Salt and Sugar It - 70's AU!Joel Miller x f!reader
Title: Salt and Sugar It
Author: @ghotifishreads
Pairing: 70's Roller disco AU! Joel Miller x f!reader
Word count: 4.2K
Summary: You go to the roller disco and give Joel a BJ. It's some undefined time in the 1970s.
Warning: Blow job. It’s a blowjob. Reader roller skates and wears a silk jumpsuit, but there are no physical descriptions.
Credits: Header made by @ozarkthedog // Title from ‘That! Feels Good!’ by Jessie Ware // Unbeta'd
A/N: Christ on a bike, I’m absolutely sick of looking at this and can’t figure out how to write it like I see it in my head, so here it is. It’s like 7 pages and 3 of them are blow job, somebody call Jacqueline Novak, I’m coming for her “overthinking a bj” crown.
Shoutout to Jessie Ware for making sexy disco music in the 2020s that made me think of 1970s Joel, to Pedro for looking fine AF in that Esquire shoot and to all the mad beautiful geniuses who styled it.
The biggest shoutout to @ozarkthedog who nursed this into fruition and then cheered me on and let me ask what names for a man’s dickhole should be, and then ALSO made a bangin’, stunning header for it. You star, you queen, thank you for being my friend.
🔞Over 18s only, minors dni! 🔞 I do not give permission for my work to be republished, reposted, or translated.
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The pulse of the music throbs through you, the rush of air whooshes past as you pick up speed and weave through the crowd. You’re like Hermes, your feet flying on roller skates instead of winged shoes.
The freedom of turns on the roller rink floor are their own pleasure.
It doesn’t hurt to look across the crowded room and lock eyes with him as a delectable punctuation to the beat of the music and the shared thrill and exuberance of the crowd.
Joel.
He looks so good, hulking form lounging in the booth, languidly sipping from the neck of a now-sweating beer bottle as he watches you twirl.
Sometimes Joel’s brother Tommy and his wife Maria join you, even skating themselves. But when they stay with Joel for a chat as you circle the rink, you still feel the burn of Joel’s deep brown eyes cutting to you from across the room.
It doesn’t bother you that Joel sits on the sidelines.
When you asked why didn’t want to even try, he gives a self-deprecating answer about how, “My uncoordinated ass don’t need to be out there, I’d just fall over and make a fool a’ myself,” he declares. A statement for which you reprimand him by slinking your hands into the tight denim of his back pockets and squeezing his ass. “Your ass is perfect, baby. If anything it would make a perfect cushion if you did fall.”
To which Joel replied, “Think you’ve the got the perfect ass outta the two of us, darlin’,” which required a detour back to the bedroom before you turned up to Tommy and Maria’s dinner party late and clothing rumped.
You skate for yourself. To move your body to the beat in a way that makes you smile, makes you feel free and sexy, and to forget your troubles.
But you also do it as a show for Joel. For his hungry eyes to follow you, to eat up the scattering of light and the shimmer of the disco ball’s reflection across your skin.
Resting becomes its own thrill. When you do sit for a break, take a slug of water and a sip of cocktail, you do so perched in Joel’s lap.
When the two of you had started to attend the rink, on one of your early dates, it was pressed against his side, your nerves as buzzy as neon at merely touching the man’s shoulder.
But now, Joel is yours and wants you all the time. Being likewise inclined, you permit yourselves these indulgences, these open displays of desire.
Others full on fuck in the booths – you and Joel at least wait until his truck.
—
The DJ switches records and you slow down, skating to the rink exit and to the table Joel awaits you at.
Legs spread wide, one arm stretched across the booth back, unintentionally displaying the sheer wingspan and strength of himself, solidness honed from his weekdays on construction sites alongside Tommy.
He’s taken off his fur coat as the body heat increases correspondingly with the uptick in body count while the bar and rink get crowded.
You admire his shirt sleeves, the open polo neck collar, the knitwear clinging to his stocky torso so that you want to wrap bodily around Joel and take the shirt’s place.
The open tease of the polo shirt plackets makes you crazy, because it IS a tease. Through it glistens the gold of Joel’s chain necklace sitting beautiful against his golden skin, nestle in the very faint dusting of his chest hair.
