#joel miller

[softlyunwell]

a man who gets rougher the second you whimper, like that sound unlocked something he was holding back.

[80sthingss]

when i finally find a fic thats so accurate i re-read it every chance i get

[pearlessance]

Overtime

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader

Summary: Joel's exhausted by the time he makes it to bed. But when a pretty little thing crawls in beside him, he finds the time for you, just like he always does.

Warnings: +18 MDNI, post outbreak, jackson!joel, unspecified age difference, joel pov, porn no plot, dry humping, slow and soft sex, smut with feelings, internalized shame, intimacy, unprotected piv, clit stimulation, kissing

Note: i haven't written for joel in monthsss but i hope you enjoy!!

WC: 2k

[masterlist] [AO3]

Joel’s the kind of exhausted that only comes with age. 

Weary bones, heavy limbs, tired eyes. 

He’s falling into bed as soon as he gets home, often forfeiting dinner in favor of blissful rest. Sometimes even before the sun’s fully set. 

And today is just one of those days. He’d spent the night tossing and turning, trying to massage away a kink in his neck that persisted well into the afternoon. But he hadn’t had time to complain or think too much about how excited he was to crawl back beneath the sheets, because the northernmost barn was falling to pieces. 

So, not only was he functioning half empty from the start, but the work today was also strenuous. Sawing raw timber to the perfect length, sanding down the sharp edges, hammering nails into plywood. A full day. 

And when Denise had stopped him on his way home, waving him down with a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade in hand, she’d given him that bright, hopeful smile and said, “Little Sammy ran that damn bike into the back door again. Would you mind fixing the hinges?”

His back ached and his knees were creaky, but Joel soon found himself knelt on Denise’s porch, screwdriver and fresh nails in hand.

It didn’t take long, but it did take every last scrap of energy that remained inside of him.

Joel’s house was always quiet. Too big for him, really. Ellie was in the garage already, lights still on, up too late when she had early patrol the following morning. But Joel didn’t have it in him to remind her how important sleep was. Not when he was running on fumes himself.

So he dragged those tired, old bones inside. Kicked off his boots and jeans right at the door of his room, hung his flannel over the back of the chair at his work bench, and let out a long sigh as he climbed beneath icy cotton sheets.

He’s half asleep, eyes closed and muscles sinking into the mattress, when he hears it. 

The click of the latch on the unlocked front door. The creak of your careful steps as you climb the stairs.

Joel feels you before he sees you. Too exhausted to pull himself out of blissful almost-sleep. The mattress dips beneath your weight, limbs outstretched, seeking him out of instinct. 

This isn’t the first time this has happened. Not the first time you’ve found yourself peering out of your window next door waiting for him to get home. Not the first time you’ve ended up in his bed or in his arms.

And Joel knows he should put a stop to it—you’re too young, too sweet, too…good. 

But he’s too worn out to fight his impulses. He’s tried for months to keep his thoughts pure when you cross his mind, but it’s been a losing battle from the start.

Especially when you’re like this. Warm and soft, pressed up against his side, wearing an old t-shirt he’d let you borrow the night before and not much else. A comfort that feels more like home than this house does.

The tips of your fingers tickle his forearm, rousing him just enough that he lifts the heavy limb so you can crawl right into his embrace.

Joel holds you tight. He always does. Biceps big and strong around your shoulders. He holds you like he might lose you tomorrow, because there’s a part of him that fears one day you’ll wake up and see something you don’t like. 

He worries you’ll begin to see him for what he is; old, weary, tired. Not even half the man he used to be. Not half the man you deserve.

But for tonight at least, you still wear those rose tinted glasses. Pressing sweet kisses to his face; his nose, his forehead, his cheeks. Nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck, making cute, whiny noises at the back of your throat. Like you’re desperate, unable to get close enough despite every inch being pressed against him, leg hooked over his hips. 

You find a comfortable position and still beside him, letting out the same sort of long sigh Joel did just moments ago. But you don’t sleep—your breathing doesn’t even out, your muscles don’t go slack. 

Joel knows what you need. Long before your hips tilt, before you press your center against his thigh, before you whisper his name in the dark. 

“S’okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice deep and dark and sleepy. “C’mere.”

He reaches over and brackets his arm around your waist to drag you on top of him, your center already warm and wanting.

It’s starting to get out of hand, he knows. Starting to become a routine. But Joel doesn’t have many sweet thing in his life, not anymore, and he finds you near impossible to resist. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Take what ya need.”

You lay against his chest, ear pressed right over his heart. Joel kisses the crown of your head when your hips begin to tilt, rubbing yourself against the steadily growing bulge beneath the thin fabric of his boxers.

Soft, wanton sighs leave you at the sensation, and even with a barrier still between you he can feel your clit pulse against the underside of his cock. 

Needy little thing you are. But Joel doesn’t mind—he likes the feeling. Of being needed, wanted. Especially by a girl as sweet as you.

You grind on top of him for a while. Not seeking release, not yet. Just feeling the hard warmth of him beneath you, savoring the weight of his big hands stroking softly up and down the expanse of your back. 

He can feel your arousal growing with each pass, wetness slowly seeping through his boxers, slick and sticky. Joel nudges you gently with the tip of his nose, the prickly hairs of his mustache tickling the side of your face. “C’mon, sweet girl. Let’s get this shirt off, hm?”

When you nod, you pull yourself up tiredly. The movement is slow and thick like molasses, so Joel uses the last of his energy to help you. 

His hands find the hem of the oversized t-shirt and pull it upwards, over your head to be discarded on the floor beside his bed. It leaves you completely naked, bared for him in more ways than one. 

In an instant, you fall back against him, breasts pressed up against his chest. Your skin feels cool against his, smooth and pillowy. “S’warm,” you mutter, rubbing the side of your cheek against the coarse hair that litters his chest, graying in some places.

Joel’s cock throbs beneath you, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. He just lets you settle back down and allows you to rest. His hands wander, though, the way they always do. 

Sliding down your back, over the sides of your thighs, thumbs massaging gentle circles. He strokes his fingers gently back up to your shoulders and then brings them down your arms, smiling when he sees goosebumps rise in his wake.

When they settle back at your hips, his touch is a little more eager. Kneading at the softness, inching over the curve of your ass until that’s all his hands are filled with. 

Joel loves touching you. Not just suggestively, but intimately. He loves feeling the closeness and the trust you put in him to take care of you, to keep you safe, to make you feel good.

He massages the supple flesh, holding you close, until his need for you begins to grow teeth, gnawing at his psyche. 

Joel knows he shouldn’t. He knows that. 

But he’s just so tired, and you’re so soft. Gentle and kind. And you make him feel loved—something Joel Miller has not felt for a very, very long time.

