Hello. I do not believe anyone checks this blog or actively follows it anymore, but I thought I should post as I recently checked in. After all, perhaps there is a curious person lurking about.
In case the time between my last post and now does not make it apparent, I am no longer actively engaged in this fandom or others.
In January, I was laid off, like so many others in the States, and then I suffered a personal loss. These two events were accompanied by a deluge of harassment I received in my inbox and on my AO3 posts. I understand the subject matter I wrote would offend others, so it was not completely unexpected, but I could not bring myself to continue or engage. My life in the real world has always been and always will be my priority.
I am a smaller creator and a private person. I do not feel the need to further explain my absence and departure. My participation was a short tenure. I am grateful for the kindness I received while active.
I will continue to enjoy all the DDDNE stories from the sidelines on my lurker account. Good luck to every author and artist. May your skin be thicker than mine.
Tags: age gap, size difference, implied/referenced incest
The lecture hall hums with low voices and the scratch of pens against paper when your phone buzzes. You glance down, careful not to draw attention, and slip it out of the pocket of your skirt. His message is short, flippant.
— Send me a photo.
— I’m in class.
The next buzz is seismic.
— I know where you are. Send me a photo.
The ground beneath you shifts.
This isn’t the first time he’s asked for a picture. But it is the first time he’s asked while he’s home. You picture him right where you left him that morning, in his chair at the table, lap still warmed by your body—
Heat spreads across your cheeks, and you can’t refrain from glancing around, as if his request is projected on the board. No one is looking at you. Your classmates are busy, their heads bowed or tilted toward each other. Your professor, nose in his book. Still, your chest tightens. You’re doing something you shouldn’t. You’re always doing something you shouldn’t.
The professor keeps talking, gesturing at the board without turning. You watch him for a moment, weighing the risk, though you already know you’ll comply.
You swipe the camera on, and avert your eyes immediately from your own embarrassed, shy expression. You hesitate. But he’s waiting. Your thumb hovers, you pull your lips into a smile, then press the button. The screen blinks, and your image stares back at you.
He smells like the inside of a pub. The scent of smoke and beer filling the space of your bedroom. His deep voice curls into your ear, low and amused, barely louder than your panting. You feel the weight of his arm draped across your collarbone and stretched up along your neck, his hand firm beneath your chin to angle your face towards your vanity mirror. The bed creaks as he shifts, sinking in deep, stretching you over his cock. His eyes watching the bounce of your tits, the stretch of your cunt over his cock.
“Thank fuck, y’look nothin’ like me.”
You shiver in your seat at the memory. You don’t give yourself a second to regret it. You press send.
-
When you return home hours later, you slow down at the sight of his boots flung carelessly on the floor. You pause, staring at them, then remove your shoes and place them neatly beside his. You tiptoe down the hall, your heartbeat quickening at the faint scent of tobacco and the sound of a football match. You find him on the couch instead of his chair and lick your lips. He must’ve really liked your picture to be there.
He acknowledges you with a brief glance cut over the neck of a beer bottle, then flicks his attention to the screen. You watch his free hand drop to his belt, tugging it open, then the zipper.
Your bag and coat hit the floor in a heap. You cross the room with a nervous giggle and slip into the space between his legs.
Before you sit, you lean in and kiss his cheek, the stubble tickling your lips. It’s only polite.
“Hi, daddy.”
-
She’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, or ever will. Her eyes are half-closed, glazed with need and want, sweat beading at her hairline and temples. It trickles down her skin, dropping onto him and seeping into his clothes. Simon’s eyes flit down to her tits, pulled free from her bra, nipples tight, and marked with his teeth.
Her cunt chokes his cock much better than his fist, tight as a vise and warmer by far. She mewls and hiccups as she bounces as best she can. She bites back the little whimpers determined to bubble up and escape her kiss-swollen lips. She’s being so good, being quiet as can be, while he splits his focus between the match and her pussy.
She hasn’t come yet. She can’t. Not without her dad’s thumb jiggling her clit. Unfortunately for her, the game isn’t over, and he still has a few sips left. She’s close, though. Her cunt pulses impatiently around him, walls fluttering, and staining his lap.
He gets close, too. Downs the rest of his beer in one long pull, pitching the bottle to the far end of the couch, something he’ll have her clean later. Then he hoists her up, rough hands scraping and lifting her by the waist. His fingers press into her, hard enough to bruise, dimpling the softness of her perfect skin. He holds her, squirming and wordlessly gasping, the wet hole of her cunt twitching over the tip of his cock.
