MONIE BABY! @sweetlikemonie - Tumblr Blog

Sep 13, 2025

𝒮𝒯𝑅𝒜𝒲𝐵 𝑀𝐼𝐿𝒦 𝒫𝐼𝒞𝒯𝒰𝑅𝐸𝒮 presents an onyankopon ﾉ fem reader production . . . ᝰ .ᐟ

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──── 7.5kay wrdz , black fem reader , kingpin ony , aave usage , daddy kink , established relationship , ass smacking , lotsa spit , oral sex ꒰ o -> r ꒱ ꒰ r -> o ꒱ , dirty talk ! ! , reader wears glasses , pet name usage , slight size kink , overstimulation , cutesie feelings , throat fucking , squirting , cum swallowing , facial , slight degradation , ony callz himself dada cuz he luvz her , s cute && i wanted him to !

𝜗ϱ 𝓁𝓊𝓋 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝓂 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓀 . . . slowly gettin back in2 m ony , eren , armin luvr girl bag && i dunno how 2 feel abt it omgie . minors + ageless blogs do not interact ! ! ! ! ! ! !

the sound of a shrill, monotonous alarm buzzing makes your spine pull straight.

it’s a bit funny, you think. how you’ve waited one year, six months, and four days to hear this exact sound, how for months you’ve dreamed about this day, physically counted down to it actually, marking off each square on the paper calendar you have pinned against a wall at home, right beside your bulb framed vanity mirror. your jaw works tighter — teeth gnawing down on the small piece of spearmint gum that’d previously laid placid against your tongue harder, faster, while watching an eight foot tall, brass iron gate start to slowly pull to its left with a tired groan.

energy bubbles within your chest akin to soda fizzing over the rim of a glass, impossible to contain. your fingers are trembling you realize and in efforts to calm down, you squeeze them into little fists before clasping them in front of your body.

the late morning air is crisp, fresh. and there he is . . .

shoulders broad and straining against a faded blue state issued shirt, carrying the weight of eighteen months you’ve only heard through static lined calls. his hair has grown out — remarkably even. it‘s all a thick, long, an untamed crown, seemingly combed out and left to its own devices. he steps through the gate as if the day were made for him, slow and certain, like he’d never been locked up at all.

you’ve realized you stopped chewing your gum.

he doesn’t look like the man you’ve been waiting for . . . he looks like even more. like he’s been remade by the exact seasons you’ve counted through. fallen leaves, red, yellow, and brown, swirl about the fuzzy fur of your calf length, caramel colored boots and with the wind’s direction, they soon dart away to fly straight to him. his stature only grows bigger, taller the closer he gets.

your chin tips higher and higher until he’s standing before you, looking down, with a soft warmth wading within the deep brown of his eyes. they pull you in, quiet but compelling, like the first sip of something sweet after going too long without.

“look at chu.”

the words melt over you slow, so simple yet a big smile can’t help spreading across the canvas of your glossed lips as you timidly cover your face with a hand in bashful defense. “yannie . .”

you both reach for one another at the same moment as the metaphorical tether between your bodies finally snaps taut — you rise on your toes to reach and curl your arms around the back of his neck while he lowers down to completely enfold you within his embrace. “mm,” he slowly presses you into a firm squeeze while peppering soft kisses against your temple. his arms cage you in, strong and immovable, but it feels so good. “missed you. missed my fuckin’ baby, man.”

your pout pushes against his shirt as you mumble into him, voice small and quiet, “ ‘m missed you more.”

it takes a lot of effort to pull away for the two of you. his arms linger within the dip of your waist while you take your time letting your own fall down his strong chest. faintly, you think you don’t hold enough trust within the world to not steal him away again if you let go too fast. you feel his hands trace down your arms, down to your wrists, fingers dragging as if this little distance feels wrong.

you glance up at him again. he looks like he owns all of it — the sky, the sun, the asphalt beneath you both, everything. “uhm, the car’s back that way.” you can’t stop blushing you realize. your entire face feels like someone poured heat into your skin and you press a hand against your jaw, trying to soothe yourself before he notices as you both begin to walk back towards the lot but of course, he already does.

his eyes trail across the features of your face, calm and knowing, and your heart pounds faster inside of your chest.

leaves crunch underneath both your sets of shoes as you tug him gently in the direction of your truck. he follows in that familiar lazy, powerful stride, shoulders relaxed, free hand held at the crotch of his sweats just enough to hitch the fabric up — a confident, subconscious gesture that commands attention without him needing to say a word. a quiet signature of a man who is comfortable in his skin and knows exactly how he’s seen.

parked a bit down is your g wagon — his gift to you, gleaming bright within the golden, autumn sun. the outside is entirely black, rims included. the sight of it makes your gut give a twist. he hasn’t seen it on the road yet, but he bought it for you like he planned this exact moment.