He guides you with his hands gripping at your curves, sliding your slick cunt over his aching cock. His breath feels hollow, stuck in his lungs.

When he lifts upward, just a little, enough to provide a little extra pressure, you mewl in response. 

Joel is quick to soothe, shushing softly into your ear. “Shh, you’re alright. Hang on, sweet girl. M’right here.”

He knows what you need. It’s become a nightly ritual at this point. You come to him seeking connection, seeking the comfort of an older man. Most nights you just need to be held, to be nurtured, to be loved the way you deserve. 

But other nights, Joel knows you need a little more. A connection that runs a little deeper.

He reaches beneath you, hooking his thumbs in the elastic band of his boxers and tugging them down his tired legs. Just enough to free his cock, already hard as stone just from your proximity. 

Joel pulls your forward, up his torso, giving himself room to line his length up with your entrance.

He slides in real easy.

You’re already soaked, dripping with arousal. And the moment he’s fully seated inside you, stretching you real wide, filling up your belly, you let out a breathy whine.

It feels right, being here like this with you. It feels like coming home. 

Joel moves you slowly, guiding each roll of your hips, slowing you down when you try to pick up the pace. 

There’s no rush. Not here, not with him. He’ll get you there. He’ll get you what you need. What’s the sense in hurrying through it? 

He wants to savor it. The feel of your sweet, soft pussy, clenching and leaking around his length. The way your stuttering breath tickles his skin. The way your hands grip him harder and harder, holding him impossibly closer.

He wants to savor the way you love him. 

“Gimme a kiss, baby,” he whispers in the dark.

You turn your head, just enough so that he can press his lips to yours. In this, too, Joel moves painfully slow.

It’s not a claiming, it’s an exploration. His lips move against yours, memorizing the feel of them, the shape and the taste. He slowly licks into your mouth, tongue gliding against yours, breathing in your exhalation. 

The building coil around his spine is anything but slow, however. He loves being here with you maybe a little too much. He loves you a little too much. 

Joel thrust upwards, keeping a steady, unforgiving rhythm while he slides his hand between you. His fingers search blindly for your clit and he finds it in seconds, circling those slow, tight circles around the pulsing nerves. 

Your sounds grow louder, release building. The sound of your joining echoes in the empty room, slick and wet and feverish.

He knows your close when you start manually breathing—lungs stuttering, chasing the delicious relief that only he can provide.

“You got it,” he encourages. “S’right there, baby. Give it to me.”

Your eyes stay locked to his, lips parting on a jagged moan. You don’t say anything; no warning, no begging. You just feel it, feel him, moving deep inside you, fucking you through it. 

“That’s it,” he says, voice all soft and warm the way it only ever is when he speaks to you. “There you go.”

He doesn’t stop until you find the natural rhythm of oxygen again, until the shaking in your thighs relents to an easy tremble. 

Joel feels that white-hot coil beginning to spool within himself, and pulls out of you with just enough time to shoot thick ropes of cum over your pubic bone.

He thrusts the underside of his cock through your syrupy folds, a gentle rocking until he’s spent. He somehow finds the energy for a few extra thrusts, smearing his release over your clit.

You don’t move an inch, and Joel doesn’t want you to.

Instead, you just lay there on top of him, sticky mess between you, your head resting delicately on his chest. 

When you reach up to card your fingers through his graying hair, Joel feels his muscles go completely slack, tension bleeding from his weary bones.

“M’sorry I woke you up,” you say, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I know you were tired.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Joel says, and he means it. “I’ll always have time for you."

thank you for reading, i love you!!!

[tojisteddy]

You two bicker so much, your children think you actually hate each other.

“You’re too fuckin grown to not eat your greens.”

“I’m not the old hag needing to eat them with every meal, am I?”

“You talk so damn much over the movie, I can’t hear shit. fuck me.”

“You have bad ears any way old man, turn it down.”

“And hear you even more? Don’t think so.”

“It said make a right and you turn left?”

“You don’t know your right from left, you’re losing your brain from old age, woman.”

“I’m well enough to know what ‘right’ looks like, idiot, the roads not blocked so park there before we have to walk even farther.”

It’s… a lot lol. And your daughter who’s 17, asks you about it while you put away the dishes, more than concerned. You giggle, looking out towards the garden.

“You see those sunflowers out there don’t you?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Your father gave them to me as a gift when you turned three. Every year more grow and they flourish. Look up the meaning of ‘em and then get back to me.” You wink over at her and go back to your task.

Love, loyalty and Adoration. Is what popped up on google.

It makes her think more about how you and your husband interact. The way you always eat whatever he doesn’t finish & vice versa. The way he puts a comforter on you when you sleep on the couch and pulls you into his lap, or carries you upstairs before the movie ends. How dad always keeps your favorite snacks filled and you two always move in tandem, you never have to ask what the other needs or what needs to be done. You two are in sync, you coming and hugging dad from the side when he’s stressed, how dad takes all the kids out when you need your ‘mommy moment.’ Dad does laundry while you cook, and that project you’ve been dreaming about is already half way done because Dad already built it out for you.

“Your kid thinks we don’t like each other hubby.” You say, painting the dog house the bright red, on your hands and knees.

He’s quick, “I don’t like you.” He’s staring from the patio set, your ass is still as perfect as ever in the paint stained capris your wearing. Youve gotten sexier over the last 20 years together, more curves, wrinkles and stretch marks. Gorgeous girl. He could wreck you right now on this Thursday afternoon, if your kids weren’t about to wake up from a nap.

You huff, standing up, “We have to be a good example! I don’t want them thinkin I hate yo—“

Before you can get another word out, you slip on the tray of paint you barely noticed was right under your feet. The love of your life is fast, protecting your head as you both fall to the ground but paint flies all over the both of you.

Your breath is caught in your throat, in shock, but he curses, eyes flying all over you in worry, “Dummy, watch were you’re goin!”

You burst into a fit of laughter, eyes closing as your smile brighter than the sun. Eyes crinkling. Laughter just like a melody. He scuffs in his head, ‘Clumsy ass.’ You’re beautiful. His wife is still so wonderful. He can’t help but kiss you on the full lips.

You speak softly, tantalizing, “again.” Another kiss. “Again.” Another kiss. “More.” And he gives you a long kiss, wanting.

Oh, this is what love is. Ever lasting, a cool glass of lemonade on a day summer day, so refreshing. Adoring— that man loves you. And you, him.

˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡ Simon, Toji, Sukuna, Suguru, Smoke, Joel, Eren, Keegan,

[millermouth]

steady hands

summary: You love being part of the community of Jackson. But when you try to learn how to defend it, one humiliating accident makes you realize just how useless you feel with a gun in your hands.

smut MDNI 18+ shooting instructor!joel, Jackson!joel, baker!reader, gardener!reader, jack of all trades kinda reader, grumpy!joel, insecure!reader, biggggg joel miller, size kink, enemies to lovers, grinding, kissing, dirty talk (as always), f!receiving oral, fingering, pinv, missionary, outdoor smut, mean to sweet joel miller, some pussy pronouns used, irresponsible gun handling, nightmares, age gap mentioned but not specified, joel calls reader lots of pet names, tiniest bit of brat taming || a/n: guys I can't even lie this was inspired by the song ill make a man out of you from mulan....enjoy!!! wc: 11k

The woods were still crisp for early summer. It was something you'd come to appreciate about Wyoming, after all. No matter how bad winter had been, or how slow spring had sprung, you could always count on a beautiful summer, and even better summer mornings.

But this morning was far from beautiful.

You were sitting with a few others from town, mostly newer folk who'd settled in and were looking for work to do. The woods were quiet around these parts, a couple miles out from Jackson, where the trees thinned just enough to make room for the patrols to see into the valley. It had been a lookout since the beginning, or so you'd heard. A small cabin with a slanted roof, a fire pit out front ringed with blackened stones, a target range cut into the dirt nearby, and guns and ammo stored in the basement in case of emergency and training.

Why you were here, when you could be baking loaves of bread for folks getting out of Sunday worship or sending actual lookout shifts off with their breakfast freshly made, was, well…because you'd started to feel a little useless.

Not useless exactly. That was probably unfair. You did have multiple jobs. You were a part of the community of Jackson. You had a few close friends and plenty of acquaintances. You got along with almost everyone. It was nice, feeling like you knew who took their coffee black, who liked the butt of the bread, who always tried to sneak an extra roll into their coat pocket when they thought you weren't looking. You gardened and sometimes even helped with the horses or the livestock.

But still.

There was a part of you that knew, if anything ever went to shit, you'd never be able to defend your town, let alone yourself. So you'd come out with a group to train up on an early summer morning.

But you sure as shit were terrible at it.

Luckily, the ammo you used on the training grounds were empty shells, nothing actually being wasted on your awful, awful aim.

Because an hour later, the glass bottle in front of you remained whole and smug on the fence line, catching slice of sunlight along its shoulder while the wood of the fence several inches to its left had suffered greatly.

It didn't help that the man that was meant to be teaching you was a grade A Asshole.

Joel Miller was many things. Strong, capable, brave. So many epithets that could be used to describe him. You'd even dare to add handsome if he wasn't always frowning at you or cursing under his breath every time you managed to miss something standing perfectly still.

But the main thing you wanted to call him, was Asshole. Though…you thought if you ever did to his face, it might just be the last thing you ever do.

He was helping a kid down at the end adjust his stance when you heard an argument from beside you about a bet.

“Bullshit,” one of the boys hissed. Matthew, you thought. Maybe Michael? He was one of the kids from town you'd seen around the stables with hair too long, cheeks still a little chubby, and an ego too big. “You did not get Maisie Bell to kiss you.”

“I didn’t say kiss,” the other one said, and in the corner of your eye you watched as he lined up his shot, one eye squeezing shut. “I said she would’ve.”

“That ain’t a bet.”

“It is if I’m right.”

“You’re not right.”

“Two ration cards says I am.”

“For Maisie?”

“For Maisie,” he said, then nodded toward the line of town below the ridge, where you could almost see the church roof through the trees. “And the redhead from the kitchens. Sheesh what I wouldn't do to my hands on 'er. Oh, and that new girl Dina?" he let out a low whistle, "She is so goddamn fine I could—"

The heat that went through you had nothing to do with the morning sun. It rose hard beneath your collar, crawling up your throat until your jaw clenched around it. It pissed you off. Dina was funny and charming and more than a hot piece of ass for some stable boy to run his mouth over. Maisie and Riley were nice girls too, both in your book club, both worth knowing for more than the curve of their mouths or the sway of their hips.

“Maybe you two should spend less time betting on girls who wouldn’t touch you for a warm bath,” you spat, turning toward them, “and more time actually practicing—”

But you'd turned without lowering your gun.

Worse— you'd turned without taking your finger off the trigger.

A loud sound cracked through the clearing.

It wasn't like a typical gun shot, just a sharp, quick pop that punched the rest of your sentence out of your mouth.

Michael grabbed his shoulder and stumbled back, knocking into the rack behind him. A glass bottle tipped from the table and burst in the dirt by his boot, spraying green shards through the dust.

For one second, no one moved.

Then he said, “Ow—fuck!”

Your hands were still around the shotgun, finger still squeezing the trigger, your body stuck in shock.

The kid beside him lowered his own gun in a hurry. A low muttering started to rise from around you— someone else asked if Michael was all right, and Michael, pale and furious and embarrassed, said, “She shot me!"

"Think it's more of a graze—" someone was saying, pulling at the torn cap of his sleeve.

More voices began to overlap as people clustered around him, worry amplifying the noise until you couldn't hear anything because of the panicked buzzing in your ears.

"Give me that."

You blinked to your right. Joel Miller was looming next to you, a thunderous look over his features.

You looked down at the shotgun still in your hands, a gasp running through you.

Your fingers opened at once as if you'd been burned by the wooden barrel. The shotgun dipped toward the ground, and Joel caught it before you could swing wrong again. He took it from you with a look that made your stomach hollow out.

Your mouth open and shut, your voice quiet and lost to the rising murmur around you: "I'm—I'm so sorry—"

Joel didn’t answer. He checked the shotgun with a hard jerk of his hand, jaw tight, eyes not leaving the chamber until he was sure. Then he bent down, grabbed your pack from the dirt, and pushed it into your arms.

“Go.”

You froze with your hands around the straps. A burning, icy thrill ran through your spine, your skin lighting up in humiliation.

“I got no use for kids who don't give a shit about rules or make habits of gettin’ other people killed,” he said. “Go on now. No use to me here.”

You didn’t even think you could speak if you wanted to. You looked down at your backpack, torn and duct-taped in spots, the top strap sewn back down at least ten times since you'd gotten it.

You'd shot someone. What if it hadn't been a blank? What if it hadn't just grazed?

“I—”

“Don’t wanna hear it,” Joel cut in. “Go tell Jesse you're done for the day. He’ll take ya home.”

You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper and nodded, turning away.

For the next two weeks, you went back to being useful.

That was the word that seemed to dig its way into your head, after all. Useful. You baked loaves in the morning with flour dusted up your forearms and dough stuck beneath your fingernails. You wrapped bread in cloth and stacked it on the front table before the church bell rang. When you were done, you gardened the weeds that to creep into the squash beds and watermelon patch, and spent the late afternoons mucking stalls. You went to bed so exhausted you barely thought about what happened at the range.

