him shift in his seat, jaw tightening.
“My shit hard,” he said, almost to himself.
Elias grinned without looking up, “She makin’ my dick jump.”
Her thighs trembled between theirs. She tried to angle her hips, desperate for more pressure, more friction, anything. But they controlled the pace. The rhythm. They always did.
“You like fuckin’ this much?” Elias asked, voice unbothered, damn near thoughtful, “What made you like this?”
She couldn’t answer. Didn’t know how. Didn’t know what to say to a question like that with their thumbs working her slow, rubbing circles that got tighter each pass.
“Must’ve had dick so good it rewired your brain,” Elijah said near her ear, deep and calm, “Had you chasin’ the memory of that nut.”
Elias pinched lightly, right over her clit, and she jerked in place, hand slapping the edge of the table. He rubbed it right after, soothing it.
“Prolly pounded your thick ass so good,” he whispered, “left you seein’ stars. And now you out here tryin’ to find that same high.”
Her breath hitched. Her pussy ached. It throbbed under their hands, soaked through, lips plump and full against their fingers. Her head tipped back against the booth, eyes closed. They didn’t stop.
One rubbed. The other pinched. Then switched.
Elijah teased the lips now, his fingers spreading her, pressing in to feel the curve of her, the way she opened up, puffed and needy.
“Pussy got my dick on brick,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.
She whimpered. Tried to press her thighs together, but Elias nudged them wider with his knee again.
“Don’t run now,” he said with a laugh that held no mercy, “You sat your ass in this booth.”
Elijah leaned forward again, his hand palming her inner thigh, “Body beggin’ for it. You hear how wet this pussy is?”
He slid his fingers down again, pushed harder, rubbed those wet lips like he wanted it to stain the seat. Elias looked at her face, her mouth open and breathing shallow. He tilted his head.
“You ain’t answer me,” he said, “What got you like this? What made you crave it so bad?”
She blinked, then looked away.
“I don’t know,” she said, voice cracking, “I just…I just do.”
Elijah’s hand slid higher. He pinched her clit softly again between his fingers and tugged, just enough to tease.
Elias pressed his thumb down hard, slow circles now, grinding steady, “Nah. Somebody started it.”
Elijah leaned in closer, speaking into her ear, “Bet you let somebody tear it up real young. Fucked the sense outta you. Made you a fiend.”
Elias grinned, “A pretty little fiend with a fat-ass pussy. Got us sittin’ here rock hard in the middle of this booth.”
She whimpered, face buried in her elbow now, her thighs shaking from how much it all pulsed—pressure building, nerves lit. They didn’t stop. Didn’t let up. Didn’t let her breathe without feeling something.
Elijah rubbed lower, pressing through the folds, dragging slickness down, smearing it. Elias kept his circles going, pushing firm against that swollen spot until her body tensed all the way up.
“Don’t hold back,” Elijah whispered, “Go on. Let that pussy talk.”
Her stomach jumped. The tension broke.
She came under the table with her legs spread, hips rocking helplessly while they held her open.
Nobody in the room knew.
But they did.
And they weren’t finished.
-----
They left the diner under neon glare.
Elijah opened the door for her again. Said nothing, just stepped aside like he was used to making space for people who mattered. Elias placed a hand on her lower back. Just enough to say you feel good right here. She took the back seat without being told, thighs still humming, panties still damp from the booth.
They slid into the SUV like the night wasn’t over.
Elias behind the wheel again, one hand resting easy while the other adjusted the rearview mirror. Elijah climbed in and leaned back slow in the passenger seat, his profile catching the glow of the streetlight just enough to make her stomach flutter. The engine came alive with a low growl, and the music started up behind it—that same heavy-lidded rhythm from earlier, bass riding low, drums scattered like footsteps on concrete. Something Southern and slow.
They pulled off smooth, no rush.
The city slid past the windows in long strokes of orange and blue. Storefronts shuttered. Neon signs blinking through half-closed eyes. A couple sitting on the curb outside a corner store passed a bottle back and forth, laughing about something that would only be funny at 1AM.
Inside the car, the silence was thick. Not stiff—just aware.
She sat still, pressed against the door, watching the lights paint the leather seat beside her. Her legs stayed closed, but her breath told the truth. Shallow. Controlled. Like she was holding something down just to make it through the ride.
She felt them both up front, even without looking. Elias tapping his thumb against the steering wheel. Elijah shifting his weight slightly, just enough for his arm to flex against the window. Neither of them talked. Not yet.
But she knew they were waiting.
Waiting to see what she’d say. What she’d do.
The memory of their hands still lingered on her thighs. On her pussy. Their voices still curled behind her ears. That booth had stripped away something quiet in her. Peeled it back, opened her up. She hadn’t stopped shaking since. Not visibly. Not in a way anyone else would notice. But inside? She was trembling.
The car slowed at a light. The red glow painted the dashboard. Her building sat four blocks away now, tucked off the main road. No doorman. No security. Just her name on a mailbox and stairs that creaked when the wind hit wrong.
The closer they got, the harder it became to sit still.
Her fingers tapped softly against her thigh.
They turned down her street.
Elijah finally looked over his shoulder. His voice was low. Steady, “This it?”
She nodded once.
The car pulled up to the curb. The engine didn’t cut off.
She looked straight ahead. Stared at the entrance. The hallway upstairs would smell like bleach and old air. Her apartment would be quiet. Dark. Still holding her heat in the sheets.
And if she went in alone tonight, she knew what would happen. She’d lie there with her thighs tight and her breath ragged. She’d touch herself again. Maybe twice. Try to remember the way Elias’s fingers had circled her through her panties. Try to recreate the pressure of Elijah’s hand pressing her open. And it wouldn’t be enough.
Not this time.
Not after what they started.
She looked down at her hands. Then up at the mirror.
Elias met her eyes there. No smile. Just stillness.
She turned her head toward Elijah. His eyes held hers for a moment. Dark. Knowing.
She took a breath.
Then another.
And said it.
“I want y’all to come up.”
No giggle. No shy smile.
Just a truth laid bare in the space between them.
Elijah nodded once. His door opened. Elias put the car in park, engine still humming.
Her heart thudded in her chest as the back door opened. Elijah reached for her hand, helping her out like they were stepping into something sacred. She didn’t look around or check to see who might be watching. She just walked.
Elias stayed close behind. Elijah beside her, silent as ever.
And when they stepped into the building—one stair creaking under Elijah’s weight, the other catching Elias’s boot—she felt it rise in her like smoke.
Not nerves. Not fear.
Just need.
Real. Present.
Ready.
And she knew before she even reached her door…nothing about this night would let her go untouched.
The lock clicked with a hushed finality as she turned the knob and stepped inside first, the quiet shuffle of her shoes brushing the worn entryway rug. It was dim, only a small light on the kitchen counter glowed warm, catching the gold trim on a frame, the curved lip of a wineglass left to dry, the amber gloss of hardwood that creaked beneath her step. She didn’t look back at first.
She couldn’t.
Keys hit the tray on the table by the door. Her cardigan came off next, folded over the nearest chair. She walked slow, like her body had to remember it was her space, not theirs. The apartment wasn’t large, just a one-bedroom on the third floor of a brickwalk building with no elevator. The kind of spot you could fill with incense, sweat, and moans and it’d take days to air out.
But it was clean. Lived in. A throw blanket tossed over the couch, one corner half-folded. A half-dead plant leaning toward the last bit of light from the blinds. Some novels stacked on the ottoman like they’d been touched and abandoned in a hurry. There was a chipped mug on the counter. A faint scent of body lotion and something warm that clung to skin.
She felt them behind her before they even crossed the threshold.
Elias came in first, slow and wide-shouldered, eyes sweeping the space like he could already picture the places he’d fuck her. Elijah followed, silent, hands in his pockets, gaze tracking her legs as she walked toward the kitchen like they were guiding him somewhere he already knew. They moved smooth, but heavy. Like they didn’t belong inside something so soft and quiet, but they weren’t about to leave either.
Elijah pushed the door until it clicked again. Stack turned the lock. Then nothing.
No one spoke.
Just movement. Low, deliberate.
Elias slipped his jacket off. Set it over the back of the chair with hers. He scanned the space with his chin up, nostrils flaring once like he smelled her—beneath the fabric, in the air. His chain caught a flicker of that kitchen light, swinging slowly. Elijah leaned against the counter, his arms thick beneath a black long sleeve, one sneaker-clad-foot pressed to the cabinet like he owned the place.
“You live good,” Elias said after a beat. His voice held something low in it. Something that edged too close to approval.
“Cozy in here,” Elijah added, dragging his knuckles once across the counter before resting his palm flat. His eyes didn’t move from her, “Smell like you.”
Her hands reached for something—anything to do. She opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of chilled wine and held it out without turning around.
“Wine?”
Elias gave a tilt of his chin. “Yeah I’ll take some. Thanks baby girl.”
She opened the cabinet. Pulled out glasses. Fingers trembled just slightly when they touched the base of the glass. Elijah noticed. Watched. The glasses filled, she turned, handed one to Elias, and placed the other beside Elijah. He didn’t drink yet. Just leaned closer. Close enough to smell the perfume layered in her clothes. Not sprayed. Rubbed in. Smeared into the inside of her elbow and that part behind her ear you only got close to during a kiss or while fucking.
Elijah pushed off the counter. Slow. He looked at the books. Touched the melted wax of the low-burned…light source on the shelf. Eyes landed on a framed photo, maybe a childhood shot or something sentimental. But he didn’t comment on it. Didn’t need to. He looked back at her instead.
Then he saw it.
The bedroom door.
He didn’t walk to it. Just paused long enough for her to notice where his eyes landed. And she did.
Elias caught that too. His lips curved a little.
“I been wonderin’ what it’d feel like,” he said, taking a sip from the wine glass, “Us. In a space like this. Real low. No lights. Just bodies.”
Her breath hitched. Barely.
Elijah still hadn’t said a word to her directly. The look in his eyes was doing all the work. He walked forward and leaned over the counter now, one hand down, the other inching toward her waist like he was daring her not to move. His voice dropped lower, a grind of gravel dipped in smoke.
“You nervous?”
She nodded again. Still no words.
Elias grinned like he’d won something. He came up behind her then. Not close enough to press, but close enough to feel the warmth from his chest behind her spine. His breath touched the shell of her ear when he spoke.
“We ain’t in no rush. Unless you want us to be.”
Her knees softened. She reached for the counter for balance.
“I…need to change.”
Elias stepped back slow, hands loose at his sides like they were waiting to touch something soft. Elijah tilted his head, jaw tight, eyes dragging over her like he was taking stock of everything—the sway in her hips, the bare press of her thighs, the hush of her feet against the floor as she eased away.
“Go on,” Elijah said, voice low.
She turned toward the bedroom.
Elias voice followed. Deeper. Rougher, “Leave that door open.”
She paused.
Then did.
But she didn’t need to change. For what? They didn’t come to see lace. Didn’t need no lingerie or frills. They wanted her just like this—skin bare, body honest. Whatever she had on could come off. Slow. In front of them. With that door wide open.
The space was dim. Soft light from a lamp in the corner made her skin glow deep. There was a full body mirror propped in the far corner, tilted just slightly. It caught the movement of her dress. The shape of her curves. The panic behind her eyes. The bed was king-sized. Dark gray sheets, fluffed comforter. Pillows stacked high, some shoved to the side like she’d napped there earlier. She stood in the middle, facing the mirror, breathing hard.
She paced like she couldn’t help it. Light steps at first, then a full loop near the bed. She rubbed her palms against her thighs, then pushed one hand into her hair like it might help settle her nerves. It didn’t. She kept talking. Nothing useful. A string of sentences that fell flat in the air. About the walk up the stairs. About how hot it was in the hallway. About how the wine must’ve gotten warm.
“Stop all that,” Elias said, calm but final.
They’d come in without a word.
Both of them barefoot now. Elijah’s shirt was gone. Elias had his unbuttoned halfway, showing thick brown skin and the wide shelf of his chest. They filled the doorway like a warning. Too big. Too built. Too much.
She swallowed hard.
“Go on,” Elias said behind her, “Take it off, baby girl.”
She blinked. Froze in place.
Elijah’s tone came next. Deeper. Meaner.
“You knew what it was when you let us come up.”
Her mouth parted. Then closed again. Like she was chewing on whether she could really say it out loud. She glanced at the floor. Then at Elias. Then Elijah. Like they were too much to take in at once. Like they weren’t gonna move until she did.
“I want y’all,” she said.
Low. But strong.
“I been wantin’ y’all.”
The air in the room turned dense. Every breath sounded louder. The quiet between them stretched long, thick, charged. She shifted like she wanted to walk again, wanted to hide. Her gaze slipped off their faces, down toward her feet.
Elias’ voice came slow.
“You sure you can handle that, baby?”
She nodded. It wasn’t confident, not all the way. But she meant it.
She swallowed hard.
“Go on,” Elias said behind her,“Take it off, baby girl.”
Her fingers moved slow at first. Reached behind to unzip her dress. Tugged it down her hips. The straps slid from her shoulders, and the whole thing pooled at her feet. She stood in her bra and panties, stomach rising with breath. Thick arms folded across her midsection, unsure.
Elijah moved first, “Uh uh,” he said, “Move them arms. Let us see what’s ours.”
She hesitated. Then dropped her arms.
She was thick all over. A deep brown beauty with stretch marks shining down her sides like they were drawn on. Her belly had a soft curve, a roll under the bra line and another where her panties hugged too tight. Her hips spread wide, thighs thick and touching. She had that kind of body that could ride dick without lifting a foot off the floor. Soft. Plush. Real.
Elias licked his bottom lip, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
Elijah came closer, “Been wantin’ to see this body with nothin’ on it but sweat.”
Her legs pressed together, but it only made her hips bloom wider. Her panties were wet. The cotton clung to the split of her pussy like a mouth open, ready.
Elijah touched her chin. Tilted it up, “You still nervous?”
She didn’t answer. Just stared up at him, breath shallow, lips parted.
He touched the strap of her bra. Slid it down. Let it hang.
Elias came up behind her now, close enough to make her sway. His chest brushed her back. She felt his dick hard, thick, pressing into the curve of her ass through his jeans.
“You a lil’ slut, huh?” Elias whispered against her ear, “Standin’ there so quiet…drippin’.”
He ran two fingers down the center of her back.
“Go ahead,” Elijah said, still in front of her, “Take off them panties. Let big daddy see what you been hidin’.”
Her knees shook. But she obeyed. Hooked her thumbs in the sides and eased them down, slow. Her thighs jiggled. Her pussy came into view—fat-lipped, glistening. A perfect mess. Full. Bare.
Elijah grabbed himself through his pants, “Damn, mamas. You wet like this just from us talkin’?”
She looked away, embarrassed, but Stack caught her chin from behind.
“Look in that mirror,” he said, voice sharp, “Don’t run from it.”
She did.
What she saw made her gasp. Two tall, dark men on either side of her. Elias behind, dick throbbing against her ass. Elijah in front, chest bare, reaching for his zipper. Her body was thick between them. Dark thighs. Glossed lips. Nipples poking through her bra like they needed pressure.
“Say it again,” Elijah said.
“What?”
“That you want us. Say it again.”
She swallowed, “I want y’all. I want you in me.”
Elias growled low, mouth on her neck now, “Where you want us, baby girl?”
“Wherever y’all want to be.”
Elijah palmed her face, kissed her hard. Tongue deep, hand heavy on her jaw.
Elias pushed his palm down her spine. Then lower. One hand sliding between her cheeks.
“She talk like that again, I’ma nut before I even get in.”
“You gon’ get in,” Elijah said, “We both are.”
Elijah brought his hand up slow. The pads of his fingers touched her chin first. Then the rest of his hand cupped her jaw like it was made for it. His touch was warm. Steady. But his eyes? They burned.
“Look at me when you say it,” Elias said, deep and even.
She tried to blink, but he held her there. So she spoke, just above a whisper.
“I want y’all to touch me.”
Elijah made a sound behind her. Something like a groan, dragged low and heavy from the chest. She could feel him moving now. Closer. His body a slow, steady force until the front of him pressed right up against her back. His hands came to her hips, fingers spreading wide like he meant to hold her in place.
Elias leaned in closer, nose brushing her cheek, still watching her, “Where?”
Her lips parted again. Sound stuck in her throat.
“Where you want us to touch you first?” he asked, voice sticky with hunger, “Say it slow.”
Her chest rose, then fell. She breathed through it. Her legs started shaking again, but she didn’t move. Didn’t run. The words took effort. She had to dig for them. But they came.
“My titties,” she said, voice cracked open and real, “Wanna feel y’all on my titties.”
Elijah’s palm dragged up from her hip, grazing the underside of her breast. Not cupping it yet—just teasing. Elias moved his hand to the back of her neck, gripped it light.
“And after that?” Elijah’s breath hit the shell of her ear, “What you want us to touch next?”
Her eyes darted to the mirror. She could see all of it now. Her reflection between them, framed by two men with big hands and darker intentions. She saw her nipples stiff, her pussy leaking onto her thighs. She saw Elijah’s chest rising behind her. Elias’s bulge thick and long, pressing behind the zipper like it couldn’t wait to be free.
“My pussy,” she whispered, “I want y’all to touch my pussy.”
Elias exhaled, sharp and dark, “That’s right, baby.”
He stepped in, brought his mouth down to her neck. Licked slow from the edge of her shoulder to the space just under her jaw. Meanwhile Elijah’s hand moved higher, thumb brushing her nipple through the bra, then slipping under the cup. She gasped. It was rough. Not soft. Not delicate. They were done playing sweet.
“Take that bra off,” Elijah said, voice thick now, “Wanna see them titties when I suck ‘em.”
Her fingers fumbled at the back clasp. Elias helped, one hand sliding under to unhook it while his lips stayed close to her throat. The bra fell. Her breasts bounced free, full and plush, dark brown nipples stiff and swollen. Elias stepped back to look. Elijah stayed pressed against her, hands gripping both tits now, thumbs circling her peaks.
“She got fat ass nipples,” Elias said, licking his bottom lip, “They taste as good as they look?”
“Better,” Elijah muttered, then bent low and latched onto one. His mouth pulled deep, tongue swirling as he sucked hard. Wet sounds filled the room. Sloppy. Nasty. Her head dropped back onto his shoulder with a moan.
“Damn,” he breathed low, voice gravel-wrapped, dick hard as concrete behind his zipper, “These titties talkin’ to me.”
She chuckled, but it caught in her throat when he bent down.
Six feet and some change, folding at the waist, face first into her softness like he needed air and her titties were the only way to breathe. His mouth caught the left one first—wet, open, greedy. Lips pulled that areola in slow, thick and fat and sensitive. He wrapped his mouth around it, sucked until the noise echoed off the walls, let it slip out with a pop, then slapped the underside of it with his tongue. Dark brown nipple turned darker, swollen with his spit.
He took his time. Switched to the right. Left hand holding the left tit like it was his favorite dessert. He sucked hard, then soft. Fast, then lazy. Alternating patterns like a man who liked to test limits. She let out a sound that made his dick jump—deep, guttural, trembling from the base of her belly. Her thighs pressed tight. Her feet shuffled like she needed a wider stance just to keep standing.
His hand squeezed the weight of both, lifted them, bounced them just to feel the jiggle. “Shit…these titties got some bounce to ‘em. Gone make me lose my damn mind.”
He dragged his teeth slow along the curve, then bit. Not hard, just enough to make her hiss. His spit shined all over them now. He spread it with his palm, slicked that nipple up, then sucked it back down again like a man who couldn’t stay away.
