( HAUTE COUTURE ) ──── fashion designer!james ✶ 𝑓!rdr 𓂃 smut fingering mirror sex (a lil) mdni ◜◡◝
you stand on the little raised platform in the middle of james’s atelier, late light turning the whole room gold and hazy. the rose-silk slip he pinned on you is so thin it feels like warm breath against your skin.
it clings to your breasts, rides high on your thighs, and every tiny shift makes the fabric whisper.
james hasn’t touched his sketchbook in twenty minutes.
he’s just staring.
“turn for me,” he says, voice low and velvet.
you turn. slow.
he steps in close. closer than he should. his fingers brush the small of your back, adjusting a pin that was already perfect. the touch stays. warm. heavy. you feel the heat of his chest almost pressed to you.
“you’re perfect like this,” he murmurs against your shoulder. “too perfect. it’s becoming a problem.”
his hands slide down, smoothing the silk over your hips, then higher. thumbs graze the soft undersides of your breasts. the fabric is so delicate it almost isn’t there. you shiver. he feels it.
one hand slips under the hem. palm gliding up the warm skin of your inner thigh. slow. worshipful. like he’s still draping fabric… only this time the fabric is you.
“i design for you,” he breathes. “every single piece. but lately all i can think about is taking it off and keeping you like this.”
his fingers find the heat between your legs and stroke once—feather-light—then again, firmer, parting your soft folds. a little sound slips out of you. your knees wobble. he steadies you with an arm around your waist, pulling you back against him so you can feel how hard he is.
“james—”
“shh. just let me.” his lips brush your ear. “you feel better than silk. softer. wetter. i keep telling myself it’s just a fitting…”
two fingers push inside you, slow and deep. you feel every inch of them stretching you open. his thumb circles your clit in lazy, perfect little strokes that make your hips twitch. the silk slip is bunched at your waist now. you’re dripping onto his hand, shiny and pink in the mirror across the room.
he watches you the whole time.
“but it’s not work anymore,” he whispers, voice gone rough and sweet. “i dream about you in my clothes. then i dream about you out of them. then i dream about spreading you open on my cutting table and fucking you until you can’t walk straight.”
he curls his fingers and you come with a soft, high cry, clenching around him, thighs shaking. he holds you through it, murmuring praise against your neck—pretty, perfect, mine—while his fingers keep moving, slow and deep, dragging the orgasm out until you’re trembling and oversensitive.
then he turns you to face him.
the slip is a mess—half off one shoulder, wrinkled and damp. he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth designing. without a word he lifts you, sets you on the wide cutting table, and gently pushes your thighs apart.
“lie back for me.”
you do. the wood is cool against your back. he leans down and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, slow lick, tasting everything he just made. you gasp. he hums like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever had in his mouth.
he licks you open, soft and filthy, tongue fucking into you while two fingers stretch you wider. the wet sounds fill the quiet atelier.
he sucks your clit between his lips and flicks it with the tip of his tongue until your back arches and you’re coming again, soft little sobs spilling out of you, thighs shaking around his head.
only then does he stand.
he undoes his trousers just enough. the head of his cock is flushed and leaking. he strokes it once, slicking himself with your wetness, then lines up and sinks into you in one long, slow thrust.
you feel every thick inch stretching you open. he bottoms out and stays there, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours.
“fuck… look at you,” he whispers. “taking me so pretty. so warm. so wet. i could stay inside you forever.”
he starts to move. deep, rolling thrusts that drag against every sensitive place inside you. the table creaks softly.
the silk slip is shoved up under your breasts now, your nipples tight and flushed. he leans down and takes one into his mouth, sucking gently while he fucks you, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make you whimper.
“that’s it… let me hear you,” he coos, soft and filthy. “my beautiful muse. made for my cock. made for my hands. made for me.”
he hooks your knees over his elbows and folds you deeper, driving into you harder, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. every thrust punches soft little moans out of you. he watches your face the whole time, eyes dark and soft and completely gone.
“cum for me again,” he breathes. “cum on my cock. let me feel it.”
his thumb finds your clit and rubs tight little circles. the dual sensation rips through you. you come hard, clenching around him, crying out his name.
the way you flutter and squeeze pulls him over the edge. he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a broken groan, pulsing deep, filling you until you feel it starting to leak out around his cock.
he stays inside you for a long moment, breathing hard, pressing soft kisses to your cheeks, your lips, your eyelids.
then—slowly—he pulls out.
you feel the warm trickle of him running down your thigh. he watches it, eyes heavy-lidded, almost reverent. instead of cleaning you up, he reaches for a scrap of the same rose silk he was using earlier.
he gently wipes you, but only enough to keep it from dripping onto the floor. then he takes the half-ruined slip, eases it back down over your body, and carefully pins it closed again—right over the mess he left inside you.
his fingers linger on the pins.
“there,” he murmurs, voice soft and wrecked and sweet. “now you’re wearing me. every time you move today you’ll feel it. every time the silk shifts you’ll remember exactly who put it there.”
he helps you stand on unsteady legs, smooths your hair, and presses one last gentle kiss to your forehead.
“go home like this,” he whispers against your skin. “walk around knowing you’re still full of me. and tomorrow… come back. i have a new design i want to try on you.”
his smile is quiet. dangerous. completely devoted.
“and this time i won’t even pretend it’s about the clothes.”
🧵 sorry if this was shorter! a old draft of mines i had to post before working on the requests. hope ya’ll still enjoying <333
( HAUTE COUTURE ) ──── fashion designer!james ✶ 𝑓!rdr 𓂃 smut fingering mirror sex (a lil) mdni ◜◡◝
you stand on the little raised platform in the middle of james’s atelier, late light turning the whole room gold and hazy. the rose-silk slip he pinned on you is so thin it feels like warm breath against your skin.
it clings to your breasts, rides high on your thighs, and every tiny shift makes the fabric whisper.
james hasn’t touched his sketchbook in twenty minutes.
he’s just staring.
“turn for me,” he says, voice low and velvet.
you turn. slow.
he steps in close. closer than he should. his fingers brush the small of your back, adjusting a pin that was already perfect. the touch stays. warm. heavy. you feel the heat of his chest almost pressed to you.
“you’re perfect like this,” he murmurs against your shoulder. “too perfect. it’s becoming a problem.”
his hands slide down, smoothing the silk over your hips, then higher. thumbs graze the soft undersides of your breasts. the fabric is so delicate it almost isn’t there. you shiver. he feels it.
one hand slips under the hem. palm gliding up the warm skin of your inner thigh. slow. worshipful. like he’s still draping fabric… only this time the fabric is you.
“i design for you,” he breathes. “every single piece. but lately all i can think about is taking it off and keeping you like this.”
his fingers find the heat between your legs and stroke once—feather-light—then again, firmer, parting your soft folds. a little sound slips out of you. your knees wobble. he steadies you with an arm around your waist, pulling you back against him so you can feel how hard he is.
