You don’t know how you ended up in this position. You’re tightly restrained against a strange chair. Above your head is a brainwashing helmet. You know that it will soon be lowered down onto your head.
Was there something you did that caused you to end up here? Maybe you should have been more careful on your way back from work. Maybe you shouldn’t have taken that shortcut through the dark alley. Maybe you should have turned around when that van suddenly blocked your path. Not that it really mattered anymore. What was done can’t be changed.
You consider begging your captor to reconsider. However, you don’t have anything you can use to beg with. Anything they’d want from you, they can just take by force. Appealing to a sense of sympathy didn’t seem very likely to work either, because no sympathetic person would have put you in this situation to begin with. Screaming for help wouldn’t work either. The room you are in is most definitely soundproofed.
The helmet itself is lowered onto your head, covering your eyes with black screens. It’s clear that it will be turned on very soon. You know what it will do to you. It will erase everything you are. Your memories, your values, your morals, your name, your identity, everything. It will replace it all with something new. The process will be far from painless. It will likely take multiple hours. Not that you’ll be able to keep track of how long it takes.
A faint buzz is heard, and you feel like something unfamiliar is being pushed into your mind. Thoughts that you have never thought before are forcing you to think them. You can try to resist. You can try hold onto your name and sense of self. But you know that this is just a warm up. The screens flash to life, and you feel your mind quickly lose focus as new thoughts drown whatever you were holding on to. You think the last thoughts that are truly your own as you are forced into an inescapable sleep.
The brainwashing helmet is slowly lifted from your head as you wake up. The restraints snap open. As soon as you realize what is going on, you stand up, strip naked, and put your hands behind your head and spread your legs. You are presenting yourself for your owner. They places a collar around your neck and lock it in place. They runs their hands over your body. This is your purpose. You are their doll. You don’t think, you just please them. You don’t care how you ended up in this position.
Days off with Dennis like this one were exceedingly rare. Usually we both planned for a date: the movies, a cafe, a day in the park, dinner at a fancy restaurant… Something to remind us that there was a world outside of the PTMC. But as of today, the only world that existed was between us in my bed.
“Mn,” my name left his mouth in a sleepy rasp. “What’re you doing?”
I lightly squeezed his waist under the faded t-shirt he was wearing. “You’ve been napping long enough. I want some of your attention.”
“Not enough.”
I chuckled when he tried to swat my hand away, and pressed my face into his nape. “It’s been four hours, Den.”
He shifted towards me. “Shit. Really?” His body temp ran warm from the time he spent under the blankets. “Kinda feel bad now. Why didn’t you wake me sooner?”
“You needed the rest.” I hooked an arm around him and eliminated any space between his back and my chest.
Dennis firmly rubbed his eyes. He had this little habit of scrunching his face in a certain way whenever he overslept. I watched him from where I was propped on his shoulder, brushing a finger along his twitchy cheek.
“Are you with me now?”
He breathed out a laugh. “Almost.” I gave him some space to stretch, admiring the taut pull in his biceps. My eyes dipped to where his shirt raised over his midriff. Then to his bare thighs.
“Hey, I see how you’re looking at me. Give me a few minutes at least.” Dennis was smiling when he pulled my face in for a kiss.
I succumbed immediately, exhaling softly through my nose. Heat rippled through my chest when his leg hooked over my calf, trapping us together. I pulled away for a moment. His hand slid over the back of my neck. The light squeeze that followed was a scolding.
“It seems like you’re more eager than I am. I just like looking at you.”
Dennis swept back a few strands of my hair. “Yeah. With lust.”
I laughed quietly. “Shut up. How low do you think of me?”
I took in those features that I had grown to love more with each passing day. I traced along his soft jawline, then moved to his chin before swiping over his bottom lip. They curled upward, exposing that cute gap between his two front teeth. It wasn’t until my thumb followed the low slope of his nose that he spoke.
“You’re so weird.” His tone was little more than a sigh when he took hold of my wrist.
“Can’t help it.” My smile lifted as I watched the warmth swirl under his cheeks, painting roses on a canvas.
Dennis interlaced our fingers and began trailing his lips over the back of my hand. The flutter of his lashes beat as gently as his kisses. “Feels good when you look at me like that,” he muttered in between them.
“I can look at you like this forever, if that’s what you want.”
Dennis nuzzled into my hand. Usually he only got this clingy when tired or at the end of a bottle. I indulged as long as it would last. It made me giddy to think that I was the only one who got to witness this side of him.
I grinned. “Are you seriously falling asleep?”
“No.” He didn’t open his eyes. “It’s your fault for being so comfortable.”
“Good to know that you find my company boring.” I flicked his nose and he flinched.
“You’re such a brat.”
Dennis looked up at me with slightly glazed eyes when I pushed him down on his back. His fingers slid around my wrist when my hand settled over his chest. He made a soft noise in his throat when I pressed our lips together. The kiss was meant to be short, but Dennis chased for another. And then another.
He sucked in a small breath when I trailed my lips over the bridge of his nose and down one cheek. The occasional jump of his heartbeat against my palm was invigorating. When I pulled away, his eyes were pleading for more. My attention zeroed on his parted mouth. I laughed under my breath.
“You’re teasing me.”
My eyes drifted down to his neck. I wanted to run my finger over his Adam's apple, but he was always so squeamish there. That would be cruel.
“It’s your fault for getting flustered easily.”
His expression scrunched in comedic offense. “Since when have I ever gotten flustered?”
I rested my arm next to his head and moved in close, stopping just a few inches away. “Do I need to get a mirror?”