“you got her lookin’ good,” he mumbles, eyes sliding over the vehicle with a slight smirk.

“ ‘course i do. you bought her for me.”

you do your best to take care of everything he’s ever given you — the dead flower petals pressed against the pages of your journal back at home, remnants of every bouquet he’s ever handed you, shows that

he watches you, eyes unmoving, even after he climbs into the passenger and you behind the wheel. all the little ways you honor him without ever saying a word, he thinks about them carefully.

inside your truck tells a different story than the exterior. pink heart patterned floor mats, soft blush leather hugs the seating, a tiny dream catcher hangs from the rear view mirror alongside a picture of you both inside a heart shaped frame. onyankopon studies it for a moment while the ignition roars to life. it’s the two of you at the beach — he remembers the day. his hair was braided then with a crisp fade, you had a curly flip over and wore a soft, muted yellow bikini. you pout at the camera held by both your hands above you as the two of you lie upon your backs on a blanket while he softly kissed your temple. it’s precious.

onyankopon leans back into the leather, arm thrown behind your headrest and eyes half lidded as he soaks it all in while you drive and try not to let your voice shake so much as you begin to fill him in on what he’s missed. “your mom’s stopped by once a week to see me since you’ve been gone,” you start, tone soft. “she sometimes cooks for me, too. and, uhm . . eren, connie, and armin have been keeping things steady, i heard. they check in, too.”

his gaze slides over to you, patient, almost fatherly. “told ‘em what to do,” he utters. “keep you safe above every fuckin’ thing else.”

you feel your chest tighten as that familiar feeling of comfort and something sharper settles over it, “they did. you didn’t have to worry, yannie.”

there’s a breath he releases — deep and slow. through your peripheral, you watch his legs open a bit wider as he lifts his hand to scratch at his temple with a thumb, “dumbass fuckin’ deal, man.” it weighs on him. he’s been the talk of the federal bureau for years and when they finally get him, it’s for a petty drug charge. the fuckers tried to get him locked up longer, however, when clear that they couldn’t, they did the other best thing possible — threw him in solitary for a month as soon as he was sentenced and allowed no visitation during his entire time spent in that prison.

through a quick glimpse at him, you take heed of the slow anger beginning to radiate off of him like sun rays on hot pavement. his jaw is tight as his thumb keeps rubbing at his temple, almost as if he were trying to massage away the frustration that’s been building during this entire year and a half.

you reach over to press your hand against his abdomen, a soothing touch, “you’re good, baby,” you softly say. “you’re here and i’m here—“

“—they try to question you again?”

you shake your head, “they couldn’t touch me. connie, eren, and ‘min, they made sure i was okay. you made sure i was okay.”

you think that’s when onyankopon relaxes again. he sighs again, this one quieter as he closes his eyes and tilts his head back. you don’t want to remind him of it all. the way you see it, it’s over and done with and it’ll never happen again. he won’t go back. therefore, you change the subject, “i made cinnamon rolls for you back at home, and ooh, i forgot to mention on our last phone call, my art show went super well. i sold all of my pieces, can you believe it?”

you’re grinning again, big and wide.

onyankopon lets a slow smirk pull at the corner of his lips. pretty ass. “mhm.” his attention is pulled towards your outfit — a thick, red cardigan over a plain white camisole, little black jean skirt, white thermal leggings, and boots. your french curled braids are small, neat, and long, the color of them a dark ginger that brings out the gold of your jewelry.

quietly, you chat away as a soothing playlist drifts beneath your words the entire drive back, however onyankopon keeps looking, keeps staring at the moles dotted all over your face, your black, wide, square framed prescription glasses, all of it. every small detail about you anchors him and renders him almost completely still.

almost an hour later, tires soon crunch over a long, winding driveway, salt air thick around the truck as you turn the final bend. up ahead is your shared beach house. it sits just above the shoreline, cream washed walls and floor to ceiling windows catching the sun while also reflecting the sea. from the outside looking in, it’s sleek and minimalist, every line clean, every material expensive. onyankopon lets his eyes drift lower, right to the garages. three cars sit parked in front of them, polished and waiting: an all black escalade sport, lighting grey mclaren, and candy red 1970 plymouth barracuda.

home.

when stepping out of your truck, he takes a moment to let his eyes catch every detail — the cars, the house, the horizon. the weight he’s carried, months of absence and tension, it all slowly begins to fade.

you notice the subtle change the minute you both enter the house and a small sense of relief blooms across your chest. him happy is all you want, all you’ll probably ever need.