Only when the match is called does he yank her back down, burying himself to the point where she howls and fights him a little. His cockhead to her cervix and testing. He flips them easily, crushing her between the couch cushions and his weight. She’s lucky Man City won.
His thumb finally drifts to her clit, and he hisses at how tight she goes.
“D-Daddy, please…”
“That’s it, baby. Take what you need. Need dad’s cock, hmm? Need to come?”
She can’t even speak. Simon pinches her clit and smiles at the yelp and squeeze it gets him.
“I asked you a question.”
“Y-Yesss, yes! I need to come!”
Simon laughs loudly, then drags his tongue up her cheek to catch the overstimulated tears running down her face. He pistons into her, hands firm on her hips, pulling her to meet his rhythm. Her eyes are closed now, but he doesn’t need them open to see the pleasure he’s etching into every pore on her face and every fiber of her being.
“Atta fucking girl, come on dad’s cock.”
He hammers into her until she comes, and until he comes. He unloads deep, as far as he can go, and she takes every drop she gives her. He feels it pushing out around the plug of his cock. “Look at you,” he taunts, then chuckles breathlessly above her. “Thank fuck y’look nothin’ like me.”
Her eyes flutter open, red-rimmed and wet. She sniffs quietly and reaches up for his face, her hand trembling from the aftershocks. Her fingers press against his jaw, soft and insistent, guiding him down. When she kisses him, it’s slow, sweet, and unsteady. Not like him at all, thank god.
Of course! This is a little soft, a little hard. I couldn't help it. Simon and his girl.
You almost gave him a heart attack.
Simon arrives home late. Road-weary, worn down, the stink of dirt and the field still clinging to him. He did a half-hearted, cursory scrub of his hands in the sink back at base, enough to clear away the thickest layers of oil, but that's it.
Not enough to actually be clean, just enough to ensure your skin won't get as filthy when he gets his paws on it. He drops his bags and boots by the door, and his coat follows. He trudges down the corridor to your room, the floorboards creaking beneath him.
But you aren't there.
There's only a shallow dip in the pillow where your head should've been. The bed looks untouched, the blanket neatly folded back, as if you just made it. The window's cracked open, and the lace curtain sways on the breeze. For a moment, he's gripped by a sickening thought. You're gone.
Did someone take you?
Did some other monster in the night snatch you?
Did you run away?
His chest tightens, and he swallows the disgusting swell of dread. It isn't in his vocabulary. It's a useless, weak feeling for weak people.
The window frame splinters beneath his hand when he flings it open and splits when he slams it shut. The glass pane rattles. Where the fuck is his girl?
Your things are here. Your suitcase is stowed beneath your bed. Your pretty clothes hang in the closet. Your hairbrush is on the bureau. A library book on the nightstand.
His fear dissolves when he runs his dirty thumb over your toothbrush bristles. It's damp.
That leaves his bedroom.
And there you are.
You're wrapped in his shirt, drowned in the fabric, lying on his bed with your body curled into a crescent moon. Your face is soft, completely relaxed, and angelic. Glowing in the lamplight you left on.
He loiters in the doorway, rooted in place, his eyes fixed on you. Slowly, the tight knot in his chest starts to unravel, but it's not fast enough. He still feels it in his limbs, the quickened pulse, the blood rushing in his ears.
But now, standing here, watching you—it starts to loosen, bit by bit. His breathing evens out. He'd been ready to put on Ghost again, to slip into that other version of himself. Ready to tear through the streets and country until he found you. Now, he just watches you dream, waiting for that edge to melt away.
Simon exhales slowly, his shoulders dropping.
You must sense him. You stir, blinking away the stars in your eyes. Your balled fists rub the last remnants of sleep away.
"...Daddy?"
"I'm here, baby."
The words slip out hoarse as he watches you stretch—long and slow, like a kitten. Arms reaching up, fingers brushing against the scratched wood of the headboard. Your back arches, chest lifting, tits, legs shifting restlessly. The hem of his shirt rides higher, exposing the curves of your thighs.
He moves then, closing the distance in a single step, dropping a knee onto the bed with a soft thud, and crawling over you. There's a tenderness in his gaze that's usually reserved specifically for you in his eye, until your vision clears, and he lets his face harden.
"What time is it?"
"Late," He mutters, his hand gently cupping your jaw, turning your face toward him, holding it steady. "Why aren't you in your bed?"