“You like me tearin’ ‘em up like this?” he rasped against her skin, “Got me hard as fuck, girl. I could eat on you all fuckin’ night.”
His mouth stayed moving—sucking, licking, dragging across her chest like it was his playground. She swore, fingers trembling as they went to his head, palming the back of his head, guiding him back and forth across her breasts like she was trying to give him a map of pleasure and ruin.
He popped off one nipple and spit on it, slow. Let it drip. Watched it slide down her belly while she squirmed.
“Ain’t even slid my dick in you yet,” he said, rubbing the side of his face against her left tit, smiling lazy like a devil in the flesh, “But you drippin’, huh? Soaked already. That pussy clenchin’ on nothin’, just from me suckin’ these titties.”
She whimpered, grinding her hips on air.
She whimpered, legs tightening, hands braced against the wall behind her. Her body jolted when he tugged her nipple with his mouth and popped it free, just to lick it again in slow, wet circles.
“Damn, baby,” Elijah rasped, voice thick and low, “You feel that? Daddy suckin’ this big ass titty just like you need.”
Her head fell back. Her pussy throbbed.
Then Elias stepped in. Cool and slow, licking his lips, eyes locked on the untouched right titty like it was his turn to eat.
“You hold them titties up for us,” he said, voice deep enough to drop into her bones, “Hold ‘em up like a good lil’ thing. Let us feed.”
Her hands came up without hesitation. She cradled the weight of her tits and lifted them like an offering, her arms trembling from the size and weight of them, but more from the need. She looked down and watched both men dip low, faces vanishing into her chest.
Elijah on the left. Elias on the right.
Twin tongues—warm, slick, relentless. Suckin’ and flickin’, takin’ turns draggin’ their tongues over her swollen nipples. Long, thick lips pulled and twisted, mouths locking down with filthy, wet sounds that echoed in the quiet room. Her pussy pulsed, sticky and wet between her thighs, clenching on nothing.
“Shit…” she whispered, watching them, “Oh fuck…”
Elijah reached up, slapped the side of her thigh, “That feel good, baby?”
Elias followed it up with his own brand of filth, “These titties so fuckin’ good. Look at ‘em jump when I suck ‘em. You lettin’ both your daddies eat like this? Dirty lil’ fuckin’ girl…”
They had her trapped in the sweetest kind of way—two tall, broad-backed men bent at her chest, each with a mouthful of her. Saliva slicked her skin. Their hands came up, thumbing her nipples, pinching them while their tongues rolled across the tips again and again.
She moaned out loud, toes curling against the carpet, mouth open.
“That’s it,” Elijah growled, switching nipples with his brother so they could taste each side, “Let us feed, girl. Let us fuckin’ taste them titties. You know we need it.”
Elias licked her all the way around her areola, then sucked the nipple so deep into his mouth she cried out.
“Say thank you,” Elias said, tongue dragging wet across the underside of her tit, “Say thank you for both your daddies suckin’ on these fat ass titties.”
“Th-Thank you—fuck—thank you…”
They groaned in unison. Elijah reached down to grip her ass in both hands, fingers digging into the soft thickness there while he sucked again, hard. Elias pulled her nipple between his teeth and let it go with a pop, then dragged the flat of his tongue across both tits just to feel the weight of them bounce.
Her thighs were trembling now. Pussy soaked. Their breath hot against her skin. Her arms were getting tired but she didn’t dare stop holdin’ ‘em up. Not when they were still suckin’ her like she was dessert and they hadn’t had dinner.
“Lil’ nasty bitch,” Elijah mumbled, licking up her tit and circling the areola with slow precision, “Drippin’ all down your thighs while we feed on you.”
“You wet?” Elias smirked against her nipple, his teeth grazing just enough to tease, “You got that pussy leakin’ just from gettin’ these titties sucked?”
She nodded, helpless.
Elijah grinned, eyes sharp now, “You know what that mean, right? We ain’t even touched that pussy yet. But she ready for both of us. Ain’t that right, girl?”
Her voice barely worked, “Yes, Daddy…”
“Good girl,” Stack said, and sucked again.
her mouth parted, forming a moaning. And that’s when Elias leaned in from the right, one hand on her cheek, the other with a handful of her right titty, mouth crashing into hers with no warning.
He kissed like a man starved. No build up. No permission. Just hot tongue, lips parted, tongue sliding past hers with heat and pressure. Their mouths opened and met again—wet, sloppy, lips smacking. He licked deep into her like he wanted to taste the nut she still had in her throat. Their heads tilted, breath tangled, his hand wrapped in her curls, pulling her to stay on his mouth. She moaned into him, kissed him back messy, mouth greedy, spit thick between them.
Then Elijah grabbed her jaw and yanked her face toward him, “Uh uh,” he growled, “Mine now.”
He swallowed her mouth whole. Hot. Wet. Tongue pushing in deep, lips sealing around hers while his fingers gripped her face like he needed to hold her together. Their mouths moved fast—no rhythm, just hunger. Tongue twisting, licking the inside of her lips, lips slapping, breath hitching from how nasty it felt. He kissed her like her mouth was a pussy and he needed to fuck it slow.
Elias wasn’t having it. He grabbed the back of her neck, pulled her away from Elijah’s lips with a string of spit trailing, and kissed her again but harder.
“She mine too, nigga.” Elias said against her lips, then kissed her like he wanted to claim her taste. Mouth open. Teeth brushing. Tongue thick and wet, sliding along hers with no shame.
They kept switching her back and forth. Like a war. Like a game. Elijah slid his hand to her throat and kissed her sideways, taking her mouth from a different angle, swallowing her moan. Elias bit her bottom lip. Tugged it. Elijah sucked her tongue. Elias licked under it. Their lips kept smacking against hers, back to back to back, like a filthy rhythm section in a blues club nobody was supposed to talk about. One gripped her face. The other held her hips. One took her top lip. The other buried his tongue so deep she choked. Wet sounds filled the room—spit, lips, tongues, moans. Her mouth was soaked, her chin wet, her lips swollen.
They weren’t done yet.
Not even close.
Elijah straightened up slow, body pressed close. He grabbed his dick through his jeans, eyes still locked on her chest.
Elias dropped to his knees in front of her, hands dragging down her hips to her thighs. He spread her legs wider and leaned in close.
“Pussy still drippin’, ain’t it?”
She nodded, dazed.
“Let me see,” he said, “Let me see what kind of mess we made.”
Elijah let her go long enough for Elias to pull her forward, guiding her foot up onto the bed just enough for her folds to part. Below, Elias was already on his knees. Broad shoulders between her legs, eyes trained on the fat drip sliding down the inside of her thigh. His gold chain swung a little when he shifted, tongue wetting his bottom lip like he was staring down his next meal. Her pussy lips were thick and full, shining with slick. Cream lined the crease, dripping down to her inner thigh.
“Damn,” Elias said, “Look at all that. This shit glossy.”
He spit on it. Slow and wet. Dripping down his chin. Then rubbed his thumb through it. She jerked, almost buckled, but Elijah caught her.
“Stand still,” Elijah warned, hands gripping her waist.
Elias licked up the middle of her pussy like he had all night. Tongue flat and wide, dragging slow before circling her clit. She hissed through her teeth. His mouth locked on, sucking, licking, tongue dipping inside. Her legs trembled harder now.
Elijah held her tighter. One hand wrapped around her throat. Not choking. Just enough pressure to keep her from floating off.
He spit on it again—slow and messy—watching it roll down over her clit, catching on the curve of her pussy before dripping onto the hardwood. Thick, nasty. He rubbed his thumb right through it, pressed into the wet like he owned it, and she jerked forward. Her belly tightened, knees buckling for a split second.
Elijah gripped her harder, “Didn’t I say stand still?”
A soft whimper slipped from her lips. Her head fell back against his shoulder. His palm shifted from her throat to her chin, turning her head toward him.
“Keep your eyes open, babygirl. I want you to see what your nasty ass let happen tonight.”
Elias didn’t waste time. Tongue flat and wide, he licked her slow from the bottom up—long stroke like he was trying to taste the whole damn day off her. The tension in her belly snapped like elastic. Her hips twitched. A moan poured out, low and broken.
“Ohhh—shit—”
He licked again. This time slower. Then circled the tip of his tongue around her clit in a tight spiral, never breaking contact. His lips wrapped around it and sucked—sharp and wet—then pulled back to slap it with his tongue again. She trembled. Her legs were screaming now, body betraying her with every pulse and shake.
“Nah, keep still,” Elias said, voice muffled against her pussy, “You wanted this, right? Don’t run now.”
He gripped the backs of her thighs and pulled her down onto his face like he needed her seated there. Like she weighed nothing. Like she weighed everything. His mouth got filthy then—slurping, sucking, tongue dipping in deep and curling. He buried his nose, pushed his whole face against the fat of her pussy like he’d been starving for her. It was loud. Sticky. Echoing off the walls. That mix of spit and slick that sounded obscene, wet enough to make the room humid.
Elijah groaned behind her, “Look how she jumpin’. You feel that?”
She nodded, barely. Her throat was tight, her eyes glassy. She whimpered again, higher now. Her hands reached behind her, searching for him—fingernails digging into his wrist where it pressed to her stomach. He didn’t move. He just gripped her tighter.
“Talk to my bro,” Elijah said, voice in her ear. “Let him know what that mouth doin’ to you.”
Her lips parted. Soundless at first. Then breathy, “F-fuck, Elias. That feel so good…”
“Louder,” Elijah growled, “Let him know.”
Her stomach jumped, “Please. Please don’t stop.”
Elias cut in, voice slick with spit. “You gon’ stand here and take this tongue like the good girl you tryna be.”
He spit again, directly on her clit, and watched it run down like syrup. Then he closed his mouth around her whole pussy and sucked hard. Loud. The noise of it made Elijah chuckle low.
“That’s it,” Elias said, tongue darting between her folds again, “Don’t close them legs. Keep that foot up. Let me lick all this rich-ass pussy.”
He started stroking her thighs while he ate, dragging his nails gently along the crease where her body folded, tongue still swirling around her clit. Then down again. Inside. Fucking her with it. Curling it deep. Pulling moans out of her like she owed him sound.
Her eyes rolled. Her hands shook.
Elijah’s grip moved back to her throat, “Don’t you dare cum yet.”
She gasped. “But—”
“I said no.”
Her whole body was shivering now. Elias kept licking. Relentless. Like he was licking a memory into her skin. Like he wanted her body to remember this every night after. He pulled back for a moment, lips wet and glistening, beard soaked. He tapped her clit with two fingers, soft but fast, then leaned back in and sucked it hard again.
“Shit,” he groaned, “She taste like she been sittin’ in honey all damn day.”
Elijah laughed once behind her, dark and low.
“She been waitin’ for this. All that attitude, all that frontin’—this what she wanted.”
Elias eased a finger inside her—then another. Twisting them slow while his tongue teased the top. Her body stuttered. Hips jolted. She keened.
“Elijah—Elijah, please—”
He leaned in close to her ear again.
“Go ‘head, babygirl. Make a mess on your sheets. We gon’ keep eatin’ through every one you got.”
Elias buried his face again, one hand gripping her ass, the other working inside her like a key. She cracked. Her pussy fluttered around his fingers, then gushed. Hard. Messy. Loud.
She wailed.
Her knees buckled, and Elijah caught her just in time.
“That’s it,” Elias said, licking slow through her aftershock. “That’s that good girl nut.”
Elijah turned her chin toward him and kissed her lips—slow, with tongue—like he was tasting the mess on her mouth through her breath.
The room still carried the noise of her climax—wet, ragged, drawn straight from her gut. Her thighs trembled where they spread wide, and the dark brown of her skin glistened under the low gold lamp by the bed. One foot was still propped on the edge, calf twitching, nails digging into the sheets like she was scared to fall through the mattress. Elias backed up, mouth slick, beard damp, and gave her pussy one more drag of his tongue before smirking.
“She said my name,” Elijah muttered, kneeling low behind her.
Elias wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “She said it loud, too. Sounded pretty. You gon’ let her say it again, or what?”
Elijah didn’t answer. He just grabbed her hips and turned her, slow and firm, until she was on all fours. Her back dipped with the weight of what they’d done to her already, arms trembling under her. The curve of her ass rolled soft and wide, her pussy peeking back between her thick thighs—fat, swollen, and still leaking from Elias’s tongue.
“Arch that back,” Elijah said low.
She whimpered and pushed out, spine bending deeper. He gripped her ass, spread her open, and buried his face.
The first lick made her cry out. She dropped to her elbows, mouth open, body jerking forward like it was too much. Elijah held her steady, one hand wrapped around her waist while his tongue dragged from the bottom of her slit up to her clit. Long. Slow. Intentional.
“Good girl,” Elias said from the side, voice deep, low, proud, “Takin’ it like that.”
She let out a moan that broke halfway, breath hitching when Elijah pushed his face in deeper. His nose rubbed her hole, his lips wrapped around that puffy little pearl and sucked hard enough to make her ass clap back against him. He didn’t let up. Slurped loud. Ate like he was tryna make her cum again before she caught her breath.
“That’s it, eat that shit,” Elias encouraged, fisting his dick through his jeans slow while watching her melt.
Her pussy was a mess. Plump, dark lips glistening with spit and slick. Elijah tongued through every fold, licking so deep she buckled forward and tried to crawl away.
“Where you goin’?” he growled, dragging her back, “Didn’t fuckin’ say you could move.”
She gasped, knuckles white against the bed, legs trembling again.
“Keep it poked out. Just like that,” Elias told her, palming his shit and watching her arch back up like she needed it more than air. Elijah buried his face again, wet noises filling the room. His tongue pushed into her hole while his thumb rolled her clit in slow, filthy circles. Her whole body shook.
“You gon’ give me that nut, ain’t you?” he asked against her pussy, “This the one I want. From the back. Let me hear you cry when I suck it out.”
She choked on a sob, jaw hanging, body swaying. Elias got up in front of her, grabbed her chin, and made her look up, “Look at me while he suck that pussy,” he ordered. “You told me you wanted him. Say it again.”
“Elijah,” she panted, “Goddamn—Elijah…”
“That’s it,” Elijah growled, “Say my name while I drown in this shit.”
He sucked so hard she screamed. Spit ran down her thighs. Her clit pulsed like it was gonna explode. He spit on it, let it drip, and licked it back up with slow, thick strokes of his tongue. His fingers dug into her cheeks, spreading her wider.
Elias groaned and gripped himself harder, “She clenchin’ like she ready. You feel that?”
Elijah didn’t respond. He moaned into her pussy and kept sucking, tongue flicking against her clit like it was punishment. She bucked once, twice—then squealed. A high-pitched, broken sound that cracked the silence wide open. Her thighs locked around his head, her whole body convulsed, and her cum gushed straight into his mouth.
He didn’t stop.
Just stayed right there—face buried, nose pressed deep, tongue fucking her through every wave.
Elias laughed dark, “She squirted in your face?”
“Fuck yeah,” Elijah growled, pulling back just enough to talk, his mouth shiny, beard dripping, “She taste like fuckin’ heaven.”
“Flip her over,” Elias said, voice hoarse with lust, “She need dick now.”
“I want that throat first,” Elijah said, wiping his mouth and stroking himself hard.
“She gon’ take both.”
She was limp, wrecked, breath hitching in sobs that sounded like pleasure soaked in pain. But when Elias pulled her up, kissed her cheek, and whispered, “That’s my good girl,” she smiled through it.
And opened her mouth.
Elias stepped closer, his hand shooting out to grip her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze.
“Down, baby girl,” he commanded, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her core.
She sank to her knees without a word, her heavy breasts swaying with the motion, nipples hardening even more. Her pussy throbbed, slick and aching from the way their presence filled the space, demanding her submission. Elias loomed over her, his bulge straining against his jeans, while Elijah pushed off the wall, closing in from the side, his own arousal evident in the thick outline pressing forward.
“Get to work, little slut,” Elias growled, guiding her trembling hands to his belt.
Her fingers fumbled with the button of his jeans, popping it open with a soft click that echoed in the charged silence. She tugged the zipper down slowly, tooth by tooth, her breath coming in shallow pants as the fabric parted. Hooking her thumbs into the waistband, she yanked his jeans and briefs down in one motion, his big, fat, long dick springing free, heavy and veined, the dark shaft curving slightly, the swollen head already beading with precum. It slapped against his thigh before she caught it, her palm wrapping around the girth that her fingers couldn't fully encircle.
Elijah chuckled darkly, stepping right up beside his brother, “Don't forget Daddy number two, princess.”
She turned her head, eyes wide with that mix of nerves and raw need, and repeated the ritual on him—unbuttoning his jeans with shaky precision, dragging the zipper down to reveal the matching monster beneath. His dick was just as massive, almost as thick as her wrist and stretching long, the skin smooth and taut over rigid muscle, pulsing in the open air. She pulled it out fully, both hands now occupied, one stroking Elias's length from base to tip, the other doing the same for Elijah, feeling the heat radiate into her palms as they hardened even more under her touch.
“Look at you, handling this big dick like a good girl,” Elias praised, his hand tangling in her thick curls, not pulling yet but holding firm.
She leaned in toward Elias first, her tongue darting out to trace the underside of his shaft, licking from the heavy balls up to the flared head in one long, wet swipe. The salty tang of his skin exploded on her taste buds, making her mouth water as she swirled her tongue around the tip, lapping at the slit to collect every drop of precum. Slurping sounds filled the room as she sucked the head into her mouth, her cheeks hollowing with effort, lips stretching wide around his thickness. She bobbed slowly at first, savoring the way he filled her, her tongue pressing flat against the vein that throbbed along the bottom.
Elijah's patience snapped quick.
“My turn, baby doll,” he grunted, fisting her hair and tugging her head sideways with a firm yank.
She gasped, releasing Elias with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting her lips to his glistening dick, before her mouth engulfed Elijah's. She dove in deep, sucking hard on the head while her hand pumped the base, twisting slightly to add friction. Her tongue flicked rapidly under the ridge, then flattened to lick broad strokes along the length as she took more of him in, slurping greedily, the obscene noises mixing with her soft moans. Her big ass shifted, pussy clenching emptily, juices building as the tension built, her body screaming for more.
“That's it, suck Daddy's dick like you mean it,” Elijah rasped, thrusting shallowly into her mouth, watching her saggy titties bounce with each movement.
She gave it everything, hollowing her cheeks tighter, slurping louder as she worked her way down, gagging slightly when the head hit the back of her throat but pushing through, tears pricking her eyes from the stretch. Her free hand reached back to fondle his balls, rolling them gently while she licked and sucked, coating every inch in her spit until it dripped down her chin onto her cleavage.
Elias wasn't waiting idle. He grabbed her hair from the other side, pulling her back to him with a possessive tug.
“Share that nasty mouth, slut,” he demanded, and she switched again, her lips wrapping around his dick once more, sucking with renewed vigor.
She licked the shaft sloppily, tongue dragging in messy circles, then took him deep, her throat relaxing to let him slide further, slurping as she pulled back only to plunge down again. The swinging of her titties grew wilder with the back-and-forth rhythm, nipples tingling, sending jolts straight to her dripping core.
Elijah stroked himself lazily, smearing her saliva along his length, his eyes dark with lust. “Keep going, princess. Make that dick shine with spit.”
She alternated faster now, driven by their guiding hands in her hair, each tug switching her focus, her mouth a relentless machine of licking, slurping, and sucking. On Elias, she focused on the head, tonguing the slit relentlessly while her hand jerked the shaft in tight, slick strokes. Then Elijah pulled her over, and she deepthroated him as best she could, gagging wetly, saliva bubbling at the corners of her mouth as she sucked hard, her tongue undulating along the underside. Her pussy pulsed with every filthy sound, the ache building to a fever pitch, thighs pressing together for any friction.
