Warnings: 18+ | You are a brat | Smoke is a Dom | Smoke is kind of toxic | Modern AU | Overstimulation | Masterbation |Coochie drilled into oblivion | Creampie | Possession | Jealousy | Ownership | He’s horny | You are horny | 98% smut 2% plot | Let me enjoy my kink for mean men… I’ll go to therapy for it later.
“And when we get back to this house,” he shouted, voice sharp enough to cut through bone, “don’t ask me to do a damn thing.”
Your hand flew up in a sharp dismissive wave as you twisted away from him in the passenger seat, the car jerking slightly as Smoke’s grip tightened around the wheel. “That’s fine! I don’t need you for a fucking thing ANYWAYS!”
The words sliced through the thick tension that had been hanging over the two of you like a thundercloud for the past two damn days. A silent war with no winners and a whole lot of heat. It all started because the barista down at Morning Bloom Coffee smiled a little too long when handing you your oat milk vanilla latte. The barista gave you a simple smile trying to be polite. Maybe he did it a second too long. Maybe not. But either way, Smoke saw red like he always did when it came to you and anyone who wasn’t him.
Without hesitation, he’d socked the man in the mouth so damn fast your drink hit the floor before you could blink. And now two full days later you both were still in a petty, fiery, jealous bender.
Day one of your argument you stayed strong and moved through the house like a queen in a castle that had been overrun by a jealous beast.
Your skincare routine? Luxurious.
Your work calls? On point.
Your outfit? A soft two-piece lounge set that hugged every curve like it missed you.
When dinner came, you threw yourself into it like you were being judged on Top Chef. You marinated lamb chops for hours. Cooked up homemade honey butter biscuits with a dash of cayenne in the butter… just the way… he… liked it. But you made it very clear: that plate was yours and yours alone.
As you cooked, Smoke lingered around the kitchen and his massive frame leaned against the fridge while watching you plate your meal like a hawk. His nostrils flared as his eyes burned holes into your skin. He couldn’t believe his woman wasn’t offering him a plate of food, but he also wasn’t a man who would beg.
While completely ignoring his existence, you sat at the dining table with your legs crossed, lips glistening with lamb jus and smirking between each bite like you were daring him to say something. He didn’t. But oh, the look he gave you… Girl run
When Saturday rolled in the silence started to feel dangerous. This was the one day out of the week when Smoke would usually hit the gym with Stack, run errands he couldn’t get to during the week and any other ‘man shit’ that you didn’t care to know about. But not today. Today, that man made it a point to stay his ass at home. All. Damn. Day. And worse? He did it wearing only grey sweatpants and no shirt.
Every inch of Smoke was carved out of marble by God. Smooth brown skin stretched over thick muscle and broad shoulders. His gold chains swung low, catching the light every time he reached for something. And those damn sweatpants? They hung low. Way too damn low while leaving nothing to the imagination.
You were sitting on the couch, pretending to scroll through your phone, but your eyes kept sliding up catching every stretch, every shift, and every flex Smoke would make.
When he purposefully reached his arm up to stretch, that’s when he caught you. “Fuck you staring at?” His voice was deep and sharp. His lips curled into a smirk even as his eyes narrowed, knowing exactly what you were doing.
Your mouth went dry but you sucked your teeth and rolled your eyes before firing back just as sharp. “Ain’t nobody looking at you, nigga.” You turned your head fast, placed a nearby throw blanket onto your lap, and squeezed your thighs shut like you weren’t damn near vibrating with need.
Smoke let out a scoff and dropped onto the armchair across from you, legs spread wide, one hand rubbing the scruff along his jaw, the other dragging down his thigh like he didn’t know what that did to you. But he knew. Of course he knew. Because he’s a SLUT. Smoke was a man born with sin in his bloodstream and you were his favorite outlet.
“You real bold when your pussy hungry,” he goaded without looking at you, just low enough to make your stomach flip. “Real fuckin’ bold.”
You didn’t respond. Your throat tightened and your fingers curled into the blanket as heat spread between your thighs like wildfire. You hated how your body betrayed you. How your nipples perked beneath your tank top just from hearing his voice like that. How your lower belly tightened at the memory of his mouth, his hands, his— Stop. You weren’t going to fold. Not this time. No. This time you had a point to prove… So you stayed quiet.
Smoke leaned forward then, his forearms braced on his knees, honey brown eyes finally locking with yours. He was so beautiful it made your chest hurt. That hard jaw. That slow burn in his stare. The way his gold tooth caught the light when he smirked.
“You gon’ act like you don’t hear me? I said…” he repeated, his voice dropping lower, rougher, “… you real bold when your pussy hungry.”
You tossed the blanket off your lap like a challenge and stood up, storming past him toward the kitchen. But before you could make it, his hand snatched your wrist. “Don’t touch me,” you snapped.
“I ain’t touchin’ you,” he said coolly, pulling you gently, slow and patient, until you were standing right between his legs. “I’m remindin’ you. That mouth? That attitude? That little fake-ass silent treatment you think you givin’? That shit don’t work on me, pretty girl.”
He looked up at you like you were the last good thing in a ruined world. And then his eyes dropped trailing slowly down your body, soaking in every soft curve, every part of you he knew like scripture. “Go on. Keep walkin’ away,” he muttered, voice like hardened steel. “But I know damn well you miss how it feel when I grab the back of that neck and tell you to hush while I—”
“Don’t.” You said it too fast. Too breathless.
He grinned. That arrogant grin that made your knees weak and your pride falter. “You really mad?” he asked quietly, now wrapping a hand around your thigh and easing you a fraction closer. “Or you just don’t wanna admit that I had a reason to knock that pretty boy barista out his damn shoes?”
You sarcastically laughed at Smoke’s audacity. “That man smiled. That’s it. You almost went to jail over a smile.”
“Don’t care.” He leaned forward, nose brushing against your lower belly, breath warm through the cotton of your tank. “Anyone smile at you like that again, I’ll put him in the dirt.”
You stared down at him, your fingers twitching by your sides. “You’re a damn lunatic.”
“Yup.” His eyes lifted, black and unrepentant. “Your lunatic.”
You wanted to slap him. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to scream and bite and ride and cry and maybe all at once. But instead, you turned your head, stared at the wall, and whispered, “Don’t talk to me.”
Smoke scoffed and his grip tightened before he kissed the inside of your thigh, right on that special spot that always makes you forget how to think straight. The kiss was gentle… dangerous… knowing “Aight, baby,” his voice muffled against your skin. “I won’t say a word.” But the fire in those orbs told a different story.
When you finally pulled away, storming back into the kitchen to cool down, you could feel his stare trailing behind you like a shadow with claws. You stood next to the kitchen island hoping for a moment of peace but instead your heart rattled like a stray bullet in your chest. The room felt too hot, too still… way too still, like the moment right before a thunderstorm when all the air gets sucked out of the sky and the ground doesn’t know whether to shake or stay still.
You ran your hands through your hair and let out a frustrated sigh. After 24 hours of being strong, you couldn’t let yourself fold from a little thigh kiss. You weren’t even hungry, but your hands moved on autopilot, opening the fridge, grabbing things, pretending like your body wasn’t still humming from the feel of his mouth on your thigh.
Smoke wasn’t slick and you weren’t safe. Not from him and not from the heat building up under your skin like it was trying to boil you alive. Behind you, the sound of the armchair creaking and his footsteps thumping across the hardwood made you hold your breath. You didn’t bother turning, you already knew the look on his face was smug and cocky like he was just biding time until your pride finally tapped out.
“You heavy-footed on purpose?” you muttered without looking at him. “Or you tryna make sure I know you comin’ so I don’t swing a skillet at your head?”
Smoke didn’t say a word but you heard the slow grind of his teeth and a slight click when his tongue hit the back of them. Then, the fridge door beside you opened. His arm brushed yours with intent and his skin was as hot as a stovetop. He reached in and grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap off, and took a long, long drink like he had been parched since war-time.
You still didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him. Instead you stopped fiddling with the random assortment of ingredients and crossed your arms under your chest so tightly your hands started going numb. But none of that mattered. Smoke was standing so close now with his presence wrapping around you like a weighted blanket made of lustful desire, silently daring you to keep dismissing him.
“You really don’t want me talkin’ to you?” he asked finally with his tone full of challenge. “Even though your thighs damn near gave up and invited me in just now?”
You turned your head and squinted your eyes at him. “You punched an innocent man for smiling at me!”
“And I said a barista don’t need to be starin’ at what’s mine like he got a fuckin’ chance!”
“You don’t own me, Elijah,” you mumbled.
That was the first time you’d said his real name in days. And you had the nerve to use it while telling him that he doesn’t own you.
Smoke’s jaw ticked. His nostrils flared. And then he laughed like he couldn’t believe he was having this conversation with you right now. “I don’t own you?” he repeated, stepping in now, cornering you against the counter. “You right… You right, you grown, huh? Real grown. Is that why you been sittin’ in this house clenching your lil thighs every time I so much as stretch?”
“Back up,” you whispered. It didn’t sound as strong as you wanted it to. Not when your back hit the cold of the cabinet and your front was all warm-blooded temptation and hard muscle.
Smoke leaned in like a snake slithering across grass before striking its prey. His lips brushed your ear, and his voice dropped to a place that made your belly twist. “Tell me to back up one more time, baby,” he taunted, “and mean it.”
You swallowed thickly, chest rising fast beneath your thin top.
His hand settled on the counter beside your hip, the other drifting ever so gently down the side of your arm, brushing like a warning. “Say it,” he taunted again. “Or let me remind you why you don’t ever sleep right unless I’m wrapped around you.”
Now it was your turn to clench your jaw but your breath betrayed you. Your thighs pressed together again, heat rushing back like a tidal wave. “Why you always gotta be like this?” you breathed, voice barely holding on.
He chuckled darkly. “Because I know what’s mine.” His hand slid beneath your shirt, fingers brushing the dip of your waist. “And I know when she lyin’… putting on a front.” He kissed your neck just once to test the waters. It was soft but full of possession.
And when you didn’t stop him, when you didn’t shove him away, he nipped your collarbone and muttered, “You gon’ keep fightin’ me or you gon’ let Daddy fix this?”
“I’m still mad at you,” you said, even as your fingers gripped his sweatpants.
“Stay mad then,” he growled, lifting you up onto the counter like you weighed nothing. “But don’t pretend you don’t need me.”
It took all your might to not whimper when his hand slid between your thighs, the heat of his palm making your eyes roll back. “I told… you not… to talk to me,” you gasped.
Smoke smirked against your throat. “Then put that pretty lil pussy in my face and shut me up.”
Your eyes squinted into a glare and heat rushed up your neck as your lips parted in disbelief. Your body wanted him. Badly. But your mind… that damn stubborn, bratty, prideful-ass mind was not about to let him win this round so easily.
And so… you did what any unhinged woman dating Elijah Moore would do and shoved a hand into his perfect face… and mushed him. What color roses do you want at your funeral? You pushed his cocky expression away like you were slapping a mosquito. The suddenness made him take a step back, just long enough for you to hop down from the counter in one quick motion and scurry away like a rabbit setting itself free from a snare.
“I said don’t talk to me, nigga!” you yelled, snatching your composure back like a silk robe off the floor.
You stormed out the kitchen, and tossed a middle finger over your shoulder. “And put some damn clothes on! Walkin’ ‘round this house like I could buy you for the night with two dollars and a half-stick of gum!”
Smoke stood still like a statue and for a second he didn't know if he was dreaming or if his woman was truly out of her damn mind. Then that low, dangerous laugh rolled from his chest like thunder over wet concrete. It was a sound that did nothing but pour gasoline on the flames already licking between your thighs. He loved when you got like this, wild-eyed, stubborn-lipped, and sass pouring from your throat like it was made of honey and broken glass.
He knew you’d fold. And when you did… he’d be the one to catch you.
The rest of the day you avoided Smoke like the floor was lava and he was the devil waiting at the bottom. You locked yourself in your shared bedroom and buried yourself in the sheets like they could protect you from the walking sin on the other side of the door. You distracted yourself for hours. Scrolled through your phone. Scrolled again. Played lo-fi beats. Switched to gospel. Thought about cooking. Decided not to because that would involve you leaving your sanctuary. Thought about apologizing. Decided not to because it would be a cold day in hell before you apologize to him. Thought about touching yourself… Absolutely did not… yet.
Eventually, your body gave in to exhaustion. The softness of the pillows, the hum of the AC in the background and the scent of Smoke lingering on the sheets rocked you into a tense, twitchy sleep. And then your mind betrayed you.
Of course your unconscious mind decided to betray you as you went off into dreamland. Dream-Smoke had his mouth everywhere on your body. On your neck. Down your chest. Between your thighs. This version of Smoke was utterly ruthless. He said your name like it was a threat and a prayer. His hands gripped your legs like he was holding onto the only thing that made sense in this godforsaken world.
“Open up, baby. Yeah, just like that…”
Your body arched in your sleep, your mouth parted, a soft moan fluttering against the dark. And right when you were about to reach that shimmering edge, Dream-Smoke pulled back and taunted in your ear, “Shouldn’t’ve told me not to talk, huh?”
You gasped yourself awake and the bedroom was cloaked in darkness, only a soft sliver of moonlight slipped between the curtains. Your chest heaved and your pajama shorts were damn near soaked through. The cotton stuck to your core like it had a vendetta. A frown pulled at your lips and a tear slid down your cheek before you could stop it.
You turned your head to look at the blinking alarm clock through wet eyes and frowned again. It was currently 2:03 AM and you couldn’t believe you somehow slept the entire the day away.
Peaking over your shoulder you let out a disgruntled sigh. Smoke was laid out like he didn’t have a care in the world. One arm slung behind his head, chest rising and falling with calm, heavy breaths. That same damn pair of grey sweatpants still clung to his hips. He looked peaceful. Angelic even. You wanted to punch him and make him suffer for what Dream-Smoke started but didn’t finish. But since you already got away with mushing him in the face you didn’t want to test your luck and simply whined.
A shaky, bratty, needy whimper left your throat as you wiped your still falling tears and leaned over, gently nudging Smoke's shoulder. He grunted and cracked one eye open. “What, baby?” His voice was sleep-worn and you tried not to focus on what hearing it was doing to your already wounded up body.
You pouted in the dark, nose wrinkled, lips trembling. “This is ALL your fault.”
Raising your voice early in the morning got Smoke’s full attention and he blinked slowly, as the remnants of sleep cleared from his face like a curtain lifting. His eyes found you in the moonlit darkness. You looked so adorable to him, pouty-lipped, flushed cheeks, and thighs pressed tightly together under the covers.
“The fuck you yellin’ at me for and cryin’ this early in the morning?” he asked, now fully awake, his tone clipped with concern and confusion.
You sniffled. “I… I need… I want… I want… to touch myself,” you admitted, lip quivering dramatically. “And since I’m still mad at you… I need you to leave the bed.”
Smoke blinked once at you and then again into the darkness like he was on an episode of The Office. He didn’t expect to be so entertained by your antics today and he started to chuckle to himself. This wasn’t a typical ‘I love how bratty my girl is acting’ type of laugh. No, this was a dark, ‘this girl done lost her fuckin’ mind’ laugh.
“You woke me up,” he said slowly, to make sure he got all the details correct, “to tell me that you’re horny… and I need to leave our bed… so you can touch what belongs to me?”
Your throat tightened. When Smoke repeated everything out loud it did sound kind of insane but that was besides the point. “You heard me,” you said, lifting your chin and pointing it to the door. “Now go.”
Smoke let out a final chuckle and didn’t move. He leaned back on one elbow, eyes gleaming in the dark like he could see the mess you’d become under those covers. “You really out here throwin’ tantrums at two in the morning ‘cause you can’t handle how badly you want me to fuck that attitude out of you?” he teased.
“I am handling it,” you bit back. “I’m asking you to leave. Like a grown woman.”
His tongue slid along the inside of his cheek. Then he reached down, adjusted himself in those sweats just slightly, and let out a hum that made your thighs twitch. “You sure?” he asked gently, like he was talking to a skittish wild animal about to bolt. “You sure you want me to leave, baby?”
“Yes,” you whispered, even as your legs squirmed beneath the blanket. “I don’t need you. I can do it myself.”
“Mhm… is that right...”
Smoke sat up slowly before swinging his legs off the side of the bed. He stood to his full height and then without saying another word he discarded his sweatpants, letting the moonlight shine on his intimidating half-hard manhood. You sat in complete shock, unsure what to say or what to do. Your mouth stayed agape and you could’ve sworn you didn’t breathe for 2 minutes, Your whole body burned with need and you hated this feeling.
And he spoke again in a cruel velvet-slick tone, “Go on then.” He climbed back in bed and laid on his back with his hands behind his head like he didn’t just take his pants off. “Show me how you don’t need me.”
The silence that followed was so thick it felt like smoke itself. It crackled with the weight of what you wanted to do and what your pride wouldn’t allow. Your fingers trembled under the blanket. You hated him, yet you wanted him. And you hated how badly you wanted him. All of this only made the leaking faucet between your thighs turn into a full blown fire hose.
He bit his bottom lip before antagonizing you. “Might help if you stop cryin’, baby. You can’t see your lil fingers down there with all them tears foggin’ up your eyesight.”
Your fists balled with annoyance but your thighs began to slightly part. Smoke didn’t move or touch you. He didn’t even acknowledge the way he could smell your sweet aroma in the room. He just gave you a look that said, ‘You can play this game all night, pretty girl… I’ll be here when you break.’
And you were so, so close to shattering. You stared at him like he’d summoned a demon into the room and dared you to dance with it.
Smoke stretched his long body across the bed like he was on display. Like he wasn’t a man who just dropped his pants in the middle of a silent standoff and dared you to stay proud. With his arms folded beneath his head, the swell of his chest rose and fell as if he weren’t aware of the war going on inside your body. The tension. The hunger. The absolute need that clawed at your insides like a caged animal. His dick sat heavy between his thighs, thick and idle, like it had time to wait. Like it knew it would be fed eventually.
“You got five seconds before I close my eyes and go back to sleep,” he grumbled without looking at you. “So go ahead. Get to rubbin’. Let me hear how good you make yourself feel without my help.”
Your lip trembled. You weren’t crying anymore, not from frustration anyway. But your thighs were sticky, your panties were soaked through, and every nerve ending in your body was throbbing like you’d been edgewalking through purgatory. Still… you weren’t gonna give him the satisfaction of begging. So you huffed in a loud and obnoxious manner before wiping your cheeks like a toddler who just got scolded. You then yanked the covers off your body and laid flat on your back beside him, arms stiff at your sides.
Smoke turned his head slightly, one brow arched. “Thought you said you didn’t need me,” he said, tone sharp and mocking.
“I don’t,” you snapped. “I just need space.”
He smirked. “You sound stupid.”
You glared at the ceiling. “You look stupid.”
Another beat of silence. Then your hand slowly dragged beneath the waistband of your pajama shorts, and your breath hitched. You weren’t even doing anything yet, and your whole body tensed like you were about to commit a crime.
Smoke didn’t move but he watched from the corner of his eye. You could feel his eyes burning into the side of your face, heavy and loaded. Like if he blinked, he might miss the exact moment you broke. Your fingers brushed against your panties and found them soaked, the cotton clinging to your folds like it was trying to apologize for being in the way. You let out a shaky breath and your fingers twitched as you slid them beneath the fabric and gently grazed your clit.
The behemoth of a man next to you exhaled through his nose but he didn’t say a word as he continued to observe. You rubbed slow circles, small and hesitant, still stubborn as hell and still trying to prove a point you were seconds from losing as a soft and breathy moan slipped out.
Smoke turned his head toward you fully now, his gaze dark and unreadable. “You always make yourself sound so pretty,” he said, voice lower now, rough and molten. “But it don’t hit the same, do it?”
You didn’t answer him but your hips rolled in response to his question. Your hand moved faster. Your breath stuttered. Your back arched. Still—not a word. You didn’t plead or cry for help. To prove your point you used your own hand and held back the silent scream in your throat. Then you finally felt it… that build. It climbed your spine and tingled through your limbs, coiling low and tight in your belly like lightning trapped behind your navel. But just as your toes curled and your moans grew louder… Smoke’s hand slammed down on your wrist and you yelped.
He was above you now, face inches from yours, his chest heaving, lips parted. “That’s enough,” he growled. “This little show? Over.”
“Wha—? I didn’t even—” you started, but he cut you.
“You really gon’ make yourself cum when I’m layin’ right here?” he snapped, pressing your wrist into the mattress with one hand while the other dragged your shorts down in one brutal yank. “Tryna act like you in control of somethin’ when this pussy don’t even belong to you no more?”
You whimpered as his mouth crashed into yours, all heat and dominance, devouring your lips like he was punishing you for breathing without permission. His tongue pushed into your mouth while his hips settled between your thighs, and you could feel all of him, heavy and hot, grinding against your bare heat.
“You should’ve just asked,” he murmured against your mouth, voice trembling with restraint.
You blinked up at him, dazed and breathless. “Asked… what?”
“If I was done bein’ mad,” he answered, dragging his tip along your soaked entrance, teasing but never pushing in. “Cause I wasn’t. Not yet.” And with that he slid in excruciatingly slow. So slow you nearly blacked out.
“Now,” he growled, gripping your throat just enough to make your heart flutter, “you don’t talk to me.”
Your breath caught in your throat as he filled you inch by inch, until all nine inches of his rock hard flesh stretched you out causing your back arch off the bed. Once he was completely sheathed inside of your warm gummy walls Smoke didn’t move. Not yet. He held himself still with his hand still resting on your throat—not choking, just a firm reminder of who was in control. Of whose name was stitched into the folds of your body like ownership. Like scripture.
Your lashes fluttered as a soft, broken whimper escaped your lips.
“Yeah,” he hummed, watching your face intently. “That’s what I thought.”
The weight of him, the heat, the way his body caged yours like a storm rolling over weak land, every bit of it made your spine tremble. He didn’t have to say it, didn’t need to ask… he already knew. This wasn’t about sex anymore. This was about submission. About surrender. About you thinking you could ignore him, silence him, deny him, and still sleep soundly next to him every night.
His hips rolled meticulously and grinded so deep you swore you saw stars behind your eyes. His pace was punishing in its patience. Purposeful and steady. Like he wanted you to feel the agony he felt every second you ignored him. Every breath you wasted pretending you didn’t need him.
“You really thought you was gon’ touch yourself in this bed?” he grunted, lips ghosting over your jaw as he rocked into you again. “While I laid next to you? Like I ain’t the one that got this pussy cryin’ in the first place?”
You couldn’t even respond. Your mouth opened but no sound came out, just a sharp inhale, a choked moan, and the clenching of your legs around his hips.
He groaned low like he felt your apology in the way your walls pulled him in tighter.
“This one… if for every time you rolled your eyes at me,” THRUST.
“This one… is for every time you walked away from me,” THRUST.
“Fuck… and THIS one is for every time you told me not to talk to you,” SLAM.
You whimpered beneath him, nails digging into his arms as your pride cracked wide open and your body begged to be ruined. You couldn’t handle this torturous unhurried fuck session. You needed your walls plowed to smithereens and you needed it to happen right now. “I hate you,” you gasped.
“Shut up. You love me,” he corrected with a smirk, snapping his hips against yours harder now. “You love me when I got you stuffed full and dumb off my name.”
Your moans turned shameless… so soft, high, and desperate. Each slow thrust had you melting further, your bratty resolve unraveling like a ribbon. And Smoke? He watched the transformation like it was art. “There she go…” he whispered. “There’s my girl. Ain’t no talkin’ now, huh? Just that lil mouth open like you got somethin’ to say… but still don’t know how to say sorry.”
You finally met his gaze, eyes wide and glassy with need. “I’m—” you tried.
He pressed his fingers against your lips. “Nope.” Another thrust. Brutal. Deep. You cried out. “Don’t say shit else to me... Just take it.”
He dipped his head, kissed the corner of your mouth with an intimacy that contrasted the way he was owning you from the inside out. You wrapped your legs tighter around him, hips rising to meet him while chasing the edge of pleasure like you’d die if you didn’t reach it soon.
“I got you,” he whispered, his breath warm and ragged against your ear. “Go on, baby. Let go. Let me take it.”
Your orgasm crept up your spine like a threat, your whole body tightening under him. “Smoke—” you breathed, one hand tangling in the bedsheets beneath you, the other clutching his shoulder like a lifeline.
“I know, I know. Shhh, baby,” he cooed. “Come on. I got you.” And when you finally shattered—mouth open, legs shaking, eyes rolling—he never let up. He kept fucking you through it, hips grinding, mouth pressing kisses to your throat and chest, whispering your name like prayer and punishment all at once.
You went limp beneath him and he pulled back just enough to look you in the face, brushing a lone tear from your cheek. “You still mad?”
You blinked up at him, dazed and ruined. He smirked again. That same crooked, devilish thing that started it all. “Yeah… you look like you still got a fuckin’ attitude.”
Your chest rose and fell in shallow waves with your skin covered in sweat as you lay there boneless and ruined beneath him.
Smoke hovered above you like a storm cloud that refused to pass. His body didn’t press down; he just hovered, solid and still, like a hunter watching his prey breathe after the first strike. His arms caged you on either side, head tilted slightly as his gold chain swung gently from his neck and tapped your collarbone. Your legs still trembled from the aftershock and your thighs involuntarily locked around his waist, trying to pull him closer.
But Smoke didn’t move, he was so deep inside of you that you could barely think. And instead of chasing his own pleasure like any other man might, he just stared and studied you like you were the most precious thing he’s ever laid eyes on. You felt the subtle twitch of him inside you, ready, but not rushing. Not desperate. Because Smoke wasn’t a man ruled by impulse. He was ruled by control. And he wielded it like a blade.
“You done squeezing my dick?” he asked quietly, voice low and relaxed, like he had nowhere else to be but right here. “Or you need a minute to remember where you at?”
You blinked slowly, lips still tingling from where he kissed you, still too blissed out to string a proper sentence together. But he waited—patient, immovable—as your brows knit together, that ache you just got rid of was already building again and you finally realized… he wasn’t finished. He still hadn’t moved. And now, you were too aware of it. Too aware of the way he filled you like he’d been carved just for you. Too aware of the steady rise and fall of his chest. Of how warm and thick and ready he still felt inside you.
“Smoke,” you whined, voice hoarse and fragile.
He cocked a brow, his gold tooth glinting in the dark. “Yeah, baby?”
Your thighs flexed around him again, a needy little roll of your hips that made you whimper even as you tried to hold your pride in place. His hand slid slowly up the side of your throat, fingers curling around the hinge of your jaw to tilt your face up toward his.
“You feel that?” he murmured.
You nodded weakly, lips parting.
“I been sittin’ still. Holdin’ back,” he whispered, each word slipping into your mouth like honey and heat. “You been cryin’, whinin’, beggin’ me to leave. But I ain’t goin’ nowhere, baby.”
He leaned down, forehead nearly touching yours. “I stay when you bratty. Stay when you act like you don’t want me. Stay when you try to punish me with silence.”
A soft, broken sound spilled from your lips.
“I stay… ‘cause you mine.” Then finally… he moved again. Just a slow roll of his hips. Barely there. Just enough to make you feel the stretch again. Just enough to remind your body that your first orgasm was nothing but the beginning. Your nails found his back again, dragging lightly over the skin of his shoulders as your breath caught.
“You thought I was gon’ break first,” he said, dragging himself out slowly before sinking back into you. “Didn’t you?”
You moaned, head tipping back, throat arching beneath his palm.
“You thought that lil attitude was enough to make me lose my cool.” Another thrust. Deep and slow. The kind that made your vision blur.
“But you forgot who you dealin’ with,” he grunted as his lips brushed your ear. “I can fuck this perfect pussy slow like this for hours and still not cum.”
You whimpered again, your hips twitching, your body betraying you as your heat reignited. He kissed the curve of your cheek, your jaw, your ear.
“You don’t get quick fucks when you act like you don’t need me.” His hand slid between your bodies, fingers slipping down until they found that tender, swollen bundle of nerves. “You get discipline.”And as his fingers began to move in calculated devastating circles, his hips continued their cruel rhythm and your body began to shake again.
You could barely breathe. Every inch of your body was coated in sweat, your skin fever-hot, while your senses flooded with overstimulation. Smoke hadn’t let up and he hadn’t sped up either. That was the worst part… or maybe the best. He moved with purpose and mastery. Every grind of his hips was deep, as he poured himself into you like he was trying to combine your souls into one. And his fingers… God. The pads of them circled your clit with such devastating precision, you swore you were unraveling on a molecular level. Like you were coming apart from the inside out.
You gripped at his shoulders, his back, his biceps, wherever you could reach… but you couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t change the pace. Couldn’t make him move faster no matter how much your legs shook or your voice cracked. “P-please,” you breathed, not even sure what you were asking for. Release? Mercy? More?
Smoke leaned down, brushing his lips against your cheek with a smug grin carved into his face. “Oh… You beggin’ now?” he asked. “Wasn’t too long ago you was flippin’ me off and actin’ like I was walkin’ around here like a cheap thrill.”
His voice vibrated against your neck, dragging goosebumps down your spine. “You wanna cum again, pretty girl?” he murmured, fingers pressing down just slightly harder, swirling against your clit like he was drawing a map to your breakdown. “Is that what all them little tears are for?”