Dennis cupped a hand over my mouth, forcing some more distance. “I stand by my words.”
I laughed into his palm before moving it away and curling up on top of him. His arms wrapped around me instantly. His nose prodded my hair.
“Can’t believe the day’s basically over.”
I hummed in agreement. “Would it be evil if we both called in sick tomorrow?”
“Yeah, it would,” Dennis rubbed my arm. “They could probably survive a day without me, but you? You’re part of the backbone.”
I shifted to look at him. “Hey, don’t put yourself down like that, Dr. Whitaker.”
He smiled wider. “Stop. I’m still not used to it. It sounds special coming from you.”
“Because it is. You should be proud of how far you’ve come. I know I am.”
“I am proud. I’m happy.” Dennis placed a kiss against my head. “I just meant- I meant to compliment you.”
I gave his side a light squeeze, to which he shivered. Early on in our relationship, I was surprised (and delighted) to find out how ticklish he was around his stomach. “You can compliment me without insulting your capabilities.”
I could feel the gratitude when he tightened his grasp. “Alright, yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s a bad habit I need to cut.”
My lips found his jaw. “And I’m here to help with that.”
Dennis gently pushed me down, and now I was the shy one under his wandering eyes. “I love you.” I cupped his face when he traced my collarbone.
This next kiss was deeper than the previous ones. The tip of my tongue brushed the seam of his chapped lower lip, earning a noise of approval. His black shirt bunched up at his waist from where I was holding onto his back. Every exhale further pushed his warm body against mine. When we pulled away with a soft ‘pop’, Dennis simply watched me for a moment.
I huffed an amused sound. “What?”
“I like looking at you, too.” My face softened when he brushed some of my hair out of the way.
“You know,” My fingers glided over his ribs. “We still have time.”
His brows raised a little as his cheeks reddened again. “Yeah? What did you have in mind?”
“What all hypocritical doctors do: order take-out. And put on a movie.”
Dennis sighed. I couldn’t suppress my cheeky smile when he shook his head. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”
How to Write in FIRST-PERSON in a Way That Sounds NATURAL
When I just began writing, I entered some kind of first-person phase, where all my stories were written in, well, first-person POV. Looking back at it, however, I didn't really know how to write in this narrative, so my writing felt cringe and my characters, for lack of better terms, rather 'pick-me.'
First-person does some things better than third (or second) person. Some might say writing in first-person is easier too, since you focus mainly the main character, who also happens to be the narrator.
The thing is, first-person is also difficult to pull off because let's face it: it's incredibly easy for this POV to feel awkward. It can feel like the protagonist is talking to a camera, creating a weird sense of breaking the fourth wall.
With that being said, if you're struggling with executing first-person POV without the choppy dialogue, thoughts, and storytelling, this is just for you!
1. Do Not Talk to the Audience
In first-person, addressing the audience is often both seen as informal and awkward. In writing generally, it's best to avoid talking to the readers, but in first-person especially most cases of "talking with the audience" feels odd to the reader because it normally occurs during internal dialogue or self-monologue in a situation where they are (or feel) alone.
These lines are meant to move the plot forward, introduce characters, etc., but they feel unnatural because your main character is thinking these thoughts that we normally wouldn't have.
Thus, the key when it comes to avoiding "talking to the audience," using thoughts, the best way is to ensure that they generally think about stuff that most would take note too.
If you're against this because perhaps your character is neurodivergent or processes things differently, that's completely fine, but I'm talking a very broad spectrum of "general."
For example, we notice people and their features. A natural observation could be "Oh, this woman is really tall." We think stuff like this often--with this line, you aren't reaching out to the readers.
However, with something like "I have brown hair, blue eyes, and freckles," you're suddenly pulling the readers into the scene (not in a good way) because no one ever just suddenly describes themselves like that. The readers know this subconsciously, so now, you're talking to the audience.
But speaking of descriptions, this brings me to my next point!
2. Don't Let Your Main Character Describe Themself
Have you ever read a story in first-person that beings with something like: "My name is... I'm a student... I have dark hair... I like..., etc."?
Not only is that obviously talking to the audience, but it's also establishing early biases in the readers that might not exactly true. Of course, objective points such as ones about race, eye color, height and whatnot may very well be true, but their descriptions about their personality may not line up with what the audience sees.
So yes, when I say don't let your protagonist describe themself, I mean both physically and internally. Instead of making your character say, "I'm kind, I'm patient, I'm unique, I'm blah blah blah," let your readers figure that out. Let your readers determine what kind of character your protagonist while establishing as few presumptions as possible.
3. Actions Work Best
Alright, so if you can't let your main character describe themself despite the story being told from MC's POV, what do you do to expose their personality? Easy; you reveal it through their actions.
What a person does arguably tells the readers more about them than the words your character says. Additionally, it allows the reader to interpret the character's actions in their own way, instead of having an "objective" frame of them.
For example, if an employee is patient, you can show this by demonstrating how well they deal with a difficult customer. When the customer is raising their voice, the worker remains calm, direct, and listens. They don't lose their temper and try their best to assist the customer although the customer themself isn't being cooperative.
Not only do you highlight this employee's exceptional patience, but you're also exhibiting their willpower, maturity, and equanimity.
That means so much more than a "I'm patient," "I'm calm," or "I'm responsible."
4. Your MC's is Untrustworthy
Let's face it: if any of us were to write a story of our lives (like a journal), it'd be filled with inaccuracies we might be unaware of.
This is the same for your story; your MC also has warped views. They might judge characters inaccurately and misunderstand situations because they have biases. Their judgement isn't always going to be on point.