“james—”
“shh. just let me.” his lips brush your ear. “you feel better than silk. softer. wetter. i keep telling myself it’s just a fitting…”
two fingers push inside you, slow and deep. you feel every inch of them stretching you open. his thumb circles your clit in lazy, perfect little strokes that make your hips twitch. the silk slip is bunched at your waist now. you’re dripping onto his hand, shiny and pink in the mirror across the room.
he watches you the whole time.
“but it’s not work anymore,” he whispers, voice gone rough and sweet. “i dream about you in my clothes. then i dream about you out of them. then i dream about spreading you open on my cutting table and fucking you until you can’t walk straight.”
he curls his fingers and you come with a soft, high cry, clenching around him, thighs shaking. he holds you through it, murmuring praise against your neck—pretty, perfect, mine—while his fingers keep moving, slow and deep, dragging the orgasm out until you’re trembling and oversensitive.
then he turns you to face him.
the slip is a mess—half off one shoulder, wrinkled and damp. he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth designing. without a word he lifts you, sets you on the wide cutting table, and gently pushes your thighs apart.
“lie back for me.”
you do. the wood is cool against your back. he leans down and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, slow lick, tasting everything he just made. you gasp. he hums like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever had in his mouth.
he licks you open, soft and filthy, tongue fucking into you while two fingers stretch you wider. the wet sounds fill the quiet atelier.
he sucks your clit between his lips and flicks it with the tip of his tongue until your back arches and you’re coming again, soft little sobs spilling out of you, thighs shaking around his head.
only then does he stand.
he undoes his trousers just enough. the head of his cock is flushed and leaking. he strokes it once, slicking himself with your wetness, then lines up and sinks into you in one long, slow thrust.
you feel every thick inch stretching you open. he bottoms out and stays there, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours.
“fuck… look at you,” he whispers. “taking me so pretty. so warm. so wet. i could stay inside you forever.”
he starts to move. deep, rolling thrusts that drag against every sensitive place inside you. the table creaks softly.
the silk slip is shoved up under your breasts now, your nipples tight and flushed. he leans down and takes one into his mouth, sucking gently while he fucks you, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make you whimper.
“that’s it… let me hear you,” he coos, soft and filthy. “my beautiful muse. made for my cock. made for my hands. made for me.”
he hooks your knees over his elbows and folds you deeper, driving into you harder, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. every thrust punches soft little moans out of you. he watches your face the whole time, eyes dark and soft and completely gone.
“cum for me again,” he breathes. “cum on my cock. let me feel it.”
his thumb finds your clit and rubs tight little circles. the dual sensation rips through you. you come hard, clenching around him, crying out his name.
the way you flutter and squeeze pulls him over the edge. he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a broken groan, pulsing deep, filling you until you feel it starting to leak out around his cock.
he stays inside you for a long moment, breathing hard, pressing soft kisses to your cheeks, your lips, your eyelids.
then—slowly—he pulls out.
you feel the warm trickle of him running down your thigh. he watches it, eyes heavy-lidded, almost reverent. instead of cleaning you up, he reaches for a scrap of the same rose silk he was using earlier.
he gently wipes you, but only enough to keep it from dripping onto the floor. then he takes the half-ruined slip, eases it back down over your body, and carefully pins it closed again—right over the mess he left inside you.
his fingers linger on the pins.
“there,” he murmurs, voice soft and wrecked and sweet. “now you’re wearing me. every time you move today you’ll feel it. every time the silk shifts you’ll remember exactly who put it there.”
he helps you stand on unsteady legs, smooths your hair, and presses one last gentle kiss to your forehead.
“go home like this,” he whispers against your skin. “walk around knowing you’re still full of me. and tomorrow… come back. i have a new design i want to try on you.”
his smile is quiet. dangerous. completely devoted.
“and this time i won’t even pretend it’s about the clothes.”
🧵 sorry if this was shorter! a old draft of mines i had to post before working on the requests. hope ya’ll still enjoying <333
( HAUTE COUTURE ) ──── fashion designer!james ✶ 𝑓!rdr 𓂃 smut fingering mirror sex (a lil) mdni ◜◡◝
you stand on the little raised platform in the middle of james’s atelier, late light turning the whole room gold and hazy. the rose-silk slip he pinned on you is so thin it feels like warm breath against your skin.
it clings to your breasts, rides high on your thighs, and every tiny shift makes the fabric whisper.
james hasn’t touched his sketchbook in twenty minutes.
he’s just staring.
“turn for me,” he says, voice low and velvet.
you turn. slow.
he steps in close. closer than he should. his fingers brush the small of your back, adjusting a pin that was already perfect. the touch stays. warm. heavy. you feel the heat of his chest almost pressed to you.
“you’re perfect like this,” he murmurs against your shoulder. “too perfect. it’s becoming a problem.”
his hands slide down, smoothing the silk over your hips, then higher. thumbs graze the soft undersides of your breasts. the fabric is so delicate it almost isn’t there. you shiver. he feels it.
one hand slips under the hem. palm gliding up the warm skin of your inner thigh. slow. worshipful. like he’s still draping fabric… only this time the fabric is you.
“i design for you,” he breathes. “every single piece. but lately all i can think about is taking it off and keeping you like this.”
his fingers find the heat between your legs and stroke once—feather-light—then again, firmer, parting your soft folds. a little sound slips out of you. your knees wobble. he steadies you with an arm around your waist, pulling you back against him so you can feel how hard he is.
“james—”
“shh. just let me.” his lips brush your ear. “you feel better than silk. softer. wetter. i keep telling myself it’s just a fitting…”
two fingers push inside you, slow and deep. you feel every inch of them stretching you open. his thumb circles your clit in lazy, perfect little strokes that make your hips twitch. the silk slip is bunched at your waist now. you’re dripping onto his hand, shiny and pink in the mirror across the room.
he watches you the whole time.
“but it’s not work anymore,” he whispers, voice gone rough and sweet. “i dream about you in my clothes. then i dream about you out of them. then i dream about spreading you open on my cutting table and fucking you until you can’t walk straight.”
he curls his fingers and you come with a soft, high cry, clenching around him, thighs shaking. he holds you through it, murmuring praise against your neck—pretty, perfect, mine—while his fingers keep moving, slow and deep, dragging the orgasm out until you’re trembling and oversensitive.
then he turns you to face him.
the slip is a mess—half off one shoulder, wrinkled and damp. he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth designing. without a word he lifts you, sets you on the wide cutting table, and gently pushes your thighs apart.