You whined, nodding frantically, your thighs beginning to quake again. Smoke didn’t speed up. He didn’t need to. Your body was desperate for him and would greedily take whatever was given. He knew you so well he could fuck you out of a meltdown without ever changing rhythm.
“You don’t deserve to cum yet,” he said lowly, pulling his mouth back to hover just above yours. “But I’m gon’ let you anyway. Just so you remember who got you moaning so loud our neighbors might file a noise complaint tomorrow.”
He moved in again with one solid and controlled stroke that made your eyes roll and your nails dig so deep into his back you swore you could feel muscle give. Your body started to quiver. “No—no, wait—” you whimpered, because you felt it building too fast, the peak rising like a wave with nowhere to go.
“Shhh,” he whispered, voice laced with hunger now, though his pace never changed. “That’s it. Go on. Cum on my dick.”
He kissed you and swallowed your cries as your walls constricted around him and you came again, harder than before. Your body jerked beneath him as your second orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave smashing through a dam. You sobbed into his mouth, a mix of bliss and frustration and pure, helpless surrender. Your thighs shook uncontrollably and your nails dug into his flesh like he was the only thing keeping you from drifting away.
Smoke pulled back just enough to look at your face that was flushed and tear-streaked, while your mouth hung open in silent shock as you rode the aftershocks. “I don’t think that attitude is gone yet” he rasped, still deep inside you, still hard as stone. “You need another reminder. Don’t you, baby?”
You nodded weakly unable to form words.
Smoke slid his hand up your ribcage, slow and reverent, until he cupped the side of your face. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, tugging it gently. “I ain’t even started your real punishment yet.”
Your heart stuttered.
“Two days you gave me attitude,” he murmured, kissing your chin. “Two days you walked around this house actin’ like you forgot what my name felt like between your thighs… I'm nowhere near done with you yet.”
You gasped, your fingers twitched around his arms, already worn down and so full of him. You didn’t know if it was seconds or minutes or lifetimes that passed with him moving inside you like that—slow, deliberate, dominant. Your body felt swollen with sensation, soaked in the aftermath of two back-to-back orgasms that had left your breath scattered like glass shards across the mattress.
Your skin was hot to the touch, your muscles limp, your mind foggy with a heady mix of defiance and surrender. And through it all, Smoke hadn’t broken his rhythm. His stamina was inhuman, like he fed off control, fed off the way your body twitched and sobbed under his. The way you needed more and hated that it had to come from him.
But then… Something shifted. His eyes… those dark, obsidian things dragged across your face. He licked his lips, slow and thoughtful. Then he pulled back again. All the way out. You cried at the loss of fullness and rose your hips involuntarily trying to chase him. Smoke grinned but it wasn’t a playful or kind grin. Without a word, he grabbed your hips, flipped you over onto your stomach, and yanked your ass up until you were on your knees, chest pressed to the mattress. He spread your legs with his own and ran a hand down your back.
“You said I looked like I could be bought for two dollars and some gum,” he growled, dragging himself against your folds, wet and swollen and already twitching from anticipation.
You swallowed, face buried in the sheets. You remembered and silently cursed to yourself.
He leaned down, mouth grazing your ear as he lined himself up behind you. “Good thing for you, I don’t charge. But I do collect.”
And then he slammed into you. No warning. No patience. The thrust knocked the wind out of your lungs. “E-ELIJAHHHH! F-FUCKKK!” you cried, hands gripping the sheets like a lifeline.
Smoke’s pace was nothing like before. All that held-back heat, all that restraint? Gone. His hips snapped against you with vicious precision, his grip digging into your hips as your ass slapped against him, over and over, filling the room with the sound of skin meeting skin and your broken cries.
“This what you wanted?” he grunted, every word punched out between thrusts. “All that mouth, all that attitude… This what you needed to calm down?”
You couldn’t even answer. Couldn’t form a thought. Your voice was raw with whimpers and your tears stained the pillow as you arched back into him on instinct, chasing every brutal, perfect stroke.
He reached around and grabbed a fistful of your hair, pulling your head back just enough to whisper against your jaw. “You talk big,” he hissed, thrusting deep, “but this pussy always tell the truth.”
You sobbed out a yes. Or maybe his name. Or maybe just a noise—because that’s all you were now. A body molded to his pace. A vessel of heat and ache and want. And then… He slowed again. But this time, his strokes were hard and measured. That had your eyes rolling and your teeth sinking into the pillow to stop yourself from screaming his name like a confession.
“You feel how deep I am?” he groaned, voice thick and low behind you. “You gon’ run your mouth next time a man so much as smiles at you?”
You shook your head quickly, biting down on your bottom lip as you wavered between reality and subspace.
“Use your words,” he demanded before landing hard smacks on your ass that turned your ebony skin bright red.
“No—no, Smo- Daddy! I won’t, I swear—” you gasped, voice choked and high.
“Damn right you won’t.”
He dragged you up by your waist, pulling your back against his chest, one arm wrapping across your ribs, the other snaking down to rub your clit in slow, punishing circles again.
“Let another nigga smile at you again in public and I’ma bend you over right then and there,” he whispered, biting your shoulder. “Make sure everybody knows who you belong to.”
You cried out again, the pleasure building faster than your body could handle. It was too much but you loved every second of it. And Smoke? He was relentless. Focused. Determined to etch his name into your skin, your bones, your fucking soul.
“You gon’ cum one more time for me,” he ordered, fingers working faster now. “And then I’ll think about lettin’ myself nut.”
You couldn’t even reply because your body was already shaking. Your walls were already spasming around his brutal rod. You felt your mind spiral into that place that only he could take you. The place where pride didn’t exist and control was something you gave him freely.
“Go on, baby,” he ordered. “Make my dick shiny. Cum for me.”
And you did. Harder than you’ve ever climaxed before. This orgasm felt spiritual like your soul kissed the feet of God before asking for forgiveness and traveling back into your human vessel. You screamed his name into the pillow like a secret finally confessed, your body convulsed, your legs collapsed beneath you as he held you upright, grunting through clenched teeth.
Smoke held you there, both of you trembling in the twinkling moonlight shining through the bedroom. Your back was slick against his chest, your breath short and stuttering. His arm was still banded tight across your stomach, the other gripping your thigh with bruising intensity, like he didn’t trust his body not to break you if he let it go free. You felt every inch of him—still deep, still pulsing, still holding on with that impossible restraint that made you ache in places words couldn’t touch.
“Fuck… Fuck… Don’t move,” he moaned, his voice cracking down the middle—low, rasped, and dangerous. “Don’t.”
You didn’t dare disobey your man. You were already trembling too hard, barely tethered to your body. Your face was damp with tears, your thighs quaking, your walls still fluttering in waves around him.
“Shit, baby…” he growled, his voice buried somewhere between awe and agony. “You tryin’ to milk me dry, huh?”
You whimpered. Not out of pain. But because you felt it—felt that slow-building quake start to rattle through him. The way his grip tightened. The way his hips stilled just for a beat too long. You felt the flex in his abdomen, the tension coiling at the base of his spine like a spring being wound to the brink of snapping.
Your last orgasm clenched down onto his dick perfectly and now he was close trying to fight against it. You turned your face slightly from the pillow, voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. “Why’re you holdin’ it in?”
Smoke gritted his teeth tightly. “‘Cause once I let go…” he hissed, “you ain’t gon’ be able to walk, let alone keep talkin’ shit like you ain’t mine.”
You shivered under him. “But I am yours,” you whispered, the confession slipping out with a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
That broke him. Smoke let out a low, raw groan as his grip shifted. He grabbed your hips with both hands, holding you still as his restraint finally began to splinter.
“Say it again.”
“Smoke—”
“Say. It. Again.”
Your voice caught in your throat, but you gave it to him, every word thick with truth and heat. “I’m yours,” you breathed. “I’ve always been yours.”
He let out something between a moan and a curse as he started to move again. Each thrust was rough with purpose, his rhythm tight and controlled even as his body fought against itself for release. “I should’ve made you say that two days ago,” he murmured into your neck. “Could’ve saved us both a whole lot of trouble.”
You could feel him on edge now. His hands were shaking. His thighs flexed with every grind forward. His jaw locked. “Fuck, baby… you feel too good,” he rasped. “Too fucking good.”
You whimpered, barely holding yourself up as he rutted into you like it was the last thing he’d ever do.
“Where you want it?” he choked out, voice frayed and thick with hunger. His hand fisted the meat of your ass, keeping your hips tilted perfectly, helplessly open for him.
“Tell me. Right here?” he ground into you deeper—deeper—and your whole body jolted like he’d struck a nerve that reached your soul.
“Want me to fill this pretty pussy up?” he growled, hips snapping forward again, rough, rhythmic, merciless. “You want me to cum so deep you leak for days, huh? So every time you open your legs, you remember who the fuck owns it?”
You tried to answer, but your voice cracked around the sound of your own moan.
Your body was done. Shaking, oversensitive, strung out from back-to-back orgasms—but still hungry for him. Still desperate to take all of him, to feel the final blow. The one he’d been holding back since the minute he put his hands on you.
Smoke’s thrusts became heavier and it became obvious he was losing the reins. His grip on your hips turned bruising, and a deep, guttural snarl ripped out of him like it came from the base of his spine. “Answer me, baby! Where. You. Want. It?”
“Inside,” you cried, head buried in the sheets, hips bucking against him. “Please, Smoke, fill me up.”
Smoke roared before grabbing you by the back of your neck and forcing your chest flush to the mattress. His other hand yanked your ass back into him, hard enough to make your eyes roll. His body collapsed over yours, hot and massive and trembling as he began to pound into you like a man possessed. No more teasing. No more patience. Just raw, primal need.
“You fuckin’ take it,” he growled in your ear. “You take every drop. That’s mine. You hear me? Mine. This pussy… this whole fuckin’ body… you think I’m lettin’ it walk around untouched, unclaimed? Nah. Nah, baby. I’m leavin’ my fuckin’ mark.”
His thrusts were devastating now. Every stroke came with the full weight of his body. His hips snapped forward like punishment, his chest slick against your back, his voice a broken, dirty prayer in your ear.
“I can’t—” you gasped, sobbing against the sheets.
“Yes, you… can,” he growled, his voice deep and guttural, hips pounding harder now. “You will. You gon’ take every drop I give you… then lay here… and thank me for it like a good girl. Understand?”
You felt the tremor roll through his body as his thighs tensed, his back flexed, and the ragged stutter of his breath grew as he chased his own breaking point. He was close. So close. “Say it,” he demanded, his voice sharp as a razor. “Say you’re mine while I paint these walls. Say it with my dick buried in this pussy.”
You cried out, clawing at the sheets, tears streaking your face. “I’m yours, Smoke! I’m yours, please—cum inside me!”
With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself so deep you screamed, and then he moaned your name like it was the last word he’d ever say.
You were on the verge of slipping into unconsciousness when you felt Smoke’s hot and heavy load spilling into you in thick waves as his body seized behind you, every muscle locked in place. His nails dug into your hips as he held you there, stuffed full, claimed and ruined. His head dropped into your neck, his moan drawn-out, ragged, the sound of a man breaking as he finally gave in.
He stayed like that. Still pulsing inside you and panting. His lips grazed your skin, open-mouthed, breath hot. Then, after a long, heavy silence—he exhaled and murmured low, almost reverent: “Mine.”
And this time, you didn’t argue. Because your body? It agreed.
.
.
.
.
.
Authors Note: This was just a one shot to get all the horn horn energy out before I finish my series🥴🙂↕️ I understand mean Smoke isn’t for everyone but… HE IS VERY GORGEOUS TO MEEEE!!!
k but like…the concept of having a full length mirror in your bedroom and smoke is sitting at the foot of the bed, you in his lap with your legs hiked open. both of his hands are occupied, one hand holding of your arms back and the other is on your super sensitive pussy. two hooked fingers rhythmically pressing in and out, the tips pressing against your g-spot with precision. his thumb swiping against your engorged clit, that pleasure button throbbing at the touch. you were being pushed past your limits, you’ve already came four times already and yet…you can’t bring yourself to beg for mercy. the wet and sticky sounds of your pussy in conjunction with your gasping whimpers were the only thing filling the room along with the occasional groans of praise from smoke.
“why ain’t you lookin’ at yo’self, hm?” he purrs in your ear. the baritone vibrates across your skin sending a shiver of pleasure to your core. “don’t ‘chu wanna look at your pretty face?”
you mewl in response. your eyes were shut, focused on the heavenly feeling of his talented hands and how they so very very close to making you cum for the fifth time this evening. how dare he ask such a question when he knows damn well why.
I can’t when your fingers are so determined to make me squirt again. you wanted to retort…but with your brain so fogged with pleasure all you manage to let out was one word.
“please.”
it was small, whiny. you don’t have to open your eyes yet to know your full plump lips were pouting.
“please, what?” smoke chuckles, quickening his ministrations. his fingers pressing deeper into your sweet spot causing your hips to buck and your arms to squirm in his firm grip.
“please.” you huffed, hips trying to move in lieu with his hand.
“my baby wanna cum? is that it?" he mocked, peppering kisses on the heated skin of your neck.
you nod mindlessly, moans progressively getting louder and his strokes more faster and deliberate. "mhm! 'm gonna-cum.."
"look in the mirror for me, baby." he instructs you softly. "I want 'chu to look at your pretty face and cum. you gon' be daddy's baby and do that for me?"
you clenched at his words, god you hated him. no-you loved him. so damn much. with the small amount of willpower you had left, you finally opened your eyes. pretty, brown, doll-like eyes that were at first hazy and unfocused from lust. once you focused on the mirror in front of you, the view was sinful.
a thin layer of sweat glistened on your honey brown skin, your breasts heaving with every moan and thrust of smoke's fingers. your curly coils were frizzed at the top of your head. lips were kiss bitten and swollen from previous sessions. and your pussy...fat, glistening with creamy arousal, your clit protruding like a shiny pearl from between your swollen lips, relentlessly being assaulted by his thumb. but the most sinful part of it all was him.
the coy smile that played at his lips watching you admire yourself. his eyes sparkled with lust. the way he positions you at his disposal to pull every bit of resistance out of you. it was overwhelming.
"that wasn't hard now was it, hm?" his voice returns to your ear. "whatchu' gon do for daddy, now?"
"gonna cum!" you squeaked, thighs quivering as you feel yourself returning to that peak of orgasm. "don't s-stop please..."
"let go, baby." he nips at your ear. "give it to me."
and you graciously oblige him. you body stills and your sensitive cunt gushes clear arousal, staining your thighs, his, and the bottom of the mirror. your breath comes in uneven gasps, pants, and whines. your back collapses on his chest as he gently praises you. he slowly pulls his fingers out and traces them against your lips, an invitation for you to open. he groans as you mindlessly suck on his fingers, cleaning your sweet tangy taste of arousal off them before you finally let go, full leaning back into his embrace. your arms free from his grasp to collapse at your sides.
"you better clean my damn mirror, elijah.." you mumble, eyes fluttering closed as your body relaxes, earning another chuckle out of him.
SYNOPSIS: What was supposed to be a chill night of Truth or Dare with the crew changes the moment Erik gets dared to take a Honeypack. The game continues, but something shifts between him and Y/N — quiet glances and unspoken tension pulling them toward a night neither of them planned.
WARNINGS: 18+ only, SMUT, Dirty Talk, Oral Sex, Use of Aphrodisiac, Light Angst, Alcohol Consumption, etc.
PAIRINGS: Black OC x Erik Killmonger
This was requested by one of my readers. I hope you all enjoy!
——————————————
Y/N pushed the side door open and stepped inside, the cool night air slipping in behind her for a second before the door clicked shut. She set the bottle of Don Julio on the counter with a quiet clink before letting the plastic bag drop next to it. A couple limes rolled out slow, the extra shot glasses clinking together once.
Trey was leaning against the fridge scrolling on his phone. He looked up and smiled the way he always did. “Hey you made it” he said putting the phone down. He came over and gave her a quick one-armed hug. “I was starting to think you bailed on us.”
“Traffic was acting stupid” she said letting out a small laugh. “But I’m here now so you can relax.”
He glanced at the bottle and raised his eyebrows. “Don Julio? Okay fancy. You didn’t have to bring the good stuff we got the house tequila.”
“Yeah but then y’all would be complaining about the hangover tomorrow” she said shrugging as she leaned against the counter. “This way I get to feel responsible for once.”
Trey chuckled. “Fair. You always think ahead.”
Jada came in from the living room. She saw Y/N and her face lit up slow. “Girl” she said crossing the kitchen in a couple steps. She pulled Y/N into a tight hug, rocking her side to side for a second before letting go. “I was literally about to text you. Missed your face.”
“Missed you too” Y/N said hugging back. “You good?”
“Always when you show up with liquor” Jada said stepping back but keeping a hand on Y/N’s arm for a second. She reached for one of the limes rolling it under her palm on the counter. “Trey keeps talking about tacos but he ain’t cut nothing yet. Typical.”
Aaliyah slipped in right behind her. She walked straight over, leaned her head on Y/N’s shoulder for a quick second, then straightened up with a small smile. “Hey boo glad you made it. We were about to start without you.”
Y/N snorted. “Y’all would’ve survived five minutes.”
“Barely” Aaliyah said reaching for the bottle. “This is nice though.”
Trey started slicing a lime the knife making thumps against the wood. “Speaking of nice… Jada brought something else earlier.”
Jada rolled her eyes but she was smiling a little. She reached into her hoodie pocket and pulled out two small gold packets holding them up. “Honey packs. My cousin dropped them off last week swearing they’re the truth. I figured why not bring them. Worst case they taste like candy and we clown each other.”
Aaliyah leaned in eyebrows raised. “Those honey things? You actually brought those here?”
“I brought two” Jada said shrugging. “We’re only four right now. If somebody gets brave later we can split one.”
Trey shook his head still slicing. “I’m good. Last time somebody brought some energy stuff, I ended up fucking my ex.”
Y/N leaned against the counter arms crossed watching them. The kitchen felt small, the low music from the living room drifting in.
Aaliyah looked at Y/N. “Come on let’s get you in there before we start pouring. We got the living room set up. Just waiting on you.”
Y/N grabbed the bottle and twisted the cap off pouring a small splash into each glass.
“Alright” she said handing them out. “Let’s take these first then y’all can tell me how serious this honey-pack plan really is.”
They clinked the glasses quietly threw them back. The alcohol burned smooth going down. Y/N set her glass on the counter and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Jada was already reaching for the bottle to pour another round when Y/N glanced at the two gold packets still sitting on the counter.
Y/N nodded toward them. “Don’t this shit make you horny though?”
Jada paused mid-pour then looked up with a slow grin. “That’s the good part girl.”
Aaliyah laughed low shaking her head as she leaned back against the counter. “See that’s why I’m staying far away from those. I don’t need any extra help in that department tonight.”
Trey snorted still focused on the last lime. “Y’all wild.”
Y/N picked up one of the packets turning it over in her fingers. “I’m just saying. If we do this we gotta be ready for whatever happens.”
Jada topped off the glasses again and slid one toward Y/N. “We’re four grown people in a house with no kids around. Whatever happens happens.
Aaliyah took her glass and raised it. “To bad decisions and good company.”
They clinked again and drank.
Jada set her glass down first. “Alright enough stalling. Let’s take this to the living room.”
Y/N grabbed her glass and the bottle following the others out of the kitchen.
Y/N sank deeper into the couch next to Jada. Blankets were tossed over the armrests and pillows were scattered on the floor like someone had kicked them there earlier. The Bluetooth speaker played R&B that vibrated just enough to settle in her chest.
Jada finished shuffling the cards with a quick flick and dealt one to each of them face down. “Lowest card starts. No weak shit tonight. We’re grown, and we’re tipsy. Let’s get into it.”
Aaliyah flipped hers first, a three of hearts, and groaned but smiled. “Me. Truth.”
Jada leaned forward. “When was the last time you came so hard you cried? Details, no skipping.”
Aaliyah bit her lip. “Three weeks ago, maybe. This dude I been seeing had me bent over the bathroom sink, fingers and tongue at the same time. Kept going even after I started shaking. I legit had tears running down my face when I finally came. Couldn’t even stand up straight after.”
Jada let out a loud “Oop,” and fanned herself with her hand. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
Trey shook his head, laughing softly. “Y’all wild already. My turn next, I can feel it.”
He flipped an ace of spades. Jada pointed right at him. “Dare.”
Trey sighed. “Hit me.”
Jada grinned. “Call your ex right now. Leave a voicemail on speaker. Tell him exactly what you miss about his body.”
Trey pulled out his phone, scrolled to the name, hit call, put it on speaker, and waited for voicemail. When the beep came he leaned back.
“Ay, it’s me. Just wanted to say I still think about you sometimes. Miss the way your back looked when you arched for me, the way your thighs squeezed around my head when I had you shaking, how your skin felt under my hands. Shit was fire. Anyway, yeah. Delete this if you want.”
He hung up fast. The room exploded. Trey buried his face in his hands but was grinning wide. Two minutes later his phone buzzed. He read it out loud:
<Boy, delete my number… but call me later.
Everyone lost it again.
Next round Jada got the lowest card. “Truth,” she said before anyone could ask.
Aaliyah jumped in. “Wildest place you ever fucked. Go.”
Jada didn’t blink. “Back seat of my ex-boyfriend’s Charger at the family cookout last summer. Windows fogged up so bad you couldn’t see in, music blasting to cover the sounds. He had me riding reverse with one hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t scream. Almost got caught when my aunt came looking for the ice chest.”
Trey covered his ears dramatically. “I did not need to visualize that, but go off sis.”
Y/N laughed, but the heat crept up her neck. The game was getting hotter and the alcohol made everything feel looser.
Her turn. She flipped a four. “Dare.”
Trey’s grin turned evil. “Send a nude to the group chat right now, crop your face out.”
Y/N rolled her eyes. “Y’all messy.” She lifted her shirt just enough, angled her phone so the lamp light hit her cleavage perfect, snapped it, cropped her face, and sent before she could chicken out.
The group chat blew up.
Jada: “Whew, okay, body tea.”
Aaliyah: “Chef’s kiss, period.”
Trey: “I’m looking respectfully… damn, Y/N.”
Y/N buried her face in her hands for a second. “Shut up, Trey.”
Aaliyah’s dare was next: a blindfolded lap dance to whoever’s phone she grabbed. She tied a blanket around her eyes and got Trey’s phone. She climbed onto his lap slow and rolled her hips into his. Trey sat frozen, hands gripping the couch, “This is why we don’t do blindfolds no more, girl. Get off me,” while everyone else howled.
Y/N got truth again. Jada leaned in. “Be real. Nastiest thing you let a guy do that you secretly loved?”
Y/N took a long sip. “He held my throat while he ate me out. Not choking, just firm, like he was keeping me right there. I came so hard I saw stars.”
Silence hung for half a second, then Aaliyah whispered, “Damn, that’s hot.”
They passed the bottle for another round when Trey’s phone lit up on the coffee table. He read it and chuckled.
“Erik says he’s five minutes out.”
Jada rolled her eyes but smiled. “Finally. I told his ass to hurry up after work. He been acting brand-new since he got back from the military.”
Aaliyah poured fresh shots and slid one toward Y/N. “He’s been texting me all week, miss the crew, miss the vibes.”
The second Erik’s name dropped, Y/N’s stomach plummeted like someone squeezed her insides and let go. She kept her face neutral, took a slow sip, but her fingers tightened around the glass so hard her knuckles paled.
That night flashed back in sharp pieces. She remembered him sitting in her braiding chair, shirtless, his locs half-done and still a little damp from the wash. They were laughing at some stupid story from back in the day while passing the bottle back and forth. She had been focused on twisting the last few locs, trying to keep her hands steady when she felt the shift. The way his eyes changed, getting darker the moment she leaned back to check her work. Then the kiss happened like something that had been building for years. One minute they were talking, the next her shorts were down around her ankles and his mouth was on her. His hands held her thighs open and the low groan he let out against her skin sounded like he had been waiting for this longer than he would ever admit.
Then the texts the next morning. She left them all on read. Couldn’t face what it meant, that she’d been in love with him quietly for years and one night cracked that wide open. So she ignored him until he stopped trying.
Now he was minutes away.
She could already picture him stepping in. Would he look at her normal? Pretend it never happened? Or would one glance pull everything back?
——————————————————————————————
They squeezed in one more round to kill time. Jada got dared to moan the name of the last person she hooked up with for fifteen seconds straight. She did it low and dramatic, drawing it out until Trey was cracking up and Aaliyah was covering her face. Then Trey picked truth and had to admit the last time he got head in a car. He told the story with zero shame making everyone laugh until their sides hurt. Y/N picked dare again and had to send a voice note describing how she liked to be touched. She kept it short and the group lost it when they played it back.
The laughs were still echoing when a firm knock sounded at the front door.
Trey hopped up from the floor. “That’s him. I got it.”
He walked over and opened the door. Erik stepped inside carrying two large pizza boxes stacked on top of each other, the smell of hot cheese and pepperoni filling the room right away. Trey took one of the boxes from him with a grin. “My guy, you came through.”
Erik looked too good. His locs were freshly twisted into neat barrels that framed his face perfectly. He had on a crisp black shirt that hugged his muscular arms and chest, the short sleeves showing off the scars on his biceps. A thick gold chain rested against his collarbone and a matching gold watch gleamed on his wrist. Black joggers sat low on his hips and he rocked a fresh pair of Jordans that still looked box-fresh. The whole fit was simple but it hit different on him, like everything he wore was made to remind you exactly who he was.
He greeted everyone with a small smile showing off his gold fronts. “What’s good, y’all?” He gave Jada a quick hug, then Aaliyah, dapping Trey up properly once the pizza was set on the coffee table.
When he got to Y/N he paused for a second. “Long time no see.”
Before she could respond, he pulled her into a hug. It was tighter than the others. His cologne hit her immediately, that woody scent mixed with something fresh that made her head spin. He smelled so good it was almost unfair. As he held her he leaned in close to her ear.
“Missed you, baby. You been ignoring a nigga.”
He gave her one last gentle squeeze before pulling away. Y/N’s heart was pounding so hard she was sure everyone could hear it, but she just smiled back trying to play it cool while her stomach did flips all over again.
The group settled back in. Erik dropped down on the floor near the coffee table right across from Y/N. He grabbed a slice of pizza, took a big bite, and leaned back on one elbow.
Jada was already reaching for another slice. “About time you showed up. We were starting to think you got lost.”
Erik chuckled, gold flashing again. “Nah, I had to make sure y’all had something to eat. Can’t have my people starving while y’all out here playing nasty games.”
Aaliyah smirked. “Speaking of nasty games, you just missed some wild shit. But we can catch you up real quick if you want in.”
Erik’s eyes flicked over to Y/N for a brief second before he looked back at the group. “I’m down. What we playing?”
The tension in Y/N’s chest tightened even more as the circle reformed with Erik now sitting right across from her. The night suddenly felt a lot heavier and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could pretend everything was normal.
Y/N tried to focus on the slice of pizza in her hand but her appetite was gone. The cheese tasted like nothing while her mind kept replaying that whisper in her ear and the way his arms had felt around her. Erik settled in across from her on the floor with his legs stretched out casually.
Jada wiped her hands on a napkin and grinned at him. “Truth or dare, Erik?”
Erik took another bite of pizza chewing slowly before he answered. “Truth.”
Trey leaned forward. “Bet. Here’s a good one. What’s the nastiest thing you’ve done to a girl that made her shake so bad she couldn’t walk right after?”
The room got quiet for a second. Erik didn’t even hesitate. He looked straight at Y/N while he answered.
“Last time I was with somebody I really wanted… I had her laid back on the couch after she did my locs. I ate her pussy for so long she came three times back to back. Had her thighs squeezing my head so tight I could barely breathe, but I wasn’t stopping. By the time I was done she was shaking so bad she couldn’t even sit up straight. Had to carry her to the bed.”
He kept his eyes locked on Y/N the entire time he spoke. Y/N could feel the heat rushing to her face. She avoided his gaze completely, staring down at the pizza box like it was the most interesting thing in the room. Her hand tightened around her glass as she brought it to her lips and took a long sip of the Don Julio hoping the burn would distract her from the way her body was reacting. Her thighs pressed together without thinking, memories flooding back so strong she almost choked on the liquor. She could still feel his locs brushing her skin, the way his tongue had moved, the low groans he made like he couldn’t get enough.
Jada let out a low whistle. “Damn, Erik. That’s cold.”
Aaliyah laughed. “Three times? Boy, you wasn’t playing.”
Erik just smirked still watching Y/N even though she refused to look up. “What can I say? When I want something, I take my time with it.”
The air in the room felt thicker now, the game suddenly a lot more dangerous with him sitting right there. Y/N took another sip from her glass trying to steady her breathing while her heart raced. She could feel his eyes on her like he was daring her to look back at him.
Jada clapped her hands once. “Alright, let’s make the next part interesting. We got two honey packs in the kitchen. How about we play a quick round of ‘Never Have I Ever’ with a twist? Whoever has done the thing has to drink. Last person with alcohol left in their cup loses and has to take one of the honey packs.”
Aaliyah’s face lit up. “Yes! I’m down for that.”
