a/n: my fic for @wannab-urs's event - dom that middle aged man! 💖 thank you so much for hosting this (and excited to share, I've always wanted to write sub!din!)
You’d liked this, when you first got together. His desire. How much he wanted to consume you. To take - the weight of his armor pressing into your back, as he drove you into the thin mattress of his bunk.
But this is what you like more. The leash he offers so willingly to you. Eager to obey, even as the collar tightens. Following at your heels.
After all, his duty is to his people. But it’s you that he serves.
His gaze has been on you all night.
You’ve learned the weight of it, even through his helmet. How his eyes find your form, again and again.
Lingering on your face - bare, as the traditions of your clans. On glint of silver against your throat, dipping down to your breasts.
His helmet tilting as he finds you again.
Knowing what he is thinking, for it is on your mind as well.
You’d managed a quick reunion. Lasting no more than a heartbeat, as you met him at his ship. Fingers tracing against your hip, as your lips pressed against the curve of his helmet. Bunching in the whisper-thin silk of your ceremonial dress.
Not finding what he was looking for. A growl, that was cut short.
All too eager to whisk you away, but even with his unexpected arrival, he hadn’t been able to escape his duty.
You’re too far away to hear the debriefing, but you can imagine your husband’s voice getting shorter. Impatient. Clipped.
That’s what two weeks away from you does to him.
Especially with the messages you sent to his holo, two days prior. Waiting until after the negotiations were done.
Giving him everything except what he wanted. Glimpses of flesh, where the gossamer robe wrapped around you. The soft curve of a breast, the fabric pebbled at shadowed peaks.
Glistening fingertips between plump flesh, swollen with desire.
The last was the only one with a message. A small, thin chip pinched between thumb and forefinger.
He’d know what it was.
Had been there when it was placed in your hip, his hand wrapped in yours as the needle pierced flesh.
Had talked about it often, late a night, a shared wish for the future.
One that has come, now.
Come home soon.
Din had been two days away.
After your message - he had made it in one.
He’s on you the moment the bedchamber door closes. Backing you up against the heavy stone. Gripping at your waist, as your face tips to his.
You’d liked this, when you first got together.
His desire.
How much he wanted to consume you. To take - the weight of his armor pressing into your back, as he drove you into the thin mattress of his bunk.
But that felt like a lifetime ago.
“Let me see you.”
There’s no hesitance in the way he reaches for his helmet, and you can feel the space between your thighs dampen.
His dark eyes blown wide with need, when it lifts off his head. Parted lips as he pants, brow furrowed. The thick curls, begging to be tugged.
But this is what you like more.
The leash he offers so willingly to you. Eager to obey, even as the collar tightens. Following at your heels.
After all, his duty is to his people.
But it’s you that he serves.
He moans against the press of your mouth. Once-clumsy kisses now practiced. Your teeth nipping at his lower lip until he opens willingly. Hips rocking against yours when you lick into his mouth.
Red painted against his mouth, from your painted ones.
It’s been far too long.
You’d never tell him, but you’d been waiting as well.
A sigh slipping from your lungs at the hands that skitter up your waist. Almost pawing at you as he mouths at your throat.
The pulse point beneath your ear.
Knowing better than to leave a mark.
That’s only for you - his skin your canvas.
His lips hovering at the necklace - a silver pendant tucked between your breasts. A soft and reverent kiss against it, as his legs start to bend.
Slowly lowering to his knees, as your thighs make room for him.
His nose ghosting against your belly. Down - tilting to kiss against your hip. Your mound, before he’s moving to inhale you.
“Let me.” It’s rasped out, as his eyes tilt up. Fingers gathering the hem that brushes your ankles, as his knees spread against stone.
“You were good?”
Din groans, his mouth pressing against your core. The silk dampening beneath his tongue, sticking the fabric against your slick folds.
His breath hot, and you have to resist the urge to squirm.
“Fuck,” His fingers inch higher. Stroking against soft skin, “You know I was, cyare.”
Your breath hitches, when his knuckles drag against your slit. Something akin to a whine sliding from his throat when he meets bare skin - his earlier curiosity finally sated.
“How did it feel?”
There’s a ragged huff of a laugh. His other hand dropping down to palm at his crotch. Teeth gritting, hips flexing.
Fingers parting you, letting the tip of his finger nudge at your entrance.
“You shouldn’t have sent those messages.”
Your eyebrow arches, your grin sly, “You didn’t like them?”
He makes another rough sound. A hand fisting on the hem of your skirt again - tugging it up until it’s gathered against your abdomen.
Baring you fully - the part of your thighs, where his palm curves against your core. Tongue dipping across his lip in anticipation.
An effort, in the way his eyes drag back up to your face. Voice rough, the scrape of stone against metal.
“You know what you do to me.”
You clench around his finger. Eager for him, though you’ve learned to school your face - a second mask to the one you wear.
How well your husband listens.
The verbal confirmation sending another hot rush of need. Your own fingers slipping down, past his knuckles. Fitting beneath the dip of his chin, petting between your slick thighs.
The tips coming back shining. His mouth parting automatically, as you slip two fingers against his tongue.
“And see what you do to me?”
His eyes slip shut - groaning, as he sucks. Tongue laving against your skin, thankful for anything you give him. Another shift of his hips, his own hand flexing against you, when you slide your fingers free.
Forefinger and thumb against his chin, leaving a gleam of spit behind, as you guide him where he aches to be.
You can feel the heat of his breath for a heartbeat, before his mouth meets you. The moan breathed out against your skin, tongue flattening against your clit.
Hungry, in the way he devours you. Lapping at the tight bud, while his finger remembers how to move. A second added, as his lips wrap around and suck.
It sends waves of bliss coursing through you. A tremble in your legs, before one hooks over his shoulder. A heel pressed against his armor, urging him closer.
He’s all too willing to obey. Losing himself in your pleasure, soft sounds slipping from his throat as he works you open. As his tongue flicks, again and again.
You can already feel it start to build. He’s always known how to touch you, his eagerness and your own self-restraint only fueling the fire in your belly.
“If only they could see you now,” You breathe out, in wonder. Tugging at the curls at the nape of his neck, but it only makes him moan, “On your knees for me.”
His eyes lift to meet yours. Giving himself to you, his mind focused on only one thing - the taste of you against his tongue.
“What would they think, knowing I keep their Mand’alor in a cage?”
A low oath slips from him. Another flex of his hips, as his fingers curl against a spot that makes you see stars.
Your next words coming as a soft command.
“Show me.”
You mourn the way his fingers slip from you. Gleaming, as they drop to his armor. Loosening the golden belt, removing the ven'cabur beneath. Drawing himself out.
The light catches on the beskar beneath.
Pretty and gleaming. Ornamental in its design, but your family did come from a long line of forgers.
It had been easy, to craft a piece to compliment him. An extension of his armor. A near-constant reminder of your absence.
For that is what it was.
Not to punish him. Din would never stray, you believed that with your whole heart.
Instead, it was to ensure that he did not spill himself needlessly. That every drop of his essence was spent where it belonged - deep inside his wife’s pretty cunt.
A shared idea. A secret.
He had almost been late in leaving, with the amount of time it had taken to lock it around him. The key left with you, along with his heart.
“Pretty,” You coo. Even better up close, you're sure - though you will have to wait.
He hums in agreement. Focused now, tracing your clit with a pattern he knows will make you cum. The hand leaving his armor to knead the flesh of your ass, tilting your pussy to his mouth.
But you can’t resist teasing him, even as your breath grows short. As your tone catches on an edge, needing to hear it.
The toe of your boot shifting just enough to nudge at him.
“Whose pretty cock is that?”
A groan is muffled against your skin. His rhythm knocked off-kilter, as he mumbles his reply.
“Yours, cyare.”
You’re nearly there. The edges of your vision darkens, heart hammering behind your ribs.
“You-,” You start, as your toes curl. As the pressure builds in your belly, threatening to burst, “You want me to take it off?”
Surely he must feel the pressure of the metal. The way his cock strains with desire against the cage, still held back.
“No.” He rasps.
“Not yet.”
The denial makes you come. A cry leaving your lips as you fall apart against his mouth. As he licks at you eagerly - fingers fitting inside you once more, to give you something to clench around. Feeling the tight pulse around them, against the flat of his tongue.
Letting you ride out your orgasm, the pleasure shared. Hips shifting involuntarily, meeting open air.
And only when your back relaxes against the door, does he allow you to lead him to bed.
You leave marks against his skin, as you move down.
His armor removed carefully. Ritualistically, set aside in the padded crate near your shared bed.
Streaks of red from your lips, their outline lightening as it transfers. Neck, chest, abdomen.
Halting at the one piece he still wears.
The metal encircling him, giving you peeks of swollen skin. A jerk of his hips when you trace against his sack, drawn tight with need.
Then, up.
“You’re dripping.” Your fingers trace against the tip, just brushing the flushed skin beneath.
Coming back shining, his eyes fixed on yours as you taste him with your tongue.
“Is it for me?”
His answer comes in a roughened rush.
“Always.”
You hum, lips curling. Pushing yourself up, letting him watch the way you tug the dress from your shoulders. Baring yourself - the soft sways of your breasts, shifting until your hips rest flush with his.
His hands twitching where you pushed them above his head, warning him not to move.
Your name gritted out, a futile warning, when you shift against the cold metal of the cage.
Letting it slide against your clit, slick with your release. With his need, so wholly restrained.
“Please.” It’s bitten out.
Your fingers play with the necklace. His reaction cataloged away, for later. Eyes fixed on his as you slowly dip back down.
“Should make you wait longer,” You muse, “But you listened, didn’t you?”
He has long enough - you can see it in the way his muscles string tight. The need written across his face, as he watches your movement.
“I would wait,” Din husks, “For as long as you wished it.”
The spark flares to life again. A kiss press against the metal, before your necklace touches against it.
A click as the cage unlatches - careful in the way you ease it from him.
His breath comes in a low hiss, when you touch him. The feather-light drag of your nails against sensitive skin, jerking to life beneath your fingertips.
Hardening, now that he was no longer restrained. Two weeks of that tight pressure eased, and it feels like a fresh breath of air.
He tastes like you, when your mouth presses against his. Tongue stroking against yours when you line him up against your entrance, your fingers struggling to wrap around.
Moaning against your mouth, when you finally sink down.
Finally home.
Finally where he needs to be, as you gasp at the intrusion. His fingers opening you up before, but it’s always a stretch.
Leaving behind a delicious burn, one you’ve craved. Hips rocking as you get used to the weight of him inside you, once more. Until that dull ache bleeds away to bliss.
And finally your hips lift - gliding up the full length of him. Clenching around the tip before you drop back down.
One, two.
Hands braced against his chest as you bounce on his cock, as his own curl into fists. Eyes glazed - lips parted as he watches you, his heart pounding beneath your flattened palms.
Three, four.
Stroking a spot deep inside you, one you’d chase if he wasn’t so far gone. His eyes greedy where he watches you take him, the shine of his cock before it’s buried in you.
Five, six.
It’s then that you lean forward. Lips ghosting against his, pulling back before he can chase after.
“Are you going to give me what I want, riduur?” You croon, testing your teeth against his throat.
His pulse spiking - a rough buzz beneath your lips as he exhales a sharp breath.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
Picking up speed, as you nip at his ear.
“Fill me? Get me swollen with you?” A hand ghosting across your belly, as you sigh against him, “Let everyone who you belong to?”
Din growls, but it pitches long. Low, caught in his throat at he shifts beneath you.
“Gedet’ye, ner runi.”
Slipping into his native tongue, as his thoughts loose in his grasp. His begging is a symphony, combined with the slap of your skin against his. With the slick slide of his cock, his panting breath.
“I can’t-," Din husks, "Not going to last.”
Your lips stretch wide with your smile.
“Want you to,” You purr, “Give me what you were made for.”
Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen.
Once again, your husband comes early.
Forgetting himself - his hands coming to grip at the curve of your waist. Denting flesh as he tugs you down, holding you against the rut of his hips as he spills with a muffled shout inside you.
A ragged breath, each time his cock throbs. Wordless moans as two weeks of his desire is spent, filling you until it threatens to spill over.
Until the iron-grip of his fingers relax. Eyes left-heavy lidded. Only tightening when you make to move off him.
Keeping you in place, his cock still notched to the hilt inside you.
“I missed you.” You tell him, fingers tracing his jaw. Against grown-long scruff, flecked with silver.
A kiss pressed against the spot that never fills in all the way. More peppered across his cheek, until his breathing slows.
“Missed you.” It’s huffed out. The flash of teeth, as he draws your mouth to his.
Still hungry, even after all this time. Barely sated, even as he fills you.
“Did you-?” It’s murmured against your lips, when you break to breathe, “You meant it?”
Your eyes are soft, when you grab his hand to your hip. The still-tender spot, letting his thumb press against soft skin.
He groans, low and throaty. Flipping you beneath him, as his eyes drag down your form - as if you have changed, already.
As if it’s already taken, as your thighs widen to make room for him. Letting him slip from you, but his fingers are already there.
Sliding against slick skin. Gathering himself up - where he’s leaked from you. Fucking it back inside, working himself deeper.
Stroking against that spot, as his lips slot against yours.
He’ll make you come again.
Again, and again, if that’s what it takes.
Your husband was always good at giving you what you want.
thank you so much for reading! excited to start this year off like the last - domming our fave old men. 💖
mando'a translations:
cyare - beloved
riduur - spouse
ven'cabur - codpiece
ner runi - my soul
gedet’ye - please
Summary: You and Dieter play never have I ever and it gets spicy.
Warnings: MDNI | 18+ | sub!dieter, dom!reader, alcohol consumption (not during the smut), pet names, SMUT, discussion of safe words (not used), referring to your dildo as your cock, aftercare. WC: 1.7k
A/N: Written for @yxtkiwiyxt Kiwi’s Never Have I Ever challenge (open til March 1) and for my own Dom that Middle Aged Man Campaign (closed). I hope you love it <3 Thanks to @pedgito and @murder-wife for beta reading!!
Dieter Bravo Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi
“Okay, okay, what’s the next card?”
Dieter grabs a card off the stack and holds it up, squinting to read it in the low light of your living room.
“Never have I ever… acted out my sexual fantasy,” Dieter reads. He blushes but doesn’t take a drink. You knock back a shot of whiskey before looking at him incredulously.
“Really Di?”
Dieter flushes even harder, if possible, and looks at the ground.
“Well what is your fantasy? I find it hard to believe you haven’t acted it out, to be honest.”
He brushes a hand through his hair and stares at the floor as he answers. “It’s not that I haven’t acted out fantasies before I guess, but like my main one? Never.”
“I’m dying to know what could be so crazy you’ve never acted it out.”
“It’s not that crazy… I just want a woman to… you know… like… top me?”
“Top you or dom you? Or both?” The whiskey is making you bold. Dieter is a friend (with benefits of course) and you normally wouldn’t push him so hard on this or admit what you’re about to admit. “My sexual fantasy just so happens to be topping a man.”
Dieter looks up at you then, looking embarrassed and more than a little excited. “You drank on this one… So you would know what you’re doing?”
“I would.”
“Do you wanna have sex with me? Like right now?”
“Oh Di, you’re wasted… I’m wasted. You know the rules.”
“Yeah, yeah. Tomorrow then?” His puppy dog eyes meet yours and you almost cave right then.
“Tomorrow,” you smile at him.
You wake up sweating, sunlight streaming into the room and heating it up plus Dieter’s body practically on top of you. He’s a spider monkey in his sleep, always clinging onto you with all four limbs when you stay over. You push him off of you a little bit and you take in his sleeping face.
He’s handsome always, but especially when he’s asleep. A loose curl is dangling over his forehead and some of the lines in his face are smoothed out – it’s the only time he’s relaxed without being high. You press a kiss to his cheek and he stirs, eyes blinking open sleepily.
“Good morning,” he says with a dopey smile.
He leans up and kisses you chastely, but you deepen the kiss immediately. His tongue slides into your mouth, slow and exploratory like you haven’t done this a hundred times. You pull back and kiss the tip of his nose.
“You still up for what we talked about last night?” You half whisper, afraid he’ll chicken out.
“Please?”
“Off to a great start already, baby boy.” Dieter blushes and drops his eyes from yours, embarrassed and pleased by the pet name all at once. “We’re gonna use the stoplight system for our safeword. Do you know what that is?”
“Yeah! I use it when I’m the one in charge.”
“Great. I also want you to refer to me as ma’am during the scene, is that okay?”
“Perfect… ma’am.”
“Good boy. Let’s get started then.”
You push him down into the mattress and climb on top of him, straddling his waist. “I want you to keep your hands to yourself, either on the bed or above your head holding the headboard. Is that okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He’s so eager to please, his eyes wide and his lips in a perfect pout.
You kiss him then, pushing your tongue into his mouth, taking control of the kiss entirely. He’s left to take what you give him, and to his credit, he doesn’t fight you for dominance. You kiss down his jaw to his neck, trailing your lips over his collarbone and down to his chest. His hands twitch by his sides, but he doesn’t move them.
You drag your lips down until you meet his sweats, then pull back so you can strip them off. His gorgeous cock bobs up to his stomach, already hard and leaking precum. You take him in your hand and lick from root to tip, sucking the head into your mouth. His hands fly up to the headboard, white knuckle gripping it to keep from touching you.
You pull off him and tell him to stay just like that while you grab lube from the bedside table. He obeys perfectly and you have to pause to collect yourself. His immediate submission is so fucking hot. You crawl back onto the bed and settle between his parted thighs.
“Do you still want me to fuck you, baby boy? It’s okay if not.”
“Yes, please, ma’am.”
You smile at him and coat your fingers in lube. One finger circles his hole while you take his dick in your mouth again. You push him to the back of your throat and swallow around him until he’s buried in your throat. He whimpers and you moan around his cock as you push one finger into his hole. He’s always been vocal, but whimpers are few and far between.
Dieter starts pushing back against your fingers, fucking in and out of your mouth. You pin his hip down with your free hand and pull off of him. “Stay still, sweetheart.”
Dieter whines but stops fucking himself on your finger. You add a second finger and start stretching him as you take his cock back in your mouth. The sounds pouring from his mouth are sinful and you’re dripping wet for him. You’re trying not to let on just how turned on you are. His balls start to draw up and you quickly remove your fingers from his ass and your mouth from his cock. He whines but doesn’t protest.
“Can’t have you coming this early, now can we?”
Dieter shakes his head pitifully. You let him calm down and then repeat your actions, winding him up again only to pull off him completely and wait for him to calm down. You want to hear him beg. And you aren’t disappointed.
“Please, please just fuck me, please. I can’t take it anymore.”
You swat his thigh. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Ma’am. Please ma’am, I need you.” He’s so pretty when he begs, you really can’t resist.
You strip and stuff your panties in his mouth. His muffled whines are even hotter now.
“You’re being such a good boy for me, baby. I’m gonna make you feel so good.” He looks blissed out at the praise. “If you need to safe word, you can move your hands to take out the panties, okay?”
He nods to show he gets it and you climb off the bed and get your strap from the nightstand. You coat it in lube and tell Dieter to turn over and stick his ass in the air. He complies immediately and you admire his ass and the way his swollen cock dangles between his thighs. He’s so pretty.
You get behind him on your knees and slowly push the dildo into his hole. He whines long and low, only slightly muffled by the panties in his mouth. You pull out and push back in deeper, working your way into him slow and easy. When you bottom out, you both groan. Him at the full feeling and you at the way he looks stretched around your cock.
You hear him mumble “please,” through his gag and it turns you on so much you can barely think straight. You pull out of him to the tip of your dildo and snap your hips forward, fucking him hard and fast.
“Spit out the panties, I wanna hear you.”
He complies, whining and begging for you to let him come. “Please, ma’am. Please I need to come, you feel so good.”
“Tell me when you’re close, baby.”
He whines but doesn’t stop you yet. You slow down and make sure to rub at the bundle of nerves inside him with every thrust, slowly grinding your cock into it. He starts crying and you think you could come just from that alone.
“I’m close! Please, ma’am I’m so close, please let me come.”
You pull out of him completely and he collapses to the mattress, whining and crying.
“Turn over baby boy, I promised I’d make you feel good didn’t I? You trust me?”
“Yes ma’am, I trust you.” He turns over and spreads his thighs, gripping onto the headboard in anticipation.
“Good boy, color?”
“Green, ma’am.”
You take off your strap and toss it on the floor to deal with later.
‘I’m gonna ride you now, baby. You come whenever you’re ready.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
“So polite,” you stroke his cheek with your thumb and drag it across his plump lips. He takes the digit into his mouth and sucks. You climb on top of him and line him up with your hole before sinking all the way down. You moan in unison, you at the stretch and him at your tight wet heat.
You place your hands on his thighs behind you and start bouncing on his cock, taking him deep and fast. You’re just as wound up as he is and desperate to come. You bring one hand to your clit, rubbing in furious circles to keep up with your pace. Dieter plants his feet and starts to fuck up into you and you don’t even stop him, too close to coming harder than you ever have in your life to stop him now.
You feel the coil in your belly winding tighter and tighter, and with one final snap of Dieter’s hips you come apart, moaning his name. The way you get impossibly tighter around him sends Dieter over the edge as well and he fills you so full you feel it leaking out of you around him. You collapse onto his chest, breathing heavily. He wraps his arms around you and nuzzles his face into your hair.
“That was… so fucking amazing,” Dieter whispers.
“Yeah, it really was.” You push yourself off of him and roll off the bed. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
You head to the bathroom and wet a washcloth, cleaning between your thighs. You get a fresh one and take it out to Di, gently cleaning his spent cock. You lie down next to him and pull his head onto your chest.