“lie back for me.”
you do. the wood is cool against your back. he leans down and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, slow lick, tasting everything he just made. you gasp. he hums like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever had in his mouth.
he licks you open, soft and filthy, tongue fucking into you while two fingers stretch you wider. the wet sounds fill the quiet atelier.
he sucks your clit between his lips and flicks it with the tip of his tongue until your back arches and you’re coming again, soft little sobs spilling out of you, thighs shaking around his head.
only then does he stand.
he undoes his trousers just enough. the head of his cock is flushed and leaking. he strokes it once, slicking himself with your wetness, then lines up and sinks into you in one long, slow thrust.
you feel every thick inch stretching you open. he bottoms out and stays there, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours.
“fuck… look at you,” he whispers. “taking me so pretty. so warm. so wet. i could stay inside you forever.”
he starts to move. deep, rolling thrusts that drag against every sensitive place inside you. the table creaks softly.
the silk slip is shoved up under your breasts now, your nipples tight and flushed. he leans down and takes one into his mouth, sucking gently while he fucks you, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make you whimper.
“that’s it… let me hear you,” he coos, soft and filthy. “my beautiful muse. made for my cock. made for my hands. made for me.”
he hooks your knees over his elbows and folds you deeper, driving into you harder, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. every thrust punches soft little moans out of you. he watches your face the whole time, eyes dark and soft and completely gone.
“cum for me again,” he breathes. “cum on my cock. let me feel it.”
his thumb finds your clit and rubs tight little circles. the dual sensation rips through you. you come hard, clenching around him, crying out his name.
the way you flutter and squeeze pulls him over the edge. he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a broken groan, pulsing deep, filling you until you feel it starting to leak out around his cock.
he stays inside you for a long moment, breathing hard, pressing soft kisses to your cheeks, your lips, your eyelids.
then—slowly—he pulls out.
you feel the warm trickle of him running down your thigh. he watches it, eyes heavy-lidded, almost reverent. instead of cleaning you up, he reaches for a scrap of the same rose silk he was using earlier.
he gently wipes you, but only enough to keep it from dripping onto the floor. then he takes the half-ruined slip, eases it back down over your body, and carefully pins it closed again—right over the mess he left inside you.
his fingers linger on the pins.
“there,” he murmurs, voice soft and wrecked and sweet. “now you’re wearing me. every time you move today you’ll feel it. every time the silk shifts you’ll remember exactly who put it there.”
he helps you stand on unsteady legs, smooths your hair, and presses one last gentle kiss to your forehead.
“go home like this,” he whispers against your skin. “walk around knowing you’re still full of me. and tomorrow… come back. i have a new design i want to try on you.”
his smile is quiet. dangerous. completely devoted.
“and this time i won’t even pretend it’s about the clothes.”
🧵 sorry if this was shorter! a old draft of mines i had to post before working on the requests. hope ya’ll still enjoying <333
Girlllll you write amazing I love your brain so I have a request 👀 where James is our bsf and he convinces us to take our virginity bc “his the only guy we can trust”👀👀
oooh i like it….a bit like james from “favors”, but more manipulative ???? I LOVE IT !!! james girlies are the BEST <33
not in the soft, romantic way. not in the “he’s just passionate” way.
in the he’ll fuck you until your legs don’t work and then keep going because his cock still hasn’t gone down way.
his sex drive wasn’t human. it never had been. it sat under his skin like a second heartbeat, constant and heavy and hungry. he’d wake up already hard, already leaking, already aching like he’d been edged in his sleep. and you… poor little thing… you tried.
you really did.
you’d climb into his lap all sweet and eager, whispering i can take it, i can take it, only to end up trembling and overstimulated and sobbing into his shoulder twenty minutes later while he was still rolling his hips, still thick and heavy inside you, still murmuring shh, just a little more, you’re doing so good even as your thighs shook and your cunt fluttered weakly around him.
he never got mean about it. that was the worst part. he was so gentle. so soft-spoken. he’d kiss your wet cheeks and stroke your hair and keep fucking you through the overstimulation like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“you’re okay,” he’d whisper, voice low and warm. “just breathe for me. i know it’s a lot. i know.”
but his cock never softened. never even flagged.
so when he showed up one night with a pretty little plate of tiramisu, eyes soft and dark and already a little hungry, you should have known better.
you really should have.
“made it for you,” he said, voice all low and sweet as he set it in front of you. “special recipe. just… eat a little for me? please?”
you did. of course you did. you always did what he asked when he looked at you like that.
the first bite was rich. creamy. coffee and cocoa and that soft, spongy sweetness. you hummed, soft in your throat, and took another. then another.
you didn’t notice the way his eyes stayed locked on your mouth.
you didn’t notice the faint pink flush already creeping up his throat.
twenty minutes later he was on you.
not gentle. not soft.
starving.
he had you bent over the edge of the couch, skirt shoved up around your waist, panties yanked to the side, and he was in, thick and hot and relentless, one hand fisted in your hair and the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.
“fuck— fuck— you taste so fucking sweet—”
his voice was wrecked already. low and rough and desperate. his hips snapped forward like he couldn’t stop, like the aphrodisiac he’d laced into the tiramisu had lit every nerve ending in you on fire and the only thing that would put it out was burying himself as deep as he could go while you burned for him.
you were already crying. pretty little sobs, fingers scrabbling at the cushions, cunt clenching and fluttering around him because he was so much and he wasn’t slowing down—and now you were just as desperate, just as aching, the drug making every drag of his cock feel like too much and not enough at the same time.
“james— james it’s too— ah— i can’t—”
“i know,” he groaned, forehead dropping against your back, still fucking you through it. “i know, baby, i know— just take it— just let me— fuck— you’re so wet for me already—”
he came the first time without warning. hot and thick and deep, flooding you until it spilled out around his cock. didn’t even pause.
just kept going, still hard, still aching, still chasing the next one like the first hadn’t even registered—and you were right there with him, hips twitching back to meet every thrust, soft little ah-ah-ah sounds falling from your lips because the aphrodisiac had turned your whole body into one big, oversensitive nerve.
by the third orgasm he had you on your back, legs folded up against your chest, cock dragging over your swollen clit with every thrust while he kissed the tears off your cheeks.
by the fifth he was whispering apologies against your mouth between desperate, filthy sounds.
“sorry— sorry, i can’t stop— you feel so fucking good— just a little more— just one more—”
you were a mess. hair stuck to your damp cheeks, lipstick smeared, thighs trembling so hard you could barely keep them open. every time he bottomed out you made this soft, broken little ah sound like you were being fucked straight out of your body. the tiramisu had done its job too well—your cunt was dripping, fluttering, greedy, even as you sobbed from how much it was.
and still he didn’t stop.
still that inhuman drive kept him hard and leaking and needy, cock shiny with your mixed slick, hips rolling deep and slow now because even he was starting to shake.