Trey laughed and reached for the bottle to top off everyone’s glasses. “Bet. But y’all better not gang up on me. I’m innocent over here.”
Erik smirked. “Innocent? Yeah, okay. Let’s run it. I’m not scared of a little honey.”
Jada hopped up and came back from the kitchen with the two small gold packets placing them right in the middle of the coffee table. “These right here. Loser takes the whole packet. No backing out once the game starts.”
They all raised their glasses and started the round. The questions stayed playful at first.
“Never have I ever had sex in a car,” Aaliyah said.
Trey, Jada, and Erik drank right away. Y/N kept her glass still for that one.
“Never have I ever hooked up with someone I met at the gym,” Trey threw out next.
Jada and Aaliyah drank. Erik took a sip, chuckling.
“Never have I ever gone down on someone in the shower,” Jada said with a grin.
Trey and Erik drank. Y/N sipped once.
“Never have I ever had a one-night stand that turned into something more,” Aaliyah said.
Erik drank again, along with Jada.
“Never have I ever recorded myself having sex,” Trey added.
Erik and Aaliyah drank. Y/N took a small sip feeling the liquor warming her up.
“Never have I ever had sex somewhere I could’ve gotten caught easily,” Jada said.
Everyone except Trey drank that time. The laughs were flowing and the cups were getting lower fast.
After a few more rounds, Trey checked the glasses. “Damn… Erik, you’re the last one with a decent amount left, but after that last one you’re basically empty too. Looks like you lose, bro.”
Jada picked up one of the gold honey packets from the table and waved it in the air. “Rules are rules. Loser takes the whole thing right now.”
Erik leaned forward. “Aight, bet. Hand it over.”
Jada passed him the packet. Erik took it, turning the small gold wrapper over in his fingers while the group watched. He glanced around the circle, then ripped it open with his teeth squeezing the golden liquid onto his tongue like it was nothing. He swallowed it down maintaining eye contact with the group the whole time, but Y/N could feel his gaze linger a little longer when it passed over her.
The room erupted in cheers and laughs. Jada clapped. “That’s my dawg!”
Trey grabbed another slice of pizza. “Now we wait and see what that does to you. This should be entertaining.”
Erik just chuckled low, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he set the empty wrapper on the table. He looked completely unbothered, but Y/N noticed the way his jaw tightened just slightly right after he swallowed. She quickly looked away focusing on her own drink again.
———————————————————————————
A couple hours had passed. The pizza boxes were empty and they had moved through Spades, Uno, and were now deep into random drinking games.
Erik had gotten quieter as the night went on. He was still joking with everyone, but he kept shifting his position on the floor.
Trey was dealing the next round when he suddenly paused mid-shuffle. He looked down at Erik’s lap and let out a low chuckle.
“E, you good?” Trey asked nodding toward Erik’s obvious erection straining against his black joggers. “Nigga got a whole tent going on over there.”
The room went quiet for a second.
“Oh shit,” Jada muttered covering her mouth with wide eyes.
Aaliyah burst out laughing and quickly looked away. “Jesus, Erik…”
Erik glanced down at himself then shrugged casually with zero embarrassment. He didn’t try to hide it or close his legs. “Imma handle that later,” he said voice a little deeper than it had been earlier.
As he spoke, his eyes drifted over to Y/N. The look lingered just a second longer than normal before he looked away again. Her thighs pressed together without her meaning to.
Trey smirked. “You sure you don’t need a minute, bro?”
Erik leaned back on one hand. “Nah, I’m straight. We can keep playing.” He adjusted himself once, “This honey just got me real… aware right now.”
Jada shook her head with a grin. “That pack is no joke. You look like you’re ready to pounce on something.”
The group laughed.Erik stayed relaxed on the outside, but his eyes kept finding their way back to Y/N every few minutes.
Y/N stayed quiet focusing on her drink and pretending to laugh along with everyone else. But she could still feel the weight of his attention on her skin like a hand she couldn’t quite brush off.
The game eventually fizzled out as everyone started feeling the effects of the long night and all the shots. Jada stretched and looked around at the mess. “Alright y’all, let’s clean up a little before we get too lazy.”
They all got up slowly, groaning and laughing as they started picking up. Trey gathered the empty pizza boxes and shot glasses while Aaliyah folded blankets and picked up cards from the floor. Jada wiped down the coffee table. Erik helped out too, grabbing a few napkins and empty cups.
After about ten minutes, Erik checked his phone and stood up straight. “I’m gonna head out. Got an early morning tomorrow.”
He started saying his goodbyes, giving everyone a hug. He dapped Trey up first, then pulled Jada into a tight hug rocking her side to side. “Good seeing y’all, for real.” He hugged Aaliyah next.
Then he turned to Y/N.
She stood up trying to keep it casual. Erik stepped in and wrapped his arms around her. The hug lingered. His body felt warm against hers and that same woody cologne wrapped around her again. He held her for a few extra seconds.
Right before he pulled away, he leaned in close to her ear.
“Come through to my crib when you leave here.”
He gave her one last gentle squeeze before stepping back like nothing had happened. He grabbed his keys and headed toward the door. “Catch y’all later. Don’t get too crazy without me.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Y/N stood there frozen for a second with Erik’s words echoing in her head. Her stomach felt like it dropped and her thoughts were all over the place. She felt discombobulated.
They continued tidying up the living room completely oblivious to what Erik had just dropped on Y/N before walking out the door.
She bent down to pick up a pillow trying to act normal, but her mind was already spinning with the decision she now had to make.
Y/N helped with the last bit of cleanup tossing a few more cups in the trash and folding one of the blankets. Once everything looked decent, she grabbed her bag and keys.
“Alright y’all, I’m about to head out,” she said. “Thank you for tonight. I had fun.”
She went around giving everyone hugs. Jada squeezed her tight telling her to text when she got home. Aaliyah hugged her next. Trey gave her a big bear hug and kissed the top of her head like the big brother he always acted like.
“Drive safe, Y/N. Love you girl,” he said.
“Love y’all too,” she replied with a small smile before heading out the door.
She wasn’t too drunk. Just nicely buzzed, enough to feel loose but still in control. The night air felt cool on her skin as she walked to her car. Once she got inside she didn’t start the engine right away. She just sat there in the driver’s seat staring out the windshield while replaying everything that happened tonight.
Come through to my crib when you leave here.
She let out a deep breath and rubbed her hands over her face. Was she really about to do this? Go to his house? After she spent months ignoring his texts and trying to bury everything that happened between them? What if it brought all those old feelings rushing back? The ones she swore she had under control?
Just then, her phone buzzed on the passenger seat.
She picked it up and saw a message from Erik. The preview showed a blurred picture. Her thumb hovered for a second before she clicked it open.
It was a photo of Erik. He was still in those black joggers standing in what looked like his bedroom. One of his hands was gripping his thick print through the fabric. The picture was clear enough to see just how big and heavy he was.
Right underneath it the message read:
<I need you.
Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. She felt a rush of heat flood between her legs, her pussy instantly getting wet. Her thighs pressed together on their own as she stared at the picture.
“Fuck…” she whispered to herself.
That sealed it.
She sat there for a few more seconds. Besides… it’s just going to be one night, she told herself. What’s the worst that could happen?
She started the car, typed Erik’s address into her GPS, and pulled off.
About twenty minutes later Y/N pulled up outside Erik’s house. The drive felt both too long and too short. Her stomach was in knots the entire way.
She parked on the street and sat in the car for a moment staring at his front door. Her hands were slightly shaky as she picked up her phone and typed:
>I’m outside
His reply came back almost instantly.
>It’s opened.
Y/N stared at the message. She took a slow breath trying to steady herself.
It’s just one night, she reminded herself. Just one night.
She grabbed her bag, stepped out of the car, and walked up to his front door. After another deep breath she twisted the knob and stepped inside.
The house was dimly lit with just a couple of lamps on casting a warm glow through the living room. Soft music played from somewhere deeper inside. She closed the door behind her and locked it.
Then Erik appeared from the hallway.
He was shirtless now. His muscular chest and abs were on full display. The scars on his biceps and torso were visible and his joggers sat low on his hips showing the deep V-line leading down.
Erik didn’t say anything else at first. He just walked toward her slowly. When he stopped in front of her, he was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his skin.
He reached out and gently took her bag from her hand setting it down on the nearby chair without breaking eye contact. Then he stepped even closer, one hand sliding around her waist pulling her body flush against his.
“You drove all the way over here,” he murmured, “after ignoring me for months.”
Y/N’s breath hitched as she felt how hard he still was, the thick outline of his erection pressing against her stomach through his joggers. The honey pack was clearly still working overtime.
“I wasn’t…” she started, but the words got caught in her throat when his other hand came up to cup the side of her face, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip.
“You wasn’t what?” he asked tilting his head slightly. “You wasn’t thinking about me? Or you wasn’t ready to admit you missed this too?”
Before she could answer, Erik leaned down and kissed her. His tongue slipped into her mouth and Y/N melted into him. Her hands instinctively slid up his bare chest feeling the warmth of his skin and the beat of his heart.
When he finally pulled back they were both breathing heavier.
“I been thinking about you since that night,” he admitted, forehead resting against hers. “Every time I tried to let it go… I couldn’t. And tonight?” He let out a low chuckle, almost strained. “I need you, Y/N. For real.”
His hands slid down to grip her ass. Y/N let out a shaky breath, her pussy throbbing with need.
Erik kissed her again before trailing his lips to her ear.
“Tell me you want this,” he whispered. “Tell me you’re not about to run out that door.”
She looked up at him. Her voice came out soft but steady.
“I want this,” she whispered. “I’m not running.”
That was all Erik needed.
He kissed her again. One hand stayed on her ass while the other slid up her back and into her hair tilting her head exactly how he wanted. The kiss turned hungry fast.
He walked her backward until her back gently hit the wall. Erik pulled away just enough to look at her.
His hands moved to the hem of her shirt. He peeled it off slowly tossing it somewhere behind him. His gaze dropped to her breasts and he let out a low curse under his breath before leaning down to kiss and suck on her neck trailing wet kisses across her collarbone.
Y/N’s head fell back against the wall, a soft moan slipping out as his mouth found her nipple. He sucked it into his mouth, tongue swirling, while his hand squeezed her other breast. Her fingers dug into his shoulders.
Y/N’s back pressed against the cool wall as Erik dropped to his knees in front of her like it was the most natural thing in the world. He looked up at her with those hooded eyes while he slowly dragged her pants and panties down her legs. He took his time kissing her inner thighs the whole way and sucked lightly on the sensitive skin until she was squirming.
“Fuck, I missed this pretty pussy,” he groaned. He spread her legs wider throwing one over his shoulder so she was completely open for him. “Look at you… already dripping for me.”
He leaned in and dragged his tongue slowly up her slit licking up all her wetness in one long stroke. Y/N moaned loudly, her hand flying to the top of his head gripping his fresh barrel twists. Erik let out a deep groan against her pussy, the vibration making her thighs tremble.
He didn’t tease for long.
Erik buried his face between her legs like a man starved. His tongue was everywhere licking broad stripes up her pussy, swirling around her swollen clit, then dipping inside her hole to fuck her with it. Wet sounds filled the hallway as he ate her greedily, sucking on her folds, slurping loudly on her juices like he couldn’t get enough.
“Shit, Erik…” Y/N whimpered.
He pulled back just enough to spit on her pussy watching it drip down before diving back in, sucking her clit into his mouth hard. Two thick fingers pushed inside her without warning.
“That’s it, baby,” he growled against her clit, fingers pumping faster. “Fuck my face. Use my tongue like you been wanting to.”
Y/N’s legs shook as she rode his mouth, grinding against his tongue while he finger-fucked her harder. He added a third finger to stretch her open, the wet squelching sounds getting louder. Erik moaned into her pussy the whole time clearly enjoying every second of it.
He pulled his fingers out for a moment, spread her pussy lips wide with both thumbs, and spat directly on her clit before sucking it back into his mouth with slurping sounds. His tongue flicked rapidly against her swollen nub while he looked up at her.
“You taste so fucking good,” he groaned, voice muffled. “This pussy still mine, ain’t it?”
Y/N could barely answer, just moaned his name like a prayer as her orgasm built fast. Erik could feel it. He locked his arms around her thighs holding her in place so she couldn’t run from the pleasure and attacked her clit with relentless suction and fast flicks of his tongue.
“Cum on my face, baby,” he demanded. “Let me taste how much you missed this dick.”
That pushed her over the edge.
Y/N came hard, thighs clamping around his head, back arching off the wall as she cried out. Erik didn’t stop. He kept sucking and licking her through it, moaning loudly like her orgasm was the best thing he’d tasted all night.
Erik finally pulled back, lips and chin shiny with her juices. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand while looking up at her with a satisfied smirk.
—————————————————————————
Erik stood up slowly.
“Come here,” he said.
He took her hand and led her over to the couch. The second they reached it, he sat down, legs spread wide, and pulled her down between them so she was on her knees on the floor in front of him. One arm stretched along the back of the couch as he looked at her with that intense stare.
Y/N’s hands shook slightly with anticipation as she reached for the waistband of his joggers. She tugged them down his hips and his thick dick sprang out. The head was already leaking precum, veins prominent along the shaft. He was rock hard from the honey pack and he looked even bigger than she remembered.
“Fuck…” she whispered wrapping her hand around the base. He was so thick her fingers barely met.
Erik let out a low groan, head tilting back for a second before he looked down at her again.
“Go ‘head, baby,” he murmured.
Y/N leaned in and dragged her tongue slowly from the base of his dick all the way up to the tip licking up the bead of precum that had formed. She swirled her tongue around the head before wrapping her lips around it and sucking gently.
“Shit… just like that,” Erik groaned, one hand sliding into her hair.
She took more of him into her mouth, sucking him deeper, her tongue working the underside of his shaft. He was so thick it made her jaw ache in the best way. She bobbed her head taking him as far as she could using her hand to stroke what didn’t fit.
Erik’s grip tightened in her hair. “Fuck, your mouth feels good. You been thinking about this dick, huh?”
Y/N moaned around him in response sucking harder, saliva dripping down his shaft as she worked him sloppily. The wet sounds filled the room.
“That’s it… choke on it,” he growled with hips lifting slightly to push deeper into her mouth. “Get it real wet for me. I want you drooling all over this dick.”
She did exactly that. Spit ran down her chin as she sucked him messily, hollowing her cheeks, twisting her hand around the base while she focused on the sensitive head. Erik’s breathing got heavier.
He looked down at her, eyes half-lidded. “Look at you… on your knees sucking me like you missed this shit. You do miss it, don’t you?”
Y/N pulled off just long enough to catch her breath, strings of spit connecting her lips to his dick. “Yes…” she breathed before diving back down taking him even deeper and gagging softly as the head hit the back of her throat.
“Fuuuck,” Erik hissed, his hand guiding her head as he slowly fucked her mouth. “Just like that. Keep gagging on it. I love that shit.”
She worked him eagerly. Spit dripped down onto his balls and she reached down to massage them earning a deep moan from him.
Erik’s abs flexed every time she took him deep. His breathing got heavier as he got closer.
Erik groaned deeply. “Fuck… get up here.”
He pulled her off his dick with a wet pop and yanked her up onto the couch. In one motion he sat back against the cushions and pulled her on top of him. His spit-slick dick rested hard against her stomach as he gripped her hips.
“Ride me,” he demanded. “I want this pussy right now.”
Y/N didn’t hesitate. She reached between them, wrapped her hand around his heavy dick, and lined him up with her dripping entrance. She rubbed the fat head up and down her wet folds a few times before slowly sinking down.
“Fuuuuck…” she moaned as he stretched her open.
Erik’s head fell back against the couch.“Goddamn, this pussy tight as hell. Keep going, baby. Take all this dick.”
She worked herself down until her ass was flush against his thighs. The feeling was overwhelming. Y/N let out a shaky whimper adjusting to his size while her walls clenched around him.
Erik gripped her ass with both hands to spread her open. “That’s it. Look at you swallowing my whole dick. Now ride it.”
Y/N started moving. The wet squelching sounds were loud as she lifted up and slammed back down as her juices coated his dick and dripped down his balls.
“Shit, just like that,” Erik groaned watching where they were connected. “Look how wet you got my dick. You been needing this, haven’t you?”
“Yes…” she moaned picking up the pace. She braced her hands on his chest and started bouncing harder, ass clapping against his thighs with every drop.
“Fuck me back,” she gasped.
Erik smirked as he gripped her hips tighter and started fucking up into her hard. The couch creaked under them as he pounded into her pussy.
“This what you been ignoring?” he growled eyes locked on her bouncing tits. “This dick been waiting on you and you was playing games.”
He sat up suddenly as he wrapped one arm around her waist and sucked hard on her nipple while he fucked her senseless. Y/N cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders as she rode him faster grinding her clit against him with every thrust.
Erik pulled back just enough to look at her face. “Ride this dick like you sorry. Show me how much you missed it.”
Y/N started bouncing harder. Her pussy was creaming all over his dick. Erik groaned loudly, one hand slapping her ass hard before gripping it again.
“Goddamn, you soaking me, baby. This pussy talking to me and everything.”
He leaned back again letting her take control. Y/N rode him like she was possessed.
Erik’s abs flexed with every thrust. “Keep fucking me just like that. I want this pussy to remember who it belongs to.”
But right as his breathing started getting ragged and his grip tightened, he suddenly sat up, wrapped both arms around her, and stood up with her still on his dick.
Y/N gasped, legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her down the hallway like she weighed nothing.
He kicked open the bedroom door, tossed her onto the bed, and flipped her over roughly.
“Face down, ass up,” he ordered. “Now.”
Y/N arched her back quickly pressing her chest into the mattress and lifting her ass high for him. Erik smacked her ass hard.
“This what you made me wait for?” he growled. He smacked her ass harder this time watching it jiggle. “Months of ignoring my fucking texts… acting like this pussy wasn’t mine.”
He lined his dick up with her dripping hole and slammed in deep in one thrust.
“Fuuuuck!” Y/N cried out gripping the sheets.
Erik didn’t give her time to adjust. He started fucking her, his balls slapping against her clit with every punishing stroke.
“This my pussy,” he grunted smacking her ass again. “Say it.”
“It’s yours,” she moaned loudly pushing back against him.
He gripped her hips tighter and pounded into her even harder.
“I can’t hear you,” he growled. “Who the fuck does this pussy belong to?”
“It’s yours, Erik!” she cried out. “It’s your pussy!”
“That’s right,” he snarled smacking her ass repeatedly. “You been keeping my shit away from me. Now take this dick like you owe me.”
He fucked her mercilessly. The bed creaked loudly under them. Y/N’s moans turned into broken whimpers as he hit that spot over and over.
Erik reached down and rubbed her clit while still pounding into her. “You better cum on this dick. Right now. Don’t hold that shit.”
The combination of his aggressive strokes, the sting from his smacks, and his fingers on her clit pushed her over the edge fast.
“I’m cumming!” she screamed as her pussy clamped down hard around him gushing wetly as her orgasm ripped through her.
“Fuck yes,” Erik groaned fucking her through it. “That’s my good girl. Cream all on this dick.”
He kept thrusting through her orgasm for a few more strokes before he suddenly pulled out with a wet sound. He stroked his dick fast aiming at her back.
“Shit— I’m about to nut,” he growled.
Thick ropes of cum shot across her back in heavy spurts. Erik moaned loudly as he emptied himself, painting her skin from her shoulder blades all the way down to the curve of her ass. He kept stroking until every drop was out.
“Fuck…” he panted looking down at the mess he made on her.
He leaned down and kissed the back of her neck softly.
“Don’t move,” he murmured.
He got up and walked to the bathroom. Y/N heard the sink running for a few seconds before he returned with a warm cloth. He sat on the edge of the bed and carefully wiped her back cleaning his cum off her skin with gentle strokes. The warm cloth felt soothing against her skin.
Once he was done he tossed the cloth toward the hamper and gently flipped her over onto her back. He laid down beside her pulling her into his chest. Y/N curled up against him, one leg draped over his, her head resting on his shoulder as they both tried to catch their breath.
The room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing slowly settling. Erik’s hand rubbed slow circles on her back while her fingers traced patterns over his scars.
After a couple minutes, Y/N let out a soft laugh.
“So… that honey pack really had you acting different tonight,” she teased. “I thought you were gonna tear my ass up.”
Erik chuckled lowly. “That shit had me gone. I was trying to behave in front of everybody, but my dick had other plans.”
Y/N smiled against his skin relaxing further into him.
The silence returned for a little while before Erik spoke again.
“…Why you been ignoring me, Y/N?”
Y/N froze for a second her fingers stopping their movement. She stayed quiet as she stared at the ceiling.
He waited patiently still rubbing her back.
She finally let out a shaky breath.
“I got scared,” she admitted softly. “That night… it felt like too much. I’ve liked you for years, Erik. Like, really liked you. And when we crossed that line, it hit me how deep it was. I didn’t know how to handle it, so I just… shut down. Ignoring you felt safer than admitting how I felt.”
She paused.
“I thought if I ignored it long enough, the feelings would go away. But they didn’t.”
Erik was quiet for a moment, processing her words. Then he tightened his arm around her and kissed the top of her head.
“I wish you would’ve told me that instead of disappearing on me,” he said gently. “I’m not mad at you for being scared. But I need you to talk to me next time. I’m not going anywhere, baby. I’ve been feeling you for a long time too.”
He tilted her chin up so she could look at him.
“I’m not perfect, and I know I got a lot going on with adjusting back to civilian life… but I want this. I want you. We don’t gotta rush or put a label on it right now if you not ready. But I’m done with the ignoring part. If you scared, tell me. If you need space, tell me. Just don’t shut me out again. Aight?”
Y/N searched his eyes for a second, then nodded slowly, feeling some of the weight lift off her chest.
“Okay,” she whispered. “I won’t shut you out again.”
Erik gave her a small smile and pulled her closer before kissing her forehead.
“Good. Now bring your ass closer and let me hold you properly.”
She smiled softly and snuggled deeper into his chest, finally relaxing as his arms wrapped around her tightly. The silence that followed felt peaceful this time.
——————————————-
Whewww, I know I was supposed to post this earlier but college had me super busy 😭 I’m finally on summer break now, so I should be able to upload consistently!
Mr. Smoke’s & Mr. Stack’s Doll: A Little Bunny Rabbit
Author’s Note: It’s Gemini season! Everyone go say Happy Day Of Birth to my sister @theethighpriestess aka Bunny 🐰
Warnings: +18 | Dom!Smoke | Dom!Stack | Smoke x Stack x OC | Plus Size OC | MFM | Angst (if you squint and do a backflip) | Fluff (if you squint and do three pushups) Oral Sex | Anal Sex | Edging | Coochie Drilled To Smithereens | Overstimulation | Double Penetration | Creampie | Dollification | They… They aren’t mean in this chapter… have I found God?
The room smelled like a cheap pomade and even cheaper whiskey.
Bunny had caught the scent the moment she pushed open the door to room number seven. There was a stale and sour stench lingering in the air that clung to a drunken man that was expected to be her next client. She stood in the doorway for a half second, shoulders squared beneath the ivory negligee she had been assigned for the evening, her red painted toes just crossing the threshold, and she told herself it was nothing. Men came in here smelling like all manner of sin. Whiskey and cheap pomade was the least offensive of them.
The man waiting for her was a heavyset thing. Pale as uncooked dough, with a collar loosened down to his second button and cufflinks that didn't match. His eyes swam when they found her. This wasn’t the ordinary tipsy swim of a man who had had two drinks to get his nerves up before visiting a house like this. No, this was the kind of swim that came from the bottom of a bottle, from a man who had been drinking since before supper and hadn't stopped for reasons that had nothing to do with enjoying the taste.
His mouth curved into something that was meant to be a smile but landed somewhere closer to a sneer. "There she is," he said, his words running together at the edges like watercolors left out in the rain. "Took ya’ long enough."
Bunny let the door shut behind her with a quiet click. She pulled up the smile she had spent years perfecting, the one that reached her eyes just far enough to be convincing without costing her anything real, and she moved toward the vanity to set down her small kit. "Evenin', sir," she replied, voice sweet as honeysuckle draped over a fence post in July. "You get yourself settled alright?"
"Settled?" He laughed, the sound was disgustingly wet and blunt. "I been waitin' damn near twenty minutes."
"I apologize for that, sir." She turned subtly, sizing the client up again in the mirror's reflection while she appeared to be checking her hair. She took notice of the way his body tilted just slightly to the left when he tried to sit straighter. The way his hand reached for the bedpost to steady himself without seeming to realize he had done it. The glassy, navigating-through-fog quality of his stare. Bunny had been in this business long enough to know that a drunk man in a room with a woman he had paid for was a man operating without a leash, and a man without a leash was a dangerous creature.
She angled herself toward the door by a few degrees. Just enough to escape if needed. "Sir," she said, keeping her voice sweet and calm, "I just want to make sure you feelin' alright before we get started. You seem like you might've had yourself a full night already and I wouldn't want—"
The remainder of her sentence was cut off because the drunken man moved without warning. He lurched to his feet, knocking the small side table with his hip and sending its single glass of water spinning off the edge to shatter against the floor. His face had turned a particular shade of red that lived between embarrassment and fury, and his jaw worked like he was chewing something bitter before he could get the words out.
"Useless bitch," he spat. The syllables fell out of him ugly and hard. "Think I paid to have some whore tell me I done had too much to drink? Think I need you lookin' down at me? I'll kill you, you hear me?!? I'll put my hands ‘round ya' neck and I'll—"
His arm swung mid rant, but Bunny was already moving.
She dropped her chin to her chest and turned her body so the arc of his open palm caught nothing but air, and in the same motion her right hand went up to her hair. The blade she kept there was small, barely two inches of steel with a handle thin enough to disappear between two curling papers. It was something she had carried since she was nineteen years old and had learned in the most painful way possible that a pretty face and a small curvy frame were not assets in every room. Her fingers found it without hesitation, but with the calm surety of someone who had practiced the motion until it lived in her muscles instead of her mind.
She drew it in the same breath she stepped to his left side, and when she came back up, she sliced him across the cheekbone in one clean swipe.
The sound he made wasn’t quite a scream and not quite a word. It lived somewhere between the two, high and stunned. The moment he was sliced, his hand flew to his face as the blood welled immediately, vivid and dark, running between his fingers and dripping onto the collar he had loosened two buttons down. He staggered back into the bedpost as his eyes went wide, and suddenly he was brutally sober.
"Help!" The plea tore out of him then, ragged and furious. "HELP! She cut me! This wicked bitch cut my damn FACE!"
Bunny stood quietly like a marble statue with the blade still in her hand. Her chest moved in controlled, shallow breaths as her heartbeat threw itself against her ribs like a prisoner testing the walls, but her face… her face was completely still. Still like a woman who had survived more than enough dangerous rooms, and this was no different. She didn’t bother running or crying, instead she watched the blood run down his cheek and she waited.
Two seconds passed and the door swung open before the echo of his second shout had finished bouncing off the walls.
They filled the frame the way they always filled every frame they walked through, shoulder to shoulder, the both of them constructed from the same Mississippi clay and hardened by the same Jim Crow fire. Stack came through first, his jacket slightly disheveled as if he was in the middle of something… or someone, signature gold tooth catching the lamplight as his coffee brown eyes swept the room in three seconds flat. Smoke followed a half step behind, and his gaze went to the blood first, then to Bunny, then to the blade still loose in her fingers, and in that order he read the whole story without a single word being spoken.
The two of them looked at each other and it lasted less than a millisecond. They shared a sacred twin language, and there was no need to speak out loud when they could discuss everything necessary through a simple glance. There was no need for none of the vowels and consonants that other men required. Stack's chin lifted two degrees. Smoke's jaw shifted once to the right. That was all.
Smoke marched over to the bleeding man and grabbed him by the back of the collar with one hand. The client sputtered, grabbing at Smoke's wrist, voice rising again into something wheedling and enraged all at once, but Smoke wasn't listening. He was already moving, already dragging the man toward the door with that flat, unblinking quiet that was a hundred times more frightening than any raised voice.
Stack waited until the door swung shut behind his brother and then he turned to Bunny. He looked at her the way he looked at a ledger he needed to balance, thorough, patient, and giving nothing away in his expression. His hands found his jacket pockets and he stood with the loose posture of a man who had all the time left in the world. "Tell me what happened," he said.
Bunny's fingers curled tighter around the blade before she caught herself and lowered it. "He was drunk when I walked in," she explained, and her voice came out steadier than she had expected, considering. "Not just a couple of drinks. He was drownin’ in it. I called it out because I wasn't about to start a session with a man who could barely hold his head upright and when I did…" She nodded toward the door. "He called me out my name, said he was gonna kill me, and he swung. I moved… And I cut him."
Stack said nothing for a moment as his tongue rolled against the inside of his cheek. He looked at the blood on the floor where the man had been standing, then at the broken water glass, then at Bunny's face. "You ain't in trouble," he said finally, his Mississippi drawl coating every syllable like a second skin. "But I need you to hear me on this." He pulled one hand from his pocket and pointed a single finger at her. "Next time a client get rowdy, stupid, or liquored past the point of sense, you don't reach for that blade. You call for one of us. That's what we here for. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
He held her gaze a moment longer, making sure the instruction had gone somewhere it would stay, and then he nodded once. "Go on, wash up an get you some rest." He turned for the door, then paused with his hand on the frame, not looking back. "You did real good, not fallin' apart. Just... next time… let us handle the mess."