Michael was fine, of course. He'd come by to apologize for his words the next day with Maria's stone face behind him. You apologized too, made sure he was really okay. Offered him a free bagel or two in exchange for maiming him.

Sometimes you saw Joel.

He didn't laugh or pat your arm understandingly the way the others did when retelling the story that of course made its way around town like wildfire.

He hardly looked at you at all, really. And at first you were grateful for it, too embarrassed to even meet his eye if he ever came by the stables for the horses before training or patrol up in the mountains. You'd run and hide before he even got the chance to spot you, truth be told. And when he came by the bakery, you'd disappeared into the back so fast that one time you’d knocked over an entire sack of rye flour in your haste to vanish.

But by the third week, it'd began to piss you off. Because it was one thing to be ashamed—and you were. But Joel was walking around town like you were something to be scraped off the bottom of his boot. It began to put a sour feeling in your stomach, the fact he had so much power to make you feel so small. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid glare and his silent brooding.

You stopped hiding.

The next time he came into the bakery, you were at the front counter with your sleeves rolled up as usual, tying string around a parcel of bread. Ellie was next to him as they entered, talking with her hands, telling him some story about Dina and a loose chicken that morning.

“Morning,” you said when they sidled up to the counter.

Ellie looked over, her green eyes brightening. “Hey.”

Joel said nothing.

You pulled down the ration bread from the shelf with their name and house number written across the paper wrapping.

Ellie grinned as you handed it to her, "Do you have any of those sweet rolls from last week?"

You hazarded a glance at Joel, who said nothing again.

"Sure do. You staying for breakfast? I could make some coffee."

Ellie perked up, looking at him. “Can we?”

“No,” Joel said stiffly.

“Oh, come on—didn't you hear her say your favorite word, old man? Cofffeeeeeee!" she sung out before huffing a breath, "Do I need to get your ears checked by the nurse again?”

“We got work.” he grumbled, ignoring her jab.

“You always have work.”

“Funny how that happens.”

You reached for the tray beneath the counter and set a couple rolls out, taking your time. “There’s fresh icing too from this morning, I just need to drizzle it on.”

You went into the back, grabbing the small bag of sugary sweet icing you'd made, and began letting it fall in a steady cascade onto the sweet buns.

Ellie leaned both elbows on the counter. “See? Now we have to stay. It would be rude not to.”

You pretended not to notice how Joel's jaw ticked under his beard.

“She makes a good argument,” you said, sliding the small plate toward Ellie next to their wrapped weekly bread loaf.

Finally, those dark eyes landed on you. It was quick and could almost pass off as an accident. A muddling of color that shown in the morning light, his mouth flat. The same hard set to his face as always. But you smiled back anyway.

Because fuck him.

Ellie took one and barely hesitated before taking a giant bite, delighted. “Thank you.” she said with her mouth full.

You looked away quickly, back at Ellie. “Anytime.”

Joel reached into his pocket and set the ration slips on the counter. His hand was close enough that you could see the scar across one knuckle, the dust caught in the creases of his fingers. He took the parceled bread from the counter, leaving the second sweet bun untouched.

"Let's go, Ellie." he said stiffly. Before you could even call goodbye, they were walking out the shop, Ellie throwing you an apologetic glance and a wave of her hand as she stuffed the roll into her mouth.

You picked up the rations he left, and for a moment, thought about chucking that leftover roll at the back of his head as he disappeared from view.

Instead of learning how to shoot guns, you began learning how to take care of them.

Learn it from the inside out, you told yourself.

And to be fair, you picked it up rather quickly. Quicker than you’d picked up aiming, anyway. There was a comfort to it that shooting never gave you, all the pieces laid out on an oil-stained cloth in front of you, metal pins and springs and screws set in neat little rows beneath your hands. There was no bottle on a fence line waiting to make a fool out of you here in the small rec room of the cafeteria after the dinner shift had come and gone.

Tommy Miller taught the class every other night, his sleeves rolled to the elbows and voice patient and kind as he showed you and a few others how to take a handgun apart and put it back together. He had a way of teaching that was so different than his brother. He was patient, never made you feel stupid for asking questions. If a piece didn't fit, he'd simply say: “The gun’ll tell you what it needs most times. You just gotta quit arguin’ with it long enough to listen.”

And maybe, a small mean part of you liked the fact that the first time Joel Miller saw you there, he stopped dead in the doorway.

You'd bitten your cheek so hard to keep the smug smile from tugging your lips as he made his way across the room with a box of empty shells the night you were learning how to make ammunition. His eyes moved across the room to his brother, who patted him jovially on the back, and then the elder Miller's eyes came back to you. And you knew you didn't look very nice—smudge of grease across your cheek and your hair pulled haphazardly away from the gunpowder, thick work gloves that hardly fit and your plaid sleeves rolled up.

But he'd stared long and hard anyway. And then, as if nothing was amiss, his face went back to its hard, frozen state, and he walked out.

It was that night that you woke from an awful dream.

A horde of infected had broken through Jackson, tearing through everything you'd always loved and cared for. The gate was splintered open, the watchtower burned down to the ground. People were running through the street in their nightclothes, slipping in mud and blood, screaming names you knew.

You woke in a drenched sweat, feeling every bit as useless with a gun in your dream as you did in waking life.

But it was the kind of dream that didn't really feel like a dream at all. You'd felt like you were there, like the chill of night was actually on your face, like the roars of infected in your ears were truly bone-chilling. Your chest had filled with so much doom as you tried to fight back. But you couldn't. Every shot went wrong, every squeeze of the trigger sent another round into a fence post, a doorframe, the packed dirt beside an infected's rotting foot.

You could load the gun. You could take it apart and put it back together. You could clean the pieces until the metal shone beneath your fingers. You'd done it a hundred times now.

But you couldn't shoot.

In the dream, it had been all your fault. The deaths. Friends, loved ones, people who had waved to you from the church steps and leaned over the bakery counter telling you all about their latest town gossip.

Even Joel Miller.

He had died in the dream too. Because of you, and your awful aim, and your utter uselessness when it came to defending anything you cared about.

So, instead of trying to fall back asleep— afraid the dream might return—you got up and headed downstairs. Making your way through your dark house that was a small thing in the middle of town, you heard the floorboards creaking beneath your socks until you stepped into your boots properly.

You threw on your Carhartt over your nightclothes, fumbling with the zipper in the dark. It was just the start of summer now, but the mornings still could be biting. The mountains liked to keep their cold weather as long as possible, holding to it until the sun finally dragged it out when summer solstice came.