5. Don't Be So Straightforward with Thoughts
This is a more casual suggestion, really, but it can be good to avoid excessive straightforward-ness with thoughts. Thoughts play a big part when it comes to writing in first-person because you have free access to them, but the thing is, with comments like "I like her shoes," "this food is good," and "that's a nice car," you're not really saying anything. It's too blunt.
Believe it or not, you can describe more by staying vague.
Let's say your character admires someone's beauty. While you could totally say "Wow, she's so gorgeous," you could also say something like, "I wonder what'd life would be like if I looked like her," "I wish I could look like her," or even better? Describe how people's eyes follow her. How everyone glances at her. At how the wind suddenly seems like some sort of photoshooting prop rather than the weather with the way it blows through her hair.
These examples all reveal your protagonist's admiration for the woman's beauty, but also show envy, curiosity, and genuine interest. They demonstrate more than just the woman's looks; they demonstrate your protagonist's character.
CONCLUSION
The biggest takeaway here is basically to don't be so direct with the readers by not being too direct with your MC's thoughts. Honestly, I suggest trying to use as little thoughts as possible and focusing more on the bigger picture to make this happen.
Remember, your character is telling their story--it's not you who's narrating!
Beginning to think my winter coat is just lightly bespelled
I was crossing at an intersection just now and the car that stopped for me rolled down the driver-side window. Twenty-something guy in a backward ball cap at the wheel. He looks at me and I brace for Some Kind of catcall.
Instead I get *gestures up and down* “I love your outfit!”
Sincerely I cannot think of a single negative interaction with a stranger I’ve had while wearing this coat. Not a fan of equating the way one dresses to the way they’re treated by others but I am willing to make this one (1) exception because I get to feel like a wizard while doing so.
Summary: Chiron has spent months watching from the other side of the fence, convincing himself that distance is enough. But when desire, longing, and reality begin to blur together in the quiet hours before dawn, he’s forced to confront a truth he’s been avoiding for far too long: Shai is no longer just a neighbor.
The darkness in my room is a physical thing, a heavy, velvet blanket that smothers the faint light trying to bleed in from the street. It’s the hour before the dawn, the deepest point of the night when the world holds its breath, waiting for the sun to remind it how to exist. My own breath is slow, even, a steady rhythm that matches the lazy thump of my heart against my ribs. I’m floating, adrift in that vast, weightless ocean between deep sleep and the sharp-edged shore of waking. It’s a place I know well, a liminal space where thoughts are just shapes without form, where memories bleed into fantasies, and the line between what is and what could be dissolves like sugar in hot water.
And then… there’s something else.
A warmth. Not the familiar, trapped heat of my own body under the sheets, but something different. Something specific. A focused point of heat that’s blooming low on my belly, spreading out in slow, lazy circles like a drop of ink in water. It’s pleasant. Comforting. I sink deeper into it, letting it pull me under, my mind content to label it as just another phantom sensation of a dream half-remembered. A trick of the sleeping mind.
But it doesn’t stop. The warmth intensifies, becoming a wet heat that makes my own breath get trapped in my throat. It’s a feeling I know, one my body recognizes with an instinctual clarity long before my sluggish brain can put a name to it. A mouth. There’s a mouth on me.
My body reacts before my conscious mind does. A slow, deep throb starts in my groin, a heavy, languid pulse of blood that thickens me, makes me heavy against my own thigh. The sensation is so vivid, so real, it’s jarring. Dreams are usually hazy things, built of muted colors and muffled sounds. This… this is high-definition. This is Technicolor and surround sound. I can feel the texture of a tongue, soft and slick, tracing the sensitive skin just below my navel. I can feel the soft puff of breath against my skin, a warm, moist exhalation that raises goosebumps across my stomach and chest.
My eyes remain closed, sealed shut by the weight of sleep and the sheer, overwhelming pleasure of what’s happening. I try to grasp it, to analyze it, to pull it apart and see how it’s made. Is this a dream? It has to be. Shai’s not here. She’s next door, probably tangled in her own sheets, maybe even dreaming herself. The thought of her, of her mouth, of her hands, sends another jolt through me, and the wet heat on my skin seems to respond, growing bolder, more insistent.
The tongue moves lower, tracing a slow, deliberate path through the trail of hair that leads down from my navel. Every flick, every swirl, is a question my body is answering without my permission. My muscles tighten, my abs contracting as the pleasure coils tighter, hotter, in my belly. My hands, which were lying slack at my sides, clench into fists, the sheets twisting in my grip. I’m fighting it, trying to hold onto the floaty, peaceful oblivion of sleep, but my body is betraying me. It’s waking up, piece by piece, drawn into the light by the most insistent siren call I’ve ever known.
The scent hits me then, cutting through the haze of my own sleepy musk. It’s faint at first, a whisper on the air, but it’s there. Something floral. Lavende, maybe, but richer, deeper. It’s the scent of Shai’s shampoo, the one that smells like night-blooming flowers and summer rain. It clings to her hair, her skin, her clothes. It’s a scent I’ve memorized, a scent I’ve inhaled from the borrowed t-shirt she left on my patio chair once, a scent I’ve caught on the breeze when she’s working in her yard.
Now, it’s here. In my room. In my bed.
My heart kicks against my ribs, a frantic, heavy drumbeat that drowns out the slow, sensual rhythm of the mouth on my skin. This is more than a dream. This is a hallucination. A fever dream born of too many nights watching her, too many days wanting her, too many hours spent imagining what this would feel like. My mind is playing tricks on me, pulling from my deepest, most guarded desires to create this perfect, torturous fantasy.