“one more,” he promised, voice wrecked and sweet. “just one more and then i’ll— fuck— then i’ll let you rest—”
he didn’t.
of course he didn’t.
by the time the aphrodisiac finally started to burn off, you were limp and overstimulated and so full of cum it was dripping down your thighs in thick, sticky trails. james was still buried inside you, still twitching, still pressing soft kisses to your throat while he whispered thank you, thank you, you’re so good for me, so perfect.
he stayed hard for another hour after that.
just… holding you. rocking into you slow and lazy whenever the residual ache got too sharp.
and you, ruined and floaty and soft, could only cling to him and whisper back,
“…next time… less…”
james laughed against your skin, low and warm and still a little wrecked.
“no, baby. next time i’m giving you more.”
👡 james the pussy destroyer <333 ya’ll keep filling my indox and dm like james is to your womb <3 love ya’lll !!!
Your debut post was crazy good!!! I was wondering ( if you do take request) if you could do one where idols james comes back to her apartment tired asf and doesn’t care that her friends are in the living room, all he cares for is to fuck yn in her room, he has to keep her quiet though.
not in the soft, romantic way. not in the “he’s just passionate” way.
in the he’ll fuck you until your legs don’t work and then keep going because his cock still hasn’t gone down way.
his sex drive wasn’t human. it never had been. it sat under his skin like a second heartbeat, constant and heavy and hungry. he’d wake up already hard, already leaking, already aching like he’d been edged in his sleep. and you… poor little thing… you tried.
you really did.
you’d climb into his lap all sweet and eager, whispering i can take it, i can take it, only to end up trembling and overstimulated and sobbing into his shoulder twenty minutes later while he was still rolling his hips, still thick and heavy inside you, still murmuring shh, just a little more, you’re doing so good even as your thighs shook and your cunt fluttered weakly around him.
he never got mean about it. that was the worst part. he was so gentle. so soft-spoken. he’d kiss your wet cheeks and stroke your hair and keep fucking you through the overstimulation like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“you’re okay,” he’d whisper, voice low and warm. “just breathe for me. i know it’s a lot. i know.”
but his cock never softened. never even flagged.
so when he showed up one night with a pretty little plate of tiramisu, eyes soft and dark and already a little hungry, you should have known better.
you really should have.
“made it for you,” he said, voice all low and sweet as he set it in front of you. “special recipe. just… eat a little for me? please?”
you did. of course you did. you always did what he asked when he looked at you like that.
the first bite was rich. creamy. coffee and cocoa and that soft, spongy sweetness. you hummed, soft in your throat, and took another. then another.
you didn’t notice the way his eyes stayed locked on your mouth.
you didn’t notice the faint pink flush already creeping up his throat.
twenty minutes later he was on you.
not gentle. not soft.
starving.
he had you bent over the edge of the couch, skirt shoved up around your waist, panties yanked to the side, and he was in, thick and hot and relentless, one hand fisted in your hair and the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.
“fuck— fuck— you taste so fucking sweet—”
his voice was wrecked already. low and rough and desperate. his hips snapped forward like he couldn’t stop, like the aphrodisiac he’d laced into the tiramisu had lit every nerve ending in you on fire and the only thing that would put it out was burying himself as deep as he could go while you burned for him.
you were already crying. pretty little sobs, fingers scrabbling at the cushions, cunt clenching and fluttering around him because he was so much and he wasn’t slowing down—and now you were just as desperate, just as aching, the drug making every drag of his cock feel like too much and not enough at the same time.
“james— james it’s too— ah— i can’t—”
“i know,” he groaned, forehead dropping against your back, still fucking you through it. “i know, baby, i know— just take it— just let me— fuck— you’re so wet for me already—”
he came the first time without warning. hot and thick and deep, flooding you until it spilled out around his cock. didn’t even pause.
just kept going, still hard, still aching, still chasing the next one like the first hadn’t even registered—and you were right there with him, hips twitching back to meet every thrust, soft little ah-ah-ah sounds falling from your lips because the aphrodisiac had turned your whole body into one big, oversensitive nerve.
by the third orgasm he had you on your back, legs folded up against your chest, cock dragging over your swollen clit with every thrust while he kissed the tears off your cheeks.
by the fifth he was whispering apologies against your mouth between desperate, filthy sounds.
“sorry— sorry, i can’t stop— you feel so fucking good— just a little more— just one more—”
you were a mess. hair stuck to your damp cheeks, lipstick smeared, thighs trembling so hard you could barely keep them open. every time he bottomed out you made this soft, broken little ah sound like you were being fucked straight out of your body. the tiramisu had done its job too well—your cunt was dripping, fluttering, greedy, even as you sobbed from how much it was.
and still he didn’t stop.
still that inhuman drive kept him hard and leaking and needy, cock shiny with your mixed slick, hips rolling deep and slow now because even he was starting to shake.
“one more,” he promised, voice wrecked and sweet. “just one more and then i’ll— fuck— then i’ll let you rest—”
he didn’t.
of course he didn’t.
by the time the aphrodisiac finally started to burn off, you were limp and overstimulated and so full of cum it was dripping down your thighs in thick, sticky trails. james was still buried inside you, still twitching, still pressing soft kisses to your throat while he whispered thank you, thank you, you’re so good for me, so perfect.
he stayed hard for another hour after that.
just… holding you. rocking into you slow and lazy whenever the residual ache got too sharp.
and you, ruined and floaty and soft, could only cling to him and whisper back,
“…next time… less…”
james laughed against your skin, low and warm and still a little wrecked.
“no, baby. next time i’m giving you more.”
👡 james the pussy destroyer <333 ya’ll keep filling my indox and dm like james is to your womb <3 love ya’lll !!!
Favors is so good omg that was HOT. Idk if u take requests but if u do, could i req a follow up where they go finally decide to go all the way 🙇🏻♀️
“pantie-wetting” was the goal so happy hear you liked it !!! but ngl, i wrote it as a stand alone fic and didn’t intend a part 2. BUT, maybe just maybe i’ll make a follow up !!
it started so quietly you almost didn’t notice at first. one day you wanted those soft white sneakers with the little bows, and instead of just saying yes he parked the car somewhere quiet, pulled you into his lap, and guided your hand inside his jeans with the softest voice you’d ever heard.
“just touch me a little… that’s all… and they’re yours.” you were nervous and clumsy and your fingers kept slipping over the hot, heavy length of him, but he only sighed against your neck and told you you were doing so good.
when he finished all over your hand (warm and sticky and so much of it) he cleaned you up with a tissue, kissed the top of your head, and bought the sneakers without another word. you still wear them almost every day. sometimes when you look down at them you can still remember how thick he felt in your palm.
after that it became the easiest thing in the world.
the late-night rides across town when your phone was dying turned into you leaning over the center console with your mouth full of him while he stroked your hair and murmured how pretty you looked with your lips stretched around his cock.
spit would drip down your chin and soak into the front of your shirt and he would just keep whispering “good girl… take it deeper… just like that…” until he spilled across your tongue.
the little gold necklace with the heart charm was paid for in a store bathroom with his fingers curled deep inside you, pressing against that soft spongy spot that made your knees buckle, while your teeth dug into his shoulder so you wouldn’t moan too loud.
every bag, every pair of earrings, every ice-cream craving, every “can you drive me real quick” ended the same way: james asking for a favor in that low sticky voice, and you saying yes because it never felt wrong. it just felt like him. like the boy who’d been taking care of you forever. like the only person who ever made your panties go wet just from the sound of his voice.
you stopped counting after a while. you just got better at it. your hands learned the exact pressure he liked. your mouth learned how to take him deeper without choking too much.
your body learned how to open for his fingers the second he slipped them under your skirt, how to get so slick so fast that the wet sounds filled whatever quiet space you were in. and every single time he would look at you afterward with that tiny secret smile and say the same thing.