“Fuck, you're a messy little thing,” Elias groaned, watching her work, “Dripping all over yourself for this fat dick.”
Elijah nodded, yanking her back to him, “Suck harder, baby girl. Show us how bad you want Daddy's load.”
She obeyed, redoubling her efforts, lips sealed tight around his girth, slurping voraciously as she bobbed, her head twisting side to side for extra sensation. Her titties heaved, swinging low and heavy, brushing her arms with each eager motion. The room pulsed with their grunts and her muffled whimpers, the urban night outside forgotten in this raw, gritty haze of dominance and surrender. They kept her bouncing between them, hair pulled taut, mouths demanding more, the tension coiling tighter toward the inevitable explosion of filth.
She was on her knees, thighs spread wide, soft stomach folding just right, titties hanging free—dripping from the sweat between her curves. Her mouth was glistening, lips swollen from working Elias over like she was born for it.
Elias exhaled through his teeth, head tilted back as he grunted through the rush building in his gut. She had both hands on his thighs, digging into that muscle like she needed anchoring. But her mouth? Her mouth was a problem.
“Fuck,” he growled, jaw locked tight, “Damn, she gon’ make me nut.”
He looked down at her, watched the way she took him in slow, then pulled back, tongue slick and eyes low like she knew what she was doing to him. Like she wanted him shaking. His thighs flexed. His whole face twisted up. He gripped the arm of the chair he was in, his voice rough.
“She keep suckin’, look at her,” Elias said low, voice full of tension, “Greedy lil thing…that shit buildin’ in my balls, fuck.”
She didn’t stop. Didn’t even blink. She made love to his dick like she was hungry and full at the same time. Like she was tryna prove she knew what men needed before they did. And that mouth? That damn mouth—warm, sloppy, obedient and filthy.
When she switched to Elijah, he was already standing close behind her, dick hanging heavy, glistening at the tip. He didn’t need no invitation. Just stepped forward and let her take him again. She opened wide and wrapped those lips around him like she was home.
“Damn,” Elijah groaned, his voice deep and jagged, “You can suck some dick. That what you love, huh? Love suckin’ dick? Fuck…”
He palmed the top of her head, that wide hand spreading over her scalp like a man possessed. She kept going, messier now, spit stringing from her chin down to her chest. She gagged a little but didn’t stop. Just breathed through her nose and let him push in deeper. Elijah didn’t give her no break. Not with the way she was suckin’ like she wanted every drop.
“Ain’t no way I’m stoppin’ you,” he muttered, voice shaking with need, “You want it? Here it go.”
He shoved in harder, whole dick damn near down her throat, holding her there like she was made for that. He watched her throat work, eyes damn near rollin’ back at the way she handled him. Like she didn’t need air. Like she didn’t care. He held her in place a little longer, watching her struggle and take it, eyes watering, tits bouncing from the motion.
Elias was watching the whole time, licking his lips, dick still wet and leaking from her earlier attention, “Greedy fuckin’ mouth. You suckin’ him like you sucked me. You tryna empty both us out, huh?”
She moaned around Elijah’s shaft and that shit sent a vibration straight through him. He groaned loud, hips jerking, slapping against her face. He pulled out for just a second, letting her catch one breath—just one—before shoving back in. She didn’t flinch. She welcomed it.
“Look at this nasty lil slut,” Elijah hissed, “Takin’ dick like it’s the last.”
“She don’t need nothin’ else,” Elias said, stroking himself slow, his tip still shiny, “Not when she suck like this. Got my dick twitchin’ again.”
Her knees were sore now. Thighs sticky from where her own arousal had leaked down. But she didn’t complain. Didn’t stop. Just kept working that throat like a profession. Like a mission. Like she wanted to wear them both out and still have ‘em beggin’.
Elijah yanked her off for a second, spit trailing from her lips, “C’mon now, say that shit. Say what you is.”
She looked up through those lashes, face slick, voice raspy, “I’m y’all’s nasty bitch tonight. Don’t want nothin’ else.”
Elias groaned. Elijah smirked.
“Open up,” Elijah said, tugging her hair, “We ain’t even started.”
They passed her back and forth like smoke and sin. One hand on her scalp, the other around the base of their dicks, guiding her mouth like it was theirs to use. Her throat stayed busy—raw, stretched, soaking wet—and she didn’t flinch. She took it. Jaw wide, spit bubbling, eyes glazed over like she was high off the taste of them.
Elias held her there longer this time.
Thick fingers gripped the back of her neck while his other hand rested on the slope of her back, keeping her in place. His hips rocked slow but deep, watching her throat flex around him. She gagged, eyes watering. He didn’t ease up.
“Yeah, hold that shit,” Elias growled, “Let it sit in your throat, baby. You know what you doin’.”
She whimpered around him, wet and choking, the sound only making him harder. He eased out with a groan, strands of spit clinging to the tip, and let her breathe. Just for a second.
Then Elijah stepped up. Already hard again, veins throbbing along the shaft, his whole body humming with tension. He grabbed the sides of her face, thumb rubbing a streak of wet from her cheek.
“Ain’t done with that mouth,” he rasped, before pushing in, slower than Elias but deeper.
He filled her up. Kept going until his hips were flush to her face and her nose was buried in his groin. She whimpered again, and his fingers tightened.
“Hold it,” Elijah ordered, voice low, “Greedy lil throat—keep it. I feel that shit squeezin’ me. Damn…”
She held him there. Shaking, drooling, thighs twitching. He stayed buried in her, his head tilting back as he hissed through clenched teeth. When he finally pulled out, her lips were red and swollen, chest heaving, whole face a wet mess.
Both men stood over her, breathing heavy, dicks dripping, watching her on her knees like a feast laid out and tasted, but not finished.
Elias stepped in first. Grabbed her by the arm and yanked her up to her feet like she weighed nothin’.
“Get on that bed,” he said, “Hands on the edge. Arch that big ass for me.”
She obeyed, stumbling toward the bed, legs shaky, throat sore but pussy throbbin’. Her hands braced the mattress, soft belly hanging, ass pushed out and wide like a gift unwrapped. The room was thick with breath and the musk of fuck.
“Ain’t even gotta ask if you ready,” he chuckled, voice dark.
------
The bed was wide, low to the ground, draped in wrinkled sheets that matched the state of her body—undone, slick, trembling. Her thick thighs trembled beneath two sets of hands. Her dark skin gleamed under sweat and spit, kissed raw from mouths that hadn’t stopped feasting.
Elijah was behind her again, kneeling deep in the dip of her lower back. His beard was glistening, gluing to her skin as he tongued the mess between her legs like he was trying to live in it. His arms flexed, forearms soaked from where her pussy kept leaking down them. He grunted into it, tongue slipping inside her, then dragging up to suck her clit hard.
“She talkin’ with this pussy,” Elijah growled, voice ragged from how long he’d been eating her, “Sayin’ don’t stop.”
Her body jolted each time he pulled her clit into his mouth again. Elias was in front of her now, holding her up by her big, soft breasts, his hands full and greedy. Her knees were shot. Her spine had no say in anything. She sagged between them, tears beading in her eyes from the intensity.
Elias let go of one tit to stroke his dick slow, watching her melt like butter. Her eyes drifted down, dazed and hungry.
“You ready to be filled, baby girl?” he asked low, his tone a warning wrapped in need.
She nodded.
He tapped the swollen head against her lips.
“Put it in your mouth then. Let daddy feel that throat again.”
She opened up for him, tongue flicking the tip first like she needed to taste every drop he gave. Then she pushed deeper, moaning softly as she let it glide across her tongue and past her lips. Elias groaned, deep and low, his hips shifting forward with rhythm, not force—just enough to sink in and stay.
Behind her, Elijah stood, eyes locked on her dripping cunt. He gripped his own dick, fat and smooth, veins like raised tracks against his brown skin. He let the weight of it drop across her back first, a thick thud that made her flinch. She could feel how solid it was—how long.
“You gon keep this pussy open like a nasty lil slut,” Elijah muttered, dragging the head through her folds, wet sounds loud in the room,,“Let me stretch you like you need.”
And then he pushed in.
Slow.
Mean.
No remorse.
He didn’t ease up. Didn’t tease. Just slid in with a steady press, dragging every inch until his hips met the curve of her ass.
Her walls stretched slow around him, swallowing dick like she was made for it, like her body knew exactly what to do with him.
Elijah paused once he was buried, groaning through gritted teeth as her pussy gripped him tight and hot. His stomach clenched. His jaw locked. He hissed out a breath.
“Fuck…”
Then he popped her.
A sharp smack to her ass—first one cheek, then the other. Her thick body jumped under him, skin jiggling with each slap. He did it again, just to watch the bounce. Then both his big hands came down to grip and juggle the flesh, spreading her wide so he could see the way her pussy stretched around him. Creamy and plush. Still leaking from the head of his dick.
“Goddamn, girl,” he rasped, voice getting rougher with every second, “You so fuckin thick I’ma lose my mind in this shit.” He slapped her again, rougher now, then gripped her deep, “Got this wide ass sittin’ up beggin’. Pussy all fat tryna hold daddy hostage.” He rocked into her once, just a grind, then dragged out halfway before sliding back in, “You feel me ‘bout to knockin’ a whole new hole in this pussy, huh? Stretchin’ it out ‘cause you too fine to be fucked soft. Big girl like you? You need dick that rearrange shit.”
She wailed into the sheets, body trembling. He caught her hips tighter.
“Uh huh. Take this shit. Let this dick sit up in you.”
He angled his hips and stroked deeper, long and slow, grinding at the end like he wanted to fuck her into the mattress. Like her body was a problem he planned on solving all night.
“Gon’ leave this pussy talkin’ different by the time I’m done,” he growled, balls slapping wet against her soaked folds as he started moving again.
Her throat let out a cry, muffled by Elias’s dick. Her walls clamped tight, tears slipping down her face from the stretch. Elijah hissed.
“This what you wanted?” he said, digging in deeper. “That full feelin’? All this dick sittin’ inside you?”
He started stroking, slow but with weight. Each thrust made her body rock forward, mouth sucking harder like the pleasure was too much and not enough. Elias grabbed the back of her head, moving in and out of her mouth steady, his grip firm but not rough.
Her moans were caught in both men, muffled, soaked. Elias was sweating, jaw clenched as he fucked into her throat.
“Nasty ass girl,” Elias groaned, “Letting us fuck you like this.”
“She wanted it though,” Elijah said from behind, hips slapping now, faster, “Brought us up here to do just this.”
She was gone. Eyes rolling. Pussy fluttering.
Elijah felt it.
“She close.”
“Let her cum.”
Elijah gripped her ass, pulled her back onto him harder, deeper. The sound of their bodies smacking was slick and loud. She moaned deep around Elias’s dick, body tensing. Her pussy clenched so hard Elijah stilled, teeth gritted.
“Fuck,” he breathed, “She creamy as hell.”
Elias pulled out her mouth, jerking his dick just inches from her swollen lips, watching her pant and drool.
She was bent at the center of the bed now. Arms limp. Face slick. Ass arched, spread open by the stretch of Elijah still inside her. Her pussy twitched around him, pulsing in aftershocks. His balls were sticky from how wet she was. He leaned forward, hands gripping her hips, and began to stroke again. Slow. Filthy. Deep.
Elias watched from the front, stroking himself harder now. The tip of his dick bounced against her chin, smearing precum across it. As Elijah pulled out, Elias stepped behind her, dragging the head of his dick between her folds.
She moaned, backing into him just enough to feel the weight of it.
“Hold still,” Elias told her, gripping her hips.
Then he pushed in.
All at once.
Thick, hard, stretching her walls around him, feeding her every inch like he meant to stay there. Her back arched, mouth open but no sound came. Just a sharp gasp as her pussy swallowed him whole.
“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling back slow then thrusting again, “This pussy too wet, too fat, fuck…”
She tried to breathe but couldn’t.
Elias had her bent just right—hands still braced on the mattress, back arched deep, stomach soft and hanging, while his thick dick dragged in and out of her with a purpose. His strokes were ruthless. No rhythm. Just raw need. Each thrust hit the back of her pussy with a sound that echoed off the damn walls. He had a fist wrapped tight in her hair, pulling her back into every stroke like he owned the whole lower half of her body.
“There you go,” he growled, sweat dripping from his neck down her spine, “Takin’ this dick like a real bitch supposed to.”
Her body rippled with every stroke—ass clapping back, thick thighs quivering, folds shaking from the sheer force of him. That pussy sounded like somebody stirrin’ macaroni in the next room. Gushy. Wet. Talkin’ back every time he slid in. She wasn’t saying much. Couldn’t. Just soft, breathless moans spilling from her lips like she was drunk on dick.
“Yes…yes…yes…”
Every word broke in her throat.
Elias leaned in, yanked her hair harder, hissed in her ear, “You feel that? That’s me fuckin’ the bottom out this big ass pussy. Tearin’ through it.”
Her eyes crossed. Her knees buckled.
But he held her up.
“Yeah, don’t run,” he said, voice heavy with sweat and dirt, “Don’t run from this dick, mama. I’m deep in your shit.”
Elijah was still standing at the edge of the bed, stroking his dick slow. It was shiny with spit and still heavy. Her mess was on it from earlier when she choked on him, and he wasn’t lettin’ that slide.
He grabbed her jaw and guided her mouth to him while Elias kept fucking from behind.
“Clean it,” Elijah said low, “You left all your nut on me, now suck it off.”
She opened her mouth without a sound. Eyes dazed, mouth open. She wrapped her lips around him, tongue working over the shaft while Elias punished her pussy. Every push forward shoved her mouth deeper onto Elijah. She gagged, drooled again, moaned around his dick.
“Look at this shit,” Elias groaned, hips snapping hard, “She suckin’ your dick while I fuck her? Fuck.” He let out a thick grunt, voice cracking from the pressure in his body, “She gon’ make me bust so deep in her, bro. Pussy so fuckin’ good…so fuckin’ good…”
His hand slid from her hair down to her ass, gripping it rough, pulling her cheeks apart so he could see her swallow him all the way. That good fat girl pussy was creamy, stretching around him with every inch. Warm and wet like heaven if heaven had a mouth and a grip.
Elijah hissed through his teeth, “She nasty, man.”
Elias snapped his hips again. The sound of it made Elijah groan.
“Nah, she somethin’ else,” Elias said, voice thick, “This big ass fuckin’ me back. You feel that? That pussy keep squeezin’. She fuckin’ love this shit.”
She was sobbing now—but from pleasure. From being too full, too stuffed, too taken. Her moans were high and soft, broken up by Elijah’s dick in her mouth and Elias’ dick in her pussy.
“Yes…yes…y-yes…”
Elias’ hand landed on her ass with a slap so loud it echoed, then gripped both cheeks, using them to pull her back onto him deeper.
“This what you want, huh? Gettin’ your plump ass beat out in front my brother?” He laughed, wild and messy, sweat shining on his chest and brow, “You gettin’ fucked like you supposed to. Like you need to.”
He didn’t stop.
Didn’t even think about stopping.
His strokes were deep, punishing, purposeful enough to make her feel every vein. He watched her ass jiggle with each thrust, the bounce hypnotic. He slapped it once, the sound loud and sharp.
Elijah was watching from the side, stroking himself again, eyes locked on where Elias disappeared inside her.
“Fat lil pussy eatin’ you up, huh?” he said.
Elias grinned through his teeth, hips snapping forward, “She fuckin’ back, that’s what she doin’.”
Elijah couldn’t wait any longer.
He walked over, hand on her lower back, pressing her down so she took it deeper. Then he leaned in close, voice gravelly.
“Soon as he bust, I’m feedin’ you next,” he said, “You gon’ take both our nuts tonight. Pussy thick enough for it.”
Elias picked up pace, slapping into her loud now, sweat dripping down his chest.
“Talk to her,” Elijah said, gripping her ass while she trembled under both their hands.
“You takin’ this dick,” Elias grunted, “Say it. Say you takin’ this fuckin’ dick.”
She cried out, legs shaking, voice hoarse. “I’m takin’ it. I want all of it.”
Elias growled, pulled her back on him harder.
“That’s it. That’s what I like. Greedy ass pussy, loud ass mouth. You gon’ get all this nut now.”
Elias let out a ragged groan, hips stuttering as he emptied himself deep inside her, his nut flooding her insides. His strokes got sloppier but the grip on her hips stayed firm—like he didn’t wanna leave that warmth just yet. He stayed buried, breathing hard, hands sliding up her back to palm those sweat-slick rolls with a low satisfied chuckle. He buried his face in the crook of her back, grip tight on her waist
Elias stayed in her for a beat, catching his breath, then pulled out slow. Her pussy pulsed around nothing now, fluttering from the loss of him.
“Shit…” he exhaled, pulling out slow, watching his nut spill from her like cream-filling, “Look what you done to me, girl.”
She collapsed forward, arms trembling, pussy still twitching from the onslaught. Her face was glazed, moaning soft into the sheets, legs shaking from being beat open so long.
But it wasn’t over.
Elijah was already there—grabbing her soft body with strong hands, flipping her over like she didn’t weigh a thing.
“Uh uh. Don’t get shy now,” he said, voice low, heavy, “You know what this is.”
He pulled her to the edge of the bed, hooked both thick thighs back, folding her into herself. Her knees were damn near at her chest, ass hanging off the mattress. She was all open now—pussy glistening, swollen, creamy from Elias. Elijah lined himself up and spit down on her, rubbing the head of his dick through the mess.
“You gon’ feel me now.”
And when he pushed in, it was slow and brutal. Her body stretched wide again, her mouth falling open, nothing but air leaving her lungs. Elijah wasn’t playin’. That first stroke went deep. Real deep. And he didn’t stop.
He adjusted his stance, knees bent, back tight, and drove into her.
Hard. Deep. Again. And again. And again. That pussy was warm and slippery, but he knew he had to put power behind it. She was a big girl—soft, thick, plush—and he needed her to feel everything. Every vein, every stroke, every inch like a damn lesson.
Her voice cracked under the pressure, “Ahh…ohh…yes…fuck—yes…”
She was gone. Mind gone. Just a mess of moans and sweet pussy sounds while Elijah worked her open from the inside out. Elias was off to the side, still stroking himself, watching her face, watching her body bounce under his brother’s weight.
“Look at her,” Elias grinned, “You got her folded like laundry, bruh. That’s how she like it.”
Elijah wasn’t saying much now. He was focused. Locked in. Sweat rolled down his chest, jaw clenched, brows furrowed. He was deep in it and hitting her so good she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t even hold eye contact. Her tits bounced with every slam forward. Her belly jiggled and her pussy gripped like it was tryna keep him in. He leaned in, body pressing down into her, her knees still pinned back, dick plunging deep.
Her mouth trembled, “Y-yes…oh God, yes…”
“Yeah,” Elijah grunted through clenched teeth, still drilling her, “Say that shit. Love gettin’ fucked, don’t you?”
She nodded fast, voice high and thin, “I love it—I love it—please—”
Elias stepped in, leaned down beside her ear and whispered dirty, “Don’t you ever be ashamed of needin’ dick, baby. Don’t you ever hide from that. You want it, we got you.”
He ran his tongue along her throat, then sucked one tit into his mouth while Elijah pounded her from below. That dick kept hitting the same spot—deep, deliberate, controlled.
“Fuck,” Elijah bit out. “This pussy too good. She ain’t gettin’ up right tomorrow.”
Her whole body shook. She was full. Fucked. Loved the way they handled her like she was soft and strong, worthy of being devoured. Elijah’s strokes slowed just a touch, then deepened again, hips clapping against her thighs with thick, meaty slaps.