On the kitchen table, the shotgun you'd been working on for Tommy’s class sat wrapped in an old cloth, its oiled barrel catching a thin line of moonlight from the window.

You stared at it for a moment.

Then, decision made, you slung the strap over your shoulder and headed out.

Surprisingly, Joel Miller was awake at the odd hour as well.

As you walked down Rancher Street, you spotted him on his porch in the old rocker, one boot planted against the floorboards to keep the chair steady. A steaming cup of something was in his hand as he looked out onto the empty street. No one was up at this hour. You shouldn’t've even been up either. You wouldn’t have to open the bakery for another several hours, and the whole of Jackson seemed to know it. The curtains of the houses you passed were still drawn in the houses along the street, the chicken coops were quiet. Even the dogs that usually barked from behind fences must have been sleeping away the dawn with their owners still in bed.

It made your boots sound so loud on the road.

When his eyes caught the movement of your form coming toward the house, you saw him pause. His brows shot up high, then narrowed back into their usual glower. As you got closer and closer, it seemed so did his brows, threading deeper, causing harsher lines to form between them. The sun was just barely beginning to peek over the east mountaintops, the sky beginning to let go of its inky blackness with only a pale line of light touching the surrounding rooftops.

Joel Miller didn’t say anything as you stepped up from the street onto the path to his house. Or as you walked through his front yard. But his eyes never left you.

You tried—very hard and very much in vain—not to care what he saw as you walked up to the porch. He was an asshole, after all. An asshole who had told you he had no use for you, dismissed you for one mistake, and ignored you for weeks after. You shouldn't care if he saw some clumsy girl with a gun too big for her hands, or the bags under your eyes, or the matching floral sleep set beneath your jacket, long sleeves buttoned to your wrists and matching cotton pants tucked messily into your boots.

"Good morning, Mr. Miller." you said, stopping just at the bottom step of his porch.

He took a long sip of his steaming cup before resting it between his hands on his lap.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, kid?"

In any other circumstance, that could’ve been a polite greeting. But the flatness to his voice, the utter disapproval or contempt that threaded through it, made it sound exactly as he meant it.

You stared at him for a long, long moment.

He just stared back.

The rocker gave a faint creek under his weight. You could just smell the contents of the mug—coffee, for sure then. Bitter and dark how he liked it. You shifted the shotgun off your shoulder and set the butt of it into the dirt beside your boot, one hand rested at the top so it pointed up towards the sky.

Finally, it was Joel who broke the silence as he sighed, getting up to stand at the railing, setting one large, calloused palm against the wood as he looked down at you.

"Kid, I don't know what yer—"

"Shut up."

Joel Miller, for the first damn time since he'd met you, seemed to be stunned. His eyes went wide in disbelief.

"Excuse me, young lady?" he scoffed, standing still on his porch.

"Shut up—" you said, and if your voice shook a little, he made no notice, "and listen."

His eyebrows lifted. Then he looked down the empty street, like maybe someone else had heard you speak to him that way and he needed a witness. But there was no one, of course. Not at this hour. Only the closed houses, the pale line of morning over the rooftops, and a dog two porches down watching through the fence with its nose pressed between the slats.

When Joel looked back at you, he only gave a small shrug, one palm tipping up from the railing.

Go on then.

"I am a baker," you said curtly, taking in a shaky, deep breath, "I am a gardener, I am a sewer, I've become a damn good gun cleaner. I've been in Jackson for two years. I deserve to be here."

"Never said—"

"—and I deserve to learn how to defend it too."

Joel's eyes never left you as he heard your case. His face didn't change much, but at least it wasn't glowering anymore. He made no move to dismiss you or walk back inside even if he'd have enough reason to.

"Just because I had a shit first day doesn't mean I can't still learn, old man." you said. It wasn't a term of endearment. "Just because I'm not shooting bullseyes or killing infected yet doesn't mean I can't try, alright? I— I'm brave and—and—" you took another deep breath, "And you're going to teach me how to shoot."

"Like hell—" he stopped, scoffing again, and then went on, shaking his head: "Kid, you and I—clearly, we ain't jivin', why don't you ask another—"

"No."

Joel clicked his teeth, shifting his weight between his feet behind the wooden balusters.

"No one is as…" you glared up at him, the words searing your tongue before you could force it out, "No one is as good as you. If anyone is gonna teach me, it's you Mr. Miller."

There was a long pause, and Joel set down his mug, the steam wafting in the chilly summer morning. You almost wished you hadn't come, that you could go back to ignoring each other for weeks. What was it to you, what this man thought of you? You knew you looked ridiculous standing here, asking for help. You should be shouting at him, telling him he's mean and grouchy like a dog.

"Christ," he sighed, "you don't give up do ya?"

"Nope."

He pulled in another deep breath, looking up and down the road again for a long moment, before his eyes found you once more. You saw how they roved over your figure, over the muck boots and the white blue floral set, over your tan Carhartt, and then onto your face, where he paused for a moment before saying:

"Well first thing, don't hold the damn gun like that."

You looked down where you were leaning your palm over the muzzle of the shotgun.

"Gonna blow a hole in your palm, then I wouldn't be able to teach ya shit."

Your face burned, but you moved to grip the barrel lower and pulled the gun carefully across your belly, holding it with both hands now, pointed well away from either of you.

He nodded, lifting his mug and taking another sip of coffee, watching you, The slurp of the drink filling his mouth held the silence while the birds began waking up around you.

"You sure you'll be warm enough?" he asked finally.

You nodded.

"Alright. Let me get my shoes and we can hit the trails. Stay put."

You nodded again, and then—

"Joel?"

He turned.

"I um... I promise I won't let you down."

He took one more look at you, the harsh line of his mouth eased, eyes settling in a way you hadn't seen before.

He nodded once, and said: "I know, kid."

The sun was well over the mountain top by the time you made it to the ridge.

He hadn't taken you back to the training ground, whether it was to save you the humiliation of seeing the leftover shards of green glass on the ground, or because he liked the view better by the forgotten ranch, you weren't entirely sure.

It sat a few miles out from Jackson, tucked up where the land opened into a long slope of yellow grass and thin fence posts. One of the old checkpoint places, Joel had told you on the ride over. Not one people used much anymore, not unless they were cutting through on patrol or needed to seek shelter from a storm. There was a little graying house at the top of the rise with peeling paint along the porch rail and a tin roof gone dull from years of snow. Beside it, an old barn leaned slightly into the hill, its red paint worn down to bare wood in places, its door hanging open on a rusted hinge.

You barely registered the bird song that filled the skies as he set up a training course, the beautiful view of the mountainside and your horses grazing in pasture of the barn. Every now and then you saw one lift its head to look at you, ears flickering around, before bending down and resuming its peaceful morning loitering.