The mouth moves lower still, bypassing the waistband of my briefs to press hot, open-mouthed kisses against the hard, straining length of me trapped beneath the thin cotton. A soft, breathy moan vibrates against me, a sound that’s so uniquely Shai it makes my whole body tense. It’s a small sound, a quiet thing, but it’s the key that unlocks the last of my resistance. The illusion shatters. The dream dissolves.
And the reality, whatever it is, becomes terrifyingly, thrillingly real.
My eyes flutter open, but the room is still dark, the pre-dawn gloom making it hard to see. I can make out the shape of my dresser, the darker rectangle of my closet door, the faint glow of the streetlamp through my blinds. And between my legs, a shape. A silhouette. A head of dark, tightly coiled hair, a vision I’ve had a thousand times in my mind, but never, ever thought I’d see in reality.
My breath catches in my throat, a sharp, painful gasp. I should say something. I should move. I should do something to confirm whether this is real or if I’m finally losing my mind. But I can’t. I’m paralyzed, caught between the impossible beauty of the moment and the sheer, mind-bending terror of it all.
The mouth moves again, lips pressing against the damp fabric of my briefs, right over the head of my dick. The heat is unbearable, the pressure exquisite. My hips jerk, a small, involuntary movement that I can’t control. A low moan escapes through my clenched teeth as I bite my lip, a mix of pleasure and disbelief.
Is this real?
The question echoes in the sudden, roaring silence of my mind. I reach down, my hand moving slowly, as if through water, my fingers trembling with a mixture of fear and anticipation. I have to know. I have to touch her, to feel the solid, real weight of her, to confirm that she’s actually here, that this isn’t just the most vivid, most cruel dream my mind has ever conjured.
My fingers brush against the soft, thick texture of her hair, and my heart beats faster, harder. It’s real. She’s real. And she’s here. In my bed. With her mouth on me.
The pleasure builds, a slow, relentless tide that’s pulling me under, drowning me in sensation. My mind is a chaotic mess of questions, of confusion, of a disbelief so profound it’s almost painful. How did she get in? Why is she here? But none of it matters. Not right now. All that matters is the feel of her, the scent of her, the sound of her soft moans as she continues to worship me with a devotion that’s both humbling and electrifying.
I’m no longer drifting. I’m no longer floating. I’m anchored. I’m present. And I’m at her mercy.
My fingers are still tangled in the soft, dense coils of her hair, the reality of her presence a solid, grounding weight against the phantom landscape of my dream. The pre-dawn light is starting to win its war against the darkness, bleeding a soft, hazy grey into the room. It’s just enough to see, just enough to turn the silhouette between my legs into a person. A woman. Shai.
I can see the gentle curve of her back as she’s bent over between my legs, the smooth, deep-brown expanse of her shoulders, and the way her head is bowed in a posture of pure reverence. She’s not just a shape anymore. She’s flesh and blood, warm and real, and the sight of her there, in my bed, doing what she’s doing, sends lightning straight through my chest. It’s possessiveness, a caveman urge to grab her, to flip her over, to sink into her so deep that the only name she remembers is mine, and only mine. It’s pride, a fierce, swelling heat in my gut that she chose this. Chose me. It’s a desire so sharp, so potent, it feels like a physical blow.
She lifts her head slightly, her dark eyes finding mine in the dim light. There’s no fear in them, no hesitation. Just a deep, dark, hungry knowing. She sees me watching her, and she doesn’t stop. She doesn’t even flinch. Instead, her hands move, her fingers hooking into the waistband of my briefs. The cotton is already damp with my own pre-cum and her saliva, a testament to the slow, patient torture she’s been inflicting on me.
Her movements are slow, deliberate. She’s not in a hurry. She’s savoring this, savoring me. She peels the fabric down, inch by agonizing inch, her knuckles brushing against my hips, her eyes never leaving mine. The cool air of the room hits my skin first, a fleeting contrast to the inferno of her mouth. And then I’m free.
My dick springs up, missing her face by inches. It’s a thick, heavy thing, a deep, dark chocolate that stands straight up, a rigid, demanding spear of flesh that’s straining toward the ceiling, toward her. The head is already leaking, a single, clear bead of fluid welling up at the slit before trickling slowly down the shaft.
Shai lets out a soft, breathy sound, a little hum of appreciation that’s almost a moan. It’s a sound of want, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. She looks at my dick like it’s a masterpiece, like it’s the answer to a prayer she didn’t even know she was praying. Her eyes trace the length of me, from the thick, pulsing root to the weeping head, her gaze filled with a mixture of awe and hunger that makes my whole body ache.
And then she touches me.
Not with her mouth. With her hand. Her fingers are soft, her touch light, almost tentative. She wraps them around the base of me, her thumb and forefinger barely meeting. She can’t get her whole hand around me, and the sight of her small hand struggling to encompass my girth sends another surge of pride through me. She holds me like I’m something precious, something holy; her touch is the opposite of what I'm feeling to the raw, animalistic need coursing through my veins.
She strokes me once, a slow, tight pull from base to tip, her thumb smearing the pre-cum around the head, spreading the slickness. A moan slips past my lips, my hips jerking upward, seeking more of her touch, more of her.
“Shit, Shai,” I grind out, my voice a low, rough growl that’s barely recognizable as my own.
She doesn’t answer. She just leans in, her dark, curly hair falling forward to curtain her face, creating a small, intimate space just for us. I feel the hot puff of her breath against my sensitive head, a teasing promise of what’s to come. And then her tongue is on me.