“You feel that?” he groaned, “I’m in your stomach, girl. You gon’ remember this shit.”
And she would. She’d walk different. Think different. Dream different. Because Elijah Moore fucked her folded, made her pussy sing, and didn’t let her run from how bad she wanted it. Elijah Moore was deep. Hips grinding, sweat dripping, thighs flexing. His dick stayed inside her like it belonged there. And from the way her pussy clung to him, kept sucking him back in like it didn’t wanna let go—maybe it did. Her legs started shaking. Not just from the pressure of being folded—though one leg was tucked up high, damn near to her ear, the other held back by Elijah’s hand gripping her ankle like a damn handlebar—but from what was building. She could feel it rising. That rush. That quiver in her gut. But her mouth wouldn’t move. She couldn’t talk. Couldn’t get the words out. But Elijah knew. He could feel it. The way her pussy gripped tighter, got slicker, warmer. Like it was about to erupt.
“Oh yeah?” Elijah said, voice all grit and hunger. He slowed the stroke just for a beat, then slammed in again, “That’s it, baby? You bout to squirt for me?”
She whimpered. Nothing but air and moans coming out her mouth. Her eyes rolled back.
He smiled, “Uh huh,” he growled, picking up pace, “Gimme that shit.”
He yanked her ankle higher, pushed her knee deeper into the mattress, practically folding her into a pretzel. His body dropped over hers, and his dick drilled her—deep, hard, controlled chaos. Her tits bounced against her chest, stomach rippling with every thrust, whole body giving in. And then it hit. Her whole core tensed, mouth falling open—but still no words. Just that release. A gush of wetness sprayed between them, coating Elijah’s dick, her thighs, the sheets. She twitched, legs trembling like she was being exorcised by dick alone.
She pushed him out, body convulsing. Her pussy fluttered, still leaking. Elijah pulled back, dick glistening, shaking his head like he just got blessed.
“She fuckin’ soaked me,” he said low, lips curling, “She squirted all over this dick.”
Elias was already on the move. Dick back up like it owed him money. He stepped up behind Elijah, licking his lips, eyes on her still-twitching, messy pussy.
“Move, bro,” Elias said, “Lemme feel that shit.”
Elijah backed up with a laugh, wiping his chest off, “She still pulsin’. She gon’ do it again if you touch that spot.”
Elias climbed onto the bed, grabbed her by the hips, and pulled her down to the edge again. Her body was limp, brain foggy, pussy still drippin’. But Elias ain’t care. He lined up, rubbed between her creamy folds, and slid in slow.
She gasped. Loud. He was thick, heavy, fresh again. And her pussy welcomed him like it didn’t just squirt all over the last man.
Elias moaned, “Oh hell yeah…this what I’m talkin’ bout. This pussy still twitchin’. I’ma make it flood again.”
He gripped her waist and went in deep. No warm-up. No hesitation. Just ownership. Elias had a fist full of her hair now. Not gentle. Not careful. He pulled her head back just enough so he could see her face. That look told him everything. Eyes heavy. Mouth open. Lips wet. Body gone loose like she didn’t have a single thought left in her head besides what was happening inside her.
“That’s it, pretty baby,” Elias said, voice low and slick, “Look how fucked out you is.”
He kept her folded tight, one knee pressed up, her body bent back on itself while he drove into her with long, punishing strokes. His hips snapped forward with intention, every thrust landing deep. He wasn’t rushing. He was aiming. Making sure his dick hit that spot over and over again until her whole body reacted without permission. Her ass bounced with every stroke. Thick. Heavy. Rippling from the force of him tearing through her. Her pussy stayed loud, wet, greedy, squeezing him back like it needed that pressure to breathe.
“Yes…yes…yes…” she whispered, voice weak, broken, barely there.
Elias grinned and tightened his grip in her hair, “That’s all you got? That’s fine. I’ll do the talkin’.” He pulled her harder into him and slammed forward again, harder this time, making her whole body jolt, “This big ass made to take dick,” he said, breath hot against her ear, “I’m in here rearrangin’ shit. You feel me hittin’ that deep part, huh?”
Her answer was a shaky moan. Her pussy clenched hard around him. Elijah stepped in closer, hands sliding over her chest. He pinched her nipples between his fingers, tugging them slow, then harder. Her back arched instantly, mouth falling open.
“Uh-huh, just like that,” Elijah said, voice smooth and approving, “Good pussy bitch. You takin’ all that dick just like you supposed to.” He tugged again and she cried out, legs shaking, “Good girl,” Elijah added, “This pussy doin’ exactly what it need to do.”
Elias felt it then. That change. That slick heat turning into pressure. Her walls tightening, fluttering, gettin’ wetter by the second, “Oh hell yeah,” he growled, “It comin’ again.”
He didn’t slow down. Didn’t pull back. He leaned over her, chest to her back, hand still locked in her hair while he fucked her harder. Deeper. Each stroke pushed her closer to that breaking point.
“I’m right on it,” Elias said through his teeth, “I’m finna make this pussy squirt again.”
Elijah kept tugging her nipples, rolling them between his fingers, leaning down to whisper praise straight into her ear, “Let it go,” he said. “Don’t hold that shit. Give it to us.”
Her body locked up. Her toes curled. Her breath stuttered. Then she lost it. Her pussy clenched hard around Elias and pushed back, releasing in a gush that soaked his dick, her thighs, the sheets beneath them. Her whole body trembled as she squirted again, crying out loud this time, voice cracking from how hard it hit her.
“Fuck,” Elias groaned, “There it is.”
He rode it out, still stroking through the aftershocks, letting her pussy milk him while she shook and leaked around him. Elijah laughed low, pleased, hands still on her chest, “That’s my good pussy bitch right there.” He gave both big titties a playful slap.
She lay there wrecked. Open. Still dripping. Still twitching. But were they done with her? Nope. Elijah was laid back now, thighs spread, chest heaving, sweat streaking down the middle of his torso. That dick stood tall again, slick and waiting, glistening with her mess from the last round. He slapped it against his thigh once, twice, watching her crawl over to him on shaky knees.
“C’mon,” he said, voice flat, low, “Bring that big ass here.”
She moved slow, still trembling from Elias, still drippin’ from the last orgasm, but Elijah wasn’t feeling the delay.
“Nah. Don’t crawl like you scared. Sit on it.”
He grabbed the base of his dick, angled it up, and guided her over him. She hovered, thick thighs straining, trying to ease down slow, pussy lips brushing the head. Elijah sucked his teeth.
“Drop that fuckin’ weight.”
She whimpered, struggling to ease onto it—but he wasn’t in the mood for teasing.
POP. He slapped her ass hard. She jolted.
“Tryin’ to ride me like you a feather,” he growled, “You know better. Drop. That. Shit.”
She gasped, finally sinking down, that fat pussy swallowing him inch by inch until she bottomed out with a choked moan. Elijah threw his head back.
“Fuck…that’s what I’m talkin’ bout.”
She tried to bounce, but her thighs were trembling. Titties slapping together from the leftover tremors. Her rhythm was all over the place. Not enough force. Not enough pressure.
Elijah narrowed his eyes, “Aight. Bet.”
He planted his heels into the mattress, palms sliding up her sides, fingers digging deep into her waist — disappearing into the soft, slick folds of her belly and hips. And then he took over. From beneath. He fucked up. Hard. Deep. Repeated. Over. And. Over. Her mouth dropped open like she forgot what language was. Her whole body started to collapse, unable to control the shake. Elijah fucked her stupid from underneath, balls bouncing like ping pong under that phat ass, thighs slapping, bed creaking.
“This the ride I need,” he panted, jaw clenched, sweat dripping, “You feel that? You feel that dick knockin’ the soul out you?”
She couldn’t speak. Could barely sit up. Big titties bouncing wild, body jerking with every thrust like she was caught in a storm and he was the fuckin’ eye of it. Then Elias stepped in. Still hard. Still thick. Still greedy. He came around the side of the bed, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and yanked her forward. She had no choice but to open her mouth and he fed it to her.
“Put that mouth back to work,” Elias growled, pushing his dick between her lips, “Suck me while he fuck you.”
He didn’t let her find rhythm. He set it. Hand locked in her hair, he worked her head up and down, not caring how messy it got. Spit trailed down her chin, mixing with sweat and drool, while Elijah fucked her from below and Elias fucked her throat from the front.
“You hear that?” Elias said, voice full of filth, “That’s you. Gettin’ fed both ends. That’s what you need, huh?”
Her body couldn’t answer, just kept bouncing and choking and twitching. Elias stroked into her mouth slower, but deeper, letting the head hit the back of her throat over and over.
Elijah’s voice was darker now, guttural, “I feel her squirt buildin’ again.”
She started to shake. Again. That pressure building fast. Wet sounds. Moans. Slapping. Her body being used and praised and devoured like it was built for this exact moment.
Elijah pulled her down hard, “Gon’ make this pussy leak all over me again. Go ‘head, baby. Gimme that mess.”
And she did. Her body snapped, her pussy squirted again, flooding Elijah’s lap, soaking his abs, her thighs, the sheets, everything.
Elias pulled his dick from her mouth and groaned, “Fuck. She a fuckin’ fountain.”
Her body was trembling, soaked with sweat and spit and squirt, but something shifted. Something snapped. Like a switch flipped in her chest and lit up every muscle she had left. She was still on top of Elijah, his dick still deep, twitching, wet from the flood she’d just given him. But now? She started riding him like she was possessed.
No more slow. No more shy. She gripped the sheets with one hand, planted the other on his stomach, and bucked.
Hard. Over and over.
That fat pussy dropped down with weight and intent, clapping against his pelvis, wet and loud, thighs slapping, body rocking. Her stomach rolled with the rhythm, titties slamming together with every grind.
Elijah’s head snapped back. His jaw clenched. His hands gripped her ass, but he wasn’t controlling a damn thing anymore.
“Nnnghh—fuck,” he choked, voice rough.
Elias stood behind her now, one hand on her hip, the other raised high—smack—he slapped her ass, hard and sharp, watching that shit jiggle in time with her strokes.
“Goddamn,” Elias breathed, watching her bounce, “Look at this big bitch go…”
She gasped, still tossing that pussy down like it owed her money. Her knees burned. Her core screamed. Elijah was twitching inside her, hands now slipping from sweat and lack of control.
That’s when he sat up.
Smoke.
Elijah.
Whatever name she had in her throat—it didn’t matter.
He came forward, big hands gripping under her ass, helping her bounce while his mouth latched onto one of her soaked, bouncing titties. He sucked hard. Bit it. Growled into it. Then moved to the other. His tongue circled the nipple, then he looked up.
His eyes locked on hers.
Dark. Wild. Close.
“Pussy so good,” he said, voice shaking, “I’m right fuckin’ there.”
She rode him harder. He gripped the back of her neck, lips brushing her chin, his voice raw with filth.
“You want me to nut in this shit, don’t you? Want me to fill it.”
She moaned—loud.
“Yeah,” he hissed, licking sweat from her collarbone. “Gon’ be both our seed swimmin’ in there. You don’t even know which one of us knocked that ass up.”
She clenched hard around him. His whole body twitched. He pulled her down flush and held her there, dick buried to the base, thighs shaking under her weight. Eyes still locked on hers. Breath caught. Then—he came. Hard. With a deep, guttural grunt that dragged from his chest to her ear, he spilled inside her. His whole body rocked. Muscles clenched. Arms shook.
She could feel it. The throb. The warmth. The stretch.
Elias leaned in behind her, breath hot on her neck, voice slick and cruel.
“That’s my brother’s nut you sittin’ in…now it’s my turn again.”
𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡: Cameron comes home pissed off from practice, still irritated from y’all’s phone argument, and decides he’s done letting you run your mouth.
The front door shut hard enough to make you look up.
Not loud enough to be dramatic. Just enough to let you know Cameron was still in a mood.
You were sitting cross-legged on the couch with your phone in your hand, pretending to scroll, pretending you hadn’t been replaying that argument in your head since the second he hung up on you.
Practice had already pissed him off.
Then the two of you got into it on the phone, and judging by the way his footsteps were hitting the floor now, none of that frustration had worn off on the drive home.
You heard the soft drop of his duffel bag near the door.
Then silence.
That kind of silence that made your stomach pull tight.
You looked up and found him already staring at you.
Cameron stood by the entryway in a black compression shirt that clung to his chest and arms, gray sweats hanging low on his waist, his shoulders broad and tense like he had carried every bad part of his day home with him. His buzzcut made everything about him look sharper somehow. His jaw. His cheekbones. The hard look in his eyes.
He had one hand braced on his hip, the other flexing at his side like he was trying to decide how much patience he had left.
Apparently, not much.
"You not gon' say nothing?" he asked.
His voice was low.
Too low.
You locked your phone and tossed it beside you. "What you want me to say?"
Cameron's tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. You saw it in the tight shift of his jaw.
"That's how you coming at me right now?"
You shrugged, even though your heartbeat had already started acting stupid. "You came in here with an attitude."
His eyes narrowed.
"An attitude?" he repeated, stepping closer. "You was the one talking slick on the phone."
You lifted your chin. "Because you were taking your bad day out on me."
That made him stop. Not because he was shocked. Because he was trying not to react.
You could see it all over him. In the way his chest rose slow and deep. In the way his shoulders squared. In the way he looked down at you like he was one smart response away from losing every last bit of restraint he walked in with.
Then he began walking, stopping right infront of the couch, in front of you.
Too close already.
Your breath caught, but you refused to look away.
Cameron looked down at you with that same hard expression, one hand coming up to drag slowly over his mouth before dropping again.
"You always do this.”He said.
"Do what?"
"Keep pushing after I'm already irritated."
His voice was rough now. Not loud. Just heavy. The kind that slid right under your skin.
You sat up straighter, trying to hold your ground.
"Maybe if you stopped acting like everything is my fault, I wouldn't have to."
Wrong answer.
The look on Cameron's face changed instantly.
His head tilted a little, and that quiet look in his eyes made heat crawl up your spine.
"You got a lot to say tonight."
You swallowed, but your mouth still moved. "And?"
Cameron stepped in so close your knees brushed his thighs.
Your breath stalled.
He planted one hand on the back of the couch beside your head, then the other against the cushion by your hip, caging you in before you even realized what he was doing.
Now he was over you.
His chest. His shoulders. The heat rolling off his body. The clean smell of soap mixed with sweat and cologne. The hard line of his arms tightening on either side of you.
And he still had not actually touched you.
That was the part making it unbearable.
You leaned back a little without meaning to, your hand pressing into the couch cushion beneath you.
Cameron noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His eyes dropped to the movement, then came back to your face.
"You real brave when you sitting over here running your mouth.” He said quietly.
Your lips parted.
He leaned down more.
Not enough to kiss you.
Just enough to make your body tense under him.
His face was so close now you could see the shadow along his jaw, his mouth.
You hated how good he looked when he was mad.
"I'm talking to you," he said, his voice firmer this time.
Your thighs pressed together before you could stop it.
"I heard you."
"Then answer me."
Your breath shook just a little. "You're crowding me."
Cameron's eyes darkened.
"Move then."
You both knew you were not going to.
You stayed exactly where you were, your body pinned by nothing but his size, his heat, his presence, and the fact that every part of you was way too aware of how easily he could take complete control of this moment if he wanted to.
His gaze dropped to your mouth for one second too long.
Then he reached for you.
His hand wrapped around your jaw, fingers warm and firm as he tilted your face up until you had no choice but to look directly at him.
A soft breath left your lips. Because he knew exactly what he was doing.
"Look at me when you talk to me," he said.
Your stomach flipped.
His thumb pressed against the side of your face while his fingers held steady under your jaw, and it was almost embarrassing how fast your body reacted to something so simple.
Cameron saw it.
You knew he did.
Because the hand on your face tightened just enough to let you know he caught every little shift in your breathing, every tiny reaction you were trying to hide.
"That attitude from earlier?" he said, voice low. "Keep that same energy now."
You tried to hold it. You really did.
But his body was between your knees now, one of his thighs nudging just enough against yours to make your thoughts blur.
Your hand came up and caught lightly at his wrist.
Not to stop him.
Just because you needed something to hold.
Cameron looked down at it, then back at you.
And the way his eyes changed at that almost took you out.
"You wanna argue with me all day," he murmured, leaning closer until his mouth hovered right beside yours, "then sit here looking like this when I get in your face."
Your breathing went shallow.
His free hand slid from the couch cushion to your waist, gripping through the fabric of your shirt, not soft, not careful, just enough to pull you a little closer to the edge of the couch.
The movement made you inhale sharply.
"There you go," he said, voice quieter now. Rougher. "Now you got nothing to say."
Your fingers tightened around his wrist.
"Cameron..."
He tilted your face higher with the hand on your jaw.
"What?"
You hated how weak your voice sounded compared to his.
"Nothing," you whispered.
His eyes stayed on yours for a long second.
Then his hand left your jaw only to slide to the side of your neck, his palm settling there heavy and warm while his thumb traced once just beneath your ear.
Possessive.
A warning and a promise all at once.
"That's what I thought," he said.
Then he leaned in, mouth brushing just barely against yours as his grip on your waist tightened.
And when he spoke again, his voice was low enough to make your whole body go still.
"Now fix the attitude."
“No."
Before you knew it you were bent over the arm of the couch, your bra still on even though your titties were basically out.
Cameron, behind you, tugged on your bra strap, pulling your body against his, the only sound filling the room was his grunts, your moan and him fucking the shit out you.
"Slo— Please! CADE!" You screamed, your tone getting whiny.
"Shut the fuck up talking to me. You was talking on that shit on the phone now you can’t take what? Nine inches?"
You whined out, tears brimming at your eyes. "I– Hm— Dick."
You and Cam both knew when you turned into a whiny little slut you couldn’t form real sentences, and of course Cameron thought it was so funny, so what does he do? He makes you talk the fucking most.
"Tell me where im at."
"… Da–.. Fuck."
"Talk to me bitch, cmon."
"I—.."
"Im finna stop, you a big girl aint you?" He muttered, leaning down, causing his strokes to somehow go deeper. "Yes— Yes!"
"Then take it. You’ve took it before." He said, referring to the time you both were crossfaded and had sex in his car.
You stuffed your face into the couch, wetting it up with your tears and slobber. You carefully put your arm behind you, trying to push his thighs.
You heard and felt a loud slap on your ass then a tug at your arm. "Move your fucking hand, you know I’ll break this shit."
You whined and moved it like so.
"I can’t take it Cam! Please! cum please cum."
"Cum? You gon have my babies?" He asked, knowing you’ll take a pill.
"Yes! All of them just please cum." You cried out, your arch falling slightly.
"You went from calling me a bitch to saying you want my babies? You so bipolar mama." He cooed.
You huffed, shaking your head. "Cum! Fuck! What the fuck are you doing." You slightly yelled.
He chuckled and slammed into you 4 more times before nutting all in his pussy. "I’ma hold you to this. If I see you taking a pill im beating your ass y/n."
The second he pulled out, you softly fell, your legs instantly shaking as his nut slid out of you.
"Ma favorite view."
IM BACKKKKKKKKK, had to take a mental break but im back and posting! Dont be shy to give me some recs.
The Neurodivergent Writer’s Guide to Fun and Productivity
(Even when life beats you down)
Look, I’m a mom, I have ADHD, I’m a spoonie. To say that I don’t have heaps of energy to spare and I struggle with consistency is an understatement. For years, I tried to write consistently, but I couldn’t manage to keep up with habits I built and deadlines I set.
So fuck neurodivergent guides on building habits, fuck “eat the frog first”, fuck “it’s all in the grind”, and fuck “you just need time management”—here is how I manage to write often and a lot.