Your friend Monica had always said she wanted a man just like Burt Reynolds. “A bear skin rug on his chest,” she’d dreamily sighed. You understood Burt’s appeal. But you thought Joel’s smattering of chest hair was the perfect amount, liked that his body only sprouts darkly and thickly under his arms and on his torso beneath his belly button, a line you loved to follow with your tongue, down, down, down….Particularly before Joel had fully freed himself from his trousers or large belt buckle, the sturdy pooch of his belly calling out for your teeth and mouth.
You shake your head from its lusty reverie, memories making you wobble perilously on your skates.
Sweat prickles your neck, you’re starting to overheat, both from Joel and the room, so you turn your wheels to the booth to refuel and feel the sugar rush of a cocktail.
You sit, throw your knee over Joel’s lap.
No matter that you glisten with a faint sheen of sweat, and Joel’s cheeks bear a flush even the flashing low lights can’t hide, you still need Joel’s body heat close.
He passes you a glass of ice water, condensation leaving drops on your silky jumpsuit. You chug, lick your lips as water escapes your mouth and the glass.
Joel licks your neck, chasing the droplet’s trail, his wide tongue’s path lapping your sweat in the process. You hum a moan, then Joel swaps your spent water glass for your cocktail. Drink sorted, Joel’s hands stroke the silky material of your jumpsuit.. You must radiate light as much as the disco ball spinning above the rink, the way you feel incandescent when Joel’s strong, sure hands touch you.
He gives your ass a squeeze, then rests his hands on your hips, fingertips stroking and patiently drumming on your ass in time to the music.
“You look real nice, honey,” Joel says. “This new?”
In your satin jumpsuit–with shorts, because even in the dead of winter the roller disco gets far too hot–you feel stylish amongst the trendy bar crowd. Crucially, it allows you to move freely.
He cups your ass again, lifts you up and rocks your pelvis against his, under the pretense of skimming his fingertips over the crisply sewn satin of your shorts hem.
You nod.
“Well, you look fuckin’ sexy in it,” Joel praises. He leans further forward, his next words only for you, breath hot and deliciously lurid against your neck. “Can’t wait to get you outta it, though.”
As you zipped the front of the one-piece earlier that evening, your mind wandered, imaging how Joel might later unzip it, careful not to catch your skin in his haste to expose your tits to the air and to his hands and his mouth.
The thrumming of the beat guiding you, your free hand sinks into curls at the base of Joel’s thick neck, pulling him back enough to capture his mouth with yours in reply.
Your tongue bridges the seam of his mouth first, lapping at his lips, then licking into his willing, open mouth.
You squirm in his lap as the kiss grows heated. The sewn seam of your jumpsuit presses into your cunt, makes you wish there was no denim or satin separating you and Joel. You’re desperate to feel his heated skin against yours, his filling cock right against your bared cunt.
Instead, your cocktail glass sweats condensation down your fingertips, dripping on Joel’s shirt.
He breaks the kiss first, angles your neck to keep your eyes locked on his to rasp out against your lips, “Love the way you fill out these shorts, sweetheart. Fit like a glove. Just like my cock inside you.”
Your eyebrows shoot to your hairline and your hips rock. “Joel Miller!” you reply, leaning back to take in the full breadth of his face, lips quirked in a small smile.
He manages to say absolute filth quietly in your ear, right at the side of the rink floor. And then possess the audacity to smile at you like butter wouldn’t melt in his wonderfully filthy mouth.
The opening strains of T. Rex’s glittery guitar riffs slink out of the speakers. “Go dance for me, yeah, darlin’?” Joel requests and smacks your ass, broad palm giving a loving stroke after the snap of its sting.
You like disco best, Joel’s more into rock, so the tempting sleaze of the dirty sexy guitar riff of ‘Get It On’ appeals to you both.
Before you head back to the skate floor, you stand and lean over him in the booth. Tug him forward by his gold necklace chain to vie him one last teasing kiss. You lick his lips before starting to roll away backwards and then twirl deftly to face the rink.
Let Joel stay worked up for you in retaliation for his wandering hands and the daring of his low, gruff bedroom voice in this very public space.
As you make to cross the threshold of the rink, you cast a final glance over your shoulder to see Joel shift in his seat. The move wouldn’t be obvious to an onlooker, but you know the heave of his hips forward is Joel’s subtle attempt to adjust the heft of his thickening cock against the denim he fills out so well.
His keen eyes catch you watching. He merely shakes his head, lips twisted in a subtle smile before he mouths, “Later,” to you. A threat and a promise.
Even from this distance and in the rink’s stifling heat, the shape of his lips pulls a shiver down your spine and keeps your cunt flooded.