“next time you want something… just ask. you know the deal.”
so when you saw the little bag in the shop window today (the one with the soft leather and the tiny silver charms that jingle when you walk) you already knew what was coming. you pointed at it, bounced a little on your toes, pressed your hands together under your chin the way you always do when you’re excited, and he only smiled that same soft smile and said it again.
“favor first, baby.”
now you’re in the back of his car, parked under the trees where the light comes through in warm little patches. the windows are already fogging from the way you’re both breathing. he leans the seat back and looks at you like he’s been waiting all day just for this.
“come here,” he murmurs. “climb over.”
you do. your skirt rides up when you straddle his lap and his hands slide under the fabric right away, warm palms on your bare thighs, thumbs pressing slow circles into the soft inner skin until you squirm.
you can feel how hard he already is, thick and hot against the thin cotton of your panties. the second you shift your hips the damp fabric drags over the head of his cock and he lets out a quiet breath through his nose. you can already feel yourself getting wetter just from the heat of him.
“so pretty when you’re like this,” he whispers against your neck, lips brushing your skin. “all soft and ready. you don’t even think about saying no anymore, do you? your panties are already soaked, aren’t they?”
you shake your head, cheeks warm, because it’s true. he takes your hand and guides it down, unzips himself slowly, and the second your fingers wrap around him he sighs like it hurts in the best way.
he’s thick and warm and already wet at the tip, precum smearing across your palm. you stroke him the way you’ve learned to, slow from base to head, thumb spreading the slickness in little circles. the wet sound of your palm sliding over him fills the quiet car. every time you squeeze a little he twitches in your hand and more precum leaks out, making everything even wetter.
“look at you,” he says, voice low and fond. “my best friend, sitting in my lap, taking care of me just ‘cause i asked. you’re so good at this now… feel how hard you make me…”
he starts rocking up into your hand, using your soft grip, the head of his cock dragging through the wetness of your palm. your thighs keep squeezing around his hips without meaning to. the thin cotton of your panties is already clinging to you, damp and sticky. after a while he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip and presses until you open.
“mouth next. just for a minute. wanna feel how soft and wet you are again.”
you lean down. the second your lips touch the head he groans quiet and threads his fingers into your hair, not pushing hard, just holding you there. you take him in slow, tongue flat against the underside, and the wet heat of your mouth makes him breathe out hard.
spit gathers at the corners of your lips almost immediately. every time you try to take him deeper it makes a soft, filthy wet sound. saliva strings stretch between your mouth and his cock when you pull back a little. your eyes water. your mascara starts to smudge. he likes that.
you can feel it in the way his fingers tighten gently in your hair and the way his hips keep twitching upward, pushing a little deeper into the soft heat of your throat.
“that’s it… use your tongue… yeah… just like that… you always look so pretty with your lips stretched around me… spit on it a little more, baby… make it messy…”
he keeps you there for a while, guiding your head in slow strokes, watching the way your lips stretch and the spit drips down your chin and onto the front of his jeans.
when he finally pulls you up you’re dizzy, lips swollen and shiny, chin messy, a thin string of saliva still connecting your mouth to the flushed head of his cock. he kisses you deep, tasting himself on your tongue, then slips his hand between your legs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
two fingers push into you easy. you’re so wet it makes a filthy little squelch the second he curls them.
“already this wet just from sucking me?” he mutters, almost to himself, voice soft with wonder. “pretty little thing… your panties are ruined… always so ready for me…”
he works his fingers deep, curling against that soft spongy spot that makes your hips jerk and your breath hitch. his thumb presses slow circles on your clit, rubbing the wetness around until everything feels slick and oversensitive.
the wet sounds get louder every time he thrusts his fingers in. your skirt is pushed up around your waist and he keeps looking down at where his fingers disappear into you, watching the way your pussy clings to them, the way clear slick stretches between his knuckles every time he pulls out a little.
soft broken sounds spill out of your mouth. your walls flutter and squeeze around him. your thighs are trembling.
“gonna come for me,” he says, not a question. “come on my fingers and i’ll take you shopping right after. promise. give it to me, baby… soak my hand…”
you do. your whole body shakes. your walls clamp down hard around his fingers while soft little gasps and whimpers spill out of you.
wetness floods his hand, dripping down his wrist, making everything even messier. he keeps working you through it, slower, deeper, until you’re trembling and oversensitive and trying to close your thighs. he doesn’t let you. he just holds you open with his free hand and watches every twitch, every little pulse, every fresh gush of slick like it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.
when you finally go limp against his chest he kisses the top of your head, pulls his fingers out slow (they’re shiny and dripping), and wipes them clean on a tissue. then he uses the same tissue to gently clean between your legs, careful, almost gentle, like you’re something fragile. the tissue comes away soaked.
he tucks himself away. starts the car.
“c’mon. let’s go get your bag.”
you sit in the passenger seat with your thighs still sticky and pressed tightly together, heart fluttering, the taste of him still on your tongue, your panties clinging wetly to you with every small movement.
the little charms on the bag are already jingling in your head. and james is already looking at you like he’s thinking about the next favor.
at the red light he glances over and smiles that tiny secret smile.
“next time you want something… just ask. you know the deal.”
and you nod.
of course you do.
you always do.
🫐 plan on making this a james smut account….but im open to suggestions!!!
it started so quietly you almost didn’t notice at first. one day you wanted those soft white sneakers with the little bows, and instead of just saying yes he parked the car somewhere quiet, pulled you into his lap, and guided your hand inside his jeans with the softest voice you’d ever heard.