“You did so good for me, baby,” you tell him as you run your fingers through his curls. He nuzzles into your chest and wraps an arm around you, falling asleep with that dopey grin of his on his face.
Dave York x dominatrix!reader | 9.5k w | explicit, mdni | ao3
summary: life goes sideways and Dave is close to snapping. he needs professional help. aka let himself be dominated and be at the receiving end for once. good thing he has your number.
warnings: sub-ish!Dave (how sub can a born dom be?), dominatrix!reader, no use of y/n, reader is able-bodied, Dave is a good husband and father™️, Molly throwing up, slight humiliation (the boy being called dummy <3), slight ball torture, (guided) masturbation (m), finger sucking, petnames (ma'am, good boy, love), cum eating, slight shoe worship, dick+pussy pronouns, reader wears lipstick, nail polish and stilettos, squint and you miss unprotected PinV; dm me if I missed any
a/n: my submission for @wannab-urs dmamc 2025. i had so much fun domming my man and I tried to make it believable because, well, he's Dave 'the dom' York. enjoy another character study including his dick. thank you @guiltyasdave for the beta and constant love, even though sub!Dave isn't your cup of tea 🥹💛
"Gentle eyes, soft words, tender chin scratches. You have his tail wagging. Slowly, slowly you are domesticating him into a dog, one praise at a time."
“Fuck!” His hand slams down on the steering wheel, once, twice. Again, again, again, until his palm hurts and the thrumming pain helps him to push aside the anger boiling inside of him. He rips down his beanie, ripping out a few hairs as well, not giving a shit about it.
He fucked up. If it wasn’t for his partner the mission would have gone south completely, pulling him along. The plan had been perfect, the preparations perfect as well. All he had to do was to pull the trigger and take the target out. But he fucking missed. He fucking missed. Hit the target into the shoulder, and if Dave’s partner didn’t take initiative and put a bullet through the target's head… He doesn’t want to think about it.
He already saw his domestic life passing before his eyes. The police arresting him at home, his daughters terrified and not understanding why they would take their daddy away. Carol at the trial, being questioned if she really didn’t know about her husband’s assassination side hustle, her face puffy and red from crying.
Dave hisses out another curse, hitting the hard wheel in front of him again.
He could always just disappear, always has an emergency duffle bag stowed away with fake IDs and some cash. But he wouldn't stomach it, couldn't stomach it, leaving his family behind.
It was a close call today… He starts the engine and pulls away from the curb, the tail lights of his inconspicuous car slowly blending in with the dozens of others on the nightly roads as he heads home to his inconspicuous life.
The next few days were difficult, to say the least. His higher up at the CIA was a pain in the ass, deadlines were piling up, Molly got sick and needed attention and care, Carol needed his support, the almost-failed mission was still breathing down his neck… He needed a break and there was no break in sight. Not now. His family needs him, his job does, he needs to fucking function now.
“Daddy, ‘m not feeling good,” Molly mumbles, curled up on the couch, her head in Dave’s lap while he’s working on a report on his laptop.
“Just a second, baby.” He’s almost done, he just needs a minute and the worst part of his report would be finished. Molly stirs on the couch, hastily now. God damnit.
“Daddy…” Her little body starts trembling and with a shudder and a sound that makes Dave’s heart hurt, she slumps over and pukes. All over his notes. Over his pants he had just picked up from the dry cleaning. All over the cream colored couch that Carol wanted so badly and that looks like shit now. All over his laptop. The screen flickers a last time before it goes dark.
“I'm so sorry… Please don't be mad, Daddy.” Molly starts crying, feeling sick and miserable, her little hands shaking as she grips her ruined blanket.
The vein on his neck, he feels it throbbing. His laptop, his fucking work laptop, broken. The sticky, disgusting warmth of what once was chicken soup seeps through his trousers and makes his eyelid twitch.
Just pick your baby up, just comfort her, just help her change into new pajamas, just be a good father, just be good…
“Daddy?” She sounds so fragile, her voice nothing more than a weak breath. She clumsily pushes herself up and accidentally nudges the laptop off of Dave’s knees. The carpet swallows the low thud when it hits the ground, but the cracking of the screen is still very much audible, just as much as Molly’s shocked gasp.
“You broke it. You fucking broke it, Molly,” Dave hisses and is on his feet in an instant, his daughter toppling back onto the couch, now crying even more because she upset her dad.
He doesn’t look over to her but picks up his laptop, trying to bring it back to life. The muscles in his jaw clench when Molly’s sobs start pealing in his eardrums. Dave turns towards her, a barked shut up already on his tongue when Carol appears in the doorway.
One quick look is enough for her to assess the situation. Their crying daughter, a picture of misery and guilt written all over her pale face and Dave, nostrils flared and one hand balled into a fist, the unmistakable smell of vomit reaching her nose… No, this wasn’t good.
“It'll take it from here, Dave,” she says when she strides past him. “Go and calm down.” There's no bite to her words, bite wouldn't do any good at this moment. It would only make it worse, make Dave lose the last bits of reason.
Carol scoops Molly up in her arms, pressing a few soothing kisses to the little girl’s temple. She looks over her shoulder and gestures towards the door with a tilt of her chin as if to say please, just go.
And he does. He flees from the living room and the feeling of shame that starts licking at his insides. It gets too much. A thought crosses his mind, a simple calculation, it has been almost ten months since…
A shiver runs through him and he shakes the idea off his mind like a dog tries to shake off an annoying tick. No, he wouldn't need to do it this time, there sure is another possibility to finally get a grip on his life. He just needs to focus more. Needs a better sleep regimen. More training. More protein. More control over all the small bits and pieces of his life.
Dave shuts the door to his home gym behind him and gets to work. If his muscles are trembling and his lungs are begging him for air, he has no time to think about what kind of an asshole father and husband he is. And so he starts tormenting his body to shut off his mind, to keep the guilt and shame at bay. For now.
That night, when he slips under the bed sheets, almost silently to not wake his sleeping wife, the idea creeps back into his head. Like a tick it has sunk its teeth into his skin and he can’t seem to get rid of it since the first time he has done… it.
It has helped him before, more than he likes to admit it. But he hates it. Because he cannot do it on his own. Because he needs someone else doing it for him, to him. And Dave never liked to be dependent on something or someone.
The sheets rustle and Carol’s hand finds his own, wrapping her fingers around his in the darkness as if she was trying to comfort him. But in reality she wanted his comfort and soothing. Dave wasn't a man who was dependent. Because he always was the man everyone else depended on.
He turns on his side and lifts her hand to his lips to press a gentle kiss to Carol’s knuckles.
She hums, shuffles closer, her feet slipping between his calves. After a moment of content silence a murmur crawls over the pillows to Dave and settles right on his chest, where the thought about it sits and gnaws at him like a night terror.
“Maybe… maybe you should go see that therapist again? They really helped you the last time.”
Therapist. That was what he told his wife you were. And the things you did, it was therapy. It is, in a way. It helped him. And he hates that it does. He hates that he can’t function like he needs to. He hates that Carol sounds so timid when she suggests therapy, afraid that he could snap at her, too, because she dares to point out his weakness.
He sighs, her soft knuckles still held against his lips. “Is Molly okay?”
“She’s a little better, yes.”
The silence weighs heavy for a moment, Carol’s unanswered question pressing down on Dave’s rib cage. Or is it the feeling of guilt? About being a shit show of a father and husband? About needing you to function, even if it all feels so wrong but afterwards it always feels good and right and he feels better, every damn time?
“I'll make an appointment,” he murmurs and his lips find her ring finger, kissing the spot where the simple golden band always sits. She never takes the ring off, just like him. Carol nestles into his arms, the relief clear when she whispers her thank you, I love you into the hollow between his clavicles. God, he is such a failure, he thinks to himself with his wife in his arms and you in his mind.
You are completely booked out. Months ahead. Of course you are. There never is a shortage of people who want your services. Or to be exact, who need them. So when you received the request for an appointment “asap, ma'am”, signed by David York, you told him you were free again in three months. But then another customer canceled their session and because you like David, you give preference to him.
So a week and a half later you find yourself entering the bar of the Rosewood, one of the finest hotels of the city. Doors magically open because there’s always some finance or marketing guy holding them open for you. Each step with your pointy high heels parts the crowd in front of you and is paved with sleek smiles and licked lips of the men who move out of your way.
You pay them no mind, they only exist at the periphery of your focus. They are not important and will never be. What is important is your customer for this day. You recognize him, the way he sits at the bar, one foot on the footrest of the empty stool next to him, the other one firmly planted onto the ground. Just another pretty man in a suit, interchangeable for most who might look at him.
But for you he was different. A customer, first and foremost. A challenge, too. And he's probably the only man in this bar who is not doubling over to get a crumb of your attention. You had to work for what your customers usually give you gladly and freely: their acceptance and sometimes even devotion.
That is why you like Dave York, because working for him and with him is rewarding. It satisfies you to no end to finally turn his smoothness into something with cracks and weaknesses. And to have him thank you for it.
One of the many men in suits in this bar moves from his place on the outer borders of your attention into the spotlight and obscures the view on Dave. The guy looks you up and down, tries to smile a flirty smile but all you see is a pathetic obstacle. Your mouth already opens to tell him no to whatever suggestion he wants to make, when a big hand lands on the man's shoulder.
Thick fingers, blunt nails, a simple golden wedding band. You look past the surprised strangers face and find Dave, standing behind the man.
“Sorry buddy, not tonight,” Dave tells the man. For a moment they look at each other, like two wolves who found a piece of meat and now silently fight for ownership. Two alphas in suits. But only one of them is a wolf, the other one is just a dog.
“Not ever,” you add when you pass the stranger. The sting of your words gets soothed by your sweet smile, showing off your wolfish canines as you do. Your gaze meets Dave’s own. Two alphas looking at each other again, this time both are wolves.
You don't even bother to care about the other man who disappeared into insignificance as quickly as he had the guts to peek his head out of it. Your focus is solely on Dave now. He looks tired, frail even in the small details of his facial expression. He already looks cracked, maybe you wouldn’t have to work as hard as usual today.
“It has been a while.” You sit down at the bar and Dave gestures for the bartender. He always orders you a drink before you both go up to the booked suite. He never not acts according to the unspoken rules of those kinds of arrangements. He is polite and respectful, even if the air around him very much tastes like aversion. Not against you as a person or the work you do. The aversion is directed against himself and the fact that he was sitting in this bar with you and not at home with whoever was waiting there for him.
He nods his head. That would have to do as an answer. “The usual?” he asks instead when the bartender waits for the order.
“The usual,” you confirm and watch Dave order your vodka on ice. It is a nice change of pace, to not talk and to enjoy the silence, to stretch it like a fabric until it becomes see-through and the silent words between them become audible. Two wolves, dressed in white shirts and blouses, in polished shoes, mustering each other over the rims of their glasses. Sizing each other up.
You take a big sip of your vodka and set the glass down. There’s still a good portion of the booze left, but you need to keep a clear mind for what comes next.
“Are you done?”
Usually he obliges and leaves the rest of his drink on the counter, usually he wants to get over and done with it, with you, with himself. But tonight his need for some more liquid courage is bigger.
“Not yet, ma'am.” His legs spread a little more when he leans back on the barstool. Not in a sleazy manner, not to act like he is hung like a horse. No, taking up space comes naturally to him. And again he is respectful about it. He gives your crossed legs enough room between his thighs, almost like he acts as a buffer between the bustling bar and you.
A thought crosses your mind and makes you smile. He is protective, even though you mean nothing to him. You stretch out your leg, just enough to let the tip of your pointed stiletto brush against his shin. A silent praise for him being good.
Dave’s hand suddenly grabs your ankle, following his first impulse of inhibiting an unwanted touch. Your eyes snap up and meet his, your surprise showing in your raised brows. The grip of his fingers loosens immediately, like he touched something that he wasn’t allowed to, like a too hot cookie fresh from the baking tray.
“Finish your drink then.” A demand dressed up as a friendly request. You pull your foot away, Dave’s privilege of getting a feel for you is already over.
“Yes, ma'am,” he says lowly, just loud enough to be heard over the hustle and bustle of the bar. He swirls his drink in his glass and takes another look at you. You look like some partner in a law firm or some higher up shoving around numbers on paper and employees in meetings. Expensive clothes, expensive designer bags, expensive heels. He had seen them often enough to know that you only wear those 700$ pairs. You’re sleek, smooth, polished, with edges that look round and safe to touch but will cut through skin and flesh if you want to.
He takes a sip of his drink and watches you smile, the red lip stretching over your teeth. He feels a part of him getting excited, this one stupid part of himself, the part which constantly makes troubles. Some corner of his brain just loves this. And apparently needs it too, needs it to make him function as a person. This little part loves to make you smile. And he hates it.
You let him finish his drink, let him buy himself a few more minutes before you leave the bar and enter the grand and shiny hotel lobby. Having people move out of your way just by the way your heels click is satisfying. But having someone in front doing it for you is better. You watch Dave plowing through the lobby as he makes his way to the elevators. His ass looks cute, you think to yourself and enter the cabin with him.
He’s so well behaved for you, pressing the buttons, shielding you from the other guests and making sure you can stand comfortably without anyone standing too close to you, himself included, You smile at him again and for a moment one corner of his lips twitch. Good, that's good. He's responsive tonight.
Dave exits the elevator and struts through the long hallway, countless doors left and right until you reach the right one. A quiet beep when the key card opens the door, muffled footfall on the thick carpet and a discreet click when he closes and locks the door behind you both again. Another reason you love this hotel so much, beside the soft beds and high end shower products in the marble bathrooms: the soundproofing.
No matter how hard the stomp, how loud a scream, how sharp a smack, the walls of these rooms seem to swallow the noises and they are never sated. They drink down every word and whisper and always seem to want more. Like the people you work with.
“Tell me about your rules and limits tonight, David,” you say and look around the suite for a moment. You gesture for him to sit down on one of the plush chairs facing a full body mirror.
All you know about Dave is his name, his phone number and another number as an emergency contact. The rest is guesswork you did over the last months and years. The golden ring on his ring finger? He never takes it off. He's married or maybe widowed.
Dave takes off his jacket and hangs it over the backrest of the velvet chair. One time a little toy figurine fell out of his pocket when he took his jacket off. So there must be a child who he has a close enough relationship with for it to sneak little gifts into his pockets. This time nothing out of the ordinary happens. He simply follows your instructions and sits down.
“The same as always.” He lifts his hips again to tug his slacks down, just enough for them to not cut into his groin. “Nothing that leaves marks on me, no touching me between waist and knees, no restraints, no gagging, nothing enters my body, nothing leaves my body without my consent.”
Yeah, just like you thought. “So basically just talking. You know, you could have ‘just talking’ a lot cheaper, down at the bar for example.” You pull a chair for yourself closer to Dave, with the mirror diagonal behind it.
“I'm not here for just talking,” he says quietly with his eyes fixed on his knees.
“Oh I know, don't you worry.” You sit down now, your legs crossed over your knees and one of your high heels swaying in the air just between Dave's spread legs. “Next: safety. Repeat the rules for me, will you?”
He looks up at you and sighs. “We use the color system. Green means more, yellow means keeping the intensity, red means stop.” He likes the simplicity of this system, appreciates it at home, and loves the way Carol loses it whenever he keeps her on yellow for a little too long. But he doesn’t like to be the one using it himself.
“Good. What else means stop?” Your leg is slowly bouncing up and down and Dave's focus shifts to the pencil thin heel for a moment.
“The… the safeword. Helsinki.”
His eyes meet yours again. Dark ponds of raging brown, the storm behind them perfectly contained, for now. “And…?” you prompt, prodding him a little bit with the sweetness in your voice.
“And there's no shame in using my safeword. Or not using it if I'm… feeling good.” He almost chokes on the last words. There is shame in the whole situation, no matter how he looks at it. But you smile again and this one part of him is relieved. He did good, fuck.
“Good job, you remembered,” you praise and the shiny leather of your shoe ghosts along his calf. “Let's start then. No touching yourself or me and no talking unless I tell you to. Got it?”
“Yes, ma'am.” He never sounded less enthusiastic than now. His pretty mouth curves into the tiniest scowl and he looks a little more handsome like this. In another life you two could have a lot of fun. Real fun. Fucked up fun.
In another life you might kneel before him and beg for some peace of mind. He could be the therapy the therapist needs. But not in this life. Because in this he was the one needing peace of mind and you were the provider.
“Now, Dave, I want you to take a deep breath and look at yourself in the mirror. Right into your eyes.”
He obeys. When he meets his own gaze through the mirror the scowl becomes more prominent. You will let him sit with his own thoughts for a minute or so. Enough time to recap your last sessions with him.
Pretty quickly into your business relationship with Dave you found out about his history with the military. No details really, you just knew that he had served for several years. Being degraded on a daily basis in your forming years does something to the brain. And it surely did something to Dave's brain because his tough outer layer cracked beautifully for you as soon as you called him a ‘weak fucking loser’.
And that was all that you did since then: humiliating him, watching him turn from the hard and controlled man into one who is struggling to loosen up and finally a man who spits out ‘Helsinki!’ and flees from the scene with a raging boner. He is the weirdest customer you have. Because his requests are so tame, so small scaled for what you could do and for what he could really take.
But all you had to do was calling him names and having him palm himself through his pants. You are not exactly complaining, he paid you as much as the guys who go the whole nine yards. Dave makes you work for your money though. It is a fight, every time.
You see it in his face, he is fighting right now, while he stares himself down through the mirror. A fight he can never win. His upper lip twitches, like he is going to growl at his own reflection any moment. Oh, it is clear as day to you, he really needs this session.
You might need to switch things up a bit, you want your customers satisfied after all. And the way he glares at himself tells you that he needs more today.
“What are you thinking, tell me.”
Your voice pulls him out of his spiraling thoughts. It’s sweet like honey but also sticky. He knows that your mouth is a sugary trap. Every word and gesture and touch a carefully laid out crumb to lead him to where you want him: staring up at you, doing whatever it takes to get your sugar lips to smile at him.
A little nudge of your heel against his thigh. A little harder than it had to be to get his attention. He doesn’t like that he likes it.
“Whimp,” Dave says with heartfelt disdain.
“What else? And keep looking at yourself.” Your heel digs a little more into his thigh and you can feel the tremble of his muscle beneath his slacks. He sure was a runner, you think. Thick thighs look so pretty with a few streaks on them. But no, no marks. “You can tell me everything, you know?”
Dave swallows thickly, the soft velvet of your voice is making his throat tight. He's trapped, caged in between your shiny stilettos and your mouth. His thigh throbs against the thin heel.
He takes in his reflection, the man in power, in slacks and a crisp white dress shirt, in polished shoes. A high heel prodding him. His fingers clutching the armrests. His face tight and sour. His wedding ring glinting.
“Cheater.”
You hum, pleased with his answer and gracing him with a small smile in return. So he is in a relationship. Good, this would make it easier. For you.
Your foot moves, the pointy heel being exchanged with the flat of the sole, pressed against his inner thigh. You drag it up the seam, just a little bit.
This is breaking the ‘no touching’ rule. And yet, he endures, fighting his silent internal fight.
Interesting.
“What’s your color, love?” You tilt your head to the side, enjoying how Dave’s nostrils flare at your audacity. He is defying the sweetness of your words. But he wants more of the stickiness. Just a little bit. It won’t hurt, right?
“Green,” he grits out. Fucking whimp, cheater, loser, failure, he tells himself silently through the mirror. Your sole moves higher now, the pointy tip already indicating towards your final destination.
Green. He wants more, he will get more. Your shoe slides higher and leaves a trail of dusty dirt on his clean pants. He will hate that, you know he will, because you would be pissed off, too.
“Are you not embarrassed, Dave? Sitting here, paying money for this? What would she say, if she knew?”
His eyes snap from the mirror to you, the corner of his lips move into another scowl. The wolf would be baring his teeth soon.
You tap the sole of your shoe against his crotch, just enough for a little sting that lets him jump slightly. Dave looks at you, stunned. Such a pretty sight.
“Oh what's with the attitude now? Did I say you could look at me?” You smile at him, the tip of your tongue running along the edges of your teeth. “Do you think you deserve it, looking at me, dummy?”
His eyes widen and his mouth opens, ready to protest, to call this off, ready to show you your place. But the only thing leaving his throat is a choked sound. Probably because you keep rubbing your foot into his groin, pushing into the not-so-soft-anymore softness.
“Eyes back on the mirror.” Another quick rap, sole meeting joined seams, another jolt and, oh yes, a moan, finally. The walls with their expensive satin tapestry greedily drink down the throaty sound. “Now.”
Your command has nothing of the powdered sugar quality anymore and he obeys. Who even is he, he wonders for a moment of clarity when he meets his own eyes through the mirror again. A stupid man, growing hard under the shoe of a stranger, a stupid man with a loving wife at home. A stupid man with guns hidden all over town. Growing hard.
He looks into the mirror, feeling detached from his own reality. He watches the shiny shoe move between the thighs of this man in the mirror, he sees the stomach of the man tense under his dress shirt, he notices how the man's mouth opens. He hears him groan, this man who looks like himself.
“God, are you seriously turned on by this? That's embarrassing. No wonder you pay me for it instead of getting it at home.” You love being mean for money and you love how Dave writhes beneath your high heel and squirms under your gaze. “Do you like this? Answer me, dummy.”
“Yes.” You only get a single hissed word as an answer. Adorable.
“Yes what?” you hiss back, applying a little more pressure to the bulge showing so beautifully.
“Yes, ma'am,” he snarls now. The wolf is showing his teeth and you're gonna pull one out. You are the only one allowed to bite in this arrangement.