—--
You’ve all but exhausted yourself, speeding around the rink, hips waggling and shoulders shimmying to the thump of the music.
Your pulse and your cunt are pounding for stimulus other than tunes now, for a sight that you revolved around with each lap of the rink.
Thrumming for the way Joel spreads into lounging on the booth seat, watching you. He’s switched from beer to sipping two fingers of whiskey, an assuredness and certain regality to the contractor. He’s precisely where he should be, waiting only for one thing–you–eyes lethal and voracious over the rim of his glass.
So you come to attend him like the loyal subject that you are.
You skate over, and Joel welcomes you to straddle his lap. “Hello, stranger,” you say, sliding down over Joel’s thighs, scooting forward until your legs are as wide as they go, till your knees hit the back of the booth seat. Not quite belly-to-belly in your man’s lap, but nearly.
Your fingers twine into his hair, starting to curl in the heat of the sweatbox the rink’s become, and you drink from his whiskey-tinged lips.
“Mmm, that’s nice whiskey,” you declare.
“Indeed it is,” Joel agrees, then downs the rest of it in one. You watch the bobbing column of his throat until he finishes, chucks the glass with uncharacteristic carelessness onto the table behind you.
The flickering lights of the arena throw the sharp line of his nose into the relief before he presses it back to your neck. “Your shorts are fucking killin’ me, darlin’. Need to fuck you now, better get outta here ‘fore everybody gets a show.”
His facial hair tickles your neck as his hot mouth descends to laving your pulse point. You moan. “What if I wanna give ‘em a show, Joel? Hm? Wanna show you off? Show them what it looks like when I take your big cock?”
His head whips up and his grip tightens around your hips. “Oh, darlin’, but you and your noises? The sight a’ you taking’ my big cock? Are just for me.”
“Joel,” your word a mere whisper as you’re breathless from his successful bid at taking control.
Before you can work up a retort, Joel all but throws you off his lap into the booth seat, brandishing your shoes and the carry strap for your skates as he kneels before you.
His thick fingers work to untie one lace while you scramble at the other.
After freeing you from the skate, his breath skims hot on your calf, and he kisses your shin above your high sock, deep brown eyes peering up at you as his lips meet your skin.
Memories flash, and you know Joel’s purposefully torturing you. He’s positioned himself at your feet to reach your skates, but also so the sight of his broad shoulders between your thighs conjures up the last time he was there. When he flung you down on the living room couch after work yesterday, settled your thighs over those very same shoulders of his and ate you out like a starving man, clothes hurriedly shoved to side. As your high subsided, you’d been so grateful Sarah was studying at a friend’s house that night.
Now, Jel runs his nose up your thigh before heaving himself to standing. Fucking tease, you think uncharitably. As if he won’t make it worth your time later.
“C’mon, let’s get outta here,” Joel extends a hand to you, and with the other straps your skates over his shoulder.
—
The pair of you don’t make it home.
You fail to make it even to the truck this time.
Instead, you’re in the unlocked stockroom in the hallway of the rink. You’d never even noticed it. But Joel had.
Door closed, Joel flips the lock into place from the inside.
The single lightbulb on a chain swings wildly from Joel's pulling it on, vastly faint light that bounces dizzyingly back and forth behind his head. The shadows it casts under his eye sockets give his hungry look deadly menace, and you want to be consumed.
Joel presses you to the door with a devastating and instantly deep kiss.
His hands rove your body freely and his mouth never leaves yours. Wet and willing yours open as he moans into it.
Joel’s large deft fingers unzip your jumpsuit, exceeding your fantasy. He doesn’t bother taking off your shearling coat, just throws it open to caress you, backing you into the door. Thank god, you need something to brace against, given your weakening knees.
His work-honed fingers catch the collar of satin, press it to one side and drag it down over your collarbone to your midriff. He presses the cool metal teeth of the zipper aside, broad palms spanning your ribs under the satin while his thumbs stroke the aggravated buds of your nipples to full points. He plucks with all calloused fingertips in unison before he cups your tit, grunts an approval, and ducks to pull your nipple between his lips.
He kisses it, swipes his tongue, then sucks, his own teeth doling out the perfect edge of pain on your flesh that he’d so carefully avoided when steering the metal zipper away from your skin seconds before.
“Joel, wait,” you pant out, hands sinking tighter into his hair.