The door closed again, and Bunny stood alone in the room with the broken glass and the ruined sheets and the small blade still warm from her grip, and she exhaled for what felt like the first time in several minutes.
Out behind the brothel, the alley smelled of ash cans and summer.
Smoke walked the man through the rear exit with the same grip he used to drag him out of the room. He deposited him against the back wall, the man's knees finally gave out forcing him to slide down the brick and land in a graceless heap on the ground, one hand still pressed to his sliced cheek, blood threading between his fingers and dripping off his chin.
Smoke stood over him. His hands went to his jacket, straightening it once, and then settled at his sides. He looked down at the man like he was a disgruntled God figuring out what type of punishment to inflict.
The man looked up at him and found whatever he needed in Smoke's expression to start talking. "She attacked me," his drunkenness slipping out of his voice now that fear had come in to replace it. "That bitch came in there and she just… she had a knife. She cut my face. You need to do somethin’ about that. I paid good money for a civil hour and instead I get—"
"You said… you was gon' kill her."
The man blinked. "I was angry, I didn't—"
"Called her out her name twice in my presence."
The man's mouth opened and closed.
Smoke crouched down until his eyes were level with the man's, and in that position he looked less like a man and more like a demon ready to indulge in his bloodlust. His voice hadn't changed. It never changed. It held that same smooth, unshifted cadence through every conversation regardless of what the conversation was about. "Ion’ know exactly what went on in that room yet," he said. "But I want you to understand somethin'. That part don't fuckin’ matter to me. What matter to me is that you walked into my house, disrespected somethin' that belong to me, an then you done put ya' voice on her in a way that reminded her she needed a blade." He paused, letting that sit. "I don't take kindly to that."
His hand moved to his jacket, fingers parting the lapel, and the grip of his pistol caught the thin light of the alley moon.
The man's eyes went very wide. His injured hand came up, palm out, his whole body pressing back against the brick like he could dissolve into it. "Wait, wait, wait, I'll pay double, I'll pay whatever you—"
The hammer drew back with a soft, final click that cut the man's sentence clean off.
Smoke looked at him with those coal-flat eyes and the man fell silent as a stone thrown into deep water. No more words. Just the ragged labor of his own breathing and the thin, continuous sound of his blood hitting the ground.
Footsteps came down the alley behind Smoke and he didn’t bother turning around because he didn't need to. There was only one set of feet in the world that sounded like that.
Stack came up beside him, his hands loose at his sides, gold tooth catching the moon when he tilted his head down at the man on the ground. He took in the full picture. The gun. The blood. The look on Smoke's face. Then he took in a breath, slow and satisfied, and began to speak.
He told Smoke everything. The condition the man had come in. The things he had said when Bunny called it out. The swing that didn't land. The blade that did. When he finished, Stack was quiet for a moment, and then he reached into the interior pocket of his jacket and produced a knife with a blade four times the size of whatever Bunny had been carrying. He turned it once in his fingers, the steel catching and releasing the light in alternating flashes, and he smiled. It was the crooked smile, the one that reached his eyes and meant he was genuinely pleased about something.
"Lemme’ talk to him first," Stack said. "I ain't had a good conversation in a minute."
Smoke looked at his brother and then he looked at the man on the ground, who was now visibly shaking, tears cutting through the blood on his cheek without any prompting at all. Smoke stood from his crouch, straightened his jacket once more, and stepped to the side. He put his pistol back without a word, folded his hands behind his back, and watched.
Stack crouched in his place, knife resting easy between two fingers, his face open and joyful in the particular way that meant the worst thing imaginable was coming next. "How you doin', friend?" he asked, accent thick as summer mud, voice warm as a lit match. "Tell me somethin'. You ever have somebody look after you real good, put you somewhere soft an warm an safe, an you go an spit in they face for it? You ever do that?"
The man couldn’t answer.
Stack tilted his head and grinned like a Cheshire Cat. "Naw, naw, take ya' time. I got all night."
The alley didn’t hear from that man again after that. Not in any language that would've made sense to a person passing on the street.
A month passed by and it had the audacity to feel like three.
Bunny sat on the edge of her bed in the room the twins had given her and pulled a brush through her texturized hair for the fourth time that evening. She counted the strokes the way she had been taught to count them since childhood, one and two and three and four, because there was nothing else to count and the act of counting kept her hands busy and her hands being busy kept her from acknowledging a particular restlessness that had been living under her skin for the better part of two weeks.
The room she was stationed in was nice. That was the first thing she had thought when Stack walked her to it, one week after the incident, with his hand at the small of her back and a short instruction to make herself comfortable. She had expected a small, utilitarian thing, the kind of space a working doll got assigned on the upper floor with a shared bath down the hall and a window that faced the brick wall of the building next door. What she got was a room with curtains. Actual curtains, silk ones that pooled at the floor and caught the last of the day's light in a way that turned the whole space the color of a candle flame. A vanity with a proper oval mirror. A wardrobe that had been stocked before she arrived with dresses and wrappers and nightgowns of a quality that made her catch her breath the first time she opened its doors, fabrics so fine they slipped through her fingers like water. On the small table beside her bed, a covered dish of food arrived three times a day whether she asked for it or not. Things she hadn't tasted since she was a little girl sitting in her grandmother's kitchen, sweet potato pie with a crust that shattered her taste buds like stained glass, braised oxtail over white rice, pound cake soaked in lemon syrup that left a sweetness on the roof of her mouth for hours.
She was being treated like a woman of some standing… And it was driving her absolutely out of her mind.
Bunny set the hairbrush down and looked at herself in the vanity mirror with an assessing expression she reserved for private moments like these. She was thirty-four years old. She had curves that grown men wrote embarrassing letters about and women studied with something too complicated to be called jealousy and too honest to be called admiration. She had hands that knew how to work, thighs that knew how to hold, a mouth that had never once left a client feeling cheated, and a reputation in three separate cities that had always, always been built by her own effort, her own body, her own particular genius for the kind of pleasure that made a man feel like he was the most important thing in the room. She hadn’t come to this brothel to be kept like a flower in a glass case. She had come because she heard that the Moore twins ran the most lucrative operation north of the Mason Dixon and she wanted in on it. She wanted to work.
The bath she had taken earlier still clung to her skin in the form of the vanilla oil she had worked into her arms and her neck, and the nightgown the wardrobe had produced tonight was deep gold that made her brown skin glow like something lit from within. She looked breathtakingly beautiful, yet she felt like a caged thing in beautiful wrappings.
After looking herself over one more time in the mirror, she stood and made a silent decision as she made her way to the kitchen.
The brothel at midnight had a particular quality to it, a quietness that fell somewhere between a sleeping house and a thinking one. The downstairs jazz had stopped three hours ago. The girls were either asleep or occupied, and the hallways that had been warm and perfumed with commerce earlier in the evening were now cool and dim, lit by the occasional wall sconce that’s wick had been turned down low. Bunny moved through the brothel on her bare feet, the gold nightgown sighing against her legs with every step, and she told herself she was just going for a peach before confronting the twins. There was always a bowl of peaches in the kitchen. She had discovered this on her second day and found it oddly comforting that someone in this house thought fresh fruit was important enough to replenish daily.
She pushed open the kitchen door and the room was drenched in darkness. That was the first thing. The second thing was that it wasn’t empty.
As Bunny's eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room, eventually she was able to see there was a woman sitting at the long kitchen table in the dark eating cornbread.
Bunny stood in the doorway with her hand still on the door and looked at the mystery woman as she took her in piece by piece. Height first, even sitting, the woman had somewhat of a long-limbed frame that telegraphed itself. Bunny guessed that she was maybe five foot eight or nine if she stood. Her skin was deep, even brown like good molasses in a jar, paired with hair that fell straight and unadorned down past her shoulders, jet black, the color of ink before it dries. And to finish it off, she had a face that did a thing Bunny had only seen faces do in paintings, not the kind hung in houses like this one, but the kind in old churches where the artists tried to put something holy and something frightening in the same expression at the same time. The mystery woman looked young feature wise as if she hadn’t yet turned twenty-two, but her eyes… her eyes were something else entirely.
Bunny wasn’t a woman who was scared easily. She had lived too much, seen too much, and cut too many men across the face to give fear the kind of real estate it wanted in her mind. But those violet eyes made something ancient crawl up the back of her neck, not unpleasant, just… aware. Like stepping into a room and understanding that whatever was in it had been there since before the house was built.
The woman looked up from her cornbread and regarded Bunny with an expression of complete composure, as though being found eating cold food alone in a dark kitchen of a brothel in the middle of the night was exactly where she was expected to be.
"You Rosalie," the woman said. It wasn't a question.
Bunny blinked. "How'd you—"
"You look like a Rosalie." She broke off another piece of cornbread, unhurried about it. "I'm Josephine. Everybody an they mama call me Josie."
Bunny stepped into the kitchen and let the door drift shut behind her. "I go by Bunny," she said, and then, because she couldn't help herself, "why are you sittin' in the dark?"
Josie ignored the question with such thoroughness that it was almost artful. She tilted her head at Bunny and asked, "They call you Bunny 'cause you can bounce on a dick 'til a man start beggin' for his mama?"
The initial response that leaped to Bunny's lips was something ladylike and deflective. What came out instead was a flustered, sputtering exhale, as her cheeks went warm and her hand raised halfway to her mouth before she caught it. She cleared her throat. "That's… yes," she admitted. "That's… um… exactly why."
The corner of Josie's mouth moved in something that could've been a smile if it committed to itself. She pushed the plate of cornbread forward by an inch, the gesture of a woman sharing without making much of it. "Have some."
Bunny looked at the cornbread. It was ice cold and hard as a rock. She could see the waxy surface on it that cornbread got when it had been sitting awhile. She was fond of cornbread. She was not fond of that. She moved instead to the bowl on the counter and lifted a peach, testing its weight in her palm before biting into it, and she hummed as the juice ran down her chin warm and sweet.
She stood there eating the peach and watching Josie, and Josie let herself be watched for a time, eating her cold cornbread with equanimity, apparently perfectly at peace with the scrutiny. But Bunny was staring and she knew it and the reason she was staring was the thing she couldn't pin down, the thing that sat off-center about this woman the way a picture sits off-center on a wall. She wasn’t dressed like any of the other dolls Bunny had met in the past month. No lace, no slip, nothing that mirrored the nature of this house and its business. She wore a plain white blouse tucked into a flowy dark skirt with her feet bare on the kitchen floor. She looked like a woman who had stepped in from another dimension entirely and simply hadn't gotten around to leaving.
Bunny had met all the other dolls in the house during her first week. She was certain of that. This woman had not been among them.
Josie took another bite of her cornbread and looked at Bunny the way Bunny had been looking at her, with that clear, still assessment that took nothing personally and missed nothing either. "How you likin' it here?" she asked. "Smoke and Stack pretty decent owners, far as that kind of thing go."
The word owners sat in Bunny's mouth for a moment before she swallowed it. "I wouldn't know yet," she reluctantly admitted. "I had one client, one incident, and since then they've had me locked up in a room like I'm made of porcelain and they're afraid I'll chip." She took another bite of peach. "I haven't worked a single real night. I came here to make money. Instead I've been eatin' pie and watchin' the curtains move."
Josie's eyes sharpened the way a fire sharpens when you give it more air. "Which one claimed you?" she quipped.
Bunny frowned her brows in confusion. "I'm sorry?"
"Which twin? Smoke or Stack? Elijah or Elias? Which one claimed you as his doll?"
The frown deepened. "Neither of them," Bunny said slowly, like she was working out whether that was the right answer even as she gave it. "When I arrived they walked me through the rules, explained how the percentages worked, showed me the floor. Neither of them said anything about… claiming."
Now it was Josie’s turn to be confused as she stopped eating and placed her cornbread very gently on the plate in front of her. She looked at Bunny with the full force of those ancient alien lavender eyes and she was quiet for a stretched-out moment that had weight to it. Then she leaned forward and without a word of warning she took Bunny's face between both her hands and squeezed her cheeks together, compressing Bunny's lips into a surprised, rounded 'O'.
"You are thee cutest thing," Josie cooed, with the slightly awed sincerity of someone who had just found a very small, very charming animal in an unexpected location.
Bunny's eyes went wide above her squished cheeks. She made a sound that was supposed to be a protest and emerged as something closer to a muffled quack.
Josie released her with an unrushed giggle and settled back in her chair as though that had been a perfectly reasonable thing to do. "Alright," she said. "Let me explain how this house works."
Bunny smoothed her cheeks with her palms and fixed Josie with a look that she reserved for people who had just done something she didn't have the vocabulary to address properly. Then she sighed, finished the peach, and sat down.
Josie explained the rules of the house with a questionable amount of knowledge that Bunny would inquire about later. When a doll went through something the way Bunny had gone through something, they were taken off the floor. Not longer than a week, typically. No clients, no housework, just time to let the body and the mind settle back into themselves without being asked to perform. After that period, whichever twin had claimed that particular doll would take her through a retraining week. A proper retraining. Not punishment, not because she had done something wrong, but because the mind needed to be walked back through safety the same way the body needed to be walked back through strength after a sickness. The twins were a great many things, Josie explained, and some of those things weren’t things that would be listed in a church bulletin, but they weren’t complete monsters and wouldn't send a shaken woman back to work before she was ready. That wasn’t morality for morality's sake. It was also just bad business, and they were nothing if not precise businessmen.
Bunny absorbed this. Processed it. Turned it over. And then arrived at the part that had been sitting sideways in her chest since the question first got asked.
"It's been a month," she said.
Josie looked at her dumbfounded like she didn’t hear her correctly.
"It's been a month," Bunny said again. "The incident was a month ago. Nobody took me through any retraining. Nobody said anythin’ about when I'd go back to work. And you're telling me that the reason for that is…"
She could see it in Josie's expression before she said it, like she was about to deliver news that amused her to the highest degree.
"Either you one of the special ones," Josie said, the childish grin breaking through now, unconstrained, like a schoolgirl who had been holding it in for the last five minutes, "or you somehow so boring that both of them forgot you exist entirely."
Bunny straightened up in her chair. "I am not boring," she said.
"I didn't say you were."
"You implied it."
"I offered it as a possibility."
"It is not a fuckin’ possibility." Bunny's chin came up and her voice took on the tone of a woman defending something she had built with a considerable effort over many years. Before she had walked through the Moore brothers' doors she had left three separate establishments because she had outgrown them. She had a clientele that wrote letters to find out where she had gone. She had a reputation that didn’t include the word boring in any language. "I done made grown ass men cry," she said. "Not from pain… From gratitude."
Josie held up one hand in a gesture of peace, her playful grin not moving an inch. "Alright, alright. I believe you. I apologize." She folded her hands on the table. "The other explanation, then, is that they both want to claim you and neither one of them know how to go about it without steppin’ on the other's toes."
Bunny's chair scraped back half an inch. "Both of them?"
"It's rare," Josie whispered, as if she was saying too much too soon. "In the whole time this house been runnin’ there've only been two dolls that both of them claimed at once. Just two. The second one is named Buttercup. She handles their books and investments. She’s been both of theirs for many moons." A pause, thoughtful and private. "The first one…" She picked up her cornbread again and looked at it, not at Bunny. "Well..."
The silence that lingered behind that one word forced Bunny to really look at Josie's profile. She took in the serenity of it, the complete and settled comfort with which this woman occupied any space she entered, including dark kitchens in the middle of the night. The way she didn't need to finish the sentence because the sentence was already obvious to anyone paying attention.
"Hypothetically," Bunny said carefully.
Josie's mouth curved with mischief. "Hypothetically..."
"If a woman found herself in that position. Both of them. At once. How would she… manage that?"
Josie was quiet for a moment, chewing her cornbread, looking somewhere past Bunny's shoulder as though consulting a memory that lived in the middle distance. "Hypothetically," she repeated, "such a woman would need to learn how not to get frostbitten by an avalanche of coldness." A pause. "While also not burnin’ up in a lake of uncontrolled fire." Another pause, this one carrying a slightly different weight, the weight of something remembered in the body as much as the mind. "And on top of all that, she would need to learn how to take two men at the same time without tearin’ in half."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"That's… useful information," Bunny said finally.
"I thought you'd think so."
They sat for another minute, the two of them, in the warm dark kitchen with the peach bowl on the counter and the plate of cold cornbread between them, and something passed between them that couldn’t be labeled as friendship yet but was the thing that comes just before it, a recognition, a sense of shared understanding arrived at by different roads.
A few more comforting minutes passed and then Bunny stood. She pulled the gold nightgown straight across her hips and ran one hand through the freshly brushed waterfall of her hair and looked at Josie with the expression of a woman who had made up her mind about something and had no further interest in deliberating. "Hypothetically, if I wanted to speak with them tonight... you know where they are?"
"Their office," Josie said. "End of the hall. Door on the left." She reached for the last piece of frosty cornbread. "Knock four times when you get there. Even count, same rhythm. That's how they know it's a doll behind the door and not somebody they need to put a bullet in."
Bunny's eyes widened slightly. "Good to know."
"One more thing," Josie said, without looking up, the words landing easy as a stone dropped into still water, "whoever open that door? Look him dead in the eye when you tell him what you want. Don't let him take the silence from you first. They'll stand in a quiet room and wait you out 'til you forget what you came for. Don't let him." She broke off a bite of cornbread. "Now go."
The hallway to their office was dim and long as the floorboards under her bare feet held the warmth of the day's heat, soaked up and slowly releasing into the night. She walked it with her chin level and her footsteps quiet, the vanilla oil on her skin mixing with the faint residual perfume that lived in all the walls of this house. At the far end of the hall, beneath the last sconce, a door sat closed and faintly rimmed with the amber line of lamplight from beneath it.
She stopped in front of it. Pressed her palm flat against the wood for one second. Then she knocked. Four times. Even. The same rhythm. Just as Josie had instructed.
On the other side of the door, the office breathed with the quietness of two men working in a comfortable parallel. The desk was spread with ledgers and cash in organized columns, the ashtray on its corner nursed a half-finished cigarette that had gone cold, and the lamp threw a yellow circle of warmth across the arithmetic of their operations. Stack stood at the desk's far edge, jacket off, suspenders down, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, one hand moving down a column of figures with the end of a pencil. Smoke sat on the lounge couch along the near wall, his own jacket folded beside him, a glass of brown liquor balanced on the arm of the cushion, his eyes moving across a folded sheet of paper he had been reading for the third time.
Four knocks came through the door.
Even. Measured.
Both men went still.
Stack's pencil stopped and his eyes lifted from the ledger to find his brother's face across the room. Smoke had already set the paper down. His hand had already moved to the glass, lifting it, not drinking from it, just holding it in the idle way of a man whose other hand needed to be free. His eyes were steady on the door.
The four-count knock meant a doll. Both of them knew that. The problem was that only two dolls in their entire operation knew that particular code, and neither of those two women were supposed to be within three city blocks of this brothel for another three days.
Smoke set the glass down very carefully on the side table before standing and crossing the room to the door. His shoulder holster rode against his undershirt as he pulled his pistol free in one clean motion before turning the knob and pulling the office door open.
Bunny stood in the hallway nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other. The lamplight from inside the office hit her caramel brown skin from the side and the effect of this wasn't something Smoke had originally budgeted for. She was soft, luminous, small, and entirely the kind of woman that a man had to consciously remind himself to look away from, all of that deep-curved, warm-skinned, doe-eyed beauty arranged in the specific way that made the gold fabric laced over her body look like it had been commissioned for her personally. She blinked up at him. Her eyes were the color of good rum and they caught the light and held it, and for one unguarded half second the hardness in his face did something complicated before it arranged itself back into its usual flat composure.
Smoke held the pistol at his side. His face settled back into the expression of a man who was conducting business regardless of the hour. His eyes moved over her once, the way he surveyed any situation that required assessment before a response. "Why," he said, voice smooth and level as a road built to last, his Mississippi roots dragging slow and warm beneath every word, "is you at my door knockin' four times?"
Bunny didn’t flinch as she looked him in the eye exactly as Josie had instructed and she held the look steady. "Because," she said, "I am tired of being treated like I'm made of glass." She let a breath pass as she remembered who she was speaking to. "... Sir."
Smoke looked at her for a long minute. He ran his mind back, sorting through the preceding month like how a man sorts through a drawer looking for something he put down without thinking. The girl on the floor. The drunk client. The blade. Stack handling her, him handling the client. The decision to move her to the room across from theirs. Then the weeks had continued to happen, the operation had continued to require their attention, and somewhere in the middle of all of that, the particular task of walking her back through had gotten caught in the gap between what he assumed Stack had handled and what Stack apparently assumed he had handled.
He let the exhale come through his nose, small and contained. Then he stepped back from the door and nodded once towards the interior of the room. "Come in."
Bunny wasn’t a woman that needed to be instructed twice as she came in.
Smoke shut the door behind her and walked back to the couch, settling into it with the glass of liquor retrieved from the side table. His eyes stayed on her as she took in the office, the desk and its columns, Stack still standing at the far edge of it now with his arms folded. Smoke's gaze moved from her face to his brother's and he said, with the absolute calm of a man stating a mathematical fact, "You done forgot to recommission ya' doll."
Stack's expression moved toward as expression of confusion that was also slightly offended at the framing. "Fuck you mean my doll?" he quipped. "Thought she was yours."
"I moved her to the room 'cross the hall," Smoke said. "I was leavin' the rest to you."
"Nobody told me that."
"I ain't gotta tell you everythin’, Elias. Use ya' brain."
Stack unfolded his arms and planted both hands flat on the desk. "My brain was operatin' under the assumption that the woman sittin' over in that room with the good curtains was your doll that you was handlin' in ya' own time, Elijah. Had I known she was mine to recommission I would've had her back on the floor four weeks ago."
"She been over there four an a half weeks."
"Four an a half weeks then. My point stands, muthafucka."
"Ya' point is that you wasn't payin' attention—"
"My point is that you could've opened ya' mouth like a grown ass man an said the words 'Elias, go handle Bunny' an I would've gone an handled Bunny, but instead you sittin’ over there on that couch drinkin' ya' liquor an assumin' I was gon' read ya' mind—"
"I don't need you readin' my mind, I need you payin' attention to what's happenin' in this house—"
"Stupid bitch, I pay more attention to what happens in this house than you do, I just ain't also expected to be a fuckin' mind reader on top of everythin’ else—"
"Language, Elias.” Smoke said.
"Now I need to read ya' mind an watch my mouth?"
"We got a doll present. Tighten up." Smoke's eyes cut to Bunny for one brief moment that carried the tiniest edge of an apology.
Bunny had been watching this exchange with the expression of a woman who was simultaneously relieved that Josie was right and also annoyed that Josie was right. She looked at the ceiling for one moment, gathering something, and then she looked at Stack directly.
"I didn't come here to listen to y'all argue about whose doll I am," she cut in. The words came out clean and direct, and beneath them ran a current of something real, something stored up across four weeks in a pretty room with silk curtains and three meals a day that she hadn’t earned. "I came here because I am a woman who been working since I was old enough to understand that money you make yourself is the only kind that belongs to you in full." She let that settle for a moment.
Before she had walked through their door she had left three establishments because she outgrew them. Before that, back when she was Rosalie and not Bunny, she hadn't been permitted to own so much as the dress on her back. That life was behind her and it would stay behind her as long as she had a body to work with and the sense God gave her to use it. "I appreciate the food," she said. "I appreciate the nightgowns and the curtains and the sweetness. I do. But I am not a woman who takes without giving back, and I am not going to sit in that room one more week eating indulging in things I ain't earn. I want to work."
The office held the sound of that for a brief second.
Stack analyzed her from top to bottom. The annoyance from the argument with his twin had drained off his face entirely, replaced by something more attentive and interesting. He possessed the look of a man who had been watching something he wanted for some time and had just been reminded of it. His gaze moved down the gold nightgown with the focused assessment of a man reviewing an investment he had forgotten to manage and was now reconsidering with renewed and comprehensive interest.
He came around the desk, crossed the office floor, and closed the distance between them until his chest was close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him. His hands came up. His fingers settled first at the hollow of her throat, light and acquainting themselves with the shape of her, feeling the small flutter there she couldn't suppress, feeling the way she swallowed. Then they traveled with thorough patience across her collarbones, over the generous swell of her chest through the nightgown's thin fabric. She was built lavishly, heavy and warm everywhere in a way that made his hands slow down and pay attention, and he let them linger there, cataloguing her, until her breathing changed and she tried to hide the change but couldn't.
His hands continued their inventory, moving down the soft plush landscape of her stomach, the deep inward curve of her waist, spreading wide across the full round geography of her hips. He took his time with her hips. He spent what felt like an extended amount of time mapping them, as though committing their particular architecture to some private record he intended to revisit at a later date. Then one hand swept low and around, and he brought his palm down hard and flat across the full magnificent curve of her backside with a crack that split the quiet of the office like a starting pistol.
The sound rang off the walls, the bookcase, the glass in the lamp, everything. Bunny's gasp tore out of her before she had the opportunity to make any decisions about it, sharp and bright, her body moving without consulting her brain, tilting forward into the impact and then backward away from it, settling finally against Stack's chest in a way that was involuntary enough to be entirely honest.
Stack felt her melt against him and his exhale came out long and satisfied. His arm wrapped around her from behind, pulling her flush against the front of him, and he bent his mouth to the curve of her ear. "I'm gon’ be the one runnin' ya' retrainin' tonight." He pressed his mouth closer to her ear, words dropping to a rough near-whisper. "An dependin' on how that go… I might need to keep you locked away from everybody else for another month… Really take my time so ya' body don't ever forget who it belong to."
The sound Bunny made was small, strangled, and entirely against her will.
He reached for the thin strap at her shoulder and slid it down. The other strap followed. He peeled the gold nightgown from her slowly, letting it whisper down her curves until it pooled at her feet in a gilded ring, and what was left standing in the middle of their office was every generous, luminous, full inch of Bunny without a single layer between her skin and the lamplight. The lamp threw amber across the swell of her hips, the deep curve of her waist, the heavy softness of her breasts, the deep brown warmth of her, and the office became immediately a different kind of room.
Stack stepped back and bit down on his bottom lip as he took in her goddess figure. Then, with the easy authority of a man in his own house, he waltzed over to the couch where Smoke sat and dropped down beside his brother. He plucked the liquor glass from Smoke's hand, drained what remained, and reached for the refill trolley at the couch's edge. Smoke didn’t argue with his twin. He simply shifted his weight to accommodate Stack’s presence and locked his eyes on Bunny.
Two men on the same couch. Side by side. Undershirts and slacks, loafers, the warm lamplight running along the defined lines of their arms where the fabric ended, the undeniable press of their interest visible in the material of their trousers. Stack poured a fresh glass and settled into the cushion. Smoke took Bunny in from head to foot with that flat, complete attention that gave nothing away and missed nothing. The air in the room had changed and pressed heavily on all their shoulders.
Stack leaned forward, elbows to his knees, glass hanging loose in his fingers. "Show me," he said, "why you worth the trouble of retrainin' when you already cost me a dead white man, two dry cleaning bills, a shovel we had to replace after breakin' it diggin' that peckerwoods grave, plus four an a half weeks of room an board an meals that even my top earners don't see on a regular Tuesday." He settled back into the cushion. "All that, an you ain't brought us a single dollar. So show me what you got, Bunny."
Bunny stood naked in the center of their office and looked at both of them. She took one breath. Then she walked to Smoke.
She came to stand directly before him and held his gaze and placed one knee on the cushion beside his thigh and then the other, straddling his lap with the practiced ease of a woman who had made herself at home in more difficult situations than this. She could feel him beneath her already, the dense, insistent hardness of him through his slacks, and the discovery sent something bold climbing up her spine and into her shoulders. She rolled her hips, one slow and complete rotation, felt him twitch beneath her, and did it again. She leaned forward and put her mouth to the side of his neck, the warm brown skin above his collar, and kissed him there. Felt his jaw tighten. Kissed across his collarbone, the gap where his undershirt opened at the throat. She found his earlobe with her teeth, caught it just barely, and felt the exhale that came out of him, contained and controlled, the only version of a sound he was willing to give her yet.
She pulled back and looked at Stack over her shoulder. "I can't promise I won't cause more trouble with your clients," she said, her hips still moving against Smoke's in that slow, measured grind. "That ain’t a promise I can keep. But I am an investment." She felt Smoke's hand settle on her hip, heavy and certain, the grip of a man who was claiming something without announcing he's done it. "And you'd be foolish men to let me go."
Then she climbed off Smoke's lap and moved to Stack.
She settled herself across his thighs before he had quite finished processing the intention, and his hands came up instinctively, finding her hips, and she moved against him the way she had moved against his brother, with that same frank, unhurried competence, rolling her hips in grinding rolls that had him fully hard inside his slacks under a minute. She kissed along his jaw, the corner of his mouth, found his throat and bit softly at it and felt him grip her harder. She turned her mouth to his ear. "Well?" she said quietly.
Stack's answer was both hands sliding down to fill themselves with the full, heavy weight of her backside, squeezing with the proprietary thoroughness of a man claiming something he had decided belongs to him and only him.