“i wonder if they’re still warm,” you’re murmuring as you scamper through the foyer to round the corner and disappear within the kitchen. minimalist furniture cements the space throughout the stretched living room, it smells like cinnamon and chocolate chips, you have stuffed pumpkin displays decorated here and there, candles delicately flickering on the shelves.

onyankopon fucking loves it. he needs this.

while you warm his cinnamon rolls in the oven for a couple minutes, he listens to the playlist you’d been playing while driving get bluetoothed to the architectural speakers throughout the house. he toes off his shoes, combs his hair back with his fingers and slowly walks inside the kitchen to watch you grab a plate, knife, and fork to sit on the island counter.

“i just want them a little bit gooier,” you huff while padding towards a cabinet to open, reach up high, grab a glass, then walk back towards the fridge.

the scent of cinnamon grows stronger, sweet and buttery, and envelops his senses. onyankopon leans back against the counter, eyes tracing the small movements you make — flick some braids off of your shoulder, push your glasses higher up your nose, rub your lips together. your hips sway with each step you take.

“careful,” he soon mumbles, voice tender yet firm. “don’t burn yourself.”

you bite upon your shy smile as you cut along the seam of two, fat rolls after taking the pan out of the oven. “ ‘m not a baby, yannie.” there’s a sweetness in your tone that makes him hum.

“you my baby, there’s a difference.”

there’s a quiet intensity in his stance that showcases him trying to memorize every detail of this specific scene. quiet melodies of seventies, r&b oldies weave throughout the kitchen as you hand him his plate carefully. you both still stand, him leaned against the counter, you close in front of him with your hands behind your back, “i added some heavy cream in the pan,” you gently tell him with your eyes focused on his hands as he picks up the fork. “makes them more soft. i hope you like it.”

he tilts his head as he takes that first bite. he’s drawn into your presence, can’t help pulling you closer by the waist as he chews, “oh, shit,” he mumbles, dropping the fork to instead pick the pastry up with his fingers to get a bigger bite. “shit’s fire, mama.”

you squeak and hug your hands to your chest, eyes twinkling behind your lenses, “yeah? you like it?”

“mhm,” he licks his lips. “how many you make?”

“six.”

“mmm,” he gives a quick suckle to his canine tooth and tilts his head again. “ima need like six more.”

“seriously?”

“as a fuckin’ heart attack.” prison food is bland, textures are nonexistent, onyankopon guesses he can eat an entire table full of every meal he’s loved and not feel full at all at the moment.

giggling, you retort, “okay, i’ll make more later on tonight.” his hair captures your attention again, full and wild, framed around his face like a mane. you reach out to touch his ends, they’re dry of course. brittle, even. “it’s gotten so long again.”

he’s already halfway done with the second as he gives a bland shrug, “you know ion trust nobody with this shit but you. all i did in’ere was comb it out, maybe brush it but . . nah. can’t let nobody else play in my head.”

you lean in closer and push your hands through his roots at his nape. you watch him lose his eyes for a moment while emitting a deep hum. “want me to braid it for you, baby?”

“yeah,” he mumbles. the cinnamon rolls are now gone. he sits the plate on the counter behind him and pulls you in close with an arm.

your heart’s beating fast again as you watch his eyes flick down to your lips. “w-what style do you want?” you ask, deciding to focus all your attention on it. “zigzags, straight backs, maybe some—“

your voice catches when he pulls you tighter, holding you close enough that your tits are basically smashed against his abs. the world blurs at the edges as you glance up into his eyes again. he’s not paying attention to your question at all, they linger at your lips, heavy and unhurried. you swallow as the back of your neck prickles while your hands still rub at the base of his own, feeling the new growth. “onyankopon . .” you try, but it comes out more meek that you intended, almost pleading.

he doesn’t answer you, simply keeps studying your face, lids half lowered, expression unreadable aside from the lurking hunger that’s beginning to settle beneath it. his thumb starts to rub slow circles against your waist and it only makes your knees feel like jelly.

you try again, voice trembling, “o-okay, so which one? zigzags—“

“—shh,” he rumbles, low and easy. he’s smirking now, stare still anchored at your lips. “don’t matter right now. gimmie a fuckin’ kiss.”

and when he leans down to close the last bit of space between you both, the smell of sugar and buttercream clings to his breath mixes with the salty air drifting in past the windows and you inhale a small gasp at the first touch of his lips on yours. they’re thick, soft, and warm. he hums low in his chest as you tenderly curl your arms tighter around his neck. it’s a deep enough sound for it to almost vibrate through your body as the kiss only deepens. there’s no rush in his movements, just deliberate pressure while his tongue traces the cushion of your bottom lip to coax you to open up.