It’s a soft, wet flick, a quick, teasing taste that makes my whole body tense. She’s swirling it around the head, tracing the ridge, dipping into the slit to lap up the fluid there. The sensation is exquisite, a sharp, intense pleasure that’s almost too much to bear. My hands tighten in her hair, my fingers digging into her scalp, holding her in place, a silent, desperate plea for more.
She takes her time, exploring me with a methodical, obsessive attention that’s both maddening and incredible. She’s learning me, memorizing every ridge, every vein, every sensitive spot that makes me gasp and curse under my breath. She kisses her way down the shaft, her lips soft and wet, her tongue tracing the thick, pulsing vein that runs along the underside. She’s worshiping me, and I’m letting her. I’m letting her take control, letting her set the pace, letting her do whatever the fuck she wants to me.
And I’ve never felt more powerful in my life.
The decision to just let go, to stop questioning and just feel, is a liberating one. My hips begin to move, a slow, subtle rocking motion that pushes me deeper into her mouth, that meets her halfway. My hands are no longer just tangled in her hair; they’re guiding her, directing her, showing her what I want, what I need.
I can feel the shift in her, the way her body responds to my taking control. She moans around me, the vibration a deep, resonant hum that travels straight up my spine and makes my balls draw up tight. She takes me deeper then, her lips stretching wide to accommodate my girth, her tongue working me with a renewed urgency. She’s not just exploring anymore. She’s devouring.
The pleasure is building and building, a relentless force that’s threatening to pull me under. I can feel the strain in my stomach, the heat spreading through my veins, the familiar, delicious ache that signals my own impending release. I’m close. So fucking close.
But I don’t want it to end. Not yet. I want to stay in this moment forever, in this hazy, grey world where the only thing that matters is the feel of her mouth on me, the taste of her on my tongue, the sound of her name on my lips.
“Look at me,” I command, my voice a low, dominant growl.
She lifts her head, her eyes dark and dazed, her lips swollen and slick with my cum. She looks so beautiful.
“Who does this dick belong to?” I ask, the words a rough, possessive rumble.
She blinks, a slow, lazy smile spreading across her face. “Me,” she whispers, her voice a soft, husky breath that’s music to my ears. “It belongs to me.”
And then she goes back down, taking me deeper than before, her mouth a hot, wet, perfect heaven that’s determined to undo me, to own me, to make me hers. And I let her. I let her do it all.
The world narrows to the space between my thighs. The grey light of dawn, the familiar shapes of my room, the lingering scent of her shampoo, it all fades into a distant, irrelevant hum. There is only this. Only the wet, perfect heat of her mouth, the sight of her dark head bobbing in my lap, the feeling of her hands and tongue working in a perfect, devastating harmony.
She takes me deeper, her lips a tight, slick seal around my shaft, her tongue a flat, wet pressure against the sensitive underside. I watch, mesmerized, as she slowly, deliberately swallows me down. There’s no hesitation, no gag reflex, just a slow, steady descent that feels like it’s pulling my soul out through my dick. When her nose finally brushes against the skin of my pelvis when I’m buried so deep I can feel the tight, convulsive clench of her throat around me, my toes curl. It’s an involuntary reaction, a full-body spasm of pleasure that starts in my toes and shoots straight up my spine.
“Fuck,” I groan, the word a broken sound that’s ripped from my throat. “Shit, Shai… just like that.”
She doesn’t move for a moment, just holds me there, her throat working around me, her hands coming up to rest on my thighs. And then she does something that makes my eyes roll back in my head. She starts to massage my balls. Her touch is gentle, almost reverent, her fingers rolling the heavy, sensitive sac in a slow, rhythmic motion that’s in perfect sync with the tight, clenching pulses of her throat.
The dual sensation is almost too much. The wet, constricting heat of her throat, the soft, insistent pressure of her hands on my balls—it’s a one-two punch of pleasure that threatens to shatter me into a million pieces. My hips jerk upward, a desperate, instinctual thrust that pushes me even deeper, that seeks to merge with her, to disappear into her completely.
She pulls back then, a slow, torturous retreat that leaves me feeling empty, aching for her return. Her lips are swollen, slick with a mixture of her saliva and my pre-cum, her eyes dark and dazed with a pleasure that mirrors my own. She looks at my dick, at the thick, heavy length of it glistening in the dim light, and a slow, lazy smile spreads across her face.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” she whispers, her voice a husky, breathless rasp. “I could look at this dick all day.”
The praise, coming from her, hits me like a physical touch. It’s a validation, a confirmation of the desire I’ve been trying so hard to keep in check. It’s a surrender, a willing admission of the power I hold over her, even as she’s the one on her knees.
“You’re the one who’s beautiful,” I manage to say, my voice a low, gravelly rumble. “Look at you. On your knees for me. Taking this dick like it was made for you.”
She moans, a low, throaty sound that’s pure music. “It was,” she says, her eyes locking with mine. “It was made for me.”
And then she goes back down.
This time, it’s slower. More deliberate. The wet sounds of her mouth fill the room, a slick, rhythmic schlick-schlick-schlick that’s the only sound that matters. It’s a nasty, beautiful sound, a testament to her skill, to her desire, to the raw, primal nature of what we’re doing. I can feel the saliva dripping down my shaft, pooling on my balls, a messy, decadent reminder of her hunger.
“You like that?” she asks, pulling off just long enough to whisper the words against my sensitive head. “You like the way I suck your dick?”
“Fuck yes,” I growl, my hands tightening in her hair, my hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm that meets her halfway. “You suck it like you love it.”