Joel was beside you, close enough that you could smell the pine of his body wash and the musk of sweat lining his shirt. He had been mostly quiet on the ride here, but not in the punishing way, you began to realize. Just quiet and focused as his is eyes kept moving over the land, the fence line, the barn, the empty windows of the little ranch house behind you.

“Lean just a little over now,” he said from behind your shoulder as you got into position by the wooden posts. “Use the fence as a brace. Easier when you got something steady under the stock.”

You shifted forward until the gun found the flat part of the top of the wood. The air was still chilly through the sleeves of your sleep set, the fence rough enough to catch on the ribboned cuff of your pant leg when you moved into it. Ahead, he’d pinned a target to the trunk of a tree, three rings and a bullseye in the center.

“First thing,” he said, “you don’t point that barrel anywhere you ain’t willing to put a hole through. Don’t matter if you think the thing's empty. Don’t matter if I told you it’s empty. You treat it like it’s loaded every second it’s in your hands.”

"I know, Joel."

"Repeat it," he said, a little firmer, and the way his breath brushed the side of your neck, it made you shiver. You didn't reaalize he'd gotten so close.

"Treat it like it's loaded." you muttered, leaning over the stock, looking down the line of the barrel.

"Good." he grunted. "Finger stays off the trigger til you're ready, keep both eyes open."

"You sure are bossy." you said under your breath.

"'Scuse me?" he chuckled, "Ain't you the one who dragged me out here at the brink of dawn?"

You rolled your eyes, but bent forward.

“Careful with that,” he said. “Eyes are useful for shootin’. Would hate for 'em to get stuck like that.”

You couldn't help the chuckle you let out—great, so he's got dad jokes too.

“Now stay where you are,” he said. “I’m gonna move the shotgun where it’s supposed to sit. Easier than tryin’ to explain it five different ways, alright?”

You felt your cheeks burn a little, but nodded.

He moved behind you, close enough that the warmth of him settled at your back before he ever touched you. One hand reached around yours, thick fingers closing over the fore end of the shotgun to shift it against the top rail of the fence, enough to settle it steady against the wood. His other hand came to your shoulder, guiding the butt of the stock into place. It was heavy, but bearable thanks to the support of the fence in front of you.

"Want it over your shoulder, not pushin' into the collarbone. S'gonna kick harder than a mule and you'll be hollerin' about bein' sore for days."

You scoffed a bit, but let the stock settle over the crest of your shoulder as he positioned it.

“Now press your cheek right here,” he said, moving his hand from the barrel to tap the side of the stock. You tilted your head, trying to place it right. You nearly gasped when you felt the thick press of his fingers on the other side your neck as he guided you into position without thought. Not rough or impatient, only warm, certain, his callouses catching lightly against your skin. "There ya go."

Your body became suddenly very aware of him from that one touch. The scrape of his jacket against yours as his chest came in closer, the weight of him behind you, the heat of him against your back.

"Stay still, you're squirmin'—"

"—am not—"

You felt the breath of a laugh over your shoulders, and it made your skin rise in gooseflesh. The target was becoming blurrier by the moment.

"Now—"

You held very still as you felt him line his body behind yours, his breath now against your neck, his voice low and gravelly like honey on hot asphalt.

“Think about all that bullshit you been carryin’ around,” he grumbled. “Starin’ daggers at me for weeks. Comin’ up on my porch tellin’ me to shut up, callin’ me old, actin’ like I decided you don’t belong.”

"Joel—" you protested.

"S'okay, didn't take none personal." he said as he stepped up even closer, one hand going to your hip. “Breathe in.”

You sucked in a shallow breath.

He clicked his teeth. “Try again. You know none of that is true, don't ya, darlin'? Let it all go here. Don't belong in that head a'yours.”

You closed your eyes, annoyed and a little embarrassed, and pulled air in deeper this time, taking in the smells of the open Wyoming air. Cold morning. Damp grass. Coffee on his breath. Mint from when he'd been chewing the sprig on the way there. Pine soap. The fence rail rough beneath the gun.

His breath was so warm against your cheek as he murmured: "That's it, now let it out."

You let the breath leave you, nice and long and through your mouth—and with it went the bickering on his porch, the shame of the range, the weeks of him not looking at you, the ugly little voice that kept saying you were useless no matter how many loaves you baked or horses you brushed or shotguns you cleaned.

"Open your eyes now, and squeeze that trigger." he murmured, lips brushing your ear. As he said the word, his hand pressed forward on your hip, long, thick fingers winding around the sensitive skin just under the waistband.

When your eyes opened, the sun felt a little brighter, the day a little clearer. The target sharpened against the tree, the black rings settling in your sight.

Your stomach dipped for one horrifying moment, and then—you squeezed.

The shot cracked across the ridge, echoing off the sides of the mountains. Joel was right—the butt of the gun kicked hard, but you only felt it jostle your body back into his, harder, the force caught by your shoulder instead of biting into your chest.

You gasped, everything happening so fast before you were blinking rapidly and seeing the paper on the tree ripped just left of center.

“Shit—”

“Not bad for a first try.” you heard him say.

"I wanna go again." you said, breathlessly.

“Jackson’s gonna be needin’ their morning bread soon,” Joel chuckled, but he didn’t move. “Tommy’s gonna be wonderin’ where his cinnamon rolls are.”

You smiled wide, the adrenaline of the shot still coursing through you.

As your breath settled, both of you were still leaning over the fence, your body pressed back into the hard line of his. His hand hadn’t moved from your hip. Neither had yours from the shotgun. It would’ve been easy, maybe, to step away. To laugh, to clear your throat, to make some comment about those cinnamon rolls or old men or how if he'd stop being so bossy you could've probably hit the bullseye.

But…you didn't.

You only tilted your gaze over your shoulder.

He was so close—so close you could see almost every gray hair in his thick beard like winter's snowy streaks in a dark sky. You could see every line on his plump bottom lip, the shining spot where his tongue had just passed over it.

"Thank you, Joel." you whispered, "For…"

You trailed off, because Joel wasn't looking in your eyes anymore. They were such a pretty hazel you'd never noticed, and were fixed on your mouth.

"You're welcome." he whispered.

Your lips parted lightly when he tilted his head over your shoulder, and he took that as invitation to lean in.

He was so warm.

Like kindled fire in a cabin, like the first morning of solstice. The prickle of his mustache brushed your nose as he took your lips with his, breathing you in so deeply it made your knees go soft beneath you. You let out a whimper, hands tightening around the barrel and grip of the shotgun, wishing so badly to put them in his hair, all over his broad shoulders and thick muscles.

