summary: You’ve been scared of intimacy since you can remember. So, what happens when Joel — your father’s best friend, and the only reliable parental figure you’ve had in your life — catches you in a rather compromising position on halloween? And, then, what happens when Joel finally decides you’re in for some tough loving?
warnings: potentially dubcon. smut. daddy kink. read at your own risk!
(aaand we’re back! this is quite easily my favorite thing i’ve written so far. it’s very self indulgent. i hope you enjoy! title song is “can’t nobody love you” by the zombies!!!)
You don’t know how to feel now that Joel has actually caved.
Now that he’s allowed himself to feed on your desires.
Or, rather, what you thought you desired.
You felt grown when you were pursuing Joel. A dirty albeit grown, adult girl.
But now? You felt anything but that.
Joel.
Joel dad’s-best-friend-Joel. Uncle Joel. Your old man, Joel. Your dad’s buddy, Joel — beer buddy Joel. Joel, Joel, Joel.
Fuck. Joel? Really?
It started with a look.
A volatile little smile on your birthday — your pink frilled cake, sticky vanilla frosting, and eighteen teensy candles glaring. Holding eye contact with him for far too long to be considered friendly; hoping he’d catch your gaze to see what was written all over your face.
“I’m legal, Joel.”
Joel was never stupid.
In fact, he was always too observant for your liking. Catching you guilty-as-charged on your porch and knowing you just smoked your first joint. Or finding you drinking his beer at an ungodly hour and somehow placing it immediately to your impending graduation. Your least favorite: your red eyes, and Joel’s hug following suit — you and your dad were fighting, Joel figured.
He knew you were a good girl.
Really, Joel knew the purity of your nature better than you’d observed yourself.
Your peeking lace, flirty little smiles and that awful pout you developed after your first semester at college never fooled him. Nope, not one bit.
Joel knew you were a virgin.
You were a nervous thing.
Always have been, always will be.
It’s in your nature, he’s decided. It’s your biological coding. Knew it since you were just a girl.
You were the same with boys your age; hiding at the adult table instead of mingling and doing who-know’s-what with boys like the ‘Felder’s’ eldest son or worse, that punk Scott. Not that he thought of you in that way yet, but it was just something he observed. Your meekness. Your quiet demeanor. The way you were totally uninterested in boys in such a way that your own mother began to worry.
“You know, at her age? I was onto my seventh boyfriend. Seventh! These kids are living in a different age, I suppose.”
So imagine Joel’s surprise pulling up to the bar that night to see sweet thing you: pressed against a brick wall, leg wrapped around some loser with your hand tangled in his hair?
Maybe it was his fault to blame.
Snooping where he didn’t belong.
He knew you would be here. In fact, he had, yes, admittedly followed you to the very bar you’re stood outside of.
But could you blame him?
You’re his responsibility.
Your father’s only daughter, his best buddy’s only child, now under his care while you were home for the holidays.
It doesn’t matter how old you are.
That you’re “an adult”, as you keep reminding him, or that you “know what you want.”
You aren’t old enough to know any better, he’s surmised, but Joel does — for you.
Joel is sure you must have been as equally disturbed upon seeing him. If not more.
He isn’t subtle about it. He doesn’t wait for you to finish whatever the hell you were trying to start.
He simply slams his truck door shut — half surprised the red herring of his faulty engine hadn’t sent you running, knowing you could tell when Joel was over just from the sound of it creaking into your drive away. But, alas, you’re occupied. He marches as silent as the still air outside toward the outline of your silhouette, where you’re shielded by this…. stranger, this random boy, this—
Joel fishes in his pocket and shines his flashlight on the both of you.
You’re the first to pull away.
You jolt as you snap your head up toward Joel with wide-eyes, your doe eyes illuminated in the white harsh exposition of his flashlight.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
This was a scene that could kill a man.
You — good grades you, star pupil you, sorority chair member and babysitter you — barely dressed in your white babydoll and fucking bunny ears.
And how ironic is it that you, caught in a disgusting act, gawk at him with faux innocence; donned in lacey white to match the part. And he would’ve sought you fit for it too, if not for your swollen lips and the smudge of lipstick on your chin. Not to mention the random boy currently swearing at your side.
“Get your ass inside. And don’t make me repeat myself. You hear me?” you hesitate for a moment — still wide-eyed and still frozen under the horrible blaring glare of his hand held torch. You’ve never felt so dirty and vulnerable in your entire life.
Joel growls a deep exhale and shines the light closer toward your face, blinding you and causing you to stumble back against the cold wall behind you.
“You fuckin’ hear me? Scram, kid. Inside. Now.” And you know he isn’t playing any games when he begins to count.
“One….two…” you run into the bar with your hand hovering behind your ass as though you were some child nervously escaping a spanking. You would laugh at yourself if you weren’t so frozen in an all consumable humiliation.
Joel has half the mind to slap the kid that was just eating your face off but he regresses. He knows it wasn’t the boys fault; if anything, it was more likely yours.
While he held your good girl disposition near and dear to his heart, he had noticed your recent rebelling streak.
It was unnatural and awkward.
Coming in the form of wearing dresses so short that you couldn’t even jump out his truck without flashing him; copious frills of red or pink or his personal hell, white, and he couldn’t stand it.
He wondered if college had taken the dear girl he watched you grow into only to snatch you away and morph you into a lady.
A femme fatale. Seductress. Promiscuous like your sorority sisters.
But, no — you were still shy as ever at neighborhood barbecues and still ignoring Scott Felder with the same fervor you had when you were seventeen.
And so to see you like this?
He hadn’t a clue what to do with you.
It could’ve been ten or twenty or even thirty minutes, you weren’t sure, but finally, you hear that unmistakable noise of heavy toed boots clang against the bar floor, and there he is. Making an appearance after all.
For a moment, you were scared he had stranded you here. Or, worse, called your father.
But instead, Joel locks his sight on you and slowly approaches. It isn’t hard. With your ridiculous costume ears still perched on your head. He pulls out the bar stool next to you and immediately waves down the bartender.
He keeps a tab open.
You sit in silence as he nurses his second beer, listening to the screeching noise of his obnoxiously loud sighs as you’re sat shaking on the grimy bar stool beside him.
Waiting for something. Anything.
A shake of his head. A snarl. You’re even finding yourself pleading for his dreaded lectures.
But, alas, he only sits there. Wordless and your stomach churns in anticipation for when his fuse finally implodes.
It ignites slowly.
A small, subtle look your way.
Disappointment.
Burning hot and sparking clear as day on his face.
Then,
and you couldn’t ever predict what he would say,
but he meets your eye and mumbles:
“And here I was, thinkin’ you were a virgin.”
You would say Joel has been a pretty consistent figure in your life.
He’s just been there. You can’t ever really remember when he came onto the scene or when you started to respect, and equally fear him, more than your own old man.
And well, you would say you’ve come to know him pretty well.
You like to think you have a firm understanding of his attitude. You know what makes him temperamental, what he enjoys or doesn’t, observed enough to guess what he would find humorous or instead flat out shun.
You know he’s a secret prude. Brave in a way your father never was, chastising you for skirts he deemed too short,
“two finger rule, sweetheart, c’mon. You know this.”
Blushing when the ‘grownup’ table makes a dirty joke. Usually about his lady of the month. Then lecturing you when he finds you peeping, tutting: “this is a grownup conversation, young lady. Eyes and ears to yourself.”
You remember the first time you saw Joel in a new light: condensation dripping down large fingers. That smirk highlighted by handsome lines of age and sun that weathered his skin. Tan flesh and jeans a bit too tight to really fit him properly. That scolding look of his, always pointed your way.
But in all your years of knowing Joel, nothing could have ever prepared you for this.
Joel Miller who damn nearly had a heart attack when you brought your senior year prom date to greet your father, and Joel — of course.
You never knew him to have the gall.
The nerve.
The obscenity to call you out.
“Thought you were a virgin.”
You choke on your own spit. Half-laughing-and-half-gasping as you try to squawk a retort that just gets stuck in your throat.
He takes a large gulp of his beer. You watch his adam’s apple bob around his sip, stupidly stuttering and now burning in a feverish blush.
“What!-what, what…” he peers at you through his peripheral. “Wh-at? So, so— so virgins aren’t allowed to kiss now, is that what, huh?”
You are just so defensive. For no good reason; he’s the one who caught you in your indecent act. Though, you don’t deny what he’s said either, and a tiny sick part of himself is slightly relieved — for your dignity, of course.
“I ain’t ever know one to kiss like that, that’s for fuckin’ sure.”
“O-kay, Joel. How about you try and stay out of my business, and you won’t have to know a damn thing. Does that work for you?”
Ouch. Well, look at that. You’re embarrassed.
Good, he’s thinking. You should be. You ought to be. But there’s something more, something slightly sinister bubbling below the surface. You’re humiliated, maybe. Pissed at him, even. He’s wondering why you haven’t yet asked him what he was doing at some college bar, but he suspects your unease has you tattered.
“Quit being ugly with me, kid. It’s my job to be lookin’ out for you, and I won’t — while you’re under my roof—”
“I’m sorry, under whose roof?—”
“Don’t go talkin’ back to me. I won’t have you actin’ this way so long as you’re stayin’ here. You hear me?”
You can’t decide whether to laugh or yell at him. “You’re aren’t my father, Joel. It’s not your job to do anything!”
Your shame has brought your claws out; hissing and scratching and clawing deep into wounds you have no business deepening.
There’s a falter in the beat of the room. A stutter. A sliver of light peeking onto skeletons long hidden inside your closet.
You knew it was the wrong thing to say. It felt awkward, somewhat heavy like a lie on your tongue, and the suffocating air weighing heavy between the two of you concede’s that he knows this too.
His face reads as surprisingly amused, and you suspect that’s the reason why. You’re just lashing out. Growing pains. All little girls go through this phase. He’s been waiting for this, really.
“Alright.” He groans as he stands up. Arm raising to scratch at his greying scruff and his flannel raises slightly — tan skin exposed, happy trail peeking from above his slacks. “I’m takin’ you home. Your dad ain’t back yet,” you don’t miss how he lingers on that word. Dad. Spitting it at you. “And frankly, I don’t want him seein’ you like…” his eyes rake down your frame and you feel just as exposed as you did under the glare of his flashlight, “this.”
He may as well have gone and called you a whore. You want to lash out and really give him something to be shocked at. Treat him like you do with dear old dad when he tests your patience and see how he likes it.
But really, you’re nervous at how Joel would retaliate. You and your father aren’t afraid to yell; you know that with every argument, while a silent lull may fall for however long it takes, your relationship would eventually return to its flawed resting point.
But Joel? — he classes your low points differently. He yearns for the confrontation, because he enjoys the punishment. The lesson in it. You give him an inch? He’ll run it any which way from Tuesday just to turn it into a some sort of paternal marathon.
You would call him a sadist if it didn’t mean you would have to acknowledge what that would make you.
Really, sometimes, you wonder, if it that isn’t the reason him and his own daughter are so distant. Or, rather the reason why she won’t speak to him. You never really saw Sarah growing up, with your age gap. But you could see how Joel’s life motivation could be his very own fatal flaw.
He constantly needs, wants, longs to teach teach teach.
He knows best.
His way is the best way.
“Don’t be mad at him,” your father would tell you when Joel first started taking it upon himself to solve your tantrums himself.
“You know how it is for him. He’s just bein’ a dad, ‘s all. Saves my ass the trouble, that’s for sure.”
You try to remind yourself of this when you and Joel make it back home. Any slight buzz you had lingering is strikingly gone — dissipated completely enough to leave you so sober you’re shaking. From the cold air, or from your repentance, you aren’t sure yet.
Joel notices.
“You’re shakin’,” he observes, but he doesn’t sound concerned. In fact, there’s that same amused twinge from before. The lesson. He wants you like this, all to teach you.
“It’s cold.” You whine, and he sighs at your tone but with a small smirk in tow. Is it cold, or are you stood half-naked in a kitchen where you used to play with your barbies?
“C’mon.” He nods his head toward the dimly lit staircase and you follow up behind him as he begins his slow ascend, leading you down the hallway to your bedroom.
He turns on your bedside lamp and opens your drawers. Rummaging through them as you stand in the corner, still shaking, until he finds a clean pair of pajamas for you and lays them on your bed. Folding them, neatly.
“Get changed.” He mumbles.
“I need to — I need to shower, first.” You feel dirty. You’ve felt dirty since you let that boy kiss you outside that awful dive bar. You weren’t even sure why you did. It wasn’t you. He wasn’t even your type. You weren’t half as drunk as you usually get on nights out, but truthfully, it had little to do with the alcohol and more with the nagging voices of your friends and boys you wouldn’t let pursue you on repeat.
Taunting you. And for what?
Grimy. Bad. Even more so, the moment Joel saw you in that state.
“Then shower.”
You hoped that the cold water and the harsh rubbing of your skin would clean you of more than just your caked-on makeup. But it doesn’t. You feel just as awful as before, and Joel doesn’t offer you any consolation.
He’s as quiet as you are; silent when you meekly pass where he’s perched on the edge of your bed. You fetch the pajamas he had laid for you.
And when you remerge, creaking the door open an inch, he’s still there — waiting. Head tilting at the open door when you meet his gaze with a small smile. You continue doing whatever it is you were doing, seemingly spraying something into your hair. Citrus and brown sugar.
The smell of you. Fresh, clean, warm, sweet. He should get going now. Really, he’s probably overstayed his welcome. Your father could be back. Sat downstairs, nursing a beer. Watching television. Thinking you’re dead asleep. If he was even wondering that at all.
You watch as he lifts from your bed and gingerly wanders toward where you’re spraying all sorts of concoctions into your hair, his frame lurking behind you.
Taller. Brooding. Unsure.
Pausing in the doorway until he’s making eye contact with you in the mirror. He shakes his head, low and disappointed, and tuts at you. Slowly moving toward the other end of the sink before beckoning you over to where he’s stood with a call of his fingers.
You follow — barefoot padding across the cold tiles to reach him.
He sighs. Hums, even. Tilting his head at you and scanning his eyes down your expanse like he’s examining you. Wanting to see how sorry you are.
“You don’t have to stay here, Joel. With me. It’s late.” The concept of someone staying up for you, up with you, is foreign. You feel awkward standing across from Joel, unsure how to handle the onslaught of attention; wearing pajama’s he picked out for you and you hate that you’re secretly comforted by even the small semblance of tenderness it holds.
“You seein’ that boy?” he finally speaks, and you can’t help but shyly smile and shake your head.
“No.” You’re grinning now. Almost giggling. Cheeky.
He wants to give your cheek a curt smack and wipe that smile off your face.
“No?” He’s smirking back at you.
You slowly shake your head. He’s lulled you into thinking that you are equal. That since you are smiling, and he’s smiling, that now you two are playing. But you should know by now — Joel’s never been one to bark without a bite.
You step ever so slightly closer to him. You could blame it on shaky legs or that burning taste of tequila still lingering in your mouth, but it’s just you.
The bathroom is dimly lit, and Joel’s still smirking, and so he thinks maybe you must be feeling brave. Surely, if you’re being this brazen with him.
“I didn’t even know his name.” You whisper.
Smiling, still, albeit sheepishly. Beads of water dripping down the expanse of your cheekbones and wet hair clinging to your shoulders.
Joel doesn’t say anything.
His expression doesn’t even flinch.
He just hooks his ankle behind your calf, causing you to stumble closer to him. You catch yourself before you can fall, making quick balance by placing your palms on his chest.
He hums — gently, and ever-so-slowly inches his startlingly large hand out toward you. You can feel him softly catch the droplets trailing their way along your jaw, grazing his knuckles down the edge of the bone.
To your confusion, the head-rush of the moment is dulled by the clanging of miscellaneous items on your counter, until you realize what he’s doing.
He’s searching for something. Digging through your sink caddy before pulling out your — toothbrush?
You watch as he squeezes a dime of toothpaste onto its pink bristles. His knuckles are still resting fleetingly along your cheekbones. You would convince yourself that this was your deluded imagination, if not for the jarring sensation of his hand outstretching and covering your entire jawbone in one tight clamp.
Both from the sheer force of his grip, and in a gasp of surprise, your mouth opens and you’re about to retort —
Is he really going to?—
“Open wide.”
Your effort is useless.
He gives you no warning before almost gagging you on your own toothbrush. Shoving it uncaringly into your mouth, letting the plastic stick clang loudly against your teeth and poke at the plush flesh inside.
This is . . . humiliating?
You silently pray it’s not spit you can feel slightly dribbling onto the handle of the brush, surely going down his hand, and you whine in embarrassment — it’s muffled in the clumsy attempt of brushing your teeth — and you try to shove his hand away, but he only grips your wrist with the other; absentmindedly bracketing your hips and pressing you against the sharp porcelain digging into your behind.
He laughs at you.
“Gotta get you clean,” he tuts, and you burn both with mortification and in the revelation that he must surely now see you as you do yourself.
Dirty. Ruined. Once the child, now the inevitable woman.
“Joel,” you gurgle, slightly laughing in awkwardness. The mint is causing your eyes to water as you try to shove him harder, with no avail.
“Stop.” He catches your wrist once again and presses it hard against your chest. “Be good.”
Now this — this is just —
Humiliation.
Joel’s never touched you like this. He’s never gripped at you, or ever, ever been rough with you.
Really, now that you really come to think of it, you’ve never much felt the graze of Joel’s flesh against yours.
Sure, you’ve felt his frame against yours in tear-soaked hugs.
Or felt the calloused graze of his knuckles when passing you the clandestine beer, or maybe felt the accidental knock of his knee brushing yours in sweaty lawn chairs at neighborhood barbecues.
But Joel has always treated you so . . . delicately.
Only touching you unless absolutely necessary. Avoiding it, even: his hand hovering above your waist in photographs, rejecting your requests of retying your bikini top, reacting as though you’ve burned him in accidental moments of your body swiping past his.
Okay, now? Well this just feels oddly intimate.
You must be making it weird.
You’ve stopped thrashing and now you’re only blushing. Sat complacent, blushing. At Joel. You hate the feelings you can feel begin to stir deep in your gut. It’s hot fierce and you’re sure he can see it, or at the very least feel it in your quick pulse.
But this is already weird.
Joel is brushing your teeth.
For you.
While laughing like it’s the highest form of entertainment he’s had in all his fifty-so years of living.
And — are you shaking? Seriously? Are you that unsure on how to act in the presence of such a man acting as casual as he does during errands?
It’s only Joel. But he’s a man, nonetheless.
You could count on your one hand the amount of times you ever touched one, and so yes, you’re shaking.
Maybe it’s part adrenaline, too. Your nervous system grappling to accommodate that this is Joel. Touching you so openly, even if it is to manhandle you.
His other hand moves from its tight hold on your jaw to create a makeshift ponytail of your hair, pushing your head gently toward the sink
“Spit, honey.”
You can barely speak with both the toothpaste swishing in your mouth and your stifled giggles, toothpaste foam clumisy escaping and now you’re laughing, fully.
“There she is. You feelin’ better now?”
“No! You just — you?” You’re hysterical. He snorts at you, secretly relieved to finally see a smile appear on your face after all of your pouting. You’re not off the hook just yet — his seething disappointment still brewing — but the melody of your laughter quells the bitterness even for a little moment. He sighs when you giggle and hide your head in the crook of his neck because this is the little girl that he fondly remembers. Maybe you just needed a reminder, too.
On his flannel collar, you can smell the lingering remainder of the cigarettes he must have snuck out on his lunch break whispering to you. It mixes with the smell of his musk. His natural scent, and a spray of that cologne you could sniff out with a blindfold. Sweet, yet notably masculine — honey melded with boozy tobacco — like that whiskey he stashes below his kitchen sink. Nostalgic in a way that reminds you of summer; Joel’s cigarettes burning the dewy grass of your lawn, sweltering nights spent in his garage, your favorite cherry red ice pops he kept in his freezer just for you, skin sticky with chlorine, cicadas and early dawn, the taste of beers you shouldn’t be having and looks you shouldn’t be giving.
You’re sat on the counter, Joel stood between your legs, and as your head tips up, you can recognize the exact second Joel resigns. The moment he remembers who you are to him, and who he is to you.
“Alright. I better, um. I best be to gettin’ sweetheart. I’ll be speakin’ to you in the mornin’, you hear me?” He goes to step backward, away from where you’re sat, away from your pajama clad body. Skimpy and short, too short and he needs to step away from the girl that deep down doesn’t belong to him. Not with his best buddy’s blood running through you. Away from the little girl he’s known for far too long.
Your small ankle hooks around his calf.
“Why do we have to wait for the morning?”
He’s stunned. You’ve stunned him. Peering up at him with doe eyes and he’s — he’s shocked.
And intrigued?
“It’s way past your bedtime young lady. And frankly if I stick around, well. . .” he scratches the greying scruff speckling his jaw. He’s as close as he was before. Close enough to where he has to dip his head down to look at you. Close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath.
“Well?”
He sighs, softly, and inches slightly closer. His face is beside your ear now. He drops his voice into a gruff whisper.
“I’d say some things I ain’t mean.”
Your eyebrow quirks and the corner of his mouth lifts into a shy smirk. “Not like that, kiddo. It’d be mean. I’d say rude things to you, and I don’t wan’ to. Wanna save it for the morning. Give us a second to cool off, y’know? Take a breather. Go from there.” He pats your shoulder. Joel Miller, always so level-headed.
It’s time to go. Really, it is.
You gnaw your bottom lip between your teeth as Joel begins to tread through your quaint bathroom and toward the door of your bedroom. You should let him go. You shouldn’t say anything else. You’ve already forever changed the trajectory of your relationship with Joel — but in the same sentiment, what is there to lose?
“I’m a big girl, Joel. I can handle hard conversations.”
Even through the dim lighting of your bedroom, lit only by the single glass lamp at your bedside, you can faintly see when Joel’s expression changes.
“Can you? Nearly done scared you off at the bar. Didn’t I?” You watch as it sours, his eyebrows furrowing. You’re beginning to test the little luck you have left for the night, but you’re either willingly ignorant, or simply don’t notice.
You push either way.
Stupid, little naive girl.
“Because you treat me like a child! You — you never treat me like I’m a grown up. You treat me like I’m still little. Like I’m.” You suck in a sharp inhale. “Like I’m Sa—“
“— Don’t you finish that sentence. Fuckin’ hell. You pitchin’ a hissy fit? Is that what this is? I interrupt your little play date,”
“Oh my—“
You really should’ve stopped talking a long time ago. But you can’t seem to find a way to switch this side of yourself off. You’re frustrated — you’re embarrassed, still so abashed and there’s nothing more you want at this moment than comfort; but you don’t deserve that. Definitely not now. You may as well be itching for punishment with the way you’re rambling your mouth at Joel.