“I do,” she breathes, her tongue flicking out to lap at the slit, to taste the fluid that’s still leaking from me. “I love the way you taste. I love the way you feel in my mouth. I love the way you look at me when I’m on my knees for you.”
Her words are a dirty, delicious litany, a string of praises that stokes the fire in my soul, that makes the pleasure hotter. She’s giving as good as she’s getting, her words a mirror to my own, a shared language of desire and need.
“You take it so good,” I praise, my voice a low, dominant growl. “Such a good girl, taking all this dick. Look at you.”
She moans around me, the vibration a deep, resonant hum that travels straight up my body. She takes me deep again, her lips stretched wide around my girth, her throat constricting around me in a way that makes my whole body tense. And again, my toes curl. It’s a reflex, a physical manifestation of the pleasure that’s threatening to overwhelm me.
She notices, of course. She notices everything. She pulls back, a slow, teasing retreat, and looks up at me, her eyes dark and knowing.
“You like that, don’t you?” she whispers, her hand stroking my slick, wet shaft. “You like it when I take it all the way down.”
“Yes,” I breathe, my voice a ragged, desperate gasp.
“Good,” she says, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her face.
And then she goes back down, taking me all the way to the root in one slow, smooth motion.
I’m close. So fucking close. My body is preparing for release, my muscles tightening, my breath catching in my throat. But I don’t want it to end. Not yet. I want to stay in this moment forever.
“Not yet,” I manage to say, my voice a low, guttural command. “Slow down, baby. Not yet.”
She pulls back, her lips swollen and slick, her eyes dark and dazed with a pleasure that mirrors my own. She looks at me, a question in her eyes, a silent plea for permission.
“I wanna make you cum,” she whispers, her voice a soft, husky breath. “I wanna taste you.”
“Not yet,” I repeat, my voice a low, dominant growl. “I’m not done with you yet. I’m not done with this mouth.”
She smiles, a slow, lazy, understanding smile. She knows what I want. She knows what I need. And she’s more than happy to give it to me.
She goes back down, her movements slow, her mouth a hot, wet heaven that’s determined to undo me, to own me, to make me hers. And let her worship me. I let her praise me. I let her take control.
Something in me snaps. It’s not a violent break, but a clean, decisive snap, like a wire finally giving way under too much tension. The slow, reverent worship, the shared praises, the gentle exploration, it’s all been a prelude. A beautiful overture. But the main act is calling, and it’s not a gentle ballad. It’s a fucking symphony of need.
My hands, which have been resting in her hair, tighten, my fingers tangling in the thick, soft coils, gripping her scalp with a firm pressure. It’s not a warning. It’s a command. Her eyes flick up to mine, and in the dim light, I see a spark of understanding, of anticipation. She knows what’s coming. She’s been waiting for it.
“Enough of that slow shit,” I growl, my voice a low, gravelly rumble that’s pure command. “Time to take this dick like you mean it.”
She doesn’t need to be told twice. The slow, deliberate rhythm of her mouth dissolves into a faster, filthier tempo. Her head bobs up and down, a frantic, desperate motion that’s all about speed and pressure. Her lips are a tight, slick seal, her tongue a frantic, swirling vortex of sensation. The wet sounds of her mouth change, too. The slow, rhythmic schlick-schlick-schlick is replaced by a messier, more urgent gawk-gawk-gawk, a nasty, beautiful symphony of her hunger.
My hips take on a life of their own, thrusting upward in a slow, powerful rhythm that meets her halfway. I’m not just letting her suck my dick anymore. I’m fucking her throat. Each upward thrust is a deliberate, powerful movement, a deep, penetrating stroke that pushes me deeper, that forces her to take more of me, to accommodate my size, to surrender to the raw power of my need.
“Look at you,” I grit out, my voice a rough, guttural praise that’s laced with filth. “Taking this dick like a fucking pro.”
She moans around me. She’s trying to talk, to respond, but her mouth is too full, too busy. The sounds she makes are a series of muffled, choked-off moans and whimpers, a desperate, incoherent sounds of pleasure that’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
“Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” I continue, my words a string of dirty, explicit praises that are designed to push her, to break her, to make her mine. “You like it when I fuck this throat? When I use this mouth for my pleasure?”
She nods, her head bobbing up and down in a frantic, desperate motion that’s a clear, unequivocal yes. She’s taking it, all of it, and the sight of her, the feel of her, the sound of her, is almost enough to send me over the edge.
But I’m not done with her yet.
I tighten my grip on her hair, and I pull her head down, forcing her to take me deeper, to bury her nose in my pelvis, to feel the full, overwhelming weight of me. She gags, a soft, wet, choked sound that’s followed by a desperate, hungry moan.
“Fuck,” I groan, my hips bucking upward, a desperate, instinctual thrust that pushes me even deeper, that seeks to merge with her, to disappear into her completely. “Take it. Take all of it.”
She does. She takes it all, her lips stretched wide around my girth, her tongue stretched out of her mouth, her throat a tight, constricting heaven that’s determined to undo me, to own me, to make me hers. I’m fucking her throat now, my hips moving in a powerful, relentless rhythm, my hands holding her head in place, fucking her mouth the same way I fucked her in her backyard. Raw.
And through it all, I’m still worshiping her. I’m still adoring her. My praises are a constant, a steady stream of filth and affection that’s designed to build her up, to make her feel as powerful as she’s making me feel.
“Look at you, taking this dick so good,” I praise, my voice a low, dominant growl. “Such a good girl, letting me fuck this throat.”
She moans around me, an unequivocal response. She’s lost in it, lost in the pleasure, lost in the act. And I’m right there with her.