it feels like surrender, like giving into something you’ve been holding in since you first locked eyes again.

when he pulls back, it’s only by a fraction — just enough for the both of your breath to fan over each other’s lips as one of his hands drift lower past your skirt. a lot’s unsaid, but then he’s back . . this time hungrier as his fingers find the fat, round cheek of your ass to tightly squeeze over your leggings. it’s messier, this time. your lipgloss sticks to the scruff of his facial hair while he gets a firm grip around your throat to suckle your tongue into his mouth. it’s deep and all consuming, like he wants every bit of you at once.

you force yourself to pull away, “your hair. i gotta . .” you’re panting slightly while slipping from his arms. “gotta d-do your hair.”

his eyes are dark as he wipes the corner of his lips, “alright,” he utters, not before forcing you to turn towards the kitchen’s exit with a mean slap to your ass. “hurry up. go.”

he lingers in the kitchen for a moment after you quickly scamper away. his chest rises and falls heavily. the taste of your gloss is still sweet on his tongue, sticky at the corner of his lips, and he licks it away like he doesn’t want to lose it. his palm tingles where it gripped the meat of your ass, the memory of your breathless pull away plays on loop in his brain.

jaw flexing, he leans back against the counter and lets these thoughts slip past the guarded places he usually keeps locked up. god, what do you do to him? it all sits there, a low ache in his chest. he already craves you back in his arms, he yearns for you down to the smallest of ways — scent of your braids when you lean in real close, the way your glasses slip further down the slope of your nose when you focus, the sound of your laughter bubbling up out of your chest when you fight to keep it down. he doesn’t just want you, he needs you in a way that makes every day he’s spent without you feel like a lifetime stolen.

by the time he follows you into the living room, you’re all set up. comb, oil, scissors, grease, rubber bands. your boots are off.

you use a little remote to let the blinds slowly retreat down over the windows and instead set the lighting for something more moody yet bright. you pat the space between your legs, “sit, papa.”

onyankopon lowers himself down until his broad back is set against you. long legs outstretch comfortably before him as he reaches behind his neck to tug off his shirt, leaving him in a clean, fitted wife beater. afterwards, he exhales, nice and long as your fingers push through the coils at his roots, gentle but sure, tugging firm enough to wake up his scalp.

“mm,” he grunts quietly as his head tips forward. “missed this.”

you part his hair into clean lines, smoothing in a bit of oil while feeling him melt underneath your care. each tug feels grounding, intimate, like a language only the two of you share. the rhythm of your hands and hum of soft melodies from the speakers weave within one another and onyankopon lets himself drift into relaxation when you start to massage his scalp, nice and slow.

you have magic hands, growing hands, too. before meeting you, his hair had always been a pain in his ass. short yet horribly thick, impossible to tame. then you came — and only the universe knows what you did because his length currently hits his mid back and now acts right when a comb rakes through it. you part his hair into sections, clipping them all away to only leave the piece you’re going to braid free. with easy precision, your greased fingers move, pulling under and over, firm but not harsh, carefully watching the braid beginning to take shape.

onyankopon leans back into your touch, eyes shutting completely to bask in it.

it doesn’t take long. soon, a perfect, tight zigzagged braid lays against his scalp. you band the end, pulling at it to show him where it ends on his back with your pretty voice full of amazement, “look at how long, yannie.”

“mhm,” his voice is thick with comfort.

you move on to the next, unfastening another clip, carefully combing the hair out. onyankopon’s always been quiet, but you’ve always been able to tell when he’s too quiet. “thinkin’?” you question quietly.

“ ‘bout you,” he answers with little hesitation. his eyes remain close as his lips quirk with a smile. “how the fuck you always got me feelin’ like this. like i ain’t ever been touched right til you.”

“stop it,” you mewl while feeling your face burn hot once more. piece by piece, row by row, his hair is cultivated within your touch. each time you lean closer, thighs bracketing his shoulders, he notices. each time your breath ghosts over the crown of his head, he notices. each time you hum when you hit a little snag, he notices. he soaks it all in, memorizes it, loves you through it without saying the words out loud. ten braids form a pattern, zigzagged across his head like a crown when you’re all done. by the time it’s over, his thumb is stroking absentminded circles against your calf through the fabric of your leggings while you smooth mousse all over it.

“yay,” you smile, big and wide. “all done.”

slowly, you watch him tip his head back until his eyes find yours. they’re dark and heavy with something deeper than just relief. he looks at you like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.