You blink up at him, looking guilty, but your voice is soft when you answer. "Missed you."
"Ya sleep in here the whole time?"
"No…" Your eyes widen, caught off guard. Then, quickly, a correction: "Maybe."
He raises an eyebrow, his tone firm but low. "It's a yes or no, baby."
You hesitate, but then, your voice a little smaller, almost a whisper, "...Yes, Daddy."
He sighs, not in anger, but fatigue. He releases your face, leaving faint smudges of oil. He flicks off the lamp, then flops down onto his side, stretching out beside you. "...It's alright. Ya missed me."
"I really did."
You roll to your side and wiggle backward into him. Simon wraps himself around you, pulling you close. His breath washes over your neck, and you squirm a little at the ticklishness, but it doesn't take long before you settle, relaxing into it. This is where you belong, after all. Your bed or his bed. His arms, always.
Simon waits until your breathing evens out, and you're almost asleep again. Only then does he speak. He whispers into your ear.
"...And, baby, how long has the window in your room been open?"
In the dark, your voice cracks nervously. He grins behind your head.
"I…Um, maybe since yesterday?"
A deep chuckle escapes him. He smooths a hand over your flank, then lets it slide to your arse. He squeezes and gives it a firm tap. A preview of what you'll have before you get a bite of breakfast.
you try to shove him off but he’s already pulling you into a dark empty room with a possessive hand on your hip. “i refuse. you were mean and-“ simon starts nuzzling your neck. the oxygen in your brain promptly disappears. “missed ya, baby. you miss me too?” you shake your head vehemently, try to escape his grip. you both know you could escape if you really tried (it’s what you been trained for), but you let his hand on your hip get tighter and tighter anyways.
“you leave for a month and then you tell price you didn’t even miss this shithole. that’s rude, simon.” he’s moved his mask up to his nose, his warm mouth biting your damn earlobe, then kissing a path on your neck. “was jus’ takin’ the piss, love, you know that.” his hand on your hip moves down, tugging your belted pants so he can slip between them. “i bet you didn’t even think about me.” he chuckles, dark and low. a rough hand cups your cunt like it’s his.
“thought about ‘er the whole time. fucked my fist to that picture, too. tha’ what you want t’ hear?” he kisses his way to the base of your throat, sucking hard so it’s hard for you to answer. simon squeezes the hand on your cunt, then dips behind your underwear to feel the wetness already gathering. “yeah, it is. she’s all wet. knew ya missed me too, baby.” and suddenly you’re nodding, anything to make him continue farther. his laugh is cocky and self-assured, like he’s got you right where he wants you.
“alrigh’, i’ll give ‘er a nice homecomin’.”
sorry guys i dont feel like writing smut today but the brainworms wrote this
You call Nik fat and he's like ???? My bicep is bigger than your head. Look. And he's being all silly holding his arm up next your skull (it's not bigger but he has a hand wrapped around your head holding you in place and just keeps insisting it is cause, 'look!' even though you objectively can't) and that's how you realize you have a bit of a pit thing.
mercenary!ghost x fem!reader masterlist
all contain nsfw (18+) or at least suggestive content. please read cw before engaging. this collection of pieces is considered dark and includes dark themes and content. continue reading at your own risk.
notes about reader: reader described as curvy -> as always, the reader is a character herself, but i’ve tried my best to give little to no physical description and no native country of origin
a collection of stories about ex-lieutenant simon "ghost" riley and the pretty little thing he traps in his cage.
not a meet-cute -> a ghost finds a little bunny to take home
red to black -> whatever poisons him is contagious
what's mine is yours -> aren't we something?
notes about this collection: this isn't meant to be a happy story or a happy ending, and ghost isn't portrayed as a good person. it's about two people who are crazy (to a fault) about one another, and the weight of a trauma that never leaves. this collection criticizes military service and mentions murder + violence. please read at your own discretion and do not continue if any of this would be triggering for you. (although i am not responsible for what you do on the internet and this is your final warning).
if you would like to know when i post something new, please turn on notifications for @bi-has-written.
no taglist. it updates when i get thoughts, which lately has been frequent.
As the youngest daughter of a lord, you grow up free from his expectations, living a comfortable yet stifling life. But one spring, as winter thaws and the estate's staff turns over, you begin to notice the men who work the grounds.