“Christ, do I have to spell it out for you, stupid?” Your foot drops lower, right over the tight little package nestled under the thick, elongated dick outline. The pointy shoe tip slowly pokes into the squishy warmth of Dave’s clothed balls. His breath hitches. “Yes, ma'am, what?” you prompt him, the sugar returning to your words.
“I… I like this, ma'am.” His eyes are still glued to the picture in the mirror and he seems to register that this is him. The visual of an expensive high heel pressing against balls matches the thrumming, stingy feeling of pain in his own slacks. And another thing belongs to him, besides the pain. The jumping hard-on, right above this damned shoe.
He swallows thickly, his blunt nails digging into the velvet of the armrests. “Fuck. I like it,” he stutters, staring at his face, like he is seeing himself for the first time. Like he recognizes himself. His stormy eyes become a little calmer, the silent internal fight becoming more quiet.
“There we go. Good job.” You pull your foot away from him and lean closer, elbows to knees, one finger coming up to his chin. He just now notices that your nail polish matches your lipstick. The color would look good around his dick. In another life.
“Look at me,” you croon, laying out your trap for him again. The pad of your finger so warm and gentle under his chin, guiding his eyes to yours. You're smiling, red stretching over white, he did good and his cock throbs against the zipper. He’s wagging his tail for you.
“Good boy.” You lean closer and he can smell your perfume, the mint and vodka on your breath, your amber-scented dominance tinted in black and scarlet. The sweetness of your praise coats his tongue and he swallows it down, to make it a part of him. A little secret part on the inside only he knows about.
“Color?” Soft, alluring, a trap made for him to curl up in.
He takes a moment to think, but not too much. The thinking part of his brain was already beginning to shut down. “Green,” he rasps with his eyes fixed on the way your eyebrows dance when you smile again.
“Good. Now, I have a question for you.” Your thumb rubs against his chin, just enough to feel the day worth of scruff beneath the digit. “Will you take your cock out for me? Let me see him?”
Gentle eyes, soft words, tender chin scratches. You have his tail wagging. Slowly, slowly you are domesticating him into a dog, one praise at a time.
Dave nods his head. There’s no harm in showing his dick. That doesn't make him a cheater, he tells himself. Maybe he could make you smile again, he knows he has a good cock. Good balls too. Maybe you could squish them again. Just a little bit.
“That's a good boy. Show him to me. Show me how hard I make you.” You lean back in your chair and watch Dave hesitantly fumble with his belt, then top button, then zipper. He still has a little fight left in him. You would be concerned if not. A man like him will never give up completely, that is what makes him so interesting for you, so much fun to play with.
The teeth of the zipper hiss, the fabric rustles when he pulls it over his ass and down his thighs, over his knees. He looks a bit disgraceful like this, sitting in the velvet chair, slacks pooled around his shoes, tented black briefs, looking at you expectantly. You would have let him take his shoes off and fold his pants if he wanted. But he chose to be… excited. And a little impatient. Truly adorable.
You move a little closer again, inspecting what you can see so far. You never saw his dick and usually you are not too keen on seeing your customers’ genitals, they were just extensions, more of the canvas you like to work on. But since Dave always made a fuss about decidedly not showing signs of arousal you became curious. Out of professionalism, of course.
It was looking good, the tent. A thick head pressed against the cotton and crowned with a now black, later milky stain.
“You’re leaking? For me?” You sound like he presented you with a bouquet of flowers or a painting he doodled with crayons. You reach out, your fingers stopping shy before touching the wet spot. You look up at him, a glint of horror in his eyes. No touching, with your hands. “Is this okay?”
A head shake and a dry swallow, then he finds his voice again. “No. Ma'am. I’m sorry.” You touching him would be cheating; in his head this makes sense.
“That's okay, don't worry.” You purse your lips, tapping a finger against the red on them. Then you hold out your hand, palm up. “Lend me a hand?”
Dave hesitates. His dick protesting with stirs against the briefs, not caring about who would touch him and how. He puts his hand in yours, trusting that you would accept his limit.
And you do, of course, you're a professional. Which means you know how to work your way around limits and how to stretch boundaries. You guide his thumb to the wet, glossy spot and rub the pad over the fabric, once, twice, until Dave grunts from the tingling friction.
“Let me know how you taste,” you coo and lift his thumb to your mouth. You open it wide, your tongue sticking out, reversing the roles but he still is your wolf in a dog costume. His eyes glint and for a second you can smell his dominance, too, lingering under the scent of his precum.
Two beasts who recognize each other, just for the fragment of a second, as you look into each other's eyes. But only one can be in charge tonight. You lean in and take his thumb into your mouth. Deeply. You sink down until your lips leave a red lipstick print around the base, one half on his palm, the other half on the back of his hand.
He tastes salty, with a sharp bite to it, just like the man himself. He presses his thumb deeper, can’t resist to have the upper hand with you just once. Your pussy clenches. She likes him.
Oh, in another life, you would let him wreck you. But not now. You suck his finger until you can’t taste his precum anymore and pull off of him.
“Kneel.”
He huffs and his brows draw together. “What?”
“Wrong answer, stupid.” Your foot snaps up, sole pushed against his hard dick, pointy heel somewhere in between his balls. “Try again.”
There it is again, the storm in his eyes. He is so much fun to work with, so easy to rile up, always keeps you on your toes. The same toes that feel Dave's cock throb through his briefs and the leather of your shoe. You move your heel from left to right, just enough to make him squirm and hiss.
“Yes, ma'am.” That's what he says but it sounds a lot like ‘fuck you’.
You laugh at that, sit back in your chair and put your foot back down on the ground. “That's more like it. Come on, chop chop. On your knees.”
He does as he is told. Growling and glaring, avoiding his ridiculous reflection in the mirror, of a tough guy with his pants around his ankles and leaking like his cock is drooling for you. Dave finds himself on his knees as he sinks into the thick carpet. Your feet are right in front of him, he catches a glimpse of his face in the glossy black tip of your heels. He looks twisted, but unmistakably like him.
“And now: touch yourself. Over your briefs. Nice and slow. Eyes on my shoes.” You place one foot on his thigh and his eyes follow the movement without moving too much. “You seem to like them?”
His hand, the one with your lipstick on it, runs along his length, slowly, calculated, avoiding his sensitive tip as he does. “Yes, ma'am,” Dave mutters and squeezes his girth like he's trying to soothe himself because your voice doesn’t do it anymore. It's all harsh now and not sticky-sweet.
Your heel gets pressed into his thigh, the thin end biting into his skin. “Yes, ma'am, what?”
His jaw ticks. His thumb is soothingly rubbing over the head of his cock, knuckle pushed against the underside. “Yes, ma'am, I like your shoes.”
“I thought so. You got so hard for them, didn’t you?”
He takes a deep breath and keeps on palming himself, a steady back and forth. The wet blotch grows. “I-...” He breaks off when you start caressing his balls with your sole. Back and forth. Front to back, in the same rhythm as he strokes himself. “I did get hard for them, yes. For you, ma'am.”
He just wants some of that sugar back, some of those honeyed words from you. He's on his knees already, what else could you want?
You let him kneel and watch his hand move, register his hip twitch. You brush your fingers through his hair, just a light pet.
“Take him out now. I can look at him, right?”
He nods his head and tugs himself out. Caught behind the waistband you get a first peek. Girthy, a stunning color, a dusty rose turning into an earthy pinkish-red, cut, a clear bead of precum forming over the slit before it runs down and spreads over the already glistening skin.
With another tug he pushes his briefs under his sack, forcing it up nice and tight, right under his cock. He has a slight curve, too. Fucking perfect. Your pussy clenches again.
Dave's hand fists the base, some of your red lipstick transfers to his shaft. The closest your mouth will probably get to him. Such a shame, you think, swallowing down some pooling spit, because you really would like to get a sore jaw from sucking him off.
“Now that's a pretty cock you got there. Hold still.”
You crouch over to Dave and place your palm over his hand, giving his dick a good squeeze with Dave's hand.
“I won't touch him, I promise. But let me guide you.” Molasse thick, that's how your voice sounds. Almost too thick to be swallowed down.
He manages to do it nonetheless. Ignoring that this is out of the comfort zone of David York, the husband and father. But oh, those words taste delicious for the man who knows rules and laws but lives outside of them.
His own hand relaxes under yours and with the first stroke another yes, ma'am drips from his lips.
This is a strange feeling. He guided several hands in his life, taught them where to rub, how to twist, how much to squeeze. But having his own hand touch him with those foreign movements was… new. Sexy. Frustrating too, because you seem to know exactly what not to do.
He looks down between his thighs and sees two hands moving and he really tries to imagine it was just your hand. He wants your touch. Christ, he wants your mouth on him, too. And you would do it, you would gladly accept the proposal and call him a good boy again. But he can't. He can't do it, it's not the right thing to do. He feels his wedding ring slide up over his tip and back down. No, he can’t have you touch him directly.
But he can give in to you a little more. His dignity hangs over the other chair, taken off together with his jacket right at the beginning. You might as well make him your bitch. He throbs against his fingers and Dave asks himself if you can feel it, too. Without being able to stop it his hips buck into his fist, your fists. You were moving his hand so goddamn slow, he needs more. More pressure, more speed.
“Are you not happy, love? Are you being ungrateful?” You slow down even more until your palms reach his top again. Dave has lubed himself up so nicely with his own precum, you can feel it spreading between your own fingers. With a tight grip you flick and twist, like screwing open a bottle, twisting the cork out of a bottle of champagne.
Dave’s body jerks as do his hips and he moans again, feeding the soundproofing of the hotel room the delicious sounds he makes.
You tut at him, smirking and mocking and twist his hand over his cock again.
“Oh, so you are ungrateful? You have to ask for the things that you want, dummy, That's how this works.” You loosen your grasp and straighten your back, cross your arms and then your legs until the sole of your shoe hovers over his balls. “So…? Are you ungrateful?”
He shakes his head and fights the urge to rock himself against your shoe. More precum gets pushed out of his slit, he fucking aches. He could just spit out the safeword and jerk it in his car, like usual. But he is too proud for that. He is going to finish what he started here, in this room with you.
“No, I’m not. I just-...” he breaks off when you start bouncing your foot, knocking against his balls with almost gentle pats. Dave clutches his girth with a groan, his hips bucking forwards again. “I…,” he strokes himself once, hoping you would get the implications without having to put it into words.
A finger hooks under his chin again, he can smell himself on your skin. A nudge and he looks at your face again, the way you bare your teeth at him in a graceful smile doesn't cover up the authoritative tone hidden in your sweet words.
“You already did so good today. But I want you to do one last thing, yes?” You rub your finger under his chin, smearing some of his sticky precum over his skin. “Will you try it, for me?”
He'd do a backflip, if you kept up the carrot and stick game for a little longer.
And then you do it again, showing him the treat he could have if he only was a good enough boy for you. You start licking your hand clean. Languid laps with the flat of your tongue, starting with the little finger.
“Love, I want you to fuck your hand. You don't have to hold back.” You suckle on the tip of your finger before licking Dave's salty residue off of the next one. You stop at the tip, twirl your tongue around the fingernail painted all ruby and smile at him. Just as if you were licking an ice cream spoon clean.
“Just make sure to keep your hand still and fuck into it.” Now middle and index finger. Your tongue runs over both of them before you put them into your mouth. In and out they go, sluggish and without hurry, you hum at the taste like it's the sweetest cream.
And then, instead of doing a backflip, Dave starts moving his hips. His eyes glued to your mouth and the red of your lipstick transfers to your fingers before it disappears in the dark, tight, wet cavern of your mouth.
His hand doesn't feel anywhere close to what he imagines your mouth does. Dave is just glad that he can finally care for his aching boner. With every thrust, in sync with your fingers sliding in and out between your lips, his balls slap against the leather sole of your shoe. It stings, but it stings good. He didn’t even know he liked this before tonight. Before your expensive stiletto pressed and rapped and pushed into them.
He ruts his hips faster now, not matching the speed he needs, but he makes it up with squeezing himself hard. Soft squelches come from between his legs now with every back and forth. More noises for the thick carpet and walls to swallow, never to be heard again.
You’re sucking on your thumb now while Dave's clutching himself harder, hips thrusting in a relentless pace. He fucks his hand like you told him to.
He looks so perfect in the mirror, that little piece of ass that you can see from your angle. Clenching and unclenching, the movements draw you in, hypnotize you. The perfect cream-white canvas for blotches of red and sprinkles of violet, for scarlet streaks, oval imprints of your teeth even.
You lick your lips when his thighs start trembling. How good he would look if he fucked himself on your strap-on. In another life, you muse and press your thighs together. The sound your thumb makes between your lips resembles the one that will come from your wet cunt later, when you're at home again. With Dave's salty taste in your mouth and a girthy vibrator, one to match the size of his cock.
His eyes meet yours again, just for a second before they dart down to your tongue again when you start licking your palm. He's still in there, the hard man, the one who's fighting against himself, the one who probably whispers insults inside his head. You can see him in that short moment, somewhere swimming in the stormy mahogany.
You stop licking your palm when Dave winces after snapping his hips harder into his hand and his balls against your sole. He’s at his personal limit.
“Almost there, love, hm?” Another lap to your palm, seemingly unbothered by the state he is in. “Do you want to come?”
He groans and growls, his glutes are burning, his knees hurt, his fucking balls thrum. Oh, he wants to come alright. “Yes, ma'am,” he grits out.
“Say that you're pretty when you fuck your hand for me.” Your tongue flicks over your palm again and reveals your canines again. Just a wolf cleaning her silky fur.
If the need for his orgasm wasn't bigger than his pride, he would have rolled his eyes and fucked that smug smile right out of your face. But he really, really needs to come. He is so close. He can play along a little longer.
“I'm pretty when I fuck my… fucking hand for you,” he snarls and a something in the depth of his guts starts fluttering with a burning strength.
“Good job. You really are pretty like that, love.” You pull the leg of your pants up, the heavy, black fabric now rests bunched up on your knee. Dave still ruts into his hand, chasing the release he knows he can’t have that easily.
“Say ‘I will make a pretty mess for you, ma'am.’,” you order and push your fingers through his hair, careful to not ruin his side part. A single unruly strand gets fixed with your spit-wet fingers. Nothing that leaves marks on me. Well, he can wash off your little saliva mark later.
More carrots, more sweet words and sugar touches, more of your smug but also content smile. Christ, he just wants to do something right. And you are offering him an easy fix. Dave whines and leans into your touch. Vigorously he pounds his hand, his balls trapped between his waistband and your sole and it all feels so warm, hot, his pulse beats in his ears and throbs in his straining cock. “I will make a pretty mess for you, ma'am. Fuck. I need to move my hand.”
His big browns look up at you, same parts furious, pleading and desperate.
“Say please,” you chirp and tilt your hips to feel the middle seam of your pants pressed against your clit. “Be good, say please and you can come for your ma'am.”
“Please. Fuck, please!” he barks as he steps into your honeyed trap you have laid out for him from the beginning. He is stuck in it knees first, tail between his legs, barking, howling, wagging. How to catch a wolf.
“That's my good boy. Go on, you can come. Make a mess.”
He did good, thank god. Dave starts moving his hand, jerking his cock hard and fast, his teeth sink into his flew to bite back a loud howl when he feels himself coming.
It is beautiful to watch for you, how his eyes roll back slightly, how his hand moves so fast that the smacking sounds are like a rapid fire, how he thrusts a few more times into his tight fist until he squirts his thick creamy cum all over. It feels hot on your skin, like molten wax poured over your shin, down to your foot and finally your high heel.
You moan in unison with Dave. You never are above feeding the soundproofing some of your noises as well. An offering to the gods, to keep you blessed with men like Dave.
He continues to stroke himself, choking on a few whimpers, milking the last remnants of cum out of him. His wedding band isn't shining as much now, all dull and foggy with his seed dimming the golden hue. His hand trembles, his runner thighs tremble too, his briefs, still tucked under his balls, are ruined and he slowly, slowly loosens his hard grip around his cock.
“Love, you did so good. That wasn't so hard, was it?” His cum starts running down your leg now and you both watch it for a moment.
“I'll get you a tissue,” he mutters breathily, ready to finally get off his knees and gain some dignity back.
“Nuh uh. Clean up without tissues or towels.” Nothing enters my body without my consent. He looks at you and scoffs out single disbelieving laughter. You shrug your shoulders. “Listen, you came this far. You can be a coward and use your safe word. Or you can take responsibility and clean up the mess you made. It's an easy task.”
You are right. It is an easy task, compared to the mess his life is. It's easy. It's easy. It's easy. He leans forward and swallows, thickly. He looks up at you and sticks his tongue out. It's easy.
You lift your leg up to his mouth, nodding your head, smiling, baring your teeth like a docile pet wolf. Dave's tongue meets your skin, smooth under his slick, powdery scent under his salty stench. He licks a stripe from your ankle up your shin, then another one and another one. Slowly. It's easy. One lick at a time. Fixing the mess he made.
His clean hand holds your foot, nestled in your stiletto, and he laps his cum from the bridge with shorter strokes.
Dave doesn't flinch away from his own taste, he’s licked his own hands clean often enough to enjoy it to a degree. A form of cannibalism, eating his young, feasting on his own potential.
He cleans your skin, lifting your foot higher and his tongue pressed into the small gaps between the leather and your toes. You pet his head again, humming, purring under his ministrations. Dave's lips purse half above the leather and half above your skin, a small kiss before he sucks his cum out of the tiny gap.
It really is easy. He licks over the glossy black, leather and salt coating his senses, another sugary good boy in his ears and in his hair your claws graze over his scalp.
A few more licks and kisses and the creamy white has disappeared from the shiny piece of leather. He can see himself in it again. A twisted image, but unmistakably Dave.
He rubs his spit into the smooth animal skin, you can wash his mark off later if you want. He's done. With cleaning and with this. It's over, for tonight at least.
He lowers your stiletto onto the thick carpet again and offers free sight to his spent cock, heavy and sticky. No more wagging, no more dog. He's back to being an equal.
“You did amazing, Dave. Really good.”
Your hand falls to his shoulder, giving him a gentle pat before you rise to your feet and over him your hand to pull him up. He takes it, groaning quietly when his knees crack. Dave feels a little shaky, or maybe more shook than shaky. But he feels good, lighter, loose. Not even ashamed.
“Can I get you anything? Something to drink, something to eat?” You don't even wait for his answer and turn to the minibar, pulling out a cold water for him.
“No, thank you. I'm good. I'll just take a quick shower.” With a thud his shoes land on the floor as he kicks them off. His slacks follow, then his damp briefs.
You watch him undress, amazed and attracted to his confidence and nonchalance, attracted to what lies beneath Dave's clothes, too. In another life you two would be a great match.
“Do you want me to wait for you?” You turn towards the minibar again, looking for something else. There it is, a kitkat.
“You don't have to, but thank you.” Dave smiles at you and shrugs his shirt off his shoulders. He holds out his hand now, naked in front of you and not bothered by it. Smug. Big dick energy and he can afford it.
You shake his hand, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth for a moment. “Until the next time then. Take good care, Dave.”
You smile at each other, the possibilities of being reckless crackling between you, but then he lets go of your hand and turns his back towards you, heading into the bathroom. When the water starts running behind closed doors you take his shirt from the pile of clothes and nuzzle into the fabric. It's a good smell. Masculine, of course.
Slipping a few fingers into your pants and deeper, behind the elastic of your lace underwear and still deeper, dipping them into your sopping pussy, you inhale his scent deeply, clenching to the thought of his tongue on your skin.
You treat yourself to a moment with your fingers buried in your cunt before you pull out again. You write your name on the inside of his collar, invisible ink made out of your slick, setting a scent mark, a last reward for this good boy.
When Dave enters the room again later you have disappeared, in thin air, no trace of you is left. But something churns inside of him when he gets dressed.
Later, in his car, it clicks. Pussy. It smells like pussy, right in front of him. You god forsaken menace. Of course you had to have the last word. Marking him, mocking him, making him hard again. And of course your pussy smells delicious. Sticky sweet. He groans and adjusts himself, driving home a little faster now.
The house lays in silence when he steps over the threshold. The girls are fast asleep, he checked it immediately with a peek into their rooms. Carol is asleep as well. Soft and warm and plush under the blanket, curled up on her side. Dave kicks his shoes off and steps out of his slacks and briefs. They are still damp in the front, from the precum you urged out of him. But the shirt stays on.
He slips under the blanket and pulls Carol closer, her perfect ass against his already half-hard cock. A hand gently kneads one of her breasts, the other one tugs down her pajama pants.
She's awake in no time, whimpering when he grinds against her rear and lets his dick glide between her ass cheeks.
“Therapy was good?” Her voice is so soft, always sweet for him, never harsh, rarely ever does a no come from her.
“Yeah. Missed you…” he mumbles into the crook of her neck, biting and pulling on her skin until she winces softly.
“Dave-...”
He pinches her nipples and she winces again. A waft of your pussy hits him and he breathes it in deeply.
“Color, baby.”
“What?” Carol chuckles, not yet believing that she’s about to be fucked by her always loyal, always loving and caring husband.
“You’ve heard me. Give me your color.” His cock now slides between her legs and through her folds. He’ll slick her up real good, leaking already with a quiet thrumming sting in his balls. Carol’s pussy feels as good as yours smells.
“Green,” she gasps and rocks back against him.
“Good fuckin’ girl,” he growls before biting the flesh over her shoulder blade and pushing into her.