“Shut it. You shut your mouth.” Joel raises his voice and you flinch. Both in the fear of your father potentially hearing a glimpse into your altercation, but also for you. You don’t know what’s gotten into you, and theres nothing you can do but watch as Joel drags his hands down his face. Sighing and shaking his head before storming up to you. Raising his pointer finger right in your face, his own scrunched and angry.
Albeit, he inhales a single shaky breath.
“You’re right. You ain’t Sarah. I failed her. I was too soft with her. Too weak. Too lenient with shit I shouldn’t have been. Too — too goddamn proud. And so help me God, I will not make that same mistake with you. You hear me girl? When I speak, you listen. Goddamnit.”
You’re frozen. Stuck in place and somehow the distance between you two has become even shorter. He’s almost breathing down your neck. Seething and huffing with no regard for your space.
You don’t know what to say. Choking on a sharp breath that you didn’t even realize you had been holding.
“This is — Joel, I’m not… you’re not my… I don’t need you to—”
“What? You wanna be my friend? Is that what you’re askin’ for? For us to be fuckin’ friendly?”
His nose brushes against your own and it’s so beside him, entirely uncharacteristic for him to be this close to you; undeniably too enraged to recognize the lack of distance between you. “Hm?”
“No, you’re not listening to me—“
“You keep runnin’ that mouth at me and I’ll show you just where it gets you, little girl.”
You’re appealing to the ugliest parts of himself now. Playing right into his game of cat and mouse. The perfect pawn on his chess board. You know all the right buttons to press and you aren’t even sure if you do it unwillingly.
“I’m sorry Joel.” You whisper so quiet and so sweetly that it nearly stops him in his tracks. Almost breaks him from the frustration he feels toward you.
Almost.
“I know you are sweetheart. I know you are…”
And for a fleeting moment, you have your Joel back in the room. The Joel you’ve always known. The only person you know that looks at you with starry eyes and protects you like you’re as delicate as fine china.
He carefully cups your cheek before sighing, looking down toward the ground in an attempt to recalibrate.
To cool off.
To get a grip of himself.
To act like the adult he is.
The role model you deserve.
But. . .
Have your shorts always been that short?
Really — he doesn’t mean to look, his eyes just snagged on a fleeting glimpse of the smooth expanse of your legs, and now he’s perplexed. Why would you even own shorts that tiny?
What purpose do they serve? Other than to appease. To appeal. To impress.
‘Two finger rule, sweetheart.’
Joel can feel himself begin to flush; his temper is brewing again.
Hadn’t he taught you better than this?
You gulp. “Joel?”
“I know you’re sorry. But sorry ain’t ‘gonna cut it this time, kiddo.”
“No, please don’t—” please, anything but tell your father.
“I think we oughta try some tough love.”
“No!—” you scramble toward Joel; reaching out toward him in an attempt to get him to stop. To not go downstairs. To not tattle to that man about your bad behavior. To not bring him into this.
But in that same second, Joel hunches over you, grabbing your wrist and pinning it behind the small of your back.
He pulls you against his sturdy chest. Shushing you. Telling you to “be quiet, goddamnit,”tightening his grip on your wrist when you begin to thrash — kicking at him, trying to free yourself from where you’re held against him, “stop being so squirrelly, kid. Stop. The fuck’s gotten into ‘ya?”
You don’t stop, too confused and frightened to do anything but flail like a fish out of water; gasping like you were gurgling for air when you feel the sudden force of your body colliding with the solid plush of your bed from below you.
You register the pressure first. The immense weight of Joel above you, all broad muscle mass, pinning you with the full heft of his bulk into the mattress. “Stop,” he growls, and you can feel the warmth and softness of his lips graze against the shell of your ear.
The noise and clatter inside your head goes silent — everything coming to a static standstill as you finally take a single slow, albeit wheezed, breath. You quell beneath him.
“Good.” He whispers. “Good girl.”
Joel has you bent over the edge of your bed.
Joel.
Joel.
“You ain’t gonna like this one bit. I’m sorry, honey. But you gotta learn somehow.” You can’t register anything he’s saying because you can feel him. Against you. Pressed against your behind.
Oh. Oh.
You think of what to say but fall short. Instead, you lay still. Waiting. Your heart pattering so fast you wonder if he can hear it.
And then, you yelp; the resounding smack! of his palm shocks through your body. The small of your back where your flesh melts into its heart shape burns. Sending you up the mattress to get away from it.
He’s just hit you. No — he’s just spanked you.
“What the—”
Before you can even begin to comprehend, let alone retort, his palm hits you even harder. So hard that the sound rattles you and rings in your ears.
His hand swats you again, and again, and again. You can barely distinguish the noise of him grunting with each move, watching as his face scowls when you peek your head back.
And then, his smacks hit lower,
lower,
and once more, lower.
Right over your most intimate part. All yours.
And now, partly his — with his palm cupping you there for a split second before pulling away instantaneously when your head whips around to meet his gaze.
His brows are still settled low on his face, with his eyes squinted at you and mouth twisted into a disgruntled scowl.
But beneath it, you can see his guilt rising. His unwitting abdication of you revealing to him in an instant.
You, slightly bent over your frilly bed.
You, gawking at him so bewildered he’s surprised you haven’t slapped him back.
You.
You.
By him. Joel. Joel.
Joel dad’s-best-friend-Joel. Uncle Joel. Your old man. Your dad’s buddy, Joel. Beer buddy Joel. Joel, Joel, Joel.
Joel who loves you as his own.
Fuck. Joel. Really?
You feel fractured in two. Dichotomized between the part of you that feels sickened, almost. Frightened. Pure and untouched being corrupted in a split second.
And, equally, by the part of you that doesn’t feel that way at all. The fraction of you that feels wanted. Finally desired. Worthy. Worthy of Joel, worthy of his touch, worthy of his attention. His failed attempt of feigning composure a signal of how much you’ve meant to him this whole time. Of how much you can be wanted. To be loved so much by him that he cares for you in every sense of the word. The tiny, insidious part of you that felt jealousy toward those that Joel unconditionally loved. Wishing you were in their place.
Sarah.
Admittedly, you hadn’t seen this coming. But it wasn’t as though you hadn’t wished for it. Like that one time in Joel’s garage. When your father was passed out inside, left asleep on the couch with his beer left warming in his hold, you hiked your skirt a few inches higher; sat alone with Joel in his old camping chairs and demurely playing a game of one sided footsie with him. Joel was talking at you about something monotonous. Some old lecture.
And maybe it was nothing. Really, it might’ve been mostly your imagination. But you swore there was something different about the way he peered up at you — not just anger for your silly game of footsie despite urging you to pay attention, but real hunger — (you pulled your foot away in an instant.)
Joel staggers back, your stunned expression mirroring his own. You’re still frozen in position as you watch him pace in the small space of your bedroom. Nearly knocking over your dainty jewelry and makeup stashed on your porcelain vanity, swearing loudly when he inevitably does, his hip bumping your pink perfume bottle in his moment of frantic realization. He hinges down, gently placing it back in its position before settling his attention back onto you.
“I—” your eyes lock momentarily before he twists away. “Sit up for me” he murmurs with his back facing you. You’ve never seen Joel so frazzled. So out of his own willpower. You hesitate for a beat longer before gradually turning your body toward where he’s stood with his hand in his heads, perching yourself on the edge of your bed. Your hands are politely placed on your lap despite your ass still burning red beneath you.
Joel is victimized by his own puzzle of sorts too. Pulled between his rational self that loves you innocently like his own. Wanting nothing more than to watch you succeed — build your career, have a family of your own, grandchildren, visiting your old man Joel. The white picket fence you deserve. The happy ending he’d give anything to see you have. To be a role model waiting at your every beck and call. The only thing a man like him is good for. The only thing he lives for.
But beneath it all lurks that ugly, ruined, most selfish inner part of himself fueled entirely by his bloodlust. His nauseating thirst to teach you and have you and protect you like his own kin. Greedily ravenous to claim you in every way he can without his blood running through your veins, without his last name belonging alongside your first. To teach you every lesson he can mangle his way into. To put his love into you. Make it stick.
He cautiously walks toward you. The room is so silent that you can hear his knees creak as he hinges to sit docile beside you. You aren’t sure which version of him you’re with, and you aren’t sure which one you want.
“That wasn’t right. I’m sorry sweetheart. Shit. I’m sorry. That was too much, kiddo. I know.” He finally braves a glance at you and swears under a loud sigh. “Hey. Hey. Look at me, kid.” He holds your face in both of his warm hands. “I’m sorry, honey. That ain’t right of me to do to you. I know, baby.”
But if it wasn’t right, then why are your insides all tangled up? You hate to admit it but you’re ignited. And judging by the stiff sensation pressed against your knee, you bravely assume Joel feels it too.
You gawk at him. A little coquettish without really thinking about it. Slightly blinded by your impulse and batting your eyelashes as kittenish as you can without being obvious.
But Joel knows. He always does. He doesn’t have a sixth sense, he just has age. Knowledge. Power over you in the form of sun-weathered wrinkles and a body shaped by years of hard work and callouses to prove his determination to provide for his family. The same hands that are delicately bracing your face having brought women pleasure for decades longer than you have existed and fixed your nightstand when the hinges broke.
‘I’ve got decades on you, little girl.’
“Oh.” He faux’s a puzzled look, but you know that he’s well aware of your situation.
“Oh? Is that how it is?”
You break your silence. Gulping embarrassingly louder than you intended to. “Joel—”
“You liked that, didn’t you?” You go to retort, shaking your head and aimlessly stuttering. Joel stares at you wordlessly, his mouth slightly agape and scanning your face, his two hands still cupping your cheeks gently. Slightly disgusted at your gall. At how you mirror his own.
”That was supposed to be a punishment. You weren’t supposed to…like it.”
“I’m . . . sorry?” You’re scared your heart might lurch out of your chest when you recognize the expression on his face. Hooded eyes and lips pressed in a tight line. The one you’ve only seen once before, in his garage. Starving.
“You’re just a kid. Just a goddamn baby. You shouldn’t…we shouldn’t … this ain’t right.” And yet, your faces are a hairbreadth apart.
His eyes darken; he’s onto you. His mouth melts against yours hard, so hard that you would think your lips may bruise tomorrow if you even had time to think. You can feel him everywhere. Pawing at every inch of your bare skin that he can access and gripping, tightly. Soothing the red flush of your behind with a fierce grope. You gasp, but Joel steals it as an opportunity to satiate his appetite; deepening the feverish kiss by stroking his tongue against yours. You can’t do anything but mesh your lips just as hard against his, clumsily trying to match his fervor until you feel his hand slither to the waistband of your shorts. Teetering at the lace edge.
“Joel… I don’t know if… I’ve never….” he pulls away to catch his breath, the both of you panting into each other’s mouths, his forehead pressed against yours as you feel his capable fingers toying with the delicate lace of your waistband. He steals another kiss over your panting mouth.
“I know, kiddo. Don’t be scared, honey. I’ll make it so good. I promise.” His knuckles accidentally graze right over where you’re most sensitive and you gasp, bucking your hips up absentmindedly in response to his touch. He smirks.
“So responsive. Nobody ever touch you here? Really?” You know he knows the answer, but he just wants you humiliated — willing, shaking shake your head ‘no’ just so he can groan; biting the delicate junction of your neck and nipping at the soft skin there. Nudging his fingers a bit harder into that sensitive, untouched spot and you writhe embarrassingly beneath him.
“Wait…” Without a word, he slowly tugs down the thin cotton of your shorts. You hear him suck in a sharp inhale at the sight of you almost bare, all for him. Joel silently wishes he felt even a sliver more of guilt at the sight of your white ruffled panties. His best buddies daughter. Complete with a tiny bow at the center. But he doesn’t. If anything, it just confirms what he’s always known; that you’re his —
— The only reason he’s kept that bastard around as company. For the promise of you. To be there for you. Like the time he drove ten hours to your campus for parents weekend when your father said he was too busy. A date, if he remembers correctly. But Joel didn’t mind the drive.
He groans. It’s a deep, guttural noise and you blush. You were half expecting Joel to be more collected, more detached, but what would you know. Heat bubbles in your gut all the same as your hips buck once more.
Joel eyes you like you’re something to eat. Biting the bone of his knuckle as you lay there, watching him, coyly, pressing your knees together in an attempt of preserving any semblance of your dignity.
In a split second, Joel’s head lowers to be level with your thighs. Gently spreading them apart to gain closer access to you and mouthing over the cotton material of your panties without a second thought. You whine, legs kicking out as you feel Joel’s mouth soil your panties even more than they already are.
”O-oh,” you try to push his head away, yet clamp your legs around his head in the same effort, overwhelmed at all of the sudden contact, but he just grips the backs of your knees — deepening his soft kiss over your still-clothed mound.
You don’t know how to respond to the newfound pleasure except to try and squirm away, to which he simply hovers his head above you, replacing his mouth with a sturdy rub of his fingers, watching as your legs jolt and immediately kick at his shoulder blades; trying to squirm away from the pressure by scooting your body up the mattress.
Joel tuts softly, grabbing the backs of your knees and heaves you back down toward him until you’re prone beneath him, legs forced to pliantly widen around the breadth of his burly torso. He pins you there by his hips, bearing his full weight onto you until you feel his pelvis against yours — meeting your core in a deliberate, brief grind and smirking when you twitch beneath him.
“You gonna let me touch on you or you gon’ keep beatin’ me? Hm?” He does it again and you shiver.
“I’m not— I’m — stop being so — dramatic,” it’s hard to form a sentence with Joel is continuously rolling his hips against yours, not when you can feel just how hard he is. How he’s heavy against your core and you can’t believe that this is Joel.
Almost as if he could read what you were thinking, which would be feasible with the way you’re shuddering beneath him, he leans in for a greedy kiss, open mouthed and messy, before humming into the shell of your ear. “You feel that?” he punches his hips against yours to emphasize his wanting and your breath hitches.
“You feel how hard I am for you?” he nips your earlobe, rocking against you once more to let you really feel the heft of him. To remind you of his brute size, to make sure you don’t forget that mounted above you is a man. Strong enough to have you crushed into the mattress with no effort, large enough that your legs are forced to part almost painfully wide to accommodate his virile size, old enough that he has the crows lines to prove it and an age that means you could’ve been calling him daddy and mean it.
“You gon’ be good for me now?” you nod against your better judgment, exhaling a shaky breath as he lifts to slither his hand to the waistband of your panties. “You gonna let me see you?” he whispers, teasing you by faking a tug of your underwear just to snicker when your legs immediately clam.
“C’mon, darlin’. Don’t be like that. Spread ‘em legs for your old man.” You don’t, still shaking, not even budging the tense press of your knees when Joel tries to pry your legs open himself.
He hums in contemplation. “Let’s get those trainin’ wheels off. How ‘bout that? How ‘bout this?” his calloused fingers trace their way along your abdomen to the edge of your cami top, rubbing the exposed skin where your top has rucked up, leaning down to kiss your navel gently.
He peers up at you beneath hooded eyes when your hips shift. “Hm? What’dya say?”
“O-okay. Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
You nod, letting him slowly pull your shirt up the expanse of your torso and audibly groan at the sight of you exposed. Your bare breasts all his to leer at and he licks his lips, pinning your wrists beside your head when you reflexively go to hide your chest.
“Fuck,” he murmurs beneath his breath, reaching out to rudely grip at your chest and smirking when you whine. Biting the flesh of your breast and groaning even louder. You shift uncomfortably beneath him, the burning of your core getting harder to ignore, and you buck your hips into nothing. Joel meets your restlessness with his fingers once more, rubbing small circles onto where you’re most sensitive.
“Joel—”
“— Let me make you feel good.” And this time you don’t oppose when he starts to tug your panties down, stealing a look between your legs before you can try and close them again, forcing your legs open with a rough grip on your knees and swearing, whistling lowly and you try reach out your leg to kick him in humiliation.
“Dirty girl. You’re wet.”
You tuck your lip between your teeth. “Just… do something.”
Ignoring you, he continues his ogling; staring at you between your legs as though you weren’t there, reaching out to give you a curt smack over your core just to see how you would react. You yelp and squirm, trying to kick him once more and he laughs.
“Joel…” you’re getting fussy now. Rubbing your feet against the mattress and gnawing at your bottom lip, waiting for him to just stop scrutinizing you and do anything.
“Shh, baby. I’ve got you.” Tentatively, he finally touches you. Your breath hitches when he gently brushes his fingers against where you’re most sensitive. Pressing a bit harder when he sees your toes begin to curl and your eyes widen. “Pretty little pussy.”
“Stop—”
“Anyone ever touch you like this?” he asks you so casually that it sounds almost clinical. Like he isn’t currently touching you harder just to see you react in a way that makes his dick hard.
“N-no,” you whine, leg jolting when he momentarily speeds up his motions, pressing harder onto your bud and rubbing tiny circles there.
“No? Really?”
“Fuck - oh! - off.” He chuckles, seemingly amused before he’s pulling his hand away and hooking them under your thighs to position himself between your legs once again. Lowering his head, blowing against where you’re bare to make you shiver.
“How ‘bout this? Anyone ever do this?” Joel peers up from between your legs, fixating his gaze onto yours and leaning to lazily kiss you right over the center of your core.
“Oh!” you yelp, the sensation of Joel’s mouth overwhelmingly hot against your clit makes your knees desperately try and clamp together. Joel wanted to tease you a bit. Bring you apart with his tongue. Play with you. But hearing you keen at just a measly kiss has his head spinning and cock hard — he ruts against your frilly sheets like a teenage boy, his large hands gripping the sides of your ass to bring you impossibly closer. Groaning at the taste of you and kissing and laving his tongue against your clit like a man starved.
It’s lewd. You’re so wet that you can audibly hear the squelches of where you meet Joel’s hot mouth and it’s obscene. Mortifying and mind-blowing. Your legs shake and hips spasm, but Joel just pins his forearm against your hipbones, holding you in place and shaking his head against you.
You try to bite your lip to keep your sounds at bay, but it’s no use — that unfamiliar build in your stomach creeps faster and faster and you’re moaning, too turned on and bewildered to stop yourself.
Joel pulls away. Grinning when you whine, your chest heaving beautifully and Joel is possibly the hardest he’s ever been. Which is shocking, considering his age and that little blue pill he keeps on his nightstand.
“Why,” you whimper, hips squirming at the sudden lack of contact and Joel just laughs at you.
“Patience, sweet girl. Gotta get ‘ya ready.”
Ready?
Oh.
Ready.
Your attention is abruptly brought to the front of Joel’s jeans. The seemingly hefty bulge presses at the denim seams, so large that the fabric is taut and you gulp. If Joel senses your hesitation, he doesn’t say anything. He just wordlessly reaches his hand back between your legs, using your distraction to press a single bulking finger right between your folds.
You cry out, the stretch of his one finger being equal to two of yours and it burns.
“Hurts—” he’s hovering above you, pinning your knees open with his own, mouth ghosting over yours and breathing down your neck. Kissing you softly on your jaw when he feels your tight, dripping cunt envelop him to the knuckle.
“Fuckin’ hell. This all for me?” his finger presses impossibly deeper, curling and beneath the fullness, you’re starting to feel blips of pleasure beneath — sparking in bursts as he keeps curling his finger inside of you; gritting his teeth at how tight you pulse around his digit.
“Asked you a question darlin’,” he hums low into your ear, beginning to properly thrust his finger into you and smirk when your breath hitches, hips bucking into his touch. You can feel your slickness down your thighs and you burn in humiliation at the thought. Without warning, Joel tries to push in a second finger — groaning when your walls refuse him entry, clamping so tightly around his finger that he has to grit his teeth as to not come right there.
“Relax, baby. Ease up a bit, kiddo. Shit — fuckin’ stranglin’ my finger, ain’t ‘ya?”
“Sorry. Jus’ feels really…!” you cry out once more, rutting your hips when his thumb comes to softly press at your clit. Your whole body shakes, and for a moment, you relax just enough so that Joel is able to push a second finger into you. His forehead presses against yours, thrusting two of his fingers into you and curling with no remorse.
“Feels good, huh?”
“Uh-huh!” you grind your hips back against his hand, feeling him stroking that spot inside of you that your measly fingers could never reach on your own. Your eyes roll back, your hand flying out to grab Joel’s wrist when he begins to move his fingers even faster and harder inside of you; you keen, your entire body tensing and back arching up and he impossibly slots a third digit into you, his wrist continuously circling and you — are you crying?
”So-full,” you whine, and sure enough there’s tears running down your cheek. He wants to tell you to just wait until he finally has his way with you, if he’ll even fit, but you’re clamping around his fingers so tightly that you’re unmistakably about to come. You feel beside yourself, the foreign noises you’re making registering but failing to register over the overwhelming heat coursing through your body, your toes curling and legs shaking.
“Wait-wait-wait-it’s too much… Joel!” he ignores you, curling his fingers into you with a crazed fervor that leaves you gasping, you weakly try to push his circling wrist away but it’s no use, your wrist limply falling to your side.
“Thaaats it, sweet girl. I’ve got you.” And, then, it violently crashes; your mouth slacking and body bowing as it spreads through you, searing white hot as you sob against his hovering mouth.
Your legs flail as it just keeps going, his fingers still moving inside of you and you cry out.
“I know, baby. I know. I’ve got you. Da-” he has half the mind to cut himself off.
You can barely register it over the crushing haze you’re in, your legs still twitching in the after effects of what is monumentally your first ever orgasm.
“What?” you timidly squeak, eyes still closed and panting for air, opening them to see Joel licking the fingers that were just inside of you, before watching as he palms himself over his jeans, his cheeks flushed and eyes dark, eyeing you beneath him with a predatory, hungry stare. Your mind goes blank.
“Are we gonna…” you whisper. Shaky leg lifting to press your foot demurely against where the denim tents, and he groans, gripping your ankle and pressing a soft kiss to the skin there.
“Fuck?” he replies, curt and lewd and you blush, covering your face with your hands as if you hadn’t just cum all over his fingers. He smirks, and only now have you noticed that he’s still fully dressed and you’re completely bare beneath him.
“Dunno. Don’t know if you’re ready for that. You’re just a kid.”
“No… I am,” you whine petulantly and he tilts his head at you.
“You gonna be a big girl for me?”
You nod your head, hands grabbing at his rattled flannel to try and take it off yourself.
“Yes. Yes, yes, I swear. Please.” He swats your hands away, peering down at you with a smirk in tow at your babbling.
“Oh, so she can be polite.” You’re reminded of all the times Joel tried to grill your please-and-thank-you’s into you. Not that you weren’t a polite, meek girl, you were, just not always with him — slacking on your manners at neighborhood barbecues and having to remind you by hovering your plate away from you, “what d’ya say?”, only passing it to you when you grumpily rolled your eyes and mumbled “please, sir.” You don’t dwell long on the queasiness that follows.
Slowly, Joel lifts his shirt— his large biceps that he’s built from decades of construction and handy-work raising above his head to reveal the tan, built, albeit slight pudgy body that you’ve seen countless of times in his garage or by the lake, but never like this. Hulking over you and overwhelmingly man. Your eyes linger back on his face. Painfully handsome; his crows feet are a homecoming — cornering his soft, dark eyes — that sweet puppy-dog stare.