Bored with the predictable path toward marriage or the convent, you find a new pastime: flirting with your father’s hired hands, a far grander diversion than the life prescribed for you.
Diversions. Eventual 141 x Reader. This installment, Gaz x Reader.
Very loose Victorian Era AU. Tags: oral (f receiving), Reader is a little bratty, Gaz is his smooth self
You entertain a busy social calendar. With your father’s influence comes many invitations from opportunists vying for his attention. You know these people aren’t invested in you—they see you as a bridge, a means to some imagined favor. It’s almost amusing.
You accept them anyway, attending garden parties and weddings with polite detachment, fully aware of your irrelevance to your father’s ambitions. You’re a peripheral figure in his world, an afterthought at best. The man cannot be bothered to attend you.
He’s never been one for discipline, either. You are not the wildest of his children, but with money at your disposal and no one watching too closely, you’ve grown used to having your own way.
Which is why it takes you completely off guard when the new cook tells you ‘no’. Your world shifts on its axis.
The disagreement begins over a dinner party menu. You had sent your instructions as you always do, passing them through your maid. They were returned an hour later, completely rewritten in a firm, deliberate hand. Everything you’d planned, all of it, had been crossed out and replaced with simpler dishes. Foods you would be loath to serve to your inner circle.
Your poor maid trudges back and forth with that same scrap of paper, your instructions scrawled in an increasingly fervent hand. By the time you’ve filled the margins and begun a second sheet, her expression has grown faintly tragic. When she returns once more, her posture heavy with resignation, you wave her off for the day.
Perhaps this new cook does not understand, does not know better.
You haven’t been to the kitchens in years and feel a curious unease stepping into the manor’s vast, bustling heart. The hum of activity quiets at once as a half-dozen hands freeze in the act of kneading dough, chopping herbs, or dressing poultry. All but one.
The new cook stands with his back to you, intent on his work.
You dismiss the others with a wave of your hand—those who do understand, who do know better—and are left alone with him.
Without waiting for him to turn, you launch into your lecture, holding the crumpled notes aloft as evidence of your grievance. You inform him that the dinner party is for a dear friend, that the menu has been chosen carefully, and that he will follow your requests in the letter. You sharply add that he can fetch provisions from the town market if his abilities prove unequal to the task.
At that, he turns.
It’s not the mention of the market but the insinuation of his incompetence that catches his attention. When he faces you, the next volley of bitter words poised on your tongue falter.
Mr. Garrick is a handsome man—handsomer than Mr. MacTavish, though you would never confess as much to the stablehand, and in an entirely different way than Mr. Riley. His skin is smooth and warm, his frame lean, but carved by honest labor, not idle decoration. His brown eyes harbor an amusement that does not translate to his unreadable expression. And his mouth—soft-looking, utterly distracting.
You nearly miss his refusal, too, staring at that lovely mouth.
He walks unhurried around the grand oak table, cluttered with cookware and the beginnings of supper. Spelling out to you, in terms you can understand, he says, that he cannot, will not, neither order nor prepare such a feast. Not for the lord’s youngest daughter, an unmarried and unruly creature, not for something as trivial as a companion’s birthday. He’s irritatingly calm as he does it, this terrible thing. Never in your life has a person in your father’s employ refused your wishes like this.
You barely let him finish before you speak, voice trembling. The words spill out—how he’s unreasonable, how shameful it is to have already sent the invitations. How unfair it is. Mr. Garrick watches you with unnerving calm, stares at your quivering lip and watering eyes, and you feel a sudden shrinking, the return to an frustrating helplessness.
It turns out that Mr. Garrick is as clever as he is handsome, and you are as impressionable as you are entitled.
Might you help him with some icing?
The simple request defuses your anger and tears. He boldly takes you by the hand, pulling you toward a two-tiered cake, its edges adorned with little rosettes. He helps you guide a line of icing along, cutting through the last of your insolent whines by whispering little praises into the seashell of your ear.
His weight is heavy at your back, leaning, pressing you against the workspace. When his mouth brushes against your neck, you flinch, startled, and in that moment, the cream slips from your hand, smudging his work. It’s a minor flaw, but you feel its enormity. Mr. Garrick only smiles into your skin and murmurs an assurance. You watch, transfixed, as he lifts your hand, his tongue darting out to lick the cream from your fingers.
Then he asks if he might try yours.