When Dave finally is satisfied, soaked in Carol and him, she rolls on her back and watches him get a warm towel for her. Whatever this therapist did with Dave, it did wonders. He should go more often.
thank you for reading! and remember, kids, comment or reblog to show me I've been a good girl and did a good job, please and thank you
find my Dave York masterlist here
find my general masterlist here
more a/n: I'd probably suck as dominatrix, shout-out to all the bad ass professionals and hobby dom(me)s out there, you are amazing and I'm literally on my knees for you
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ⟡ It's Emmy night. And your infamous ex-boyfriend is stirring up all kinds of trouble for you.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ⟡ Hi ho, everyone!! This piece is for Gin's ( @wannab-urs ) Dom That Middle Aged Man Campaign 2025!! I'm cutting it incredibly close but I actually ended up having a lot of fun with this one. It started as a smaller oneshot but quickly grew bigger and bigger until hey, whaddya know, Roman Roy is making a little cameo. Blame @strang3lov3 for that lol. Her writing for Roman has made that brain rot really settle in and I needed an asshole boyfriend for this one soooo uhhhh yeah. He is in there!! Anyhoo, here is the full masterlist for the event!! Hope y'all enjoy!!
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⟡ smut (minors, do not interact), minimally edited lol, a tiny bit of angst, no reader description given aside from reader wearing makeup and being able-bodied, one minor suicide joke, toxic relationships, shaky descriptions of the goings on of award shows (sorry, I do not keep up with them well enough to know everything <3), mentions of addiction, infidelity (reader is in a PR relationship, shoutout to Roman Roy lmao), oral, heavy mommy kink lol, pegging, some fluffy aftercare, reader is a fucking mess, dieter is a fucking mess, it's all chaos, nothing else I can think of but feel free to let me know if anything else should be added!!
“Sure you’re going to be ready in time?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Roman pops his head into the hotel bathroom. “I dunno, isn’t that a woman thing?”
“It is if you’re a misogynist.” You say before blotting your lipstick.
“Or a realist. Veeeery fine line, babe.”
You roll your eyes. Part of you wishes Roman had never been nominated.
Outstanding Lead Actor In A Drama.
When you were younger, awards shows always seemed so exciting and glamorous. Sometimes they still are. But as you built up your career and were invited to more of them you had come to realize that they were little more than glorified circle jerks. Sadly, being Roman Roy’s costar and girlfriend obligated you to attend.
You wish your publicist had booked a separate room for you so Roman wouldn’t wind you up. At this point though, you were counting the days until you no longer had to be joined at the hip. Once awards season was over you could move on from this chapter of life. Maybe you’d hide away for a while. The thought keeps you from going completely insane.
The car ride to the theater is quiet. Roman scrolls through his mentions on Twitter the whole way. A few times you assure him that it’ll be alright, that he worked so hard that he’s sure to win. None of that reassurance matters.
He’s been glued to his phone since the nominations dropped. For almost two whole months it’s been a shitshow. One minute he’s stressing about what he should say for his acceptance speech and the next he doesn’t give a shit. A few times he floated the idea of skipping the event altogether. That usually only happened when the D word came into the conversation.
Dieter fucking Bravo as Roman liked to call him.
Roman hates a lot of things. But god, he really hates Dieter. Roman’s young. He’s talented. And Dieter is…well…Dieter.
“How the fuck did that washed up prick get a nom? Asshole finally managed to find someone in the academy desperate enough to fuck him.” Roman said when he first learned that he’d be competing with Dieter. You’d ignored the pointed insult in that outburst. It wasn’t the comparison of talent or rap sheets that heated Roman up so much as the fact that you and Dieter weren’t strangers. Before he turned it all to shit, you and Dieter had dated for one tumultuous year.
Roman cares for you about as much as you care for him, that much you’re sure of. It’s the optics that bother him. It’s the fact that for almost two months, almost every Twitter user talking about him makes the assumption that Roman Roy is just a stepping stone. That you’d soaked up every bit of clout dating Dieter Bravo could give you. And that now you’d jumped to the next big thing in line.
While some folks called you a slut and a number of other awful names, some raised you to the status of feminist icon.
“‘Sucking and fucking her way through the Emmy nominees.’” Roman read to you one night in disgust. “”What a girlboss.’ Are you seeing this shit? They’re saying you’re probably going after Jeff Bridges next. You better not fuck Jeff Bridges. If you fuck Jeff Bridges, I’ll fucking hang myself.”
You try not to care too much. If being with Dieter had taught you anything it was that the media thrived off of acknowledgement. If you responded to the accusations, every outlet would release an article about it. And then another one about the backlash. And then another one about the backlash to the backlash. Then they’d roll shitty banner ads over the whole thing and call it journalism.
Not even you, yourself, gave that much of a shit about your own sex life. You’d much rather mind your own business than feed into their interest, thank you very much.
It’s why you couldn’t wait to get the carpet walk over and done with. It’s the closest thing to a goddamn parade and Roman’s desire to cut your prep time short has you feeling less than your best.
You’re in your own head, watching Roman get his picture taken by the paparazzi flash mob, and dreading your turn to join in when you’re rudely interrupted.
“He looks like he’s enjoying himself.”
You almost agree until you turn to look at who had just spoken to you.
Dieter fucking Bravo. And he looks fucking gorgeous.
You can hardly remember the last time he looked so put together. His wavy hair is gelled back, accentuating the stray silvers that he finally seems to be letting grow out. He wears a white shirt that’s buttoned up to the neck. The solid white collar is framed by a black sweater. And for once he’s not wearing pants that are too tight or too baggy; these ones are just right. The look is simple but graceful, perfect for a star settling into middle age. If things were different, you’d kiss his stylist with tongue and maybe give them a handjob for blessing you with such a glorious sight. Pressing your nails into the palms of your hands, there are a number of things you think to say.
What are you doing here? How dare you? What the fuck is wrong with you?
But none of them sound right. None are befitting of such a glamorous night either.
So you settle for replying coldly, “Are you not?”
Dieter snorts and you melt upon seeing the crinkles by his eyes in full force. “Are you kidding? I’m shocked they even invited me. Who’s dying to wheel out the washed up old guys for shit like this?”
“Thank god we’re in Hollywood; the mecca for washed up old men,” you scoff.
If Dieter acknowledges the joke, you don’t hear or see it. Your eyes are glued to Roman, afraid that if you look back at Dieter again they might just pop out of your head.
Out of the blue he asks, “He isn’t even nice to you, is he?”
It’s a question that makes you scoff and roll your eyes. How dare he? He goes away for a few months and after two years of image fixing he thinks he has any right to ask that? The old urge to swing around and give him a piece of your mind strikes you again. As the cameras flash, you become very aware that even at your place at the periphery of the carpet, a snapshot of you arguing with your ex would make a great TMZ article.
You mumble, “What he is is none of your business.”
“I was nice to you,” Dieter says, then repeats to himself, “I was nice.”
You retort with a laugh, “When you weren’t high off your ass.”
“Don’t pretend you weren’t either.”
Like you need to be reminded of how hellish it was trying to be with him and subsequently get over him. You remember taking old gifts he’d given you to the secondhand store. You remember deleting almost every trace of him from your phone. You remember the nights you struggled to stop yourself from making contact again. It had been a long, uphill battle to wash away the single most chaotic year of your life and you weren’t sliding down it again.
“We’re not having this conversation again. I hated myself when I was with you. And I’m not going back to that place. I’ve worked too hard for you to come crashing in and ruining that.” You say it more to yourself than him.
With that, you’re ushered over to Roman where you pose with him. And you almost manage to give a genuine smile to the masses.
When you’re finally seated in the theater, the night rolls on with the typical fanfare. You give your prescribed reactions; cheer when your show is called for an award and smile when you notice a camera near you. A few times Roman leans over to mumble some snotty joke about whoever’s on stage and that deep, cynical part of you manages to laugh at them.
At the very least, it makes him less nervous. That’s how you justify it to yourself.
He’s in the middle of another wisecrack when the woman at the microphone pulls Roman’s attention away. “I’m proud to announce the nominees for Lead Actor In A Drama Series.”
You don’t bother watching the giant screen as clips of the nominees play. You already know damn good and well who’s up on the platter for this one. Instead, much to your dismay, your gaze is trained on Dieter.
He’s a row ahead of you and about a dozen seats to the right so you only get a sliver of his profile. From the bits and pieces you get of his bobbing head, his jaw looks tense. In the silence that precedes the announcement you notice just how age has settled upon Dieter. With his hair a little longer and head held high he looks just like the man you once saw within him. It suits him well.
“And the Emmy goes to…”
Some small piece of you peers out from the shadows of cynicism and your lips curl into a soft smile. As uncomfortable as he seemed to be amongst this crowd, Dieter finally looked well; he looked hopeful.
“Roman Roy!”
Turning back towards Roman you expect a kiss, a squeeze of your hand, some sort of acknowledgement that you’re right there beside him. Anything. But he’s standing and walking towards the stage before you can even say a word.
Normally you treasure your alone time. This time though, the empty air truly feels depressing.
Part of you wishes Roman had come back to the hotel with you. But another part of you is grateful you won’t have to listen to his gloating. Or his “celebration”, as he called it.
You can’t stop replaying the moment over and over again. The way your breath seemed stuck in your throat as you watched him deliver his bullshit acceptance speech. He shed a genuine tear when thanking his mother; you’d known him long enough to recognize his shreds of sincerity.
For the most part, however, he’s performing. After all, that’s what got him the award to begin with.
Knowing that there’s a camera capturing your reaction you plaster on a toothy grin. While Roman plays the part of the humble award winner, you play the proud girlfriend though you feel more like a prop than his costar.
None of it matters either way. At the end of the night, you knew that Roman’s speech would be clipped and reposted thousands of times online. Maybe then he’d get the validation he seems to have been craving his entire life.
That’s why he decided to stay at the afterparty, you figured. Maybe it’s also why you were already seeing clips of him at said afterparty proclaiming with a smug grin, “Suck it, Bravo.” Validation from his peers. The why of it all didn’t matter either. You’d had enough of pathologizing the men around you for one night.
Well. Almost enough.
The thought of Roman’s absence departs and Dieter’s presence worms its way back into your mind.
You’d never had a proper sendoff for your relationship with him. Instead you got stood up on a night he was supposed to meet you for dinner. That night you vowed you would no longer drag him out from a drug induced haze. You went nuclear; blocked him, stopped going to his house, revoked his access to your apartment building.
Through the grapevine you heard that he’d finally crashed out a few months afterwards and got shipped off to rehab. Then from there it was close to silence. The post-Dieter life was calm, if a bit predictable.
You pick up your phone from the nightstand and go through your blocked contacts until you find his name. And after nearly two years of being Dieter free you invite him right back into your life.
You half expect the message to go ignored. He might not even have the same number anymore anyways. Right as you’re about to block him again out of pure embarrassment, you see those three telltale dots pop up on the left side of the screen. They ripple for a few seconds before a reply appears.
If he were in front of you, you would’ve rolled your eyes. You quickly type out a response.
You can practically hear the shock Dieter must’ve experienced in how the message stays read for a solid two minutes before he answers again.
Of course, you wanted to scream. I missed you so bad that I binged the entire series and then looked up fanfiction of your character afterwards.
Just like before, the message stays read for a few minutes. But this time the typing dots on his end disappear and come back a few times. You end up laying your phone facedown on the bed so you wouldn’t throw it across the room. Eventually your ringtone chimes and you pick it up again.
Your stomach drops about a thousand miles down an awful pit of guilt until your memory slows it down. As much as his big brown eyes might suggest it, Dieter isn’t some helpless puppy dog. How many times had he fucked you over before? How many times did he force you to take care of his messes? And how many times did you grin and bear it because you loved him? Maybe it was nostalgia. Maybe it was the need for some sort of closure. Or maybe it was the fact that you weren’t going to go through another night ignored and alone. But you impulsively type and send another message.
And much to your surprise, Dieter replies immediately.
From the second you pull Dieter into your hotel room you feel alive again. His lips are against yours and your stomach soars at the way he lets you deprive him of oxygen. You missed him more than you had even fathomed. You missed his eagerness. You missed the way his hands went straight to your ass. You missed his tongue. God, you could suck on his tongue right then and there and die happy.
The muffled groan he lets out when you tug on his hair reminds you the hotel room door is still partially opened. It hits you for a split second that someone easily could’ve followed him here. By morning the media could be all over whatever happens in this room tonight.
Dieter pulls away for air. As he cups your cheek and gives you that classic mischievous smirk he says, “Hi there.”
And suddenly…you don’t give a shit. Not about Roman or the media or your publicist. You’ll deal with the consequences later. Probably. But for now, it’s all Dieter fucking Bravo. And for once, that was a good thing.
Breathlessly, you command, “Get on the bed. Now.”
Dieter hadn’t felt this antsy since his last stint in rehab. With the way he was practically crawling under his skin he was surprised he made it to your hotel in one piece.
It would’ve been quite a headline if he had. Oscar Winner, Dieter Bravo, Dead at 45 After Losing Emmy. If only those leeches could see him now. The headline would probably read Oscar Winner, Dieter Bravo, Naked and Ass Up On Ex-Girlfriend’s Bed.
It hits him that he has no idea where your boyfriend is. For all he knows this is some sick joke you and him devised just so you could kick him while he’s down. Did you still despise him that much? Taking a mental inventory of everything he did when you were together…it was a possibility.
You didn’t even ask if he was busy. For all you know, he could’ve been out drowning his disappointment with as many prescription pills he could get his hands on. That’s what the old Dieter would’ve done. Old Dieter would have answered your texts between lines in the bathroom before speeding to your hotel room. New Dieter was watching reruns of X-Files in his bathrobe when you rang. Yet he still came running anyway.
He realizes that he probably always would.
Dieter’s swirling mind is soothed by your lips leaving kisses along his shoulder blades. Your fingers dance down his spine, creating waves of shivers in their wake. He stifles a contented hum. Can’t show his cards yet; can’t let you know that he’s just as pliable as he used to be for you.
He suspects you know it anyways when you purr, “You remember your place so well.”
Quiet. He stays so quiet he can hear a pin drop. Hell, he can practically hear your lips twitch as you observe him.
As he got older, Dieter found less and less joy in being watched all the time. Those greedy eyes only see him as prey. And tonight was another one of those reminders that no matter how much he tried he’d never again be the promising young actor the world had once adored.
But you liked him. You saw him for exactly what he was and you liked him. Even more, you rewarded him.
“Do you want to be good for me?” You ask tentatively.
He’s heard you say similar things more than a hundred times. Now they sound less like an invitation and more like a test. You’re testing the waters. As if him being naked on your bed wasn’t enough confirmation that he wanted you. Then again, you’ve always been that forgiving; always given him second, third, and fourth chances.
He lifts his head just enough so you can hear him clearly when he confirms, “Yes, please.”
With that, the weight of your body over his is gone. When you order him to flip over a minute later you stand before him with a familiar instrument. Judging by the size and color, he knows it isn’t the same strap you used to use on him, but it’s a welcome sight nonetheless. It’s a soft pink color with ridges that shine in the warm lamplight. He guesses that it’s likely between six and seven inches. But it’s the subtle curve of the cock that has his mouth practically watering just looking at it. Already he can’t help but imagine it inside him, reaching that spot only you were able to.
“You’re lucky I happened to pick this up the other day. Otherwise you would’ve been stuck with my fingers.” You say with a pout.
Dieter thinks for a second that you’ve got an odd idea of what qualifies as a souvenir but brushes the thought away. He blinks hard and swallows thickly. “I would’ve been fine with that,” he mumbles.
You climb back onto the bed and settle between his legs. Then you inch forward so close that he could kiss you again. Your breath is warm on his face when you whisper, “Bullshit.”
You plant a kiss on his cheek before continuing slowly, “Don’t think I forgot how much you love getting stuffed to the brim. You used to love sucking on my cock before I fucked that perfect ass of yours. Do you want that again, baby?”
He nods quickly.
“Then sit up a bit for me.”
Dieter does as he’s told and you straddle his chest. His hands find purchase around the soft flesh of your thighs. You shake your hips and the dick wobbles ever so slightly. The bulbous tip teases his lips.
“She’s pretty, isn’t she?”
“So fucking pretty…” he breathes.
Stifling the urge to take it all at once, he settles with some experimental licks. His tongue runs down the ridges along the underside. It’s firm but not rock solid; it feels almost like the real thing. A shudder runs through him imagining the thing inside him. He feels his own cock twitch.
“C’mon, you can do better than that. Get me all wet, baby,” you encourage.
Dieter’s lips part tentatively, allowing you to shift your hips forward and nudge your cock in. You moan as if you can feel the relief of his warm mouth around you. Something in his stomach fizzles at the thought of you getting off on watching him be like this.
“That’s it, take it…take it…”
He looks up, wide-eyed, and sees you gazing back with similarly entranced eyes. Your chest heaves gently as you breathe, drinking in the picture of him beneath you with your cock almost halfway in his mouth.
Dieter ventures further, pushing your hips towards him, allowing him to take another inch. You take that as a sign to slowly start thrusting.
“Good boy,” your voice is velvet as you fuck his mouth. You set a reverent, rolling rhythm, trying not to overwhelm him with the length. Despite the normally submissive position, he feels held, loved, though he tries not to get his hopes up.
He remembers this all too well; the sway of your hips and the small sighs you let out. Judging by those sounds, he guesses that you’re probably a mess yourself. His vivid imagination pictures the slick folds between your legs just begging to be squeezing him. God, how he used to make you whine and sob. But you could make him do the exact same.
“Think it’s as wet as it’ll get, huh?”
His agreement is muffled by the instrument itself and you giggle before removing it from him.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies.
He folds and spreads his legs instinctively, though from a combination of age and lack of practice, the movement is a little strained. To ease his muscles he plants his feet on the mattress and grasps the sheets in his balled fists. In other words, he’s prepared to hold on for dear life if need be.
The seductive tone in your voice turns a bit more serious. “I’m gonna start slow. And if it hurts or you want to stop at all, you better let me know, okay?”
Dieter nods.
“Hey, I’m not playing around. I don’t want to hurt you. I need to hear you acknowledge that if this is too much you’ll tell me. Alright?”
This time he clears his throat, looks you dead in the eye, and responds, “I will. I promise. I trust you.”
You let out a shuddering breath. And it makes him realize that even with the confident demeanor, you’re likely nervous too. It strikes him that you probably haven’t done this in a while either. It makes sense that Roman wasn’t brave enough to take a cock like yours. Lucky for him, Dieter was all too willing to take the bullet in this instance. Suck it, Roy.
You prod at his hole with your tip, dipping it in and out about an inch to test the waters. As relaxed as Dieter is, he knows he’s out of practice. Fucking himself after you left had always felt a bit awkward. He desired the connection more than the feeling; your low voice coaxing him along the path to pleasure and cradling him in your arms when the journey was done. Doing it to himself always left him feeling a little emptier than before so he tended to avoid it.
Though it’s slimmer than the ones he was used to you using, it still takes a minute for him to become acquainted with the fullness of your cock again while you start to slide further in. There’s never really been anyone else he’s trusted without fear that they’d run to their social media with all the details.
You’re the only one who knows just how he likes it. With a few slow, deep thrusts you know exactly how to draw a few sharp gasps from him. You know it’ll make him whine when you dig your fingers into his hips and praise, “You take my cock so well, baby.”
Once the stretch of you feels a bit more tolerable he gurgles something akin to encouragement.
“You’re just aching for my cock aren’t ya’, sweetheart?” you tease, your confidence slowly returning.
“Pleas– please fuck me,” he moans.
“What’s my name?”
That’s the easiest question of them all. “Mommy,” Dieter blurts, “Please, mommy.”
The name seems to activate you,
“C’mon,” you pant, “I want the neighbors to hear how good you’re getting fucked. Let them hear you, baby.”
He has no trouble with that. If there is indeed someone in the room next door, he knows that they’re getting the performance of their fucking lives. Strings of his incoherent babble paired with the bang of the headboard against the wall.
“You wanna touch yourself now? Can mommy see you touch that pretty cock of yours, huh?”
Without another word, Dieter’s hand flies to his neglected dick. Even the slightest bit of pressure from his fist around the base nearly makes him sob. He’s so desperate to relieve the throbbing need in his belly that he begins pumping at an almost brutal pace. Mere seconds before he feels like the cord is about to break, you lay your own hand over his and stop him abruptly.
He lets out a sharp breath through his nose in defiance and is about to protest when you chide, “Ah, don’t get greedy, baby. Go nice and slow so mommy can really watch you.” You let go of him and continue, “It’s been so long since mommy has seen you come hard. And we’re going to make that happen, we have to be patient. Can you do that? Be patient for mommy?”
He nods feverishly.
“Say it.”
“Yes, mommy.”
Dieter tries his best to pace himself. He tries to time each drag of his fist with the drag of your cock inside of him. His body sways with the movement and if he didn’t feel so on edge, he thinks he could probably fall asleep like this; being fucked into oblivion by you.
He can’t even remember the last time he’d felt so warm and wet and safe. Probably since the last time you were on top of him.
His lidded eyes meet your expression. A few drops of sweat have formed on your forehead. You bite your bottom lip and you stare down at where your cock disappears inside of him. True to your word, you watch him slowly milk his own cock. And he swears that between small grunts he can hear you moan softly.
A bit of pride bubbles in Dieter’s chest knowing that you still crave this the same way he does. You’re just as fucked as he is; just as far gone. And he finds himself starting to slip farther and farther down the pit too.
“F-fu-u-ck– I’m so fucking…sofuckingclose–” he pants. That familiar rush of pleasure in his abdomen threatens to spill over. He knows he’s only got a few seconds until he lets go entirely. He doesn’t wait to be told to ask first. He begs, “Please, please, please, let me cum…holy fuck–”
You’re breathing so hard and so focused on hitting him just right that it takes a moment for you to gather yourself enough to respond. But you do. And Dieter is on the brink of sobbing when you whine, “Go ahead, baby. Make a fucking mess of yourself.”