“just touch me a little… that’s all… and they’re yours.” you were nervous and clumsy and your fingers kept slipping over the hot, heavy length of him, but he only sighed against your neck and told you you were doing so good.
when he finished all over your hand (warm and sticky and so much of it) he cleaned you up with a tissue, kissed the top of your head, and bought the sneakers without another word. you still wear them almost every day. sometimes when you look down at them you can still remember how thick he felt in your palm.
after that it became the easiest thing in the world.
the late-night rides across town when your phone was dying turned into you leaning over the center console with your mouth full of him while he stroked your hair and murmured how pretty you looked with your lips stretched around his cock.
spit would drip down your chin and soak into the front of your shirt and he would just keep whispering “good girl… take it deeper… just like that…” until he spilled across your tongue.
the little gold necklace with the heart charm was paid for in a store bathroom with his fingers curled deep inside you, pressing against that soft spongy spot that made your knees buckle, while your teeth dug into his shoulder so you wouldn’t moan too loud.
every bag, every pair of earrings, every ice-cream craving, every “can you drive me real quick” ended the same way: james asking for a favor in that low sticky voice, and you saying yes because it never felt wrong. it just felt like him. like the boy who’d been taking care of you forever. like the only person who ever made your panties go wet just from the sound of his voice.
you stopped counting after a while. you just got better at it. your hands learned the exact pressure he liked. your mouth learned how to take him deeper without choking too much.
your body learned how to open for his fingers the second he slipped them under your skirt, how to get so slick so fast that the wet sounds filled whatever quiet space you were in. and every single time he would look at you afterward with that tiny secret smile and say the same thing.
“next time you want something… just ask. you know the deal.”
so when you saw the little bag in the shop window today (the one with the soft leather and the tiny silver charms that jingle when you walk) you already knew what was coming. you pointed at it, bounced a little on your toes, pressed your hands together under your chin the way you always do when you’re excited, and he only smiled that same soft smile and said it again.
“favor first, baby.”
now you’re in the back of his car, parked under the trees where the light comes through in warm little patches. the windows are already fogging from the way you’re both breathing. he leans the seat back and looks at you like he’s been waiting all day just for this.
“come here,” he murmurs. “climb over.”
you do. your skirt rides up when you straddle his lap and his hands slide under the fabric right away, warm palms on your bare thighs, thumbs pressing slow circles into the soft inner skin until you squirm.
you can feel how hard he already is, thick and hot against the thin cotton of your panties. the second you shift your hips the damp fabric drags over the head of his cock and he lets out a quiet breath through his nose. you can already feel yourself getting wetter just from the heat of him.
“so pretty when you’re like this,” he whispers against your neck, lips brushing your skin. “all soft and ready. you don’t even think about saying no anymore, do you? your panties are already soaked, aren’t they?”
you shake your head, cheeks warm, because it’s true. he takes your hand and guides it down, unzips himself slowly, and the second your fingers wrap around him he sighs like it hurts in the best way.
he’s thick and warm and already wet at the tip, precum smearing across your palm. you stroke him the way you’ve learned to, slow from base to head, thumb spreading the slickness in little circles. the wet sound of your palm sliding over him fills the quiet car. every time you squeeze a little he twitches in your hand and more precum leaks out, making everything even wetter.
“look at you,” he says, voice low and fond. “my best friend, sitting in my lap, taking care of me just ‘cause i asked. you’re so good at this now… feel how hard you make me…”
he starts rocking up into your hand, using your soft grip, the head of his cock dragging through the wetness of your palm. your thighs keep squeezing around his hips without meaning to. the thin cotton of your panties is already clinging to you, damp and sticky. after a while he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip and presses until you open.
“mouth next. just for a minute. wanna feel how soft and wet you are again.”
you lean down. the second your lips touch the head he groans quiet and threads his fingers into your hair, not pushing hard, just holding you there. you take him in slow, tongue flat against the underside, and the wet heat of your mouth makes him breathe out hard.
spit gathers at the corners of your lips almost immediately. every time you try to take him deeper it makes a soft, filthy wet sound. saliva strings stretch between your mouth and his cock when you pull back a little. your eyes water. your mascara starts to smudge. he likes that.
you can feel it in the way his fingers tighten gently in your hair and the way his hips keep twitching upward, pushing a little deeper into the soft heat of your throat.
“that’s it… use your tongue… yeah… just like that… you always look so pretty with your lips stretched around me… spit on it a little more, baby… make it messy…”
he keeps you there for a while, guiding your head in slow strokes, watching the way your lips stretch and the spit drips down your chin and onto the front of his jeans.
when he finally pulls you up you’re dizzy, lips swollen and shiny, chin messy, a thin string of saliva still connecting your mouth to the flushed head of his cock. he kisses you deep, tasting himself on your tongue, then slips his hand between your legs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
two fingers push into you easy. you’re so wet it makes a filthy little squelch the second he curls them.
“already this wet just from sucking me?” he mutters, almost to himself, voice soft with wonder. “pretty little thing… your panties are ruined… always so ready for me…”
he works his fingers deep, curling against that soft spongy spot that makes your hips jerk and your breath hitch. his thumb presses slow circles on your clit, rubbing the wetness around until everything feels slick and oversensitive.
the wet sounds get louder every time he thrusts his fingers in. your skirt is pushed up around your waist and he keeps looking down at where his fingers disappear into you, watching the way your pussy clings to them, the way clear slick stretches between his knuckles every time he pulls out a little.
soft broken sounds spill out of your mouth. your walls flutter and squeeze around him. your thighs are trembling.
“gonna come for me,” he says, not a question. “come on my fingers and i’ll take you shopping right after. promise. give it to me, baby… soak my hand…”
you do. your whole body shakes. your walls clamp down hard around his fingers while soft little gasps and whimpers spill out of you.
wetness floods his hand, dripping down his wrist, making everything even messier. he keeps working you through it, slower, deeper, until you’re trembling and oversensitive and trying to close your thighs. he doesn’t let you. he just holds you open with his free hand and watches every twitch, every little pulse, every fresh gush of slick like it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.
when you finally go limp against his chest he kisses the top of your head, pulls his fingers out slow (they’re shiny and dripping), and wipes them clean on a tissue. then he uses the same tissue to gently clean between your legs, careful, almost gentle, like you’re something fragile. the tissue comes away soaked.
he tucks himself away. starts the car.
“c’mon. let’s go get your bag.”
you sit in the passenger seat with your thighs still sticky and pressed tightly together, heart fluttering, the taste of him still on your tongue, your panties clinging wetly to you with every small movement.
the little charms on the bag are already jingling in your head. and james is already looking at you like he’s thinking about the next favor.
at the red light he glances over and smiles that tiny secret smile.
“next time you want something… just ask. you know the deal.”
and you nod.
of course you do.
you always do.
🫐 plan on making this a james smut account….but im open to suggestions!!!
it started so quietly you almost didn’t notice at first. one day you wanted those soft white sneakers with the little bows, and instead of just saying yes he parked the car somewhere quiet, pulled you into his lap, and guided your hand inside his jeans with the softest voice you’d ever heard.