Focus on having fun, not on the outcome
This was the groundwork I had to lay before I could even start my streak. At an online writing conference, someone said: “If you push yourself and meet your goals, and you publish your book, but you haven’t enjoyed the process… What’s the point?” and hoo boy, that question hit me like a truck.
I was so caught up in the narrative of “You’ve got to show up for what’s important” and “Push through if you really want to get it done”. For a few years, I used to read all these productivity books about grinding your way to success, and along the way I started using the same language as they did. And I notice a lot of you do so, too.
But your brain doesn’t like to grind. No-one’s brain does, and especially no neurodivergent brain. If having to write gives you stress or if you put pressure on yourself for not writing (enough), your brain’s going to say: “Huh. Writing gives us stress, we’re going to try to avoid it in the future.”
So before I could even try to write regularly, I needed to teach my brain once again that writing is fun. I switched from countable goals like words or time to non-countable goals like “fun” and “flow”.
Rewire my brain: writing is fun and I’m good at it
I used everything I knew about neuroscience, psychology, and social sciences. These are some of the things I did before and during a writing session. Usually not all at once, and after a while I didn’t need these strategies anymore, although I sometimes go back to them when necessary.
I journalled all the negative thoughts I had around writing and try to reason them away, using arguments I knew in my heart were true. (The last part is the crux.) Imagine being supportive to a writer friend with crippling insecurities, only the friend is you.
Not setting any goals didn’t work for me—I still nurtured unwanted expectations. So I did set goals, but made them non-countable, like “have fun”, “get in the flow”, or “write”. Did I write? Yes. Success! Your brain doesn’t actually care about how high the goal is, it cares about meeting whatever goal you set.
I didn’t even track how many words I wrote. Not relevant.
I set an alarm for a short time (like 10 minutes) and forbade myself to exceed that time. The idea was that if I write until I run out of mojo, my brain learns that writing drains the mojo. If I write for 10 minutes and have fun, my brain learns that writing is fun and wants to do it again.
Reinforce the fact that writing makes you happy by rewarding your brain immediately afterwards. You know what works best for you: a walk, a golden sticker, chocolate, cuddle your dog, whatever makes you happy.
I conditioned myself to associate writing with specific stimuli: that album, that smell, that tea, that place. Any stimulus can work, so pick one you like. I consciously chose several stimuli so I could switch them up, and the conditioning stays active as long as I don’t muddle it with other associations.
Use a ritual to signal to your brain that Writing Time is about to begin to get into the zone easier and faster. I guess this is a kind of conditioning as well? Meditation, music, lighting a candle… Pick your stimulus and stick with it.
Specifically for rewiring my brain, I started a new WIP that had no emotional connotations attached to it, nor any pressure to get finished or, heaven forbid, meet quality norms. I don’t think these techniques above would have worked as well if I had applied them on writing my novel.
It wasn’t until I could confidently say I enjoyed writing again, that I could start building up a consistent habit. No more pushing myself.
I lowered my definition for success
When I say that nowadays I write every day, that’s literally it. I don’t set out to write 1,000 or 500 or 10 words every day (tried it, failed to keep up with it every time)—the only marker for success when it comes to my streak is to write at least one word, even on the days when my brain goes “naaahhh”. On those days, it suffices to send myself a text with a few keywords or a snippet. It’s not “success on a technicality (derogatory)”, because most of those snippets and ideas get used in actual stories later. And if they don’t, they don’t. It’s still writing. No writing is ever wasted.
A side note on high expectations, imposter syndrome, and perfectionism
Obviously, “Setting a ridiculously low goal” isn’t something I invented. I actually got it from those productivity books, only I never got it to work. I used to tell myself: “It’s okay if I don’t write for an hour, because my goal is to write for 20 minutes and if I happen to keep going for, say, an hour, that’s a bonus.” Right? So I set the goal for 20 minutes, wrote for 35 minutes, and instead of feeling like I exceeded my goal, I felt disappointed because apparently I was still hoping for the bonus scenario to happen. I didn’t know how to set a goal so low and believe it.
I think the trick to making it work this time lies more in the groundwork of training my brain to enjoy writing again than in the fact that my daily goal is ridiculously low. I believe I’m a writer, because I prove it to myself every day. Every success I hit reinforces the idea that I’m a writer. It’s an extra ward against imposter syndrome.
Knowing that I can still come up with a few lines of dialogue on the Really Bad Days—days when I struggle to brush my teeth, the day when I had a panic attack in the supermarket, or the day my kid got hit by a car—teaches me that I can write on the mere Bad-ish Days.
The more I do it, the more I do it
The irony is that setting a ridiculously low goal almost immediately led to writing more and more often. The most difficult step is to start a new habit. After just a few weeks, I noticed that I needed less time and energy to get into the zone. I no longer needed all the strategies I listed above.
Another perk I noticed, was an increased writing speed. After just a few months of writing every day, my average speed went from 600 words per hour to 1,500 wph, regularly exceeding 2,000 wph without any loss of quality.
Talking about quality: I could see myself becoming a better writer with every passing month. Writing better dialogue, interiority, chemistry, humour, descriptions, whatever: they all improved noticeably, and I wasn’t a bad writer to begin with.
The increased speed means I get more done with the same amount of energy spent. I used to write around 2,000-5,000 words per month, some months none at all. Nowadays I effortlessly write 30,000 words per month. I didn’t set out to write more, it’s just a nice perk.
Look, I’m not saying you should write every day if it doesn’t work for you. My point is: the more often you write, the easier it will be.
No pressure
Yes, I’m still working on my novel, but I’m not racing through it. I produce two or three chapters per month, and the rest of my time goes to short stories my brain keeps projecting on the inside of my eyelids when I’m trying to sleep. I might as well write them down, right?
These short stories started out as self-indulgence, and even now that I take them more seriously, they are still just for me. I don’t intend to ever publish them, no-one will ever read them, they can suck if they suck. The unintended consequence was that my short stories are some of my best writing, because there’s no pressure, it’s pure fun.
Does it make sense to spend, say, 90% of my output on stories no-one else will ever read? Wouldn’t it be better to spend all that creative energy and time on my novel? Well, yes. If you find the magic trick, let me know, because I haven’t found it yet. The short stories don’t cannibalize on the novel, because they require different mindsets. If I stopped writing the short stories, I wouldn’t produce more chapters. (I tried. Maybe in the future? Fingers crossed.)
Don’t wait for inspiration to hit
There’s a quote by Picasso: “Inspiration hits, but it has to find you working.” I strongly agree. Writing is not some mystical, muse-y gift, it’s a skill and inspiration does exist, but usually it’s brought on by doing the work. So just get started and inspiration will come to you.
Accountability and community
Having social factors in your toolbox is invaluable. I have an offline writing friend I take long walks with, I host a monthly writing club on Discord, and I have another group on Discord that holds me accountable every day. They all motivate me in different ways and it’s such a nice thing to share my successes with people who truly understand how hard it can be.
The productivity books taught me that if you want to make a big change in your life or attitude, surrounding yourself with people who already embody your ideal or your goal huuuugely helps. The fact that I have these productive people around me who also prioritize writing, makes it easier for me to stick to my own priorities.
Your toolbox
The idea is to have several techniques at your disposal to help you stay consistent. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket by focussing on just one technique. Keep all of them close, and if one stops working or doesn’t inspire you today, pivot and pick another one.
After a while, most “tools” run in the background once they are established. Things like surrounding myself with my writing friends, keeping up with my daily streak, and listening to the album I conditioned myself with don’t require any energy, and they still remain hugely beneficial.
Do you have any other techniques? I’d love to hear about them!
CONTENTS. Riding your husbands nose cause you asked him to replace that old tub, grinding on his dick, oral fem rec, p in v, creampied.
A/N. id call this a drabble but its longer than the last one
The house had always been his before it ever thought of becoming yours. Hiromi had chosen every shade of charcoal and slate-gray for the walls years ago when he was still sleeping alone in a bed too big for one body, still coming home to silence after sixteen-hour days of depositions and closing arguments. The leather sectional in the living room still carried the faint imprint of his long frame from nights he’d fallen asleep there with case files open across his chest. Even the kitchen knives were arranged in the exact drawer slots he’d measured out himself. Everything deliberate. Everything already decided.
Except the jacuzzi.
That glossy white beast had arrived only two weeks ago, delivered while you were out buying new silk slips just because the thought of him seeing you in them made your thighs press together in the middle of the boutique. You’d spent the night before curled on the couch in one of his old university hoodies, legs tucked under you, catalogue open across your lap like a dirty secret. Page after page of sleek tubs and rainfall showerheads until your eyes landed on the oversized corner model with the curved lumbar rests and the promise of “hydrotherapy jets strong enough to melt tension.” You circled it in red ink three times. The next morning you left the catalogue open on the kitchen island with a single sticky note that read: please?
He hadn’t said yes with words. He’d simply kissed the top of your head on his way to the office, murmured “ordered it yesterday” against your hair, and left you throbbing against the counter.
Now the thing sits sunken into the master bathroom floor like it was always meant to be there, steam curling up in lazy spirals, low lights reflecting off black marble. Hiromi is already inside when you pad through the doorway, long legs stretched out, arms draped along the edge, head tipped back against the curved rest. His eyes are closed. Dark lashes fanned across sharp cheekbones. The water laps at the inked line of his collarbone, at the faint silver scar that curves under his left pec from a motorcycle he refuses to talk about. He looks older like this, softened by heat and exhaustion, the perpetual furrow between his brows finally smoothed out. Tired. Beautiful. Yours.
You let the cashmere robe slip from your shoulders. It pools around your bare feet in a soft expensive puddle. The air is thick with eucalyptus and the mineral bite of the water. Your nipples pebble instantly from the temperature shift and from the sight of him: broad shoulders glistening, chest rising slow and deep, thick dark hair plastered to his temples, one long hand resting loose on his own thigh beneath the surface. You can see the faint outline of his cock resting heavy against his leg even through the ripples. Unaroused, yet. Just there. Waiting.
You step down. One foot. Then the other. The heat swallows your calves, your thighs, your cunt in one slow greedy pull that makes you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from moaning out loud. The jets hum low and steady. You sink until the water kisses your collarbones, hair floating around your shoulders like ink.
Hiromi doesn’t open his eyes at first. But the corner of his mouth curves. That small, private smile he saves only for you.
“Thought you’d fallen asleep on the couch again,” he murmurs, voice rough from the day and from the steam.
“Couldn’t. Kept thinking about this.” You glide closer. Your knees brush his. “About you in it.”
His lashes lift. Those pretty hazel eyes find yours immediately, heavy-lidded, dark with something that isn’t quite sleep anymore. He doesn’t speak. Just watches you close the last foot of distance until your breasts graze his chest, until your palms find his shoulders, slick skin sliding under your fingers.
“Hiromi,” you breathe against his jaw.
He exhales through his nose, long and slow, like he’s trying not to lose control already. One big hand lifts from the edge of the tub and curls around the nape of your neck, thumb stroking the sensitive spot just under your ear.
“C’mere, baby.”
You don’t make him ask twice.
You climb into his lap, thighs spreading wide over his hips, water sloshing softly around you both. His cock twitches against your folds the second you settle, already half-hard from nothing more than the sight of you naked and dripping and wanting him. You feel the thick length of him nudge right up against your slit, hot and heavy and perfect, but neither of you move to line him up. Not yet. You just rock there, tiny little movements that drag your swollen clit along his shaft while his hands map the curve of your waist, your ribs, the soft undersides of your breasts like he’s relearning you even though he’s fucked you in every room of this house.
You lean in. Lips brushing his. Once. Twice. Teasing.
He groans low in his throat when you finally kiss him properly, open-mouthed and filthy, tongue sliding against his slow and deliberate. He tastes like coffee and the faint edge of the whiskey he keeps in the study for late nights. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you exactly where he wants you so he can grind up into your cunt in lazy, exhausted rolls.
You break the kiss just enough to whisper against his mouth, “You’re so tired, Hiromi.”
“Mm.” Another grind. Another low sound caught in his chest. “Still want my pretty wife riding my cock until she can’t think straight.”
Your laugh is breathy, wrecked already. You cup his face, thumbs tracing the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the faint stubble he didn’t bother shaving tonight.
“Then let me take care of you,” you murmur, nipping his bottom lip. “Just like you always take care of me.”
His eyes darken. His grip tightens.
And in the warm, humming dark of the jacuzzi, with steam rising and water lapping and your bodies pressed so close there’s no space left for anything but need, he finally lets his head fall back again—this time not from exhaustion, but from surrender.
Your fingers are trembling just a little as they map the sharp architecture of his face. First the dark slash of his brows, thick and expressive even when he’s trying to look stern in court. You trace them slow, sof, feeling the faint tension still lingering there from whatever deposition chewed him up today. Then down the proud bridge of his nose. God, that nose. Long and straight and unapologetically big in the way that makes your cunt clench every time you catch yourself staring at his profile across the breakfast bar. You’ve told him once, drunk on wine and his cock, how you fantasize about it splitting your folds open, how the perfect slope would drag right over your clit until you’re sobbing. He’d laughed low and dangerous and fucked you harder for it.
Now you’re straddling his hips in the jacuzzi, water lapping at your waist, his cock thick and heavy between your thighs but not inside you. Not yet. You’re too busy grinding your slick pussy along the rigid length of him, coating him in your arousal while your fingertips keep worshipping that beautiful nose. You slide them down to the tip, press just enough to feel the cartilage give, then drag back up again.
Hiromi’s eyes are half-lidded, watching you with that lazy, predatory patience he gets when he knows exactly how wrecked you already are. His hands rest loose on your hips, not guiding, just holding. Letting you take.
You’re still perched over his lap in the steaming jacuzzi, thighs splayed wide, knees braced on either side of his narrow hips. His cock—thick, veined, brutally hard—lies trapped between your bodies like a promise you’re both too greedy to cash in yet. You keep rocking slow and filthy, dragging your drenched folds up and down the rigid length of him. Every pass smears more of your slick along his shaft, coats his balls, makes the water ripple with the obscene little sounds of skin sliding through arousal. The head of his cock catches your clit on every upstroke, fat and leaking, painting sticky precum across your swollen pearl until you’re trembling, whimpering, hips stuttering like you can’t decide whether to chase the friction or beg for more.
Your hands never leave his face.
Now your thumb presses gently to the very tip of that gorgeous nose, feeling the slight give of cartilage again, then drags slow, worshipful circles around the flared nostrils. His breath stutters—just once—but you feel it. Feel the way his cock jerks violently between your thighs in answer, smearing fresh precum along your inner lips.
“You’re staring again,” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough, steam-kissed, amused in that dangerous way that makes your spine melt.
“Can’t fucking stop.” You lean in until your lips hover a hairsbreadth from the bridge of his nose, close enough that every exhale ghosts warm and wet over his skin. “It’s so goddamn pretty. So fucking big. I’ve ruined panties in the middle of meetings just thinking about how it would feel—how it would stretch me, fill me, fuck me open while your tongue—”
His hands tighten on your hips. Not guiding. Just holding. Keeping you pinned exactly where you are—grinding, dripping, aching—while his cock throbs helplessly against your cunt.
You keep rocking. Keep teasing. Keep coating him until he’s glistening, until every slow drag of your pussy makes wet, filthy noises that echo off the marble. Your arousal drips down his shaft in slow, obscene rivulets, pooling at the base, swirling into the jacuzzi water below. You’re both soaked—sweat, steam, slick—and still he doesn’t move to take you. Doesn’t thrust up. Doesn’t beg. Just watches you fall apart with those half-lidded eyes, patient, predatory, like he knows exactly how close you already are to shattering.
Your fingers slide back up the length of his nose again—reverent, obsessive—pressing just enough to feel the hard ridge yield under your touch. You whimper at the thought of it buried inside you. Of that perfect bridge stretching your walls, fucking into you while his stubble burns your thighs raw.
Hiromi’s voice drops lower, quieter, almost conversational even as his cock kicks hard against your clit.
“You used to complain about that old tub every damn time.” His thumbs stroke slow arcs over your hipbones. “Too small. Couldn’t spread those pretty thighs wide enough. Couldn’t even get my mouth on you properly without bruising my shoulders on the sides.”
The memory slams into you—him trying to fold his too-big body into that cramped porcelain coffin, your knees knocking the edges, both of you laughing and cursing until you gave up and dragged him dripping to the bedroom. You’d whined—half-joking, half-desperate—that he should just replace the damn thing. He never argued. Never promised. Just… listened. Quietly. Like he always does when you really want something.
And now here you are.
His hands slide under your ass, palms hot and sure. He lifts you—effortless, terrifying lawyer strength—water cascading off your thighs in sheets as he maneuvers you higher.
“Up you go then, love.”
Your breath snags. Heart slams against your ribs.
“Finally big enough for my greedy little wife to get what she’s been begging for since the day we moved in.”
He settles back against the wide curved ledge, head tipped, dark eyes locked on yours—molten, patient, starving. His nose brushes the soft skin of your inner thigh first—just a whisper of contact—then drags higher, higher, until the tip kisses the very edge of your dripping folds.
Not inside. Not yet.
Just… there.
Teasing the seam of you with the lightest pressure while his hands grip your ass, holding you suspended, letting you feel every hot exhale ghosting over your clit.
You’re shaking. Leaking. So wet it drips down his chin before he’s even tasted you.
“Sit,” he orders, soft and final, voice wrecked with want. “Sit on my fucking face. Let me open that pretty cunt with my nose the way you’ve been dreaming about. Let me make you come so hard the neighbors file noise complaints.”
Your thighs tremble as you lower yourself—slow, reverent, savoring every devastating inch.
The first press of his nose against your entrance rips a broken moan from your throat. He groans in answer—deep, muffled, vibrating straight through your core—as the long, perfect bridge slides inside you. Stretches you. Fills you in that filthy, impossible way. Not cock-deep—not yet—but enough to make your walls flutter and clench around the hard intrusion like it’s the only thing you’ve ever needed.
Then his tongue follows.
Thick. Hot. Spearing alongside his nose, licking into the tight, stretched space, fucking you open wider while the ridge of his nose grinds slow, relentless circles against your clit.
You sob his name. Hips rock helplessly. Hands scrabbling at the edge of the tub for balance as you grind down harder, chasing the stretch, the pressure, the obscene wet heat of him devouring you.
No air. No mercy. Just slick, filthy sounds—squelching, sucking, dripping—as he seals his mouth over your cunt and eats like a man possessed. Nose buried to the hilt. Tongue curling against every sensitive spot he’s mapped a thousand times. Stubble scraping your inner thighs raw. Hands bruising your hips. Pulling you down until there’s nowhere left to go.
You’re dripping down his face. Coating his chin. Running in rivulets over his throat and into the swirling water below.
He doesn’t let up.
Doesn’t let you come.
Not yet.
He slows when your thighs start shaking too hard—eases off your clit with soft, teasing kitten licks—only to spear his tongue deeper, nose fucking into you with shallow, filthy thrusts that make your vision white out.
“Ride it,” he growls against your soaked folds, words half-muffled in your slick. “Grind that desperate pussy on my face. Let me feel how fucking bad you needed this.”
Your hips snap forward—harder, faster—chasing the stretch, the burn, the way his nose keeps splitting you open while his tongue works you mercilessly.
You’re close. So close. Body strung tight, cunt fluttering around his nose like it’s trying to pull him deeper, but he holds you right on the edge—teasing, torturing, drawing it out because he knows you love when he makes you wait.
His hands tighten. Pull you down until you’re flush. Sealed. No escape from the wet heat, the pressure, the perfect hard drag of that gorgeous nose fucking you while his mouth claims every inch.