As it was in the stables and gardens, you swiftly find a man between your legs. Beneath your skirts, Mr. Garrick whets his appetite. You clutch at his head over the fabric, perched beside the cake. Your long-suffering maid will later wonder why your dress is dusted with flour and smudged with icing, but you’re in no state to worry about that now.
Mr. Garrick pauses only once to hand you a wooden spoon, instructing you to hold it between your teeth if you can’t be quiet. You oblige him even though you thought to petition your father to dismiss him less than an hour ago.
When he reduces you to a loose-limbed, pliable, and messy thing, blissfully disoriented, he reappears, licking his glistening lips. He helps you to your feet and smooths your skirts with an easy smile, though you feel every crease in the fabric. He drops a sweet peck to the apple of your cheek and suggests he ought to serve you instead of the cake.
That evening, when the cake is inevitably served, the slice with the ruined icing somehow makes it to your plate. And when you glance at the servant’s door, expecting to share a secret look with the cook, your eyes meet someone else’s.
Gaz of the type of best friend you ask to take your virginity because you’re tired of being a virgin. when he finds out it’s for you to gain more experience before asking out your cute co worker, Gaz is the type of guy to threaten him to back off so he can keep cumming in you 🥰
Price’s bratty angel daughter when she finds out he’s been cumming in places that are not her:
oh you cum in tissue?? you jerk off to other women because you HATE me?? oh! oh! jail for papa!!! jail for papa for One Thousand Years!!
combining these so i don't spam the dash again (sorry, all!)
cw: incest/daughter swap. spanking. dubcon/noncon fingering. bratting. pov from nik's daughter but i didn't want to name john's daughter for all my beloved daddy price fans so she's called sweetpea and i'm sorry if it ever hits the narrative like a damn bowling ball cause i know you wouldn't call your friend that, really, but this was a bit of a challenge. MDNI
you hate to see papa in a bad mood. he wears it so harshly, heavy brow and flexing fist. dark eyes glinting as he stares his friend down from across the table. you stutter through an apology, for what you're not even fully sure, and papa sends you strained sort of smile, tells you it doesn't concern you.
"and why wouldn't it?" uncle john asks, mustache twitching as he works through another bite of steak. he leers at you, decidedly ignoring the continued pouts of his own daughter continuing on behind him. "never have to take your sweet little milaya over your knee?"
papa looks like he might flip the table, frowning between his own friend and yours. "never needed to. my daughter does not speak to me like this," he gestures broadly, as if in demonstration. your friend continues to sulk.
uncle john just puffs, glares at his daughter. "sweetpea only talks to me like this because i never have, either." he waggles his eyebrows at papa, shoots you another suggestive look. "so don't get too comfortable."
the thought makes you shiver, mortified. papa mistakes it for fear and places his hand on your knee, broad palm squeezing the majority of your thigh as he tries to reassure you. it does nothing to help, your friend's insistent whining still echoing in the room. 'i don't like her. why do you even want her? what can she give you i can't?'
uncle john's date had been more than accommodating, excusing herself with a quick peck to john's cheek even as sweetpea raged, hurling insults and demands until her words petered out into sobs and she'd gotten what she'd wanted - john wrapped around her on the couch as he cooed about how the woman would never be back if sweetpea didn't want it.
papa had kept politely distant until then, calling the prices back to the table before the food went cold.
'should send you to bed without dinner,' uncle john had scoffed, but he'd loaded another helping of baby carrots onto his daughter's plate and she'd thanked him with a watery smile.
'should belt her ass, is what you should do,' papa had corrected between bites of his own steak and then it was all over but the crying. (and the pleading, and the pouting, and the -.)
wide-eyed, sweetpea and you had watched the men volley back and forth for long minutes, tension rising the more papa insisted john discipline his daughter. the more john swore you'd put your own father through the ringer if he continued to coddle you the way he did. finally, uncle john admits he can't discipline sweetpea. says it with his greasy fingers hooked under her jaw so he can smile warmly at her. she returns it, cat that got the cream, her own smile slower in coming but just as warm -
until papa says he could do it for uncle john.
it shocks you how easily uncle john defers. 'whatever you think is best.' shocks you more how he doesn't change his mind even when sweetpea begins to thrash and wail, pathetic attempts to break papa's grip making your own stomach churn.
turns out, papa thinks 20 spanks is best.
you didn't think he'd be able to do it until he's got her skirt flipped up, has yanked at her panties until they've been swallowed by her cheeks so that she has no protection from his onslaught, palms smacking harshly against her rounded bottom. he's never been like this. it makes you sick. makes you shake and sob in fear. you shout for him to stop but either he can't hear you over sweetpea's shrieks, or he doesn't care. you're not sure which prospect is worse.