Those words are the green light for him to fuck his fist a little faster, urging forward that long awaited release. Dieter’s back arches. And with your cock still sliding in and out of him, the slightly altered path makes him see the fucking heavens. God bless the Emmys. God bless the Television Academy. God bless Roman Roy. God bless whoever invented that beautiful, curved, pink cock. And God bless you, his favorite angel, for fucking him onto paradise’s doorstep with it.
Ropes of his thick spend shoot across his stomach. As your thrusts and his movements slow, each spurt begins to slowly spill over his fist. He milks every last drop of cum that he can from his softening cock; you wanted a mess, after all.
Dieter groans when you eventually pull out of him. Closing his heavy eyes, he allows himself to feel just how completely spent he is. Every one of his limbs are jelly. Exhausted but contented jelly.
Soon afterwards you pad away to the bathroom, likely going to retrieve a towel and straighten yourself up a little. When you return and begin to clean up the last hour’s work, he can’t help but notice your expression.
Your jaw is slackened and soft. You part your lips as if in pride at the result of this impulsive act. Though you’d been firm before, you were still so gentle with him. Your melodious hum fills the room with a comforting atmosphere. He missed this. He missed you.
When you both finally settled in bed, it felt as though little time had passed between this tryst and the last. There’s a comfortable silence as you brush a few strands of his hair away from his face and tuck it behind his ear. Your hand lingers for a moment on the side of his head. You hum and press your lips to his for a soft kiss.
Amongst the tangle of limbs, one of his legs is nestled between yours. For a second he wonders if you two hadn’t cleaned up as well as you thought until it hits him that the wetness on his thigh is from you.
He breaks away with urgency and you give him a confused expression. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to-? I think I can get hard again. Just give me a minute to-”
You sigh and hold him, keeping him still. “Dee, it’s okay. You don’t need to do anything.”
“Are you sure? I can go down on you if you want.”
“Hey, what did I say about being greedy, huh?” You laugh. “I’m too tired anyways.”
Dieter’s heart sinks until you continue, “We can do that tomorrow. Before breakfast? How’s that sound?”
He pulls you closer to his chest and chuckles, “I can do that.”
“You sure can pencil that into the schedule?” You tease.
“Oh, I’m not missing that appointment. Trust me.” With a hard swallow he admits, “Been waiting for that opening for a long time.”
Your voice reverberates against his ribcage when you reply, “Me too, Dee. Me too.”
Please consider commenting and/or reblogging if you enjoyed!! Love ya!! 💛
summary: Marcus is a ball of nerves, just waiting for you to come home.
a/n: this is my late submission to @wannab-urs' Dom that Middle Aged Man Campaign! Sorry again for being late. I had something different planned originally but this week it turned out what I needed was something a bit softer. Maybe you could use something a bit softer, too? Thank you to @katareyoudrilling for beta-ing and Gin for taking a look. 🧡 (also yes, I'm still behind on replies, but I will catch up. love y'all)
tags/warnings: dom!reader, sub!Marcus, established relationship, established dom/sub dynamics, bathing together, acts of service?, subspace, a very intense handjob, restraining (with your body), (1) bite, referenced orgasm control, pet/dynamic names (from reader: baby, baby, my man; from Marcus: love), I named Miracle Guy Rob just for fun
...
Marcus is fidgeting again. He can’t seem to make himself stop. There’s a buzzing under his skin, a tension he can’t seem to shake.
She’s been away for 10 days, and he’s not sure how he’s going to make it to 12.
Two more days, he tells himself as he wakes up his computer and finds too many emails – and decisions – waiting for him. Barely 60 hours, he bargains as he doesn’t let himself pour a third cup of coffee, knowing it’ll just keep him awake. Only two more nights alone, he promises himself as he takes off his shoes in his empty house, too quiet with her out of town and Missy at school.
“Less than 48 hours,” he answers when his phone rings.
“Hello to you, too, babe,” she laughs, and Marcus feels something inside of him settle at the sound of her voice. The buzzing under his skin quiets to a low hum.
Soon.
…
You want to groan aloud as you step off the third – and final – plane, ready to be done with travel for a long while. You’re tired and all you’ve thought about since you stepped foot into the first airport this morning, hours ago, was getting home. To him.
Two weeks is far too long to go without the man you love.
You make your way to baggage claim and let your mind wander to the anticipation of being home. You picture it – walking in the front door to find Marcus waiting for you, arms open, expression soft. You smile to yourself as you step off the escalator.
When you turn, you almost freeze at the unexpected sight that greets you. A smile grows across your face as you rush forward.
Marcus is standing by the baggage claim area, grinning. He looks as handsome as ever and like home and you’ve never been so happy to see anyone in your life.
You drop your carry-on next to his feet just before you throw your arms around his shoulders. His arms wrap tightly around your waist as you fall into each other.
“Babe,” you say, smiling. “I thought you couldn’t pick me up.”
Marcus’ face is buried in your shoulder and you feel him nuzzle into your neck. He sighs. “I canceled my meetings. Couldn’t wait another minute.” He squeezes you tighter and you press a soothing kiss into his hair.
“Missed you too, babe.” You let yourself sink into his arms until you hear the announcement that the bags from your flight are arriving on the belt. You pull back slowly. “Come on – all I’ve been thinking about today is being home with you.”
When you finally meet his eyes and really look at him, though, your breath catches. That’s your Marcus, you know him better than you’ve ever known anyone. You can read him like a book. And right now he looks like he hasn’t rested or slept at all in two weeks. You haven’t seen dark circles like these since the time Missy got the flu and scared everyone, a couple of years before she went to college. Before you lived together. You think back to what he said – he couldn’t wait another minute – and you feel your heart start to beat a little faster.
“Marcus? You didn’t tell me–”
He smiles, rueful. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
You step closer, mindful of the crowd moving around you. “Hey. Baby, no. You’re mine to worry about. Right?” Your voice dips a bit lower, and you see him shiver in response.
“Right,” he agrees, and when you meet his eyes again the emotions in them tug at your chest. He sighs. “I haven’t been sleeping well. And work…” he trails off and shrugs. “Rob was out because the baby was sick, and it was a lot. And fuck, I just missed you so much.” He smiles but it looks more sad than anything and it hurts to look at. You need to get him home. All you want is to get this man home where you can take care of him. You know just what he needs, and just what you need, and the knowledge settles in your chest, warming you. You cup his face in your hand and the way he leans into it tells you just how right you are.
When you lean forward to press a soft kiss to his lips you hear the low noise he makes in the back of his throat and you know. We need to hurry.
“Come on,” you say, reaching down and lacing your fingers together as you step away. He grabs your bag and starts to walk with you. “We need to get you home, baby.”
He nods, already looking more at ease as he lets you lead him forward. “Yes, love.”
…
You keep a firm grip on Marcus’ thigh the entire drive home. He tells you more about what really happened at work while you were gone, and you can feel him opening up to you like a flower in the sun as he lets you start to take care of him. By the time you pull up at the house, the tension in his spine has started to disappear.
After you turn off the car you scan him with a careful eye. His shoulders are looser, his expression more open. Good.
“Marcus. My handsome, wonderful man. I’m going to take care of you. Alright, baby?” He nods, and you smile as you run your fingers through his hair gently. “I’m sorry I was gone for so long. But you can’t hide things from me, not like this.”
He nods again, and you can see the regret in the lines of his face. “I won’t. I’m sorry, love.”
You hum, thoughtful. “This was my first long trip in a while. We’ll do better, prepare better, if it happens again. Together. Ok?”
Marcus smiles softly. “Ok.”
“Alright.” You can hear the change in your voice, and you know Marcus hears it, too, when he straightens slightly in his seat. “Now, I want you to take my bags inside and then head up to our closet. Go inside and take off those clothes and find something more comfortable. Don’t put them on yet – take your time, and meet me in the bathroom in ten minutes.”
Marcus lets out a deep breath that seems to lift the weight of the time you’ve been away off his shoulders. “Yes, love,” he breathes, and you smile as he immediately starts to do as you said.
You step out of the car and hurry to the door – you only have ten minutes.
By the time Marcus steps inside the bathroom holding his softest clothes and wearing nothing but his underwear, you’re ready for him. You’ve filled the large bath with hot water and oils in the scents you know he likes best. The lights are low, the towels are ready, and you stopped by the kitchen for water and snacks. You’re sitting on the edge of the tub, still dressed, waiting.
“Put those down, baby, and come here.”
He does, and then moves to stand in front of you. You let your eyes trail over his bare chest and legs, appreciative as always. You know he can see it in your expression when you meet his eyes again. He’s flushed, looking pleased.
You stand, slowly, and gesture him closer. “Help me undress,” you say, voice low. “I need to wash off all that travel.”
He quirks a small smile at your words, and you know he’s remembering all the times you’ve said that before, here in this room with him.
“Of course, love,” he murmurs, already moving to do as you asked. He doesn’t rush. He lets his fingertips brush against you as he slowly undresses you, and you sink into the sensation of being there with him.
Soon enough you’re standing bare before him, and his appreciation is obvious. It makes you smile, and he blushes.
You step into the bath, Marcus’ hand immediately coming up to steady you. As soon as you’re situated against the wall, you gesture him forward. He kneels next to the tub, so quickly you feel warmth growing in your chest. You reach out to brush your fingers across his cheek and he turns into the gesture, making you smile again.
“Help me wash.”
He nods, and you can see him sinking into the familiar motions. He reaches for the soap and a cloth and begins eagerly. You have done this together so many times, you move together easily. He lifts your arm and you turn towards him, watching as he carefully and attentively washes every bit of you that he can reach. He’s so focused on his task that it becomes almost meditative, and you can see him starting to slip into that space you know he needs, held completely within your control. His body begins to forget his stress – his shoulders relax more with every movement. Every gentle pass of the cloth relaxes you, lets you sink deeper into the moment you’re building together.
Eventually Marcus guides you to stand and, after paying the same attentiveness to your legs that he did to the rest of you, moves to drain the tub. It refills quickly, and as it does you hold out your hand to him.
“Join me,” you say, and he does. You sink into the fresh hot water again and lean against the wall of the tub. You guide him to lean back against you, between your legs. The warmth of him is so familiar, and so missed, you can’t help but wrap yourself around him. His head comes to rest on your shoulder and you feel the remaining tension start to leach out of him into the hot water that surrounds you. You nuzzle behind his ear and smile when you feel him shiver in response. “Thank you, baby,” you murmur, pressing a kiss behind his ear. “You’re so good at that.”
He stretches a bit, pleased, but you can tell he’s amused. “At bathing?”
“Yes,” you agree, sincerely, “but particularly at doing as I ask. My wonderful man.” Marcus relaxes further into you at that, and you smile again. “Now, hands on the side of the tub, please,” you say, and he immediately complies. “Rest your hands comfortably, no need to stretch. Good?” He nods and you notice his eyes have fallen closed. Good. “Keep them there, baby. Until I say.”
“Yes, love,” he murmurs, and you hear in his voice that he has let go of everything outside of this room. He’s just yours, now, and you’ll take care of him.
You run your hands lightly down his sides and watch his sharp intake of breath. You hum as you trail your fingertips up his chest, tracing swirling designs across his skin under the hot water. “I missed you,” you say, lips brushing against his ear. His grip tightens around the edge of the tub. “I missed talking with you, and waking up next to you, and sleeping by you at night,” you continue as your hands press more firmly against his chest and arms. You can see his interest, which had flagged a bit as he washed you so attentively, start to grow again under the water. “I missed taking care of you,” you whisper, wrapping your left arm around his upper chest firmly and squeezing. “And I missed how perfectly you fall apart under my hands... My handsome man.” He moans, softly, and you slide your right hand down, smoothly, right to where you both want it.
You wrap your hand around his cock, gently, and begin to tease at his length. He’s already hard, and you feel his breath catch at your touch.
“Did you touch yourself while I was gone?” You pump his cock slowly as you ask.
He shakes his head before burying his face in your neck.
“No? I told you you could.” You’d known, though, that he wouldn’t.
“No,” he says, and his voice is low and soft. “I didn’t want… not without you.”
You smile and press a kiss into his hair. “My sweet man. I don’t want you to neglect yourself.”
His hips twitch forward as you move your hand smoothly down and back up, teasing around the head. Your pace is so slow it’s barely a pace at all, and you know the anticipation will send him falling steadily downwards and inwards until he’s limp in your arms.
“I wanted you,” he gasps, and you wrap your arm tighter around his chest. “It’s always better with you.” You admire the strength in his arms and his back as he wrestles against himself, keeping his hands firmly in place on the sides of the bath. It’s beautiful.
You file away a thought about how to handle this, if you have another long trip – phone sex, probably. And the thought sends a tingle of anticipation down your spine.
“I always want you, baby,” you murmur, squeezing a bit tighter and moving just a bit faster. He twitches gratifyingly in your grip. “Now let me take care of you, hmm? You can let go, now. I’ve got you.”
Marcus sighs and somehow curls even more snugly into your arms. You start a slow and steady pace and feel his heart rate increase in his chest.
“That’s it,” you whisper into his ear, pressing a kiss just in front of it. “My handsome man, relax for me, hmm?” You move just a bit faster and feel his hips thrust forward. “You’re so beautiful like this, baby. So perfect for me.” When you twist your hand around the head of his cock, Marcus whines, softly, and you smile. “You love me so well, Marcus,” you say, softly, and he gasps. “You’re so good, baby. So good for me.”
You move your hand faster, grip his cock tighter, and the sound he lets out is almost like a sob. He has a vice-like grip on the sides of the tub and you wrap your legs around his, holding him down and in place. Marcus’ chest begins to rise and fall more swiftly with his unsteady breaths and the water of the bath moves choppily around you.
You press a soft line of kisses up his neck. “I’ve got you. Let go for me, baby,” you say, voice firm. “Now.” You bite down on his shoulder, and with a sharp exhale, he does.
Marcus’ body goes tense as he moans your name, and you feel his release overcome him completely. You pump your fist two, three more times, and then he goes completely boneless in your arms.
You release his cock, wrapping both arms around his chest, pressing soft kisses all along his neck and shoulders. “Yes, Marcus,” you praise, “that was so beautiful, baby. You did so well.”
He says your name again, softly, and you tighten your arms around him. You know he’ll need a few minutes to come back, to swim back upwards through the pleasure and relaxation and release. “I’ve got you, baby.” Your voice is low, meant just for him. “Take your time.”
You whisper and murmur soft praises to him as he drifts, and you feel his arms twitch as he starts to come back to himself. The water is still warm, but you know you’ll need to get out soon. Slowly, you release your hold on him and smooth your hands along his arms. You carefully encourage his hands to let go of the sides of the tub, gently massaging his palms as he does.
When he sits up slightly and turns to look at you, you smile. “Hello there,” you greet him, and he smiles back.
This Marcus is so different from the one who met you at the airport. He looks well-rested, with all the cares of the world lifted from his shoulders. His brow is soft, his eyes warm as he looks at you. The soft smile that plays at his mouth is so handsome it takes your breath away.
“Hello, love,” he says, and leans in to kiss you. “Welcome home,” he murmurs against your lips, and you smile.
“Thank you,” you say between kisses. “Next time, we won’t let it get that bad, hmm? And you’ll talk to me. And tell me the truth.”
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, love. I promise. I got so lost in my own head. All I could do was wait for you to come back.”
You run your hand through his hair gently, before bringing it down to rest against his cheek. “We’ll talk about it later, alright? But I think I know how I want you to show me just how sorry you are.” You let a bit of teasing enter your voice, but you know he knows you’re serious.
He leans into your hand. “Anything, love,” he breathes, and his desperation to please you makes you smile again.
“Well, baby,” you tighten your grip on his hair and smile when he gasps and leans into it. “I’m going to go lay on the bed, and you’re going to dry off and meet me there.” You kiss him and nip softly at his bottom lip. “And then you’re going to make me come with your mouth as many times as I want until I tell you to stop.”
He shudders in expectation and smiles. “Yes, love,” he breathes. He watches, wide eyes tracking your every move as you stand from the tub. “Please.”You smile and lead him towards the bedroom. My perfect man.
This was started as part of @wannab-urs DMAMC fic challenge, but I just did not finish the fic on time (sad trombone)... so here's Part I (the buildup) and I'll post Part II (the payoff) as soon as it's finished.
Please go check out the rest of the DMAMC tags for more delicious fics!! This has been a really fun fic challenge, and I'm still happy with everything I've written so far.
Word count: 10,299 (nobody look at me!)
Rating: Explicit, for 18+ only legally (but really ages 35+ only for the vibes, this is adult shit)
Outline: alternating dual POV; Frankie “Catfish” Morales x domme!fem!Reader insert (Reader insert is 40+, able-bodied, has boobs and a pussy, wears corporate/business clothes to work, and wears pumps/heels) but otherwise is a total blank slate (no physical description, not white-coded, no blushing, no descriptions of hair or skin)
Warnings: Femdom; Frankie is brand new to SSC (safe/sane/consensual) BDSM; characters drink alcohol; curse words and vulgar language (all the good stuff you expect from one of my smutfics); eventual smut; lots and lots and lots of talking about BDSM limits (but I tried to make it hot).
You settle yourself at the bar, resting your feet on the brass crossbar of the leatherette stool, sinking against the low backrest with a sigh as you wave down the bartender.
What a week… Fuck the clients and their demands, and your boss’s caving every time they snap their fingers. A drink to start, and then some well-deserved Friday night play.
Hopefully there will be at least one interesting man tonight, someone you can invite to a hotel room and use as the finest form of stress release. Someone who can be a good boy, who can obey your orders and give you pleasure that you’ll return tenfold when he earns it.
You look up, using the large mirror above the bar to scan the room behind you, taking advantage of the fact that it’s tilted at an angle, giving you a view not only of people walking behind you, but also the booths and their occupants. You can stare for as long as you like—no one really ever notices anyway, engrossed in their own good time.
Of course, there’s always one guy who wants to catch your eye, come over and sit next to you and seduce you (ick) but you can see that type coming from a mile away, and they’re not who you’re interested in. Finance or tech bros, ties loose and eyes too shiny with whatever top-shelf shit they’ve imbibed too much of before you even walked in.
As the bartender places your drink in front of you, you catch the reflection of a booth full of men behind you and a few feet to your left. A young one, very blond and muscled and wearing a white sleeveless T-shirt seated next to another, darker blond man in a sedate navy blue polo, a short, trimmed beard giving him a corporate look. The two seats opposite them are occupied by a shorter man in a black shirt, his dark curls shot through with gray, and the fourth man is different, a little taller and a lot broader than the others, wearing a mesh baseball cap.
He’s wide through the shoulders, arms straining beneath a soft chambray denim shirt, even softer-looking curls escaping from beneath the brim of his hat. He’s smiling and even laughing at moments, but he’s much quieter than the other three, especially the rowdy one you’ve nicknamed Muscles and the smirking dark-haired man seated next to the wall. You see all four of them raise their beer glasses to toast to something, but their laughter is gone, replaced by somber expressions. The shortest one, the smirky one, mouths an “Amen” but you can’t hear it over the din of the bar.
You consider the group, carefully scanning each of them for tells, little hints that any of them might be of interest, might be a good time for the evening.
The youngest one—he’s too ebullient, too boisterous for what you want to give. He wouldn’t pay attention, wouldn’t follow instructions and be a good boy. And definitely not the smirker in the black shirt; he’s handsome and he knows it. He’d be a brat, try to wrest control from you, make it a challenge that he’s leading. The other blond, the quieter one; he’s handsome enough, but something about the set of his jaw and the way he carries himself when he strides up to the bar to order another round—that power, that inner peace—this is not his thing, you can tell. And that leaves…
Baseball cap. Soft, kind eyes and a strong nose, plush lips just beneath a patchy little mustache. A little sad, much quieter than the others and much larger. He’s a big boy, all broad shoulders and work-strong arms under that soft blue shirt, his sleeves rolled up his forearms for comfort, but giving a show of how strong he must be. A physique crafted by hard work and daily routines, entirely different from the sweat-slick muscles of the younger blond. That one must be a gym rat or a boxer or something, self-focused when he flexes his bicep at the short, dark one in the black shirt and gets a smirk and a “Fuck you” in return, a playful slap that glances off his elbow as he cackles and lowers his arm.
Baseball cap laughs and shakes his head, eyes flicking to his heavy glass stein, two-thirds full of golden, bubbling liquid, still working on his first drink when Polo Shirt returns with a tray of three beers for himself and the others. He’s savoring, sipping where the others quaff, holding a palm out and shaking his head with an emphatic “No,” that you can read on his lips in the mirror after the younger blonde raises his arms and shouts, “Shots!” loud enough for you to hear it over the crowd.
Baseball cap is enjoying himself, taking it slow, licking his lips after each sip of beer. It must be his reward for a Friday night, a work week well-done, a rare treat on a night out with the guys. You can tell he’s comfortable with them. It’s not the quiet nervousness of someone awkward, someone new who’s trying to fit in with a louder crowd. These are his friends, and they take him as he is, even when he’s got his eyes down, trailing a blunt fingernail over the graffiti marks on the solid wood table instead of joining in the jovial conversation.
He lifts his eyes and suddenly they’re locked on yours in the mirror, dark and rich, eyes you could drown in if that was your thing. He flicks his gaze away for a moment and you blink—and there he is again, a little shy after another nanosecond of eye contact, flicking his eyes away and then looking down, taking a sip of his beer with the same focus he probably used for final exams in school. His eyes find yours in the mirror once more and this time you smile, gentle and soft, just a curve up at the corners of your mouth. Baseball cap’s dark eyes go wide for a moment before he swallows hard and looks back down at his beer.