I slow my hips, my thrusts becoming less frantic, more deliberate. I’m still fucking her throat, but now it’s a slow, deep, powerful rhythm that’s designed to draw out the pleasure, to savor every moment, every sensation.
“Not yet,” I command, my voice a low, guttural growl. “Not yet, baby. I’m not done with you yet.”
She pulls back, her lips swollen and slick, her eyes dark and dazed with a pleasure that mirrors my own. She looks at me, a question in her eyes, a silent plea for permission.
“I wanna make you cum,” she whispers, her voice a soft, husky breath. “I wanna taste you.”
“Soon,” I promised.
The word "soon" hangs in the air between us, a promise. I see it in her eyes, the flicker of anticipation, the hungry need to see me fall apart, to taste the evidence of her power. I’ve been holding back, teetering on the edge for what feels like an eternity, but the sight of her, so eager and willing, is the final push I need to let go.
“Alright, baby,” I breathe, my voice a low, rough growl that’s filled with resignation and anticipation. “You want it? You want this nut? Then take it. Take all of it.”
Her eyes light up, a dark, hungry fire burning in their depths. She doesn’t need any more encouragement. She dives back down, her mouth a hot, wet vortex of sensation that’s determined to pull me under, to drag me over the edge.
This is it. The moment of no return.
The pleasure that’s been building with heavy need finally snaps. It’s a violent, explosive release that rips through me with the force of a hurricane. My whole body tenses, my muscles locking up as I feel the power of my nut shoot through my body.
My back arches, a deep, painful curve that lifts my hips off the bed. My hands leave her hair and tighten around her head, holding her in place as I pour myself into her mouth. My hips buck, a series of powerful thrusts that push me deeper.
“Fuck! Fuck, Shai, I’m cumming!” I roar, the words a guttural, primal cry that’s ripped from my throat.
It’s a sound of surrender, a sound of release, a sound of a man who’s finally giving in to the overwhelming pleasure that’s been threatening to consume him.
She takes it all. Every last drop. Her mouth is a tight, slick seal around my dick, her throat a convulsing, swallowing heaven that milks me for all I’m worth. I can feel the hot, thick spurts of my cum pulsing out of me, a never-ending flood of release that’s both a relief and a revelation.
The taste of me is on her tongue. She swallows it all, her throat working in a series of convulsive swallows that leave me in awe.
The sound of my moans fills the room, a deep, resonant rumble that’s of release and relief. It’s the sound of a man who’s finally found home.
And then it’s over.
The pleasure subsides, leaving me a spent, shaking mess. My body goes limp, my muscles relaxing, my breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. I collapse back against the bed, my eyes closed, my mind a blank, hazy void.
I feel her pull back, a slow, gentle retreat that leaves me feeling empty, aching for her touch. I feel her move, a soft, rustling sound that’s followed by the warmth of her body as she settles beside me.
I open my eyes, and she’s there. Her face is close to mine, her eyes dark and dazed with a pleasure that mirrors my own. Her lips are swollen and slick, her cheeks flushed with a rosy glow. She’s beautiful.
She leans in, her lips finding mine in a soft, gentle kiss. It’s a slow, tender exploration, a sharing of tastes, a mixing of essences. I can taste myself on her lips, a salty, bitter reminder of what we just did, of what we just shared.
“You’re amazing,” I whisper.
She smiles, a slow, lazy, understanding smile. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she whispers, her voice a soft, husky breath that’s music to my ears.
We lie there for a long time, a tangled, sweaty, sated mess, my body still humming with the aftermath of my release. The world outside my room slowly comes back into focus: the distant hum of traffic, the faint glow of the sun as it starts to rise, the soft, rhythmic sound of our breathing.
Not a slow, gentle drift back to reality, but a violent, sudden kick, like I’ve been shoved off a cliff in the middle of a deep, peaceful sleep. My eyes fly open, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The world is a confusing, disorienting blur of grey light and familiar shadows. I’m in my bed. Alone.
The dream shatters like glass, the beautiful, perfect reality I was just existing in dissolving into a million sharp, painful pieces. Shai’s face, her mouth, her hands—they’re all gone. Vanished. The warmth of her body, the scent of her hair, the sound of her moans—they’re all just echoes, fading fast, leaving behind a cold, empty silence.
I’m breathing hard, my chest rising and falling with a frantic, desperate rhythm. My body is still humming with the aftermath of the orgasm, a lingering, phantom pleasure that’s both a comfort and a cruel tease. I can still feel her mouth on me, the wet, perfect heat of it, the tight, constricting pull of her throat. I can still feel her hands on me, the soft, insistent pressure of her fingers on my balls. I can still taste her on my lips, a faint, ghostly trace of her essence.
It was so real. So fucking real.
I reach down, my hand moving with a desperate, frantic urgency, a need to confirm the reality of the situation, to separate the dream from the truth. My fingers brush against the fabric of my briefs, and I feel it. The wetness.
It’s not the warm, wet heat of her mouth. It’s a cool, sticky dampness that’s seeping through the thin cotton of my boxers, a tell-tale sign of my own body’s betrayal. I came. In my sleep. From a dream.
The realization hits me like a sharp, painful punch to the gut. It wasn’t real. None of it was real. Shai wasn’t here. She didn’t sneak into my room. She didn’t worship me with her throat, didn’t praise me with her words, didn’t make me cum with a skill and a hunger that left me breathless and shaking.
It was all just a dream. A fantasy. A wish.