His salt and pepper scruff. Curling strands of greying hair. Saccharine tobacco. Humid southern air. The leather seats of his classic truck. “Alright smartass. Who sings this?”
Then, he moves to his belt, deft fingers pulling the leather through the loops and tossing it somewhere in the midst of your room, tugging his jeans down until he’s just in his boxers and then — oh.
He’s big. Not that there’s any history to compare him with, but it’s undeniable. You gasp at the sight, your eyes flickering to where he’s exposed himself. It looks almost sore. The thick tip of him dripping. The sight is vulgar. You gulp. Not quite sure what you were expecting, but the fat length of him and greying tuft of hair (even there!) an unrelenting reminder of his maturity, age, and above all, authority over you.
He examines your every reaction carefully, fisting himself for a moment and hissing upon the brief contact. He moves closer and forces your legs to spread to accommodate his bulking size; his body is so much larger than yours that your inner thighs burn at the stretch.
“That’s…are you sure that’s gonna… fit?” You whisper sheepishly and he barely hides his cocky smirk, hovering above you and pressing an achingly tender peck against your forehead, stroking the top of your head delicately before meeting your lips — unlike the other kisses; slowed and passionate. Intimate and gentle enough that it feels like conversation. He slots his lips against yours once, twice more; I love you, let me put my love into you, like this.
“We’ll make it fit. Always worryin’ your pretty little head, aren’t you darlin’?” With your hips forcefully splayed beneath him, he grabs himself and begins to line up his cock to where you’re embarrassingly wet. You squirm at the sensation.
“Always worryin’. Always stressin’. Poor baby.” He teases you, baiting you into holding your breath to see you buck your hips in anticipation as he traces your slit with his painfully red tip.
“Just need some lovin’, don’t-ya?” He slots the head of his member against your opening. Forcing the bulbous tip slightly inside of you and you gasp at the intrusion.
“Y-yes. Please.” Love me.
“Biiig stretch now, kiddo. It might hurt a little. But I’ve got ‘ya, okay?” You nod eagerly, lifting your head a bit to try and see him begin to enter you painfully slow, the both of you gasping, he leans against your forehead, tilting his own gaze downwards to watch alongside you.
“Wait—it hurts,” you yelp, the stretch of merely the tip of him inside of you already barely manageable; he halts, trying to distract you with languid, tender kisses up the expanse of your neck. Trying for his own sake to think about anything about how tight you are. About how sacred this is. Your first time, your innocence, now his to shape. His little girl. All his.
“Gotta let me in, sweetheart. Let me show you how to make love, baby.” You desperately wish that phrase would send your spine crawling rather than arching, his old man theatrics in any other scenario surely earning a snort from you, but instead, awfully, you whine, trying to spread your legs further to make space for him despite the stinging pain inside betraying you.
Cautiously, he begins to move again. Pushing his length ever-so-slightly deeper until your heat has swallowed him halfway, your hips squirming in discomfort. Beneath him, you’re whining in bursts of piercing pain. You’ve never felt so full. Sweat is dripping between the two of you, his large arms bracketing your trembling frame and all you can see or think or feel is Joel. You peel your eyes open just enough to make eye-contact with him from above you, his silhouette impossibly broad and backlit only by the warmth of your bedside lamp, and by the glare of streetlights fluttering through your lace curtains.
He stares at you like he’s in disbelief. His eyebrows pinched and mouth slightly agape, pressing open-mouthed kisses over your own gasping mouth when he somehow gets even deeper — a sharp, shaky cry escaping you as he finally bottoms out. His hips finally flush against yours. He meets your wail with a groan of his own, slumping over you and inadvertently pinning his hipbones hard against the most sensitive part of you.
You try scramble away, clawing the sides of your bed, and then Joel’s bulking arms, but it’s no use — Joel’s full body weight presses against you. Fastening you to the mattress and any slight movement hurts; the thick weight of him splitting you open for him heedless of your aching.
“It’s too much — you’re too much — too deep, Joel, you—”
“I know baby, I know. Hardest part is over. Just,” he gulps when you clench around him, nipping the skin of your jaw to keep him from thrusting into the wet heat of you. “Just gotta-fuck-trust me now, darlin’.”
“It hurts,” you subtly shuffle again to try and feel any bit of comfortability but it backfires — shooting a twinge of pain back through your spine and you cry out once again.
Joel stops you by bearing even more of his body weight against you, tutting softly at your naive defiance and whispering gently in your ear. “C’mon, baby. Be brave for me. Don’t hurt yourself now.” He drags his knuckles against your pinched expression, leaning in for another doting kiss against your mouth. You feel his fingers trail their way down the expanse of your stomach to brush soft circles against your bud, caressing you there in hopes of distracting you from the ache. Pecking kiss after kiss and sighing contentedly when he feels you begin to slacken, just barely spasming around him and he shivers.
“You feelin’ any better?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
You nod, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth. Your hips jerk against Joel’s, but this time, you gasp — not in pain, but at the fleeting feeling of Joel’s thick moving inside of you. It aches, but the brief movement forces a meek moan to spill from your lips.
“Startin’ to feel good?” You nod again, bucking your hips experimentally and the both of you groan at the feeling. You do it again, huffing at the blips of pleasure when you feel the slight drag inside of you.
“Yeah, I think so…I think,” your hips move once more to consolidate what you’re about to ask for. “Yeah. Uh-huh. Can you, please, um, I think I’m ready.”
“Y’sure?” And when your heel lifts to dig into the small of his back, he doesn’t question you again.
“Please.” You whisper, your saccharine voice breaking when he meets your tiny jolts with a single, lethargic thrust — carefully pulling his hips away until only the tip remains inside of you, then driving the entire length of him back inside with a deep roll.
You keen, back arching off the mattress despite Joel’s entire weight melded against you; writhing under him as he starts actually fucking into you with fervor, rocking the length of him into you and grunting in your ear.
If his fingers made you feel full before, this was an entirely different ballpark. You could almost swear you could feel every vein of his shaft and throb of him inside you as he fills you impossibly deeper.
“Joel,” you whimper, head tilting back and he latches frantically onto the expanse of your neck, biting so hard you know you’ll be bruised in the morning, but all you can care to think about or feel is Joel.
“Shh, baby.” He coos, using all his willpower as to not rut desperately into you, and to think about the old man that could very well be downstairs; passed out or just now clicking the door open.
His calculated pace falters for a beat when both of your legs wrap tightly around the bulk of his lower back, meeting his languid pumps with a grind, moaning and squirming when he grazes against a spot you never knew to exist within you. His hips snapping against yours roughly and you nod eagerly.
“Yes, Joel. Feels good now, Joel. Joel,” you cry his name out like a mantra, “more. Please. Joel. Please. Pl—”
“Fuck,” he growls, his hand clasping over your mouth and gripping the sides of your jaw, squeezing so tightly you almost bite your tongue. “You ‘tryna wake up the whole goddamn neighborhood?”
You shudder, eyes rolling back and Joel’s careful composure is slipping — the sound of smacking flesh ringing through the room as he begins to really give it to you; brutally plunging into you and grunting with every erratic strike.
Your whines are stifled under his palm, and you’re so wet that you’re dripping — leaving a mess over Joel’s thighs and stomach.
His knee hikes up to position your leg open in a way that fills you even more, the stretch burning deliciously and you can’t do anything but take him, his pace unrelenting and bulk pinning you in position as you spasm.
“That’s it, honey.” And then, he fucking leans even closer, hovering his face less than an inch away from yours, locking his gaze directly into yours and make-shifting a kiss over his hand — right over where your mouth would be under the current suffocation of his palm.
It’s getting too much. You’re bonded to the bed under his crushing weight, the feeling of him splitting you open sending tremors through you. You’re too full. He’s too deep. He’s hitting that same spot over and over and sending violent shivers through you. You try to tell him to stop, he’s too big, it’s too much, but it’s no use — his hand remains the same, fixed over your mouth, and you’re positive you’re drooling.
“Thaaat’s the spot, hm?” He can hear your hiccuped moans beneath the muted suffocation of his palm. You can feel every drag of him inside of you. “Doin’ - fuck! - doin’ so well for me, ain’t ya?” He’s really starting to lose it now. Your heat tight as a fist around him, clenching wildly, and he can’t help but slump even more against you, groaning unabashedly into your ear. Going insane with how perfect you feel. How perfect you are. His sweet, precious girl. All his.
“Brave little girl.” His hips are slamming frenetically. “Doin’ so well for your daddy.”
Your eyes shoot open to meet Joel’s disheveled stare, eyes wide and his hips pause on the deepest part inside of you, holding right against that sensitive cluster of nerves and your hips frantically write against him.
If you were any less depraved as a girl, if you hadn’t held that awful void inside of you for so long, maybe you would’ve pushed Joel off of you. Told him to fuck off. Called him a creep.
You could try to blame it on Joel’s virile stature, curse it as irresistible, but you know he’s the only person that can patch that cavity. The only one you want to.
You sob — rolling against him in a frenzy and whining because yes. Yes. You want to tell him yes. The word growling out of him ringing true like a depraved piece of a puzzle slotting into place; his hips meeting yours desperately as he rocks into you again. Your hand clutches onto his wrist as you nod. Yes. He eases his grip over your mouth, weaving your lips together instead in a bruising kiss.
You’re whimpering unabashedly into the kiss.
“I know, honey. I’ve got ‘ya. Daddy’s got ‘ya. Tell me who your daddy is.”
You might not be able to face yourself when dawn arrives, but right now, it feels too good to deprive yourself of what feels right. What settles into your bones like tantalizing belonging.
“You,” you whine, chasing his mouth to steal another zealous kiss.
“Say it. Shit, honey, you feel so fuckin’ perfect.”
“Ohmy-” his pace is the most merciless it’s been since he first entered you. Slamming against you ruthlessly and you can feel that coil begin to tighten.
“Who’s your daddy?”
“Joel—” You’re on the precipice. He can feel it. Clenching around him and he’s surely going to follow behind soon.
“Fuckin’ say it—”
“You! Daddy. Daddy. Daddy, please!”
“That’s right.” He growls, and your head is spinning with adrenaline. “Think that boy could do this to you? Be what you need?” He slows his thrusts into deep, passionate drives into you. “Be your fuckin’ daddy? No, baby. I’m your daddy, ain’t I? Shit, y’needed this. Needed a man. To make love to you.
“Yes. Daddy.” Nothing could drag him away from this moment. From you. Your sweet scent. Vanilla and soft whipped musk of you. Your heady skin. Your beautiful disposition. Holding his breath just looking at you. Dreading the release building in his gut because he knows he’s made his grave, and he’ll have to lay in it come daylight.
Your entire body seizes; arching and shuddering at the electricity convulsing through you. White sparkling light littering your vision as you clamp tightly around his length, quivering and keening at the shockwaves.
Your mouth is agape, wordlessly clawing at his back to try and pull him even closer to you, trembling as he fucks you through it.
The first blush of daylight is creeping through your lace curtains, spilling silhouettes of the intricate netting across your bedroom floor. Still too early for the birds to sing yet. Delicate filigree shadowing the span of Joel’s skin, muted rays of light beginning to infiltrate your room and dimly light corners of your room.
“Daddy loves you. Fuck. ‘M close, baby. Shit. Shit.” He growls into your ear, rutting into you madly and your legs tighten around him.
“Please.” He tries to shrug you off him, head spinning with the fogginess of his imminent release, but you flash him a blissed out look; eyes glazed over and pressing a painfully delicate kiss against the junction of his neck.
Sweet thing you.
You’re still convulsing beneath him, frantically grinding your hips against hiss. “Please, daddy. Love you. I love you. IloveyouJoel—” His entire body weight slumps against you. Your bodies melding and shuddering against each other as you milk him through his orgasm. You can’t get close enough. Wanting to crawl inside his skin and stay there.
He groans; gruff and virile and Joel. All him. Spilling into you like he belongs there. Like he has the right to. His little girl.
“I love you, daddy. I love you. I love you.”
And for a moment, breath gasping into each other’s mouth, and dawn-light lurking behind outside, you and Joel can play pretend.
Pretend that you are his, no matter how short lived.
summary: You’ve been scared of intimacy since you can remember. So, what happens when Joel — your father’s best friend, and the only reliable parental figure you’ve had in your life — catches you in a rather compromising position on halloween? And, then, what happens when Joel finally decides you’re in for some tough loving?
warnings: potentially dubcon. smut. daddy kink. read at your own risk!
(aaand we’re back! this is quite easily my favorite thing i’ve written so far. it’s very self indulgent. i hope you enjoy! reblogs are always appreciated:) — title song is “can’t nobody love you” by the zombies!!! but the song i also recommend is “hot burrito #1” by the flying burrito brothers, which for obvious reasons i could not use as the title lol. it’s perfect tho so have a listen!)
You don’t know how to feel now that Joel has actually caved.
Now that he’s allowed himself to feed on your desires.
Or, rather, what you thought you desired.
You felt grown when you were pursuing Joel. A dirty albeit grown, adult girl.
But now? You felt anything but that.
Joel.
Joel dad’s-best-friend-Joel. Uncle Joel. Your old man, Joel. Your dad’s buddy, Joel — beer buddy Joel. Joel, Joel, Joel.
Fuck. Joel? Really?
It started with a look.
A volatile little smile on your birthday — your pink frilled cake, sticky vanilla frosting, and eighteen teensy candles glaring. Holding eye contact with him for far too long to be considered friendly; hoping he’d catch your gaze to see what was written all over your face.
“I’m legal, Joel.”
Joel was never stupid.
In fact, he was always too observant for your liking. Catching you guilty-as-charged on your porch and knowing you just smoked your first joint. Or finding you drinking his beer at an ungodly hour and somehow placing it immediately to your impending graduation. Your least favorite: your red eyes, and Joel’s hug following suit — you and your dad were fighting, Joel figured.
He knew you were a good girl.
Really, Joel knew the purity of your nature better than you’d observed yourself.
Your peeking lace, flirty little smiles and that awful pout you developed after your first semester at college never fooled him. Nope, not one bit.
Joel knew you were a virgin.
You were a nervous thing.
Always have been, always will be.
It’s in your nature, he’s decided. It’s your biological coding. Knew it since you were just a girl.
You were the same with boys your age; hiding at the adult table instead of mingling and doing who-know’s-what with boys like the ‘Felder’s’ eldest son or worse, that punk Scott. Not that he thought of you in that way yet, but it was just something he observed. Your meekness. Your quiet demeanor. The way you were totally uninterested in boys in such a way that your own mother began to worry.
“You know, at her age? I was onto my seventh boyfriend. Seventh! These kids are living in a different age, I suppose.”
So imagine Joel’s surprise pulling up to the bar that night to see sweet thing you: pressed against a brick wall, leg wrapped around some loser with your hand tangled in his hair?
Maybe it was his fault to blame.
Snooping where he didn’t belong.
He knew you would be here. In fact, he had, yes, admittedly followed you to the very bar you’re stood outside of.
But could you blame him?
You’re his responsibility.
Your father’s only daughter, his best buddy’s only child, now under his care while you were home for the holidays.
It doesn’t matter how old you are.
That you’re “an adult”, as you keep reminding him, or that you “know what you want.”
You aren’t old enough to know any better, he’s surmised, but Joel does — for you.
Joel is sure you must have been as equally disturbed upon seeing him. If not more.
He isn’t subtle about it. He doesn’t wait for you to finish whatever the hell you were trying to start.
He simply slams his truck door shut — half surprised the red herring of his faulty engine hadn’t sent you running, knowing you could tell when Joel was over just from the sound of it creaking into your drive away. But, alas, you’re occupied. He marches as silent as the still air outside toward the outline of your silhouette, where you’re shielded by this…. stranger, this random boy, this—
Joel fishes in his pocket and shines his flashlight on the both of you.
You’re the first to pull away.
You jolt as you snap your head up toward Joel with wide-eyes, your doe eyes illuminated in the white harsh exposition of his flashlight.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
This was a scene that could kill a man.
You — good grades you, star pupil you, sorority chair member and babysitter you — barely dressed in your white babydoll and fucking bunny ears.
And how ironic is it that you, caught in a disgusting act, gawk at him with faux innocence; donned in lacey white to match the part. And he would’ve sought you fit for it too, if not for your swollen lips and the smudge of lipstick on your chin. Not to mention the random boy currently swearing at your side.
“Get your ass inside. And don’t make me repeat myself. You hear me?” you hesitate for a moment — still wide-eyed and still frozen under the horrible blaring glare of his hand held torch. You’ve never felt so dirty and vulnerable in your entire life.
Joel growls a deep exhale and shines the light closer toward your face, blinding you and causing you to stumble back against the cold wall behind you.
“You fuckin’ hear me? Scram, kid. Inside. Now.” And you know he isn’t playing any games when he begins to count.
“One….two…” you run into the bar with your hand hovering behind your ass as though you were some child nervously escaping a spanking. You would laugh at yourself if you weren’t so frozen in an all consumable humiliation.
Joel has half the mind to slap the kid that was just eating your face off but he regresses. He knows it wasn’t the boys fault; if anything, it was more likely yours.
While he held your good girl disposition near and dear to his heart, he had noticed your recent rebelling streak.
It was unnatural and awkward.
Coming in the form of wearing dresses so short that you couldn’t even jump out his truck without flashing him; copious frills of red or pink or his personal hell, white, and he couldn’t stand it.
He wondered if college had taken the dear girl he watched you grow into only to snatch you away and morph you into a lady.
A femme fatale. Seductress. Promiscuous like your sorority sisters.
But, no — you were still shy as ever at neighborhood barbecues and still ignoring Scott Felder with the same fervor you had when you were seventeen.
And so to see you like this?
He hadn’t a clue what to do with you.
It could’ve been ten or twenty or even thirty minutes, you weren’t sure, but finally, you hear that unmistakable noise of heavy toed boots clang against the bar floor, and there he is. Making an appearance after all.
For a moment, you were scared he had stranded you here. Or, worse, called your father.
But instead, Joel locks his sight on you and slowly approaches. It isn’t hard. With your ridiculous costume ears still perched on your head. He pulls out the bar stool next to you and immediately waves down the bartender.
He keeps a tab open.
You sit in silence as he nurses his second beer, listening to the screeching noise of his obnoxiously loud sighs as you’re sat shaking on the grimy bar stool beside him.
Waiting for something. Anything.
A shake of his head. A snarl. You’re even finding yourself pleading for his dreaded lectures.
But, alas, he only sits there. Wordless and your stomach churns in anticipation for when his fuse finally implodes.
It ignites slowly.
A small, subtle look your way.
Disappointment.
Burning hot and sparking clear as day on his face.
Then,
and you couldn’t ever predict what he would say,
but he meets your eye and mumbles:
“And here I was, thinkin’ you were a virgin.”
You would say Joel has been a pretty consistent figure in your life.
He’s just been there. You can’t ever really remember when he came onto the scene or when you started to respect, and equally fear him, more than your own old man.
And well, you would say you’ve come to know him pretty well.
You like to think you have a firm understanding of his attitude. You know what makes him temperamental, what he enjoys or doesn’t, observed enough to guess what he would find humorous or instead flat out shun.
You know he’s a secret prude. Brave in a way your father never was, chastising you for skirts he deemed too short,
“two finger rule, sweetheart, c’mon. You know this.”
Blushing when the ‘grownup’ table makes a dirty joke. Usually about his lady of the month. Then lecturing you when he finds you peeping, tutting: “this is a grownup conversation, young lady. Eyes and ears to yourself.”
You remember the first time you saw Joel in a new light: condensation dripping down large fingers. That smirk highlighted by handsome lines of age and sun that weathered his skin. Tan flesh and jeans a bit too tight to really fit him properly. That scolding look of his, always pointed your way.
But in all your years of knowing Joel, nothing could have ever prepared you for this.
Joel Miller who damn nearly had a heart attack when you brought your senior year prom date to greet your father, and Joel — of course.
You never knew him to have the gall.
The nerve.
The obscenity to call you out.
“Thought you were a virgin.”
You choke on your own spit. Half-laughing-and-half-gasping as you try to squawk a retort that just gets stuck in your throat.
He takes a large gulp of his beer. You watch his adam’s apple bob around his sip, stupidly stuttering and now burning in a feverish blush.
“What!-what, what…” he peers at you through his peripheral. “Wh-at? So, so— so virgins aren’t allowed to kiss now, is that what, huh?”
You are just so defensive. For no good reason; he’s the one who caught you in your indecent act. Though, you don’t deny what he’s said either, and a tiny sick part of himself is slightly relieved — for your dignity, of course.
“I ain’t ever know one to kiss like that, that’s for fuckin’ sure.”
“O-kay, Joel. How about you try and stay out of my business, and you won’t have to know a damn thing. Does that work for you?”
Ouch. Well, look at that. You’re embarrassed.
Good, he’s thinking. You should be. You ought to be. But there’s something more, something slightly sinister bubbling below the surface. You’re humiliated, maybe. Pissed at him, even. He’s wondering why you haven’t yet asked him what he was doing at some college bar, but he suspects your unease has you tattered.
“Quit bein’ ugly with me, kid. It’s my job to be lookin’ out for you, and I won’t — while you’re under my roof—”
“I’m sorry, under whose roof?—”
“Don’t go talkin’ back to me. I won’t have you actin’ this way so long as you’re stayin’ here. You hear me?”
You can’t decide whether to laugh or yell at him. “You’re aren’t my father, Joel. It’s not your job to do anything!”
Your shame has brought your claws out; hissing and scratching and clawing deep into wounds you have no business deepening.
There’s a falter in the beat of the room. A stutter. A sliver of light peeking onto skeletons long hidden inside your closet.
You knew it was the wrong thing to say. It felt awkward, somewhat heavy like a lie on your tongue, and the suffocating air weighing heavy between the two of you concede’s that he knows this too.
His face reads as surprisingly amused, and you suspect that’s the reason why. You’re just lashing out. Growing pains. All little girls go through this phase. He’s been waiting for this, really.
“Alright.” He groans as he stands up. Arm raising to scratch at his greying scruff and his flannel raises slightly — tan skin exposed, happy trail peeking from above his slacks. “I’m takin’ you home. Your dad ain’t back yet,” you don’t miss how he lingers on that word. Dad. Spitting it at you. “And frankly, I don’t want him seein’ you like…” his eyes rake down your frame and you feel just as exposed as you did under the glare of his flashlight, “this.”
He may as well have gone and called you a whore. You want to lash out and really give him something to be shocked at. Treat him like you do with dear old dad when he tests your patience and see how he likes it.
But really, you’re nervous at how Joel would retaliate. You and your father aren’t afraid to yell; you know that with every argument, while a silent lull may fall for however long it takes, your relationship would eventually return to its flawed resting point.