Bingo.
He’s the one. The shy ones, the gentle giants, the big guys with kind eyes—they’re your favorite. Much more relaxed in middle age than the college boys you sometimes play with, the eager ones who are so distracted by their nerves that they can hardly follow direction. You know that you fulfill some kind of mommy kink or older woman fantasy for them—and you don’t mind, because you know the rules on both sides of the game. But the eager young things get tiresome after a while, and it starts to feel like you’ve signed up to teach, rather than to enjoy yourself.
You let them down gently but firmly, with a kiss and a reassuring pat—letting them know that they did good, but it’s just not going to turn into a long-term relationship, and maybe they should share those fantasies with a woman their own age. You tell them to look for someone serious, a girl who scares them a little, who they would never normally approach for a date. You know that there are plenty of young women at their university who would jump at the chance to boss them around in bed, and that there’s a girl for each one of those young, eager boys—a stressed-out hard sciences major who just wants to exercise a little control in her own life, and she’ll eagerly wield all manner of paddles and punishments if they ask her sweetly to dominate them.
You’re tired, too, of the single men who have been in the scene long enough to know what they want—and what they want always seems to be a collar, a lifelong promise of devotion on both sides, and you just aren’t in the market for that. The usual circles of people in this town who are looking for some casual weekend play have gotten stale. They’re mostly couples in long-term relationships—and god, you know it’s selfish, but you don’t want to share. You want someone entirely focused on you, who won’t be thinking about what their own domme might do to them later, who will eagerly come when you call instead of having to ask permission from someone else to go on a playdate.
And that leaves… fresh meat, new men. Men who you screen very carefully before you start a casual hookup. Men who look like they’ll be a good little pet in bed, if they can follow instructions, if they can shed any of the hang ups they have and go all-in with you for a night or a weekend. Men who have a deeply-buried desire to cede control, who have maybe never voiced it to a woman in their entire life, but who need it just as desperately as they need air.
They’re just looking for someone to call it out of them, to give them the words they don’t have yet to describe what they’re longing for, what they ache for deep down when they’re fisting their cocks in the shower and replaying scenes from their favorite porn videos in their head. The whips, the restraints, the high heels and the stern voice of their favorite porn star dominatrix. The way she pulls the male actor’s hair when she tilts his head back and spits in his mouth, towering over him as he kneels before her, his hands behind his back and his cock as hard as iron and she hasn’t even looked at it yet, let alone touched it. Those are the men you need, the ones who have desired this for years, but have always been too shy or embarrassed or scared to ask for it.
And if Baseball Cap fits that mold, you’ll gladly take him home for the night. You could do so much for him, let those desires out of the little box that he’s buried them in, tell him it’s okay to ask for what he wants, put his desires first for once, instead of always trailing behind his more extroverted friends. And, hey, if you shoot your shot and he’s not into that, there are plenty of other subby little fish in the sea. But he looks delicious, and you want to hook him with a lure he doesn’t even know exists right now.
You decide to play a game, to see if you can get his attention and keep it.
He’s so sweet, glancing up at you in the mirror when he thinks you’ve turned your gaze away, only to find that your eyes are still scanning him, gently assessing him, an appreciative little smile on your lips. Then he ducks his head and goes back to his beer.
His cheeks go pink after the second round of this game, his ears after the fourth or fifth, starting flushed and then blazing red. He’s a cutie, shy and growing more bashful by the second as his friends catch wind of what he’s looking at and start to rib him for it.
Muscles cranes his neck over to look, his playful eyes wide as he sees you in the mirror. He turns back to Baseball Cap with a shit-eating grin and says something that makes Baseball Cap hide his face behind his hand. Polo shirt goes for casual, turning his gaze to the bartender as if he’s gauging how busy the line for drinks might be before he slides his eyes over you without a change in expression.
Smirky gives you a big grin and a very flirty wink in the mirror and you drop your smile, raising one eyebrow with a shake of your head. Not you, Smirky.
You shift your gaze to look at the reflection of his friend, making sure that Smirky can see your eyes trailing from his work-worn boots to his hips, all the way up his arms to the top of his well-loved baseball cap. Smirky gets the message and elbows Baseball Cap, leaning down to murmur something in his ear that makes Baseball Cap sit up with a start, shaking his head and pulling on his earlobe in nervousness.
Smirky elbows him again, hard, and you’re delighted when Baseball Cap turns back to look at you and catches your eyes in the mirror, bashful hope written all over his face, the shyness dropping away bit by bit as his interest grows. You smile again, tilting your head at the empty stool next to you at the bar and he turns back to his friends, eyebrows raised for help, seeking guidance.
Good boy, you think… What a good boy, asking for help when you need it, opening up to the idea of coming over here, seeing what the pretty lady wants with you.
He looks back at the mirror, sees you still looking, then takes a larger gulp of beer before rubbing his hands nervously on his denim-clad thighs. He braces his legs and then slides out of the booth, turning his back to you for a moment to look at his friends for a final bit of guidance.
All three shout, “Go!” to him in unison, you can hear it over the din, and just as he turns to approach you… a slimeball slides into the seat next to you, wrapping one arm over the back of your barstool as if he has any right to your personal space or attention.
Your heart falls when Baseball Cap takes in the scene, his hope fading to disappointment as he looks away and then strides off to the restroom, as if that was his plan all along.
“Wha’s a pretty little thing like you doing here all alone, sweetheart?”
You take a sip of your drink and swivel toward him, knocking his arm off the back of your chair with a scowl.
“Not interested. Please leave.”
Slimeball’s confused expression slides over his face slower than it should, a clue to how inebriated he already is. This was going to be irritating, the drunk ones always making more trouble than you want. Not that any man took rejection well… you could count on one hand the number of men who had taken your “No, thank you,” gracefully and apologized for bothering you before disappearing back to mind their own beeswax.
“What d’ya mean? I’m just trying to make a little conversation, s’all.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Baseball Cap’s three friends start to slide out of the booth. Trouble-stoppers, good guys, you can tell. You’re grateful for their presence, even if you can handle this sort of thing entirely yourself… just in case it gets ugly. They stay standing near their table, watching carefully and taking their cues from you instead of rushing in to white knight the situation—and that’s even better than just being willing to step in. They seem like men who care about and respect women, green flags all around.
“But you shouldn’t have to drink alone, pretty girl. M’just tryna save you from a boring night.”
You narrow your eyes at Slimeball and lower your chin, scowling at him like you’re an angry bull facing off a threat, and then… oh no, here comes Baseball Cap back from the restroom, stopping abruptly when he sees his friends focused on you, watching intently as Slimeball tries to put his hand on your thigh. If looks could kill, Slimeball would have a hole in the back of his head right now.
In the corner of your vision Baseball Cap looks pissed off, but you sense it’s not uncontrolled anger. He’s quiet in the way he settles his body, one hand waving his friends back into their seats while the other hangs at his side, making a loose fist and releasing it, over and over. Not immediately springing into action, not itching to start something ugly in the crowded bar, but prepared just in case—the rest of his body still, taut, alert… ready.
You slap Slimeball’s hand off your knee, then you raise your volume and lower your pitch, making your voice deep and loud, hoping the sound will carry to Baseball Cap and his friends, letting them know you’re okay and can handle it.
“I said ‘no’ and I meant it. Leave. Now.”
Fortunately Slimeball takes the hint, his face dropping into a disgruntled pout: he’s just a little boy who thinks the world owes him something, that women are vending machines that he can put kindness or attention or flirting tokens into and get guaranteed sex in return. A little boy whose Mommy didn’t say “no” enough, a boy who never learned that women are human beings, and that every man who is lucky enough to walk the Earth was born of a woman and he better damn well respect his origins.
“Fuck you, you fucking bitch.” The waft of his pathetic liquor breath hits you and you turn back to your own drink, making a show of being entirely unbothered.
“Slut,” spits Slimeball as he moves to dismount the stool and almost slides to the floor.
Ah, a classic, the final paradoxical rebuke from many a damaged man—you won’t put out for him, so you must be a slut, secretly fucking every other man in the bar and withholding your public favors only from him.
Slimeball turns and lurches toward the back hall, heading for the men’s room, or maybe the exit to the alley where he can vomit and regret his life choices—you don’t care which. You shake your head to yourself and look up in the mirror.
Baseball Cap is sliding back into the booth, and when he looks at you again, there’s a small smile and a nod, acknowledgement that you’re capable of handling jerks and idiots by yourself. He tunes into the conversation his friends are having, and he looks like he’s lost interest in answering your call from before, no longer riding the wave of brimming courage he had built up just a few minutes ago.
You sip the last of your drink and ponder your next move. Maybe it was time to be more bold, more direct, except… now Smirky is needling his friend, talking intently to Baseball Cap, but only succeeding in making him more and more defiant, his head shaking so hard it seems like his hat might come right off. Muscles joins the pile-on, while Polo Shirt puts one hand out across the table, entreating Baseball Cap in a gentler way.
He shakes his head again, and Smirky shoves him, launching Baseball Cap halfway out of the booth, making him stumble a bit until he rights himself and stands up. He moves to sit down again, but Smirky slides across the seat and blocks him, staring up at him stubbornly with a stern, “Go,” that you can lip read in the mirror.
Baseball Cap sighs and wipes his broad hand down his face, then reaches up and lifts the cap a few inches to sweep his hair back before he squares it on his head and takes a first, hesitant, step toward you.
You watch in the mirror as he approaches, long legs clad in faded denim, moving slowly but smoothly toward you. Good boy.
Baseball Cap sidles up to you at the bar and you turn to him, smiling so that it reaches your eyes, so that he knows that he’s welcome to approach you, that you’re eager to talk with him. He’s much broader up close, and his eyes are so soft. A sudden image pops into your mind: your legs thrown over those shoulders, his face buried between your legs while you grip his hair, and you feel electricity begin to tingle in your core.
He clears his throat and swallows, eyebrows knitted slightly, his plush lips parting with a quick flick of his tongue as he takes a deep breath.
Oh, he’s precious, so nervous and hopeful. Eager boy. This is going to be so much fun.
“Hi, I’m—” his voice goes scratchy and he clears his throat to try again. “I’m Frankie.”
He puts his hand out and you grip it firmly.
“Nice to meet you, Frankie. I was hoping you would come over and talk to me.”
He smiles, some of the tension leaving his shoulders, but not much. Still unsure of himself, uncertain of what this might be after getting a front-row seat to your swift handling of the other man’s unwelcome advances. His brown eyes go crinkly at the corners when he smiles, and you guess he’s probably forty, give or take a few years.
Excellent. A man who has some years under his belt, who won’t be afraid to have an adult conversation with you, someone on your level for once. Fully grown, experienced, handsome. A man.
“So, do you live around here, or-”
You put a hand up and cut him off. You don’t want Frankie to try to charm you, to make small talk because he thinks he has to. You smile as warmly as you can so that he doesn’t think you’re upset.
“Actually, Frankie, I’d like to skip the small talk and tell you that I want to have sex with you. Is it alright with you if we just talk about what I’m interested in doing? See if you’re open to it?”
Frankie’s jaw drops, his beautiful mouth opening an inch or so, and it makes you want to bite his dimpled lower lip, make him speechless again and again, reduce him to a quivering, happy puddle.
You hold his eyes, watching the gears turn quickly as he snaps his mouth shut and blushes furiously, trying to recover from the shock.
“I—um, yeah… I mean yes. Yes, please.” He smiles and ducks his head, then meets your eyes again as he relaxes totally, all nerves gone now. “I’d like that. Thank you for being so direct.”
Your heart sings. What a polite guy, respectful and eager and appreciative.
“You’re welcome. So you’re up for talking a little more?”
He nods, perfect white teeth showing in his soft smile.
You hope he’ll be receptive to your next command, another little screening tool of yours. Small commands, reasonable things, before you pull the curtain back all the way and tell Frankie exactly what he can expect if he decides he wants to go further.
“In that case, go tell your friends they can take off without you.”
You tilt your head in their direction, and Frankie grins, all happiness and dimples, now that he knows he doesn’t have to wade through the usual chit-chat and awkward “getting to know you” questions. He doesn’t have to try, he doesn’t have to calculate the odds of striking out, or figure out a way to rebuild his confidence if this falls apart.
You know that simple, direct commands can bring relief, remove the stress of having to make decisions and weigh consequences. It’s a gift to the right man when you flip the gender-norm tables and show your strength and your assertiveness, let him know that happiness and gratification are just on the other side of following directions.
And Frankie seems to be receptive to it.
“Yes, ma’am.”
You smile, watching in the mirror as Frankie lopes back to the booth, stands with his back to the bar and hooks a thumb over his shoulder to indicate to his friends that he’s ditching them. The butterflies between your legs flutter harder.
Muscles exclaims “Whoo!” like his favorite team just scored a touchdown, and you chuckle to yourself as you see Smirky pass a folded twenty-dollar bill across the table to Polo Shirt.
Frankie returns to sit in the empty stool next to you. You raise your hand, signaling to the bartender for a refill while Frankie peruses the menu to see what else they have on tap. Within thirty seconds his friends are standing up to leave, and since Frankie has his back to them he can’t see Smirky approaching with a mischievous look on his face.
You look over Frankie’s shoulder at Smirky and shake your head once, firm, mouthing a stern, “No” at him. And thank god he’s not stupid, he just makes a little moue, a pout of disapointment but pairs it with a nod, understanding that his intrusion would not be welcome.
Smirky follows Muscles and Polo Shirt to the front door, and then they’re gone and you’re finally, blessedly alone with Frankie.
And now the real fun can begin.
Frankie can’t believe his good luck. His head is still spinning from your bold and direct manner, not to mention your sparkling eyes and winning smile. He can’t remember the last time a woman knocked him off-center this fast, and he welcomes it.
Frankie trails his eyes over the bar menu, wondering why more women don’t just… say what they want. He could have saved so much time, skipped so many bad dates and hookups if he’d met a woman like you decades ago. He settles on a lager, and after he places his order with the bartender, you touch the back of his hand softly, just a graze, and he turns his eyes back to you.
You’re so… intense is what Frankie wants to think, but that word has negative connotations. And you’re definitely not a negative experience, you’re just so specific and present in the moment—direct—and the more Frankie thinks about it, the more he likes it.
“There’s a booth that just opened up in the corner,” you nod your head toward it. “I’m going to go sit down. Please bring the drinks over when they’re ready?”
Frankie nods, eager to please. “You got it.”
You smile, and Frankie feels like he’s just done something good, something that makes you happy. He’s surprised to find that he wants to do it again and again, and as you slide off the bar stool, he reaches his hand out to help you down, get you steady on your feet so that you don’t wobble in your office heels.
“What a gentleman,” you say. You shoot him another warm, soft smile, and Frankie swears his heart is going to explode with pride.
Fuck, you’re gorgeous. Frankie is so fucking thankful that he came over to talk to you. (He’ll never tell Santi it was his shove that finally did it—his ego is already big enough, the asshole.) But Frankie is already counting his lucky stars as he watches you walk away, hips swaying gently, mesmerizing him until he’s startled by the bartender plunking two glasses down in front of him.
Frankie opens a tab (hoping he’ll have much more time with you this evening), and carries the drinks over to you as carefully as he can. He sets them on the table and then pauses, a thought occurring to him.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” Frankie tries to keep his voice even, steady, but it seems to want to crack and go higher, his heart fluttering in his chest with the hope that he can do more for you.
He doesn’t know why. You’ve already told him what you want—to talk more about having sex with him—so it’s not like he needs to court you or gain favor. But something about you, about your assertiveness, makes Frankie want to please you. You’re clearly a very strong woman, you know what you want (and heaven knows Frankie is still wondering why you want him), and that strong personality of yours is calling to him like a siren song.
You shake your head. “No, but thank you. Sit down.”
That smile again, your sparkling and curious eyes… you’re intoxicating. Frankie tries to hide his disappointment, but he’s hoping that later there will be something else he can do for you, get for you, hell—make for you that will please you again.
“So…” you take a sip of your drink and meet Frankie’s gaze as your eyes sharpen. Not mean, just intelligent and direct. No bullshit.
It’s a breath of fresh fucking air as far as Frankie is concerned, and he feels just as floaty as he did back on that frozen mountain in Colombia, where the air was thin and ice cold. He smiles and waits, his instincts telling him that you’re about to blow his mind, and he won’t interrupt you while you’re in the middle of it.
“I wanted to talk with you more, Frankie, because what I’m looking for is very specific.”
Frankie swallows a sudden lump, worrying that he’s not what you’re looking for. It’s the result of damaged confidence born of too many conversations with girls whose wide eyes suddenly turn to Benny when he walks by. And far too many bored and disinterested women who get Frankie as their consolation prize when Santi hooks up with their best friend, and the happy couple (for the night) shoves their two wingmen together out of pity. Are you about to dismiss him?
But no, that couldn’t be right, because you had asked him to stay, invited him specifically to talk about sex. You’d already chosen him. And that thought cheers Frankie immensely. He thought he had read your signals correctly, he just wasn’t absolutely sure, so he talked himself out of coming over to you about nine different times. But now… now there is nothing to misread. You chose him, invited him, selected him. He’s wanted.
Frankie takes a deep breath, raising his eyebrows and nodding to you, holding your eyes with his own even though yours are almost too pretty to look directly into. But he wants you to know that he’s listening, taking you seriously.
You smile again, mysterious and secretive, and Frankie’s gaze flicks to your mouth as you open it to speak again. Whatever it is that you’re looking for, whatever specific thing you need, he’s determined to give it to you.
He wonders for a moment whether that’s crazy, whether he’s too far gone already for you when you’re still basically a stranger. And then he suddenly realizes he doesn’t even know your name! But Frankie knows, feels it with a conviction that he hasn’t felt in many years that he’ll be what you want, do what you need, twist himself into any shape that you’re seeking.
As long as you keep looking at him with those sharp eyes, that discerning smile. As long as you let Frankie stay in your orbit, he’ll be whatever kind of “specific” you demand.
You cock an eyebrow, “What do you know about dominant and submissive relationships?”
Frankie blushes, ducks his head and takes a sip of his beer, collecting himself. Your direct and plain language is doing things to him, and he wants to answer you just as frankly and matter-of-fact as you deserve.
“Ah, um… I know about them, a little bit about them, but I’ve never been in one. Does that answer your question?” Frankie hopes it does, and he feels a sweep of relief when you nod.
“It does.”
You smile again and Frankie can’t tear himself away from your eyes. He wants to make them sparkle like that every day. He smiles back at you and feels… happy, proud. He did it right, answered you correctly, and he wants to do it again.
You sip your drink, and Frankie watches you flick your tongue across your lower lip to catch an errant drop. He’s mesmerized, could watch you do that over and over again.
You continue, “And from what you know, would you be interested in that dynamic? In taking part in a sexual relationship with one partner being dominant and the other partner taking a submissive role?”
Frankie feels his ears turn red. He’s never been one to be “mean” in bed, to do anything that might hurt his partner, and now he’s not sure if this is the right answer or not, but what the hell—
“I’ve never really thought about it. Everyone kinda knows about it from that book that came out, but I just— I honestly don’t think it would turn me on to tie a woman up…” Frankie trails off. Was that the right answer? Are you going to be upset?
He’s reassured by your chuckle and the way that you lean closer, grasping the back of his hand with your soft one, giving him a quick squeeze and a pat before you let go to take another sip of your drink.
“Good. Okay, that’s good for me to know.”
Frankie wonders where this is going, because if it turns out that he’s not what you’re looking for… he might just swear off dating altogether, become a monk and go live out the rest of his life somewhere remote, somewhere that would wipe the stain of utter disappointment from his psyche.
“I’m actually not looking for someone to tie me up,” you smile.
And Frankie is relieved again, happy to continue the conversation as long as you’ll keep smiling at him like that. He relaxes his shoulders, trying to drain the tension built up from the rollercoaster of unease and happiness that he’s been riding for the past thirty minutes. He wishes he was cooler, more like Pope, more outgoing like Benny, as self-assured as Will—then maybe he would stop psyching himself out and just be able to go with the flow.
“And I’m not necessarily looking for someone that I can tie up, but I do like being in charge.” You wink at him, and Frankie feels something warm behind his sternum. Interesting.
“Would you be open to that, Frankie? Would you like me to be in charge of you?”
His cock immediately stirs at that, and Frankie swallows hard. Images of you standing over him in a vinyl bustier and stiletto-heeled boots suddenly flash through his brain.
A blindfold. Handcuffs. Spankings.
Frankie feels lightheaded, all of his blood rushing south as he opens his suddenly-dry mouth and closes it again, blinking rapidly to try to come up with something that isn’t just heavy breathing and awkward noises.
He nods, having no clue about where this idea has been all his life. Of course you would be in charge, you’re so perfect for it.
A parade of ex-girlfriends marches through his mind, and now it’s like a spotlight is shining on his memories, showing everything in crystal clear detail. Frankie recognizes that his favorite women, the ones he had fallen madly in love with throughout his life—they were the strong ones, the bossy ones—all the way back to his first crush in elementary school.
A girl named Maria with long, straight black hair in a ponytail had chased him around the playground, taunting him with threats of a kiss. Frankie had been embarrassed when he tripped and fell, the other kids laughing at him, one boy shouting that he had brought the dreaded curse of ‘girl cooties’ upon himself. But when the girl kneeled over him, blocking out the sun, she was backlit perfectly and looked just like Frankie had imagined an angel would. She kissed his cheek with a loud smack, Frankie’s heart did a flip, and he wondered why her strawberry lip gloss suddenly smelled so good.