The man is right never to move on skates. He’s an absolute tank. So broad and full and you can imagine now, as his bulk presses you into the door, how dangerous he’d be in the rink. How the solidity of him might have a cataclysmic effect. Not falling, just moving like a predator, deftly through the crowd? His stride is deadly, his glide could be just as lethal.
“What, darlin’?”
Your arching back betrays how you miss the heady warmth of his wet mouth.
You tilt up his bent head to kiss him fiercely, clutch the front of his fur coat and pull him to envelop you further.
Hot and stuffy and wonderful, the whole of his weight sinking onto you, pressing you into the door.
“Baby, you gotta stop this, I’m trying to get to you,” Joel murmurs against your mouth.
Your palms slip from his shoulders, your hips arch to his, pressing the satin, perfect painful slick in cloth form, and the seam of the shorts now tacky with your weeping cunt, from so little contact, against where his jeans hug his bulge, straining.
Your attention splits, to the alluring curve of his cock, hardened below his belt buckle. But you also want to mouth the fullness of his belly pressing just over his waistband, the deep navy of his knitwear clinging and hugging delectably.
Your palms slink around his waist, and you arch again.
“Joel, wanna take care of you,” you whine.
“Oh, baby, you do,” Joel coos, taking your face in his large hands, cradling your skull. His eyes search your face, bright and lustful, as he licks his lips.
You offer him another kiss, hook a leg around his waist to force his weight to sink fully against you.
You nibble his bottom lip, then bite, a slight piercing, the pleasure-pain drawing out a groan from Joel when you break the kiss.
“No, baby. Lemme take care of you,” you insist. You untwine your leg from Joel’s thick middle.
You haul him back in by the belt loops for more making out, hands scrambling to untuck his shirt. Your palms snake under the knit top, clinging to him from the heat of the rink.
You bestow one last biting kiss to his wet, plump lips before you resort to a phrase he uses all the time, your voice husky with want as you declare, “Wanna taste you.” You hold eye contact, rake your nails softly down his belly, and sink to your knees, teeth nearly piercing your own lip as you bite it with desire.
Your legs barely fit behind you, trapped as you are between Joel and the door. The awkward angle doesn’t matter one iota when Joel sighs out, “Well, fuck, baby. Go on then.”
You reach for his belt buckle, metal clanking and you both sigh as your own careful zipper work reveals Joel’s cock, lets it spring, unencumbered, from his jeans.
Saliva fills your mouth how he’s already hard for you, velvet encasing steel and his tip flushed prettily pink, wet and weeping.
You peel his jeans down over his hips, so all of him is revealed to you.
You lick your palm, then rub him, your other hand presses back denim to nibble at the crease of Joel’s hip. You smile against his skin when his breath hitches and he swears.
Under your hands, his cock jumps with the quickening pulse of his heartbeat.
Your greedy tongue can wait no more as Joel’s cock throbs at your touch along with the rest of his blood.
You pump the thickness of him again, then kitten lick the salty precum off his swollen tip.
“Goddamn it, baby,” Joel grits out from above you, and cups your cheek.
You trace your tongue around his frenulum, then lap once more at his wet tip, then press your lips to engulf Joel’s thick cock.
Your lips stretch and you work to meet where your fingers cup around the base of Joel’s dick. Your hand struggles to wrap him, his root so thick.
He groans, drops his head backwards to expose the column of his throat above you.
Your mouth works over Joel’s cock. His heft drags blissfully heavy on your tongue as you press your mouth further and further to his base, your spit aiding your journey down his shaft.
You ease back, suckle at his cockhead, the throb and jolt of his cock pairing with his near-wounded sounding groans, hands clutching your shoulder to let you know your tongue and mouth are servicing him well.
One last curl of your tongue beneath him, then you bestow a kiss to his crown. It’s nearly purpling with all the attention, and the thick root of the rest of him is flushed fully pink.
He’s so beautiful, you think.
“Tastes good,” you coo aloud. Your head drops back against the door, eyes flicking up to Joel’s, dark and hooded with desire as he peers down at you.
Crammed against the door as you are, your back arches, your spit-slick nipples pert and catching the cool air as you hold yourself momentarily away from Joel’s broadness and warmth.
“Then ya oughta get some more of it, hm, baby?” he urges. His large warm palm moves to cradle your skull, shielding it from the wooden door.
Nodding eagerly, you smile, exaggerating the arch of your spine. Your tits out, you delight in Joel’s mouth quirks in a grimace of frustration, apt payback for his teasing, you think, before you delve back to Joel’s bobbing cock in front of you.