But Joel? — he classes your low points differently. He yearns for the confrontation, because he enjoys the punishment. The lesson in it. You give him an inch? He’ll run it any which way from Tuesday just to turn it into a some sort of paternal marathon.
You would call him a sadist if it didn’t mean you would have to acknowledge what that would make you.
Really, sometimes, you wonder, if it isn’t the reason him and his own daughter are so distant. Or, rather the reason why she won’t speak to him. You never really saw Sarah growing up, with your age gap, but you could see how Joel’s life motivation could be his very own fatal flaw.
He constantly needs, wants, longs to teach teach teach.
He knows best.
His way is the best way.
“Don’t be mad at him,” your father would tell you when Joel first started taking it upon himself to solve your tantrums himself.
“You know how it is for him. He’s just bein’ a dad, ‘s all. Saves my ass the trouble, that’s for sure.”
You try to remind yourself of this when you and Joel make it back home. Any slight buzz you had lingering is strikingly gone — dissipated completely enough to leave you so sober you’re shaking. From the cold air, or from your repentance, you aren’t sure yet.
Joel notices.
“You’re shakin’,” he observes, but he doesn’t sound concerned. In fact, there’s that same amused twinge from before. The lesson. He wants you like this, all to teach you.
“It’s cold.” You whine, and he sighs at your tone but with a small smirk in tow. Is it cold, or are you stood half-naked in a kitchen where you used to play with your barbies?
“C’mon.” He nods his head toward the dimly lit staircase and you follow up behind him as he begins his slow ascend, leading you down the hallway to your bedroom.
He turns on your bedside lamp and opens your drawers. Rummaging through them as you stand in the corner, still shaking, until he finds a clean pair of pajamas for you and lays them on your bed. Folding them, neatly.
“Get changed.” He mumbles.
“I need to — I need to shower, first.” You feel dirty. You’ve felt dirty since you let that boy kiss you outside that awful dive bar. You weren’t even sure why you did. It wasn’t you. He wasn’t even your type. You weren’t half as drunk as you usually get on nights out, but truthfully, it had little to do with the alcohol and more with the nagging voices of your friends and boys you wouldn’t let pursue you on repeat.
Taunting you. And for what?
Grimy. Bad. Even more so, the moment Joel saw you in that state.
“Then shower.”
You hoped that the cold water and the harsh rubbing of your skin would clean you of more than just your caked-on makeup. But it doesn’t. You feel just as awful as before, and Joel doesn’t offer you any consolation.
He’s as quiet as you are; silent when you meekly pass where he’s perched on the edge of your bed. You fetch the pajamas he had laid for you.
And when you remerge, creaking the door open an inch, he’s still there — waiting. Head tilting at the open door when you meet his gaze with a small smile. You continue doing whatever it is you were doing, seemingly spraying something into your hair. Citrus and brown sugar.
The smell of you. Fresh, clean, warm, sweet. He should get going now. Really, he’s probably overstayed his welcome. Your father could be back. Sat downstairs, nursing a beer. Watching television. Thinking you’re dead asleep. If he was even wondering that at all.
You watch as he lifts from your bed and gingerly wanders toward where you’re spraying all sorts of concoctions into your hair, his frame lurking behind you.
Taller. Brooding. Unsure.
Pausing in the doorway until he’s making eye contact with you in the mirror. He shakes his head, low and disappointed, and tuts at you. Slowly moving toward the other end of the sink before beckoning you over to where he’s stood with a call of his fingers.
You follow — barefoot padding across the cold tiles to reach him.
He sighs. Hums, even. Tilting his head at you and scanning his eyes down your expanse like he’s examining you. Wanting to see how sorry you are.
“You don’t have to stay here, Joel. With me. It’s late.” The concept of someone staying up for you, up with you, is foreign. You feel awkward standing across from Joel, unsure how to handle the onslaught of attention; wearing pajama’s he picked out for you and you hate that you’re secretly comforted by even the small semblance of tenderness it holds.
“You seein’ that boy?” he finally speaks, and you can’t help but shyly smile and shake your head.
“No.” You’re grinning now. Almost giggling. Cheeky.
He wants to give your cheek a curt smack and wipe that smile off your face.
“No?” He’s smirking back at you.
You slowly shake your head. He’s lulled you into thinking that you are equal. That since you are smiling, and he’s smiling, that now you two are playing. But you should know by now — Joel’s never been one to bark without a bite.
You step ever so slightly closer to him. You could blame it on shaky legs or that burning taste of tequila still lingering in your mouth, but it’s just you.
The bathroom is dimly lit, and Joel’s still smirking, and so he thinks maybe you must be feeling brave. Surely, if you’re being this brazen with him.
“I didn’t even know his name.” You whisper.
Smiling, still, albeit sheepishly. Beads of water dripping down the expanse of your cheekbones and wet hair clinging to your shoulders.
Joel doesn’t say anything.
His expression doesn’t even flinch.
He just hooks his ankle behind your calf, causing you to stumble closer to him. You catch yourself before you can fall, making quick balance by placing your palms on his chest.
He hums — gently, and ever-so-slowly inches his startlingly large hand out toward you. You can feel him softly catch the droplets trailing their way along your jaw, grazing his knuckles down the edge of the bone.
To your confusion, the head-rush of the moment is dulled by the clanging of miscellaneous items on your counter, until you realize what he’s doing.
He’s searching for something.
Digging through your sink caddy before pulling out your — toothbrush?
You watch as he squeezes a dime of toothpaste onto its pink bristles. His knuckles are still resting fleetingly along your cheekbones. You would convince yourself that this was your deluded imagination, if not for the jarring sensation of his hand outstretching and covering your entire jawbone in one tight clamp.
Both from the sheer force of his grip, and in a gasp of surprise, your mouth opens and you’re about to retort —
Is he really going to?—
“Open wide.”
Your effort is useless.
He gives you no warning before almost gagging you on your own toothbrush. Shoving it uncaringly into your mouth, letting the plastic stick clang loudly against your teeth and poke at the plush flesh inside.
This is . . . humiliating?
You silently pray it’s not spit you can feel slightly dribbling onto the handle of the brush, surely going down his hand, and you whine in embarrassment — it’s muffled in the clumsy attempt of brushing your teeth — and you try to shove his hand away, but he only grips your wrist with the other; absentmindedly bracketing your hips and pressing you against the sharp porcelain digging into your behind.
He laughs at you.
“Gotta get you clean,” he tuts, and you burn both with mortification and in the revelation that he must surely now see you as you do yourself.
Dirty. Ruined. Once the child, now the inevitable woman.
“Joel,” you gurgle, slightly laughing in awkwardness. The mint is causing your eyes to water as you try to shove him harder, with no avail.
“Stop.” He catches your wrist once again and presses it hard against your chest. “Be good.”
Now this — this is just —
Humiliation.
Joel’s never touched you like this. He’s never gripped at you, or ever, ever been rough with you.
Really, now that you really come to think of it, you’ve never much felt the graze of Joel’s flesh against yours.
Sure, you’ve felt his frame against yours in tear-soaked hugs.
Or felt the calloused graze of his knuckles when passing you the clandestine beer, or maybe felt the accidental knock of his knee brushing yours in sweaty lawn chairs at neighborhood barbecues.
But Joel has always treated you so . . . delicately.
Only touching you unless absolutely necessary. Avoiding it, even: his hand hovering above your waist in photographs, rejecting your requests of retying your bikini top, reacting as though you’ve burned him in accidental moments of your body swiping past his.
Okay, now? Well this just feels oddly intimate.
You must be making it weird.
You’ve stopped thrashing and now you’re only sat complacent, blushing. At Joel. You hate the feelings you can feel begin to stir deep in your gut. It’s hot fierce and you’re sure he can see it, or at the very least feel it in your quick pulse.
But this is already weird.
Joel is brushing your teeth.
For you.
While laughing like it’s the highest form of entertainment he’s had in all his fifty-so years of living.
And — are you shaking? Seriously? Are you that unsure on how to act in the presence of such a man acting as casual as he does during errands?
It’s only Joel. But he’s a man, nonetheless.
You could count on your one hand the amount of times you’ve ever touched one, and so, yes, you’re shaking.
Maybe it’s part adrenaline, too. Your nervous system grappling to accommodate that this is Joel. Touching you so openly, even if it is to manhandle you.
His other hand moves from its tight hold on your jaw to create a makeshift ponytail of your hair, pushing your head gently toward the sink
“Spit, honey.”
You can barely speak with both the toothpaste swishing in your mouth and between your stifled giggles, toothpaste foam clumisy escaping and now you’re laughing, fully.
“There she is. You feelin’ better now?”
“No! You just — you?” You’re hysterical. He snorts at you, secretly relieved to finally see a smile appear on your face after all of your pouting. You’re not off the hook just yet — his seething disappointment still brewing — but the melody of your laughter quells the bitterness even for a little moment. He sighs when you giggle and hide your head in the crook of his neck because this is the little girl that he fondly remembers. Maybe you just needed a reminder, too.
On his flannel collar, you can smell the lingering remainder of the cigarettes he must have snuck out on his lunch break whispering to you. It mixes with the smell of his musk. His natural scent, and a spray of that cologne you could sniff out with a blindfold. Sweet, yet notably masculine — honey melded with boozy tobacco — like that whiskey he stashes below his kitchen sink. Nostalgic in a way that reminds you of summer; Joel’s cigarettes burning the dewy grass of your lawn, sweltering nights spent in his garage, your favorite cherry red ice pops he kept in his freezer just for you, skin sticky with chlorine, cicadas and early dawn, the taste of beers you shouldn’t be having and looks you shouldn’t be giving.
You’re sat on the counter, Joel stood between your legs, and as your head tips up, you can recognize the exact second Joel resigns. The moment he remembers who you are to him, and who he is to you.
“Alright. I better, um. I best be to gettin’ sweetheart. I’ll be speakin’ to you in the mornin’, you hear me?” He goes to step backward, away from where you’re sat, away from your pajama clad body. Skimpy and short, too short and he needs to step away from the girl that deep down doesn’t belong to him. Not with his best buddy’s blood running through you. Away from the little girl he’s known for far too long.
Your small ankle hooks around his calf.
“Why do we have to wait for the morning?”
He’s stunned. You’ve stunned him. Peering up at him with doe eyes and he’s — he’s shocked.
And intrigued?
“It’s way past your bedtime young lady. And frankly if I stick around, well. . .” he scratches the greying scruff speckling his jaw. He’s as close as he was before. Close enough to where he has to dip his head down to look at you. Close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath.
“Well?”
He sighs, softly, and inches slightly closer. His face is beside your ear now. He drops his voice into a gruff whisper.
“I’d say some things I shouldn’t.”
Your eyebrow quirks and the corner of his mouth lifts into a shy smirk. “Not like that, kiddo. It’d be mean. I’d say rude things to you, and I don’t wan’ to. Wanna save it for the morning. Give us a second to cool off, y’know? Take a breather. Go from there.” He pats your shoulder. Joel Miller, always so level-headed.
It’s time to go. Really, it is.
You gnaw your bottom lip between your teeth as Joel begins to tread through your quaint bathroom and toward the door of your bedroom. You should let him go. You shouldn’t say anything else. You’ve already forever changed the trajectory of your relationship with Joel — but in the same sentiment, what is there to lose?
“I’m a big girl, Joel. I can handle hard conversations.”
Even through the dim lighting of your bedroom, lit only by the single glass lamp at your bedside, you can faintly see when Joel’s expression changes.
“Can you? Nearly done scared you off at the bar. Didn’t I?” You watch as it sours, his eyebrows furrowing. You’re beginning to test the little luck you have left for the night, but you’re either willingly ignorant, or simply don’t notice.
You push either way.
Stupid, little naive girl.
“Because you treat me like a child! You — you never treat me like I’m a grown up. You treat me like I’m still little. Like I’m.” You suck in a sharp inhale. “Like I’m Sa—“
“— Don’t you finish that sentence. Fuckin’ hell. You pitchin’ a hissy fit? Is that what this is? I interrupt your little play date,”
“Oh my—”
You really should’ve stopped talking a long time ago. But you can’t seem to find a way to switch this side of yourself off. You’re frustrated — you’re embarrassed, still so abashed and there’s nothing more you want at this moment than comfort; but you don’t deserve that. Definitely not now. You may as well be itching for punishment with the way you’re rambling your mouth at Joel.
“Shut it. You shut your mouth.” Joel raises his voice and you flinch. Both in the fear of your father potentially hearing a glimpse into your altercation, but also for you. You don’t know what’s gotten into you, and theres nothing you can do but watch as Joel drags his hands down his face. Sighing and shaking his head before storming up to you. Raising his pointer finger right in your face, his own scrunched and angry.
Albeit, he inhales a single shaky breath.
“You’re right. You ain’t Sarah. I failed her. I was too soft with her. Too weak. Too lenient with shit I shouldn’t have been. Too — too goddamn proud. And so help me God, I will not make that same mistake with you. You hear me girl? When I speak, you listen. Goddamnit.”
You’re frozen. Stuck in place and somehow the distance between you two has become even shorter. He’s almost breathing down your neck. Seething and huffing with no regard for your space.
You don’t know what to say. Choking on a sharp breath that you didn’t even realize you had been holding.
“This is — Joel, I’m not… you’re not my… I don’t need you to—”
“What? You wanna be my friend? Is that what you’re askin’ for? For us to be fuckin’ friendly?”
His nose brushes against your own and it’s so beside him, entirely uncharacteristic for him to be this close to you; undeniably too enraged to recognize the lack of distance between you. “Hm?”
“No, you’re not listening to me—“
“You keep runnin’ that mouth at me and I’ll show you just where it gets you, little girl.”
You’re appealing to the ugliest parts of himself now. Playing right into his game of cat and mouse. The perfect pawn on his chess board. You know all the right buttons to press and you aren’t even sure if you do it unwillingly.
“I’m sorry Joel.” You whisper so quiet and so sweetly that it nearly stops him in his tracks. Almost breaks him from the frustration he feels toward you.
Almost.
“I know you are babygirl. I know you are…”
And for a fleeting moment, you have your Joel back in the room. The Joel you’ve always known. The only person you know that looks at you with starry eyes and protects you like you’re as delicate as fine china.
He carefully cups your cheek before sighing, looking down toward the ground in an attempt to recalibrate.
To cool off.
To get a grip of himself.
To act like the adult he is.
The role model you deserve.
But. . .
Have your shorts always been that short?
Really — he doesn’t mean to look, his eyes just snagged on a fleeting glimpse of the smooth expanse of your legs, and now he’s perplexed. Why would you even own shorts that tiny?
What purpose do they serve? Other than to appease. To appeal. To impress.
‘Two finger rule, sweetheart.’
Joel can feel himself begin to flush; his temper is brewing again.
Hadn’t he taught you better than this?
You gulp. “Joel?”
“I know you’re sorry. But sorry ain’t ‘gonna cut it this time, kiddo.”
“No, please don’t—” please, anything but tell your father.
“I think we oughta try some tough love.”
“No!—” you scramble toward Joel; reaching out toward him in an attempt to get him to stop. To not go downstairs. To not tattle to that man about your bad behavior. To not bring him into this.
But in that same second, Joel hunches over you, grabbing your wrist and pinning it behind the small of your back.
He pulls you against his sturdy chest. Shushing you. Telling you to “be quiet, goddamnit,”tightening his grip on your wrist when you begin to thrash — kicking at him, trying to free yourself from where you’re held against him, “stop being so squirrelly, kid. Stop. The fuck’s gotten into ‘ya?”
You don’t stop, too confused and frightened to do anything but flail like a fish out of water; gasping like you were gurgling for air when you feel the sudden force of your body colliding with the solid plush of your bed from below you.
You register the pressure first. The immense weight of Joel above you, all broad muscle mass, pinning you with the full heft of his bulk into the mattress. “Stop,” he growls, and you can feel the warmth and softness of his lips graze against the shell of your ear.
The noise and clatter inside your head goes silent — everything coming to a static standstill as you finally take a single slow, albeit wheezed, breath. You quell beneath him.
“Good.” He whispers. “Good girl.”
Joel has you bent over the edge of your bed.
Joel.
Joel.
“You ain’t gonna like this one bit. I’m sorry, honey. But you gotta learn somehow.” You can’t register anything he’s saying because you can feel him. Against you. Pressed against your behind.
Oh. Oh.
You think of what to say but fall short. Instead, you lay still. Waiting. Your heart pattering so fast you wonder if he can hear it.
And then, you yelp; the resounding smack! of his palm shocks through your body. The small of your back where your flesh melts into its heart shape burns. Sending you up the mattress to get away from it.
He’s just hit you. No — he’s just spanked you.
“What the—”
Before you can even begin to comprehend, let alone retort, his palm hits you even harder. So hard that the sound rattles you and rings in your ears.
His hand swats you again, and again, and again. You can barely distinguish the noise of him grunting with each move, watching as his face scowls when you peek your head back.
And then, his smacks hit lower,
lower,
and once more, lower.
Right over your most intimate part. All yours.
And now, partly his — with his palm cupping you there for a split second before pulling away instantaneously when your head whips around to meet his gaze.
His brows are still settled low on his face, with his eyes squinted at you and mouth twisted into a disgruntled scowl.
But beneath it, you can see his guilt rising. His unwitting abdication of you revealing to him in an instant.
You, slightly bent over your frilly bed.
You, gawking at him so bewildered he’s surprised you haven’t slapped him back.
You.
You.
By him. Joel. Joel.
Joel dad’s-best-friend-Joel. Uncle Joel. Your old man. Your dad’s buddy, Joel. Beer buddy, Joel. Joel, Joel, Joel.
Joel who loves you as his own.
Fuck. Joel. Really?
You feel fractured in two. Dichotomized between the part of you that feels sickened, almost. Frightened. Pure and untouched being corrupted in a split second.
And, equally, by the part of you that doesn’t feel that way at all. The fraction of you that feels wanted. Finally desired. Worthy. Worthy of Joel, worthy of his touch, worthy of his attention. His failed attempt of feigning composure a signal of how much you’ve meant to him this whole time. Of how much you can be wanted. To be loved so much by him that he cares for you in every sense of the word. The tiny, insidious part of you that felt jealousy toward those that Joel unconditionally loved. Wishing you were in their place.
Sarah.
Admittedly, you hadn’t seen this coming. But it wasn’t as though you hadn’t wished for it. Like that one time in Joel’s garage. When your father was passed out inside, left asleep on the couch with his beer left warming in his hold, you hiked your skirt a few inches higher; sat alone with Joel in his old camping chairs and demurely playing a game of one sided footsie with him. Joel was talking at you about something monotonous. Some old lecture.
And maybe it was nothing. Really, it might’ve been mostly your imagination. But you swore there was something different about the way he peered up at you — not just anger for your silly game of footsie despite urging you to pay attention, but real hunger — (you pulled your foot away in an instant.)
Joel staggers back, your stunned expression mirroring his own. You’re still frozen in position as you watch him pace in the small space of your bedroom. Nearly knocking over your dainty jewelry and makeup stashed on your porcelain vanity, swearing loudly when he inevitably does, his hip bumping your pink perfume bottle in his moment of frantic realization. He hinges down, gently placing it back in its position before settling his attention back onto you.
“I—” your eyes lock momentarily before he twists away. “Sit up for me” he murmurs with his back facing you. You’ve never seen Joel so frazzled. So out of his own willpower. You hesitate for a beat longer before gradually turning your body toward where he’s stood with his hand in his heads, perching yourself on the edge of your bed. Your hands are politely placed on your lap despite your ass still burning red beneath you.
Joel is victimized by his own puzzle of sorts too. Pulled between his rational self that loves you innocently like his own. Wanting nothing more than to watch you succeed — build your career, have a family of your own, grandchildren, visiting your old man Joel. The white picket fence you deserve. The happy ending he’d give anything to see you have. To be the one stable role model in your life, waiting at your every beck and call. The only thing a man like him is good for. The only thing he lives for.
But beneath it all lurks that ugly, ruined, most selfish inner part of himself fueled entirely by his bloodlust. His nauseating thirst to teach you and have you and protect you like his own kin. Greedily ravenous to claim you in every way he can without his blood running through your veins, without his last name belonging alongside your first. To teach you every lesson he can mangle his way into. To put his love into you. Make it stick.
He cautiously walks toward you. The room is so silent that you can hear his knees creak as he hinges to sit docile beside you. You aren’t sure which version of him you’re with, and you aren’t sure which one you want.
“That wasn’t right. I’m sorry sweetheart. Shit. I’m sorry. That was too much, kiddo. I know.” He finally braves a glance at you and swears under a loud sigh. “Hey. Hey. Look at me, kid.” He holds your face in both of his warm hands. “I’m sorry, honey. That ain’t right of me to do to you. I know, baby.”
But if it wasn’t right, then why are your insides all tangled up? You hate to admit it but you’re ignited. And judging by the stiff sensation pressed against your knee, you bravely assume Joel feels it too.
You gawk at him. A little coquettish without really thinking about it. Slightly blinded by your impulse and batting your eyelashes as kittenish as you can without being obvious.
But Joel knows. He always does. He doesn’t have a sixth sense, he just has age. Knowledge. Power over you in the form of sun-weathered wrinkles and a body shaped by years of hard work and callouses to prove his determination cause of providing for his family. The same hands that are delicately bracing your face having brought women pleasure for decades longer than you have existed and fixed your nightstand when the hinges broke.
‘I’ve got decades on you, little girl.’
“Oh.” He faux’s a puzzled look, but you know that he’s well aware of your situation.
“Oh? Is that how it is?”
You break your silence. Gulping embarrassingly louder than you intended to. “Joel—”
“You liked that, didn’t you?” You go to retort, shaking your head and aimlessly stuttering. Joel stares at you wordlessly, his mouth slightly agape and scanning your face, his two hands still cupping your cheeks gently. Slightly disgusted at your gall. At how you mirror his own.
”That was supposed to be a punishment. You weren’t supposed to…like it.”
“I’m . . . sorry?” You’re scared your heart might lurch out of your chest when you recognize the expression on his face. Hooded eyes and lips pressed in a tight line. The one you’ve only seen once before, in his garage. Starving.
“You’re just a kid. Just a goddamn baby. You shouldn’t…we shouldn’t … this ain’t right.” And yet, your faces are a hairbreadth apart.
His eyes darken; he’s onto you. His mouth melts against yours hard, so hard that you would think your lips may bruise tomorrow if you even had time to think. You can feel him everywhere. Pawing at every inch of your bare skin that he can access and gripping, tightly. Soothing the red flush of your behind with a fierce grope. You gasp, but Joel steals it as an opportunity to satiate his appetite; deepening the feverish kiss by stroking his tongue against yours. You can’t do anything but mesh your lips just as hard against his, clumsily trying to match his fervor until you feel his hand slither to the waistband of your shorts. Teetering at the lace edge.