From the other side of couch, Smoke reached forward and caught the back of her hair in his fist. Not rough, not gentle, just completely unambiguous, pulling her head back until she was looking up at him from Stack's lap with her neck at a stretched and exposed angle. Smoke looked down at her, his eyes never leaving her face. "Who," he said, each word its own complete and unhurried thing, "taught you that knock?"
"Josie," Bunny replied quickly.
The quality of the silence that followed was specific. She felt Stack go still beneath her. She saw something shift in Smoke's expression, not much, just a recalibration of a single degree. "Josie," he repeated. Flat.
"She was in the kitchen," Bunny continued. "Just now. I spoke with her before I came down here."
Smoke's eyes moved to Stack's face. Stack's eyes moved back. That language again, the one that needed no words. Whatever moved between them in that half second was mutual and resolved by the time it was done.
Smoke released her hair. He stood, adjusted the set of his shoulder holster with one practiced motion, and looked at Bunny. "Come," he said.
Stack stood from the couch with Bunny still in his arms, lifting her from his lap without any apparent effort, her weight absorbed into his frame as a matter of course. He carried her out of the office. Smoke walked ahead through the dim corridor, his footsteps quiet on the floorboards, and they moved as a unit through the darkness of the second floor until they reached the kitchen.
Smoke pushed the door open.
Bunny looked into the kitchen from over Stack's shoulder.
The room was empty.
The room wasn't just vacant as if someone had just stepped out, the room was suddenly empty in a way that was wrong. Profoundly, specifically wrong. The chair at the table sat at the exact angle it had been in when she first sat down across from Josie, as though no one had adjusted it at all, as though no one had ever pulled it out to sit in it. The plate of cornbread was gone without a trace, not in the washtub, not on the counter, not anywhere. Simply absent from the room as if it was never there. The peach bowl sat exactly where it always sat. The lamplight came through the window at its usual angle and landed on a kitchen that offered no evidence whatsoever that a woman with ancient eyes had been sitting in it not even twenty minutes ago.
Bunny stared. The hair on her arms rose.
"She was right there," she said, and her voice had climbed half a register before she noticed. "She was sittin' right there at that table. She had cornbread on a plate, cold cornbread, she had it on a plate right there in front that chair, she offered some to me and I took a peach instead. She squeezed my cheeks." Bunny's hand rose and touched her own face at the memory of it, the very real and physical memory of Josie's palms pressing her cheeks together. "She was a real person who was in this room. She had feet. I heard her feet on the floor when she shifted her chair. That ain't somethin' I imagined." She heard her own voice rising once more and made herself stop. Swallowed down her confusion and looked from the empty table, to the empty chair, to the empty counter where a plate had been sitting less than a few minutes ago. The wrongness of the empty kitchen pressed against her like a cold hand.
"Where'd she go," she whispered, and this time her voice came out quieter, stripped of its former certainty, with something underneath it that was very close to fear. "The hallway is one hallway. I walked the whole length of it to get to your office. I would have seen her. I would have passed her. Where'd she—"
"I believe you."
Smoke's voice arrived quietly and cut through everything else like a lamp lit in a dark room. He stepped next to Stack and reached out, taking her chin between his fingers, tilting her face toward him with a gentleness that wasn’t his usual mode and was therefore more effective than almost anything else he could’ve done. His eyes moved across her face, reading whatever he found there with that same thorough attention, and then he said it again without elaboration or apology. "I believe you. You saw her. You spoke to her. It's 'ight." He held her gaze until the climbing quality went out of her breathing, until her eyes settled from startled back to present. His thumb moved once along her jaw, the lightest possible contact, and then he released her chin and looked at Stack over her head.
The look between them lasted one second and carried something private in it, something that had history in it, some understanding of Josie that they shared between themselves and weren’t presently sharing with Bunny. "Need to put a leash on that woman," Smoke grumbled, with the flat certainty of someone adding an item to a list.
"You an me both, nigga," Stack said, quietly.
Smoke turned from the kitchen. He didn’t go back towards their office, instead he went the other direction, toward the room at the far end of the hall, and Stack followed with Bunny still in his arms, carrying her away from the empty kitchen and the empty chair and the cold and inexplicable absence of a woman who had been sitting in it minutes ago eating cold cornbread like she owned the place.
The room at the end of the hall was broad and purposeful. A wide bed sat at its center on a dark mahogany frame, the headboard tall and unadorned. White linens, clean. A single lamp burning low in the corner, its flame turned down until the light came out warm and intimate. This was a simple room designed for one thing and one thing only, retraining a doll that didn’t need to be disciplined.
Stack deposited Bunny in the center of the bed with more chivalry than intended. He straightened up and looked at her sprawled across the white linens, her moisturized brown skin drinking the lamplight the way it was built to, every curve of her catching and holding the warmth of it. He let out a small satisfied grunt before rolling his shoulders once and then bending down to kiss the inside of her knee.
The sound Bunny made started in her throat and got halfway out before she caught it, her thigh twitching under his mouth. Stack felt the twitch and registered it with the calmness of a man who had spent a considerable amount of time studying the language of women's bodies, then he returned and pressed his lips to her inner knee again.
One kiss… two kiss… three kiss… four… Stack continued his playful worship before moving lower, or rather higher towards Bunny’s inner thigh. He was greeted with the soft warm skin there as his mouth opened against it, tongue dragging along the crease where her thigh met nothing and then meeting the next crease. He was learning the deep inner geography of her, building the path inward with a patience that was intentionally designed to make her lose her mind before he arrived at his final destination.
Her scent hit him before his mouth did and he let out a low sound against her skin that was pure appreciation. "Four an a half weeks," he said, lips moving against her inner thigh, his breath warming the space he hadn't touched yet. "You been sittin' in that pretty room unfucked all this time, huh, lil’ bunny rabbit?"
Bunny responded vocally with something that was technically a word, or at least she thought she did.
Stack chuckled to himself and then his mouth immediately found her aching bundle of nerves. He worked her the way a classically trained musician works an instrument he knows intimately. He didn’t rush his performance but instead attended to the specific truth of her responses with the kind of focused and intelligent attention that made up the difference between a man who was present and a man who was going through the motions. He learned her in the first thirty seconds, learned the particular way her hips moved when he pressed the flat of his tongue against her center, the way her thighs tried to close around his head and then caught themselves and spread wider, the way the sound she made climbed an entire octave when he tended to her clit and circled it with skilled precision.
He effortlessly brought her to the edge in under four minutes.
He knew when she was there. He had been watching for it, feeling for it in the tightening of her thighs and the change in her breathing, the way her hands had found the back of his head and were pressing down with that desperate and gnawing pressure that meant she was right there, right on the rim of it, one more motion and she would go over. He could feel her gathering herself, the coil of it pulling tight in her body and her hips tilting up to meet him.
But, because Stack was Stack, he couldn’t help himself as he pulled back and denied Bunny instant relief. She wasn’t a doll that needed to be punished, but she was still a doll under control of her master. He didn’t pull away far, just enough for his mouth to leave her core and rest against the inside of her thigh instead. He looked utterly composed as he breathed against her soaked, twitching heat while she fell apart beneath him in a different way than she had intended.
"Stack," she breathlessly whined, the word arriving with a thicker desperation than she had planned.
"Mm," he said, mouth still against her thigh.
"Please… Don't do that."
"Do what? " he asked pleasantly.
She made a frustrated sound and whined again before Stack returned to his honeysuckle feast.
He took his time getting there, moving up through the wet of her with his tongue like he was reading something he found interesting, and then he was back at her clit and the sounds coming out of her rebuilt themselves immediately, climbing again, her hips rolling, her fingers curling into the sheets. He gave her forty-five seconds this time before the edge showed up again in the ragged pacing of her breathing, and he pulled back once more. Pressed his mouth to her inner thigh. Breathed. And let her curse at him out.
"You raggedy ass nigga," she managed.
His laugh came out against her skin, warm and genuinely amused. "I done been called worse, babydoll."
At the head of the bed the mattress dipped. Bunny's eyes reopened, head turning, and Smoke leaned above her, and the sight of him was enough to make every other thought in her head exit quickly. He had shedded everything. His undershirt, slacks, holster, all of it was gone, and what was left was all of him, broad and carved and rich dark brown skin. His body looked like the map of a man who had moved through the world with physical force for a long time and had the evidence of that written in muscle and old scars. He was hard, entirely and obviously, and looking at her with those flat obsidian eyes that gave nothing away.
Smoke said nothing as he reached for the small table at the bed's edge and a cigarette appeared between his fingers, a match scratched against the bedframe with a brief bright leap of flame before it found its target. He took the first pull, held it, let the clouds of tobacco climb toward the ceiling in a long and perfectly controlled column. And then he looked down at her, the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, his eyes traveling across her face with the calm, weighing assessment of a man reviewing something he may or may not be satisfied with.
"Who," he said, voice low and quiet and warm as the smoking end of something burning, "you think you talkin’ to like that in my house?"
Between her thighs, Stack's mouth had found the soft heat of her again, and the sound that tried to escape Bunny's throat was intercepted by her own determination not to give Smoke the satisfaction of an incoherent answer before she had the chance to give him a real one. "I-I didn’t mean none by it… I-I wasn’t givin’ orders," she managed.
"Mm." Smoke's eyes dropped from her face to the space just below them, where his erection jumped and throbbed directly above her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, and then his eyes came back up to hers. "You came to my office," he continued as he lazily gripped his manhood before taking another puff. "Told me what you was tired of. Told me what you wanted. Got yaself’ naked in front my brother an I, then sat in both our laps like you had the right." He exhaled smoke from the side of his mouth, away from her face. "That sound like a doll who know her place to you?"
Before she could respond, Stack's tongue distracted her by circling her clit with renewed and specific intention, as one finger pressed into her slowly, testing the heat of her… the tight grip of her. She was utterly soaked and already shaking in a finely controlled way, like how a bow shakes just before the arrow is released.
Smoke watched her face with the careful attention of a man reading a weather report. "A doll," he said, voice quieter, the edge in it sharpening enough to send shivers down her spine, "asks. She don't tell. She don't march down a hallway an knock on my door like she owed somethin'. She asks her owner. She say please. She waits." His thumb brushed her jaw, the touch light and intentional, as his eyes dropped to her mouth and then came back up. "You still ain’t proved you worth the trouble."
It didn't take much for Bunny to read between the lines as her right hand moved from the sheet and gripped Smoke’s precum dripping length. She felt the substantial weight of him against her palm and heard the slight controlled catch of his inhale as she felt him twitch against her hand. He filled her hand, dense and hot, and she stroked him from base to crown once with a grip that was firm.
She angled her head against the pillow, opened her mouth, and drew him in.
His size settled against her tongue, thick and dense, and she worked her lips around him with the exploring attention of a woman who had been told her whole career that her mouth was something extraordinary and had spent years proving it right. She hollowed her cheeks and sucked on him with an unhurried suction, her tongue mapping the underside of him on each pull, tracing the swollen vein that ran along his length, lapping at the crown when she came up before gobbling him back down again. Her free hand wrapped around his base and worked in a measured counterpoint. The combination of hand and mouth coordinated with the easy confidence of someone who had been doing this long enough that it lived in her body the way playing an instrument lives in a musician's hands had Smoke internally losing his mind.
Smoke's own hand found her hair, fingers settling among her now sweated out tresses without pressing, without directing, just resting there with a weight that communicated his full attention. The quality of his breathing changed almost immediately, each exhale coming a degree longer than it should have, each inhale a degree more controlled than usual. He brought the cigarette to his lips with his free hand and took a pull, held it, let the tobacco clouds go from the side of his mouth. The image of him above her doing that while she worked him below was the most Elijah “Smoke” Moore thing she could imagine, controlling himself with a lit cigarette while she did her damnedest to remove that control from him entirely.
For a long minute, Bunny genuinely believed she was finally in control, but then, the devious twin still situated between her thick thighs added a second finger inside her and she gasped. It only lasted a split second as her eyes almost rolled to the back of her head while she momentarily let the pleasure consume her, but that was short lived with a slight tug to her hair.
"Look at me," Smoke demanded.
She didn’t need to be told twice as she retrained her eyes back onto the owner that was in front of her.
"Mmm… good… you capable of suckin’ dick an followin’ instructions," he said softly, in a voice that had dropped below the level where it was meant to sound gentle and instead sounded much more intimate and a whole lot more dangerous. "You got somethin' to say?"
Bunny, whose mouth was still full of raw meat, slightly shook her head ‘no’ and continued servicing Smoke’s dick. Her tongue continued working the underside of him in the way that she had been complimented on in cities that were miles away from this one. She went down until the back of her throat met him and held there, breathing through her nose, feeling his fingers tighten in her hair by one degree, and then she came back up and did it again.
Smoke's exhale was long and relaxed. "Mm," he said, and it was the most honest amount of praise he had given Bunny all night.
Stack had brought her to the edge twice more in the interim, each time withdrawing with the particular cruelty of a man who is enjoying the architecture of her desperation more than he would enjoy its resolution, and she was by now a tightly wounded and thoroughly soaked little doll. Her body was operating at a level of need that had begun to make her cry a little. Not from pain or unhappiness, just from the relentless accumulation of pleasure with nowhere to go.
"Stack… Sir…" she managed, pulling off Smoke for a breath.
"Still here," Stack said, against her thigh.
"Please." The word came out stripped of all pretense. Just the word. Just the need in it, raw and uncomplicated.
Stack looked up at her along the length of her body. His mouth was wet, his eyes were bright, and he looked like a man who had been given an exceptional gift that was in no hurry to unwrap it fully. "Please what?" he asked rhetorically already knowing the answer to the question.
"Please… l-let me finish."
"Let you finish?" His voice carried genuine amusement. "Babydoll, I barley scratched the surface."
Smoke looked at the tears streaming from Bunny’s eyes. Something moved across his face, an emotion too foreign for anyone to decipher. He pulled free of her mouth with a soft sound and moved, climbing off the mattress and coming around the foot of the bed, and the sight of him moving toward Stack's position made Stack lift his head.
Smoke looked at his brother. Then he looked at the place between Bunny's thighs, the glistening, swollen, and desperately twitching evidence of the last fifteen minutes, and he looked back at Stack with an expression that was entirely final.
"Move," he said.
Stack sat up and squinted his eyes in disbelief. "S’cuse you, nigga?"
"Move," Smoke said again.
Stack's eyes narrowed. "She's my doll, Elijah."
"Yeah… well… she’s also mine," Smoke said. "I just decided."
Stack stared at him. The look on his face was the look of a mannish boy who didn’t like having to share his toys. "You can't just decide that," he complained. "That ain't how this works. You can't crawl over here in the middle of my session an claim a whole woman like you can’t go pick another damn doll—"
"Elias."
"What?!”
"I been watchin' her for a month," Smoke said, with the patience of someone explaining something obvious. "She in the room ‘cross the hall from ours. I been the one who had her moved there. I been the one who made sure her meals was right. Made sure her room was right an made sure nobody bothered her." A pause. "She mine. She also yours. Move."
Stack's jaw tightened. He looked at Bunny. Bunny looked back at him from the mattress with wide eyes, her lips still swollen, her thighs still trembling, and her expression carrying the cocky confusion of a woman who had just been claimed by two men simultaneously while lying naked in their bed and was still in the early stages of processing this information. Stack pointed at Smoke. "You owe me," he said. "You owe me big time, nigga."
"Mhm. Add it to the list," Smoke said.
Stack moved, climbing up toward the headboard with a muttered stream of commentary, and Smoke took his place between Bunny's thighs before lowering his head. He wasted no time as his mouth found her center without preamble, his tongue worked her with the focused of a man who went through life either doing something well or not at all. The sound Bunny made was enormous and immediate, her hands flying out to grip the sheets.
Smoke was vastly different from Stack in how he devoured Bunny’s pussy. Stack built her pleasure up as if he was an architect with a boundless amount of patience. Whereas Smoke treated her pleasure like a man reading a language only he knew. Every response she gave him, he immediately incorporated it into what he did next, adjusting, refining, arriving at the exact pressure and rhythm that made her thighs lock around his head and her back clear off the mattress as every coherent thought she had exited the premises.
He didn’t bother edging her since he had already clearly read what the edging had done to her. He could read the accumulated tension in every line of her body. Instead, he drove her straight to the finish line without stopping. The orgasm that finally rippled through her felt spiritual as if her soul was raptured out of her body. Her voice tore out of her open and honest, her hips grinding against his mouth as he worked her through every wave of it, his hands locked on her hips to keep her from pitching away from him.
Stack sat at the headboard watching all of this with his arms folded like a sulking child. When Smoke finally lifted his head, Stack uncrossed his arms and pointed at his brother with one finger. "My turn," he said.
"She sensitive," Smoke said, sitting back on his heels.
"I know she sensitive. That's the point."
Smoke moved aside without any urgency, and Stack replaced him between Bunny's thighs with the eagerness of a man who had been waiting for his turn at something exceptional. He looked at the convulsing center of her for a beat with something purely acquisitive in his expression, and then he put his skilled mouth back on her.
Bunny's entire body jerked backwards. The sound she made this time was considerably more desperate than the last, her hips trying to back away from the overstimulation and Stack's hands locking around them before she got anywhere.
"Stay," he murmured against her, voice vibrating right against her hypersensitive clit.
"Stack I can't, it's too much—"
"You can," he growled, and meant it, and went back to work.
Smoke let his twin have his fun as he situated himself on Bunny’s left side, and his mouth found her breast. His lips closed around her nipple and sucked on the coco nub with an intensity that sent a euphoric sensation shooting directly down her spine. His other hand flattened on her ribs, feeling the heave of her breathing, the rapid and helpless rise and fall of her chest. He worked across to her other breast with the same thorough attention, his teeth grazing just lightly enough to make her gasp, and then moan, and then grip the back of his head.
Meanwhile, Stack feasted like a starving madman. His tongue worked her pulsing and overstimulated pussy with an almost vindictive thoroughness, licking into her and circling her clit with alternating attention, building the sensation higher than it had any right to go given that she had just come apart under his brother's mouth not two minutes ago. He watched her face when he could, watched the progression of it, the way her mouth fell open, how her brows drew together, and when the tears started again fresh from the corners of her eyes, overstimulation and pleasure braided together until she couldn't separate one from the other.
When she came the second time it was different in character, wilder, less controlled, her body arching and convulsing with a force that had nothing of restraint left in it, and the flood of her against Stack's mouth was audible in the quiet room. He drank her juices down with a delighted groan while his jaw still worked her through every aftershock, refusing to stop until her thighs had gone from locked to trembling to limp and her voice had dropped from cries to the soft and utterly wrecked sound of a woman who has nothing left to give.
Thirty seconds of blissful torture occurred until Stack finally sat back. He looked at the evidence of what he had done to her with profound satisfaction, wiping his jaw with the back of his hand. He looked at Smoke. "She ready," he said.
"She definitely ready," Smoke agreed.
Smoke laid down on his back on the mattress beside Bunny, his nine inches pointing toward the ceiling. He turned his head and looked at her where she lay against the linens, trembling and thoroughly undone. His voice, when it came, was dominate and certain. "Show me," he said, "how you got ya' name, bunny rabbit. Show me why you worth the trouble."
The second Bunny heard Smoke’s request, she sat up on trembling arms. She looked at him stretched out beside her, at the full dark length of him, at the patient flatness of his expression, at the way he was simply waiting with the absolute confidence of a man who knew what was coming and secretly couldn’t wait.
She was still a little loopy from her prior orgasms but gathered up enough strength and swung her leg over him. She positioned herself above him and reached down to guide him to her entrance before sinking onto him with a long, controlled descent that pulled a sound from the back of her throat and a sound from the back of his. Both of them couldn’t help themselves responding to the stretch, the heat, and the fullness of her pussy wrapping around his length as she settled herself completely onto him. She stayed there for a second, adjusting, letting her body accommodate the considerable size of him and feeling him everywhere at once before beginning to move.
It only took three bounces for Bunny to prove to Smoke why she had earned her name. She wasn’t just a lady of the night who knew how to ride a dick until sunrise. No. She had spent years refining a specific combination of bouncing, grinding, and rolling that made men weep, beg, and reach for her like she was the only water in a desert. She worked him with her hips, rising and falling in the deep rolling motion that used every muscle she had, the sound of their bodies meeting building in the lamp-warm room, her succulent breasts moving with every stroke, her hands braced on his chest for leverage, her thighs flexing and releasing with each downward drive.
Smoke looked up at her and something happened in his face, some arrangement of his features that wasn’t quite expressionless in the way he usually was, instead something behind his eyes showed a genuine side of him that wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. His hands came to rest on her thighs, not to direct or control the pace, just to hold her, to feel what she was doing from the closest possible position.
He let her have it. He laid there beneath her and he absorbed every stroke with the stillness of a man receiving something with his full attention. His only movements were the tightening of his hands on her thighs, the slight flare of his nostrils, and the slight clenching of his jaw that betrayed how thoroughly he was feeling everything she was giving him. "That's it," he groaned, voice rough and lower than usual. "Keep goin'. Show me everythin’."
And indeed she showed him everything. She rolled her hips in her signature deep figure-eight that made her thighs burn and made men forget what city they were in. She let out a needy whine when she felt him twitch hard inside her, felt his fingers dig into her thighs and felt the sound he made rumble up from somewhere below the place where he usually kept his inner desires.
"Goddamn," Stack praised from somewhere behind her.
Bunny had nearly forgotten, in the consuming present-tense occupation of riding Smoke, that Stack was still in the room with them. She remembered now. She remembered specifically when she felt his hand press warm and flat against the small of her back, pushing her forward just slightly, changing the angle, and she felt the presence of him settling in behind her, the specific warmth of a second body entering the space, and something in her belly turned over at the knowing of what was coming next.
"Don't stop movin'," Smoke growled below her, his voice steady and laced with something that wasn’t quite command and not quite warning, something between the two that communicated that her motion was the thing keeping him from losing his composure. "Keep ya pretty eyes right here."
It was difficult, but she kept her eyes on him. She kept moving, slower now, the rhythm becoming something more rocking and less bouncing as Stack's hand remained at the small of her back and his other hand reached for something on the side table. The sound of a bottle. The sensation of something cool worked at the back entrance she hadn't been using, Stack's fingers pressed and circled with a careful, methodical preparation of a man who knew exactly how to stretch a doll without tearing her. He worked her chocolate starfish open with practiced patience, each circle and press accompanied by Smoke's hands on her hips maintaining their slow rhythm and his voice occasional and low.
"Breathe," Smoke said, one hand traveling from her hip to her stomach, palm flat and warm against her skin. "Stay with me. Just breathe."
She breathed. She kept her eyes on his and kept rolling her hips over him and breathed through Stack's fingers working behind her, opening her gradually, each moment of it accompanied by Smoke's voice and Smoke's hands and Smoke's eyes holding her in place in every sense.
After a minute of probing and preparing, Stack withdrew his fingers. The blunt pressure that replaced them was broader, and it pressed forward with the slow and inexorable patience of a man who had done this enough times to know that patience here was not optional. Bunny's motion over Smoke stuttered as the pressure built and Stack worked his way inside her. He knew better than to rush or force his way inside, instead he continued steadily forward until the stretch had gone from too much, to full, to something that rewired every nerve ending she had at the same moment and left her gripping Smoke's chest with both hands and pressing her face into his shoulder.
"There it is," Stack said from behind her, voice strained as he relished in the tightness of her asshole. "You got all of it, babydoll. You got it."
This wasn’t the first time Bunny participated in anal sex, but it was the first time she had both of her holes filled to the brim. She took both of them, fully, completely, in the most total sense of that word, and the feeling of it wasn’t something she could’ve prepared herself for no matter how plainly Josie had described it. Her body had become an instrument of pure sensation, attended to from both directions at once, filled past the point where she could distinguish between the fullness and herself.
"Move with me," Smoke ordered, and began to rock his hips upward in a slow, careful rhythm.
Stack matched it from behind, withdrawing just barely and pressing back in on the same count, the two of them falling into sync with the ease of people who have shared a frequency their entire lives. Bunny gripped Smoke's chest and held on.
Smoke's hands ran up from her hips to her waist to the curve of her sides, mapping her as she moved, grounding her with the weight and warmth of his hands when the sensation from everywhere else threatened to become too much. "Look at me," he said.
She looked at him.
"You ours," he continued. Not a question, just a statement of something that had apparently been decided and was now being confirmed. "You understand that."
"Yes," she breathed.
"Say it."
"I-I-I'm yours," she whined, and her voice cracked on the last word because Stack had adjusted behind her and found the angle that turned her thoughts entirely to static.
"Fuck," Stack hissed through his teeth. "Keep squeezin’ me like you finna cum an I'm gon' embarrass myself."
Smoke's jaw ticked. He drove his hips up sharper than he had been, once, and her forehead dropped to his chest. "Hold it," he said, one hand traveling up her spine, settling between her shoulder blades. "Don't finish yet."
Like a good little doll, Bunny obeyed even if withholding her orgasm was one of the hardest things for her to do. She held it through the next several minutes of the two of them working her from both sides with building and competing intensity. Stack's hips found a rhythm behind her that grew less restrained with each stroke, his hands gripping her waist with the force of a man holding onto something he didn’t intend to lose. Meanwhile, Smoke drove up into her pussy with a calculated and precise force that hit the same place every time and built the pressure in her body to a pitch that had no precedent in her experience.
She held back her orgasm with her fingernails deep in Smoke's bare chest and tears running freely down her face from the sheer accumulated pressure of pleasure with nowhere to go. Her body shook uncontrollably between them in continuous tremors.
"Hold it," Smoke said again, quieter this time, his hand moving from between her shoulder blades to the back of her neck, his thumb pressing at the base of her skull with a firmness that was grounding. "Hold it for me. Just a little longer."
She felt like an overfilled waterballoon on the verge of popping but she held it a little longer.
"Now," he said.
The second Smoke gave the command, Bunny let go. This orgasm made her entire body convulse between them, and the viper grip of her fluttering holes around both of them became violent and involuntary, her voice tearing out in a sound that came from a place so primal and ancient it didn’t have a name. Stack grunted hard behind her, the sound losing its edges, his rhythm breaking apart, his hips pressing deep and going still as her body worked around him without any input from her at all. Smoke's hands locked on her hips and held her through every spasm, his breath coming in controlled pulls through his nose, his jaw set, his eyes on her face.
She was still a shaking mess when they moved her.
Stack withdrew and the absence of him was its own overwhelming sensation as they repositioned her between them with fluid and efficient coordination, guiding her body into the new arrangement before she could fully process that things were changing. Her hands and knees were positioned on the mattress with Smoke now behind her. Stack was in front of her, already at the edge of the bed, his hand finding her hair, his thumb tilting her chin upward.
"Open," Stack said, his voice dragged rough by the effort of the last several minutes.
She opened. He slid into her mouth and she wrapped her thick lips around him and worked him with the full attention of a woman who had made sucking dick into an art form, her tongue pressing along his length, her cheeks hollowing with each pull. Behind her Smoke gripped her hips with both hands and pressed into her pussy from behind with a force that had nothing of restraint left in it, each thrust was deep and drove her forward into Stack so that the two of them worked her from both ends in a rhythm that had its own crude, overwhelming music.
Smoke's hand came down on the curve of her backside, a sharp slap that made Stack look over her head at his brother with raised brows.
Smoke looked back at him with an expression that communicated absolutely nothing except his full awareness of what he had just done. "She a doll. She our whore," he said casually between thrusts.
Stack's grin broke across his face, gold tooth and all. "Mm hm." His hand joined Smoke's sentiment, fisting tighter in her curls, working himself into her mouth with an authority that matched his brother's behind her. "Take it," he said, "just like that. All of it."
She took it. She took all of it, from both of them, from behind and in front. Her tears ran freely down her face again, dripped off her chin, and ran down Stack's length where he fucked into her throat. She felt another climax building from somewhere deeper than the previous ones had come from, further down, more structural, and her body told her it was coming whether she was ready or not.
Stack felt it in the change of her mouth around him. Smoke felt it in the change of her hypersensitive pussy around him. Both of them drove harder at the same time as Smoke's hand came to her hip and gripped it with the force of a man who wanted to feel the final round tightness squeeze around him. "Give it," Smoke said, rough against her.
Bunny’s body clenched and released in a rolling sequence that started at her core and moved outward, her voice was muffled around Stack’s twitching length and her thighs shook against Smoke's grip. Everything in her narrowed down to the specific and enormous fact of coming apart between these two men who had decided, right then and there, that she was theirs. Stack's hips completely lost their rhythm entirely and he groaned from deep in his chest, his hot sticky release filling her throat in long, heavy pulses, his hand in her hair tightening as he worked through every second of it. Behind her Smoke thrusted into her through the spasms of her climax with a final series of strokes that cost him the last of his control as his hips pressed flush against hers and stayed there while he finished inside her, the sound that came out of him brief and real.
The room after was silent except for breathing.
Three people in various states of collapse across the ruined white linens, the lamp still burning in the corner, the amber light still doing its only job. Bunny was laying face down in the center of the bed with no intention of moving for the foreseeable future. Stack was somewhere to her left, his hand resting on the mattress near her shoulder. Smoke stood after a moment, crossed to the washstand, and returned with a warm cloth. He cleaned her with that same focused efficiency she had heard other dolls gossip about but never experienced, his hands moved over her with the attention of a man who considered this part of the task just as important as any other.