“just touch me a little… that’s all… and they’re yours.” you were nervous and clumsy and your fingers kept slipping over the hot, heavy length of him, but he only sighed against your neck and told you you were doing so good.
when he finished all over your hand (warm and sticky and so much of it) he cleaned you up with a tissue, kissed the top of your head, and bought the sneakers without another word. you still wear them almost every day. sometimes when you look down at them you can still remember how thick he felt in your palm.
after that it became the easiest thing in the world.
the late-night rides across town when your phone was dying turned into you leaning over the center console with your mouth full of him while he stroked your hair and murmured how pretty you looked with your lips stretched around his cock.
spit would drip down your chin and soak into the front of your shirt and he would just keep whispering “good girl… take it deeper… just like that…” until he spilled across your tongue.
the little gold necklace with the heart charm was paid for in a store bathroom with his fingers curled deep inside you, pressing against that soft spongy spot that made your knees buckle, while your teeth dug into his shoulder so you wouldn’t moan too loud.
every bag, every pair of earrings, every ice-cream craving, every “can you drive me real quick” ended the same way: james asking for a favor in that low sticky voice, and you saying yes because it never felt wrong. it just felt like him. like the boy who’d been taking care of you forever. like the only person who ever made your panties go wet just from the sound of his voice.
you stopped counting after a while. you just got better at it. your hands learned the exact pressure he liked. your mouth learned how to take him deeper without choking too much.
your body learned how to open for his fingers the second he slipped them under your skirt, how to get so slick so fast that the wet sounds filled whatever quiet space you were in. and every single time he would look at you afterward with that tiny secret smile and say the same thing.
“next time you want something… just ask. you know the deal.”
so when you saw the little bag in the shop window today (the one with the soft leather and the tiny silver charms that jingle when you walk) you already knew what was coming. you pointed at it, bounced a little on your toes, pressed your hands together under your chin the way you always do when you’re excited, and he only smiled that same soft smile and said it again.
“favor first, baby.”
now you’re in the back of his car, parked under the trees where the light comes through in warm little patches. the windows are already fogging from the way you’re both breathing. he leans the seat back and looks at you like he’s been waiting all day just for this.
“come here,” he murmurs. “climb over.”
you do. your skirt rides up when you straddle his lap and his hands slide under the fabric right away, warm palms on your bare thighs, thumbs pressing slow circles into the soft inner skin until you squirm.
you can feel how hard he already is, thick and hot against the thin cotton of your panties. the second you shift your hips the damp fabric drags over the head of his cock and he lets out a quiet breath through his nose. you can already feel yourself getting wetter just from the heat of him.
“so pretty when you’re like this,” he whispers against your neck, lips brushing your skin. “all soft and ready. you don’t even think about saying no anymore, do you? your panties are already soaked, aren’t they?”
you shake your head, cheeks warm, because it’s true. he takes your hand and guides it down, unzips himself slowly, and the second your fingers wrap around him he sighs like it hurts in the best way.
he’s thick and warm and already wet at the tip, precum smearing across your palm. you stroke him the way you’ve learned to, slow from base to head, thumb spreading the slickness in little circles. the wet sound of your palm sliding over him fills the quiet car. every time you squeeze a little he twitches in your hand and more precum leaks out, making everything even wetter.
“look at you,” he says, voice low and fond. “my best friend, sitting in my lap, taking care of me just ‘cause i asked. you’re so good at this now… feel how hard you make me…”
he starts rocking up into your hand, using your soft grip, the head of his cock dragging through the wetness of your palm. your thighs keep squeezing around his hips without meaning to. the thin cotton of your panties is already clinging to you, damp and sticky. after a while he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip and presses until you open.
“mouth next. just for a minute. wanna feel how soft and wet you are again.”
you lean down. the second your lips touch the head he groans quiet and threads his fingers into your hair, not pushing hard, just holding you there. you take him in slow, tongue flat against the underside, and the wet heat of your mouth makes him breathe out hard.
spit gathers at the corners of your lips almost immediately. every time you try to take him deeper it makes a soft, filthy wet sound. saliva strings stretch between your mouth and his cock when you pull back a little. your eyes water. your mascara starts to smudge. he likes that.
you can feel it in the way his fingers tighten gently in your hair and the way his hips keep twitching upward, pushing a little deeper into the soft heat of your throat.
“that’s it… use your tongue… yeah… just like that… you always look so pretty with your lips stretched around me… spit on it a little more, baby… make it messy…”
he keeps you there for a while, guiding your head in slow strokes, watching the way your lips stretch and the spit drips down your chin and onto the front of his jeans.
when he finally pulls you up you’re dizzy, lips swollen and shiny, chin messy, a thin string of saliva still connecting your mouth to the flushed head of his cock. he kisses you deep, tasting himself on your tongue, then slips his hand between your legs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
two fingers push into you easy. you’re so wet it makes a filthy little squelch the second he curls them.
“already this wet just from sucking me?” he mutters, almost to himself, voice soft with wonder. “pretty little thing… your panties are ruined… always so ready for me…”
he works his fingers deep, curling against that soft spongy spot that makes your hips jerk and your breath hitch. his thumb presses slow circles on your clit, rubbing the wetness around until everything feels slick and oversensitive.
the wet sounds get louder every time he thrusts his fingers in. your skirt is pushed up around your waist and he keeps looking down at where his fingers disappear into you, watching the way your pussy clings to them, the way clear slick stretches between his knuckles every time he pulls out a little.
soft broken sounds spill out of your mouth. your walls flutter and squeeze around him. your thighs are trembling.
“gonna come for me,” he says, not a question. “come on my fingers and i’ll take you shopping right after. promise. give it to me, baby… soak my hand…”
you do. your whole body shakes. your walls clamp down hard around his fingers while soft little gasps and whimpers spill out of you.
wetness floods his hand, dripping down his wrist, making everything even messier. he keeps working you through it, slower, deeper, until you’re trembling and oversensitive and trying to close your thighs. he doesn’t let you. he just holds you open with his free hand and watches every twitch, every little pulse, every fresh gush of slick like it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.
when you finally go limp against his chest he kisses the top of your head, pulls his fingers out slow (they’re shiny and dripping), and wipes them clean on a tissue. then he uses the same tissue to gently clean between your legs, careful, almost gentle, like you’re something fragile. the tissue comes away soaked.
he tucks himself away. starts the car.
“c’mon. let’s go get your bag.”
you sit in the passenger seat with your thighs still sticky and pressed tightly together, heart fluttering, the taste of him still on your tongue, your panties clinging wetly to you with every small movement.
the little charms on the bag are already jingling in your head. and james is already looking at you like he’s thinking about the next favor.
at the red light he glances over and smiles that tiny secret smile.
“next time you want something… just ask. you know the deal.”
and you nod.
of course you do.
you always do.
🫐 plan on making this a james smut account….but im open to suggestions!!!
it started so quietly you almost didn’t notice at first. one day you wanted those soft white sneakers with the little bows, and instead of just saying yes he parked the car somewhere quiet, pulled you into his lap, and guided your hand inside his jeans with the softest voice you’d ever heard.