uncle john stops you when you try to run from the room, arm slipping around your waist as he pulls you into his lap. "only four swats in, sweetheart. you don't wanna be here for your friend?"
swats. swats are what you aim at dog noses when they're being troublesome. swats are what kill flies. quick, tight. no real force. papa is incapable of a swat, hands too heavy and brutish. leave stinging claps of skin echoing in the air, piercing even over the sound of sweetpea's wails.
the next strike makes her sob, or maybe that's you. you turn away, try to burrow in uncle john's neck, but his fingers find your chin like they did sweetpea's earlier, tilt your head back to the display before you.
"you'll watch and you'll remember. because i know your papa, and i know enough to tell you now - you ever act like my sweetpea did today, it'll be me belts your ass, no matter how tough he acts." you want to tell him he's wrong, that papa would never let someone hurt you. but then, you know that only twenty minutes ago, sweetpea would have said the same about him. "and i'm not as nice as your papa."
and so, you watch. tears on your face and squirming, but you do. silently count with papa, in russian. curse when he asks sweetpea what number they're at and she can't answer so he starts again. it's cruel, the kind of pain that sinks under your ribs and pulls, inspects all your tender bits for the most sweetest morsels and teethes. sweetpea twitches about, skin mottling, tears and snot staining her face. she looks like a grubby little bug, like he's lifted a rock to find her squirming beneath, afraid of the sunshine.
yet still he touches her. broad strokes paint her skin, the spiky crown of fingers wrapping down into the crease of her thigh. he kneads at her occasionally, tests the tenderness of her flesh. once, you hear her breath go thin and ragged, a shaky, unmistakable exhale. his next swat lands square on the seam of her and you jolt just as much as she does, legs cricketing.
"keep misbehaving, you'll get your punishment now," uncle john warns, but you're angled wrong in his lap, and when his hand thumps threateningly against you, it's not your ass he squeezes in apology. you try to swallow the little noise it elicits, but your throat is too dry, the resulting gulp audible even to him. he just chuckles, broad palm moving to cup your mound. "unless that's what you want?"
you shake your head, but it doesn't matter. not when papa has noticed, pausing as he rubs over sweetpea's rear again, barely even looking at how she squirms beneath him. "reward her for watching. being brave. will remind your parshivets why we're here, no?"
john just chuckles, a thin breathy thing that ghosts over your temple just as his fingers trace up your thigh. "whatever you think is best," he repeats, and you try to wriggle away until papa's voice calls to you.
"milaya. look at me." you wilt when you do, his dark eyes focused entirely on you for the first time all night, making your preen even as uncle john's fingers find your cunt, his groan of approval only proving your shame. "what number are we at?"
you blink, confused, and papa just tuts, gives sweetpea a harsh swat that has her trying to crawl out of his lap, held in place by the thick arm wrapped around her waist. you want to catch her eye, see if she's okay, but she can't rip her baleful stare away from where her father sinks into you, thick fingers sliding easily through your slick.
she looks on the verge of throwing another fit. looks too fucked out and tired to bother.
"what number are we at, milaya?"
uncle john pulls a gasp from you, clever fingers hooking against your spongy wall. "i - i don't know," you stutter, and cringe when he just tuts, fingers digging cruelly into sweetpea's ass again.
Diversions. Eventual 141 x Reader. This installment, Ghost x Reader.
Very loose Victorian Era AU. Tags: Intercrural sex
When not a word of your trysts with Mr. MacTavish reach your father’s ears, you assume the groundskeeper, Mr. Riley, has no interest in involving himself in your affairs.
You find out, however, some days later, that could not be further from the truth.
It happens when you return from a luncheon and decide to stroll around the gardens. The clouds that blanketed the skies this morning have dissolved beneath the afternoon sun. Sunshine is so rare here that you feel obligated to pluck your parasol from its stand to enjoy it.
The gardens are beginning to resemble their glorious selves again. The neglect of the past year is being undone by the new team of gardeners your father employed, their work diligent and effective. But it’s the leader of the group who holds your attention. You glance at him as you stroll, feigning interest in the pansies and sweet peas as you stoop to inspect them. He’s as broad as an ox, as tall as a horse, and stronger than both, lifting the weight of young trees as if they were no heavier than cushions.