It was Stack’s turn to move from his spot on the bed, as he waltzed over to a nearby drink cart and poured himself a fresh glass of whiskey glass, took a long sip, and exhaled with the deep satisfaction of a man at genuine peace with every decision he had made in the last several hours. He looked at Bunny where she laid against the linens, a beautiful and thoroughly claimed wreck of a woman. Then he turned to look at his brother across the room.
"She can't go back on the floor," he said.
Smoke wrung the cloth out over the basin. "Mm?"
"I'm serious, Eli. Her talent is undeniable. That thang she did with them hips is somethin' I intend to study at length for the next several weeks of my life." He took another sip. "But her control? Her control is nonexistent. She finished too many damn times in one session. You put her in a room with a payin' client who came here expectin' an hour an she gon' be done in two minutes. That man gon' feel robbed an robbed men talk… an talkin' men bad for business." He set the glass down and crossed his arms over his chest like a man presenting a logical conclusion. "Two more weeks. Minimum. We retrain her every night ‘til she can hold back a nut the way a real doll ‘posed to."
Smoke stayed quiet as he came back to the bed, sat at its edge and looked at his twin with the knowing expression he wore when Stack was making an argument he wanted to put an immediate end to. "Elias," he said.
Stack looked at him.
"Drink ya' whiskey an shut the fuck up."
Stack sucked his teeth but he kept his eyes on Bunny.
Bunny turned her face against the pillow and looked at both of them from the comfortable horizontal vantage point of a woman who had been thoroughly wrecked. Smoke, quiet at the bed's edge, let his hand come to rest at her ankle. Stack, whiskey back in hand and gold tooth gleaming was already building his next argument with the enthusiasm of a man who was looking forward to the next two weeks considerably more than he is letting on.
"Two weeks," she mumbled underneath her breath, to the ceiling.
Stack pointed at her with excitement. "See! She gets it. That’s a good lil’ bunny rabbit."
"But the food stays the same," she added.
The room went quiet for a moment.
Then Stack started laughing, full and genuine, the sound rolling through the room and finding all the corners. This time he pointed at Smoke with the glass. "Eli," he said, "I like her."
"I know," Smoke replied as he kept his hand on her ankle. “I know…”
.
.
.
.
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Author’s Note: Wowzers! See I ammmmm capable of writing the twins as civilized deviants… *cough* So… um… how about that Josie?? 😏
Warning(s): If you’re squeamish, this may not be the story for you. Smut (18+, MDNI, but tbh it’s not very explicit), Southern Gothic themes, dark romance, toxic relationships and dynamics, angst, cheating, violence, body horror, gore, romantic cannibalism (lol), horror
Lovergirlnote: Hi, my beautiful lovergirls. So this story was me being a bit experimental and writing in first person. Also, this is somewhat of a personal story for me, as I have incorporated aspects of my own relationships with the men in my life and past loves. (lol let’s not get into that trauma), but I’m really curious to see what you all think of this! Let me know, and as always, thank you all so much for the love and support. 🥹♥️
I remember the first time that I met you.
You were standing in the middle of the room, women and men flocking around you. All hoping for just one chance to have your eyes on them.
I watched you that night. I don’t think there was one moment when my eyes didn’t glance in your direction. I was at a weird point in my life. I’d just lost Anthony. Another heartbreak added to a list of unreliable men that all derived from my father.
I kept my eyes on you. I could feel my interest growing more and more with each passing glance that I gave you. I wanted you to see me just as much as you were seeing everyone else. Call it a coincidence or some sick act of fate, but you did.
You slid your body into the seat next to mine and ordered a glass of Hennessy. I knew that you were waiting for me to finally acknowledge you, which I did after a few short seconds. I was “playing hard” as my mother had taught me as a young girl. You always make men wait for you. Never let them get the assumption that you’re “easy” because then they’ll leave.
At least, that’s what my mama always told me.
“So you gone keep pretendin’ like you don’t see me starin’ at you?” You asked.
I flicked my gaze over you, “I thought they taught all good Southern boys that it was rude to stare.”
You laughed, and not some mild chuckle, you fully laughed at my statement. A smile crossed your face next. I’d known enough men to know what each smile meant. That night, yours meant trouble. You leaned closer to me, as if we were sharing some deep secret, “Well, suga’, I’m not one of those good Southern men ya’ mama and grandmama probably told you about. I’m way better.”
I liked that about you. Your arrogance. It wasn’t like other men’s arrogance. Where theirs bordered on into dangerous territory, yours ventured more in line with self-assuredness. You knew who you were, and you weren’t afraid to let it be known.
“What’s your name?” I asked, taking a small sip from my drink.
“Elias Moore, but you can call me Stack,” You answered in return.
I rolled the syllables of your name around in my mouth for a few moments. Three syllables. What I found interesting was the notion that the “lie” sound in your name stretched out. I suppose that should’ve been my first warning not to fall for you. But I’ve always been bad at relationships, and I’ve always been good at picking very bad men, including you.
You asked for my name, and I gave it to you.
Naturally, you complimented my name. ‘Said it fit my face and that it was the prettiest thing you’d ever heard. For the remainder of the night, we sat at that bar, exchanging knowledge and thinly concealed desire. I liked it. I liked being seen by you. I now recognize why so many people were drawn to you. You had the distinct ability to make others feel like they were the center of your universe.
And God was it infecting.
I wanted more.
I needed to have more of you.
I’ve known many men in my life.
But I can say with full assurance that I haven’t loved many. In fact, I’ve only loved three.
The first was my father.
He was bound to be the first man that I’d love in my lifetime. But see, my father, he’s a very talented man. He’s the only man that I know who can disappear and reappear all at the same time. By the time that I was born, my mama and daddy had already split up. Problems that were too complicated for a child my age to understand, but I grew to know more.
Growing up, I didn’t see my father much. There’d be a handful of times that I could count on my hand that I had memories with him. He’d appear in my life with empty promises of sticking around and building our relationship. I’d always been a foolish and naive girl, and it started with him. I believed that he meant it when he said that he wanted to be around.
But reality comes in quick to remind you that love isn’t always eternal.
I liked to think of my father as a Jack-in-the-box. One minute, he was here, and next, he wasn’t. There’d be a bitter acidic feeling swirling through the cavity of my chest when I realized that he had left. The phone calls decreased. The Saturday pickups stopped. He was my very own ghost.
When my father appeared again, he didn’t appear alone. He appeared with another girl whose resemblance to mine was nearly identical. I watched as he laughed and paraded his perfect daughter around. I watched their interactions. The inside jokes and laughs. There’d be moments when I saw him be immortalized in pictures with her when I had none of my own to cherish.
That was the first time I’d ever felt the hunger.
It clawed away at my chest and rattled beneath my ribs. My gums ached with a distinct urge to consume.
My father was the first.
Lee was the second.
Sweet Lee.
I was a sophomore when I met him. He’d just gotten out of a relationship with a very pretty girl. We clicked together in this strange way. The first moment of us texting consisted of corny jokes and poor pickup lines, but I liked it all. I liked being in those moments with Lee when it felt like I was at the center of his entire world.
The strange thing about Lee and I, we never had a moment to properly kiss until our last moments together.
There’d been this moment outside of school where we stood toe-to-toe, like we were in some romance movie, and we smiled at each other, but I felt the hunger simmering low beneath my stomach. When he leaned in to kiss me, I turned my head at the last second so that his lips landed on my cheek. What I loved about Lee is that he was a real gentleman. He didn’t mind that I turned my head. He just assumed it meant that I was shy.
I smiled at him that day–perfect porcelain teeth hiding thinly concealed fangs.
A common theme in my life with men is that they all inevitably leave. And coincidentally, they all end up leaving for another woman. I’d watched my father leave and go on to create a perfect family with another woman and child. His perfect family.
It was only nature that Lee would do the same thing.
The aforementioned girl from earlier wasn’t over Lee. In fact, she was just as possessive over him as I was. I saw that look in her eye. It’s a look of predatory disposition that only women can seem to sense in each other. However, the girl didn’t know that I possessed something much more dangerous than she and anyone else could ever comprehend.
This face that I wear is not my own.
It’s one that I inherited from my mama and from her mama, but that’s all it is–a mask. I’d grown so used to wearing it that I can’t remember what my real face looks like. I knew I loved Lee, but I was never brave enough to say it aloud. I wouldn’t express that kind of emotion unless he told me that he loved me first. I knew that we were well on our way to that stage until his love started to waver.
The calls decreased. The texts went unanswered for hours. I knew in my heart that he was with her.
Then came the feeling again.
The hunger. The ravenous bloodthirst and ache in my gums to sink my teeth into raw flesh.
By the end of the week, I asked you to come over. You thought it was to finally end things, which was true in some way. That night, I stepped closer to you. Your chest was pressed up against mine, and I could hear the thudding of your heartbeat against my breasts. I trailed a hand up your chest before settling it upon your cheek. I remember you leaned into my touch and closed your eyes at the warmth of my hand.
I brought your face closer to mine until your lips were pressed to mine.
Only a few minutes later were you gone.
The ache and hunger that I felt were gone, too.
Anthony was the third.
He was the one that I loved the most out of any man. I loved Anthony more than my father, and I loved him more than Lee. I met Anthony in my senior year of high school. I was bright-eyed and eager to finally transition to the next stage of my life.
Then he walked in and ruined my life.
Smooth brown skin and hazel eyes.
My mama had always told me to watch out for those men with the pretty eyes. They’d use their eyes to draw you into their lies. That’s exactly what Anthony had done to me.
I tried to fight the interest that I had for Anthony. It was all in vain when he spoke, and his words wrapped around me like silk. He was the first boy that I’d ever let see me–the real me. I bared parts of myself to Anthony that I don’t think I’ve ever recovered.
Anthony started the game first. He’d been doing this for far longer than I had. We developed a friendship first. Isn’t that how all good relationships start? The relationship came next, or I’d rather refer to it as something more parasitic. Anthony took, and I gave. That’s the way that it worked.
He’d give me scraps, and like a hungry dog, I licked them obediently from the floor. Even worse, I’d look at him and thank him for it. There’s always been something interesting about Anthony. He was so talented at giving you breadcrumbs of his love and then stealing the rest away for later.
The first time that Anthony kissed me, it felt like he was taking something away from me. I could taste the metallic iron on his tongue, and only after a few seconds did I realize that it was my own. He swirled his tongue around in my mouth like he wanted to consume every piece of me for himself. He held me close, hands gripping at the curves of my still girlish body. He trailed his lips down and ran his tongue upon my neck before biting down. I remember the dizziness that I felt from it all. The hunger settled in my stomach, and it felt like a hot piece of iron searing into the depths of my soul.
In that moment, I gave every piece of myself over to Anthony, and he’d given me a small portion of himself, too.
There were moments of bliss before the darkness started to take over again.
He found another girl.
When he wasn’t with me, he was with her. I’ll let you in on a little secret: he was always with her more than he was with me. Just as my father, Anthony, would immortalize himself in pictures with his other, more perfect girl. I watched. I wept, but I still wasn’t ready to let him go. He’d come back eventually. He’d take a piece of me as an offering each time before he’d disappear. I let him.
It was only when he was taking from me that I ever felt wanted by him.
The hunger grew inside me–stronger than I’d ever felt it. This time, it made me sick to my stomach. I’d wake up in the morning with my gums aching something awful before running to the bathroom to throw up yellow bile. I dry heaved over the ceramic bowl as my mother rubbed my back.
As she looked at me, I knew that she recognized all the signs of my peril.
Besides, she’d been the one who passed this curse down to me.
“You need to eat, baby,” She whispered against my hair.
I don’t remember when the change happened, or when the light switch flipped, but suddenly, I wanted to reclaim all of the parts of me that Anthony had stolen. I wanted to take from him just as he’d done to me. That night, I rubbed at my gums, smearing blood across my teeth and moaning at the taste of it.
I met Anthony in the middle of the woods.
In those very woods, our bodies connected one last time, rolling around in the dirt like we were animals. I clawed at his back, fingernails carving at his back. I wanted him to feel the pain and not be able to discern it from pleasure.
Then he was gone.
There was blood. Lots of it. It covered my body. I went down by the river and washed it from my face. I walked home, and my mama was waiting there for me on the porch. A cloud of smoke covered her face as she held the Virginia Slim between her fingers. She stood from her chair and ushered me inside the house.
I sat between her legs as she picked the dried leaves and things from my hair. She was so patient and soft as I lay my head against her thigh. She started at the front of my hairline and began to braid my hair. She leaned down to press a kiss against my temple, “It’s okay. It’s over now.”
I let myself close my eyes as I still tasted the remnants of blood on my tongue.
You surprised me, Stack.
I didn’t expect ot fall for you as quickly as I did. But you made it so easy to want you. After the first night of meeting you, I started to see you everywhere. You’d even managed to haunt my dreams when I closed my eyes at night.
I saw you a few days later at The Chow’s grocery store. I felt you before I saw you. Funny enough, I could smell your cologne permeating throughout the air, even though I was sure that you were still standing at the front of the door. The hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention as you slithered behind me.
A serpent came to tempt Eve, and Lord, I was willing to eat any forbidden fruit if it meant that I got experience life with you.
“Sure is nice seein’ you here,” You said, shamelessly trailing your eyes up and down my figure. The dress clung to my body due to the sticky nature of the humidity that day.
I locked my eyes onto you, “You sure you ain’t stalkin’ me?”
You smirked, flashing that gold in my direction. Your smile, it always felt dangerous, even if it was sincere. There was something predatory that lay beneath that smile. But I’d always been the lamb that found herself being devoured by the wolf.
“No stalkin’. You know this town is small enough for me to turn around and see you. Plus, it’s easy to spot you, seein’ as you ain’t from here.”
“What gives you the impression that I’m not from around here?”
You leaned your body closer to mine, “Well, I’ve been livin’ here my whole life and I ain’t neva’ seen a pretty gal like you here. Trust me, I’d remember.”
I remember laughing at your statement. You always had this way of making me laugh, even when I was so mad at you and ready to burn the house down. You’d blown the match out and made some joke about keeping me warm. You always made me laugh, Elias.
I miss that about you.
I’d be telling a lie if I didn’t say that our relationship progressed rather quickly. Once you were in my life, you became entwined in ways that I couldn’t fathom. You introduced me to your family: Smoke, Annie, and lil’ Sammy. I remember the first time that Smoke and Annie saw me. That almost quick, indiscernible look of concern as they took me in, standing next to you.
I was smart enough to avoid any contact with Annie.
I know she’d figure me out with just one touch.
It was Smoke who kept his eyes on me the whole time. I never told you about the conversation that he and I had in the kitchen.
“Where you from?” Smoke asked from behind me.
I turned from the sink and leaned against it, “All over. My mama and I moved a lot growing up. I grew up in the Delta, though.”
He nodded. That quiet disposition and distrust sinking away at his eyes. For a moment, I felt that ache in my gums. I wondered what his eyes would taste like squishing between my molars.
I took another sip of water to dispel the hunger.
“My brother seems to like you a lot,” Smoke commented.
“I like him a lot.”
“You don’t think that’s pretty quick?”
I shrugged, “When it’s meant to be, it’s just meant to be. No use fightin’ it.”
Smoke nodded, but I could still see that weariness and older sibling protectiveness dripping from him. However, he was right to worry.
“Just be careful. My brother can be very careless when it comes to women.”
“Noted. Thank you, Elijah.” I said, concluding the conversation. Even though he tried to hide it, I watched the flinch that overcame him at me saying his name.
I took you to meet my mama.
I don’t think you realized how much of a privilege it was. I rarely brought men home to meet my mama unless I was sure that it was serious. My mama greeted you with a smile and a Virginia Slim between her fingers.
I watched the interaction between the two of you.
You were being your usual charming and charismatic self. You didn’t even realize that my mama had already picked up on what type of man that you were. She’d always been good at spotting wolves, even when they tried to hide in sheep’s clothing.
Later that day, as my mama and I sat on the porch, she brought you up, “Be careful with that boy of yours. He ain’t the type to be chained down.”
Upon hearing her words, I felt the ache and burning start to consume my throat. My mama rocked in her chair and held the cigarette out in my direction. I grabbed it from her fingers and took a long drag from it. The bitter nicotine burned at my throat, but it helped satiate the hunger.
“It’ll be different this time. I care about him. We’ll make it work.”
My mama didn’t say much. Just took the cigarette from my fingers and held it back up to her lips. As she expelled the smoke from her mouth, she spoke again, “I hope for your sake that it’s true. But remember this, baby…you need to eat.”
I didn’t go visit her for weeks.
There’s something about you, Elias. You have a way of slithering yourself beneath the layers of my skin that I was aware of. You’re the embodiment of physical desire and passion. You always had this way of making me feel like I was on fire everywhere. When you touched me or pressed your lips against mine, I always felt like you were taking a canister of gasoline and pouring it all over me.
I’d gladly give you the match.
Late at night at the juke joint, you press my body against yours, holding me close like I’d slip through your fingers. You settled your mouth against my pulse and kissed there.
“All these men here. Lookin’ at you and wishing that they had a chance, but you’re all mine, babygirl. I ain’t eva’ letting you go.”
I remember the chills that scattered across my body at your clear possession over me. You wanted me. You desired me. I didn’t have to question it.
I remember looking up into your eyes, “I’m all yours, Elias. Forever.”
That night was the first time that we made love. I’d never felt anything like it before. It felt like I was being infected with you, and there was no cure for it. You and I weren’t gentle about it either. I remember how you slammed me against the wall, rutting your body into mine. The sounds of your hips slapping against mine as I clawed relentlessly at your back.
It looked more like we were fighting than making love.
It was something primal, but it was ours. I remember that as I rolled my hips across yours, I draped my body across yours and mouthed at the place where your neck and shoulder met. Suddenly, it was as if I could feel the blood moving beneath your skin, and my mouth watered in anticipation.
I bit you.
Not just some gentle love bite. A bite hard enough to imprint my teeth in your skin. You flinched and came inside me. I think it surprised you just as much as it surprised me. When I released you, I could feel the shame settling over my body. I was prepared for you to throw me off you and kick me out.
But you surprised me.
You smiled. Wild, unhinged, and dark. You threaded your fingers throughout my hair as you brought me down into another earth-shattering kiss.
My eyes met yours as we pulled back from the kiss, “You can bite me too if you want.”
It’s funny how things seemed to deteriorate for us, Stack.
We were good. God, we were so good.
You’d told me you loved me more times than I could comprehend. Even though he was still wary, Smoke had started to come around to the idea of you and me being together. From what I’d discerned, this was the longest relationship that Stack had been in.
It felt good to hear it be called a relationship. Not some situation, but an actual relationship between you and me.
But I was so blind. So consumed by love that I didn’t see the signs that you were starting to fall out of love with me.
It started when she came into town.
Mary.
Some white girl, yet you claimed that she was nothing of the sort. I should’ve sensed the signs when you couldn’t keep your eyes off of her in the train station. When I asked you about her, you claimed that she was old news. Nothing to worry about. How naive I was to actually believe your words.
It started small with you. You trailed crumbs across the floor of your indiscretions and sins. You wouldn’t be outright with your betrayal. No, you were a man who valued the thrill of danger. Your connection with her started emotionally before it became physical.
That’s what hurt more.
You’d already been giving her the pieces of yourself that I had masterfully crafted and catered to. The hunger, it came back fierce and unwavering when you came home, smelling of her perfume. I pretended not to notice, but it made me sick to my stomach.
That night, we engaged in another session of primative mating. It was borderline violent as I released my frustrations onto you. I think you suspected that I knew, but you gave it back to me just as fiercely as I gave it to you. Your fingers tangled in my hair, and you pulled so hard that I could feel the strands breaking.
I wondered if you were this rough with her.
Did you give her these same brutal thrusts, or were you gentle? Were you slow and methodical in your movements? Did you whisper sweet nothings into her ear as she withered and cried in pleasure? What was she giving you that I wasn’t?
I bit you again that night. Harder than I ever have before. This time, it broke skin. Your blood filled my mouth and trailed down your back. You moaned through it all as our mutual releases hit. I let you go and wrapped my arms around your neck as the blood continued to seep down between our bodies.
Hot tears flowed down my face and burned as hot as lava.
You turned my face to yours as the tears touched your skin. For a moment, we stared at each other. For a moment, you were in love with me again. For only a moment, you were mine again.
Only a moment later did I watch your love go away.
Small towns have a way of holding the darkest secrets, especially if it’s for one of their own.
Curiously, I waited for someone to slip up and confirm your infidelity. I wanted to see if there’d be any brave souls who wanted to put me out of my misery, but there were no takers. They’d all kept their loyalty to you.
But I saw the stares. The low murmurs as I passed through the stores. The poorly hidden faux masks of sympathy. You were parading your whore around at night, while her husband and I were expected to play supporting characters in your affair.
I waited.
You left for the night to go to the juke joint. I followed you, but I stayed concealed by the shadows to observe. I swallowed down the bile as I watched you and her, bodies coiled together like a piece of rope. You held her and whispered in her ear just as you’d done to me. What hurt the most was how carefree and in love you looked.
There was a clicking in my throat and that familiar burning of hunger.
By the time that you came home that night, I’d quietly packed my things to leave. I walked to my mama’s house, and as expected, she was waiting there with a pack of Virginia Slims.
“Come here, baby,” She said, patting her lap. I sat between her legs, just as I’d done a thousand times in my life. She ran her fingers across my forehead, feeling the spike of heat beneath her fingertips.
“You need to eat,” She said, smoke billowing around us. The quiet song of crickets and frogs filled the outdoor space as my mama continued stroking my hair. I felt my mouth water as the violent urge to devour enveloped me. I turned my head to my mother’s bare leg and bit down roughly. Her metallic blood filled my mouth, and she never made any signs to show that it hurt her.
Besides, we’d been doing this since I was a child. Just as her mother had done for her and her mother before her. We were all women weaned on violence, and we’d give this same thing to our babies.
It was just the way of life.
Word spread rather quickly of me leaving you. You showed up just as I expected. Sorrow and shame were present in your eyes as you stood in front of me. The hunger was back. It tore at my gums and scattered across my taste buds.
Suddenly, I wanted to take from you. I wanted to see the inside of you and feel your blood dripping into my mouth. I invited you into the house. My mama was gone for the day.
I turned to face you as you stood across from me in the bedroom, “Did you ever love me, Elias? Truly love me?”
“I did. I mean, I do. What Mary and I have is complicated. But you matter to me just as much as she does.”
A low laugh rattled from my chest as the hunger rummaged beneath my ribcage. I stepped closer to you, “So choose. Me or her.”
I waited for your reaction. I wanted to see, and just as expected, you disappointed me. The flash of conflict in your eyes let me know that it’d never be me. It’d always be her. You’d managed to become my father, Lee, and Anthony all in one blink of an eye.
I trailed my fingers up your chest before grasping your face in my hands. I pressed my lips against yours softly. I could taste the remnants of her on your lips, and it made me ill.
“Make love to me one last time, Elias.”
The grief passed through your eyes. You always were selfish and greedy. You truly believed that you could have it all. Our clothes fell to the floor in whispers. I straddled your thighs on the bed as I sank down on you. That same breathless gasp left your mouth. We weren’t violent this time. There was no need to sully this moment with violence. Just as your climax consumed you, I clamped down on the same place where I’d bitten you before.
Only this time, I didn’t let go.
This time, I tore the piece of flesh from your neck and swallowed it. Your eyes widened in pure terror as the blood spluttered from the wound and covered both of us. You tried in vain to push me off of you, but the blood loss was happening too quickly. I held your wrists down to the bed as I drank my fill of your blood. My teeth sank into the middle of your neck as I ripped another piece from you. Your vocal cords were exposed.
I watched the muscles contract. The same vocal cords that you’d used to tell me you love me and lie to me all in one breath. You continued sputtering on the bed, but I was able to witness that final moment when you’d taken your last breath and your eyes glazed over.
I made sure to hold contact with you so that I’d be the last thing you ever saw.
I ate the rest of you. Each and every piece. I didn’t want any piece of you to go to waste. Even when I’d made it to your bones, I sucked the pieces of meat from the bone and swallowed them all. Your cum was still staining the bed, and it had mixed with your blood. I licked the tangy and sweet fluids from the sheets.
The only thing that I’d kept of yours was your skull.
I added it to the collection next to my father’s, Lee’s, and Anthony’s. You’d be forever immortalized with them. You’d be with me forever. I’d always love you, Elias. By consuming you, I was honoring you and showing you that love.
My mama came home later as I lay beside your skeleton.
She took your bones and buried them down by the swamp. Surely, no one would ever find you there, unless there was some gator or storm that washed you up.
She came back and ushered me from the bed. My mama led me to the bathroom where she’d drawn a warm bath. She ran the sponge across my skin as the blood stained the water a violent red. She dressed me just as she had when I was a child.
In the living room, I sat between her legs as she grabbed the wide-tooth comb and the Blue Magic Grease. Just as she’d always done, she braided my hair.
“It’s okay. We’ll be gone in the morning before they come.”
Even if it would’ve only been a line or two…I would’ve been so intrigued to hear Smoke confront Stack about killing Annie. Like you killed the love of my life in order to turn me because you knew I would follow her.
The assured, “everything’s gonna be alright now” as you look in your brother’s eyes after killing the love of his life. Not only is he tormented because you took Annie from him but because you’re the one who did it. And did it knowingly.
Wunmi was in an interview with Delroy where she was talking about Stack and Annie’s dynamic and Stack knowing Smoke also needed Annie. She talked about this being so apparent in how Stack knew turning Annie would be the key to turning Smoke (which would’ve worked if of course Annie/Smoke didn’t have plans of their own). She really hit the dynamic on the head though. Even though there is a “polite” distance you feel the tension. For Annie, his selfish antics took her man away. For Stack, the first and only time Smoke has not only loved someone else but loved them in such a BIG way that it led to distance between them.
Annie & Stack have such an interesting dynamic. Like they both see each other as in the way of their relationship with Smoke while knowing he needs both of them.
They represent different things too.
Annie represents the first time choose to pursue something only for him. The first time he felt free. Free to love and be loved (non familial), free to be vulnerable, free to be held and hold, free to feel joy, free to fall apart, and free to be the him he thought no longer existed…the Elijah she resurrected with her love.
Stack is a mirror of how they’re the same while also being a reminder of how they different they are. Literally a part of Smoke which plays a role in why he feels so responsible for him and his safety (also due to the adultification he experienced as he had to be paternal for Stack following their father’s failure to). While their differences 1. In how they loved and who they loved and 2. Their individual hopes, dreams, desires that were very different are the two things that ever really caused strife.
So much depth there to explore relationship dynamic wise.
Sometimes it felt as if she came out of nowhere. Invading Shuri's world in more ways than she could have imagined. Making her question things she firmly believed in. Shuri could never have prepared herself for the revelations. But... will she be able to handle the truth? Especially when she's so drawn to the enigmatic beauty who comes with more secrets than she can fathom. What starts as curiosity turns into a dark unraveling. Not just for Shuri, but the whole Wakanda.
Shuri Udaku x Black OC
Pre-Black Panther
08
A soft tune played on her lips as she walked down the busy marketplace. Unlike her last visit, this one was more relaxed. Giving her time to take in the beauty of Wakanda as her brother instructed. As usual, Boitumelo was by her side.
“You like this place.” He said after a while.
“I like most places. But this one is more beautiful. All the energy...” She glanced at him and shrugged. “We’re going to be here for a while. It’s better to enjoy it while we can.”
They were both wearing casual clothes. Boitumelo dressed in a pink button down with white shorts and matching sandals while she wore a long white dress with think straps and baby blue sandals, her braids loose around her shoulders.
“That man from the club… I think he has taken a liking to you.”
“It must be that phase men go through as they get older.” She rolled her eyes, “He’s too old for my taste.”
“You haven’t taken much interest in anyone.” He pointed out with a smirk. “Do you even have taste?”
“That friend of Sye’s was attractive. He had dimples.”
“You also said he’s too young and he smells like cinnamon.”
“Well, he did- Are we really discussing my love life right now?” She asked while laughing.
“You said we should enjoy ourselves while we’re here.” Boitumelo replied with a shrug.
“Well, what about you? Any friends I should know about?”
She lifted her finger to silence him, “Don’t think I haven’t seen those looks between you and Oya. You two are not discreet. You might fool everyone, but you can’t fool me.”
“She enjoys my company.” He replied plainly.
Kele frowned at the vague answer, “And you?”
“I like that she enjoys my company.”
She gaped, “That doesn’t answer anything!”
“I just like that she enjoys having me around.” He defended, shoulders rising. “It’s that simple.”
“Do you like her?”
“Not like that.”
She gasped dramatically, “Boitumelo!”
He stopped walking and turned to her. “Kele, we have so much on our hands. She understands that. I don’t want to be with someone who asks for more than I can give.”
“So, you two are just fooling around?”
“We have an agreement.” He answered.
Her hands wrapped around his arm, “I hope you’re not doing this because of my sister.”
“Partly, yes.” He admitted, continuing their walk. “But also, because we have an obligation.”