When she ran off to find another victim, disappointment flooded his chest. Frankie had felt the phantom kiss lingering on his skin for days, wondering if and when he could get her to chase him again. Whether he could earn another kiss, another brush with sweetness.
“Yeah—” Frankie’s voice cracks again, and he swallows hard. “I—fuck, yes. Sorry for my language, I just… how did you know?”
Your mouth turns up and your eyes flash amusement, but he can tell you’re not laughing at him, you’re just pleased with his answer. And there goes that warm sensation flooding his guts again, his heart beating just a tad more rapidly at the images that are now somersaulting through his brain.
You, fully in charge, dressed for a day at the office. Frankie on his knees in front of you, naked and vulnerable. Your soft hand cradling his jaw. Your firm voice calling him a ‘good boy,’ telling him he’s done well, telling him you’re proud of him.
Frankie bites his lip, huffing out a breath to calm his racing thoughts.
“Well, I’ve been doing this for a while, and I’m not shy about asking for what I want,” you smile.
You shrug. “It’s not like I’m psychic. If you’d said ‘no’ there would be no hard feelings on my part. I’d simply pay for your beer and send you on your way.”
Frankie chuckles and shakes his head, full of wonderment at how perfect you are. How you seemed to read him so well and pull him in, make him want to do things for you, serve you, be whatever you need him to be. It doesn’t feel manipulative—it feels like it’s meant to be. Fated. Predestined. And Frankie wants to follow you wherever you’re about to lead him.
“So,” Frankie grins. “Where do we start?”
You chuckle at Frankie’s eagerness and squeeze his hand before walking him through the basics. Testing. Contraception. The ins and outs of the arrangement you’re looking for. You introduce him to a confidential online sexual preferences quiz, guiding him through how the website will take his answers, compare them to yours, and the list of results will only show things that you both agree on. You’ll build out your domme/sub agreement from that list, and you also make it very clear to Frankie that he’s in charge.
He quirks an eyebrow at that. “Me? I thought… I guess I don’t understand. Can you explain that?”
You smile at him, so proud of this man for speaking up already and telling you what he needs. He’s so good already, and while you came here tonight with the intention of picking up a casual fuck who might be interested in a scolding and a spanking, you’ve pivoted to introducing Frankie to the bigger picture, walking him deeper into the forest, showing him the possibilities of long-term involvement.
You don’t want to move to the bedroom too quickly, Frankie’s going to need a deeper understanding before you start linking his sexual desire to the dynamics of this kind of relationship. Ground rules first, build that anticipation, then you can start connecting wires in his brain and making sparks.
“I get it, it can be confusing if you’re just learning.” You take a sip of your drink, catching how Frankie’s eyes drop to your mouth, and the throbbing between your legs gets a little louder. “But I’m proud of you for asking. It’s a good sign that you want to learn more before jumping in with both feet.” You wink at him, and his reaction is note-perfect.
He sits up straighter in the booth, smiling like he just won a prize. You couldn’t have planned this better, and you thank your lucky stars that the Universe saw fit to send this man into your life tonight.
You lean forward and rest both elbows on the table, crossing your forearms in front of you. “While the dominant partner is ‘in charge’ during a scene, the sub actually holds all of the power in the relationship. You decide when you’re ready, you decide when you’re done, and you ask for what you want. I get your consent for every single thing that we do, and you get to turn your brain off and enjoy it.”
Frankie flushes pink again, and you reach out and take both of his big, work-worn hands in yours. “You’re doing so well for me already, Frankie. I like how you ask for what you need, and that’s a really good quality in a submissive. It’s not just about taking orders; you have to speak up for what you want at every turn.”
He gulps hard, his eyes brightening as he opens his plush mouth. “I don’t—I don’t mean to sound rude, but what do you get out of it?”
“Me? I like taking care of my subs. I like making sure that you feel good, that you get exactly what you need, and I like seeing the effects that a good domme/sub relationship has on the rest of your life.”
“What do you mean?” Frankie knits his brows and tilts his head a fraction, and his great big brown eyes put you in mind of an eager little puppy. The electricity buzzing through your core increases, and you have to stuff it down before you break all your rules and drag him to the nearest hotel.
Control, you remind yourself. Dommes like you stay in control, both of the scene and of themselves. Breaking rules only confuses a sub, and more than anything, submissives need consistency. You’ll (hopefully) get a chance to make him make those big puppy eyes again soon, as long as you stay in control.
“Well, a good, healthy dynamic between a dominant and their sub builds trust, and when you have trust—something you can rely on—it carries over into the rest of your life. For me, it provides a sense of control that I may not have in other areas of my life, and it makes me feel good to make you feel good. Those good feelings lift me up for days afterwards. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah,” Frankie nods, encouraging you to go on.
“And for a sub, a rock-solid relationship with a dom can increase your confidence, build good discipline, and give you an outlet for all the other stress in your life. And I think you would agree that self-esteem, good habits and routines, and stress relief are all really important in life. Subs just get theirs from a different place than most people.”
Frankie nods thoughtfully, then licks his lips and ventures a question, his eyes flicking down to the table, nervous. “And what—what if I, um… how do I know if I’m any good at it? What if I do it wrong?”
You squeeze his hands, make sure he’s looking at you while you smile reassuringly. “You can’t screw it up, Frankie. You’re in charge, remember? There’s no secret test, there’s no hidden ‘gotcha’ moment. It’s all about what you want and how much you want to try. There won’t be a pop quiz or a grade on this, trust me.”
Frankie swallows hard and looks skeptical for a moment, then nods again. “I trust you.”
He smiles and squeezes your hand before leaning back.
After making sure that Frankie has digested all of the important information and that you’ve gotten his number, you tell him firmly to go home, sleep on it, and only fill out the online quiz tomorrow, if and when he’s ready. You shoot him a text so he has your number, and as he’s opening it, his mouth twitches and his eyes dance with amusement. A dimple appears in Frankie’s cheek, and you chuckle.
“What’s going on in that head of yours, handsome?”
Frankie flicks his gaze to yours and you nearly crumple at the sight of his crow’s feet, the adorable crinkles highlighting just how much his smile reaches his eyes. “Just—I mean, I realized I said yes to all of this without even knowing your name. So what do I call you? What name should I put in my contacts?”
“Missy.”
Frankie nods. “I like that. Is that short for anything?”
You grin, “It’s short for ‘Mistress’.”
Frankie blushes, hot and fast, and you see the shiver that runs through him, his broad shoulders quivering as he sits up a little straighter. He smiles softly and types rapidly, then slips his phone into his pocket.
“And Frankie?” you add. “If you change your mind that’s entirely okay. You haven’t committed to anything tonight, and I really won’t have any hard feelings if you decide that this isn’t for you after all.”
“I’ll text you either way,” he says with a serious nod, and you know he means it. Then he stands up out of the booth, gives you a quick handshake, and heads for the door. You clock the new spring in his step, the way his shoulders are squared and steady, no more nerves or self-doubt weighing him down.
He’s gorgeous, and you know that even if he does decline, that you’ve at least infused Frankie with some confidence that he can take with him the next time he goes out to a bar.
But, god, you hope he says yes.
Frankie gulps, then looks around behind him as if he isn’t alone, as if there were anyone standing behind him who could see and judge what he’s doing.
He shakes his head and huffs a laugh at himself. He’s a grown man on the far side of forty, and he’s hunched over his laptop in his own home trying to hide the half-chub he’s got going in his boxers like a teenager. He presses the flat of his palm down against his cotton-clad arousal, trying to stave off the throbbing long enough to finish this damn quiz.
But it’s not his fault, everything he reads sends images of you pinballing around in his brain. Every. Single. Question makes him want to stop and rub one out, just to have the mental clarity to continue. But you had said ‘no touching,’ and damn if Frankie was going to fuck up and disobey the very first order that you gave him.
“Okay,” Frankie murmurs, “Question five: Give partner an erotic massage? Yes, fuck yes…” The mere thought of getting his slick, oily hands on you, feeling the warmth of your skin under his palms, being asked—no, being allowed to touch you and bring you pleasure makes him weak. Shit…
He takes a deep breath and swears he can still smell your perfume from the bar invading his senses. The urge to reach his hand down into his boxers and give himself a firm grip is overwhelming now, and he’s still got dozens of questions to go. His lower belly churns with desire, and he’s so horny it almost hurts.
He loves this. Then he hates how much he loves it. It’s sweet, exquisite torture, and Frankie is giddy, nearly nauseated at how excited it makes him.
His eyes had popped open at 5:30 in the morning, the way they always did after so many years of active duty. No alarm except the morning wood that was raging in his underwear, barely able to get it to go down enough to pee. He had woken to thoughts of you, memories of the bar last night, of the way you had taken control of the conversation and opened his eyes to something that he hadn’t even known was possible.
Frankie had done his best to distract himself, doing laundry and dishes, taking a quick jog and doing 200 push-ups and then showering, filling the hours until closer to 8:00, a decent time when he could text you. His thumb hovered over the ‘send’ arrow, still unsure of the text he was about to blast into the ether, two words he’d finally crafted after a dozen drafts, each sounding more pathetic than the last.
His heart palpitated as the words flew to your phone, and he breathed a huge sigh of relief when his sparse, direct, “I’m in,” was met with a simple, “Good boy,” and a few short instructions.
Take the quiz. Answer honestly. Don’t touch yourself.
Frankie’s eyes had nearly bugged out of his head at the last one, and he briefly thought about pushing back, but he realized this was his first real opportunity to show you how good he could be, how well he could listen. There was no way he was going to disappoint you if he could help it.
He shot off his reply breathlessly, “Yes ma’am,” and bit his lip as he waited for a response. All he got was a “thumbs up” appended to his text, but he reasoned that any response was good, although he did feel a little foolish. What had he expected? A novel? Gushing praise?
Frankie shook his head, reminding himself to temper his expectations.
He races through questions eight, nine… twelve… fifteen. All “no.” No, he does not want to tie you up, spank you, or use degrading language with you. He doesn’t want to do any of the dominant actions himself, he knows this.
But question sixteen arrests him in place, and suddenly he can barely breathe. Have partner use restraints on you? makes his tongue swell in his mouth, and his cock twitches violently as it steals more blood from his brain. He can’t click the “yes” button fast enough. Questions seventeen through twenty-four are all “yes,” because they are the opposite of the previous questions.
Yes, he wants you to spank him with your hand, yes he wants you to tell him what to do in the bedroom, and YES, he wants you to call him pet names.
Have partner use a belt/flogger/paddle on you? and, Have partner call you degrading names? both get a “maybe” but they make him salivate all the same.
Frankie grips himself through the black cotton of his boxer-briefs, and he wonders if this is going against the “no touching yourself” rule… but he also can’t proceed with the rest of this questionnaire without doing something to try to tamp down his raging erection. Just a quick squeeze, strangle the fuck out of his goddamn traitorous cock for a few seconds, and maybe he won’t pass out.
Frankie tries to remember the last time he was this turned on, but nothing since puberty has even come close to this. The anticipation, the mental imagery, the sheer desire that you’ve ignited in him is practically cruel, and he thinks about asking if he can see you tonight. And if that’s pathetic… well, then he’ll embrace being pathetic, because he needs to see you again more than he needs his pride.
He steels himself against the throbbing in his groin and finishes the questions.
Your phone chimes with an incoming text, and you nearly throw your knife down on the cutting board in your haste to grab your phone from the dining room table. You expel a few curse words at your foolishness. No need to cause a kitchen accident just because you’re eager to see if it’s Frankie.
“Down, girl,” you scold yourself, and you grimace at how unlike you this is.
What the hell is wrong with you? You’re the domme, you’re in control of yourself, and you’re not ever this wound-up over a guy. Frankie is a very handsome, very broad guy, but a guy nonetheless. Guys are playthings, scene partners, subs. Guys are people, too, but at most you get sexual satisfaction from them and give them some, along with spectacular aftercare. There’s no feelings involved. Not since… not since you realized that you prefer being the dominant one, not since Nick—
You refuse to go there. Ancient history, old enough to buy itself a drink at a bar by now. Feelings aren’t part of the deal, not since forever ago, and you refuse to examine why there’s a little flutter in your tummy when you pick up your phone to see that Frankie has checked in, a quick, “Done!” accompanied by his unique code for the online sexual compatibility quiz.
You bite your lip and wonder if you should text back… but you wouldn’t even know what to say, so you give his text a thumbs-up, then watch as three little bubbles appear, then disappear, then appear again. What’s Frankie up to? Is he changing his mind? Your stomach sours at the mere thought of it.
The bubbles disappear again and don’t re-appear, so you sigh and force yourself to finish chopping the vegetables you were working on and shove them in the fridge to cook for dinner later. During cleanup, you realize you’ve had one ear out for the phone this whole time, and you shake your head at yourself.
This isn’t a high school crush. He texted what he needed to and that’s it. Stop being silly.
You dry your hands on a kitchen towel and grab your phone, settling into the couch with your back against the arm rest and your feet propped up on a pillow. You catch an anticipatory grin spreading across your face at the thought that you’re about to see inside of Frankie’s head.
You enter his unique user code, and you know that you’ve used this online quiz enough times that you’ll fly through the questions. At the end of your answers, the app will generate a list consisting of everything that you and Frankie matched on and email you both. A single “no” is a veto, and that item won’t appear, but everything that’s a “yes” for both of you, or a “yes” for one and a “maybe” for the other will land in your email inbox in just a few moments.
Your heart thuds as you refresh your email for the third time. Is the website taking longer, or does it just feel like it because you’re giddy with anticipation? Where is that stupid email?
Just as you clench your teeth and growl, the email appears, and your heart suddenly clogs your throat. You wriggle to sit up straighter on the couch, and you’re almost afraid to open the message. Will he be into what you’re into? Will you only match on three things? What if this is a mistake, and Frankie’s just not ready for this kind of arrangement?
You breathe, sucking in air as slowly as you can, and then out twice as slow. Your eyes water as you stare at the subject line, and you tap your phone screen before you can talk yourself out of it.
And there it is…
He’s perfect. You knew it, had felt it in your bones last night at the bar. You didn’t want to believe it, to place so much trust in something that might fall through, but here it is in front of you. Frankie is your perfect match. You couldn’t have designed a better sub if you tried. He’s into everything that you could want, and now you’re drooling at the possibilities.
You arch an eyebrow at a few of his answers. Frankie’s apparently an adventurous boy, and he’s checked off a few questions that surprise you, things that you wouldn’t have thought he’d be ready to try. But those can come later.
Right now, you’ve got an aching throb building in your core, and you sigh and plop your phone down on your stomach, wondering if it’s too soon to text Frankie and ask him to meet you somewhere. And just as you’re trying to figure out how to phrase it without sounding too desperate, your phone pings.
You pick it up to see the notification, and a wide grin spreads across your face. It’s from Frankie, and you swipe hurriedly to open the text, your heart fluttering as you read it once, then again, and again.
I don’t want to sound too eager, trying to stay cool here. But I would really love to see you again. Soon.
You sigh, bite your lip, and try to stop the butterflies that are exploding in your gut. You know this isn’t normal, and you can already tell that these feelings—this crush you have on the tall, broad, eager man—are nothing but a recipe for disaster. But you can’t bring yourself to deny it…
You’ve got it bad for Frankie, and you’re typing out an equally eager response before you can stop yourself.
Frankie paces, trying to ignore both his erection and the nerves that are shredding his stomach. He refuses to stare at his phone and wait to see if you’ll respond to his desperate, pathetic message… so he just treads a path from the kitchen, to the living room, to his bedroom, and back. Frankie keeps his eyes pinned to the ceiling or the walls. Anywhere but down, to avoid the sight of his fucking ridiculous hard-on.
Don’t be a dumbass, Morales. She’ll text you when she texts you. You just gotta—
His head buzzes when he suddenly remembers the second half of the quiz process—the email showing what you matched him on—and he practically runs back to his laptop, stubbing his toe on the coffee table, landing awkwardly in his rolling chair and nearly tumbling out of it. His fingers shake, fumbling to open his email program, looking to see if the results are there, and oh, shit… there it is, top of the inbox. A detonator that could blow his whole world wide open.
Frankie’s heart races in his throat, and he’s suddenly scared of what he’ll see if he clicks to open the email.
Does she…? Will she want…? What if…?
He gulps, and his pupils blow wide when he sees that you’ve matched him on nearly everything that he’s been fantasizing about for the past twelve hours since he left you at the bar. Fuck.
He leans back in his computer chair to give his cock some breathing room, and his eyes scan the list as his hand drifts across his stomach to his—no!
“Fuuuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Off-limits, Morales. Don’t fuck this up.”
Frankie shakes his head as if that will clear the tumbling swoops of desire that are still torturing him. He breathes deeply, counting to four on each inhale and exhale, until he feels clear enough to proceed with reading the list. But he knows it’s futile, knows he won’t feel anything close to calm until he sees you again, and he hopes against hope that you’ll agree to meet up with him soon.
And, shit, was that message too much? What if that turns you off? But what if you say yes?
And just as he’s trying to talk himself out of his worries, Frankie’s phone pings in the other room.
***
The hotel bar is dark, buzzing with chatter as Frankie navigates his way between tables and guests. He dodges a few servers and busboys who are tidying up after a jubilant group of what he assumes are work conference attendees, based on their lanyards with plastic badges dangling from the ends.
It’s a few minutes before 5:00, and Frankie is still nervous, but at least his hard-on has gone away. He’d spent the entire day distracting himself with the tiniest of errands, the flimsiest excuses to get out of the house, whatever it took so that he wouldn’t spend his afternoon drooling at the list of quiz results or grinning like an idiot at your response to his pathetic, overeager text.
How about tonight? 5:00? And a map to the hotel bar linked just below it.
He’d responded with a cool, collected, “See you then” and then ran to his room to fret over what to wear. Frankie’s wardrobe wasn’t extensive, so at least the torture had been brief, and he’d settled on a new-ish pair of black jeans and the tropical-print shirt that Santi had ragged him about for years.
“You look like you’re modeling for a men’s cologne sold at a gas station, pendejo.”
Frankie rolled his eyes at the memories of Pope’s playful insults, then spent the intervening hours cleaning his Jeep inside and out, returning library books, and shopping for groceries before heading home to start getting ready.
But the nerves had stuck around, and somehow Frankie’s hand slipped while attempting to trim his scruff, resulting in a patch so uneven that he’d had to shave the whole thing off. He’d cursed at himself, but then reasoned that if a clean-shaven face and a too-wild shirt were enough to turn you off after everything so far, maybe he wasn’t the guy for you after all. He’d polished his least beat-up pair of work boots and then hit the road, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel the whole way, his stomach half eager butterflies and half churning knots.
But when he catches your eye across the room, everything settles. You wave at Frankie from your perch on a high stool, tucked into a table in the corner, and when you smile his whole world stills. There’s nothing else in Frankie’s mind but you. No more clattering of glassware, no more tipsy strangers talking too loudly, no more bodies blocking his path to you. Frankie feels like he’s floating as he crosses the last few steps to your table, and his heart leaps as you slide off your chair to greet him with a hug.
He folds you into his embrace, and when he catches a whiff of your perfume, something in Frankie melts. He wants to propose marriage right then and there… or at least pledge himself to you like some kind of knight in a fairy tale. You’ve been the focus of nearly all his waking thoughts for almost 24 hours, and even a few of his sleeping ones.
He’s not sure what’s coming next, but he’s all in, and he can’t even find it in himself to care if this goes bad or he ends up brokenhearted. Whatever you want to give him, Frankie will take with open arms, and he only hopes that he can give you back everything that you deserve.
Summary: Ruby, an avowed atheist, decides to explore this fish on Fridays business.
Pairing: Francisco "Catfish" Morales/OFC!Ruby Peters (my sweet, soft children)
Warnings: Explicit (18+ only). Dom/sub dynamics (consensual!), restraints (consensual!), edging (consensual!), exhibitionism, masturbation, shitty ex-partners, sub drop, mentions of Catholicism
Words: 3,100
A/N: Written for @wannab-urs's Dom that Middle-aged Man Campaign. Masterlist is here. I've written many words about Frankie and Ruby. You do not need to have read any of them to appreciate this story.
series masterlist
Dividers by @saradika-graphics
Ruby grinned. “When were you going to tell me that your friends called you ‘Catfish’” she asked.
Frankie shrugged. “Probably not ever. It was my callsign. The Millers are old army buddies”
Ruby nodded and hummed in acknowledgement. But there was a glint in her eye and her smile was tight and lopsided.
Frankie had seen this look before. Ruby would start off sharp and tight, overwhelmed by inspiration or an idea, and then usually soften her expression, quietly coaxing him into ceding control to her.
Frankie’s week had been long. He hadn’t been able to focus this Friday afternoon, imagining a relaxed weekend with Ruby. His imagination had been vivid - thinking about the sounds she would make laying under him, riding him. Thinking about how soft she felt, her skin smooth under his hands, her nipples tightening under his thumbs. Thinking about her whispering in his ear that he was good and perfect and right before he came. He had accomplished very little that afternoon beyond staring out the window and taking brisk walks around the airfield.
Frankie turned to Ruby, hoping she’d take control for the evening but feeling too shy to ask. He’d been rebuffed by other lovers. Although Ruby had demonstrated a willingness to lead, and Frankie knew she’d often stepped into that role with past partners, he also knew that she wasn’t always comfortable doing it. She’d done it out of love and a dedication to past partners’ pleasure. And he still wasn't sure he deserved that.