“Joel… I don’t know if… I’ve never….” he pulls away to catch his breath, the both of you panting into each other’s mouths, his forehead pressed against yours as you feel his capable fingers toying with the delicate lace of your waistband. He steals another kiss over your panting mouth.
“I know, kiddo. Don’t be scared, honey. I’ll make it so good. I promise.” His knuckles accidentally graze right over where you’re most sensitive and you gasp, bucking your hips up absentmindedly in response to his touch. He smirks.
“So responsive. Nobody ever touch you here? Really?” You know he knows the answer, but he just wants you humiliated — willing, shaking shake your head ‘no’ just so he can groan; biting the delicate junction of your neck and nipping at the soft skin there. Nudging his fingers a bit harder into that sensitive, untouched spot and you writhe embarrassingly beneath him.
“Wait…” Without a word, he slowly tugs down the thin cotton of your shorts. You hear him suck in a sharp inhale at the sight of you almost bare, all for him. Joel silently wishes he felt even a sliver more of guilt at the sight of your white ruffled panties. His best buddies daughter. Complete with a tiny bow at the center. But he doesn’t. If anything, it just confirms what he’s always known; that you’re his —
— The only reason he’s kept that bastard around as company. For the promise of you. To be there for you. Like the time he drove ten hours to your campus for parents weekend when your father said he was too busy. A date, if he remembers correctly. But Joel didn’t mind the drive.
He groans. It’s a deep, guttural noise and you blush. You were half expecting Joel to be more collected, more detached, but what would you know. Heat bubbles in your gut all the same as your hips buck once more.
Joel eyes you like you’re something to eat. Biting the bone of his knuckle as you lay there, watching him, coyly, pressing your knees together in an attempt of preserving any semblance of your dignity.
In a split second, Joel’s head lowers to be level with your thighs. Gently spreading them apart to gain closer access to you and mouthing over the cotton material of your panties without a second thought. You whine, legs kicking out as you feel Joel’s mouth soil your panties even more than they already are.
”O-oh,” you try to push his head away, yet clamp your legs around his head in the same effort, overwhelmed at all of the sudden contact, but he just grips the backs of your knees — deepening his soft kiss over your still-clothed mound.
You don’t know how to respond to the newfound pleasure except to try and squirm away, to which he simply hovers his head above you, replacing his mouth with a sturdy rub of his fingers, watching as your legs jolt and immediately kick at his shoulder blades; trying to squirm away from the pressure by scooting your body up the mattress.
Joel tuts softly, grabbing the backs of your knees and heaves you back down toward him until you’re prone beneath him, legs forced to pliantly widen around the breadth of his burly torso. He pins you there by his hips, bearing his full weight onto you until you feel his pelvis against yours — meeting your core in a deliberate, brief grind and smirking when you twitch beneath him.
“You gonna let me touch on you or you gon’ keep beatin’ me? Hm?” He does it again and you shiver.
“I’m not— I’m — stop being so — dramatic,” it’s hard to form a sentence with Joel is continuously rolling his hips against yours, not when you can feel just how hard he is. How he’s heavy against your core and you can’t believe that this is Joel.
Almost as if he could read what you were thinking, which would be feasible with the way you’re shuddering beneath him, he leans in for a greedy kiss, open mouthed and messy, before humming into the shell of your ear. “You feel that?” he punches his hips against yours to emphasize his wanting and your breath hitches.
“You feel how hard I am for you?” he nips your earlobe, rocking against you once more to let you really feel the heft of him. To remind you of his brute size, to make sure you don’t forget that mounted above you is a man. Strong enough to have you crushed into the mattress with no effort, large enough that your legs are forced to part almost painfully wide to accommodate his virile size, old enough that he has the crows lines to prove it and an age that means you could’ve been calling him daddy and mean it.
“You gon’ be good for me now?” you nod against your better judgment, exhaling a shaky breath as he lifts to slither his hand to the waistband of your panties. “You gonna let me see you?” he whispers, teasing you by faking a tug of your underwear just to snicker when your legs immediately clam.
“C’mon, darlin’. Don’t be like that. Spread ‘em legs for your old man.” You don’t, still shaking, not even budging the tense press of your knees when Joel tries to pry your legs open himself.
He hums in contemplation. “Let’s get those trainin’ wheels off. How ‘bout that? How ‘bout this?” his calloused fingers trace their way along your abdomen to the edge of your cami top, rubbing the exposed skin where your top has rucked up, leaning down to kiss your navel gently.
He peers up at you beneath hooded eyes when your hips shift. “Hm? What’dya say?”
“O-okay. Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
You nod, letting him slowly pull your shirt up the expanse of your torso and audibly groan at the sight of you exposed. Your bare breasts all his to leer at and he licks his lips, pinning your wrists beside your head when you reflexively go to hide your chest.
“Fuck,” he murmurs beneath his breath, reaching out to rudely grip at your chest and smirking when you whine. Biting the flesh of your breast and groaning even louder. You shift uncomfortably beneath him, the burning of your core getting harder to ignore, and you buck your hips into nothing. Joel meets your restlessness with his fingers once more, rubbing small circles onto where you’re most sensitive.
“Joel—”
“— Let me make you feel good.” And this time you don’t oppose when he starts to tug your panties down, stealing a look between your legs before you can try and close them again, forcing your legs open with a rough grip on your knees and swearing, whistling lowly and you try reach out your leg to kick him in humiliation.
“Dirty girl. You’re wet.”
You tuck your lip between your teeth. “Just… do something.”
Ignoring you, he continues his ogling; staring at you between your legs as though you weren’t there, reaching out to give you a curt smack over your core just to see how you would react. You yelp and squirm, trying to kick him once more and he laughs.
“Joel…” you’re getting fussy now. Rubbing your feet against the mattress and gnawing at your bottom lip, waiting for him to just stop scrutinizing you and do anything.
“Shh, baby. I’ve got you.” Tentatively, he finally touches you. Your breath hitches when he gently brushes his fingers against where you’re most sensitive. Pressing a bit harder when he sees your toes begin to curl and your eyes widen. “Pretty little pussy.”
“Stop—”
“Anyone ever touch you like this?” he asks you so casually that it sounds almost clinical. Like he isn’t currently touching you harder just to see you react in a way that makes his dick hard.
“N-no,” you whine, leg jolting when he momentarily speeds up his motions, pressing harder onto your bud and rubbing tiny circles there.
“No? Really?”
“Fuck - oh! - off.” He chuckles, seemingly amused before he’s pulling his hand away and hooking them under your thighs to position himself between your legs once again. Lowering his head, blowing against where you’re bare to make you shiver.
“How ‘bout this? Anyone ever do this?” Joel peers up from between your legs, fixating his gaze onto yours and leaning to lazily kiss you right over the center of your core.
“Oh!” you yelp, the sensation of Joel’s mouth overwhelmingly hot against your clit makes your knees desperately try and clamp together. Joel wanted to tease you a bit. Bring you apart with his tongue. Play with you. But hearing you keen at just a measly kiss has his head spinning and cock hard — he ruts against your frilly sheets like a teenage boy, his large hands gripping the sides of your ass to bring you impossibly closer. Groaning at the taste of you and kissing and laving his tongue against your clit like a man starved.
It’s lewd. You’re so wet that you can audibly hear the squelches of where you meet Joel’s hot mouth and it’s obscene. Mortifying and mind-blowing. Your legs shake and hips spasm, but Joel just pins his forearm against your hipbones, holding you in place and shaking his head against you.
You try to bite your lip to keep your sounds at bay, but it’s no use — that unfamiliar build in your stomach creeps faster and faster and you’re moaning, too turned on and bewildered to stop yourself.
Joel pulls away. Grinning when you whine, your chest heaving beautifully and Joel is possibly the hardest he’s ever been. Which is shocking, considering his age and that little blue pill he keeps on his nightstand.
“Why,” you whimper, hips squirming at the sudden lack of contact and Joel just laughs at you.
“Patience, sweet girl. Gotta get ‘ya ready.”
Ready?
Oh.
Ready.
Your attention is abruptly brought to the front of Joel’s jeans. The seemingly hefty bulge presses at the denim seams, so large that the fabric is taut and you gulp. If Joel senses your hesitation, he doesn’t say anything. He just wordlessly reaches his hand back between your legs, using your distraction to press a single bulking finger right between your folds.
You cry out, the stretch of his one finger being equal to two of yours and it burns.
“Hurts—” he’s hovering above you, pinning your knees open with his own, mouth ghosting over yours and breathing down your neck. Kissing you softly on your jaw when he feels your tight, dripping cunt envelop him to the knuckle.
“Fuckin’ hell. This all for me?” his finger presses impossibly deeper, curling and beneath the fullness, you’re starting to feel blips of pleasure beneath — sparking in bursts as he keeps curling his finger inside of you; gritting his teeth at how tight you pulse around his digit.
“Asked you a question darlin’,” he hums low into your ear, beginning to properly thrust his finger into you and smirk when your breath hitches, hips bucking into his touch. You can feel your slickness down your thighs and you burn in humiliation at the thought. Without warning, Joel tries to push in a second finger — groaning when your walls refuse him entry, clamping so tightly around his finger that he has to grit his teeth as to not come right there.
“Relax, baby. Ease up a bit, kiddo. Shit — fuckin’ stranglin’ my finger, ain’t ‘ya?”
“Sorry. Jus’ feels really…!” you cry out once more, rutting your hips when his thumb comes to softly press at your clit. Your whole body shakes, and for a moment, you relax just enough so that Joel is able to push a second finger into you. His forehead presses against yours, thrusting two of his fingers into you and curling with no remorse.
“Feels good, huh?”
“Uh-huh!” you grind your hips back against his hand, feeling him stroking that spot inside of you that your measly fingers could never reach on your own. Your eyes roll back, your hand flying out to grab Joel’s wrist when he begins to move his fingers even faster and harder inside of you; you keen, your entire body tensing and back arching up and he impossibly slots a third digit into you, his wrist continuously circling and you — are you crying?
”So-full,” you whine, and sure enough there’s tears running down your cheek. He wants to tell you to just wait until he finally has his way with you, if he’ll even fit, but you’re clamping around his fingers so tightly that you’re unmistakably about to come. You feel beside yourself, the foreign noises you’re making registering but failing to register over the overwhelming heat coursing through your body, your toes curling and legs shaking.
“Wait-wait-wait-it’s too much… Joel!” he ignores you, curling his fingers into you with a crazed fervor that leaves you gasping, you weakly try to push his circling wrist away but it’s no use, your wrist limply falling to your side.
“Thaaats it, sweet girl. I’ve got you.” And, then, it violently crashes; your mouth slacking and body bowing as it spreads through you, searing white hot as you sob against his hovering mouth.
Your legs flail as it just keeps going, his fingers still moving inside of you and you cry out.
“I know, baby. I know. I’ve got you. Da-” he has half the mind to cut himself off.
You can barely register it over the crushing haze you’re in, your legs still twitching in the after effects of what is monumentally your first ever orgasm.
“What?” you timidly squeak, eyes still closed and panting for air, opening them to see Joel licking the fingers that were just inside of you, before watching as he palms himself over his jeans, his cheeks flushed and eyes dark, eyeing you beneath him with a predatory, hungry stare. Your mind goes blank.
“Are we gonna…” you whisper. Shaky leg lifting to press your foot demurely against where the denim tents, and he groans, gripping your ankle and pressing a soft kiss to the skin there.
“Fuck?” he replies, curt and lewd and you blush, covering your face with your hands as if you hadn’t just cum all over his fingers. He smirks, and only now have you noticed that he’s still fully dressed and you’re completely bare beneath him.
“Dunno. Don’t know if you’re ready for that. You’re just a kid.”
“No… I am,” you whine petulantly and he tilts his head at you.
“You gonna be a big girl for me?”
You nod your head, hands grabbing at his rattled flannel to try and take it off yourself.
“Yes. Yes, yes, I swear. Please.” He swats your hands away, peering down at you with a smirk in tow at your babbling.
“Oh, so she can be polite.” You’re reminded of all the times Joel tried to grill your please-and-thank-you’s into you. Not that you weren’t a polite, meek girl, you were, just not always with him — slacking on your manners at neighborhood barbecues and having to remind you by hovering your plate away from you, “what d’ya say?”, only passing it to you when you grumpily rolled your eyes and mumbled “please, sir.” You don’t dwell long on the queasiness that follows.
Slowly, Joel lifts his shirt— his large biceps that he’s built from decades of construction and handy-work raising above his head to reveal the tan, built, albeit slight pudgy body that you’ve seen countless of times in his garage or by the lake, but never like this. Hulking over you and overwhelmingly man. Your eyes linger back on his face. Painfully handsome; his crows feet are a homecoming — cornering his soft, dark eyes — that sweet puppy-dog stare.
His salt and pepper scruff. Curling strands of greying hair. Saccharine tobacco. Humid southern air. The leather seats of his classic truck. “Alright smartass. Who sings this?”
Then, he moves to his belt, deft fingers pulling the leather through the loops and tossing it somewhere in the midst of your room, tugging his jeans down until he’s just in his boxers and then — oh.
He’s big. Not that there’s any history to compare him with, but it’s undeniable. You gasp at the sight, your eyes flickering to where he’s exposed himself. It looks almost sore. The thick tip of him dripping. The sight is vulgar. You gulp. Not quite sure what you were expecting, but the fat length of him and greying tuft of hair (even there!) an unrelenting reminder of his maturity, age, and above all, authority over you.
He examines your every reaction carefully, fisting himself for a moment and hissing upon the brief contact. He moves closer and forces your legs to spread to accommodate his bulking size; his body is so much larger than yours that your inner thighs burn at the stretch.
“That’s…are you sure that’s gonna… fit?” You whisper sheepishly and he barely hides his cocky smirk, hovering above you and pressing an achingly tender peck against your forehead, stroking the top of your head delicately before meeting your lips — unlike the other kisses; slowed and passionate. Intimate and gentle enough that it feels like conversation. He slots his lips against yours once, twice more; I love you, let me put my love into you, like this.
“We’ll make it fit. Always worryin’ your pretty little head, aren’t you darlin’?” With your hips forcefully splayed beneath him, he grabs himself and begins to line up his cock to where you’re embarrassingly wet. You squirm at the sensation.
“Always worryin’. Always stressin’. Poor baby.” He teases you, baiting you into holding your breath to see you buck your hips in anticipation as he traces your slit with his painfully red tip.
“Just need some lovin’, don’t-ya?” He slots the head of his member against your opening. Forcing the bulbous tip slightly inside of you and you gasp at the intrusion.
“Y-yes. Please.” Love me.
“Biiig stretch now, kiddo. It might hurt a little. But I’ve got ‘ya, okay?” You nod eagerly, lifting your head a bit to try and see him begin to enter you painfully slow, the both of you gasping, he leans against your forehead, tilting his own gaze downwards to watch alongside you.
“Wait—it hurts,” you yelp, the stretch of merely the tip of him inside of you already barely manageable; he halts, trying to distract you with languid, tender kisses up the expanse of your neck. Trying for his own sake to think about anything about how tight you are. About how sacred this is. Your first time, your innocence, now his to shape. His little girl. All his.
“Gotta let me in, sweetheart. Let me show you how to make love, baby.” You desperately wish that phrase would send your spine crawling rather than arching, his old man theatrics in any other scenario surely earning a snort from you, but instead, awfully, you whine, trying to spread your legs further to make space for him despite the stinging pain inside betraying you.
Cautiously, he begins to move again. Pushing his length ever-so-slightly deeper until your heat has swallowed him halfway, your hips squirming in discomfort. Beneath him, you’re whining in bursts of piercing pain. You’ve never felt so full. Sweat is dripping between the two of you, his large arms bracketing your trembling frame and all you can see or think or feel is Joel. You peel your eyes open just enough to make eye-contact with him from above you, his silhouette impossibly broad and backlit only by the warmth of your bedside lamp, and by the glare of streetlights fluttering through your lace curtains.
He stares at you like he’s in disbelief. His eyebrows pinched and mouth slightly agape, pressing open-mouthed kisses over your own gasping mouth when he somehow gets even deeper — a sharp, shaky cry escaping you as he finally bottoms out. His hips finally flush against yours. He meets your wail with a groan of his own, slumping over you and inadvertently pinning his hipbones hard against the most sensitive part of you.
You try scramble away, clawing the sides of your bed, and then Joel’s bulking arms, but it’s no use — Joel’s full body weight presses against you. Fastening you to the mattress and any slight movement hurts; the thick weight of him splitting you open for him heedless of your aching.
“It’s too much — you’re too much — too deep, Joel, you—”
“I know baby, I know. Hardest part is over. Just,” he gulps when you clench around him, nipping the skin of your jaw to keep him from thrusting into the wet heat of you. “Just gotta-fuck-trust me now, darlin’.”
“It hurts,” you subtly shuffle again to try and feel any bit of comfortability but it backfires — shooting a twinge of pain back through your spine and you cry out once again.
Joel stops you by bearing even more of his body weight against you, tutting softly at your naive defiance and whispering gently in your ear. “C’mon, baby. Be brave for me. Don’t hurt yourself now.” He drags his knuckles against your pinched expression, leaning in for another doting kiss against your mouth. You feel his fingers trail their way down the expanse of your stomach to brush soft circles against your bud, caressing you there in hopes of distracting you from the ache. Pecking kiss after kiss and sighing contentedly when he feels you begin to slacken, just barely spasming around him and he shivers.
“You feelin’ any better?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
You nod, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth. Your hips jerk against Joel’s, but this time, you gasp — not in pain, but at the fleeting feeling of Joel’s thick moving inside of you. It aches, but the brief movement forces a meek moan to spill from your lips.
“Startin’ to feel good?” You nod again, bucking your hips experimentally and the both of you groan at the feeling. You do it again, huffing at the blips of pleasure when you feel the slight drag inside of you.
“Yeah, I think so…I think,” your hips move once more to consolidate what you’re about to ask for. “Yeah. Uh-huh. Can you, please, um, I think I’m ready.”
“Y’sure?” And when your heel lifts to dig into the small of his back, he doesn’t question you again.
“Please.” You whisper, your saccharine voice breaking when he meets your tiny jolts with a single, lethargic thrust — carefully pulling his hips away until only the tip remains inside of you, then driving the entire length of him back inside with a deep roll.
You keen, back arching off the mattress despite Joel’s entire weight melded against you; writhing under him as he starts actually fucking into you with fervor, rocking the length of him into you and grunting in your ear.
If his fingers made you feel full before, this was an entirely different ballpark. You could almost swear you could feel every vein of his shaft and throb of him inside you as he fills you impossibly deeper.
“Joel,” you whimper, head tilting back and he latches frantically onto the expanse of your neck, biting so hard you know you’ll be bruised in the morning, but all you can care to think about or feel is Joel.
“Shh, baby.” He coos, using all his willpower as to not rut desperately into you, and to think about the old man that could very well be downstairs; passed out or just now clicking the door open.
His calculated pace falters for a beat when both of your legs wrap tightly around the bulk of his lower back, meeting his languid pumps with a grind, moaning and squirming when he grazes against a spot you never knew to exist within you. His hips snapping against yours roughly and you nod eagerly.
“Yes, Joel. Feels good now, Joel. Joel,” you cry his name out like a mantra, “more. Please. Joel. Please. Pl—”
“Fuck,” he growls, his hand clasping over your mouth and gripping the sides of your jaw, squeezing so tightly you almost bite your tongue. “You ‘tryna wake up the whole goddamn neighborhood?”
You shudder, eyes rolling back and Joel’s careful composure is slipping — the sound of smacking flesh ringing through the room as he begins to really give it to you; brutally plunging into you and grunting with every erratic strike.
Your whines are stifled under his palm, and you’re so wet that you’re dripping — leaving a mess over Joel’s thighs and stomach.
His knee hikes up to position your leg open in a way that fills you even more, the stretch burning deliciously and you can’t do anything but take him, his pace unrelenting and bulk pinning you in position as you spasm.
“That’s it, honey.” And then, he fucking leans even closer, hovering his face less than an inch away from yours, locking his gaze directly into yours and make-shifting a kiss over his hand — right over where your mouth would be under the current suffocation of his palm.
It’s getting too much. You’re bonded to the bed under his crushing weight, the feeling of him splitting you open sending tremors through you. You’re too full. He’s too deep. He’s hitting that same spot over and over and sending violent shivers through you. You try to tell him to stop, he’s too big, it’s too much, but it’s no use — his hand remains the same, fixed over your mouth, and you’re positive you’re drooling.
“Thaaat’s the spot, hm?” He can hear your hiccuped moans beneath the muted suffocation of his palm. You can feel every drag of him inside of you. “Doin’ - fuck! - doin’ so well for me, ain’t ya?” He’s really starting to lose it now. Your heat tight as a fist around him, clenching wildly, and he can’t help but slump even more against you, groaning unabashedly into your ear. Going insane with how perfect you feel. How perfect you are. His sweet, precious girl. All his.
“Brave little girl.” His hips are slamming frenetically. “Doin’ so well for your daddy.”
Your eyes shoot open to meet Joel’s disheveled stare, eyes wide and his hips pause on the deepest part inside of you, holding right against that sensitive cluster of nerves and your hips frantically write against him.
If you were any less depraved as a girl, if you hadn’t held that awful void inside of you for so long, maybe you would’ve pushed Joel off of you. Told him to fuck off. Called him a creep.
You could try to blame it on Joel’s virile stature, curse it as irresistible, but you know he’s the only person that can patch that cavity. The only one you want to.
You sob — rolling against him in a frenzy and whining because yes. Yes. You want to tell him yes. The word growling out of him ringing true like a depraved piece of a puzzle slotting into place; his hips meeting yours desperately as he rocks into you again. Your hand clutches onto his wrist as you nod. Yes. He eases his grip over your mouth, weaving your lips together instead in a bruising kiss.
You’re whimpering unabashedly into the kiss.
“I know, honey. I’ve got ‘ya. Daddy’s got ‘ya. Tell me who your daddy is.”
You might not be able to face yourself when dawn arrives, but right now, it feels too good to deprive yourself of what feels right. What settles into your bones like tantalizing belonging.
“You,” you whine, chasing his mouth to steal another zealous kiss.
“Say it. Shit, honey, you feel so fuckin’ perfect.”
“Ohmy-” his pace is the most merciless it’s been since he first entered you. Slamming against you ruthlessly and you can feel that coil begin to tighten.
“Who’s your daddy?”
“Joel—” You’re on the precipice. He can feel it. Clenching around him and he’s surely going to follow behind soon.
“Fuckin’ say it—”
“You! Daddy. Daddy. Daddy, please!”
“That’s right.” He growls, and your head is spinning with adrenaline. “Think that boy could do this to you? Be what you need?” He slows his thrusts into deep, passionate drives into you. “Be your fuckin’ daddy? No, baby. I’m your daddy, ain’t I? Shit, y’needed this. Needed a man. To make love to you.