Kele smiled sadly, her gaze moving to the bustling scene in front of them. It made her feel calm, almost made her forget everything that was waiting for her back home. The smell of food, the sound of children laughing as their feet ran across the bustling market, friends hanging out in large groups and the sound of music and drums in one corner. All so nostalgic and bittersweet.
“We burn every bridge we cross- Tladi and I.” She sighed. “Living as a ghost is lonely. I don’t want you to live like that.”
“This is our fight.” He reassured her. “How long are you going to avoid the dinner?”
Her steps faltered.
She sighed, her eyes casted down to her feet, “Maybe when we come back.”
“Don’t avoid it for too long.” He returned a comforting smile. “When Tsholo sent you here, she knew what it would entail. She wants you to meet them.”
She shook her head, “It feels like I’m taking away something that she should have. I can be Azzingah to the world but not to them. Tsholo needs that more than I do.”
“Tsholo burned that bridge so you wouldn’t have to.” He squeezed her hands. “You need this.”
She sighed and batted her eyelashes, “Oh Boity. Why couldn’t you be my brother?”
“No way!” He looked offended at the suggestion, while she gaped.
“What’s wrong with me? I’m a good sister.”
“When you want to. I’ve seen the times Tsholo wanted to just throw the two of you off a building.”
Kele sulked and leaned against him, “She said she’s going to throw us in the portal next time aliens come to Earth.”
Boitumelo snorted, “She just might.”
“You always take her side.” She mumbled.
“She’s older and wiser.” He chuckled. “She wouldn’t throw you in a portal unless it was to protect you.”
“I bet this is why Oya fancies you.” She smiled teasingly. “You always know what to say.”
“And you should let go of my arm before people think we are lovers.”
Kele scoffed and rolled her eyes, “Why? What’s wrong with people thinking we are lovers?”
“The princess is here.”
Her head shot up, her eyes scanning the marketplace. She stopped once she saw her.
Shuri was being dragged through the marketplace by her brother. A satisfied grin on his face as she begrudgingly moved.
“It seems she always finds herself in these situations.” He added quickly, “Being dragged around that is.”
“I wonder what she does with her time. She doesn’t enjoy social activities.”
“Meh.” Kele responded nonchalantly, her gaze still set on the princess. “Science. She’s the head of the Wakandan Design Group.”
“Do you think we should say hi?” He asked as he watched Kele with amusement.
“I don’t know her like that.”
Kele didn’t tell him that she couldn’t get inside the princess’ head. The idea of not having the upper hand did not sit well with her. And what Kele didn’t know, she stayed far away from it.
“We should take another route.” She mumbled and hid in his arm.
“No.” He responded with a smile and continued walking. “It would be suspicious to turn around in the middle of the road. Plus, they are walking towards us.”
“What?” She blurted out and looked at the two siblings.
T’Challa and Shuri were walking towards them. A smile on the older sibling’s face as they approached. His steps seemed deliberate and purposeful.
“It seems like you did catch their attention at the celebration. Now the question is: which one?”
“Please stop talking.” She muttered and glanced at Shuri.
“You don’t pay me enough for that.” He continued, knowing Kele would just try to run away if he didn’t keep her distracted.
“I don’t pay you at all.” She mumbled.
“Maybe I should start charging.”
“Hello.” The prince greeted and stopped in front of them. He seemed as if he wanted to add something until, he realised he didn’t know anything about the two strangers.
“Kele.” Shuri called out and smiled, “Hi.”
“Hey, Princess. Prince T’Challa.” She swallowed nervously and smiled.
Author’s Note: Welp, here I am with another one-shot. This time it's about Incubus Stack x Plus Size Reader. Dedicated to @blackpantherismyish and @theethighpriestess
Warnings: +18 | Modern AU | Incubus Stack x Plus Size Reader | Dom!Stack | Bratty Sub!Reader | Degradation kink | BDSM | Tentacles | Bondage | Oral Sex | Edging | Incubus Demon x Female Human Pairing | Spanking | Creampie(s) | Overstimulation | Stack is mean af but I love himmmmm
The dreams started the night you published your first chapter online.
You hadn’t made the connection immediately, because why would you? You were a rational and disciplined woman who had spent the past three weeks defending a dissertation that had taken the better part of two years to construct, and you didn’t believe in coincidences any more than you believed in the subject matter of the unknown you spent so much time dismantling. You had posted Chapter One of your preliminary findings to your academic blog at eleven forty-seven on a Thursday night, closed your laptop, washed your face, and gone off to bed… but at eleven forty-eight, something lurking beneath the shadows came out to feed...
The first dream that disrupted your sleep had been somewhat “subtle”. You were in your bedroom, not some abstracted dreamscape, and you were lying on your back on top of the covers in the dark. The ceiling fan turned overhead, and the room was stickily warm the way Mississippi summers were muggy even up here in your fourth-floor New York apartment. Unlike your usual dreams, in this one you were consciously aware that you were dreaming and that you weren’t alone. The unknown presence that started as a thin shadow on your wall slithered around the dimly lit room until it decided to position itself right beside you. Then, in the way of dreams where geography was simply a suggestion, it was over you. The entity didn’t have a distinct shape or body you’d be able to recall to your dream journal in the morning, just a warmth and a knowing that settled across you like a second skin.
The first touch the entity placed on your skin was barely a touch at all. Its presence hovered over you and only allowed you to feel the suggestion of its fingers trailing up the inside of your thigh. The weight of its movements carried a certainty that told you, even then, that whatever was mapping out the shape of your body had done this countless times before. Had catalogued other women before you and knew the exact nerve ending it was hunting for before it arrived at its destination.
When it finally reached its goalpost, you gasped. The sensation that radiated from the entity's single point of contact moved through your entire body like a tidal wave of pleasure, and it didn’t spread outwardly from its origin the way an ordinary touch from an ordinary man did. No, this touch sent fireworks of bursting euphoric bliss throughout every single nerve ending in your body as if your nervous system had been primed for this moment and was finally given the signal to let go. Immediately your back arched off the mattress and your hands flew between your thighs attempting to grip onto something that wasn’t truly there.
“Shhh,” said a voice you couldn’t place. It was charming and thick with the particular cadence of the Deep South. Stretched vowels, swallowed consonants and the easy rhythm of something that was in no hurry at all. “I got you.”
As your dream mind attempted to figure out who this mystery voice belonged to, a warm mouth found you.
In true dream logic fashion, you hadn’t been wearing anything below the waist and your core lay bare as the first press of that skilled mouth landed against your center. Just like before, the sensations you were feeling were like nothing you had experienced in the waking hours. What you were receiving wasn't just merely oral. This was the targeted application of something that understood your body with an expertise level of intimacy that should have taken years to learn, and had no business existing in the context of a first encounter with an entity you couldn’t even see.
The tongue that moved against you was much too long and too thick in a way that no human muscle could replicate it. Every time you attempted to estimate the size of its dimensions, it grew larger and slithered deeper into your pulsating canal. You silently whimpered as it curled and pressed against your pussy, finding places deep inside you that made your vision spotty and reactively forced your thighs to clamp around something that wasn’t quite a head but was large and utterly unmovable like one.
In layman's terms, whatever person or thing that was between your thighs, it feasted on your core like it was famished. There was no other word for it. The way this otherworldly tongue flicked against you, it silently communicated that it was beyond the point of hunger. It was feeding on you, consuming your responses as fast as it drew them out. From the sounds you made, to the slick it pulled from your body, and the trembling of your thighs. All of this was taken over and over again without any indication it would ever be satisfied. The pleasure built past the point of bearing and it kept building as tears started to tack down from the corners of your eyes into your hair. You didn't mean to cry, and had no intentions of crying but the continuous pressure of unreleased pleasure sitting in your lower stomach was driving you towards the brick of insanity.
Your moans grew louder and desperate as your hands scrambled against the sheets for purchase, and then, at the precise moment when your entire body locked up and the sweet promise of release was right there, cresting, inevitable, one breath away… The warmth vanished and the withdrawal was instant, like a switch thrown. The weight lifted off your body and the presence withdrew so completely it was as if it had never been, leaving you flat on your back in your dark bedroom with your chest heaving, your thighs soaked, and your body wound tight around an orgasm that had been unfairly revoked at the last possible second.
You laid there sexually disgruntled for a full minute before you could move, and then you got up, changed your underwear, and told yourself a realistic dream like that was just a response to the stress from school.
The second dream was less subtle...
This one contained the same warmth and the same knowing presence, but this time it took shape, not in a way your sleeping mind could fully resolve, but enough. The entity was large and dark, with the impression of a face that was too beautiful and too something else to look at directly. Before you knew it, possessive hands gripped your hips with an assurance that allowed for no renegotiation, and this time the mouth found you faster, because it already knew where to go. It spent longer on you this time and that was the true torment of it all, the infinite patience this entity had. The way it worked you up through three distinct peaks, each one higher than the last, each one denied at the exact moment of culmination with the specific cruelty of something that knew exactly what it was doing and was enjoying itself thoroughly. You begged like a proper slut in the dream but it escaped out loud into the realm of the living, and the only reason you know this is because you woke with your voice raw and your roommate knocking on the wall between your rooms asking if you were okay.
“I-I’m fine,” you called out. “Just a bad dream.”
Not a lie, technically.
By the fifth night the dreams had graduated to something that had no clinical framework in your research notes. You were on your hands and knees on your bed, face pressed into a nearby pillow, and the presence behind you was no longer ambiguous about its intentions. The hands on your hips were large and rough-palmed, and the weight of two enormous pieces of flesh pressing against both of your pulsating holes from behind made your sleeping body shudder with a want so deep it had no bottom. It entered both of your canals slowly, given the enormous size of its double members, and it filled you to a depth and completeness that your waking anatomy had no accurate reference for. Simultaneously, this was where your sleeping mind began to seriously question how much you could take, but before you came to your own conclusion, something else found your mouth. It pressed past your lips with a purposefulness that was entirely at odds with the roughness of the hands at your hips.
All three of your holes were filled and your body accommodated all of it without pain or resistance, just an obliterating fullness that pressed against every wall you had all at once.
The entity moved all extensions of itself in a synchronized rhythm that was clearly the work of a single intelligence orchestrating multiple points of contact. Three separate rods of sensation worked in unison with a calculated focus that had no interest in your comfort, only in extracting a maximum response until you were shaking apart from the inside out. The sounds the entity pulled out of you during this dream weren't any that you wanted to claim ownership of in the morning.
And then, right at the moment of completion…
Poof. Gone.
As soon as the entity vanished you woke up screaming like a sexually frustrated mad woman into your pillow, and your roommate moved out two weeks later.
By week two, you started making changes to your day to day life in an attempt to combat what you still considered just stress dreams. You went to bed exhausted on purpose, hoping to fall too deeply into sleep for the dreams to reach you, but somehow they reached you anyway. You tried sleeping with the light on, but the presence didn't need darkness and the dreams still persisted onward. You tried sleeping in the living room on the couch, but somehow you always woke up in your bed without any memory of moving.
In addition to switching up your routine, you tried with increasing desperation and decreasing dignity, to relieve the built up sexual tension yourself, but that didn't work either. This was the only part you were having a hard time finding a logical explanation for. Unlike everything else, you couldn’t just file being unable to masturbate under the category of a stress response or the psychosomatic effects of spending eight hours a day immersed in erotic folklore, due to the fact that playing dj hero on expert mode has always been the number one way you’ve relieved stress in the past. It didn't matter what you did or how you did it, your body simply would not release. Each time you tried you would get achingly close, and then the sensation would simply stop, as though someone had reached in and removed the mechanism. As though the ability had been quietly confiscated.
You sat on the edge of your bed at two in the morning on the fourteenth night and pressed your palms to your sleep deprived eyes and said, out loud, to the room, “This isn’t real. This is not happening.”
As soon as you spoke, the shadow in the corner of your room shifted.
You looked at it for a long time before scoffing at it and mumbling, “Lamp,”
The shadow didn’t move again and instead of trying to indulge in self pleasure, you went back to your dissertation and wrote four more paragraphs about the psychological origins of incubus mythology with the specific, driven energy of a woman arguing with something she refused to name.
By week three, you were an absolute train wreck.
You had bruised hollows under your eyes, a hair-trigger temper, and a tight tension in your body that had moved past physical discomfort and into something pressurized that your body no longer had the vocabulary to name. You snapped at your advisor during office hours. You knocked an entire shelf of books onto the floor in the campus library and left them there before walking out. You sat in your car in the parking garage for forty minutes staring at the steering wheel before you remembered you had meant to go somewhere.
That night you came home, you were too exhausted to cook and settled on eating half a bowl of cereal before showering and falling into bed at nine-thirty like a woman who had lost a war. Because of your depleted state, you didn't notice how the shadow in the corner of your room was darker than usual, denser, like it too had reached its breaking point and needed to be fed something.
You were asleep for exactly four minutes and thirty seconds before you woke up to the feeling of being crushed. This crushing sensation wasn't like the ambient, low-grade unease of the past three weeks but the specific, acute, suffocating certainty of a body above yours. Whatever or whoever it was, had you pressed into the mattress with a weight that pinned the breath in your chest before you’d even fully surfaced from sleep.
Your tired eyes snapped open and hovering over you was him. His forearms bracketed your head on either side, both palms flat against the mattress, his torso blotting out the ceiling in a way that erased the water stain, the crack in the plaster, and the fan turning overhead. He had positioned himself so his weight distributed above you without fully resting on you, holding the threat of himself over you like a promise.
It took a couple seconds for your mind to try and process him. You couldn't comprehend him in his entirety and decided to process him in pieces. He was gigantic. Even braced above you with minimal space between your bodies, his frame dominated everything around it, too large for the ordinary furniture, too large for the room itself, the way a predator in a domestic setting made the furniture seem like props. His skin was a deep coffee brown, flawless in the low light of your bedside lamp, with a muscular frame that suggested he had never once in his existence worried about being threatened. Long hands planted into the mattress on either side of your head, with fingers slightly too long and nails slightly too dark at the tips.
His face was the thing that stopped you completely.
He was breathtakingly beautiful for a man… or a man adjacent entity. His face existed at the uncomfortable intersection of stunning and wrong, where every individual feature was arranged in a way that sent something ancient in your hindbrain screaming. High cheekbones. A jaw that could cut glass. A mouth set in a line that wasn’t quite a smile but carried all the confidence of one. His eyes were red, not bloodshot or irritated, but red. A deep arterial red, the color of old garnets held up to light, glowing with their own soft interior luminescence in the dark of your room. They were fixed on your face with an expression that held no humanity, but his eyes were focused and assessing you like he had already made a decision about you and was now in the process of collecting what he considered his property. Right above his eyes held two curved, dark horns rising from his temples, sweeping back and upward with the angular geometry of something grown rather than placed. And at his shoulders, filling the space above both of you, a set of wings fanning outward to the walls of your bedroom, swallowing the available light, making the room smaller by several degrees.
The full scope of what was lingering above you registered in your body before it registered completely in your mind. You opened your mouth to speak and he wasted no time making his first move.
One hand came off the mattress and closed around your throat, cutting off 25% of your airway. The contact hit your nervous system like a struck match and lit every nerve from your collarbone to the base of your spine in a single cascading surge. Three weeks of compression, denial, and your body’s desperate need for release met that one point of contact and combusted outward. Instantly, a wall of sensation crashed through you so fast your back arched off the mattress before you could even think about it. Your thighs tried to instinctively close, but his knee was already between them, braced against the mattress, preventing it completely.
He looked down at your face as this happened. Watching your body melt completely beneath him from just one simple touch. “So pretty,” he mumbled. His voice was everything the dream voice had been and more. “Three weeks. An one touch.” The not-quite-smile didn’t deepen as he tilted his head to the side and his voice quickly shifted from charming to demeaning. “You real fuckin’ pathetic, you know that?”
His insult quickly sobered you up as you glared at the man? entity? demon? hovering above you and began wiggling around. “Get hell off me,” you said. Your voice was shaking.
“Mm mm.” He didn’t move. The hand at your throat stayed wrapped around you like it was a necklace you were expected to wear for eternity. “You done with that?”
This time you did more than try to wiggle out of his grasp and shoved at his chest with both hands. He might as well have been made of concrete because that shove didn’t move him an inch. Instead, the close contact from both of your palms pressed against the warm bare skin of his chest sent fresh waves of pleasure radiating up your arms and straight between your thighs. Your own hands betrayed you, fingers going flat with defeat against him instead of pushing again.
He looked down at your hands and smirked with a knowing expression. “Mmm hmm,” he gloated.
“Don’t.” You yanked your hands back.
“Lil' late for all that.” He tilted his head to the other side, reading your face like you were a new toy handed over to a spoiled child on Christmas morning. “Know what ya problem is? You think too much.” The red eyes tracked down the length of your body beneath him, cataloguing, assessing. “Lemme’ help turn that brain off.”
“I’ll scream,” you said.
“Who the fuck gon’ hear you?”
The city outside your window went on about itself, indifferent and noise-soaked. You both knew he was right.
His free hand moved, and touched the center of your chest. One fingertip, directly over your sternum, pressing through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt with a settled intention that told you he had been here before, had mapped this exact spot, and had been waiting to press it. The surge that followed was different from the throat contact, deeper and more central, as though he had pressed a button wired directly to your spinal column. Your back arched again, involuntarily, hard enough to lift you completely off the mattress, forcing a sound from your mouth that you felt ashamed of before it finished leaving your body.
He silently watched as your body collapsed back down onto the mattress, still under his touch and control. “If you done bein’ dramatic,” he said, “that there is the mark… my mark.”
You stared up at him dazed and confused, still coming down from whatever that feeling was. “The what?”
“You called my name… said it real sweet too.” He stated simply and factually, like he was having a regular conversation about the weather. “Week two. Third night. You was in the dream, right at the edge, an you screamed my name.” His thumb traced a single line over your sternum and each pass of it sent smaller waves of sensation radiating throughout your body, enough to keep your breathing unsteady. “When a marked woman calls, the mark sets. Ain’t somethin’ I decided. That’s just the nature of the thing.”
You started up at him with a bewildered expression. You didn't know this man… entity from a can of paint and your brain was currently too frazzled to piece together what he was talking about. “I didn’t know your damn name.”
“You’d been writin’ ‘bout me for six months.” He held your gaze. “Some part of you knew.”
“Si-Six months?” The realization and the recognition started to settle in, but your stubbornness refused to believe that HE was currently present in your bedroom. After months of disproving the existence of incubus, there's absolutely no way The Shadow Man, also known as Elias ‘Stack’ Moore, the infamous incubus known for brutally feasting and discarding his victims was present in your bedroom… right? RIGHT?
“Yeah… its clickin’ now aint it?” he quipped, and a considerably dangerous flash of murderous intent slid beneath his eyes. Stack tilted his head again. “You spent six months studyin’ what I been doin’ for over a hundred years, little scholar. Fifty women in the Delta. Thirty in Chicago. Ten moe’ up here in this city.” His thumb pressed the mark again. “An nan one of ’em still alive.”
What little air you had left in your lungs evaporated.
“I don’t keep ‘em,” he said, with the same flat, unceremonious tone he might use to discuss something beneath his interest. “I feed, an I move. That’s how this goes.” He watched your face process that. “But you…” The thumb stilled. His eyes narrowed by a fraction, that cataloguing attention sharpening into something closer to actual curiosity. “You smell different. Even through three weeks of bein’ this close to you an only takin’ the crumbs.” He exhaled through his nose. “I ain’t decided yet whether that’s your problem or mine.”
For the first time in your life, silence blanketed you and you said nothing. Every smart thing you’d ever learned felt very far away.
“Now, what’s ‘bout to happen,” he continued, his voice dropping to a register that bypassed your ears entirely and settled at the base of your spine, “is I’m gon’ finish what I started three weeks ago. All them dreams I done built up an took away.” His eyes burned. “I’m collectin’ what's mine. All of it. Tonight.”
Another deathly silence fell over the room like a weight. Then out of nowhere you gained the foolish and courageous audacity to speak up. Regardless of what you knew about Stack’s endeavors as one of the top five devious incubi to ever exist, you refused to just lay down and take what was being forced upon you without a fight. “Nigga, have you lost your rabbit ass mind? I don’t care what or who you are. Remove this mark and leave my room!”
When you spoke, something shifted in Stack’s face. The not-quite-smile he was holding onto cracked open into something real, brief and genuine, but it was gone in an instant and replaced with something that lacked patience or concern for your wellbeing.
“Mmm, nice to know this lil’ school girl ain’t lose that mouth,” he said softly. “Been wonderin’ when that was gon’ come out.”
“I’m not joking.”
“I know you ain’t.” He looked at you with indifference and intentionally pressed the mark again before greedily watching the wave of cruel pleasure roll through your body with clinical satisfaction. “You scared, turned on, an you pissed off ‘bout both. So you come out swingin’ ‘cause that’s what prey do when it ain’t got nowhere to run.” He pressed again. “But we both know how this ends.”
“You keep saying that.”
“‘Cause I might tell a joke, but I ain’t neva’ told a lie.”
He sat back on his heels between your thighs, and the full height of him settled itself above you. You immediately understood with a cold, clarifying certainty that he had allowed you to see the room this whole time, had allowed you the illusion of something to run toward, because it had amused him. But tonight there would be no running. He had been living in your apartment walls for three weeks and now he wanted to live in your other set of walls for eternity.
Stack kept his intense glare locked on you as he reached down and removed the remainder of what he had been wearing, which had been minimal and evaporated it into thin air with the snap of his fingers. As your eyes traveled from his face down to his groin, the full reality of him boldly presented itself in the warm lamp-lit air of your bedroom. When you locked eyes with his twitching girthy member that was leaking clear ropes of precum, your brain frazzled out and stopped working. He was built proportionately, and the heavy weight that curved upward between his thighs had surprisingly not been an exaggeration within your dreams.
He watched you looking.
“‘Leven inches,” he said, conversationally. “Case you was tryna calculate.”
Your mouth went completely dry and you could feel your face heat up with embarrassment for staring so intensely. “It’s just like… in the dreams…” The sentence dissolved. “But… that can't be… That was…”
“Them dreams I gave you was accurate… sorta kinda,” he said nonchalantly. “I can make my pecker as big or as small as I want. Figure most women can take ‘leven inches… a properly trained slut can take moe’.” He paused and a sly grin spread across his face as he casually palmed his hardened length and stroked it. “”Member how, in them dreams, you was never empty? Not one hole of you?”
Flashbacks to weeks of being filled and denied the ability to climax raced at lightning speed through your mind. Your thighs pressed together when you thought about the first time he filled every hole with little to no resistance, as if your body was created to take everything he gave you with no complaints.
“Watch,” he commanded. The air around him shifted as the shadow-substance of him slithered around his body until beneath the first rod, emerged the second. It was identical to the first one, same length and girth, separated by just a few inches of space and curving in a slightly different direction with the readiness that couldn’t wait a second longer to be buried inside of you.
You continued to lay in the same position and said nothing for a very long time. For six months you spent hours upon hours gathering data that proved incubi were nothing more than a sexual myth spread amongst sexually deprived wives, but now the truth was staring right at you and this wasn't a dream.
After another minute passed you finally spoke, or at least attempted to. “Oh,” you said finally.
Surprisingly your silence amused Stack. You gawked at him as if he was a degenerate spawn of Satan sent from hell (he was), meanwhile the leaking lips between your thighs revealed a truth the lips on your face refused to confess. A connection was set in stone, he was now the one who wielded the keys to your pleasure and if you wanted to cum you would need to play by his rules.
“Oh, that’s…” You stopped yourself and thought for a moment. Your dissertation had seventeen footnotes about this specific capability. You had called it physiologically implausible mythological embellishment. “That’s…”
“Real?” he offered.
You closed your eyes briefly and took a much needed deep breath. “I owe some of my sources an apology.”
His laugh was genuine, short, and gone as fast as it came. “Yeah, you do.” He positioned himself over you again and the proximity of all of him filled your senses in a way your body responded to with immediate, embarrassing clarity. “Now.” He looked down at the full length of you beneath him with the flat, appetite-driven attention of something that had waited long enough. “You done wastin’ my time.”
That wasn’t a question.
The black tentacles arrived before you had finished deciding anything. They materialized from the shadow-substance of him the way all his other alterations had, not emerging from somewhere external but flowing from within, liquid darkness given direction and purpose. The first one coiled around your left wrist, the second found your right ankle, the third and fourth bracketed your thighs and repositioned you exactly the way he wanted, spread open and presented in front of him like an offering to a deity.
Where each tendril made contact with your skin, a warmth spread inward, not the warmth of touch, but the warmth of something entering your bloodstream, a seeping heat that traveled from each contact point along your veins and gathered at your core with a rising intensity. You felt it move. Could track its path spreading under your skin, pooling between your thighs, rising up through your chest and flooding outward to your fingertips.
And then out of nowhere an intense sensation of amplified sensitivity turned your brain to mush. Your nipples hardened so fast you made a whining sound, desperate for anything to touch them. The sensation at each tip was so acute and present that even the faint flow of air against them made you gasp. The heat between your thighs went from warmth to something else entirely, something that soaked through you in a rush you felt dripping, actually felt the wetness spreading and pooling beneath you on the duvet, your body betraying you with a thoroughness that left nothing unrevealed.
Stack watched as your body reacted to the aphrodisiac released from his tentacles. Each movement and twitch you made confirmed that he made the right decision edging you for three weeks, because now you were primed and ready to take everything he was willing to give. He glared at you with an expression that went beyond incubi hunger. His gaze held no warmth in it at all. You were a resource. You were something that had responded correctly. Nothing more. Nothing less.
“There she go,” he said flatly. “Every nerve probably feel lit up like a Christmas tree.” His eyes tracked the hard points of your nipples, the soaked state between your thighs and the way your whole body was vibrating at a frequency several registers above normal. There wasn’t a sliver of appreciation in his eyes. He just stared at you with the same assessing quality a man used when checking that an engine had turned over. “Took long enough.”
“What did you…” You couldn’t complete a sentence. Each word required more focus than you could currently locate.
“Natural chemical process,” he said, crouching down to your level to analyze you better. “What my kind produce… it amplifies what’s already there.” His eyes met yours. “An what was already there was…” He looked you over again, that flat inventory gaze. “Adequate.”
Before you could register the backhanded shade, Stack reached out and barely grazed the back of two fingers across the curve of your breast and the sensation that traveled from that graze through your entire chest made your hand jerk against the tendril holding your wrist. He pulled his hand back immediately and looked at what your body had done with the expression of a man confirming a predicted result.
“Sensitive,” he said, to himself more than to you.
“Shadow Man… Stack…”
“Don’t call me that.” His eyes cut to yours. “When I’m inside you, you call me Elias. When you beggin’, you gon call me Elias. Every other time, you don’t call me nothin’ at all.”
“I don’t…” Your voice gave out around the sensation still radiating from where he last touched you. “I’m not going to beg for you for shit.”
He looked at you for a long, flat moment before chuckling lowly to himself. “Yeah, you is,”
He dragged the same two fingers up the side of your other breast, over the top, and then traced the curve underneath, and what came out of you wasn’t a sound you planned on producing voluntarily. It tore itself free from your esophagus, raw and soaked in three weeks of denial. He studied the sound the way a linguist studied a dialect. Cataloguing. Storing.
“Nasty lil’ trinket,” he said, no warmth in the words, only that same nonchalant, clinical quality. “Look at all this.” His eyes moved over your body with thorough attention, the soft, generous swell of you, the brown skin gleaming covered in a thin layer of sweat, the roundness of your belly and the width of your hips and the full, heavy weight of your breasts nestled on your frame. “Three weeks I been smellin’ this an drinkin’ off the edges.” He sounded genuinely put out about it, not in the way of a man who cared about you but in the way of a man who found inefficiency irritating. “Almost felt like I was wastin’ my time.”
“You did it to yourself,” you managed.
“Yeah… I did,” he agreed. “An’ I’m done with all that… I’m starvin’.”
All you could do was watch in anticipation as Stack positioned himself between your spread thighs with the ease of something that had done this many times before. His forearms braced on your inner thighs and the full contact of his skin against yours sent cascading surges of sensation rippling down to your core from both sides at once. He looked at the state of you with his chin nearly resting against the inside of your thigh and his red eyes moving over your center with an expression that was purely functional.
“Look at this fuckin’ mess.” He drew one finger through your swollen folds, barely any pressure at all, the lightest possible contact, and held it up, examining what it had gathered. “Soaked clean through. Drippin’ on the sheets like you ain’t got no control over yaself.” He clicked his tongue in false disappointment. “An this ‘posed to be the lil’ schoolgirl who spent six months tryin’ to tell the world ion’ exist.”
You hated that this cocky ass incubus was correct. For six months you scrubbed through every crevice of the internet and readily available libraries in your district. For six months you worked day and night to prove that beings like this didn’t exist… just to be bound to a bed by one. “Don’t…” You mumbled quietly underneath your breath. Your mind was too far gone to even think about fighting back, but your stubbornness still held onto a small ember of defiance you refused to let die.
“Don’t what?” The question was filled with sarcasm as he pressed two fingers through your folds with slightly more intent and your hips jumped toward him involuntarily. He pulled back immediately, watching your body chase his hand. “Look at that. Can’t even hold still. Desperate lil’ cocksleeve.” The word landed low in your belly and lit something there that you weren’t going to examine at the moment. “Three weeks I kept you right on that edge an ya body got the audacity to act surprised.” He shook his head. “Pathetic.”