“you know what’s bouta happen now, right.”

his words hang there, weighty and sure, your stomach can’t help but flip at the way he says it. like, it’s not a question at all, just a simple truth. your throat tightens, breath catches. you try to giggle it off and roll your eyes, but his gaze doesn’t waver. his thumb remains rubbing at your calf, grounding you, however the look in his eyes makes you want to bolt.

“wha . .” you huff a little laugh. “what do you mean?” heat pools within the core of your tummy.

a slow smile spreads across his lips — handsome, white, and bright. “don’t play fuckin’ dumb, mama. you know what i want,” his eyes unfocus, almost as if he were looking through you or maybe past you. he’s seemingly caught somewhere between the weight of now and the year and a half he’s spent starved of you. “question is . .” there’s a glaze to them, a boiling heat that makes the smirk he wears falter for a second. his face becomes calmly serene when he asks nice and quiet, “you gon’ give it? or you want me to take it?”

your lips part . . .

but, you don’t answer fast enough. “yannie—“ onyankopon’s already moving, turning, pressing his hands down into the couch cushions beside your thighs to cage you in and lean back in for another kiss.

he hums, low and unbothered as you squeak then gets a grip at the back of your knees, pulling you forward to make you lie further down upon the settee while pushing them up to open your legs wider to accommodate his build. “couldn’t had thought you was gon’ get through the day without givin’ me my pussy.”

you’re already keening as you feel his hands hooking inside the waistband of your legs and panties underneath your skirt to peel them down within one, fluid motion. his stare is entirely locked on yours as he leans back to get them from off of your feet which he then grabs to sweetly kiss, one by one. you’re nervous for a lot of reasons. it’s been so long, months of empty space where his touch should have been, months of only imagining him home again, only hearing his voice on your phone twice a week for fifteen minutes at a time. now that he’s here, in the flesh, you suppose it’s all overwhelming.

he doesn’t look away, doesn’t let you hide after unzipping your skirt and tossing it away too. it feels like you’re letting him see you for the first time again. the neediness you’ve been trying to smother, the same one you actually succeeded in doing is clawing up out of you, all too fast.

and beneath it all sits the biggest fear. you know that once this starts, onyankopon’s not letting up. he won’t. he’s a man starved. he’s always had a way of consuming you entirely — making you cum until you’re crying and forcibly pushing him off of you has happened more times than you think you can count. you can already feel yourself slipping towards him, giving him all of you, piece by piece until you’re nothing but what he makes you out to be.

you surrender, entirely.

you let him carelessly push your legs open until your pussy’s eye to eye with him. she’s waxed smooth, fat and wet. the hard, pink pearl of your clit thumps underneath his attention as his thumbs peel apart your lips so that his tongue can pull it into his mouth with a hungry suck.

your gasp is loud — slick heat of his mouth making you jump.

you squeeze a lone, throw pillow between your arms and tightly force your eyes shut. “a . . a-awe — o-o-ohhh my god.”

another hum he gives. he keeps your legs up and out of his way by holding onto the back of your knees while his suckles are hard, unrelenting — tongue is mean as he bullies your clit with it, flicking against the hard bud with wet, firm strokes like he’s starved. your thighs twitch, unconsciously fighting to close but his grip is iron. thumbs dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, keeping you spread wide as he digs his tongue deep inside the spasming pit of your pussy, wanting to feel your walls clench on it.

“yes,” you’re whimpering, reaching down for his head to simply hold on. “y-yes, daddy . . mmm’mygod.”

the sounds are obscene. your pussy’s similar to a ripe peach — juicy and soft. addictive. he sucks your clit so hard that it makes your hips back up against his face. “yannie—“ you choke on his name, watching him part his mouth open wider so that his tongue can force its way in deep inside before sliding back up to latch on that throbbing, pink bead again. your whole body has been pulled taut. you tremble as your stomach dips, nerves spark beneath your skin like live wires in water underneath his overstimulating attention.

he’s everywhere, lips, tongue, fingers. and it isn’t like the more you cry out, the more he shows mercy. each hiccup, each whine, each cry, they’re only batteries in his back. the room spins when you look down to find his dark eyes already staring up into yours from between your thighs. you take in how far the lips of your cunt have to spread to lodge his thick tongue and it only makes another wave of slick pour from your hole which he casually drinks with a loud gulp.

“y’so dirty,” you pout while curling your toes above his head.

another hum, “pussy’s so sweet t’me,” he mumbles within the folds of it. you lick your lips, prior to biting the bottom as you watch him pull away. thick strings of his spit and your slick play between your cunt like messy webs. you reach down to your mound, pulling your clitoral hood up to make him get a good look at it while your slit stretches thin.