He seemed to know exactly what you needed, his one hand coming up to take the gun from your hands, placing it quickly but carefully against the fence. He only broke the kiss to turn you fully towards him before his lips were on you again, hungrier and needier as he pushed his body into yours.

His hands were all over you in an instant, planted on your hips and squeezing you harder, making you whine under his touch.

Your tongue traced his bottom lip, teeth nipping, begging wordlessly for entrance, and he gave it so easily. So eagerly. He groaned, opening his mouth for you, letting you lick inside, suckling on his tongue before you nipped again at that nice bottom lip.

His hands were everywhere—under your jacket but above your cotton top, sliding up your waist and back down again, never settling for long. They were so big and broad, squeezing and groping anywhere he could hold.

Yours wound around his neck so you could drag him closer, breasts pushed to his chest, the layers between you suddenly unbearable. His jacket. Your sleep shirt. His flannel. It was too much fabric—too much of everything that wasn’t his fevered skin against yours.

How could you ever have thought he was such an asshole? This grumpy old man— this stubborn, bossy, impossible man, was just as needy as you. Maybe worse. All that silence, that staring. Those weeks of pretending he didn’t see you across bakery counters and barn aisles and muddy streets. He needed this as much as you did, someone to set him straight, yes, but also… to tell him he was needed and good, too.

You moaned when his hands traveled lower, both palms filling with the round flesh of your bum, dragging you up against him. One hand pulled up beneath your thigh so your leg was over his hip, opening you enough for him to grind the hard denim of his cock against you.

“Oh shit—” you gasped as your back got pushed into the rails of the fence.

He was thick. You could feel it even through his jeans, through the stiff seam and the metal of his zipper, the heavy shape of his length ground into the cradle of your legs perfectly.

Joel’s mouth left yours with a wet sound and moved to your jaw, then your chin, then the side of your throat. His beard scraped at your skin, his mustache rough beneath your ear.

“S’alright, darlin’,” he murmured, rocking into you again, slower this time, meaner for how much control he had over it. “Just needed someone to show you how it’s done, didn’t ya?”

Your nails bit into the back of his neck.

“Joel—”

“Been fightin’ me all mornin’,” he said, his mouth dragging lower, teeth grazing where your pulse beat too fast. “All damn month, really.”

You couldn’t even argue. Not with his hips pressed just right and his hand gripping your thigh harder, holding you open against the fence.

“S’okay,” he said, voice rough against your throat, tongue laving over your carotid. “I’ll show you how to take me just as good, yeah?”

“Oh, yes,” you breathed, already nodding. “Yes, please, Joel.”

"What good manners you have, baby," he cooed.

Luckily he couldn't see the way your eyes rolled at that, but your mouth fell open as he bit down on the tender flesh of your shoulder.

"Oh!"

He growled, pleased, the sound vibrating up from his rib cage and against your skin before he push his cock into you harder than before. The fence post pressed into your back, a little painful through your jacket, his hands holding you tightly between it and himself.

“Tell me,” he groaned. “How long?”

"How long what, old man?" you tried to clipped retort, but it came out more like a whimper as his hands pulled you closer, dragging your cotton-covered seam over him harder. You had one hand thrown back over the fence rail to keep your balance, the other fisted tightly in his hair. Your head fell forward to watch where his lap met yours, thin floral pajama pants bunched tight where his stiff denim pressed into them over and over, the friction making your thighs tremble around his hips.

"How long has this sweet little pussy been wet —since we got up here, hm?"

"Fuck you," you moaned, which only made him laugh.

His head came up to look you straight in the eye, one hand going to the side of your face, thumb against your cheekbone, the wide breadth of his palm covering your cheek. His fingers dug lightly into the side of your neck as he forced your gaze back up to him. It was shockingly sweet for how menacing his smile was.

“Your little act doesn’t work on me, sugar,” he murmured, staring at your lips. “C’mon now. Tell me.”

You glared up at him, though it was a weak thing with your chest heaving and your leg hooked around his waist. "You're such an asshole."

He bent down to nip at your nose, "'fraid I think you might like that most about me."

The both of you were very still now, though you'd brought both of your ankles up to lock at his lower back, fully relying on him for balance. Your chest heaved with fresh lungfuls of air, finally catching up to what had felt lost and shallow before.

"And what about you?" you asked, tipping your chin up. "You really hate me as much as you act like you do?"

“Could never hate’cha,” he murmured, leaning down again, his voice lower now, almost too soft for the way he was still holding you against the fence. “Only thing I hate is how fuckin’ bad you make me want you.”

You blinked up at him.

"Is it really that much of a surprise, baby?" he added when he saw your expression.

"I mean—you—"

He was beginning to kiss you again, your flustered state seemingly invitation enough to resume his affection, gentler this time. He kissed your mouth softly, then the corner where the seam of your lips met, then up your cheek and over your brow.

"—you said we don't get along, that I should find someone else to teach me—that, that you had no use for me—"

Joel pulled back one more time, looking down at you. The hand that had been hooked under your knee came up to your face too, until he was holding your head between both hands, palms rough against your cheeks, fingers cupping the bowl of your skull.

His eyes moved over your face, and for once, there was no glower there. No hard set to his mouth. Just Joel, looking at you like the words had been sitting badly in his chest too.

"Should'a never said that, I know. I'm sorry. I was an asshole up at the trainin' range that mornin'."

"Yeah, you were." you pouted.

“Only said them things on the porch ’cause I know I shouldn’t want’cha like I do.” He shook his head, jaw tight, the confession seemingly costing him something. “Can’t fuckin’ help it though, baby. I can’t.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

"You're too young—" he whispered, "—too sweet for me. You're right, I'm old, I'm mean as a dog…"

Your delicate fingers wrapped around his thick wrists, holding him there, keeping his hands on your face.

“Truth?” you offered.

He nodded quietly.

Out there, you could just hear the breeze over the open fields around you. The soft nickering of the horses grazes, the birdsong of the woods beyond. It was awfully quiet where just you and Joel stood pinned against the old fenceline.

"I've wanted you for so, so long." you murmured.

His eyes flickered between yours, narrowing, almost disbelieving. Your grip on his wrists tightened.

"I have. And…and… I've been wet since we got here. Thinking about this—being all alone with you and—even if I can't fucking stand you glowering at me like that—"

He pushed his lips into yours again, but this time, it wasn't only the flame of hunger and eagerness, but the gentleness of tender affection.

“C’mere,” he whispered into your lips, hands sliding down your sides.

His hands were back on your body, pulling you closer, slipping under your jacket once more before finally reaching under your cotton night shirt. You could feel just how rough-hewn his fingertips were, how calloused and worn they were against the tender flesh of your body. But they felt so right, like this was where they belonged all along.