A wave of frustration washes over me, a hot, bitter tide of anger and disappointment that’s so intense it makes me want to scream. I want to punch something, to break something. I want to tear the world apart, to rip a hole in the fabric of reality and pull her through, to make my dream a reality, to make her mine.
But I can’t. I’m just a man, alone in his bed, with a sticky mess in his briefs and a hole in his heart.
I lie there for a long time, the frustration slowly giving way to a deep, aching longing. I want her. I want her so bad it hurts. I want to feel her skin against mine, to taste her lips, to hear her moan my name. I want to bury myself inside her again, to lose myself in her.
The dream was a taste, a tantalizing, torturous glimpse of what could be. And now that I’ve had it, I can’t go back. I can’t go back to just watching her from my side of the fence, to just nodding at her in the morning, to just exchanging brief, meaningless conversations over the fence. I can’t go back to pretending that I don’t want her, that I don’t need her, that I don’t dream about her every single night.
The decision is a slow, quiet resolution that settles deep in my soul. I’m going to make it happen. I’m going to make my dream a reality. I’m going to cross that fence again. I’m going to take what’s mine.
I sit up, the sticky, uncomfortable dampness of my briefs a constant, irritating reminder of my own powerlessness. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet hitting the cool, hard wood of the floor. I’m done with this. Done with the longing, done with the frustration, done with the fantasies.
I’m going to have her again. And I’m going to have her soon.
Setting (S2): At Herschel’s farm, Y/n and Daryl have a little talk by the lake.
Streams of light from the beaming sun highlights areas of the pond where I can make out one or two little fishes swimming around. Maggie told me they use to swim and fish out here before the outbreak but they stopped after it started - hoping to give the fishes that were left time to reproduce and be able to feed them later on.
Smart of them, really.
I can’t help but to think that we were meant to be here, to find this farm. It’s sounds insane but there’s a nagging feeling that I can’t help but to notice. Or maybe I’m just happy for a little stability.
Chickens, eggs, fresh water, horses, a pond. Even if weren’t allowed in the big house unless we needed to use the bathroom or to check on Carl, it was better than being out in the open. And behind fences that separate us from them.
Baby steps.
Hershel will realize having us here is for the best, more hands around the farm, protection, company. At least I hope. Rick seems to be winning him over, slowly. I can see his efforts at building trust with Herschel and it’s admirable.
Thud!
The smooth metal of the pocket knife T-Dog gave me is clutched tightly in my hand as I whip around. But it’s the pebble I threw with my left hand that earns an, “Ow!”
My eyes adjust to the sun and it’s then I notice the victim of my intrusive pebble throwing.
“What? You gonna kill them sons a bitches with rocks?” Daryl grumbles as he steps onto the edge of the docks wooden platform.
“Sorry!” The sheepish apology slips from my lips quickly.
I guess I didn’t think my plan of throwing peddles to alert myself of Walkers throughly.
“S’ al’ight.” His brown plaid shirt clad shoulders pulls up into a nonchalant shrug.
His boots vibrate the wood as he steps closer, stopping about a quarter away from the the beginning of the dock. Now, I can make out the unintentional swipe of his short hair - presumably from wiping off sweat.
Silence begins to rise between us. I’m not quite sure what else to say, I’ve never really spoken to Daryl directly - especially not alone.
“You heading out?” The outline of his crossbow strapped to his back catches my attention.
It definitely peeked my curiosity when I noticed Daryl stepping up to the plate to look for Sophia. It’s truly a different side to him that none of us have been able to see - certainly not when Merle was around.
The ways in which he handles Carol - assertive yet gentle and compassionate to her missing daughter. It further seals my opinion that he’s not the guy he uses as a mask. He’s a good man with a good heart.
“Yeah. Heading out a little further.”
I can feel the humidity produced frizz of my curls bounce against my shoulders as I nod. An awkward silence begins to float between us, both not really knowing what to say or even how to build conversation with one another. Pathetic for grown adults, really.
“Whadda’ yah doin’ out here by yourself?”
I weight my words before speaking up. I can’t openly admit I disappeared out here just to get away from Carol’s crying.
I feel like an asshole for it. I mean she’s a worried mother, of course she’s crying.
But it’s not just that. I’ve spent so many years alone, in the comfort of my own company that being around so many people - constantly at that, I just need a moment to digest it.
It was all getting a bit much, Shane’s subtle changes that I’ve been picking up on. Carol’s emotional state, the weight of Carl’s recovery.
“Just…just needed a moment.” I decide on, not really wanting to elaborate and seem coldhearted.
He seems to understand because he doesn’t push on it, only wrapping his hands around the straps of his crossbow and offering a nod.
His bottom lip glistens as his teeth work at gently knawing on the muscle - something he does a lot. I don’t even think he realizes he does it.
Silence engulfs us again, only this time the birds take the lead with their rhymic tweeting and seemingly pulling Daryl back to why he’s out here in the first place.
“Don’t stay out here too long.” I’m mildly startled by his voice, having been caught staring at his lips, unintentionally.
I quickly avert my eyes to my lap, where I’ve been unintentionally performing my own habitual tics. Having replaced the knife with twisting my rings around my fingers.
“Yeah.” The small reply leaves my lips.
And with that, I can hear the sound of Daryl’s retreating footsteps as he walks off of the dock and back onto the grassy farm lands, off to find Sophia and bring her back.
And maybe that’s why, I swallow down my awkwardness to call out, “Be careful!”
I don’t give myself a chance to see his reaction before I’m twisting back around to face the lake again, tossing pebbles into the water this time.
—
A/N: A snippet from my TWD fan fiction I’ve been working on for like 2 years now. Hence the first person pov.