“m’pussy’s missed you,” you sniffle, voice quiet and sweet. “missed daddy bad.”

he groans and leans in to smack some soft kisses on it. “i know, i know,” he tosses an arm over your stomach to pin your hips down. “lemme make her cum. make this shit cream, mm?”

thoughtlessly you’re nodding, pretty, glossed lips popped open around a breathy moan, “ uh huh. yes, please?”

he dives back in for another taste.

your chest rises and falls within shallow gasps as you keep your chin pointed to the ceiling. your acrylic nails dig into the couch cushions while you force yourself to keep your legs open and take all that he gives. shaking his head slowly from side to side, letting the hairs of his mustache and faint beard give your clit some sort of stimulation as his tongue fucks into your hole — never pulling out, constantly pushing in deeper and deeper.

his strength is absolute. each time you try to move, he’s there . . dragging you back, shoving your legs opened wider, jostling your little body to keep you still.

big, rough, tatted hands soon push up underneath your cardigan and cami, reaching for your tits that he squeezes within his fingers before pinching your nipples between the calloused pads of his fingers. your hands reach up to hold onto the back of his as the pit of your stomach clenches with a familiar warning. “ ‘m gonna . . c-cum,” you mewl and sniffle. there’s no space to breathe or escape. just the wet sounds of him devouring you completely as the sharp slap of his tongue gets acquainted with your little clit.

your voice cracks, high and whiny, “y-yannie, really.”

eventually your body seizes. your thighs clamp shut around his head while your back arches and that feeble thread in your core finally snaps. you’re cumming hard, wetter than you’ve ever felt. cream spills out, hot and thick on onyankopon’s tongue, but he never flinches, doesn’t even slow down. he drags it through each wave, firm and thorough with heavy breaths — even pulls you closer, flattening the muscle against your slit to scoop out every last drop.

tears burn at the corner of your eyes as you push your glasses up to rub them clear. your body’s spasming — relaxing for a few seconds only to begin to suddenly twitch and tremble before you’re relaxing again. “mmmhm,” he’s pulling back to lick his lips, admiring your cunt for a moment before swatting a few, firm smacks upon your clit. “good pussy.”

you barely have time to catch your breath before his tongue is back in it, plunging into swollen walls like he’s trying to swallow another taste directly from the source. you yelp and twist your body to the right, successfully rolling onto your stomach, however he only pushes your left leg up high to get his mouth right back on it. your clit’s too sensitive for this. you push at his head, cries feeble. “g-get . . off.”

cum and spit, it trickles into the seam of your ass and now down your thigh. onyankopon’s slurps seem to be even louder as he shakes his head in it, “daddy,” you’re desperate — voice broken. “mooove.”

“mm-mm.”

he grabs your hips, forcing you to rock back and forth from his mouth down to his chin. the pressure’s already building again, too fast, too high. your body fights to curl into itself. “ ‘m cum— hic —min’ . . fuck.”

the coil snaps again. harder.

slick gushes out, dampening his mouth, chin, chest, and the couch. you loosely bite onto your hand, brain foggy as you let him suck what feels like your entire pussy into his mouth. he gets hold of your clit again and pulls his head back with it in his mouth until it pops back out into place. only when you’re uncontrollably quivering is when he huffs a small chuckle, “hmph.”

you feel him completely pull away and stand up.

you’re sniffling, reaching a timid hand down between your legs to feel the damage, unsurprised to jerk a wet hand back up to your body at the raging sensitivity that now throbs between your thighs. he’s so mean, you find. a huge mean ass.

you feel him turn you back over, you watch him kneel over your torso, only to walk them until they sit above your shoulders and his crotch is leveled with your eyes. his thumbs tug his sweats down and pull his dick out — it falls out right before it touches your nose . . heavy, dark, long, and thick. “mmm,” he hums, bites his bottom lip and gives it a few, slow strokes. your eye cross each time you watch his thumb circle around the tip, nice and firm. “ain’t had this throat in a year and a half. need you to eat this dick up.”

you reach for it, pretty little hand wraps around his base as you give a sweet sniffle and nod before your opening up and letting him push his leaking tip in past your lips.

you watch his eyes close. his head tilts back.

“. . oh fuck,” he soon breathes to the ceiling, pushing himself in deeper until you suddenly gag around the intrusion of it sliding past the ring of your throat.

he slides out then and there, nice and slow, tipping his head back downward to watch a few tears slip past your eyes, down to your temples. “missed this shit?” he mumbles when he slowly eases his way back inside your mouth. “missed me? missed my dick?”

you’re nodding, even as you gag a sharp, “hnkkk . .!”