One hand clutches his hip for leverage, the other traces up his sturdy thigh, the hairs tickling your palm until you cup his balls.
You begin licking him, press your tongue wide and flat against the underside of his shaft. Turn your head sideways and trace the vein there with your tongue, to run your mouth up and down him. Lap up his scent and the heft of him until you mouth the root of him, turn your attention and your tongue to Joel’s sac.
His fur coat cocoons you from the buzzing, sickly light of the closet, but you feel transcendental, attuned to Joel’s body and his responses, where your mouth and hands leave a trail of fire in their wake.
He fills his jeans so well, and your mouth now too, as you lap at his sac. Above you, his abdomen fills with juddering breath while his cock jumps in your hands at your mouth’s attention.
The salt and scent of him intoxicates you, seeps more slick between your legs. Joel moans, clutches at your shoulder to keep from squeezing your skull with his other broad, cupping palm. He’s giving you headrush, makes you wetter as your belly swoops with the rush of power and arousal.
You plant a series of kisses on his shaft once more from root to tip, then go in for the kill.
“Fuck my face, baby, please,” you mutter your breathy pleaagainst the head of Joel’s cock, your lips barely leaving the fat tip of him. You hover and swirl, plush of your lips skimming Joel’s hole as if you could paint your mouth with him like your favorite lipstick.
“Oh, you perfect fucking dirty woman, all mine, and so hungry for my cock, huh?”
Blinking up at him, you nod, then lap at his weeping slit again, eyes unwavering from his as your tongue curls devilishly around his pretty purpling head. Joel’s gaze darkens, you watch the warm mahogany brown of his eyes bleed shark-eyed black with desire.
“You fucking angel,” Joel grits out.
He composes himself momentarily, fixes his blown pupils on you, cups your chin with his fingertips. “Go on then, lemme fuck this perfect mouth.”
Your lips part and you descend on Joel. Lips stretched pleasurably around him as your wet mouth engulfs him, your hands tugging his hips, urging his pelvis to you with full force.
Joel obliges.
Your hands slink up his belly while he fucks your face. He pushes your head against the wall, but cages your skull with two meaty paws and fucks into your mouth while you desperately hold on his abdomen.
“Fucking so good, baby,” he pants.
Your jaw already arches and spit pools and leaks out of your mouth.
The din of the roller disco’s music beyond the door behind you faintly pierces your awareness. It hardly compares to the music of Joel’s grunts above you, sounds you feel beneath your hands as his belly twitches with the pull of his vocalizations.
But you relax your throat, loving the sensation of Joel’s wiry pubic hair tickling your nose and skimming your lips, while his cock pulses and fills your mouth.
Your fingers curl around the base of Joel’s shaft and you bob deeply, encouraged by Joel’s repeating refrain of “oh shit, baby, oh shit.”
The protective cupping of his hands around your head twists to involuntary clutching as his hips stutter “I’m coming, fucking coming cuz of that mouth,” he mutters.
You take every inch he gives you, blissfully. Let his hot salty spend fill you, swallow it down.
A placidity descends, Joel towering over you, panting. A deep groan as he eases his hips back and you sigh as his cock pops out of your lips.
Your tongue eagerly chases the salty wet and you swallow, humming as you lap up the spend seeping out of your mouth.
Joel’s forehead plunges to the door and he angles his fall to just beside you against the surface.
He cracks one eye open to take in the sight of you, kneeling unmoving beneath him.
Your eyes catch his, still glassy, shining with lust.
Your thumb swipes across your lip, you make an exaggerated show of polishing off the remainder of Joel’s cum and your spit that has smudged your lipstick beyond repair.
“You’re gonna fucking kill me, woman.” Joel says fondly, voice still rasped with lust as he cups your cheek.
“Someday. But what a way to go,” you retort, smiling and moving dreamily.
“Speaking of—gotta get you outta here. You’re in a fucking state.”
Your cunt is flooded with arousal, so much slick staining your jumpsuit a trip to the dry cleaner will be futile. Your tits are out, still shiny in the sickly closet light, nipples diamond-sharp and glistening with Joel’s drying spit.
“Perceptive. I am in a fucking state,” you grin, ignoring the less pleasant throb on your knees from being crammed against the door.
Joel gathers himself, zipping his jeans, and moving to help you stand.
“Sure are. But gonna need a bed and all night for the rest of what we're gonna do tonight, baby. Let's grab your skates and go.”
++end++
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