And in the thick steam, with water lapping and your thighs trembling around his ears, Hiromi keeps going—slow, filthy, relentless—giving his needy, obsessed wife exactly what she’s been begging for since the beginning.
He’s nowhere near done.
You’re grinding now. Slow at first, testing, then harder, hips rolling in filthy little circles that drag your swollen clit right along the sharp bridge of Hiromi’s nose. The pressure is obscene—hard cartilage splitting your folds open, stretching the slick entrance of your cunt just enough to make your thighs quake every time you sink down. His tongue is still buried inside you, thick and relentless, curling against your walls in slow, deliberate strokes that match the rhythm you’re setting. Every drag forward smears more of your arousal across his face, coating the proud length of his nose until it glistens under the low bathroom lights.
You can’t stop the sounds spilling out of you. Broken, breathy moans that bounce off the marble and mix with the steady hum of the jacuzzi jets below. “Hiromi—fuck—your nose—oh god it’s filling me so good—”
He groans into your pussy, the vibration ripping straight through your clit and making your back bow. His big hands clamp down harder on your hips, fingers digging bruises into the soft flesh there, not to stop you but to urge you deeper. To make you take more. He pulls you down until there’s no space left at all—your cunt sealed flush against his mouth, clit mashed against the hard ridge of his nose, his tongue spearing as deep as it can go. You feel every inch of him working you open, nose fucking into your hole in shallow, relentless thrusts while his lips suckle at your folds like he’s trying to drink you dry.
“Make a mess, baby,” he rasps against your soaked skin, words muffled and wet and so fucking filthy. “Drip all over my face. Let me feel how much this greedy little pussy loves riding me like this.”
You sob his name. Your hips snap forward harder, grinding down with purpose now, chasing that perfect drag of his nose against your clit while his tongue keeps fucking you slow and deep. Slick gushes out with every roll—hot, messy, unstoppable—coating his chin, sliding down the column of his throat, dripping into the water below in obscene little patters you can actually hear over your own ragged breathing. His stubble is scraping your inner thighs raw, the faint burn only making you wetter, only making you grind faster.
“Fuck—Hiromi—look at me making such a mess on you—”
He hums approval, low and hungry, the sound vibrating straight into your core. One hand slides up to palm your ass, spreading you wider so he can angle his face just right—nose pressing deeper, tongue curling harder against that spongy spot inside that makes your toes curl against the marble ledge. The other hand stays locked on your hip, guiding your rhythm, encouraging every filthy roll until you’re practically bouncing on his face, tits jiggling with the force of it, nipples tight and aching in the steamy air.
“That’s it,” he growls, pulling back just enough to speak before diving right back in. His lips brush your clit as he talks, hot breath fanning over your pulsing pearl. “Ride it harder. Soak my fucking nose. I want to taste you for days—want my whole face drenched in my pretty wife’s cum.”
Your moans turn into whimpers, high and desperate. You’re dripping so much it’s obscene—slick running in rivulets down his cheeks, pooling at the corners of his mouth before he laps it up like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. The wet sounds are filthy: your cunt slurping against his nose, his tongue plunging in and out, the soft smack of lips sucking at your folds. You can feel yourself clenching around nothing and everything—around the stretch of his nose, around the thick press of his tongue—body trembling on the razor’s edge.
He senses it. Of course he does. His grip tightens, pulling you down even harder until your clit is grinding relentlessly against that perfect hard bridge, until his nose is buried so deep you swear you feel it in your fucking stomach. His tongue lashes faster now, flicking your walls, curling, thrusting, while he groans encouragement into your pussy like a prayer.
“Come on, love,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and dripping with you. “Let go. Make that pretty cunt gush all over my face. I’ve got you—ride it out, soak me, fucking ruin me.”
Your thighs shake violently. Your nails dig into the edge of the tub behind his head, knuckles white. You’re grinding so hard now it’s almost painful—clit mashed against his nose, cunt stretched and fluttering around the relentless press of him inside you. Heat coils tight in your belly, unbearable, electric.
You’re right there.
And he keeps eating you like he’ll never get enough—tongue fucking deep, nose grinding perfect circles, hands holding you down so you can’t escape the pleasure crashing through you in wave after filthy wave.
Not yet.
He’s drawing it out.
Making you earn every drop of what’s coming.
Hiromi’s lips close around your clit with a slow deliberate suction that pulls a raw whimper straight from the bottom of your lungs. His tongue flattens beneath the swollen pearl first, cradling it, letting you feel the full wet heat of his mouth before he draws it deeper, sucking hard enough that your hips jerk forward on instinct. The pull is filthy, insistent, like he’s trying to drink the orgasm right out of you through that single throbbing point. Your thighs tremble violently around his ears, slick dripping in thick steady streams down his chin, pooling at the corners of his mouth only for him to lap it up greedily without breaking rhythm. Every suck sends sparks racing up your spine, makes your cunt clench around nothing, makes you ache to be filled deeper, stretched wider.
But it’s not enough. Not quite. You need more of that hard unyielding ridge, need to grind the fat aching bud of your clit right along the perfect slope of his nose until the friction burns beautiful and unbearable. You shift your weight, bracing your palms harder against the marble edge behind his head, and lift just enough to drag your soaked folds forward. The moment the underside of your clit kisses the bridge of his nose you moan loud and broken, hips already rolling in tiny helpless circles. The cartilage is slick now, coated in your arousal, warm from his skin and the steam, and it glides so perfectly against your pulsing pearl that your eyes flutter shut on a gasp.
He lets you. Doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t pull you back down to his tongue. Just opens his mouth wider beneath you, hot breath fanning over your dripping entrance while his big hands slide up to grip the undersides of your thighs, spreading you even more obscenely so you have all the room you need to hump against his face like a desperate little thing. His nose presses firm and steady right where you want it, that long proud ridge acting like the perfect cock for your clit to ride. You rock forward slow at first, savoring the drag, the way your fat swollen clit catches on the slight bump at the top before sliding down the slope again, smearing fresh slick everywhere. Then faster. Harsher. Filthy little thrusts that make your tits bounce, make your breath hitch in wet sobs.
“Fuck yes,” he growls low against your cunt, voice muffled and wrecked, vibrating straight through the sensitive flesh. “Hump it, baby. Rub that pretty fat clit all over my nose like the greedy wife you are. Make yourself cum on it. I want to feel you throb right here.”
His words are gasoline on the fire already raging in your belly. You grind down harder, hips snapping in short sharp rolls that mash your clit relentlessly against the hard cartilage. The friction is electric, almost too much, the ridge catching every ridge of your pearl, dragging over the hood, pressing right into the slit where it’s most sensitive until you’re seeing white behind your eyelids. Slick squelches with every movement, obscene wet sounds filling the steamy bathroom, your arousal dripping down the sides of his nose, coating his cheeks, sliding in rivulets over his stubble-rough jaw. He doesn’t care. He just holds you open wider, lets you use him, lets you rut against his face like it’s the only thing keeping you sane.
Your moans turn into high pitched keens, body trembling from calves to shoulders. You’re humping his nose with abandon now, fat clit swollen and flushed and grinding so hard against that perfect slope that every pass sends jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your core. His tongue flicks out occasionally to lap at your leaking hole, to tease the rim, to remind you how empty you are, how badly you want his cock next, but he doesn’t interrupt the rhythm you’ve set. He just groans encouragement into your pussy, the sound vibrating up through your clit and making your hips stutter.
“God Hiromi your nose feels so fucking good rubbing my clit like this,” you whimper, voice cracking on every word. “So hard so perfect fuck I’m gonna come just from humping your face like a slut.”
He hums deep approval, hands squeezing your thighs hard enough to bruise, urging you faster. “Do it. Cum all over my nose. Soak it. Drench me in that sweet little cunt until I can’t breathe anything but you.”
The coil in your belly snaps without warning. Your back arches violently, head thrown back, mouth open on a silent scream that turns into his name torn from your throat. Your clit pulses hard against the ridge of his nose, throbbing in frantic waves as the orgasm crashes through you. Slick gushes out in a hot messy flood, coating his face completely, running down his neck in thick streams that mix with the jacuzzi water below. You keep grinding through it, hips jerking in erratic little rolls, milking every last spark of pleasure from that hard cartilage until your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely hold yourself up.
He doesn’t stop you. Just lets you ride it out, nose still pressed firm against your spasming clit, tongue lapping softly at the mess you’re making, drinking down every drop like it’s his reward. When the aftershocks finally start to fade you slump forward, forehead resting against the cool marble edge, chest heaving, cunt still twitching against his slick-drenched face.
Hiromi exhales a long shaky breath against your folds, lips brushing your oversensitive pearl in the softest kiss. His voice comes out rough, wrecked, dripping with satisfaction.
“That’s my good girl. Came so hard just from humping my nose like you were made for it.”
You whimper softly, too spent to answer, but your hips give one last weak little grind against him, chasing the final echoes of pleasure.
He chuckles low, the sound vibrating through your tender flesh again.
“Catch your breath, love. Because I’m still hard as fuck down here, and I haven’t come close to being done giving my pretty wife everything she begged for.”
Hiromi presses one final soft kiss right to the swollen, oversensitive bud of your clit, lips brushing feather-light against the pulsing pearl still throbbing from the way you just rode his nose to ruin. The touch is so gentle it almost hurts, a tender contrast to the filthy grinding you just did all over his face. Then he closes his mouth around it again, just once, a slow gentle suck that pulls a shaky whimper from your throat and makes your hips twitch forward on instinct. He releases you with a soft wet pop, tongue flicking out to soothe the tender flesh one last time before his hands slide up your thighs, palms warm and steady on your hips.
He guides you down with careful reverence, easing your trembling body back toward his lap like you’re something precious he’s afraid to break even after devouring you so completely. Water sloshes softly around you both as you settle over him again, knees bracketing his narrow hips, your slick-drenched cunt hovering just above the thick heavy length of his cock. His face is a beautiful wreck—cheeks flushed, nose and chin glistening with your release, dark hair plastered to his forehead in damp strands, hazel eyes half-lidded and burning with quiet hunger. He looks exhausted and ravenous all at once, the tired lines around his eyes softened by the steam and by the sight of you dripping for him.
“Need to be inside you, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, cracked from moaning into your pussy. “Please. Been so good for me—let me feel that tight little cunt wrapped around my cock now.”
The plea is soft, almost vulnerable, nothing like the commanding growls he uses when he’s fucking you hard against the kitchen island or bending you over the desk in his study. This is Hiromi stripped bare, tired from the day and aching from wanting you, needing to sink into the wet heat of his wife after giving you everything you begged for.
You lean down slow, breasts brushing his chest, nipples dragging over wet skin as you cup his jaw and kiss him deep. He tastes like you—salty-sweet, musky, all slick arousal and the faint bite of eucalyptus from the bath. His tongue slides against yours lazy and filthy, sharing the mess he just made of you, letting you taste how thoroughly he drank you down. You moan into his mouth, hips rocking forward on instinct, and that’s when you feel it—his hand wrapping around the base of his cock, thick fingers stroking the rigid length through your folds.
He drags the swollen head along your slit slow, teasing, coating himself in the fresh gush of slick still leaking from your hole. Up and down, slow deliberate passes that nudge your clit with every stroke, making your thighs quiver and your breath hitch against his lips. The fat ridge of his crown catches on your entrance again and again, dipping just inside the tight ring before slipping free, stretching you open without giving you the full length you’re suddenly desperate for.
“Hiromi,” you whisper into his mouth, voice trembling. “Please—need you in me.”
He exhales a shaky breath against your lips, forehead pressing to yours. One hand stays on your hip, steadying you, while the other guides his cock with perfect precision. The head notches at your entrance, thick and hot and slick with both of you, and he presses up slow—inch by torturous inch—until the wide crown pops past that first tight resistance and sinks into your fluttering walls.
You gasp sharp and sweet, nails digging into his shoulders as your cunt stretches around him. He’s so thick, so hard, filling you so perfectly that your eyes flutter shut and your head tips back on a long low moan. He doesn’t thrust up yet—just holds you there, letting you feel every pulsing vein, every ridge, the way your walls grip him like they never want to let go.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice wrecked and reverent, hips twitching once beneath you. “So tight—so wet—god, baby, you feel like heaven wrapped around my cock.”
He pulls you down the rest of the way in one slow, deep glide, burying himself to the hilt until your ass is flush against his thighs and his balls are pressed tight to your skin. You’re stuffed full, stretched open, clit throbbing against the coarse hair at his base. The jacuzzi jets hum low against your calves, water lapping at your joined bodies, but nothing exists outside the slow burn of him inside you, the way your cunt flutters and squeezes around his length like it’s trying to pull him deeper.
You rock your hips once, tiny little movement that makes you both groan. His hands slide up your back, fingers splaying wide between your shoulder blades, holding you close while he kisses you again—slow, filthy, tongues sliding together as he starts to move.
Just shallow rolls at first. Tiny thrusts that drag his cock along your sensitive walls, grinding the head right against that spot that makes your toes curl. You whimper into his mouth, hips circling in lazy figure-eights, clit rubbing against him with every pass while he fills you over and over in slow, deliberate strokes.
“Ride me, love,” he breathes against your lips, voice soft and pleading even as his hips start to meet yours with more purpose. “Take what you need. Use my cock like you used my face. Let me feel you come around me this time.”
Your thighs tremble as you start to move—slow lifts and drops that sink him deep every time, cunt clenching tight around the thick stretch of him. Water splashes softly with every roll, steam curling between your bodies, and Hiromi just watches you—eyes dark, lips parted, hands roaming your skin like he can’t get enough—while you fuck yourself slow and filthy on your tired, perfect husband in the warm glowing dark of the jacuzzi.
Hiromi’s hands slide from your back to your hips again, those big lawyer palms wrapping around the soft curves with a grip that’s possessive and gentle all at once, fingers splaying wide enough to almost span your entire waist. He presses you down harder onto his cock, forcing every thick inch deeper until your cunt is stretched full around him, walls fluttering helplessly against the rigid heat buried to the hilt. The slow drag of him inside you turns deliberate now, guided by those strong hands that lift you just enough to let his length slip halfway out before pulling you back down in one smooth, filthy plunge. Water sloshes around your joined bodies with every roll of your hips, warm ripples lapping at your skin like they’re trying to match the rhythm he’s setting.
You’re riding him slow and deep, thighs trembling from the stretch, clit grinding against the coarse dark hair at his base with every downward drop. Each time you sink fully onto him a soft wet sound escapes where you’re connected, slick mixing with the jacuzzi water, making everything glide hotter, messier. Your hands brace on his broad shoulders, nails digging into the wet muscle there as you chase that perfect angle that has the swollen head of his cock nudging right against your cervix on every thrust.
Then his head dips forward.
His lips find the soft swell of your breast first, brushing a reverent kiss to the curve just above your nipple. The touch is feather-light at first, almost worshipful, like he’s savoring the taste of your skin still flushed from coming all over his face minutes ago. He kisses again, open-mouthed this time, tongue flicking out to trace the underside before he drags his mouth higher. When his lips close around your nipple it’s slow, deliberate, a gentle pull that makes your back arch and a broken moan spill from your throat.
He sucks.
Soft at first, just enough to draw the tight peak deeper into the wet heat of his mouth, tongue swirling lazy circles around the sensitive bud. Then harder. A deep, rhythmic suction that pulls straight to your core, making your cunt clench tight around his cock mid-thrust. You gasp his name, hips stuttering as the dual sensation hits—his thick length stretching you open below, his mouth working your nipple like he’s trying to drink pleasure straight from your body.
“Hiromi—fuck—your mouth—”
He hums low against your breast, the vibration sending fresh sparks racing down your spine. One hand stays locked on your hip, guiding your rhythm, helping you ride him faster now while the other slides up your ribcage to cup the other breast, thumb brushing over the neglected nipple before pinching it lightly between two fingers. He rolls it slow, matching the flick of his tongue on the one in his mouth, tugging just enough to make your thighs shake and your cunt flutter around him in helpless little pulses.
You grind down harder, taking him deeper, clit mashed against his pelvis with every roll. His cock drags along your walls in long, filthy strokes, the thick vein on the underside catching right against that spongy spot inside that makes your toes curl against the marble ledge. Water splashes higher now, wetting your lower back, dripping from his hair as he switches breasts—lips releasing one glistening nipple with a soft pop only to latch onto the other, sucking even harder this time, teeth grazing the tender peak just enough to sting sweet.
Your moans turn into whimpers, high and needy, body trembling between the stretch of him inside you and the relentless pull of his mouth on your tits. He’s groaning against your skin now, low rough sounds that vibrate straight through your nipples and down to where you’re stuffed full of him. His hips start meeting yours with more force, short sharp thrusts that drive him deeper while his hands keep you pinned close, not letting you lift too far, keeping you impaled on every thick inch.
“God you feel so fucking good,” he rasps against your breast, voice muffled by soft flesh and hard suction. “Tight little cunt squeezing my cock while I suck these pretty tits—ride me harder, baby, let me feel you come like this, nipples in my mouth and my dick buried deep.”
You obey without thinking. Hips snapping down faster, grinding in filthy circles that rub your clit against him while his cock pistons up into your dripping heat. His mouth never leaves your breasts—kissing, licking, sucking, switching back and forth until both nipples are swollen and red and glistening with his spit. Every pull of his lips makes your cunt clench harder around him, makes slick gush out around his shaft, makes the wet sounds of you fucking even louder in the steamy air.
Your fingers thread into his damp hair, holding him against your chest as you ride him toward the edge. His hands press you closer still, one sliding down to grip your ass and spread you wider so he can thrust up even deeper, the other pinching and rolling your free nipple in time with the hard sucks on the one in his mouth.
You’re close again—body strung tight, cunt fluttering wildly around his thick length, clit throbbing against his pelvis with every desperate grind. He can feel it, knows it, because he starts sucking harder, tongue lashing your nipple while his hips snap up to meet yours in perfect filthy rhythm.
“Come for me,” he growls against your breast, teeth grazing the peak. “Come all over my cock while I suck these perfect tits—let me feel that pretty pussy milk me dry.”
The words tip you over.
Your back bows, head thrown back on a broken cry of his name as the orgasm rips through you. Cunt clamping down hard around his cock, pulsing in frantic waves that pull him deeper, slick flooding out around him in hot messy spurts. Your nipples throb in his mouth from the relentless suction, breasts bouncing with every shuddering roll of your hips as you ride through it, grinding down to chase every last spark.
Hiromi groans long and low against your skin, hips stuttering as your walls flutter and squeeze him mercilessly. He doesn’t come yet—just holds you through it, mouth still latched to your nipple, sucking softly now, soothing the oversensitive bud while his hands keep you pressed close, cock buried deep and throbbing inside your spasming cunt.
When the aftershocks finally ease you slump against him, forehead resting on his shoulder, chest heaving. His lips brush one last gentle kiss to each swollen nipple before he lifts his head, capturing your mouth in a slow, filthy kiss that tastes like sweat and arousal and everything you just gave him.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs against your lips, voice wrecked and reverent. “My perfect wife. Still not done with you yet—gonna fuck you slow and deep until you can’t take anymore.”
His hands slide down to your ass again, lifting you just enough to start those long, lazy thrusts once more, cock dragging through your sensitive walls while his mouth finds your neck, sucking a fresh mark into the soft skin there.
The jacuzzi hums around you both, steam curling thick, and Hiromi keeps fucking you like he has all night—like he’s going to spend every second of it proving how much he loves giving his greedy little wife exactly what she craves.