“You caused…”
“I know I caused it.” He pressed his thumb against your pulsating clit, barely, just resting it there, not moving, just the warm weight of contact, and watched you seize beneath him. He removed it and listened to the frustrated, broken sound you produced without any change in his expression. “I caused it ‘cause I wanted you exactly like this. Wanted to see what the scholar look like when all them fancy words run out.” He tilted his head to the side and smirked. “You look real stupid an needy like a bitch in heat... Case you ain’t know.”
“Fuck you. I am going to…”
“You gon’ what?” Again, his tone was full of ego and sarcasm as he called out your empty threat. Even if you somehow fought through the cloud of lust that now infiltrated your mind, you wouldn’t last another night without tasting the sweetness of release.
Silence filled the room for a second before Stack let out a dry humorous huff. “That’s what I thought.” He lowered his head. “Now shut up an’ lemme see if this juicy pussy as sweet as it was in them dreams.”
His warm mouth found you and the first contact pulled a sound from your throat that bounced off every wall in the room and came back to you unrecognizable. His tongue was just as otherworldly in real life as it was in your dreams. It was longer and thicker than it had any right to be and it was capable of configurations that no human musculature supported as it curled and pressed inside you, locating untouched zones in your pussy that your nervous system had never had a formal introduction to. It went directly where it was needed with no need for unnecessary exploration or uncertainty. Three weeks of dream-reconnaissance had given it a map it had memorized.
He licked through you like you were something he had been craving specifically, a long flat drag from base to tip that made your back bow off the restraints with your voice cracking on his name.
“E-Elias…”
He lifted his head just enough to speak against you, his voice rough and scraping. “What I tell you?” He pressed his tongue back inside you and curled it forward in a way that made your free hand fly to his head before a tentacle caught your wrist and returned it firmly to where he wanted it placed.
He devoured your pussy like a man making a point. All the responses he pulled out of you, from the overflow of your forbidden honey to the sounds you couldn’t contain, he silently catalogued everything and used it to calibrate the next strike. He found the specific place inside you that three weeks of dreams had identified as the most devastating and returned to it using his tongue with a frequency that removed your ability to form language of thought.
Just like in your dreams you began crying from overstimulation. Whenever he placed himself between your thighs you never intended to cry, but something about how he effortlessly built your pleasure past the point of bearing and kept building, your tears had no excuse but to fall from your eyes. Your body felt like it was on cloud nine and you so desperately wanted to teeter over that edge into the abyss of bliss. The tears tracked hot from the corners of your eyes down your flustered cheeks, while your thighs shook against his shoulders and your hands went pale in the shadowed restraints.
“Taste so goddamn sweet,” he growled against your fluttering pussy, and for once there was something raw in his voice outside of the nonchalant sarcasm he wore like a mask. “All the others…” He sealed his mouth over you again, tongue working in a tight, relentless rotation, and the sentence dissolved. He said it against your skin anyway, half to himself: “Nothin’ like this. Not one of ’em.”
That revelation shouldn’t have done what it did to you as your walls clenched at the compliment. You mentally filed this away for later.
He spread you wider with two fingers and rotated his tongue deeper before pulling his head back far enough to spit directly onto your entrance and then sealed his mouth over you again. The indignity crashed into the pleasure and made the pleasure worse, deeper, more consuming, your whole body jolting in the tendril’s grip, a sob tearing from your chest.
“Don’t… don’t you dare stop…”
Based on everything that transpired so far, you would assume that you would’ve learned to follow Stack’s rules by now, but you couldn’t help yourself. The second that whiney sentence escaped your mouth, he stopped. The withdrawal was instant and his mouth left you as the cool air hit your soaked and oversensitized skin, forcing you to make a sound that was a genuinely desperate, broken plea that you felt in your own sternum and could not recall back.
He looked up at you from between your thighs with his jaw glistening, his eyes burning, and one brow raised. “Thought I told you to shut the fuck up,” he said pleasantly.
“I… you… Elias…”
“You talk,” he cut you off, “I stop. Simple math. You wanna keep bein’ difficult or you wanna cum?”
Your jaw snapped shut as you silently glared at the bane of your existence settled between your thighs. You quietly decided to listen… for now.
“Mmm smart girl.” He lowered his head. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Stack finished what he had started with a relentless focus and refusing to leave his work incomplete. He worked you up through three distinct peaks, each one higher than the last and each one permitted to crest fully because he was no longer denying you. He was getting drunk off your pussy juice and indulging on every drop you released into his mouth as if he was a dehydrated man drinking from a well.
Your first orgasm after three weeks of denial almost made your soul leave your human vessel. As your voice hit a register that surprised the both of you, your body seized and wave after wave of backed up euphoria crashed through you while he effortlessly held you open and slurped up every drop.
Even though your orgasm was enough to almost make you pass out, he didn’t stop. Instead, his tongue retracted from your pulsating canal and he refilled your needy hole with two of his fingers while letting his tongue focus on your sensitive bundle of nerves. The dual input left your conscious mind with nothing to work with.
“Elias…” Your voice was wrecked. “E-E-Elias, I can’t… it’s too much…”
His massive hand came down hard across the outside of your thick thigh. The crack of it echoed in the room and the sting bloomed hot across your skin as the sharp contrast to everything else made you clench around his fingers hard enough to make him groan in delight.
“What I say?” he quipped against you. If you were any other human he would’ve ended your life right then and there for making him have to repeat himself.
Your mouth locked shut as you felt his controlled murderous intent linger in the air.
“Good little slut,” he said, and dove back in.
The second climax rolled through you just as harshly as the first one. Long devastating waves of pleasure left your legs shaking around his head and reduced your voice to a continuous, formless sound. When he finally lifted his head, his face was soaked and his eyes were burning brighter than they had been when he first appeared. He was now well fed and his eyes reflected that as they shined brightly in the dark.
“Two,” he said, voice rough and thick. “Just sum’ to the edge off.” He wiped his jaw with the back of his hand. Looked down at what was on it and then looked at you before licking your residue off his skin. “Now I’m confident I can fuck you without killin’ you.”
He moved your plush body with ease, his hands gripped the generous, soft flesh of your hips and repositioned you in a way that pleased him. You were pliant in a way you couldn’t prevent and couldn’t be embarrassed about because embarrassment required cognitive resources you no longer possessed at the moment. He turned you onto your stomach. Large hands spread across the full width of your hips, lifting, tilting, and settling you at the foot of the bed, knees and upper body braced across the mattress, the full generous curve of your backside presented to the room behind you.
He silently appreciated the fullness of your perfectly round ass and his palm came down before you were fully settled. The spank cracked through the room with a sound that made your whole body lurch forward, the sting blooming hot and immediate, causing you to yelp into the soaked duvet with your hands flying back instinctively. He caught your wrists, both of them, and pressed them into the small of your back.
“Keep ‘em there,” he said. “Move ‘em again an I’ll use a belt on you.”
“A belt? But… you don’t have a…”
His hand landed again, harder, on the same spot. Your teeth snapped shut around the cry you held back.
“I’m a demon, sweetheart. If I can produce two dicks, I can produce a muthafuckin’ belt.” His hand smoothed over the heat his palm had left, squeezing the soft flesh there with the assessing grip of someone checking the quality of something he owned. “Keep. Them. There.”
You learned your lesson and refused to make him repeat himself again as you obediently kept your hands where he wanted them.
“Look up,” he said.
You complied and the floor-length mirror in front of your bed reflected everything. You were spread, flushed, and looked thoroughly undone from just two simple oral climaxes. Every roll, curve, and generous soft inch of you was displayed beautifully under the dim lamplight with no concealment available. The roundness of your belly pressed to the mattress edge. The width of your hips were framed by his enormous hands. The fullness of your thighs trembled. And behind you, rising to his full height with his shadowed wings fanning wide and his horns catching the lamplight, both of his lengths were present and heavy as they gently nudged your aching entrances.
“Look at this ass,” he said, and now there was something in his voice he wasn’t entirely containing, something that crept through the flat, functional register and carried actual wanting in it. He squeezed both handfuls of your plump backside, spreading and releasing, over and over again, the flesh giving like playdough under his grip. “Softest thing I done ever touched. Should’ve had this weeks ago.” His hands continued to knead the generous curve of you, his thumbs pressing into the give of your lower back. “Gonna mark every inch of this pretty brown skin ‘fore I’m done with you. Leave somethin’ behind so ya body ‘member who it belong to now.”
His palm came down again, three times in rapid succession on alternating sides, and your wrists jerked against your own back but you held them in place, tears starting fresh in the corners of your eyes from the compounding sting.
“That’s it,” he said. “You learnin’.”
He looked at your reflection with those burning red eyes. Watched your face while his hands mapped every soft, full inch of your derriere and thighs. “Look at yaself,” he said. “Look at what you is right now. Bent over with that ass arched up for a demon that don’t know what mercy is an’ don’t want to.” His head tilted to the side and smirked. “An you love it. Look at ya’ face.”
Your reflection looked back at you with swollen lips, wet cheeks, and pupils blown wide. He was right. You hated that he was right.
He lowered his head and his teeth found the curve of your shoulder, the bite he left was sharp and deep enough to make you cry out. He sealed his mouth over the mark and sucked until your skin bruised dark beneath his lips, intentionally pressing the evidence of himself into your flesh like a brand. He pulled back to look at what he’d left there in the mirror.
“Mine,” he mumbled, to the mark more than to you.
Then his teeth found the back of your neck and he bit again, harder this time, one hand gripping the back of your head to hold you in place, and the sharp bloom of pain cresting into the pleasure already coursing through your system made your whole body lurch forward into the mattress and pull back against him in the same contradictory motion.
“Got a trail of bitches I done fed on in the Delta,” he said against the nape of your neck, his voice rough and low, the drawl thickening. “Couple more of ‘em up here in this bright ass city.” He pressed his teeth against another patch of skin at your shoulder blade and bit again, not as deep, dragging a sound from you that you felt deep in your bones. “Every single one of ‘em… I was done with after drainin’ ‘em dry.” His hands gripped the full width of your hips and held. “An then there’s you...”
He pressed both of his lengths against you simultaneously, one against your soaked entrance, the second against your chocolate starfish the stimulant had lit up completely, and his hand came around to wrap around your throat from behind, keeping you in place and silently reminding you who was the new owner of your body.
“Look at me in that mirror,” he commanded. “You look away, an I can’t promise I’ll keep bein’ nice.”
Immediately you locked eyes with him in your reflection as he slowly began pushing both of his lengths inside. Just like in your dream, he controlled and thrusted both of his dicks at once and the stretch they left behind was obliterating. His hand at your throat tightened, just enough, just the right amount of pressure that reduced your airflow without completely cutting it off, while making every sensation sharper and more present.
“So fuckin’ tight… mmm mmm,” he grunted, the control fraying at the edges. “Perfect lil’ fucktoy.” He drove deeper and the muffled cry you produced vibrated against his palm. “Both these tight holes. After three weeks.” His forehead dropped briefly to the back of your shoulder and the sound he made was genuine as he let out an uncontrolled satisfied groan.
For a few precious moments, Stack continued to give you slow and careful strokes until he felt your body loosening up, allowing him to stuff you deeper with dick. The moment your body gave him a silent green light, his hips drew back and snapped forward.
Your cry hit the room and he didn’t muffle it. Let it ring off the walls, watched in the mirror as your whole body absorbed the impact and rippled with it, the tender flesh of your thighs, belly, and backside shuddering with each drive of his hips. He watched that specifically. The way your body moved under him. The way the soft, full weight of you responded to every strike. His teeth found your shoulder again and tore another mark into your skin without breaking rhythm, and the quadruple combination of pain, pleasure, fullness, and his hand at your throat reduced your entire conscious mind to a single sustained frequency.
“Listen to you,” he said, his rhythm building, each stroke harder than the last. “All that smart mouth an now all you can do is cry on my dick like a greedy lil’ whore.” He drove forward and your knees buckled beneath you. His hand tightened on your throat, pulling you back up. “Stay up. I wanna see you take this dick.” He thrusted again. “Look in that fuckin’ mirror. Look!”
Even though it was one of the most difficult requests you were commanded to complete in a long time, you looked. What you saw reflecting back in the mirror was something you had no vocabulary for. The enormous, monstrous, and devastating reality of him behind you, wings spread, eyes burning, two separate places inside you being attended to simultaneously while his hand collared your throat and the mark on your chest glowed steady between your swaying breasts. When your eyes landed on your face you looked back at yourself as if you were seeing your reflection for the first time ever, and maybe you truly were.
He bit your neck again, on the other side this time, and the groan that tore from him when you seized around both lengths almost made you climax again.
“See it?” His voice was raw, grinding through clenched teeth as he worked into the tight grip of both of you. “See what you is right now? My cocksleeve. My personal filthy lil human fucktoy.” His free hand cracked across your backside again, hard enough to snap your attention and draw a fresh cry. “Answer when ya Master is speakin’ to you!”
“Yes…”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, sir… I-I-I see it…”
“Mmm.” He drove forward and held, grinding deep, both lengths pressing against their respective points of obliteration simultaneously. “An you like what you see. Don’t you?”
You unintentionally stayed silent for a moment too long and his hand at your throat tightened by one fraction.
“Don’t you?”
“Yes,” you said, and the word came out honest and immediate, stripped of everything you had been protecting. “Yes, I like it…”
“That’s my nasty lil’ bitch,” he said. The praise and the degradation arrived tangled together, inseparable, and your body seized around both of him hard enough to make his rhythm stutter. “I felt that. You squeeze me like that again an I’ll edge you for another week.”
Your inner walls loosened immediately.
“Smart girl,” he said.
He moved, and there was no performance left in it, no patience, no management, just the driven rhythm of a starved incubus taking what it had been wanting for a very long time. His hips snapped against the soft give of your ass with a force and sound that left no academic language available. The tentacles repositioned around your breasts, coiling and working your nipples with a relentless suction that pulled continuous sound from your throat above the steady percussion of his hips against yours. A fifth tendril found your swollen clit and circled it in tight, merciless rotations.
Everywhere simultaneously. Nothing was left unattended. At this point your body was nothing more than a complete and total instrument in his hands.
“You gonna cum again,” he demanded. Not a question.
“I… yes… Elias…”
“Say please.”
“P-p-Please…?”
“Please what, cumbucket?”
“Please…” The word broke. “P-Please let me cum…”
His free hand came down across your left asscheek. This time he landed six sharp strikes in succession that had you lurching forward into the mattress, the sting radiating up through your lower body and compounding with everything else until you couldn’t tell pain from pleasure and didn’t want to. “You gon’ beg better than that,” he said.
“Please…” Your voice was openly sobbing now, tears and saliva and all of your composed doctoral-candidate dignity dissolved completely. “P-P-Please, I need it, please… M-Master Elias I can’t… please…”
“Mmm sound like music to my ears.” his voice was low and dark, riddled with lust and domination. “That’s how a slut beg her Master proper.”
No other words were spoken as he drove forward once, deeper than expected, and the tendril at your clit pressed hard, forcing your body to make a decision on your release without waiting to be told.
This third orgasm hit you like a structural failure. You didn't experience a simple wave of pleasure coursing through your veins like before, but instead, you felt a blissful collapse as everything that was compressed and pleading for release finally received its wish. Your whole body convulsed around him in both places, the clench of you rippling around his dicks causing a string of profanity from him that was half prayer and half something else you couldn’t decipher.
“S-Shit…” He drove through it, chasing the feeling, his rhythm losing its pacing and becoming momentarily sloppy. “Demon dick got you feelin’ so good you tryna’ push me out?” He bit the back of your neck again, hard enough to make you see twinkling stars, and the sting made you clench harder. “Do that shit again.”
In all honesty, at this point you couldn’t have stopped even if you wanted to. His hand left your throat and came to your hair instead, gripping the base of it, wrapping once, pulling your head back until your spine curved and you could see the ceiling. The stretch of it combined with everything else made your body shudder uncontrollably under his touch.
“I’m gon’ fill you up,” he said, his voice stripped to its barest register, thick and rough and no longer making any effort at composure. “Every single hole. Tonight.” His hips drove forward and held, both of him buried to their full and impossible depths, your body wrapped tight around everything he was giving it. “An you gon’ take it. Understand me?”
There wasn’t much time to fully break down what Stack meant about filling all your holes before a shadowed tentacle pressed into your gaping mouth. The tentacle was warm and sweet on your tongue and effortlessly slid up and down your esophagus, skillfully avoiding your gag reflex. Just like the previous tentacles, this one released aphrodisiac fluids into your mouth, sharpening every sensation. He set a rhythm then that used extensions of himself simultaneously, in and out, in and out, the synchrony of it was like an orchestra with one conductor and nowhere in your body left untouched.
He continued to pull you up by the hair until you were chest-to-back with him, both of you upright at the foot of the bed, your back against his chest and his hands now settled on the soft rounds of your breasts, squeezing, releasing, and indulging in the generous weight of them. His teeth found the junction of your neck and shoulder and tore another mark into your skin while his hands worked your nipples relentlessly, and when you jerked against the pain he held you tighter, pinning you against the full length of him with one arm banded across your chest.
Your head fell back against his shoulder. Your hands gripped his forearms.
“Look at this,” he muttered into your ear, his voice guttural. “Marked up already. Every inch of this pretty neck an shoulder got my teeth in it.” His eyes found yours in the reflection and held. “That’s so everybody that come after me knows. Don’t matter what you put on, don’t matter how many layers… you walk out of this apartment tomorrow an you wearin’ me.” He rolled his hips forward, deep, and watched your face in the mirror as your mouth continued to deep throat his tentacle. “Mine,” he said, against the freshest mark. “Every filthy inch.”
He released your breast and tipped you forward again, your hands catching the mattress, and his hips resumed with the driven urgency of something approaching its own limit.
“Imma fill this ass first,” he grunted, through his teeth. “Then that slutty lil’ pussy, an finally that smart ass mouth.” He drove forward relentlessly.
The tentacle in your mouth pressed deep, adjusting to the dimensions of your throat with an intelligence that left no room for resistance, making your eyes water and your fingers curl into the duvet. It continued thrusting at a set rhythm in your throat and you had no choice but to accommodate it, your jaw stretched wide around the girth of it, saliva gathering and spilling freely from the corners of your mouth as it pressed deeper with each stroke.
“Every hole,” Stack rasped behind you, his voice stripped to its barest register. “Every one of ’em mine.”
You didn’t know how it was possible but his strokes became rougher as he thrusted uncontrollably within your tight walls and mouth. The sound your body made around that much fullness was obscene, wet and continuous. Your pussy walls and stretched asshole both, spasmed protest that his hips drove through without acknowledgment.
Then out of nowhere his already large lengths began to grow. It happened slowly enough that your overworked holes registered each degree of it separately, the stretch widening by fractions, your body forced to accommodate more and then more. Both of his dicks expanded inside you at the same time, thickening and lengthening in the way the dreams had shown you was possible and that your waking body was now receiving with an airless, wide-eyed, tear-streaming reality.
“A-A-a-A-a-Ah…” The sound was muffled entirely by the tentacle seated in your throat. Your hands clawed at the duvet. Your thighs tried to kick apart further as if more space might be found somewhere.
“You feelin’ that?” His voice was guttural, barely language. His hands gripped the wide, soft rounds of your hips with bruising force, his fingers pressing deep into the give of your flesh, holding you exactly where he wanted you while he continued to expand inside you. “Feel me gettin’ bigger in both them holes at once, lil’ cumbucket?”
You couldn’t answer. Your throat was thoroughly occupied, the tentacle stroking deeper with each pass, the fluid it kept releasing sending cascading heat down through your chest and belly that mixed with everything else until your body felt like one continuous raw nerve.
“Look at that stomach,” he ordered, as one hand released your hip and pressed flat against your lower belly, and there it was, the faint but undeniable outline of him visible through the plush skin there, the shape of what was inside you pressing against the surface. His palm pressed over it and you felt the pressure from both sides immediately. The sound that came out of you around the tentacle was shameless and continuous. “Feel that? Feel ya’ Master all the way up in this pretty belly?” He pressed his palm firmer, and his voice when he continued had roughened by several degrees. “You was made for this. Built just for this.” He pummeled forward and the pressure beneath his palm intensified.
The tentacle in your mouth pressed deeper, finding the resistance of your throat and pressing past it in slow, rocking strokes that left your eyes streaming and your lips obscenely stretched. Your face was a mess covered in a mixture of tears, drool, and sweat.
Stack looked at your face and growled as his dicks twitched inside of you. “Messy lil’ thing,” he mumbled. “Cryin’ an droolin’ like a good filthy cocksleeve.” His hips snapped forward, the force of it knocking your knees further apart. “That’s all you is, you know that? My new personal toy. Found you by accident an…” He drove forward again, harder, and the sentence took a moment to resume. “Decided to keep you. ‘Cause this pussy too good to waste.” He bit your shoulder again, in a place he had not yet marked, and the fresh sting drew a muffled sob from your throat. “Gon’ keep you alive. Long as you keep feedin’ me like this.”
He set his full rhythm then, both hips and tentacle synchronized, the triple occupation of your body moving together in a coordinated assault that left your body unable to prioritize any single input. The tentacle stroked your throat in the same cadence that his hips rocked against your backside, the fullness inside you now specific and pressing against every interior wall you had. The additional tentacles reappeared and latched back onto your body. The two at your nipples worked in pulsing, rhythmic suctions and the one circling your clit flicked back and forth in a clockwise and counterclockwise rotation. You were experiencing nothing but stimulation layered on top of stimulation, wave stacked over wave, and your body’s capacity to separate any single sensation from the mass of it was completely overwhelmed.
“You gon’ cum again,” he rasped. “Right now. With all of me inside you.”
Your muffled sounds around the tentacle were continuous and broken.
“Nod if you hear me.”
You nodded and let your mind continue to get drunk on the pleasure.
His palm pressed harder against your belly, pressing the outline of himself from outside while driving deeper from within, the pressure meeting itself through the soft wall of your skin in a way that made your thighs seize. “You so fuckin’ full. So fuckin’ stuffed like a proper lil’ bitch.” He withdrew both lengths almost entirely and then drove forward in one devastating stroke, burying himself to their hilt with no mercy.
Your final orgasm of the night had you questioning what life was like before this incubus infiltrated it and presented you with sex good enough for you to throw away your morals. Your whole body locked, thighs went rigid, back bowed, hands white-knuckled in the soaked duvet, and then finally your climax erupted through your body so violently and continuously that the tentacle in your mouth muffled a sound that might otherwise have woken the entire apartment building. Your walls convulsed around both lengths in frantic, milking waves, your body trying to process the simultaneous fullness and the crashing release at the same time.
Stack fucked you through every wave of pleasure. His hips never stilled, never slowed, working through your clenching and convulsing with a focused urgency as he began chasing his own limit. His rhythm became erratic and his breathing audible and ragged over your marked shoulder.
"Keep goin'," he said, through clenched teeth. "Don't stop. Gimme' every drop."
Your body obeyed its Master's command. The orgasm extended past any reasonable duration, sustained by the continued stimulation of the tentacles at your nipples and clit, drawn out past the point of coherence into something that felt less like pleasure and more like dissolution.
He hit his own limit in the middle of it. The sound that tore out of him was nothing like the controlled, drawling entity that had spent the last hour cataloguing your responses with clinical detachment. It was guttural and stripped of every layer he had on, ripped from somewhere as if he was genuinely overwhelmed for the first time in a very long time. His hips stuttered once, twice, losing the rhythm entirely, and then he drove forward with his full weight behind it and buried both lengths to their absolute hilt in a single punishing stroke that knocked you flat into the mattress and pulled a scream into the tentacle still seated in your throat.
He didn’t stop there. His release came in waves of his own and he chased every one of them, hips snapping forward in short, brutal drives that had no patience left in them, just the raw and shaking urgency of something taking what it needed. The first surge of heat inside your chocolate starfish filled you from the inside so completely that you felt it everywhere at once. The second wave inside your core drew another round of undone sounds from his chest, and his hands on the wide rounds of your hips gripped so hard you knew without looking that the bruises would be spectacular in the morning. The third had him pressing his forehead into the back of your shoulder, his breathing audible and wrecked, the drawl completely gone from what little language he had left.
"Shit," he said, against your skin. Then again, lower, more honest, "S-Shit."
The tentacle in your throat released in the same rhythm, filling that space with the same hot, steady pulses, and the combination of all three holes receiving his sticky seed at once reduced your body to a single sustained note of overwhelming fullness. You felt it pooling. Felt it gathering in the tight spaces his lengths had carved out and made their own. Felt it when he rolled his hips forward one final time, grinding himself to full depth with a slow pressure that was less about chasing release and more about making absolutely certain you felt every last pulse of it.
His hands on your hips shook and you felt that. Felt the tremor in the grip of something that didn't tremble, had never trembled, had spent a hundred and thirty-seven years putting its hands on women and leaving with nothing but a full belly and a body behind. You felt it and you filed it away in the part of your brain that was still running the dissertation, the part that took notes even now, even like this, and you said nothing about it because some things were better left unexamined for both of you.
As his body calmed back down, he pressed his forehead deeply into the back of your shoulder. Neither of you made a sound for a long moment beyond breathing. The tentacle in your mouth withdrew from your throat slowly and carefully, and the gasp that followed sounded as if you were on the verge of drowning. Your lungs pulled in air with desperate, greedy pulls. Your jaw was aching and your lips were wet and swollen. You swallowed what was left on your tongue. Shuddered in delight at the taste of him, then swallowed again.
After two long minutes and a few extra spurts of cum, Stack pulled free of both places with the same careful, deliberate slowness, and the sounds your body made at the loss of him were slightly embarrassing. The emptiness that followed was its own specific quality of devastation, your body reaching for fullness that was no longer there, walls fluttering against nothing, the absence amplified and felt everywhere.
He settled you down onto the dry portion of your bed. Both hands, steadying the soft weight of you down with a thoroughness that used every generous inch. Then he sat at the edge of the bed, threw his head back, and looked at the ceiling.
“Damn,” he said, to no one in particular. His voice was wrecked. Rough and stripped and nothing like the controlled, cocky entity that had appeared above you an hour ago.
You lay face-down in the duvet and assessed your situation. You had a dissertation to revise. You had office hours on Tuesday. You were thoroughly and completely destroyed by a century-old Mississippi Delta incubus who had just filled all three of your holes simultaneously and was currently sitting three feet away looking at the ceiling like a man who had also been through something. Your neck and shoulders were marked in at least ten different places, the bruises already surfacing in the dark, already tender when the cooled air of the room touched them.
“Four footnotes,” you said, eventually, into the duvet.
Stack turned his head and analyzed you but stayed silent.
“In the dissertation. I owe four separate footnotes an apology.”
The laugh that came out of him was genuine and startled both of you. It was gone just as fast as it had arrived, like he hadn’t intended to produce it. “Yeah,” he said. “You do.”
The lamp burned low in the corner of your bedroom. The fan turned overhead. The mark on your chest glowed faintly between your breasts, warm and steady in the dark.
Stack was quiet for a moment longer. Then he reached out and pressed his palm flat against your lower back. The heat of his hand spread through tired, overworked muscle the way a brand cooled slowly, staying in the skin long after the source withdrew.
“You gon’ be sore,” he said.
“I’m aware.”
“Gon’ be sore for a few days.”
“Also aware.”
A pause. “I’ll bring you somethin’ for it.”
You lifted your face from the duvet. Just enough to look at him sideways like he lost his mind. “You are an ancient demon entity,” you said, “with no human morals and a documented body count.”
“Mm hm.”
“And you’re going to bring me something for soreness instead of killing me?”
“For a scholar you sure do have a tough time listenin’. I done told you, you my property now,” he said, without a single inflection of irony. “Can’t have you damaged. That’s just maintenance.”
You put your face back in the duvet and sighed. “That is not the wholesome framing you think it is.”
“Wasn’t tryna be wholesome.”
Silence. The city outside went on with itself, thoroughly unaware.
“Elias,” you said.
“Mm?”
“The Moore documentation from 1923.” You turned your head enough to see his profile, the strong jaw, the horns catching the lamplight, the folded wings. “Hattie Price. The one who never wrote anything down.”
His expression shifted slightly. “What ‘bout her?”
“What did she know that Beaumont and Alcott didn’t?”
A long pause.
“She knew,” he said slowly, “that the women who called me did it on purpose.” He looked at the ceiling. “Every one of ‘em. Beaumont thought they was victims… Technically they was since I killed ‘em. Alcott thought they was sinners.” The corner of his mouth moved into a half smile. “Hattie knew they was just women who wanted somethin’ they didn’t have a safe way to want.”
You looked at him. “That’s the revision,” you said quietly.
“Yeah,” he quietly agreed. “That’s the revision.”
The shadow in the corner of your room breathed with its own slow tide. The lamp flickered once and held.
You closed your tired eyes. For the first time in weeks you felt as if you would be able to get a good night's rest. “Don’t let me sleep through my alarm,” you yawned lazily.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Stack.
He was lying. You both knew it. But the hand stayed settled on your lower back, warming the marks he had left into your skin, and the shadow stayed exactly where it was as you drifted off to sleep.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Author's Note: Wow what a ride (pun intended). He went from being in your walls to being in your walls.
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