“Yes. Daddy.” Nothing could drag him away from this moment. From you. Your sweet scent. Vanilla and soft whipped musk of you. Your heady skin. Your beautiful disposition. Holding his breath just looking at you. Dreading the release building in his gut because he knows he’s made his grave, and he’ll have to lay in it come daylight.
Your entire body seizes; arching and shuddering at the electricity convulsing through you. White sparkling light littering your vision as you clamp tightly around his length, quivering and keening at the shockwaves.
Your mouth is agape, wordlessly clawing at his back to try and pull him even closer to you, trembling as he fucks you through it.
The first blush of daylight is creeping through your lace curtains, spilling silhouettes of the intricate netting across your bedroom floor. Still too early for the birds to sing yet. Delicate filigree shadowing the span of Joel’s skin, muted rays of light beginning to infiltrate your room and dimly light corners of your room.
“Daddy loves you. Fuck. ‘M close, baby. Shit. Shit.” He growls into your ear, rutting into you madly and your legs tighten around him.
“Please.” He tries to shrug you off him, head spinning with the fogginess of his imminent release, but you flash him a blissed out look; eyes glazed over and pressing a painfully delicate kiss against the junction of his neck.
Sweet thing you.
You’re still convulsing beneath him, frantically grinding your hips against hiss. “Please, daddy. Love you. I love you. IloveyouJoel—” His entire body weight slumps against you. Your bodies melding and shuddering against each other as you milk him through his orgasm. You can’t get close enough. Wanting to crawl inside his skin and stay there.
He groans; gruff and virile and Joel. All him. Spilling into you like he belongs there. Like he has the right to. His little girl.
“I love you, daddy. I love you. I love you.”
And for a moment, breath gasping into each other’s mouth, and dawn-light lurking behind outside, you and Joel can play pretend.
Pretend that you are his, no matter how short lived.
summary: against joel’s best intentions, he decides that yeah; he’ll have to be the one to teach you a thing or two.
(smut, corruption kink?, daddy is always a guarantee, morally righteous joel until he isn’t!)
a/n: i actually hate writing smut lol i love every bit before it but this idea was gnawing at me so i had to get it out. she’s a long one. hope you enjoy! my titles are always songs and i highly recommend listening along:) it’s strutter by kiss!
Joel didn’t want to take you home.
He had a rule; one strictly enforced and well maintained far into his fifties.
Of course, that didn’t mean he couldn’t talk to girls your age. Not that there were many seeking him out — or any he was even interested in, thinking them too young and naive — but he was allowed to talk, if need be.
And you talked a lot.
Joel noticed when you entered the dive bar that night. You were college-aged, he assumed — too young for him — but beautiful, sure. With a friend dressed in a similar too-short-skirt-get-up with a boyfriend groping at her behind.
College kids.
He payed you no further thought as he drank his beer clean to the bottom of the glass, instead watching the band play tunes he was happily familiar with until interrupted by a screech.
The empty stool beside him scraping across the floor; you sitting beside him.
You smiled at him in polite acknowledgment and he hummed.
A polite college kid.
He forgets you’re even there — too enthralled in his drink and the band and the peace before he hears a small cough. You. You’re smiling at him again before asking, “hi, what’s your name?”
He replies in a curt ‘Joel.’ Short. Polite. Uninterested. You tell him your name and he seems unbothered. But then you continue.
“So. What are you doing sat all by yourself, Joel?”
And then, with a sigh and shake of his head, Joel was forced to reconsider your respectful stature and study the long expanse of your legs and lousy attempt of cleavage — not demure or classy at all, and he had no a idea why a girl your age you would be trying to chat up the oldest man at the bar.
You could’ve been able to play it off as making friendly conversation if not for the grin splayed on your tilted face, held by your hand rested below your chin. You’re peering up at Joel with a look he can only describe as trouble.
Of course a girl your age couldn’t hide her emotions well. But he could.
“Lookin’ for some peace and quiet.”
You snort. “At Smokey’s dive bar? On live-music-special-Saturday?” Joel nods and turns away from you, instead facing back toward the bustle.
“C’mon. You aren’t bored?” You speak to him again and he only spares you a quick glance before staring back out toward the performance.
“Go back to your friends, kid.” He can see your smile widen in his peripheral and he hates to give in to your cheek, but you were right; he was bored.
“Can’t. It’s kind of hard to ‘hang out’ with people only interested in grinding on eachother all night, y’know.”
“Ain’t that so. Well. That’s when you’re supposed to take your cue to find someone else to…dance with, or whatever you call it. Easy out.” Look at him, handing free advice to a young girl, and he almost feels accomplished with just that; slightly hoping you’ll take it and go and dance with a frat boy that is surely hiding within the sea of bouncing heads.
But then, of course, knee high boots and flirty smile you — he should’ve known better when the toe of your shoe began to graze his — says “and you don’t think I’m doing that already?”
Trouble. He was right, you are trouble.
Hah, he laughs at your gall. “I’m old enough to be your father, sweetheart. I ain’t gonna be dancin’ with you.”
Ridiculous.
You’re ridiculous. He scoffs into his drink.
“You’re trying to tell me you’re only here for a bad cover band and cheap beer?” And now you’re the one laughing, inching closer than before and he can smell lingers of your perfume. Sweet, sugary, syrupy, like sticky caramel and if he had smelt it on you anywhere else, he would’ve thought you to be the same; sweet.
“I’m sure as hell not here for the same reason you are, that’s for sure.”
“And what do you think that is?”
He meets you in the middle. Leaning on the wooden bar and being the one to move even closer to your face. He watches your sultry expression falter for a second so quick he almost missed it; your eyes widening when he plays you at your own game. If he knew any better, he might think you intimidated.
“Well, you ain’t old enough to know half of these songs. And you ain’t exactly dressed like you’re here just to network, so a man can put two and two together, kid.”
“Ouch.” But you bite on the straw of your drink with a sly smirk still in tow and Joel finds you so irritatingly cheeky. Talking to him like this, flirting with him like this. Where is your father? “So not only are you calling me a slut, but you’re saying I have bad music taste? Thanks a lot.”
“Hey, I didn’t say anythin’. That’s all you.”
You have the nerve to bridge the already little gap between you and Joel, positioning yourself to whisper in his ear and he should have half the mind to pull away, but he doesn’t. He can feel the graze of your lips when you whisper,
“Well, neither are true.” You murmur it out in a punch like it’s a venomous secret. Like your admission is something dirty, something so volatile that even the hedonistic crowd behind you would frown.
“So you regularly listen to,” he hears the rumble of the band playing a song he had on his walkman when he was around your age “Kiss?Okay. Cool.”
Your previous unbothered complexion now starts to flush in embarrassment and you move back to an appropriate distance between you and the grown adult across from you.
“No. I mean yes, but no. No, i’m trying to say—“
“That you ain’t no slut?” You nod and he smirks. He wants to say prove it, he knows what the youth do in college (he was worse in his day) but you’ve turned so suddenly meek and quiet that it just spurs him further.
“Well that’s nice sweetheart. Real nice.” You aren’t stupid. He’s being plainly sarcastic and you want to wipe that arrogant smirk off his face.
“No, I mean it Joel.”
“Oh, so you mean it?” His smirk twists deeper.
But then you say something he didn’t expect from you.
“Yeah, I mean it. I’m a virgin.”
He’s not sure if you’re playing at some weird college-girl fantasy he thinks you think he has, or if the new constant of your jolting leg is a tell that you’re revealing a coaxed truth that came from you actually taking offense at his jeer.
His brow lifts all the same.
“That’s…well, okay. Good for you.”
“I’ve only ever, um— I’ve only ever kissed before, too.”
Now he finds that hard to believe. You appeared so promiscuous. But now that he’s really looking at you; scrutinizing your wide-eyed gaze, your neatly manicured nails and pretty pout, he supposes maybe he was wrong about you. Examining you, he’s not really sure you’re even old enough to be in this bar. He doesn’t know how to reply anymore because this isn’t the same harmless flirting like before, it’s something…else.
“You don’t gotta…you don’t gotta tell me more, kid, I believe you.”
“Joel you’re not— you’re not understanding, okay?”
“Enlighten me. What’s there to understand?”
You look frozen. So opposite to the fox who approached him like a predator on the prowl, a girl so confident and proud in your presence. Now, he thinks you resemble something closer to a baby fawn; frozen in headlights and staring at him so clearly unsure of yourself or what your move is here. He’s finally seeing through you, past that big girl facade you greeted him with and he’s thrilled.
“I want you to…” You start but nervously pause, biting at the flesh inside your cheek. “I wanna…you know.”
Oh he knows what you want. He suspected it when you first sat beside him, but now he knows what exactly you’re seeking from him. “You wanna what?
You look flustered. You’re fidgeting with your hair and just blinking at him, silently. And he likes it. He likes that you’re nervous— good, you should be. Shit, he needs to be teaching you a lesson.
What if you had come up to any other degenerate geriatric man? What if you had encountered Joel’s own delinquent brother? There’s no telling what they’d do to you and now Joel’s getting furious. So irritatingly agitated at you for your stupid naivety like all girls your age, and this is why he doesn’t like to go younger.
The father in him is worrying that it’s your father’s fault — maybe it’s the reason you’re seeking male validation from a man like him, and he hopes he did a good enough job with his own daughters that they’ll never carry that same burden he pities you for.
It’s sad, really.
Now he’s just feeling sad for you.
And angry for you.
And at you.
Well what would you know, damn, maybe even a little paternal for you. And if you’re really lucky, maybe Joel will give that satisfaction to you.
Maybe.
He hasn’t decided yet.
You’re still staring at him wordlessly with your mouth parted like you’re trying to think of what to say, starting to form a word but instead choosing just to gape at him.
“I think it’s time you go home, kid. I ain’t giving you what you want. It ain’t right, you hear me?” He can’t help but put on the same stern voice he uses when he lectures his own children or the men working for him (children in their own right) and you go still.
“You got a ride home?” You nod. “Now don’t go tellin’ me it’s those idiots over there.” You don’t reply and he sighs. “C’mon. Be smarter than that. They’re halfway from blacked out. What’dya supposed to do now, smart girl?” He’s shaking his head and standing up off of the bar stool with a low groan, mumbling swears as he fishes his wallet out of his jean pocket. He takes out a size-able guess of both your totals.
“I’ll give you a fuckin’ ride. C’mon. Let’s go.” He knows you’re scared at his annoyance, his gruff tone and constant shaking of his head, but he’s glad. Again, you should be. He’s selfishly hoping you’ll say yes to his offer so he can lecture you even more. Stranger danger and all that. If your old man won’t, he will. He’s not scared to be a surrogate.
You’re still just looking at him with this shocked expression on your face and he could laugh at how much your demeanor has changed. You were way out of your league here and now you know it, this is what you get for trying to act grown when you’re just the naive little girl he saw enter the bar. “Um…”
“I ain’t waitin’ all day.”
You don’t hesitate. You get up and follow him out the bar. He’s hoping the cold air from outside the disgusting heat of the room will shaken you up. Make you reckon with the fact that you’re about to get into a strangers car all by your own stupid mission. He unlocks the passenger seat of his truck for you to get in.
“Nice truck,” you say, and it’s the first normal thing you’ve said to him all night. You sound so young, with your voice shaking a bit, and maybe you truly are as sweet as the sugary scent of you that mixes with the ash-littered smell of his car.
“Thanks. Buckle your seatbelt.” The ignition starts and now he’s driving. You haven’t even told him where you live yet. Are you that naive? “You get in the car of every old man who offers you a ride?”
“No.”
“Well you’re in my car. What’s that about? You better not be accepting any more rides from strangers, you hear me?” He glances over at you and meets your gaze in the middle; you’re already watching him with an expression he can’t quite discern. “What were you thinkin’ tonight, huh? No — actually, you weren’t thinkin’ at all, were you? Tryna sleep with a man old enough to be your father…fuckin’ hell.”
He hears you gulp. “I just…I just wanna do it already. Get it over with. Everyone else in college has.” So childish. Of course you’re falling victim to inadvertent peer pressure. He should be taking you over his knee.
He sighs low and disappointed. “Get it over with? If you’re tryna ‘get it over with’ you go find a nice little frat boy your age. Not a grown man, damn it.”
“But I don’t want some frat boy! I wanted, someone…you know.” He peers over at you again with his eyebrow raised. “Someone…experienced. Like you.” You’re looking at him with a brazened look of lust. That is what he couldn’t read on your face. It’s not outward like your previous persona, it’s a timid, reserved doe-eyed ogle that in any other circumstance he wouldn’t have picked up.
“You’ve gotta be shittin’ me. You’re still tryin’ this bullshit? I—“ You’ve rendered him speechless. He doesn’t have a clue on what to do with you. On how to get it through to you that this is wrong. He swears lowly to himself again. “You are way out of line here kid. Where’dya live. I’m takin’ you straight home.” He’s so close to raising his voice at you. You’re testing his patience now.
“No, Joel, listen, can we just maybe…please?”
Please?
You say it so quietly and reserved that it nearly causes him to fucking crash.
Please?
He’s infuriatingly sober and yet he can feel himself start to think illogically. He’s thinking about taking you home. He’s beginning to realize that maybe he’s going to have to scare you a bit. Really show you how out of your depths you are. Give you the chance to chicken-out.
Please?
Or if it comes to it, if it really has to come to it, maybe he has to be the one to take initiative. Teach you what you’re at this point begging him for, to ensure that you will never, ever, have to ask some other stranger again. For your safety.
He turns the car around.
He doesn’t say a word, and he swears he can hear your heart beating. Make out the dull thump of it in the silence.
“Where are we going?” He lets you figure it out yourself, pulling into the drive of his suburban home five minutes later and turning off the ignition of his truck.
“Let’s go.” You follow him right inside without even hesitating and he can’t tell if he wants to laugh or shout at you.
Inside, Joel’s home is exactly what you expected from him. Homely. Typical suburbia interior. There’s a fire place and picture frames of two girls, only a few years younger than you, plastered on every wall of the house — his daughters, you presume — and you’re slightly jealous. Jealous of the respect he must have for them. The care he must have for them. Enviously wishing it was you in those photos, making Joel proud, standing in the family gallery. You don’t even know him. When Joel tells you to ‘take a seat’ you can feel your heart leap into your throat.
You’re nervous, of course. You don’t know what he’s deciding to do with you and truly, aside from the nerves, you’re excited. You’re beginning to think he’ll just lecture you. Give you a practiced speech you’re sure his own daughters have received and you don’t know what to do with the rush it sends down your spine.
You sit on his leather couch, sinking into it as you watch him light a cigarette. He drags a kitchen chair from the dining table, lifting it until it’s positioned in front of you. He sits down, right across from you, leaning back and spreading his legs with a stoic expression. He doesn’t say anything. He just stares at you. Resting his arm on the back off the chair. Waiting.
You aren’t sure what you’re supposed to do here. You wait a little longer for him to do…anything, but he just takes a slow drag of his cigarette, making direct eye contact with you as he blows the smoke right into your face.
“Well?”
He’s got you cornered now. You’re in his house, the balls in your court, but he knows you haven’t figured that out quite yet. Still waiting on him to make a move that he never plans on making.
You shrink into the seat, picking at the fabric of your skirt nervously. “Are we gonna…?”
He shrugs. Taking another drag of his cigarette. “You’re a big girl. You tell me.” If you want to play grown ups with Joel, you’re going to have to do it yourself.
He thinks he watches the moment it clicks for you. You blink once, twice, three times, and he watches your throat bop again in a gulp. And then, he can’t fucking believe it, but you slowly begin to move off the couch, sinking both your knees onto the carpet below you, kneeling in front of him.
He chokes on the smoke he’s inhaling.
“Well, shit.”
You’ve got gall, he’ll give you that. He can visibly see your hands shaking on your lap as you peer up at him, tucking your bottom lip behind your teeth.
If Tommy could see him now.
Having a girl probably more than thirty years his junior — fuck — on her knees in front of him. Unsure of what to do because she’s never even done this before. So innocent. Pure. What better is he than Tommy? He’s got a company. He’s a father. Yet he’s here defiling you. Another man’s daughter. Taking this from you and no, he isn’t any better than Tommy at all. In this moment? Maybe even worse.
‘I’ve only ever kissed.’
“What are you doin’?”
“I don’t…I don’t know. I just—“
His pinches the bridge of his nose with a sharp exhale, closing his eyes briefly before cupping his mouth and jaw with a shake of his head. He shouldn’t be doing this. You shouldn’t be here. You’re a fucking baby. So young, so disgustingly trusting, chaste yet so dirty. He can’t believe that he’s about to tell you to,
“Lay down on the couch.”
“What?”
“Lay down.” He sighs. “C’mon.” His eyes are still closed like he can’t even watch what’s about to happen. When he opens them, you’re still on your knees.
“What did I say?”
“No, Joel, I wanna—“
“That ain’t happening.”
“I wanna learn. Please. I don’t need you to—“ You sound petulant. Almost whining at him and he pinches the bridge of his nose again, this time harder, with his eyes shut tightly like it’ll snap him out of allowing this to continue.
“If we do this, you gotta promise me you ain’t gonna be askin’ no more fuckin’ strangers for shit like this. Okay? I’ll…fuck, I’ll teach ‘ya a thing or two, but you’ve gotta behave now. Okay?”
You nod slowly, and he can tell it’s hit you that this is happening. “Okay, okay I swear Joel—”
“Good. Unbuckle my belt, then.” It’s only now that you realize he’s hard. Really hard. Like so visible through his jeans you’re sure you can make out exactly where…everything is. You’re staring so blatantly at it and you don’t even know it but Joel’s been hard since your little ‘please?’
He laughs at you.
“What? You ain’t ever even see a hard on before?” You shake your head ‘no’ and he smirks. “Forgot you’ve only ever kissed before, shit. No wonder you’re so fuckin’ desperate. C’mon. You know how to unbuckle a belt, big girl?”
“Yes, Joel, I know how to unbuckle a fucking belt.” You scoff at him and move your trembling fingers toward his leather belt. He’s about to tell you off for your potty mouth, teach you a lesson in respect, but instead watches as you fumble with the notch of his belt with a huff. Your hands are so clammy and shaking so aggressively that you can’t even do it. He laughs again.
“Y’sure about that?”
“Yes! I’m— fuck, just wait, let me—” he shoves your hands away, holding both your wrists in one hand as he unbuckles his belt with the other in one clean move.
“I gotta do everythin’ around here?” He tuts and his hand moves toward the zipper of his ratted jeans and your breath hitches. “Thought I was supposed to be teachin’ you, how am I meant to do that when you can’t even unbuckle a belt, sweetheart?” He sighs and shakes his head like he always does, and his condescending attitude would get to you if he wasn’t so intoxicatingly handsome. Greying hair, broad shoulders, so much bigger than you and stronger than you and older than you; you feel it in the tight grip he has on your wrists, you know if he wanted to he could snap both your wrists in his one palm, and you’re reminded all over again that he’s old. He’s got children. Close to your age. He’s wrinkled with arms more muscular than any other boy you’ve ever seen on your college campus, built from years of labor.
He pulls both his jeans and boxers down in one movement.
You gasp.
“So. This is male genetalia, meant for repr—” He’s smirking at the pure look of disbelief on your face and he chuckles when your brows furrow in an annoyed pout.
“Shut up Joel!”
“Well? What’dya think?
You gulp. “You’re…you’re really um…”
“Big?” He says it through that same cocky smirk he’s developed.
You nod. He’s not just big, he’s long — thick, graying even down there, and you feel clueless on what to do next.
“He ain’t gonna bite. You can touch him.” You hate that he’s called his… parts him, but you’re too focused to say anything about it. He thinks maybe you’ll freak out. Smarten up. Wondering if the brazen size of him will send you spiraling to your senses. Instead, your quivering hand reaches out toward his solid heft. You give him one nervous tug and he groans. You stop.
“Keep goin’.” You do it again, this time a bit more slowly, and he cups his large hand over yours, gripping your hold over him and squeezing, tugging down harder than you would’ve yourself and you gape at him. You don’t know anything. “I ain’t fragile. You can use a bit of your muscle, baby.” His gruff laugh morphs into a short groan when your thumb nervously grazes the tip of him as he moves your hand back down.
“It look how you expect it to look?”
“Yeah you’re just really…” you can’t even think straight because you’re so focused on watching your hands move together. Watching as the tip of him leaks a pearly white and notice how your hand has to stretch around him, your fingers not even close to closing around the thick of him. “Big.” You squeak and he breaths out half a laugh and half a hiss.
“Wait, Joel, I wanna…” You shake your hand out his tight grip and hold him yourself now. Scooting closer and gently kissing the pink tip of him.
“Fuckin’ hell.” He groans above you and you look up, batting your eyes and his hips twitch towards you. “Yeah, yeah, okay, you can, shit, you can try that, honey.” Look at you, playing adult so fast. You do it again and he hisses. This time, you use your tongue. Running it from the base of him all the way to the tip just to gauge how he tastes and he groans deeper than you’ve heard before.
“Am I doing okay?” He peers down at you through hooded eyes and grabs a tight fist of your hair.
“Yeah, yes, you are sweetheart. You’re a—” you try take him deeper into your mouth. Opening your jaw wider to try and make it fit. “Fuck, yeah, you’re bein’ a good girl for me.”
Joel is trying to keep his cool composure, but he’s not sure how that’s possible when you’re mouthing at him like that. So innocent and curious. You sometimes knick him with your canines but he doesn’t even mind it, he’s just staring at how you force yourself deeper and grabs your hair even harder when you start to gag. “Y’can…take it slow, don’t—” he’s almost all the way down your throat. He can feel it convulse around him. “Don’t hurt yourself, kid.”
And then he’s all the way.
You’ve taken him all the way into your tiny throat.
He’s the first to ever be in there, and he almost cums on the spot.
You gag and sputter over him, trying to get away when he selfishly holds you there for a second longer than you would’ve allowed yourself. Tightly gripping your hair with an unintentional thrust of his hips before letting you pull off him with a muffled choke. You open your mouth in a gasp for air and if he was any more gone he would’ve used it as a way to shove himself back deep.
“Well, shit. You’re a natural, honey.”
“Was that okay?” There’s a bead of sweat on your forehead from how hard you worked and he wants to lick it clean.
“You did great, kid.” You smile up at him with a toothy grin, reaching out to take him again and he tuts. Acting so brave when you were just choking on him.
“C’mon. On the couch now.” You hold him by the base and try again, but he grips you by your forearm and tugs you up — shoving you onto the couch and groaning when he gets a quick peek of your panties.
“Joel…” You’re shaking now and he smirks.
“I can’t leave you high and dry, can I? That would be a very bad lesson, wouldn’t it?” You nod meekly and his hand comes to squeeze your thigh.
“Take off your skirt.”
You freeze and he cups your jaw in his hand.
“C’mon, little girl. I don’t like repeatin’ myself. Take it off.”