Hiromi’s mouth leaves your nipple with a slow, wet drag of tongue, lips swollen and glistening as he lifts his head to meet your eyes. His are dark, pupils blown wide in the low bathroom light, cheeks flushed from the steam and from the way your cunt keeps clenching around him like it’s trying to keep him forever. He’s still buried deep, thick cock throbbing inside your spasming walls, every shallow roll of his hips grinding the fat head right up against your cervix in a dull, delicious ache that makes your toes curl against the marble.
“One more for me, pretty girl,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked, velvet-rough from groaning into your skin. “I know you can. You’re so close again—feel that little cunt fluttering around my cock? Gonna come for me one more time while I fuck you full.”
His big hands slide down to grip your ass, spreading you wide as he starts thrusting up harder, deeper, no more teasing. Long, punishing strokes that drag every thick inch along your sensitive walls before slamming back in, balls slapping wetly against your skin with every plunge. Water splashes higher around you both, soaking his chest, dripping from your hair as you bounce in his lap. Your clit grinds against the coarse hair at his base on every downstroke, swollen and oversensitive from riding his nose earlier, sending sharp sparks of pleasure-pain straight to your core every time he bottoms out.
You whimper his name, nails raking down his shoulders, leaving red trails that disappear under the water. “Hiromi—fuck—too much—gonna—”
“No such thing as too much,” he growls, one hand sliding up to fist in your wet hair, tilting your head back so he can suck a bruising mark into the soft skin under your jaw. “You asked for this jacuzzi so I could fuck you exactly like this—deep, slow, filthy. Gonna give it to you until you can’t think straight. Come on my cock again, baby. Squeeze me so tight I can’t hold back.”
His thrusts turn brutal in the best way—short, sharp snaps of his hips that punch the head of his cock right against your cervix over and over, stretching you open, filling you so completely you feel split apart and whole at the same time. Your cunt is dripping around him, slick running down his shaft, coating his balls, mixing with the jacuzzi water in obscene little currents. Every plunge makes a wet squelch that echoes off the marble, filthy soundtrack to the way he’s ruining you.
You’re trembling, thighs shaking, body strung so tight you can barely breathe. His free hand slips between you, thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight, relentless circles that match the rhythm of his cock driving into you. The dual assault is too much—clit throbbing under his calloused thumb, walls stretched wide around his thick length, cervix kissed hard with every thrust.
“Hiromi—oh god—I’m—”
“That’s it,” he rasps, lips brushing your ear, breath hot and ragged. “Come for me, pretty girl. Let that tight little cunt milk my cock. Gonna fill you up so deep you’ll feel me leaking out of you for days.”
The orgasm hits like a tidal wave. Your back arches violently, head thrown back on a broken scream of his name as your cunt clamps down like a vice around him. Walls spasming hard, fluttering wildly, trying to pull him deeper while slick gushes out around his shaft in hot, messy pulses. Your clit throbs under his thumb, body shaking apart as pleasure rips through you in blinding waves, cunt squeezing him so tight it’s almost painful for both of you.
He follows right after.
A low, guttural groan tears from his throat as his hips snap forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt. His cock pulses thick and hot inside you, swelling even bigger as the first thick rope of cum floods your narrow walls. You feel it—hot, heavy spurts painting your cervix, filling every inch of your tight channel until there’s no room left. It keeps coming, pulse after pulse, his balls tightening against you as he empties himself deep, so deep you swear you can feel it pressing against your womb. Your cunt flutters helplessly around the stretch, milking him greedily, pulling every last drop while excess spills out around his base, thick white streaks leaking down his shaft and into the water below.
He keeps grinding slow through it, shallow little rolls that push his cum deeper, smearing it against your walls, making a filthy mess between your bodies. You’re both shaking, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together as the aftershocks ripple through you. His cock twitches one final time inside your stuffed cunt, another weak spurt leaking out before he finally stills.
For a long moment there’s only the hum of the jets, the soft lap of water, your ragged breaths mingling in the steam-thick air.
Then he softens. Hands sliding up your back in slow, soothing strokes, cupping your face so he can kiss you—gentle now, sweet, lips brushing yours like he’s drinking you in all over again. Soft pecks turn into lazy open-mouthed kisses, tongues sliding together slow and filthy, tasting sweat and cum and everything you just shared.
“My perfect girl,” he whispers against your mouth, voice hoarse and reverent. “Always making the best decisions. wanting that jacuzzi, wanting me to fill you up like this—you were right. You always know exactly what we need.”
Another kiss, deeper this time, his tongue stroking yours while his hands roam your body like he can’t stop touching. “So fucking beautiful when you come for me. So tight, so wet, taking every drop like you were made for it. God, I love you—love how greedy this little cunt gets for my cum.”
You whimper softly into his mouth, cunt giving one last weak flutter around his softening cock, pushing more of his spend out to drip down your thighs. He chuckles low, kissing the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the tip of your nose.
“Stay like this a minute longer,” he murmurs, arms wrapping around you to hold you close, cock still nestled deep inside where it’s warm and full and leaking slowly. “Let me feel you clenching around me while I kiss my pretty wife. You did so good—took me so well. Always do.”
He keeps murmuring praise against your skin, soft words pressed into your neck, your collarbone, your lips—telling you how perfect you are, how much he loves giving you everything you want, how he’ll replace every old thing in this house if it means more nights like this. Sweet kisses follow every word, lazy and lingering, until the water cools and your bodies are boneless and sated.
And still he holds you.
Still he stays inside.
Still he whispers how good you are.
Because you asked for this life with him—and he’s always been the kind of man who listens.
warnings: pussy eating, fingering, ass play (if u don’t like getting ur ass ate keep it to urself), SEX, you just turned 21 in this and ony is 19 turning 20, ony is a soft dom i stand by this.
based off real events i had to write about it.
It was during a small house party that you and Ony first met. The theme of the event was cowboy. Your jeans shorts are slightly ripped, and your ass is poking out from the bottom. You were wearing a pink flannel shirt that was wrapped under your tits to form a crop top. Your cowboy boots clicked with every step you made, and with the clacking of your matching earrings against your chain, you can be sure that you’re making your presence known.
A faint echo of Latin music was heard throughout the house you were in. After downing four shots of Don Julio in one hour, your throat was burning from the strong taste you experienced. Despite that, what you’re really focused on is the man who introduced himself to you the minute you came back from your friend Alyssa’s room.
You were oblivious to his presence. To celebrate Alyssa’s birthday party, you went first to introduce yourself to her family, but when you got to him, you noticed him staring at you while licking his smooth, two-toned lips. You don’t think you’ve ever seen a look that fits so well on a man before.
He greeted you with a smile as you entered for a hug, believing he was a family member. When you release him, he extends his hand to shake with an intense gaze, his large tatted palm covering yours completely. “Nice to meet you. My name is Onyankopon, but you can call me Ony for short.”
The hairs on your back stood up, and goosebumps formed on your skin when you heard his deep voice. You ignored it, thinking you were just cold. That’s the only plausible explanation for your reaction.
You reacted promptly with a smile that was half-trinkled, never losing eye contact or letting go of his hand. “It’s nice to meet you too, I’m (✿).”
You assumed that was the final encounter you’d have with him throughout the night. It’s true that you didn’t even consider thinking about it after that because you believed he was a family member of your friend.
But there he was, right next to you on the steps leading up to the crowded house. It was a friendly conversation, questions of ‘So, how do you know Alyssa?’ ‘Oh, you’re in college?’ ‘What do you study?’
He provided you with information about himself, including his disinterest in attending college, his ambition to serve in the Marines, and his future plans. When you ask him why, you can’t help but notice that he looks at you with greater intensity when he whispers, “I like a challenge.”
You could’ve sworn that had a double meaning. Was he talking about you? Did he let you know that he wants you to pose a challenge to him? You would’ve kept pondering it if you both weren’t interrupted by your friends, who dragged you away from him and back inside the house for another shot. He followed you without delay, something you weren’t expecting.
The rest of the hour was spent in different corners of the house with your respected group of friends. Ony was proud of the looks he would cast at you from across the room. You would try and fail to not catch glances at him occasionally— but he was so fine. The struggle was intense. Not only was he tall, reaching at least 6’2– but he was also respectful, soft-spoken, and had a beautiful face. It was causing you to sweat.
You see Alyssa approaching you and another group of friends, squeezing Ony’s shoulder with her arm, even though he had to bend slightly due to his height. Her question is prompt, “Okay, guys, how old you think he is?”
You’re the first to respond, and you feel a bit nervous to keep going when you notice all the attention, especially his attention, on you. Your breath hiccups, but you’re never one to back down from a challenge. Your long lashes are tickling your upper eyelid while you stare at him right back.
“…25?” Your tone was unsure but lighthearted.
He snorts at that, and when Alyssa turns to ask the rest of your friends the same question, his piercing eyes never leave your pretty face. It’s not your thing to mess with anyone younger than yourself, even if it wasn’t by a significant amount. Imagine the shock you felt when it was revealed that he was only nineteen years old, turning twenty in two months.
For the rest of the night, you tried to avoid him genuinely. You were only twenty-one years old; there wasn’t that huge of an age gap between you two. Though, the idea still stands. He was younger than you, and honestly, that should have been a dealbreaker. But whenever you went somewhere, he would always be there, striking up conversations with you and taking shots with you. Eventually, you both ended up in the bouncy house that your friend rented for a few hours. It was impossible to deny the tension between you two; at least, that’s how he saw it.
You were not fond of the taste of alcohol, and you drunkenly admitted that you “Can still taste how disgusting it is.”
He was smooth, and the words tumbling from his lips were effortless, “Yeah? I really like the taste, actually. I can wash it off for you.”
You were supposed to take a minute to process what he said, but it seems you were waiting for an invitation instead. Waiting for him to start something. Your eyes still widen, shifting from where you’re seated to the brown eyes that never leave your face before you quietly let out a meek, “Really? How?”
“Let me show you.”
He shrugs and is unmoved by the other people around you in the bouncy house. Before you know it, a warm hand is holding your face, and a pair of soft lips are pressing against your glossed ones. This wasn’t a kiss that started off slowly. It was a more intense and passionate experience, purely driven by lust and a desire for more. More of you. He gently pulls you towards him, gripping the back of your neck to bring your face even closer to him as he slips his tongue into your mouth.
You’re gasping against his mouth, trying to pull back for air, but he’s become insatiable. When you finally manage to breathe in, he doesn’t let you get far. His teeth pull at your lips before dragging you into another heated kiss again. His broad hands never fail to wander down your body, sliding down to palm your ass and lightly grazing your pussy from behind. Your soft moan against his lips is solely a reflection of his imagination of how he can make you scream and beg for more. Fuck, you were really bad.
Ony pulls away for a second to whisper, “Let’s get somewhere more private. That okay with you, mama?”
The way this man had your clit trembling in your panties made it more than okay. Your entire rule of not entertaining anyone younger than you went out the window the moment his piercing, long tongue penetrated the inside of your dripping walls in the back seat of his Dodge Charger.
You were about three blocks away from the party, so no one could actually hear the obscene slurping sounds Ony was making against your pussy. Your mind was getting foggy, blank even with every flick of his tongue on your twitching clit. You don’t think you’ve ever gotten head that good before. You can even remember the tears teetering down your face when he made you cream a second time without even putting his dick in you.
He was right. Speculations he had the whole night about how you would sound even prettier when he was battering up your insides. He was absolutely right about them. You were spellbinding. Your cunt’s tight grip on his fat cock enticed him with each mean stroke he fed you. His leaking tip would forcefully nudge that spongy spot, leading to your choked cries.
He swore he reached even deeper inside of you when he pushed your legs up to your neck. Even if he tried, he couldn’t remove you from his mind.
You were an unforgettable experience. It’s why he had to fuck you again. You were too weak to go inside and function properly among your friends again, and the newly obsessed man had no problem ensuring that you got home safely. Ony was compelled to get your number, social media, or anything else before letting you leave his car. It wasn’t surprising when he texted you the next morning to ask if you were free later.
You had made a promise to yourself that it would only happen once more. Gave yourself a pep talk even before you texted him to pull up to your apartment. That one time quickly turned into two. Then, two became five. Five became a four-month arrangement of friends with benefits.
He came to see you four days a week, not just for sex. Ony would take you on shopping dates, run errands with you, and bring you your favorite flowers at least once a week. Since he never made it official, you assumed you were friends. You honestly didn’t think he was the type to settle down. Maybe this was just fun for him.
Therefore, you didn’t consider it a major problem to dance and grind on a random guy at Nebula, one of your favorite clubs.
You were tipsy. Your homegirls were dispersed throughout the area with their own dance partners, and you were genuinely having the time of your life. Ony should’ve been the last thing on your mind, but whenever the man behind you brushes up against you, you can’t help but compare it to him.
Ony would’ve grabbed your hips harshly and pressed them against him to make you feel just how hard he’s gotten for you. His finger would have slowly moved up to where your panties were while whispering in your ear that you’re the prettiest girl in the room tonight. By now, Ony would have taken you away, not before turning your head to him and pulling you in for a bruising kiss that would have surely smeared across your face.
You’re shaken out of your thoughts when you hear the man behind you shout by your ear.
“Wanna get out of here? I’ll show you a great time.”
It’s obvious that the answer is no. You’re about to respond, but a deep voice interrupts you. Your entire body is moved, and you are held firmly in place on your chest with a firm grip on your waist.
“Nah. She’s good.” The cologne’s scent was enough to identify who it was. Although he seemed calm, you could tell his voice was strained and tight, almost like he was holding back. It’s evident from the man’s expression that he’s intimidated by Ony’s tall stature. He didn’t waste any time leaving both of you between the throng of people on the dance floor.
Before you can register what happened, Ony’s hand slips off your waist and grasps yours firmly, leading you away from the crowd and into the street. Your heart pumps with every step you take, not just because of the alcohol in your system but also because Ony hasn’t spoken to you yet. Once outside, he finally acknowledges you and gazes deeply into your eyes before scanning your body. The skimpy outfit you’re wearing triggers him to give you another clenched jaw, which leaves you unsure of what to do.
You feel like his gaze is burning into your skin; the intensity is too intense, and you can’t bring your eyes to meet his. The confidence you felt earlier disappears as you swallow hard under his scrutiny. The silence between you both is heavy, and you can sense the tension building up every second.
Finally, he speaks, his voice low and controlled as he addresses you. “The fuck were doing in that club (✿)?”
He knows precisely what you were doing. You understand that he was giving you an opportunity to state your case. To clarify exactly why you were dancing in the club, grinding on someone who clearly wasn’t him. There was no argument between you that he was aware of. You were just at his house, laid up in his bed two days ago. Was he missing something?
You reply, your voice barely above a whisper, “I was just dancing.”
“Dancing?” You wince a bit when he repeats your words back to you. “On someone that wasn’t me? Why are you playing in my face, mama?”
His words are heavy with frustration at your actions. He doesn’t believe it’s possible to make him even more irritated, but your following words disprove his belief.
“Oh my god. We aren’t even together, Ony.”
Silence. And then a blur. The only accurate way to describe how you ended up on your knees in his rear seat, trying to catch your breath while Ony feverishly sucked on the fat of your pussy lips. In the midst of the pleasurable onslaught on your poor clit, you make an effort to stay still and learn how to breathe correctly.
You’re addictive, honestly. The sweetness of your juices reaches his awaiting mouth, reminding him of sweet honey. He wants more. He wants all of you.
“O-Ony! That’s- That’s not my-”
Fuck, you’re so cute. “I know, baby. Feels good, right?”
Your face fell flush against the seat as you let out a cute gasp. Your beautiful cries are starting to sound more airy as you try to keep your balance on the door handle. You have no choice but to take it as Ony moves his tongue around your puckered rim, suckling and slurping as if you were giving him his life force.
He was everything but neat. The combination of his own drool and your arousal was leaking onto his leather seats, but he didn’t give it a thought. He didn’t consider this punishment for you, he only wanted to get a taste of you that bad. This is also an attempt to get you prepared for the beating he’s going to give your perfect pussy in the next few minutes.
You start panting as Ony quickly inserts his ring and middle finger into your dripping hole, never removing his lips from your puffy rim and even past the tight muscle. He can tell you’re too out of it to notice how eagerly you’re pushing back on his fingers. The man doesn’t stop you; rather, he tightens his grip on your hips to guide your movements in the way he wants.
You’re shivering, “I’m- Oh! Fuck- I’m gonna-”
He can easily hit that spot thanks to this angle, and his fingers were already so long that it’s not hard for him to continue pressing there. Ony is well-versed in the ways to make you weak and crave for him, even outside of the bedroom, no matter who you were with. When your legs start shaking and the melodies you’re making start turning into breathy gasps, that’s when he’s sure.
“You look so pretty, mama. Why don’t you go ahead and let go, hm?
His voice is muffled, never once straying from his position between your ass cheeks, but you can hear the words he’s uttering. Your mouth drops into a wanton moan as you feel the band in your abdomen snap quickly when he rubs tight circles on your pulsating clit. The lewd sounds your messy cunt is making come from the beautiful clear stream gushing out of your pussy onto Ony’s face.
Ony can’t breathe as he drowns himself in you, but he figures death by good pussy isn’t a bad way to go out. Your eyes start filling with tears after he finally pulls away when you start getting overstimulated. He wasn’t here to take his time with you. The thought of the guy you danced with asking to take you home starts swirling back in his mind, and his frustration is rising tenfold.
He honestly didn’t believe that telling you that you were dating was necessary. His assumption was that based on your actions, his care for you, and even your occasional ‘I love you’ statements, you were together. He didn’t believe it was something he had to spell out for you.
It’s hardly a break before Ony flips you on your back and pulls you closer to his tip. You find yourself captivated by the sight of his dick. Ony was large, with a length of at least eight inches, a slight curve to the right. But what made him more intimidating was how girthy he was. Stretching you came easily. No matter how wet you got before he pushed his dick in you, it wasn’t enough to calm your fears. His slush-soaked brown tip was so close to your tight hole.
He leans down to whisper in your ear, rubbing the head of his cock up and down between your lower lips, “Don’t forget to scream real loud for Daddy, okay?”
That’s the only warning you get before Ony pulls your hips towards him and slowly impales you onto his length. He tosses his head back with a groan, and you feel too full. You couldn’t do much but wheeze. Any moans you had were muffled by his lips pressed flush against yours. It was so hard not to clamp up, but you swore you could feel him in your throat.
When he finally removes his lips from your lips, you scream into his shoulder. You were already half full with him, and you knew exactly what he was going to do when he pulled his hips back slowly. Yet, you’re still unprepared when he abruptly meets your hips harshly. Your body is firmly pressed against Ony’s seats while he gives you deep and fast strokes, causing you to wail.
“Fuck! Daddy!”
You’re trying to keep up with him, trying to keep up with his pace, but every time you finally catch your breath, it’s snapped away from you again. His thrusts were relentless, reaching your G-spot with ease and causing you to lose all sense of time. How did you even get here?
He’s speaking to you, you notice. “You weren’t gonna let him in this pussy were you, mama? In my pussy?”
The speed with which he has you shaking is truly embarrassing. The pressure you felt was incessantly building up, and you could sense him everywhere. Your high-pitched cries didn’t provide an adequate response for Ony. Your knees are pushed back until they reach your ears. This man treated your body like it was nothing more than a fleshlight.
“Answer me, (✿).”
You’re whining, eyes rolling in the back of your head as you gargle out, “N-no! Would- would never give away your p-pussy.”
He’s cooing when he responds, “Yeah? It’s all mine, mama?”
“All y-yours, daddy. Augh! Right t-there! Only yours.”
Ony listens to you. Though he doesn’t need you to tell him to keep his strokes a certain way, he’s very attentive to what you need. In this moment, it’s him. He drives himself deeper inside of you, and your jaw is starting to go slack.