“you good,” he smacks a few, firm slaps on your cheek as he keeps pushing in more and more. “gimmie that shit . . give me that fuckin’ throat, mama.”

a new batch of tears boil against the surface of your eyes as you make the mistake of inhaling too fast and too hard which suddenly has onyankopon pulling out to allow you to breathe. thick, sticky tendrils of spit drip off of his crown as you cough and drag your wrist across your lips while sniffling. he smacks his cock across your pretty face all the while, smearing the mess against your fogged glasses and pretty lips. no coo’ing, no breaks. when you’ve gathered yourself, he’s back inside, “breathe out ya nose.”

it’s all the warning he gives.

he lifts you by the sides of your head, forcing your mouth to swallow three fourths of him time and time again. he makes his own pace — steady and deep, gazing down at you the entire time with his face relaxed and lips parted. “yeah,” he groans, soft and quiet as your messy slurping echos throughout the living room. “ohhh fuuuck, baby, yeah . . eat that shit. eat it right the fuck up.”

your glasses are useless. you can barely see a thing, but you hear him . . you know he feels good. his dick feels good, too. warm, hard, and pulsing with veins, stroking in and out of the warmth of your mouth. you hold onto his thighs, letting him pull your head in closer which only forces his cock deeper into your throat.

onyankopon tilts his head back once more. oh, it’s good. it’s better than fucking good. looking back down with his eyebrows furrowed and face now grimaced over with too much pleasure, he takes in your lips sliding up and down the thick, dark brown rod of his dick, how it glistens with your spit, how as you fight to breathe again, bubbles of your saliva only start to inflate and pop around your mouth which then starts to drip off your chin. “blowin’ bubbles on my shit,” he mutters, lust dripping off of his voice, dark and quiet. “my baby jus’ swallowin this shit, huh?”

he lets your head fall back flat against the cushion beneath you.

afterwards, he reaches back for his muscle tee, tosses it away, then leans forward with his fists gripping the cushion above your head to then let his hips start to rock back and forth. he starts to use your mouth as if it were nothing but another warm, sloppy hole.

“let dada hit the back of that fuckin’ throat,” he hisses while getting a grip around it to feel his dick push inside with each thrust. “there you go. there you fuckin’ go.”

you whimper around him, lifting your hand up to his swinging balls to softly rub. onyankopon’s eyes roll back into his skull as he forces more power behind each slug. you obviously want him to cum. he’ll give it to you then. his pace picks up second by second until he’s blatantly fucking your mouth — just dropping his dick in and out of it, uncaring of your splutters, chokes, and gags. he breathes quiet and rasped, keeping you still until he feels it . . until that first rope of cum is shot from his tip and inside your esophagus. he pushes himself in nice and deep, shifts his hips left and right for a bit as he groans low and quiet before suddenly pulling out to shoot the rest of your face and painting your glasses white.

“swallow it,” he demands as his fist strokes and squeezes those final, thick droplets out. “oooh shit.”

you’re sniffling mucus back into your nose, panting, swallowing, letting him pull your glasses off to get a better look at your face. “pretty ass bitch,” he mumbles, pulling you up to turn you over, force an arch in your spine and rub his wet cock up and down your slit. “bouta dig this shit out.”

you whine, loud and high in your throat when he slowly begins to press inside. you feel him drip a cool dollop of his spit onto your entrance to add somewhat more lubricant. “daddy,” your voice is raspy. it’s cute, actually. onyankopon can’t help smiling as he keeps on pushing. “ ‘s s-so big.”

“ain’t nothin’ you ain’t never took before, mama.”

it’s true. but you haven’t taken anything bigger than your pathetic, five inch, tentacle dildo in eighteen months. this is a lot. you groan out a long sound of slight discomfort as your back slowly rises. you aren’t surprised to suddenly feel his hand pressing back down on it, hard and firm. “arch.”

“i can’t—“

“—you whinin’ too much for me.”

therefore, onyankopon licks his lips, gets a grip across the pretty dip of your waist, lifts a leg up, presses his foot flat and concocts a nice, deep rhythm. you squeak, hand gravitating behind you to press against his v line. it’s deep. too deep. too fucking deep. he only grabs that same arm to hold it at the base of your spine, right between the two, glimmering piercings of your back dimples as his hips slap against your ass — stiff and loud.