Begrudgingly, you bring your trembling fingers toward the waistband of your skirt and pull it off. Revealing your best pair of panties — a lacy white thong — and you hear him grind his teeth. Your laid out like a lamb for the slaughter.
In white lace nobody but he knows you wear.
Pure.
Virgin.
Thirty-so-years his junior.
He wants to make some sort of comment but he’s so hard he can’t even think. He grips your jaw firmly and wastes no time pulling off your panties. You gasp and shut your knees tightly but Joel pry’s them open anyways, fighting you when you try again.
“Y’wanna make it hard for me, huh? What happened to your cute please? C’mon. Open.” You kick, and he tuts, manhandling you with a strong latch as he sits against the armrest of the chair. He pulls you by your nape and uses it as leverage to position you with your back against his chest, using his legs to force yours open by bracketing your knees.
“Fuckin’ hell.” You’ve stopped thrashing now, and instead, he feels your legs shivering. He holds your jaw once again, hoping he’ll be able to soften you out by bringing your mouth to his and closing the gap; kissing you and using your cute gasp to meet your tongue with his. You whine and he holds you tight enough you think you’ll bruise.
He looks at where you’re spread for him and hisses. You’re wet already. So inexperienced that just a little touching does it for you. “Shit. You ain’t ever been touched here?” You shake your head and try to close your legs again but his legs hold yours in place. “Poor baby. Waitin’ for so long. So desperate, ain’t ya. Wantin’ someone with experience. Y’just wanna feel good.”
The hand on your jaw comes to rest on your throat, with the other begin to venture down your torso. He squeezes at your chest rudely and your hips twitch up. Responsive. Cute. He doesn’t wait for your approval before pulling your top off and doing it again. Laughing when you whine at him.
You can feel him behind you still hard, the weight of him pressed against your back. And then, he touches you. His hand brushing where you’re most sensitive and you gasp, jolting in surprise but his solid legs keep yours in place.
“Gonna make you feel good, honey.” You feel his stubble graze roughly against your jaw and try to kiss him again, but get interrupted by the feel of his fingers beginning to move. You whimper, hiding your head in the crook of his neck, taking in the musk of a man so much older than you, remembering he’s old enough to be your father, he’s touching you with the experience to prove it. He inserts one finger and you cry.
“Joel!” Even his one finger feels thick. And then he moves it. In, and out, and you cry out again. You don’t even recognize yourself yelping and he just laughs at you.
“That feels good, huh? I bet.” You feel his mouth moving against your cheek and the burn of his stubble and the feel of his finger moving inside of you is too much. You just feel him. His strong body behind you, still in his jeans and white t-shirt. His deft hand that’s brought countless others to completion just like this. “Poor little girl, waitin’ for so long. Bet you’re just aching, honey.”
“Y-yes!” you moan and he adds a second finger. All you feel is pressure and Joel. He’s thrusting them now and you wail, your entire body convulsing and twitching and you can’t even stop the high-pitched whimpers coming from you. You’re so wet you can feel it dripping onto your thighs. Hear it making a mess.
“Shit. You’re soaking me, little girl. Fuck, tell me how it feels. Use your words.” He groans when you move your hips against his hand, fucking back against his curling fingers and you yowl.
“Feels…oh!” his hand moves even faster now and you can hear him against your ear groaning in short breaths at the exertion. “Feels so…feels really—ah! Full. Joel. Joel!”
He fits a third finger inside you and you cum on the spot.
Your entire body seizes up into a ball of pleasure and you scream.
But he doesn’t let up.
He keeps thrusting his fingers up into you, curling where you’re most sensitive and you can feel yourself physically crying. He almost wants to punish you a bit. Force you to come until you can’t. Or maybe edge you onto the cusp of another and tell you he’s driving you home. But then you mewl, “Joel! I want you inside, please. Please. Please.”
He’s abstenmindenly thrusting his hips against the small of your back and you keen, trying to reach for him from behind you. “Fuck. Are you sure?”
“Yes! Please, please, p-please, just put it in!” He groans with you when he pulls his fingers out, using the hold on your nape to pull you off him and onto your back. He grabs his base with the hand you’ve soaked and greets your seam with his thick tip. Dragging it through your folds and you push your hips against him. “Please.”
“You want it that bad, huh?”
“Yes! P-please,” he teasingly breaches the first inch into you before stopping, sneering when you cry out and try to move him further into you.
“Hm. Don’t think it’s gonna fit, honey. You’re too small. Fuck baby, ain’t nobody’s been in here. Should be with someone your own age—“ he groans when you hold him by the base, trying to make him go in all by yourself and he catches your wrists in his large hand.
“—you’ll make it fit, please!”
“Don’t fuckin’ interrupt me. Bad girl.” He slaps your clit with the head of him and you cry. “Cryin’ cause you want it so bad. Look at you. What a pretty sight. Pretty little virgin, ain’t you? You want it? You want it bad?”
“Yes! Please. Please.”
“You want it bad enough you’ll let me in raw?” You nod so fast that he can’t help but laugh at you. At your pure eagerness. “You even know what that means, virgin? Tell me how much you want it. C’mon.”
“I want it so bad. Even raw, Joel. Even raw— please, please. Please. Please,” you have a nickname burning at the tip of your tongue. You want to squeal it when his mean grip on your wrists gets tighter. You can’t think of anything but saying it when you see his stern look and hear his strict, gravelly tone.
Daddy. Daddy.
“Please, daddy.”
He can’t nearly fucking believe it.
Daddy.
So fucking immoral. He’s a real daddy, and you want him to be your daddy. He just stares at you like he can’t believe his ears.
You’re dirty.
He grumbles a fuck, ramming the full fat weight of him into you so fast you keen.
“Oh!”
He thrusts the entire length of him into you in one, swift punch. He feels bad, he’s sure it hurts, he wanted to make a big fuss of your deflowering, but his ears are ringing and he can’t think of anything but fucking you. Not when he hears you crying for him to be your “daddy.”
“Yeah, fucking ‘oh.’ Shit. You feel—“
“Too full, daddy! You’re too. Big—“
He pulls out all the way before plunging right back in, thrusting in a deep succession and your high-pitched whimpering is doing his head in. He’s not sure how he hasn’t come yet, not with your hips twitching beneath him or at the sight of you being so much smaller than him. You’re so tiny beneath him. He thrusts again and you moan, “daddy!”
“Yeah. That’s what you need, huh? Y’need,” he groans and you bite the junction of his neck with a sharp cry. “Y’need me to be your daddy don’t you? Fuck. You’re fuckin’ squeezing me. Such a,” he feels you pulse around him and he collapses onto you, the full weight of him now crushing you as his pubic bone grinds against your clit. “Such a naughty girl for daddy, who knew.”
“Oh my,” You can’t even think. Breathe. Move. Pinned under the weight of him and your legs kick out at the pure pleasure. “Too much daddy, It’s too much—“
He doesn’t even hear you. He just keeps thrusting so deep into you that you feel him in your stomach. “Poor little girl. Lookin’ for a daddy. I knew it. Should’ve just told me. I’ll be your daddy, honey—“ He hisses when your hips try pull away from his, hauling you back onto his length. “Where’ya runnin’ to baby? Huh?” He drives even harder into you, planting his knee beside your hip so that you can’t move and you scream. “Y’got what you wanted. Take it, c’mon.”
“Can’t! I’m gonna…too much!”
”Fuck. Can’t believe I’m the first one to— shit, first man to fuck you. Fuck baby. Fuck. Feels so good for daddy. You’re mine, ain’t you? My little girl.” Your entire body convulses, you feel him so deep and you swear he’s impaling you. “Say it.”
”Y-yes.” He slams into you so hard you shriek, trying to shove at his hips with your hands to let up but you can barely move; paralyzed by him kissing your cervix deep inside with your arms pressed awkwardly under the manly weight of him.
“I said say it, dumb little girl, fuck—“
“Yes, I’m yours! Joel. I’m gonna…” Your entire body tenses. You feel it in your legs, your toes, and Joel feels you clench around him so intensely it catalyses his own release. You’re so incandescently tight around him, his vision is blurring and he can’t even get the words out to ask you if he can come in you; he just does. You’re stuffed full now, feeling a wet, hot heat infiltrate you and you whine with him, barely handling the aggressive pummel of his hips before he finally gives finishes. He’s still inside of you when he lays beside you with a groan so loud it startles you.
“Shit. So much for gettin’ it out the way, hm?”
summary: your freudian complex comes to visit when you reunite with your dad and his best friend for the summer. (smut)
Joel had been an ‘empty-nester’ for months too long.
His life, for a better part of eighteen years, had revolved all around one person: one piece of himself, now left to fend the world he knew far too well all by her lonesome.
Sometimes, on quiet nights spent with a cold spot beside him on the sofa, he walks up the dark staircase toward her bedroom; creaking the door open and expecting to see her laying there, softly breathing and safe in his home.
He tells you this, sat on your father’s patio with a cigarette in hand and a slight frown on his face. You didn’t need to press him for more - for more sentiment to be shared, and for a deeper crease in his brows to form. He just took a slow drag of the cigarette left burning between his fingers, and gazed outward to the space beside you. His eyes flitting toward the ground and view of the edge of his house as if walking through the memories there in pieces; breaking the silence when he remembers something witty Sarah said or something dangerous she did when she was five.
It’s funny, you think.
If your father, currently stood in the grill smoke, was sat on the empty chair to your side, you were sure he would laugh at Joel.
He would stand up with a pat on his shoulder and tell him to “lighten up, pal.”
You aren’t sure how to keep smiling at Joel’s recital when your stomach is beginning to turn queasy in his paternal reminiscence. You don’t know how much longer you can blame the ash from the fire as the perpetrator for your watering eyes when he reminds you of Sarah’s graduation party. It was small, intimate, a surprise completely prepared by Joel who “couldn’t contain how proud he was.”
Part of you admired Joel, truly — his fatherly disposition that comes as natural to him as walking and eating and sleeping. But part of you, the one clenching your jaw to distract yourself from the wetness threatening to stream down your cheeks, feels something ugly toward him.
Something akin to jealousy.
Where Sarah groaned in embarrassment at the festivities, there was you: you who almost missed your graduation out of fear of your father not showing up. You who texts your father several times a day with no response. You whose father doesn’t know how you take your tea or the friends you keep. You, whose father didn’t bother to see you enough to feel like an “empty-nester.”
You, here for the sole reason of trying to bond with your father, and instead left talking to his best friend.
It was a mangled, futile blip of jealousy, but it was there. It wasn’t envy in the sense of wanting your father to suddenly develop the same sentiment Joel shared toward fatherhood, but rather an abstract desire for somebody, for Joel maybe, to feel that way toward you.
Semantics.
You don’t get the chance to tell him that when a rattle of an empty beer can comes from the lawn.
“We’re out!” Your father shouts, oblivious to the dread knotting in your stomach and calling on you to “fetch him a six-pack, will ‘ya kid?”
Begrudgingly, yet with relief for an end to the conversation you couldn’t in good conscience continue, you stand up with a small smile.
“Want me to come with?” Joel asks politely.
Yes, you do.
But you say “it’s alright, thanks.”
“Know what kind of beer your old man likes?”
A kick to the gut.
You’re sure at that moment it all clicks for Joel. Your silence, your uneasy expression, your constant hovering around Joel like the insects buzzing at the porch-light above.
“Yeah, I’ll come.”
The car ride is as awkward as you’d imagined it to be. Joel drives, glancing at you occasionally as you decide carefully on what to play. Trying to fill the silence with music he would like but unsure in his lack of response. Trying to start conversation by playing Pink Floyd, you’d seen him wear their shirt the day before. But he doesn’t say a word, and you change the song just to hit another lack of approval. And then you change it again. And again. And again. Until he grunts out a “knock it off” squinting toward you with the lines of his crows feet shadowed in the orange evening light, laughing that he “liked the last song you played” and that “you didn’t have to change it.”
The ride home is equally as quiet. Until, he says, “so, how’s college been treating you?”
“It’s been good.”
“You behaving up there?”
You laugh gently. “Sure am.”
You want him to challenge you, interrogate your behaviour, but he just meets your smile with a simper of his own.
“Any college boys I need to kill?” You roll your eyes and he grins, his eyes watching your expression before glancing down in a quick beat.
“Hope you don’t wear dresses like that around those dogs.” His gaze catches your bare thighs and you flush, secretly hoping he would brazenly stare or even touch you to emphasize it.
“Well I guess you’ll never know.” He rolls his eyes at you this time and you can’t help but giggle.
Silence.
“Your dad’s missed you, you know.” You snort.
“I’m serious, kid, he has.”Then why hasn’t he called? You want to ask, but you just stay silent.
“Like you miss Sarah?”
The car engine stutters and he glances toward you with a sharp turn of his neck. He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. Studying your expression and tucking his bottom lip between his teeth. He stares at you for a beat too long, before turning back out to the road.
“Randy sure missed me, though.”
“Randy?” His neck turns even quicker this time that it’s almost comedic.
“Yeah. Randy Coleman.”
“Yeah I — yes, I know Randy, we all know Randy, what does he… he what?”
You shrug with a smile. “Came to say hello when I got back.”
The car pulls into Joel’s garage. He puts the car into park, turns off the ignition, and looks at you. His mouth slightly open and eyes squinting.
“What’dya mean Randy Coleman came to say hello?”
You cross your arms and try not to grin.
“Said he liked seeing me all grown up. Tried to get in my pants, actually—“
Joel coughs into his elbow. Scrunching his face with a shake of his head and coughing again “Fucking hell, kid.”
”What? It’s true.” He stares at you incredulously.
“I didn’t let him, obviously.”
Joel lets out a breath you didn’t even realize he was holding and you laugh.
“Maybe I should’ve. Sure would’ve been more of a welcome brigade than dear old dad not being in town.”
“That’s cause he— I don’t…” he palms at the scruff on his jaw, tapping the wheel in three quick motions before pinching the bridge of his nose. “ ‘Don’t know why you’re telling me this, kid.”
“I don’t know either.”
“I’m not… I won’t sit here and lecture you to stay away from fucking Randy Coleman of all fucking people, I mean shit. You ain’t mine to lecture.”
You gulp to try and soothe the disappointment tightening at your throat. You want him to care enough to yell. You want him to be angry, disgruntled, do something about it with a raise or his voice or swift hit of his hand.
“I know.” You say quietly.
“Do you? Do you know? ‘Cause it seems like you want hell-of-a-lot more than I can provide here.”
“What would you tell Sarah?”
“You ain’t Sarah.” You know you aren’t. Selfish in your tangled want for him to carry a shred of the concern he feels for her toward you. You don’t belong to him, you aren’t his, he can’t surrogate you.
“But if I was?” Stupid. Selfish. Surrendering on your back and showing the weak points of your design; exposing the fleshy tenderness of your vulnerability like a prey’s soft stomach. Waiting for the clamp of a jaw, the pierce of canines, the bite of disappointment and subsequent jolt of reality.
In the dark of the evening, slightly illuminated by the deepening orange of the sun not yet breached past the horizon, you see the shadow of the deep crease settled between his brows. He looks at you silently, pursing his lips together and sighing with a shake of his head. A look of pity, you think, you hope. His weathered hand and calloused fingers coming to scratch at the bottom of his jaw.
“I’d tell you to get your act together.” He says so softly it’s almost a whisper.
You need more.
You want to say, tell me more Joel.
Lecture me about college boys and grown men like Randy, quiz me on the names of the bands you like, nag at me to do my homework and tell me you’re proud.
Show me with your hands: hold me between your strong arms, touch my skin, guide my hands, teach me, touch me, show me.
Instead, you just gawk at him wordlessly.
You stare at him so hard you’re sure he’s broken a sweat. He’s irrevocably handsome. Hugged by a tattered flannel rolled to expose his sun-soaked skin. His chest exposed, freckled and lightly dusted by hair. He’s lived for so long, gone through so many phases of life and met and loved so many people. It’s almost unfair to sit there in a quiet lull when Joel has stories to tell. You see it in the lines beside his dark eyes and sheer size. Broad, muscled, larger than you in both life and physicality.
There’s no way to explain to him the inexplicable feelings his very presence has conjured other than to just kiss him.
You lean in slow enough for him to move away. Inching toward him with a halt for breath with your mouth hovering over his and hearing him gasp a breath. You kiss him, gently, pressing your lips to his so nervously and faintly it could be imagined.
“We can’t” he heaves. Pushing your shoulder lightly but not with enough conviction to get you to sit back down.
“But I… I want you.”
“No, you don’t want this, kid, you…” He says it still so close to you his lips brush against yours as he speaks, raspy and sweet. “It ain’t right.”
A delicate redirection earning a rebutting, ignorant pout from you. Meeting his puzzled look with a doe expression and waving your white flag.
“Please?”
Please? Love me, show me, pretend with me, please?
“It ain’t…”
His mouth meets yours like he’s testing the waters.
Hesitant to kiss his best friends daughter and careful to give in when the pity he feels for you morphs into something part guilty and part angry; grabbing your jaw with a harsh grip and deepening the kiss in his disbelief and disappointment that you would want him like this. A twenty-something-girl and a man old enough to be her father. He shows you with a clash of teeth and fierce tug of your hair. Pulling you closer to him and panting into your mouth when you climb over the console onto his lap.
“Please.” Your hips move eagerly and frantically against his and he’s desperate to try and get some semblance of control over the situation, grasping at your hips to pull them to stop but bucking upwards when your hands fumble at his belt buckle.
He grips both your wrists in one fist and pulls away. Both of you panting and slumping into eachother.
“C’mere,” he whispers. Turning your back against his chest and you can feel how hard he is behind you. The scruff on his jaw scratches your skin, burning beautifully as he kisses the junction on your neck. Telling you i’m here, easy now, squeezing your thigh and reaching up into the skirt of your dress. Brushing his fingers against where you want him most, gasping when he presses his fingers down.
“Please.” You beg again. Please show me you can want me, even if it’s only like this. Your hips jolt up when he reaches beneath the white cotton of your panties, thumbing at the most sensitive part of you and huffing a laugh when you whine. “Please, Joel, please—“
He hums, teasing you by slapping the flesh of your thigh. “You want to play with the adults like you’re grown? Tell me what you want. C’mon.” He brings his fingers back to you and you keen. “Use your words, you’re a big girl.”
“Please, Joel. Your… I want your fingers, please.”
You want him so bad you could cry and you think you do as he plunges them into you; two with no warning and curling immediately into that plush spot inside of you.
“Oh my…” You rock against his hand, whining into his neck and biting at the skin there. Hot and sweaty, your sweet perfume mixing with the dark musk of his cologne.
“Poor little girl, huh?” He pities you and it just stirs you deeper. Meeting his ramming with fervent swivels and he just matches your franticness, thrusting his fingers so deep and aggressively into you that you silently scream, reaching a spot you didn’t even know existed, hearing him growl behind you when you begin to shake.
“Joel…” you want to say thank you. Thank you, Joel. Thank you, daddy. Daddy. Daddy.
You grind down against him and he slaps your cheek, bringing your mouth to his and kissing you so messily it’s filthy. Almost as dirty as hearing you so wet against him it’s loud — ricocheting against the grunts and mewling inside his truck. “Feels so… it’s too much, Joel!” He grind against your back, propelling his fingers even deeper into you and you feel it all at once: another finger added, your legs shaking, your back arching and his arm anchoring your waist to pull you back against him, not letting you escape from the fire tingling rampant through your body.
“Too much, Joel, feels.. d—!”
His hand clamps tightly over your mouth.
“Shh, just take it, take it. That feels good, huh?”
You nod desperately and slump into him, feeling the aftermath still coursing through your body before jerking up with a yowl with a when his fingers continue their onslaught.
“No, Joel! ‘S too much!” You try and escape him pressing your hips down, shuddering against him with a cry.
He laughs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and he pulls his fingers out of you.
He kisses your face. Your cheeks, your forehead, your jaw, your lips, and then presses his forehead to yours with a small sigh.
“That’s all…that’s all I can provide for you, kid.”
You don’t need to say anything except a quiet “thank you, Joel.”
(inspired by true events; getting turned on by sexy trucks for sale while browsing…. recommend the song “slow ride” by foghat)
Thinking about classic car collector Joel. (smut)
He’s got years on you, clearly, the tattoos inked onto his flesh have seen more birthdays than you: he has lines around his eyes that crinkle when he smiles, skin freckled and bronzed by decades of sun that have brought him the beauty of countless sunsets and sunrises before you even existed.
It makes sense, looking so well preserved in his age, that he would seek out a career dedicated to conserving and restoring the cars he does. One’s rusted and faded and simply, old.
What he didn’t expect on the dull morning of posting an advertisement for an equally dull, rusted, frankly hopeless ‘1970 Ford’ was you.
Young, shiny, new — a rare commodity amongst the regular buyers of his collection, and certainly a stand-out amongst the venerable antiques in the store; including Joel himself.
You stumbled across his yellowing lawn with the grace of a newborn foal. Tripping slightly over your own feet, making him question why on earth you wore those long, seemingly uncomfortable, laced-up boots. Another relic, he supposed. An inkling of your taste before you had even introduced yourself. A reasoning for you, here, at his garage, a girl chasing a past she never belonged to.
“Hello!” you smile, offering a hand toward him and slightly faltering when he hesitates. He stares down at your hand. The smooth expanse of your skin, the polished manicure on your fingers, the light weight of it when he finally meets your outstretched palm with his own; soft, gentle, a direct juxtaposition to the grease under his fingernails and the rough callouses that scratch against your silky flesh.
“You here for the ad?” he assumes, scanning a quick glance over your frame once before settling back on your face.
“Yes, I am.” His eyebrows slightly pinch together. He’s puzzled.
Looking at you, and then your satiny chest, and then your equally as velvet-looking legs, and then back at you. Wondering what the hell you would know about a car like that and staring at you without even hiding his confusion.
“That Ford?”
You nod, and his expression almost sours. He’s squinting at you, shielding his eyes from the burning afternoon sun and giving you a brazen look-over once again; as if he missed something in his previous examination, a physical sign to dismiss his notion that you had no business here at all. Not buying a car older than the both of you, not on an old man’s front lawn, and certainly not dressed like that. In small, honestly tiny denim shorts, leather boots that stopped at your knees, and a blouse scantily covering your collarbones from his view. Was this what the kids were wearing nowadays? Let alone to meet some facebook-marketplace-stranger?
You weren’t one to be shy. Usually, you were confident, collected, cool.
But with Joel - this stranger - staring you down so intensely and so obviously, you were left skittish. Frozen in place, unable to do anything but fidget with the seams of your shorts with jittering hands and wide eyes.
“You know a lot about cars? That’s a tough case back there.” Is all he says. Like there hadn’t been an excruciatingly long pause of him outright scrutinizing you, leaving you close to running tail-in-tow.
“Well, I drive one, hah.” You try to quip. Laughing a dry, short heave of a laugh and inhaling a shaky breath when his stoic expression doesn’t change in the slightest, no hint of amusement or playfulness. This is a business deal after all, you guess. A serious purchase garners a serious atmosphere.