There’s a throbbing inside of you; you can feel the heat radiating off of his warm body. He’s peppering light kisses across your jaw and on your face. “Cum for me. Show me that it’s mine.”
Soon, you’re gushing.
Your second orgasm hits you hard. It pulls the life out of your already weak body. You were caged entirely under Ony’s body, your entire face contorting in uncontrollable pleasure.
You’re babbling words he’s not even sure are real, and your pussy squirts all over his chest, squeezing and twitching onto him. When he glances down to see the beautiful mess you made, he’s caught off guard by his own release, the sight of your sticky cream coating his cock enough to make him shiver.
The feeling of being filled up by Ony makes you weak and breathless because there’s just so much of it. It no doubt overflowed onto the floor of his car. He keeps his forehead pressed against yours, and you expect him to get pull out after a second, but he’s still hard. Your body is glistening in sweat, and your lips are swollen and bruised.
Ony’s not ready to pull out of you yet. His appetite for you tonight is seemingly unquenchable. While still inside of you, he flips you back on your knees. A large hand is pressing against your back, putting your body into a perfect arch. He ignores your whines when he pulls your fat ass apart, revealing your pretty asshole just twinkling at him. Could you blame him really for slowly pressing his middle finger inside?
“By the way,” He feels the need to address something before he continues his assault on your cervix.
“I think we should make this official. Don’t you, mama?”
The beginning of your second semester was in just a few days and to say you were excited was an understatement. Right before the first semester ended, you had undergone a ‘second’ spiritual awakening, as you like to call it. You decided you were tired of meaningless sex, worn out from talking to random guys, knowing they were leading nowhere; it never felt aligned with your spirit. The man you were having a fling with was supposed to be just that, a fling. But, of course, you ended up catching feelings.
It was ironic since you were the one who labeled it so as not to catch feelings, but of course, the universe reminded you that your soul wasn’t like that. Sex was an extremely big deal for you, so while he was attractive and could put it down better than the average man, his lack of appreciation was evident. His disrespect left you no choice but to sever ties completely; you blocked him on all socials, removing him from your life completely.
That same week, you had taken the time to really connect with the spiritual side of yourself again. You went back to doing shadow work to confront and shed your limiting beliefs while unpacking your trauma. Starting meditation again became a part of your daily routine, and you even started watching podcasts giving advice on how to liberate yourself from your past.
You started to take care of your physical health, too, signing up for a gym membership and eating full meals with a lot of protein to get your ass right. You were feeling like yourself again, and the feeling of liberation it brought was profound.
You had reevaluated your opinion and feelings toward money, too, deciding that every cent spent would be towards elevating your life one way or another. The universe, naturally rewarded your high vibration, drawing abundance to you in unprecedented ways. Your college sent you a generous check of $10,000, which you ensured was put to good use.
And fast forward just two months into your second semester, it was.
Your life had ascended to an entirely new level: your lashes were consistently sitting pretty, you were opting for waxing every 3-4 weeks, and your wardrobe underwent a complete overhaul- all in shades of pink, of course.
While you always prioritized your hygiene with the money your parents provided you with, now it was tenfold. You invested in new skincare and body care, and your hair flaunted a freshly laid style every 2-3 weeks. Your appearance radiated beauty, mirroring the inner confidence you felt. Thanks to your mindset, showed up as your best self every day.
In your macroeconomics class, you pondered all this, sitting adorable in a light pink tracksuit. The zipper of your sweater was slightly lowered, revealing your perky breasts, while a subtle smile graced your full brown glossed lips. You snapped out of your daze when you heard a whisper of your name from behind you.
“Y/n,” his deep, husky voice caused an immediate reaction within you. Your body moved on its own accord to face him, Onyankopon. Your attraction toward him grew slowly but gradually; it crept up on you unexpectedly. You remember when you first looked at him, immediately struck by his towering stance and commanding presence.
Despite your own tall stature, standing at an impressive 5’8, you were accustomed to men around your height or just slightly taller. It came as a surprise when you found yourself having to crane your neck to meet his gaze. What made your panties drop was his need to bend down slightly to catch your soft-spoken words. This was new.
The universe has to be testing you. What other reason could there possibly be? The way he looked at you, so deep into your soul when he asked you a question about the group project your professor assigned. His gentle manner of speaking made it feel as though it was just the two of you in the entire classroom. It had to be a test.
You’re tuned back into the classroom atmosphere when a large tatted hand waves slowly in your face. Blinking rapidly, you immediately chide yourself inwardly for having been caught staring straight at him without saying anything.
“Oh, sorry,” you murmur, avoiding his intense gaze. You silently plead with the universe, questioning why he had to look at you like that.
Ony chuckles at your embarrassment, he found you adorable. “You good, mama. But for our project, we’d set up a biomass service with an active but limited government, right?” his head tilts curiously as he addresses you, getting lost in your perfect face.
“Uh- yea. We’d have market prices to help fund it, too,” you whispered back to him, missing the way his eyes were studying your face. To him, you are stunning beyond measure. When he first introduced himself, he felt that beautiful was too inadequate of a word to describe you. He couldn’t stop himself from getting lost in your captivating energy.
Too entranced, he simply nodded at your answer, licking his lips while looking at yours. Your professor ended the class early today, assigning an assignment based on a textbook specifically meant for that class—a textbook you hadn’t bothered to spend your money on.
After packing your belongings, you made your way to the front of the class to sign your name in for attendance; while doing so, you heard the sugary voice of your professor,
“You know the project is due in around two weeks, so I wanted to check in on you and see how your progress with your group is so far,”
The minute she said this, an almost forgotten idea came into your head as you quickly replied, “Oh, right! I wanted to ask you to look over what we have so far, to make sure we’re on the right path.”
She immediately nodded affirmatively, “Of course, show me.”
You swiftly pulled out your laptop with a smile, expecting it to open instantly since you had just closed it. To your dismay, you were wrong— so wrong. Glancing around the almost empty classroom, you turned your attention to your computer to figure out exactly why it was taking so long to open, only to find the word ‘updating’ displayed. This prompted frown to crease on your face. I just closed it. Why is it updating now? you thought.
You sensed his presence before laying eyes on him, feeling his towering and imposing figure approach from directly behind you. Instinctively you pressed your full hips against the desk you were leaning on to not accidentally graze him. He was so big though; you knew if you turned around you wouldn’t find much space between the two of you. he stood right next to you.
You glanced around the room once more, only to find it empty. Inwardly rolled your eyes, you couldn’t help but attribute this to the universe when you peeked back at your laptop and found the PowerPoint for your project finally displayed on your screen.
Interrupting the conversation Ony and your professor were having about his last basketball game of the season, you turned your computer to show your professor all the slides you had finished. What you didn’t anticipate was Ony also looking at it.
You could sense his gaze on you, observing your every move as you flipped through the slides, listening to the praise your professor bestowed upon you after each one. When you finally finished and stood up straight, you turned to look up at him, only to find him already staring at you, his expression one of awe. Time seemed to freeze for a good minute as you locked eyes with him. The tension between you was palpable, so thick that for a moment, you wondered if your professor could sense it too, as she continued to praise the work you had done, casting a glance at both of you with a small smile on her face.
You quickly looked away and closed your computer once more, placing it in your knitted tote bag that was decorated in pink bows. Fuck.
You were planning on leaving, not wanting to overstay when you noticed he asked a question to clarify your research paper due a month from now. You couldn’t excuse yourself just yet because although the question was for him specifically, she addressed both of you when she answered.
You think that if you stayed this close to him for another minute, your slick would drip down on the floor from how wet you were getting, especially from the casual glances he kept sending your way while your professor rambled on.
When she finished, you didn’t hesitate to leave, wishing her a good weekend without acknowledging Ony, too afraid you might embarrass yourself. Once again, he simply glanced at you, admiring how your ass looked so plump and fat in the pretty tracksuit you wore. Your colorful waist beads and dermal piercings only adding onto your irresistible allure.
He found himself needing to adjust his sweats, feeling his bulge growing larger as his thoughts drifted to how he simply wanted to hold you, love you—he yearned to consume you completely. You were driving him insane.
You knew of your crush on Ony, but you had ignored it knowing how intense your feelings could become when you liked someone. You just started your spiritual journey again; you didn’t have the time to like someone. You were determined not to entertain it, but with each encounter during your class and even occasionally seeing him outside of class, the urge to get closer to him only intensified.
You went about the rest of classes for the day seamlessly, trying to forget about the 6’7 man that began consuming your mind on a daily basis. Fortunately, you hadn’t seen him for the rest of the day, which you were grateful for, you didn’t know if your panties could handle anymore.
The moment you opened the door to your studio apartment, your beautiful black cat greeted you instantly.
“Hi, my baby,” you cooed as you bent down slightly to pet her. She greatly accepted the attention, instantly trilling at you and rolling over on her back to showcase her stomach.
Later that night you promptly took a cold shower, cleansing your body of all the energies that had attached themselves to you from spending all day around people. Once done, you wrapped your pink towel around your body and sat on the edge of your bed to light your Venus Rose incense. This was your peace.
You reached over to your bedside table, taking your strawberry hemp lotion and treating your body to a much need massage. Then, you grabbed your shea butter baby oil and repeated the same process. Opting to stay naked for the night, you settled back on your silk pillows and basked in the moment.
Your moment was interrupted by a sudden ding on your phone. You smiled when you realized who it was. it was from one of your closest friends, your only friend after you had removed all the toxic people from your life, checking up on you.
Her name was Josefina, and that girl was your rock. one of the few people in your life that encouraged your growth and wasn’t afraid to call you out on your shit when you weren’t on top of game. And of course, you did the same for her. You hadn’t told her about this crush yet, and honestly you were nervous to do so.
“So, i have to tell you something,” you start after you both had been rambling on the phone for about 20 minutes. She gives you a look that can only be described as, ‘what now’. You have a reputation for relying on your intuition and making decisions based on your feelings, but she didn’t judge. Instead, she simply tilted her head and nodded, indicating that she was listening attentively.
“I have a crush on this guy in my group for the big project I told you about. his name is Ony and he is so tall and big girl, oh my god,” you let out a slight squeal as you drift off into a daydream about him.
She giggles at your reaction and lets out a small sigh of relief, which you notice.
“Bitch, i thought you went back to the dread-head you were fucking”, you shoot her a disgusted glance at the mere suggestion, causing her to laugh even harder before she goes on, “I know you don’t like confrontation, so let’s start small, yeah? You have an assignment due next week, right? Just ask him for the textbook since you don’t have it.”
Your eyes widen, and you start making small kissing noises through the screen as if she were there to receive them. “I love you so bad, i’m gonna give you a big kiss when i see you,” she returns the sentiment with a flushed face before you move on to another topic. You both stay on the phone for another hour, discussing your beliefs and interests. This was how it always was with her; you never felt the need to prove yourself, it was effortless to just be yourself.
The weekend arrived swiftly, almost unexpectedly so. With the looming threat of a failing grade and the risk of plummeting from a 3.7 GPA to a mere 2, the only option left was to muster the courage and text your crush, requesting the textbook you desperately needed.
You pull his number from the group chat that included everyone in your group and immediately got to work.
Your heart was beating abnormally fast, you’re going to his dorm. The same thought repeated in your mind at least 30 times before you actually got up and started getting ready. You search through your closet and select a pink tube top that fits snugly around your chest, pairing it with a long, flowing black skirt that grazes the floor. Naturally, you accessorize your outfit with a variety of waist beads and a jade Buddha necklace.
You swiftly fix the baby hairs on your black curly lace and send Ony your location, with a small text of ‘I'm ready,’ accompanying. When he notified you that the Uber had arrived, you hurriedly slipped on your beach sandals and grabbed your laptop and keys. The ride felt long, your nerves ramping up with each passing moment. Finally arriving on campus, you made your way to his dorm room and knocked. As the door opened, your breath caught in your throat at the sight of him, shirtless. Gray sweats hanging dangerously low on his hips, his fat bulge just staring at you.
Why? Why is it so big?
It felt as if time stood still in that moment, and you could only hope for the universe’s mercy.
“Come in, mama” he urges you in with a hand on your lower waist, lightly grazing your dermal piercings. Ony felt weak in the knees when you walked through his door. You were tempting him. With your pretty belly ring of the Ankh symbol twinkling at him. His mind went straight to the rapid movements they would make once he had your smooth legs on his shoulders, feeding you deep thrusts. You were tempting him, you had to be.
“You don’t have a roommate?” You look around the large tidy dorm, but you realized you only saw one set of keys by the door. He takes your laptop and keys and places it on the small wooden desk in front of his couch, right next to the textbook you needed.
He hums, “Nah, I need my privacy,” He grabs your hand and sits you down right next to him. You felt shivers run down your spine from the mere heat coming off of his palm. “You want some water before we start, mama?”
You flush at the pet name he always uses and look down at your classic french nails. “No, thank you Ony.”
Ony didn’t like when you avoided his stare, he wanted to see your beautiful brown eyes. He wanted to see your soul.
“Can you look at me?” He whispers and runs a crooked finger under your chin and tilts it towards him. Your lips were so plump and he held back a groan when you released a small gasp at his action. Your eyes flicker between your nails and his eyes until they finally relax into his gaze.
You could get lost in the way he looks at you, so sinful and passionate. The passion you’ve been longing for. Ony sensed this as he gives a sly smile, “There you go, good girl.”
Fuck. You’re sure the thong you put on 30 minutes ago were already drenched in your mess. If you had the bet, they probably stained your skirt too. That’s the effect he had on you. Ony was in the same boat you were, he knew what he was doing when he put on those gray sweats before he opened the door. Once you glanced down for a split second at his lap and quickly looked up, avoiding his stare yet again, he knew his plan had worked. You can’t get anything past him.
“You want it baby? I’ll give it to you. All you need to do is ask.” His hand began gripping your throat slowly, but firm. You gasped as he pulled you towards him. You were a breath away from his lips, and honestly you couldn’t take the tension anymore.
“O-Ony- We have to work on-” He cuts off your stumbled words before you could finish.
“But you want it, right?” He noticed the way you rubbed your thighs together when he tightened his grip on your throat. He leans to give a small peck to your adam’s apple causing you to grip his shoulders, his big shoulders. “Tell me you want it Y/n.”
“Please- ah!” Ony sucked on a particular sweet spot, hard. He tried to wait until you were at least half way done with the assignment, but how dare you? How dare you come into his dorm looking the way you did? And you expected him not to rip everything off of you and ravage your entire being? Silly you.
That’s how you found yourself in your current position On your back with your lace thong hanging off the tip of his TV and your thighs suffocating his head as he completely sucked the soul out of your clit. Ony was a desperate man, and after one taste of the heavenly slick between your legs, he couldn’t function properly anymore without being in it.
“Oh f-fuck Ony-” He hummed encouragingly and licked faster, eager to taste your cum, eager to see your twisted face when you cum for him.
“You got it, mama. Fuck you taste so good.” You couldn’t handle the pressure you felt, his tongue was eating you so fast. You let out a sinful moan when his tongue started moving in and out of your little quivering hole. Your back arched up off the couch as you grind your lower hips on his wet face. You were dripping everywhere.
You didn’t know what to grab, your hands scrambling around your pretty tits to the couch then back to your tits again. You couldn’t think- you had no thoughts in your brain but Ony and more.
Something was coming, you felt the boiling heat in your lower stomach. And Ony knew what was coming when your angelic mewls started getting shaky and you began pushing your hips away from the onslaught on your poor drenched pussy. He wasn’t having any of that, he tightens his grip on your hips right below your waist beads.
“S-shit I’m- Oh fuck. Ony I-” He somehow went faster, his tongue rolling all over your engorged bud. He ignored your attempts to tap out, he just wanted to please you. Can’t you see that? Why were you running away from him?
“Don’t run Y/n.” The mere octave in his voice caused a broken whimper to escape your messy glossed lips. You were an absolute mess, just from his skillful tongue alone. Your wig slightly lifting, your breathing erratic and irregular, drool now falling, and your arousal overflowing onto both his face and couch. Ony liked you like this. No, he loved you like this.
Your mouth opened into a silent scream, you came unexpectedly rapid. There was no warning when you did, you saw white spots in your vision and wailed out “Ony!”You just gave Ony everything you had, cream and squirt, and Ony, like the greedy man he was, took it all. Unashamedly so.
You thought he would stop after your hips stuttered and bucked for the fifth time in a row, but it’s a good thing you don’t get paid for thinking.
Ony grunted out in between what he decided was his meal, sending heavy shockwaves against your dripping core, “Don’t wanna-” Slurp. “Can’t fuck you without-” Slurp. “Taking you out first.” Squelch. “So let me eat you, okay, mama?” Squish. “You can take it, I know you can.”
You felt your clit twitch in his warm mouth. Ony wanted more from you, so, he took his long middle finger and easily slipped it inside your fluttering hole. Your eyes rolled into the back of your skull and you choked out another loud cry.
He started slow, barely reaching deep in you but he got mesmerized at the way your pussy juice was leaking onto his palm, so he gradually went faster. He wanted more. He latched onto your clit again and coaxes another tatted finger inside of you, splitting apart your warm walls. He became obsessed with the strangled noises you sung out.
“Oh-Oh god. Ah!” You squeal when he curls his fingers against your g-spot and abuses the spongy spot repeatedly. You couldn’t take it. You think you were hyperventilating, but he somehow managed to keep you calm when he intertwined his fingers with yours gently. His dynamic was making your mind scramble. The way he sucked the life out of you while gently caressing your soft hands couldn’t be normal.
You were becoming breathless when you felt the same fire from before come back, tenfold. You were going to lose it.
Ony encouraged you with a muffled voice, “Yeah baby, just like that. Come for me, I’m right here.” He didn’t want to let up for a second. Your body listens against your minds will. You knew you were safe, drenching his face in your essence felt safe. You scream out one last breathy moan before Ony pulls away from your sticky fat pussy lips.
If he didn’t stop now, the girthy cock he had in his pants would’ve have completely battered your pussy in the next second. And like he told you, he wanted to court you first. You gasp and fall down heavily on your back, your breathing loud as you try and catch your shaky breaths.
“You good?” He asks as he looks up at your blissed out face from his kneeled position. This nigga is not serious. Asking if you’re good after he just obliterated your pussy before he even got to fuck you. You didn’t respond, only gave him an exasperated look, which he chuckled at.
“I didn’t want to see you like this before I properly asked you out. But, you just looked so pretty.” He begins as he gets up and walks a few feet away from you to get you some water and a wet wipes. If Ony hadn’t left you temporarily immobilized you would’ve covered your face in embarrassment.
“You make me weak Y/n, and I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t take this chance. Let me take you on a date..please?” He sounded so vulnerable, his voice had a hint of pleading attached to it. You wanted this man so bad, it was impossible for you to say no. He cleaned you up as he awaited your answer with high breaths of anxiety.
You whisper in a hoarse voice, “Yes- yes Ony.” You pull him down towards you and wrap your thighs around his waist. You smiled as your mind went back to the Tarot reading you did last week that promised love in the near future. Maybe, just maybe, this was it. Ony could do nothing but fall harder.
a/n: to all of my formula 1 authors, your work has gotten me through this summer semester and i thank you 🫡. what started as a curiosity, grew into a love for a sport i didn't know existed until a month ago and i love you all. (also i apologize for spamming y'all, pls don't block me 🙏🏽🩷)
ATTACK ON TITAN:
Multi-Character
You Went Out Looking a Lil Bit Too Good — @morgluvsconnie ༝༚༝༚
Singing “I’d Rather Fuck on My Ex Again” and Posting it on Your Story — @loveforeren ༝༚༝༚