“oh god,” you’re hiccuping and squeezing at a cushion with your free hand, feeling him pull you back halfway into each blitz of his hips as he keeps going. as he keeps fucking you weak. “oh m’god . . y-yan’— . . hnggg.”

onyankopon looks down at the view of your pussy’s muscles squeezing on him. with each pull out, they drag against his cock as if it never wants to let him go. “feel good?”

it does. with each passing moment, you only relax more which has your cunt blossoming around him, no longer squeezing to push him out but fighting to swallow him down to his balls. you gurgle around a pool of spit that sits on your tongue, “s-so fuckin’ . . good, daddy.”

“mhm,” he grabs onto your hand that he has pinned behind your back. “you feel good, too, pretty girl.” good as a bitch, actually.

he swats a hard smack against your ass. it’s loud. he watches the skin bounce and tremble with each slam of his hips against it as he keeps moving. it’s hypnotic. your little puckered hole seems to beckon him hello between each one as your ass claps open then closed, too. “my fuckin’ god,” a shiver runs up his spine once you start to cream. it starts off small — just little streaks of white painting his dick until it all starts to thicken at the rim of your hole. “dada baby looks so good. you so good, mama.”

you mewl underneath his praise, pushing back closer to him. “m’pussy feels s-so good, daddy.”

there’s no other phrase to really describe it. it’s been so long since you’ve seen him, so long since you’ve been fucked like this by him. you almost want to sob. “c’mere,” you feel him haul you up by the fabric of your sweater so that you stand on your knees. he snatches it up and off of your arms, followed by your camisole, so that his chest presses flushed against the warmth of your back when he fucks you like that.

you moan, soft and needy, letting him hold your bouncing tits in his hands, kiss along your neck, suckle a love bite into the line of your jaw.

cream trickles down your thighs and his balls. and he’s rough yet patient all the while, guiding you, pressing you into him, letting you feel the weight of him and that year and a half absence simply melt away. you cries are full of relief and hunger when he murmurs your name low and gruff in your ear, when he tells you he’d rather kill everybody in his path than leave you alone again, when he tells you your pussy is fucking heaven. you’re dizzy with too much pleasure. your hand reaches back, letting your nails scrape along the nape of his new braids as he groans and reaches down to rub your clit.

“listen to me,” his voice is breathless, teetering on the tone of amazement. “diggin’ that shit out . . — listen to you takin’ this dick, baby girl.”

it’s messy. slurps and squelches. your cunt squeezes around the occasional pocket of air that slips inside and all the sound does is makes onyankopon’s cock throb harder. “bouta nut. and you gon’ take it.”

you nod, letting him push you back down into that deep arch — only this time, both his feet end up flat behind you as he holds onto your waist, dropping his dick in and out of your wet, chubby pussy. “pull it outta me,” he groans, balls swelling. “pull that nut up outta dada, baby.”

your walls clamp down on him, nice and hard. in doing so, you seem to only drag in onyankopon’s cock the deepest you’ve felt which makes your cunt reply in sudden spurts of thin, translucent liquid. “p-please, hmph—“ it’s gushing. just never ending with each thrust of his dick inside. the sight of it all only pushes onyankopon straight for that edge. he gets a firm grasp at the back of your neck when he suddenly slams deep inside to let it all pump out, “ohhhh m-my fuckin’—“

he suddenly clenches his jaw, forces himself through overstimulation to pull out and bully his way back in. over and over and over.

your squeaks are muffled each time by the cushions while your thighs tremble. “d-daddy, okay . . okay.” his grunt is shaky and thin as he keeps himself there for a moment, basking in the feel. you feel his fingers against your back soon, languid and soft, then him slowly pull out so that he can flop on his ass behind you then bring you upon his lap. your body curls against his chest on instinct. neither of you say anything for what feels like a long while.

onyankopon kisses the crown of your head while stroking the apple of your cheek as you blink wetly and stare off into the distance, mind completely fucked out of you. “give me y’hand,” he utters quietly into your head while reaching beneath you for your right hand. with his own, he presses them right up against each other, palm to palm, finger to finger.

“you remember this, hm? . . wiggle your index if you good — aight, there you go. always so fuckin’ smart, huh.” he kisses you again as you slowly wrap your finger around his much larger one. it was a system the both of you made — for stuff like this. when your mind’s much too broken to say much other than about four words. you wiggle your index finger against his to let him know that you’re okay, rub your palm against his to tell him you’re not, wrap your finger against his to tell him . . .

“you want this dick again?”

when you feel him slowly begin to smile against your head, you’re covering your face, burying it in his chest and giving a small nod. “yeah, that ain’t no problem,” his arm raises up high so that he can let a thick smack fall on the left cheek of your ass. “i got all night f’you.”

#ೀ monie’s book nook

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