With Frankie, Ruby would whisper and purr about safety, vulnerability, and feeling good. Frankie’s jaw would tighten and tick before he softened as well. Melt into her until he was limp and pliable, focused on her voice, feeling heat wherever she touched him. As long as he concentrated on Ruby, she rewarded him, and he was good at concentrating. When his mind would wander or he acted before Ruby gave him permission, he was rewarded with a gentle nip or a tight squeeze and Ruby’s voice cutting through the haze reminding him to stay in the room, to stay with her.
Frankie felt hot. His mouth was dry. His hands gripped his thighs.
“So, mi tesoro. I see your eyes sparkling. What are you thinking?”
Ruby’s cheeky grin turned to a full-beam smile. “I may not be Catholic but I understand you can’t eat meat on Fridays,” Ruby said as she approached him on the sofa.
Frankie was confused. “Yeah. That’s accurate.”
Standing in front of him, she leaned over and put her hand on his chest and then dragged it up to cup his chin. “Frank, guapo, Fish,” she said with an emphasis on “Fish.” “Can I take care of you tonight?”
Frankie felt as though cotton wool was filling his head, slowing the thoughts that had been racing through his mind. He swallowed. Ruby kissed him gently on the forehead and then rested her forehead against his. “Gorgeous boy. Would you like to let go?”
Frankie swallowed again.
“My gorgeous boy. My perfect man. Where are your words?” She was gently massaging his shoulders.
Frankie croaked, “yes, please.”
Ruby stilled and took a deep breath before pulling away. Her eyes shone. She touched Frankie’s cheek with her thumb. “Thank you, guapo. Could you take a seat on a dining room chair?” Frankie nodded and stood up. Ruby kept a hand on his chest and led He sat down.
He looked up at her again.
She reached down and took the hem of his teeshirt. “Arms up, lover.”
He raised them. She pulled the teeshirt over his head threw it to one side.
She stepped back and looked at him again with admiration. The first time she had looked at him like that, Frankie wasn’t sure where to focus. But as she kept looking at him like he was the only person in the room, in the world who mattered, he gradually grew accustomed to the heat of her gaze, feeling cold without it.
She stepped up and straddled his lap. He instinctively reached to grab her waist. Before he could touch her, she wrapped her hands around his wrists and held his hands away. He looked at her. She shook her head. “Trust me, guapo. No touching until I say so.”
Frankie murmured his agreement. She took his hands and placed them over her breasts and squeezed. Frankie was about to run his thumbs around her nipples when she pulled his hands away again and smiled.
Ruby stood up and stepped back before crouching in front of him, feeling every one of her years in her knees. “Hold on to the legs of the chair.”
“What?”
She leaned in and nipped his belly. “Hold on to the legs of the chair please.”
Frankie gripped the chair legs.
Ruby dropped from the crouch onto her knees, her hands on her thighs and looked up at Frankie.
The tenderness disappeared and she smirked. “Back to this no meat thing.” Frankie nodded. She leaned in and nuzzled his cock through his jeans. Frankie moaned and momentarily loosened his grip on the chair legs, his first reaction was to cup the back her of head before he thought better of it. Ruby bit his inner thigh through his jeans.
“Frank,” she said his name softly. He gripped the chair legs tightly. She reached up and unbuttoned his jeans. “Lift that cute little butt please, Frank.” He raised it as she slid his pants and underwear off. He absentmindedly went to palm his cock, which was hard and weeping. Ruby again gently wrapped her fingers around his wrists and said his name softly. He stopped and focused his attention on her.
“Frank.” Ruby grinned. “Should I restrain you?” Frankie tipped his head back and groaned. She watched his cock twitch and then she stood up. She leaned in and kissed the shell of his ear before quietly asking him, “what am I going to do with you?”
Frankie licked his lips. “Whatever you want, querida.”
She smiled and reached into her bag for a box. She took a step back and opened it slowly before pulling out a pair of restraints. “My love, I thought you’d never ask.”
She looked Frankie in the eye, suddenly serious. “Would you like me to restrain you, gorgeous boy? Tie you to this chair and have my way with you? Maybe put on a little show?”
He nodded, licking his lips.
“Words, please.”
“Yes. God, please.”
“Okay.” She smiled. “I appreciate the enthusiasm. Now. I will check in occasionally to make sure I’m honouring your pleasure. Your trust. Green means all good, keep going. Yellow means you’d like to pause and talk. I’ll take off your restraints and we can talk about what we do next. Red means stop Immediately and I will and then I’ll take care of you until you feel safe.” She held his eye contact. “There is no shame in stopping if you feel unconformable or overwhelmed.”
Frankie nodded. Ruby went over the stoplight system every time she took control. “Can you repeat it for me?” And Frankie repeated everything.
She crouched back down and started nipping and kissing her way up his left inner thigh. She murmured praise and soft words as she did. When she reached his balls, she took one into her mouth and swirled her tongue over and around it. Frank groaned and gripped the chair. She leaned over and secured the restraint on his left wrist. “Colour?”
“Green,” Frankie panted.
She gave his right inner thigh the same treatment before restraining his right wrist. “Colour?”
“Green.”
She leaned back and looked at him. “Handsome neighbour,” she sighed before leaning forward and licking up the underside of his cock. Frankie moaned. She ran her tongue around the head and swiped it over the slit. She held her hand up in front of his mouth. He stared. “Lick, please.” Frankie licked her palm and then between her fingers. Ruby’s breath hitched. She wrapped her spit-slicked hand around the base of his cock and stroked whatever she couldn’t fit in her mouth.
She felt Frankie twitch and she pulled off him. Frankie threw his head back and then brought his chin to his chest. “Shit,” he whispered. Ruby carefully brought him to the brink again before pulling her mouth off Frankie. Frankie shook his head and looked at Ruby. “Colour, guapo?”
“Green.” His face and chest glistened with sweat.
Ruby leaned back. She grinned as she pulled her dress up to her waist. Frankie groaned when he saw her underwear. She ran her fingers up and down the gusset and shuddered as her fingers brushed over her clit.
“Querida, when this done, I’m going to devour you,” Frankie growled, his voice cracking.
Ruby threw her head back and laughed. “Don’t worry, Frank. I can take care of myself.” She grabbed the box that had held the restraints and pulled out a tube of lube and a vibrator with a crook in it. “Wanna watch?”
Frankie grunted. “What am I going to do with you?”
She smiled and shrugged. “In your current state, nothing. But I’ll let you talk while a get myself off.”
Frankie snapped his jaws.
“Colour, guapo?”
“Green.”
Ruby brought the toy over to Frankie.
“Frankie. Please. Open.”
And he did. She slid the vibrator into his mouth. “Pretend it’s my fingers.” He looked her in the eye and kept his mouth open enough so she could see his tongue move up and down and around the vibrator. Ruby’s breath hitched. “My god, Frank,” she murmured. She pulled it out and leaned over and kissed him. She sat back down and admired the glistening toy. She put it in her mouth and sucked before pulling it out with a pop.
She squeezed some lube onto the toy and spread it out before slowly inserting it with a sigh.
Frankie’s skin was on fire and all his attention was focused on the vibrator Ruby was slowly fucking herself with. He choked out, “how does it feel?”
“So good, Frankie. But not as good as you. Nothing ever compares to you. Your lips. Your tongue. Your fingers. Your cock.”
She pulled the vibrator out and then inserted it back in. She kept fucking herself slowly with the vibrator as Frankie watched.
She moaned softly. “It feels so good, Frankie. So good. Would you like to watch me come?”
“Please,” Frankie whimpered. “Wanna watch you. See you shake apart. Please. Please turn it on.”
“Well, since you asked nicely…” Ruby turned the vibrator on low and moaned, caught off guard at how it felt inside. She didn’t pull it out as far now, keeping the vibration focused on her g-spot.
Frankie sat tied to the chair and watched, panting. “You look so fucking good. So fucking hot. How does it feel, baby? How do you feel?”
Ruby looked him in the eye. “It feels good, Frankie. Your cock is better, but this’ll do. You wanna see me come, Frankie?”
“Please, baby. Yes.”
Ruby reached down and turned the vibration up. She kept moving the vibrator gently in and out. She placed her hand over her clit and began drawing long slow circles. “Oh my god, Frankie. I’m so close. So close.”
“Let go. Let go. Let me see. Please let me see.”
Ruby’s breath hitched and her orgasm overtook her.
She leaned back on her elbows and gave Frankie a lopsided grin, the vibrator turned off but still partially inserted. She pulled it out and flopped down on her back, taking a few slow breaths.
She sat up and admired Frankie. He was sitting naked, tied to a chair. Despite his lack of activity during Ruby’s show, his face had a sheen of sweat on it and his hair stuck to his forehead. It was damp at the back of his neck. Ruby had left his socks on, which almost made her giggle but she focused on his hands gripping the chair legs and followed his arms up to his shoulders.
She finally looked at his cock, which looked bigger than when she had started her show.
She looked at Frankie’s face until he focused on her again. “Colour, handsome?”
Frankie grinned. “Green.”
Ruby looked down at his cock. “Maybe I can help you with this?” she asked as she approached him on her knees.
Frankie didn’t remember how many times she brought him to the brink but Ruby kept him on the edge for a while. Every time she pulled off his cock, he would whimper or grunt. He could only feel her soft mouth and tongue on his cock. Every time she pulled off him and wiped the spit off her mouth with the back of her hand, Frankie thought he would come untouched.
Eventually, Ruby had pulled off again she looked up and asked sweetly, “where?”
Frankie was near delirious. There were no thoughts in his head outside of his throbbing cock and Ruby’s soft, wet mouth. “What?”
“When I let you come, where do you want it, Frankie?”
“On your tits,” he said without hesitation. She nodded and leaned forward, taking him into her mouth.
Again.
This time, when she felt his cock twitch and his balls pull up, she pulled her mouth off him and kept jerking him off. She positioned herself so when he finally came, it was all over her breasts. He watched. Hot and dazed. His hair was plastered to his forehead and he was still panting.
When he was done, she looked him in the eye and swiped her fingers through the mess he’d made, brought them up to her lips, and sucked on them. “Perfect.” Ruby stood up and whispered in his ear, “you are perfect, guapo.” And then crouched back down to undo the restraints. She held his wrists and examined them, running her thumbs over them and making sure she there was no chafing or bruising. She kissed the inside of each one and the ran her hands up his arms.
Frankie was still dazed. Ruby reached over and took a water bottle and offered it to him. He nodded but didn’t move so she unscrewed the lid and brought it up to his lips. “Drink, gorgeous boy.” She paused and watched. Frankie’s eyes hadn’t focused yet. “How about we clean you up,” she asked and he hummed. She stepped away and put out her hand. “Maybe a nice hot bath,” she said as she led him to the bathroom and started the water. She sat him on the toilet and grabbed a washcloth to clean off her chest.
Frankie finally started coming back to his body, his surroundings as the bathtub filled.
Ruby studied him. “Let me take care of you,” she said as she helped him step into the tub and sit down. He hissed as he felt the warm water on his skin. He groaned. She bathed him carefully and lovingly. She told him everything she loved about each part of him as she touched it. She kissed the side of his head. “Thank you, guapo. For trusting me. For letting me take care of you.”
Frankie didn’t remember much of the bath. Just the warmth and Ruby’s soft hands, her gentle voice. Frankie felt weightless and heavy; limp and languid. Ruby washed and rinsed his hair, giving him a scalp massage until he stopped her.
After the bath, she dried him and handed him the softest sweats he’d ever felt. He groaned as the shirt slid over his head. She inspected his wrists again and then massaged a thick cream into where the restraints had chafed. And then she led him to the bedroom. He laid down and stretched out. Ruby laid on her side beside him and snuggled in.
“You’ve been quiet. How do you feel?”
“I. No one has ever taken care of me like this after sex.”
Ruby raised an eyebrow but held her tongue.
Frankie looked at the ceiling. Ruby placed a hand on his chest. “You are a gift, Frank. You’re perfect.” She kissed his cheek. “Wonderful. Kind. Smart. Handsome.” She kissed his face with each adjective and Frank felt tears in his eyes. He blinked quickly. His breath hitched and Ruby looked at him. “It’s okay, Frankie. You’re allowed to feel things and you’re allowed to cry.”
Frankie looked at her, her outline blurred through his tears. He tried to smile. “Using my words against me, querida. I just-” His voice cracked and he couldn’t continue. Ruby laid down beside him again and curled up into him, draping her arm over his chest and pulling him towards her. Frankie let the tears fall and Ruby kept nuzzling him and whispering how perfect and wonderful he was. How much she cared. How happy he made her. How thankful she was that he trusted her enough to be vulnerable. Frank eventually stopped crying and turned away from her, holding onto her hand so she was curled up against his back; a big spoon.
They both fell asleep and woke when it was dark and still out. She kissed his neck. “Dinner?”
As they devoured their respective plates, Frankie asked Ruby, “you kept mentioning not eating meat on Fridays but I didn’t understand what you were getting at? I mean…” He looked slyly at her.
Ruby groaned. “Are you going to make a sausage reference?”
Frankie’s face was all teeth as he smiled. “I could.”
She shook her head. “I was actually thinking more along the lines of your call name. Catfish?”
“Yeah.”
“Fish on Fridays,” she declared.
“You are such a dork!”
“Look what this dork did on a Friday. Definitely ate some fish.” And she cackled. “Yes. Ate some fish and then some.” After she’d calmed down, she added, “you wouldn’t have this dork any other way.”
“You’re right. I wouldn’t have you any other way. Except maybe naked on my bed or the kitchen table or the floor.”
Ruby grinned. “So many options! We have all weekend, Frank.”
And Frankie felt additions to that sentence on the tip of his tongue: “and all week, all month, all year,” but he swallowed those words down as well for fear that they didn’t feel the same way about their relationship. He reached for her wrist and held it. “Yeah. We have all weekend, mi tesoro. All weekend.”
The Dom That Middle Aged Man Campaign 2025 - Masterlist
Thank you to everyone who participated in this challenge! And big thanks to @pedgito Ali for the graphic and helping me run this event!
Without further ado, here are the fics!
Cuffed to the Grind - tim rockford x f!reader - @whocaresstillthelouvre
Summary: You're working late 'cause you're a detective. Oh Tim looks so good handcuffed to a chair.
Warnings: smut, unprotected p in v, riding, handcuffs, domming the detective, vag badge, commingled cum, fucking your boss, panty gag, holding on to holsters, whiskey, cop stuff
Serpentine - javier peña x f!reader - @pedgito
Summary: Authority looks good on him, but you think he'd look ever better on his knees.
Warnings: sub!javier, dom!reader (but lbr, they’re both switch) obviously. reader has vague backstory (related to work), enemies to fwb, they fuck a lot oops, unprotected piv, oral (f receiving), restraints, brat!javi as god intended, choking, coming untouched, edging for the greater good, amen.
Bedroom hymns - din djarin x f!reader - @saradika
Summary: You’d liked this, when you first got together. His desire. How much he wanted to consume you. To take - the weight of his armor pressing into your back, as he drove you into the thin mattress of his bunk. But this is what you like more. The leash he offers so willingly to you. Eager to obey, even as the collar tightens. Following at your heels. After all, his duty is to his people. But it’s you that he serves.
Warnings: mand’alor!din, sub!din, soft dom!wife!reader, breeding kink, beskar cock cage, reference to needles & birth control, enthusiastic oral sex, dirty talk, unprotected sex, creampie, references to pregnancy
Letting Go - dave york x f!reader - @auteurdelabre
Summary: Dave meets his match in more ways than one
Warnings: subbish!Dave, scenes of violence (guns, blood), descriptions of alcohol, Dave fights the sub life, edging, oral (f receiving), Dom/sub dynamics.
Hotline to Heaven - joel miller x f!reader - @chaotic-mystery
Summary: An inquisitive man gets more than what he's used to when he pushes the wrong number on a phone sex hotline
Warnings: dom!reader, sub!joel, pre outbreak, empty house means he's up to no good, porn connoisseur, phone sex, dirty talk ( i mean duh) mutual masturbation, swearing, orgasm denial, safeword mentioned but not used, talking him through it this time, a little aftercare, slight mention of one of my favorite movies bc I know Joel would've liked it too.
Good Pup, Bad Pup - pero tovar x gn!reader x trans!javi g - @crowandmousewritingco (mouse)
Summary: You give your subs exactly what they deserve.
Warnings: Pup play, spankings, praise AND degradation, strap ons, dildos, Javi's genitalia is referred to as a T dick, pet names, and other debauchery.
Never Have I Ever - dieter bravo x f!reader - @wannab-urs
Summary: You and Dieter play never have I ever and it gets spicy.
Warnings: sub!dieter, dom!reader, alcohol consumption (not during the smut), pet names, SMUT, discussion of safe words (not used), referring to your dildo as your cock, aftercare.
love's a weed: fish on friday - frankie morales x OFC!Ruby - @tinytinymenace
Summary: Ruby, an avowed atheist, decides to explore this fish on Fridays business.
Warnings: Dom/sub dynamics (consensual!), restraints (consensual!), edging (consensual!), exhibitionism, masturbation, shitty ex-partners, sub drop, mentions of Catholicism
Chaos Angel - dieter bravo x f!reader - @always-andromeda
Summary: It's Emmy night. And your infamous ex-boyfriend is stirring up all kinds of trouble for you.
Warnings: smut (minors, do not interact), minimally edited lol, a tiny bit of angst, no reader description given aside from reader wearing makeup and being able-bodied, one minor suicide joke, toxic relationships, shaky descriptions of the goings on of award shows (sorry, I do not keep up with them well enough to know everything <3), mentions of addiction, infidelity (reader is in a PR relationship, shoutout to Roman Roy lmao), oral, heavy mommy kink lol, pegging, some fluffy aftercare, reader is a fucking mess, dieter is a fucking mess, it's all chaos, nothing else I can think of but feel free to let me know if anything else should be added!!
Want You to Beg For Me - frankie morales x trans masc!reader - @miindjack
Summary: reader wants to take their new dick for a test drive, frankie happily volunteers.
Warnings: dom!reader, sub!frankie, oral (r!receiving), begging, edging, one (1) singular gentle face slap (more like a face tap, honestly), hair pulling (frankie receiving), no honorifics used for reader
She Comes First (Part 1) - frankie morales x f!reader - @just-here-for-the-moment
Summary: none
Warnings: Femdom; Frankie is brand new to SSC (safe/sane/consensual) BDSM; characters drink alcohol; curse words and vulgar language (all the good stuff you expect from one of my smutfics); eventual smut; lots and lots and lots of talking about BDSM limits (but I tried to make it hot).
Yes Ma'am - dave york x f!reader - @sizzlingcloudmentality
Summary: life goes sideways and Dave is close to snapping. he needs professional help. aka let himself be dominated and be at the receiving end for once. good thing he has your number.
Warnings: sub-ish!Dave (how sub can a born dom be?), dominatrix!reader, no use of y/n, reader is able-bodied, Dave is a good husband and father™️, Molly throwing up, slight humiliation (the boy being called dummy <3), slight ball torture, (guided) masturbation (m), finger sucking, petnames (ma'am, good boy, love), cum eating, slight shoe worship, dick+pussy pronouns, reader wears lipstick, nail polish and stilettos, squint and you miss unprotected PinV
Leather and Lace - javier peña x f!reader - @probablyreadinsmut
Summary: Javier Peña is back in Loredo after retiring from the DEA. He's horny and looking for something new. That's when he finds you.
Warnings: Reader is a dommy mommy, that's obvious. Reader has a 'stage name' but it's only mentioned twice, rest of the time you're referred to as ma'am, mistress or queen. Degradation, Praise, use of a cane, use of a sex toy, name calling e.g 'Cock-sucker' 'Pig/Piggy' (referring to his law enforcement career), discussions of safe words, no descriptions of reader other than you wear a leather bodysuit and heels, have lipstick on and long nails. Begging, submissive Javi, Javier gives head to a dildo 👀, clitoral stimulation, teasing, use of handcuffs, dirty talk, obedience, edging, saliva play, orgasm denial, Unprotected P in V (IF YOU DON'T WRAP THAT THANG IRL ISTG I AIN'T BEING HELD RESPONSIBLE FOR BASTARDS), Creampie, Face sitting, cum eating, Sexy threats. Squirting (if you squint) And a partridge in a pair tree.
Prisoner (part 1) - din djarin x f!reader - @almostempty
Summary: this time our fav bounty hunter is the bounty and you're on a mission to capture him and claim your reward
Warnings: my interpretation of pre-canon younger din djarin aka as they said in the 1991 action/thriller classic Point Break he's "young, dumb, and full of cum" aka moody reckless and virile din, some canon typical violence, one (1) tranquilizer injected by needle, dirty talkin' din, bulge riding, opposite of a virgin kink if u squint? mayhaps a filthy whore kink? (dubcon to come in part two bc of course i would, sub!din djarin will also be coming in part two)
hold me like water - marcus moreno x f!reader - @burntheedges
Summary: Marcus is a ball of nerves, just waiting for you to come home.
Warnings: dom!reader, sub!Marcus, established relationship, established dom/sub dynamics, bathing together, acts of service?, subspace, a very intense handjob, restraining (with your body), (1) bite, referenced orgasm control, pet/dynamic names (from reader: baby, baby, my man; from Marcus: love), I named Miracle Guy Rob just for fun
Rope and Ride - jack daniels x f!reader - @magpiepills
Summary: Jack gets more than he bargained for when he gets too comfortable doing surveillance.
Warnings: SMUT Dub/non-con, NOT SSC/RACK compliant! Oral (f receiving), restraints, denied orgasms, stalking, breaking and entering, unprotected PIV, creampie, smoking, implied plot, but no substantial story