You suppose you’re slightly more nervous than usual not just because of how out-of-your-depths you were, or because this man in front of you was a complete stranger in a location that took you more than an hour to get to, but because you didn’t expect, well, him.
Tall enough to slightly tower over you, thick mustache and greying scruff on a sharp jawline, large biceps that bulge in the crossing of his arms as he frowns at you, plush lips with a lit cigarette between them, dark brooding eyes that glare at you.
He was beautiful.
Even more-so in the sunlight. Aquiline nose, furrowed brows, sliver of skin peeking from below his unbuttoned flannel, exposing tufts of chest hair to your pleasure. He was so handsome it was intimidating.
“You can take a look at it…” he sighs and places a dirty cloth you hadn’t realized he was holding over his broad shoulder, walking toward his garage and lifting the door.
A delicious trail of hair trailing up the expanse of his stomach from the waistband of his weathered jeans. You follow him inside the garage.
You didn’t know a lot about cars. You knew barely enough to drive one. But you knew that rust was not ideal, and that’s what the ute in front of you was entirely soiled by. Hard, corrosive rust, eating away at the beautiful cherry-red exoskeleton.
“You haven’t wanted to fix her up a bit?” you ask, trying to carefully not give away that you had done more than just read the ad he had posted (you had read over his entire facebook page, and then his brothers, and then almost the entire Miller family.) You had seen his previous restorations, and they were nothing short of flawless.
“No time.” You knew this too. Joel was opening a brother-owned-partnership, Miller Contracting.
“Ah.”
“So what’d you think?” A deep, southern drawl. Smooth like the purr of an engine, syrupy, husky, manly.
“Um…” You freeze.
“You got skill to fix her up?”
“Well…”
“She ain’t gonna be easy like that Honda you’ve got parked out there.” You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth and pout. Underestimating just how much proficiency you would need to actually entirely restore a car.
“Does she start?”
“You read the ad at all?”
You sigh in slight defeat and his strong, capable hand you had admired earlier comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose, sighing with you in something closer to an annoyed grunt.
“I could… I can fix her up for you—“ your eyes brighten immediately, pivoting your entire body toward him and getting close enough to him he’s sure you are about to hug him; the fifty-five-year-old stranger. “It would have to cost you, obviously.”
Oh. Right.
“How…how much?” Of course. It would cost a lot. That’s why you had come here in the first place, allured by the affordable price tag only to be shocked when the price matched the product.
“Ain’t gonna be cheap.” For the first time since you had greeted him outside, you peer up at him; meeting his scowl with your wide-eyed gaze. Inadvertently, you flutter your lashes and slightly touch the side of his boot with your own, and his eyebrow lifts.
Were you…?
“And it’s not…bargain-able?”
What were you doing?
“Christ, what’d you think this is, kid?” You blink. Still looking at him with wide-eyes that went larger in the second.
“I-“
“This ain’t how things work around here.” He gives you that same look from earlier, studying you with a downward tilt of his eyes and you were mortified.
“Um…I’m sorry, I just—“
He stares at you. At your coquette bite of your lip, at your smooth skin, at your doe eyes and deer-in-headlights expression, and he sighs Low, and disappointed. Cutting you off before you could finish your apology, shaking his head as if he has no other choice, but to say:
“Get on your knees.”
What?
“What?”
“Well, I ain’t gonna do it for free, now am I?”
You stare back at his enigmatic expression and catch a glimpse of something you missed before; the corner of his mouth lifted in a sleazy smirk.
You blink.
A deer in the headlights.
Now, he’s fully grinning, cigarette long forgotten beneath the crushing sole of his boot.
“Well?”
You should probably leave.
You should probably run into your own perfectly working car and drive off, far from this secluded house and gallery of mouth-watering cars you would never have the chance of owning. Flee from the man in front of you, smirking dangerously and built: broad shoulders and a muscled back you see rippling beneath his worn flannel.
You drop to your knees, and he laughs.
“You do this a lot?” you shake your head and quickly work on his large leather belt, fumbling with the clasp and trying to unbuckle it fast as if you didn’t move onto your knees yourself.
“Show me how much you want that car and maybe I’ll do somethin’ bout it.” You peer back up at him and his smirk has only widened, staring down at you with what you now recognize as him ogling you; his eyes moving toward your eyes, to your lips, to your chest.
And then, he pulls himself out.
You gasp.
He’s huge.
Throbbing, curved just-so, thick in his hand and you gulp.
“Well?”
You replace his grip with yours, wrapping your shaking hand around him and feeling the weight of it in your palm.
Hot, and heavy, and huge.
You bring another hand to meet the gap and start moving, waiting for him to say something as he just stares.
“You think that’s all I want from you?”
You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth and he grunts a low heady sound when your hand grazes his tip.
“C’mon,” he says lowly. “Give him a little kiss.”
You bring him to your lips, your shaking hands jittering him against you as you suckle slightly, tasting the salty taste of him and he groans, his hands flying to clutch tightly at your hair.
“C’mon baby, give daddy a bit more than that.”
Shit. You tense your thighs together momentarily and open your mouth further, the stretch burning as you try to fit more of his girth into your mouth. You try to breathe through your nose, but he’s just too big, sending you gagging with barely half of him in your mouth and he just pushes your head down further, until you’re pressed against the salt-and-pepper trail of hair on his abdomen.
“Fuck,” he growls, when you swallow. Trying to contain some of the spit that dribbles down your chin as you whine, attempting to tell him that it’s too much.
But then you look up.
He’s gazing down at you with beads of sweat rolling down the thick of his neck, mouth slightly a-jar and eyebrows pinched. When your eyes meet his, his expression morphs back into that wicked smirk; tugging at your hair to pull you almost off him before thrusting back into your mouth. You gag in surprise, and he laughs again.
A deep, sadistic noise, cut off by his own gravelly moan.
“You’re fucking nasty.” He thrusts impossibly deeper down your throat, sending you spluttering around him and you swear he just gets harder, gets bigger. When he finally pulls you off, allowing you a gift of air that you gasp loudly, he slaps the length of him against your face; smearing your spit around your cheeks with another low laugh.
“This how you always get your way? Get on your knees like a slut?”
You go to retaliate - wanting to whine a ‘no’, reiterate to him that you’ve never done something like this, you’d never been depraved enough to get on your knees for a stranger, let alone one old enough to be your father. But then, he just brings himself back to your mouth, grunting an “open up” before shoving his length down your throat once again. But this time, you move down the length of him unprompted, his hand only tangled in your hair to hold you there, but doing it at your own volition.
Dragging your tongue down the underside of him and rubbing your thighs together when he moans, loud and raspy.
“Fuckin’ eager, huh?” he slaps the side of your face sharply, and you can’t help but moan with him.
You can hear the obscenity of it all echoing through his garage. It’s wet, loud, messy, and you grasp at his thighs for leverage until he pulls you off entirely; looking at you with a heaving chest and furrowed brows.
You chase him with your mouth again, but he just smirks at you, and then hisses:
“Get on your hands and knees.”
A/N: hello i have never wrote full smut before …. hope it was okay i can’t even proofread it 😣😣
read part one!
SUMMARY: you’re home for the first summer since leaving for college. Yet, instead of being welcomed by the neighborhood-welcome brigade complete with sickly sweet cake and a welcome mat at the door, you’re rather met with a nauseating, debauched, perverted wanting for your father’s best friend.
He felt sickened.
You felt sick.
Similar, in the sense that both your stomachs were churning, yet different in yours being from unadulterated humiliation and his - well, repulsion.
Revolted that you had the audacity, the nerve, the gall, to stare at him so intently like that with your father sat just beside him.
Disgusted, when he felt the smooth skin of your exposed legs just gently graze his.
Nauseated, when the hem of his jean lifted just enough that your flesh was touching his; your small ankle pressed to his own, old and creaky.
At first, he almost felt bad for you.
That panicked resolve on your face. Your wide eyes and sickly flush. He thought maybe he had a made a mistake and had misread that…look.
But then your leg moved up his.
Your soft skin.
Your heated gaze.
Your bare skin touching his.
Doing that to your dad’s buddy, touching Joel like that: what had gotten into you?
You weren’t sure as you watched him leave the table, scuffing his chair on the patio and reaching for a pack of Marlboro's left beside his unfinished dinner plate. For a moment, you contemplated going after him. You should probably apologize for your behavior. After all, you didn’t even know Joel that well. It wasn’t like he was some friend of yours, some college boy that you could feel up even under a platonic pretense.
It was Joel.
While he had been there for your high school graduation, your college move-in, been there to drive you and Sarah around and talk down at you like he would his own daughter, you never knew him like your father did during their weekly beer nights.
What had you done?
Joel never returned to the table.
You heard the engine of his truck rumble and the wheels skid, just to watch the confused look on your father’s face and Joel’s usual one-too-many-beers-designated spot on the couch left empty.
You were fine with that.
In fact, the absurd notion of Joel staying away from you and your father for the entire duration of your summer suddenly appealed to you greatly. But of course, you knew you would see him that next Friday; curse your father’s dreadful, horrid, Friday barbecues.
It came in a knock.
A quiet, gentle knock that left you confused to what stranger had come to your house, only to be met with Joel. Staring straight at you and leaving you both in a burning air of awkwardness.
It was palpable.
“Oh. Hi, Joel.” You wanted to slam the door and run straight into your bedroom and hide under your childhood duvet.
“Hello.” he mumbles. “Is your…um,” he strokes the over-grown stubble on his jaw and evades your gaze carefully, peering down toward the floor and catching a glimpse of your bare legs and feet. Your bare skin touching his. Your small foot to his shin- “your dad home?”
You shake your head, too uncomfortable to look anywhere but his brazenly avoidant eyes in case he catches you once again, this time running to your father with a case for your bad behavior.
“Mandy’s” you quip.
He finally looks up at you, with a slight smirk on his face, and you feel like you can finally breathe. Like the Texas sun haloing his figure stood in the doorframe has only now dawned, shining an orange glow so bright you squint at his eyes meeting yours and the small upward curve of his lips.
“So he’s finally told you ‘bout them, huh?”
“Kind of,” you shake your head again but can’t help adopt a shy smile of your own, biting your bottom lip to try suppress it yet smiling nonetheless. “I saw them last Friday, after—“ after I defiled you so obscenely with my bawdy looks and out-of-bounds touch that I made you leave early before you could even get to see them hold hands.
You feel your eyes suddenly go wide in mortifying recollection and hope it isn’t the reason for his own similar change in expression, pausing for a long enough beat that it’s awkward again; your cheeks heating under more than just the morning light and you stutter. “Um, after…yeah.” He just nods and you seriously consider fleeing. Not just your father’s home, but the state itself. You aren’t sure what to do next and you just gawk at him, waiting for his response that never comes. “They were…they were holding hands. And then he said he was going to the auto-shop this morning, but he would’ve —“
“Would’ve just come to me,” he finishes for you. You try to breathe out a small laugh but it just sounds pained; a sad, awful reminder of the difficult small talk forced between you.
“He shouldn’t be long, though. Do you…you can…”
“Yeah.” You can’t even finish your sentence before he squeezes past you in the door frame, Joel’s burly body only barely brushes against yours, but just the small touch is enough to leave you flustered.
With his built back facing you, you’re finally able to look at him in his entirety. You take in his oil-stained jeans and rolled up flannel sleeves. His forearms are lightly smeared with car grease and you never thought you could find forearms attractive. But his are so strong, and capable, and—
A scuff of boots.
A low, disappointed sigh.
Caught again.
But this time there’s nowhere for either of you to run to. He just frowns at you and you freeze, suddenly hyper-conscious of your tiny pajama shorts and hoping he doesn’t think of this as some sort of coquette ploy.
Then, he says, “we need to talk, kid.”
And there it is.
That fatherly scowl on his face.
You’re slightly relieved, in a sense. It’s a strangely pleasant familiarity in this weird dynamic that you’ve regretfully created. A reminder that maybe he can forgive and forget.
But that frown he wears says you won’t get away with it unscathed; like he won’t be adverse to lecturing you either with his words or over his knee.
You wouldn’t mind the latter.
You nod and slightly grimace, following him toward the couch where he sits down and pats the empty space beside him.
Maybe it’s his stern scowl, but you hesitate.
Frozen in vacillation as if he actually has a punishment planned, fit for you, the petulant kid.
You're sure you look the part too.
Stood in front of him fidgeting with the ruffles skirting your thin sleep shorts.
Joel sighs.
“You shouldn’t—“ he pinches the bridge of his nose with his eyes shut.
Here it comes.
“You shouldn’t be touching your dad’s friends like that, kid.”
“Sorry.” You say it so quietly it could be a whisper and so shameful that you’re gifted the view of his open eyes, peeking slightly from below the cover of his large hands.
He huffs again.
“It’s not appropriate.”
“I didn’t… I didn’t mean to.”
He crosses his arm’s and just looks at you.
You swear for a second you watch his gaze taper down to your collarbone.
And then your legs.
And then back to your eyes.
All done so quickly yet so agonizingly slow that you can’t tell if he’s sizing you up or reading right through your lies. But then his glare twists into something deeper. Still tense, still reminiscent of something fatherly, but something more. You can’t tell if it’s an expression of anger, of disappointment, or…something else entirely.
You know he doesn’t know what else to say because he just sits there with furrowed brows, and you wonder if this is why he came over in the first place.
To straighten you out.
You aren’t sure of what to say either. You don’t know if you should rebut him and plea your case- tell him you aren’t a kid anymore.
Show him so on your knees.
But then, he reaches for his jean pocket, mumbling incoherently as he pulls out another pack of Marlboros.
You never knew Joel to be an overt smoker.
Your father never hid it from you, littering your grass lawn with ash and leaving every window constantly open for the escape of the cigarette smoke. But Joel, on the other hand, used to hide it from you and Sarah. While he always smelt distinctly of tobacco and something akin to toffee, you only caught him in the act from the perch of your bedroom window. Watching him smoke all kinds of things alone on his porch, safe from any judging looks in the false solitude of the dark night.
Sometimes, when you were really lucky, you got to see him playing his guitar. Sat in the own dark of your bedroom as he plucked beautiful hymns of blues. Last Thursday, before you ruined things with him the next day, you made the naive mistake of opening your window. You were out of practice from your younger stealth, excited just to see him out there in the moonlight, as if you had imagined him all along like some haunting apparition. He saw you, of course, but just continued on with a lingering smile.
“You got a light?” You kneel clumsily beside the coffee table, gracelessly searching for the lighter inside each drawer. At the awkward height of the table and strange distance of it from the couch, you were practically on all fours, and you knew Joel was watching. You hoped in vain your littlest shorts would suddenly grow some coverage to preserve any semblance of your tact. But, in the very same thought, you hoped he would see the lace underneath and muster some courage. Give you the punishment you deserve. Take you over his knee.
You find the light, stumbling slightly as you pivot toward him on your knees, offering him a lit flame held right in front of his face, cigarette in tow between his front teeth.
Here he was, talking about your vulgarity, and here you were — virtually between his legs and so close you’re almost face to face; able to smell the pheromones of his hard-earned sweat and feel his steel-toed boots rested against the sides of your shins.
He doesn’t say anything.
He just frowns at you with hooded eyes dimmed a shade darker than usual. You are so irrevocably aware of the rough carpet scratching at your knees and the rougher feeling of his scowl from above.
Staring at you both silently and dangerously. You don’t know whether he’s in a period of shock, about to snap and snarl at you to ‘get up’ and run to your own father to carry out your punishment.
Or if he wants you here, stationed between the large muscles of his manspread thighs.
While you want to assume it’s the second option, you know, sensibly, it’s an override of the first. But now, you’ve begrudgingly committed to the part; the pathetic kid attempting seduction, exposing your naivety in the trembling of your fingers and sheepish blinks as you bring the light toward his cigarette.
He inhales a drag slowly.
His eyes still staring into yours.
And then, he exhales — right into your face.
Under the sudden smog of his cigarette smoke, clouding your view in a hazy fume, your sinuses slightly burn and your eyes water. Blurring your vision into an even foggier daze, until all you can decipher is the masculine outline of his face. His salt-and-pepper-scruff. His pursed lips. His thick neck and strong jawline. His bulky fingers. His broad shoulders. His scrutiny, watching your gaping, nervous, expression with what you swear is a cunningly-subtle smirk. Tipping the corners of his mouth just so, looking at you with the mocking glare of a predator. As if to say, now what?
Now that you, the kid, are meekly trapped between his legs, out of your depths: pretending you’re grown enough to play with the adults yet being the deer-in-headlights all along.
Now what?
You know what he’s trying to do.
Frighten you into submission.
Make you as uncomfortable as he presumably was the night you just about felt him up.
Show you that this isn’t what you want, that you’re out of your head.
Give you the discipline of some tough love.
You gasp a garbled breath, wanting to say something, do something, but coming up short.
And then,
“Jesus, there no college boys in that town of yours?”
You want to tell him no. That there are but you want him. His stoic demeanor, his fatherly nature, his crow’s feet that only comes with decades of knowledge and experience, his manly size, his masculine commandment.
But as you go to respond, the door knob rattles.
(this was the longest piece i’ve done so far. please let me know if you’d want more parts of this!!!)
part two!
SUMMARY: you’re home for the first summer since leaving for college. Yet, instead of being welcomed by the neighborhood-welcome brigade complete with sickly sweet cake and a welcome mat at the door, you’re rather met with a nauseating, debauched, perverted wanting for your father’s best friend.
It started slowly.
It crept, nastily, into your skin; similar to the cigarette smoke beginning to sizzle in the ozone around you.
At first, it was a brief sensation. A jolt of short-lived adrenaline that sparked deep inside your chest as his hand cupped your shoulder.
A friendly gesture.
“When’d you grow up so fast, kid?”
You knew Joel was attractive. You knew his salt-and-pepper scruff was regarded favorably with the lonely housewives of your father’s suburbia. You knew they liked how his flannel clung to his sweat-soaked skin after working on his pickup in the garage, and how they blushed at his deep voice, his menacingly flirty deposition.“Hey, ladies.”
But you knew Joel.
You knew his daughter. You knew his ex-wife. You knew his best friend, your father, and you knew the type of women he’d bring home when he was sure no one would be awake; he hadn’t accounted for your summer-induced insomnia, peering out the window across the dewy lawn, catching Joel with his rendezvous of the night.
You knew his protective streak, “you stay out of trouble, kid.”
You knew his quiet kindness, a gentle knock at your door after a particularly grueling fight with your father, checking on you even if he was sure you were asleep. When you’d faked your slumber to avoid his prying “ ‘you alright?” with tightly shut eyes and a stiff body, he’d began to outsmart you - closing the door and lulling you into a false sense of success before walking straight back into your bedroom.
But in a cruel shift at the sight of his labour-built muscles rippling beneath his thin cotton shirt, something began to stir inside of you.
Something so volatile and wanton and repulsive.
You couldn’t believe it.
That this feeling, this sadistic soul-possession had begun here, at your family barbecue.
Outside, the humid Austin air swirling in the darkening blueish-hue of the evening sky did nothing to soothe the heat becoming of you. Not even the slightest breeze against your legs, revealed in your shortest frilly dress, could soothe the burning that was beginning to ignite horrifically.
And of course, stood across Joel, he noticed your sickened flush and widened eyes.
“You feelin’ alright?”
There were no bedsheets to hide under. And so you nodded, and grabbed the nearest soda to you.
You couldn’t help but notice his hands. His rough, slightly jarred skin and the thick of his fingers, curled around a Budweiser that dripped cool condensation onto his bulky digits. You watched as the droplets ran messily over his knuckles and shivered slightly. You wanted to feel them. You wanted to feel them on you, in you, plunging deep and stroking your flesh, you wanted all of it and you couldn’t stop your indecorous staring. Not even after he caught you, staring right back at you with a gulp and watching a bead of sweat roll onto the hollow of your collarbone.
You weren’t even sure of what had gotten into you. This wasn’t you. These filthy thoughts, let alone about Joel…
Neighbor, Joel.
Sarah’s dad, Joel.
Dad’s buddy, Joel.
Uncle Joel.
Maybe this sweltering psychosis was the result of starvation; so hungry for human touch you’d began to become deluded.
But when his bicep bulged as he lifted his beer to his mouth, taking a large sip - you watched the bob of his adam’s apple, the tense clench of his strong jawline and pucker of his lips, the slight raise of his shirt with his movement, exposing a sliver of tan skin to your hungry eyes.
God, you weren’t so sure anymore.
And most mortifyingly of all, you were absolutely sure he could tell.
Undoubtedly positive he could read the perverted thoughts running rampant through your mind.
He had always called you ‘kid’, but now he was saying it with meaning. Asking you to fetch him a beer with the additional spit of ‘kid’ at the end. Venom-laced when he reminds you - asking where your dad is, “kid.” It was no longer an affectionate term, but now rather a wary redirection. Reminding you in one single word that you are the ‘kid’ and he is the adult.
Then why did the lustful burn bubbling deep inside your gut feel so grown?
Now, he sits across from you at the table, accompanied by all your closet friends and family as they settle into their seats.
You watch sheepishly as he tears his teeth into the meaty flesh of a rib.
You want him to bite similarly into your own. Nipping at your neck, lashing full bites on your chest, grazing your thighs with his sharp canines, placing his mouth on your —
You feel a kick from beneath the table.
It’s him.
Staring so alarmed and disheveled right back at your rude gawk.
You can only freeze.
A deer in the headlights, caught red-handed with your crimson blush of indecency exposing you so obviously to his disgust.
You feign that the furrow in his brows, the sheeny glow above them, the slight scowl of his face must be something nearing repulsion.
He shakes his head lowly, subtle enough that nobody sat beside you would notice, but clear enough for your own eyes.
“Stop it.” He mouths.
You felt humiliated. The flush only worsening as you process his blatant acknowledgement of your lust. You were so foolish, so naive to think that the man across you - the man old enough to be your own father, wearing tattoos older than your own existence, with specks of gray amongst his brown hair and a large, manly body that only comes with age, would be oblivious to your desire.
You feel his foot jerk slightly against your own, and it takes everything in you not to meet the subconscious twitch with one of your own.
If you just traced your bare feet against his scruffy jeans, if you could just slide them up against his muscled leg…
In your dazed libido, you must’ve done just that.
Because suddenly, your too-high-to-be-appropriate leg is captured between the strong, crushing hold of his own; trapping you in place and once again embarrasing you with another disapproving shake of his head. He glares at you so intensely that you can’t help but squirm in his hold, forcing him to hold your leg weak between his shins.
You’ve never felt so small, so humbled, and yet so incredibly turned on.
You wanted his disappointed outburst to bruise. You wanted to feel a mark he had made linger on your skin.
You wanted him so bad it hurt.
But then, he abruptly let go. Kicking your legs back in a swift jolt and leaving the table without a word.
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