“just touch me a little… that’s all… and they’re yours.” you were nervous and clumsy and your fingers kept slipping over the hot, heavy length of him, but he only sighed against your neck and told you you were doing so good.
when he finished all over your hand (warm and sticky and so much of it) he cleaned you up with a tissue, kissed the top of your head, and bought the sneakers without another word. you still wear them almost every day. sometimes when you look down at them you can still remember how thick he felt in your palm.
after that it became the easiest thing in the world.
the late-night rides across town when your phone was dying turned into you leaning over the center console with your mouth full of him while he stroked your hair and murmured how pretty you looked with your lips stretched around his cock.
spit would drip down your chin and soak into the front of your shirt and he would just keep whispering “good girl… take it deeper… just like that…” until he spilled across your tongue.
the little gold necklace with the heart charm was paid for in a store bathroom with his fingers curled deep inside you, pressing against that soft spongy spot that made your knees buckle, while your teeth dug into his shoulder so you wouldn’t moan too loud.
every bag, every pair of earrings, every ice-cream craving, every “can you drive me real quick” ended the same way: james asking for a favor in that low sticky voice, and you saying yes because it never felt wrong. it just felt like him. like the boy who’d been taking care of you forever. like the only person who ever made your panties go wet just from the sound of his voice.
you stopped counting after a while. you just got better at it. your hands learned the exact pressure he liked. your mouth learned how to take him deeper without choking too much.
your body learned how to open for his fingers the second he slipped them under your skirt, how to get so slick so fast that the wet sounds filled whatever quiet space you were in. and every single time he would look at you afterward with that tiny secret smile and say the same thing.
“next time you want something… just ask. you know the deal.”
so when you saw the little bag in the shop window today (the one with the soft leather and the tiny silver charms that jingle when you walk) you already knew what was coming. you pointed at it, bounced a little on your toes, pressed your hands together under your chin the way you always do when you’re excited, and he only smiled that same soft smile and said it again.
“favor first, baby.”
now you’re in the back of his car, parked under the trees where the light comes through in warm little patches. the windows are already fogging from the way you’re both breathing. he leans the seat back and looks at you like he’s been waiting all day just for this.
“come here,” he murmurs. “climb over.”
you do. your skirt rides up when you straddle his lap and his hands slide under the fabric right away, warm palms on your bare thighs, thumbs pressing slow circles into the soft inner skin until you squirm.
you can feel how hard he already is, thick and hot against the thin cotton of your panties. the second you shift your hips the damp fabric drags over the head of his cock and he lets out a quiet breath through his nose. you can already feel yourself getting wetter just from the heat of him.
“so pretty when you’re like this,” he whispers against your neck, lips brushing your skin. “all soft and ready. you don’t even think about saying no anymore, do you? your panties are already soaked, aren’t they?”
you shake your head, cheeks warm, because it’s true. he takes your hand and guides it down, unzips himself slowly, and the second your fingers wrap around him he sighs like it hurts in the best way.
he’s thick and warm and already wet at the tip, precum smearing across your palm. you stroke him the way you’ve learned to, slow from base to head, thumb spreading the slickness in little circles. the wet sound of your palm sliding over him fills the quiet car. every time you squeeze a little he twitches in your hand and more precum leaks out, making everything even wetter.
“look at you,” he says, voice low and fond. “my best friend, sitting in my lap, taking care of me just ‘cause i asked. you’re so good at this now… feel how hard you make me…”
he starts rocking up into your hand, using your soft grip, the head of his cock dragging through the wetness of your palm. your thighs keep squeezing around his hips without meaning to. the thin cotton of your panties is already clinging to you, damp and sticky. after a while he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip and presses until you open.
“mouth next. just for a minute. wanna feel how soft and wet you are again.”
you lean down. the second your lips touch the head he groans quiet and threads his fingers into your hair, not pushing hard, just holding you there. you take him in slow, tongue flat against the underside, and the wet heat of your mouth makes him breathe out hard.
spit gathers at the corners of your lips almost immediately. every time you try to take him deeper it makes a soft, filthy wet sound. saliva strings stretch between your mouth and his cock when you pull back a little. your eyes water. your mascara starts to smudge. he likes that.
you can feel it in the way his fingers tighten gently in your hair and the way his hips keep twitching upward, pushing a little deeper into the soft heat of your throat.
“that’s it… use your tongue… yeah… just like that… you always look so pretty with your lips stretched around me… spit on it a little more, baby… make it messy…”
he keeps you there for a while, guiding your head in slow strokes, watching the way your lips stretch and the spit drips down your chin and onto the front of his jeans.
when he finally pulls you up you’re dizzy, lips swollen and shiny, chin messy, a thin string of saliva still connecting your mouth to the flushed head of his cock. he kisses you deep, tasting himself on your tongue, then slips his hand between your legs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
two fingers push into you easy. you’re so wet it makes a filthy little squelch the second he curls them.
“already this wet just from sucking me?” he mutters, almost to himself, voice soft with wonder. “pretty little thing… your panties are ruined… always so ready for me…”
he works his fingers deep, curling against that soft spongy spot that makes your hips jerk and your breath hitch. his thumb presses slow circles on your clit, rubbing the wetness around until everything feels slick and oversensitive.
the wet sounds get louder every time he thrusts his fingers in. your skirt is pushed up around your waist and he keeps looking down at where his fingers disappear into you, watching the way your pussy clings to them, the way clear slick stretches between his knuckles every time he pulls out a little.
soft broken sounds spill out of your mouth. your walls flutter and squeeze around him. your thighs are trembling.
“gonna come for me,” he says, not a question. “come on my fingers and i’ll take you shopping right after. promise. give it to me, baby… soak my hand…”
you do. your whole body shakes. your walls clamp down hard around his fingers while soft little gasps and whimpers spill out of you.
wetness floods his hand, dripping down his wrist, making everything even messier. he keeps working you through it, slower, deeper, until you’re trembling and oversensitive and trying to close your thighs. he doesn’t let you. he just holds you open with his free hand and watches every twitch, every little pulse, every fresh gush of slick like it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.
when you finally go limp against his chest he kisses the top of your head, pulls his fingers out slow (they’re shiny and dripping), and wipes them clean on a tissue. then he uses the same tissue to gently clean between your legs, careful, almost gentle, like you’re something fragile. the tissue comes away soaked.
he tucks himself away. starts the car.
“c’mon. let’s go get your bag.”
you sit in the passenger seat with your thighs still sticky and pressed tightly together, heart fluttering, the taste of him still on your tongue, your panties clinging wetly to you with every small movement.
the little charms on the bag are already jingling in your head. and james is already looking at you like he’s thinking about the next favor.
at the red light he glances over and smiles that tiny secret smile.
“next time you want something… just ask. you know the deal.”
and you nod.
of course you do.
you always do.
🫐 plan on making this a james smut account….but im open to suggestions!!!
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