His shirt clings to his back in the sun, damp with sweat, the fabric stretched across muscles shaped by a life of work. A cloth is tied across the lower half of his face to protect against dirt and the sun, you assume. You’ve never seen him without it, and you imagine a handsomeness in its absence.
You lose sight of him in the hedge maze, the sprawling vanity project, and proof of your father’s indulgence, or so your mother used to say. He had it planted not long after acquiring the estate. It remains untamed now, wild with overgrowth, the gardeners yet to bring it under control. You lift your skirts as you move through, thorns catching at the hem, though you hardly care.
At last, you emerge at the fountain, a long-dry creation of stone perched on a modest rise, offering a view of the lands beyond. You pause there, the air still and heavy in the late afternoon. Turning back, you mean to retrace your steps and head indoors, but there he is, shirt unbuttoned to a scandalous degree. The groundskeeper.
Now possessing a budding education in men by way of Mr. MacTavish, you know what you see in Mr. Riley’s eyes—hunger.
Before you know it, you find yourself on your back, head cushioned on bent tall grass and near a cluster of dahlias the color of a sunrise. His mask comes off, pulled to his neck, and you gasp at the scars and pockmarks of his skin. The crookedness of his nose suggests more than one healed break. When you ask what happened, as he’s pushing up your skirts, he pauses and simply tells you he wasn’t always a groundskeeper.
His is the first cock you see. Flushing vermilion and crowned with a few round pearls. Heavy on the fat of your thigh, smearing ivory on your skin. You make him promise not to put it in, afraid he’ll thrust into you with the force he uses when he drives the plow, and he obliges you.
He tells you that you’re no different than the flowers with your pretty petals unfurling for him, dewy and sweet-scented. Though you’re not as delicate as the blooms, you feel as much in his hands. Big, callused palms and scarred knuckles hold you in place as he ruts between your legs, gliding his shaft along your slick slit. The fat mushroomed head catches every so often, spurring a new wave of protests and kittenish pawing at his chest. He merely chuckles and quiets you with a few fingers on your tongue.
When your lips close around his fingers, there’s a faint taste of leather and salt, the residue from his work gloves. His eyes grow dark, a change you feel as much as you see. You hesitate, then draw your lips tighter, suckling.
His voice comes out low, edged with something unstable and thrilling, as he tells you not to play games like this. Not with men like him, not with men like Mr. MacTavish. He says you’re courting trouble.
thinking of his body pressed up against yours, all warm and heavy and solid, as he thrusts inside you. his strong hands holding your thighs and keeping your legs pressed up to your chest. his breath fanning your skin as his forehead presses against yours.
thinking of his grunts mixing with your whimpers and wet noises as his cock plunges inside you, hitting that soft spot every time.
“takin’ me so well. always feel so fuckin’ good.”
“fuck!” you cry out as he angles his hips to thrust even deeper, feeling your cunt squeeze so tight around his cock. he always filled you so fucking good, splitting you open as if it were the first time all over again.
“yeah? s’ that good, doll?” he would ask, his eyes burning into you. watching how tears pricked your lash line and how your pretty eyes dazed and glossed over. noting how your lips were all slick from bites and kisses.
your eyes darted up to meet his, your brows furrowed in pleasure and lips parted to let out little pants. he loved how needy you looked. how overwhelmed you were with pleasure.
you couldn’t even answer him. you just nodded quickly.
“yeah, i know. can’t even talk, huh? fuckin you too stupid?” he croons with a sickly sweet tone, voice full of gravel.
your nails dig into his back as you clutch onto him desperately, wanting to keep him impossibly close. your cunt throbbed as you grew closer and closer, squeezing him so tight.
“love this pussy. just milkin’ me dry.”
your whines and whimpers grew to cries and moans as you neared your release. he grinned as he felt you tighten around him and heard your breath hitch, a telltale sign of your impending orgasm.
“oh, you’re close aren’t you? yeah, i can feel it.” his words just make you throb even more.
a pathetic “uh-huh,” is all that falls from your lips.
“come on then, come for me. i know you can do it.” he tells you, lips only inches from yours as his pace never falters.
with one hand he reaches down to rub at your swollen clit and drive you to that edge, letting your juices soak his fingers. he almost smirks at your sharp cry of pleasure that comes from the sudden stimulation. he feels you squeeze around him as your orgasm crashes into you, your legs twitching against your chest.
“yeah, there you go. good girl. always so good for me.”