“You’re so soft, baby. Wanna feel how soft you are under these.” His fingers hooked lightly at the waistband of your cotton pants. “Take ’em off for me.”

You listened, of course you listened. He let your wobbly legs down gently from his hips, one hand staying firm at your waist until your boots found the grass again. Your knees felt useless beneath you, weak from the heat of him, from the way his voice had gone low and syrupy thick against your mouth. You reached for the ribboned hem of your sleep pants with clumsy fingers, and Joel watched you like he was trying very hard to stay patient.

The cotton slid down your thighs, catching for a second at your knees before you stepped out of them and your boots. Morning air touched your bare skin at once, cool enough to make you suck in a breath.

You started to pull your coat off too, but Joel caught the front of it in one fist and held it closed around you.

“You’re gonna get cold, baby,” he murmured, bringing you back into his arms to kiss you on the lips once more. “Keep it on.”

He was soon bending, kissing your chin, the soft skin of your throat, down your top and lifting it just enough to lick into your navel, making you giggle and squirm. He threw you a knowing look when you bit back a laugh at the crack of his knees, and you nearly opened your mouth to say something rude before his lips found your skin again.

He kissed lower, down the soft slope of your belly, until his mouth was pressed just above your mound where your panties still covered you. Stupid sleep underwear, you chastised yourself, suddenly annoyed you hadn’t thought this far ahead. But Joel didn't seem to care. He kissed the little bow at the waistband, something slipping from his mouth that sounded awfully like 'how cute'.

Your breath caught in the crisp morning air when his tongue dipped out over your cotton panties, right where your clit pulsed beneath. He let out a low hum of satisfaction, one thick finger coming up to pull the cotton aside.

“Why don’t you spread these pretty legs for me, hm?” His eyes flicked up to yours. “Or do I need to teach ya how to do that too?”

You scoffed, still in your head enough to want to bite back a curse at him, but he was already moving your leg for you, pushing your knee toward the fenceline until your boot found footing on the bottom rail. His eyes never left the damp spot darkening your panties.

As he pulled the cotton aside fully, he sighed, face tilting a little as he looked.

“You’re staring,” you murmured, nervousness fluttering in your belly.

His eyes glanced up at you, and your heart ricocheted into your throat. You felt bare. Exposed. Ready for him to turn cold again, to go back to that surly look and stone quiet like he’d only just remembered himself.

Instead, his thumb stroked once along your thigh.

“S’just so pretty,” he murmured. “Tryin’ to take my time, is all.”

Your mouth opened in another quick gasp as his lips pressed onto the swollen bud of your clit. You felt his tongue dip out lazily, curled like a basin for collecting the arousal that had pooled for him. He licked up and up and up, before suckling on your sensitive bud again. He moaned with you when your head fell back, your fingers digging harder into the fenceline where you held yourself up.

"That's it, that's it," he cooed when he pulled away to blow gentle air against your pussy. "What a good girl you are, just want a little taste before I put my cock in ya."

Oh god, the old man really had a filthy mouth.

He was diving back in again, now with a finger to prod at your entrance. Your knees suddenly felt wobbly, hardly able to keep you standing.

He licked and sucked at your pussy like he’d been waiting for it, messy and hungry now, no patience left in him. His finger pushed inside, thick enough to make you gasp, your walls clenching down around it as he groaned into you.

"Ohhhh…" you chorused together.

"Fuck, you're tight," he breathed.

"Oh god, Joel." you said at the same time.

"I know, I know," he cooed again. His voice had gone dark and syrup-thick, coated in arousal, every word dragged rough from the back of his throat.

“Just gotta open ’er up,” he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh before looking back at where his finger disappeared inside you. “Ain’t no way my cock’s fittin’ in here before I get you ready.”

“It will,” you chanted, hips undulating up into his mouth. “It will, it will—”

He moaned at your eagerness, crooking his finger before pulling it out to the first knuckles, and inserting a second finger. You gasped, stretched over his thick digits, the ache of it full and perfect and worse because he looked so pleased with himself. Because he knew exactly where to press, where to push, how to lave his tongue over your clit until your body was singing his praise.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathed, watching your face as his fingers worked deeper. “There you go. There you go.”

Your head tipped back against the fence post, wood catching at your hair.

“She gonna squeeze my cock this tight too, huh?” he murmured, mouth brushing slick over your clit. “She likes my fingers in ’er.”

"Yes, yes, yes," you whispered, your eyes hooded but forcing yourself to watch him. Your other hand carded into his thick graying hair at the crown of his head, nails scraping through, and he made a rough, pleased sound into you. Almost a purr. Almost a growl. His eyes fluttered for half a second before he looked back up at you, mouth wet, beard shining, fingers still buried inside you.

"M'so close, Joel, so so close, pleeeaseee…"

"There's those sweet manners again, baby. Why don't you go ahead and beg me some more? Maybe I'll let you come right now, and then I'll make you come again around my cock. Huh? Sound good? Let me hear your pretty little begging again, baby, go on now."

He said it all while panting, tilting his head up so his eyes could watch you. You put on your best pout, bottom lip sticking out so he could see how much you really really wanted it.

"Pleeeeease, Joel, please—" you mewled, "your fingers feel so good, so thick, please let me come. I'll be good, I'll be good."

"Good girl," he murmured, breath hot against you, "go on, let me feel her soak me. Come, baby,"

It felt like your belly had been waiting for the words. The overwhelming build finally tipped, the wave cresting hard before crashing through you all at once. Your body went molten as you locked up around his fingers, pleasure coursing through your veins in hot, licking bursts. Your eyes squeezed shut, your mouth falling open around a low, obscene moan you had no control over.

Joel rocked you through it, fingers pushing in and out, fucking you with them while his tongue pressed gently at your overstimulated clit until you were twitching and pulling away from his mouth.

When he pulled his fingers from your walls, you nearly fell to the ground, your legs unable to hold you up. Joel caught you before you could drop, hands firm beneath your thighs as he lifted you fully against him, both your legs winding around his waist now. Lazily, sleepily, you watched him shrug out of his coat and throw it down over the grass. Your eyes were still too heavy to take all of him in properly, so your hands did it instead—big shoulders, broad chest, thick arms built from hard work and long hours.

Just as much a part of Jackson as you were. Maybe more.

He could do everything. It made you a little sick with envy, even now, even with your body still humming from his mouth and his fingers.

Joel saw your face change, but he was busy lowering you onto his coat, easing you down into the grass instead of keeping you pinned against the fence.

“What is it, baby?” he whispered, one hand cradling the back of your head as he settled over you. “What’s in that pretty little head of yours?”

He was half watching you, half working open his jeans until his cock was freed from the denim, heavy as it bobbed, flushed red and bobbing thick between you as he leaned closer.

You licked your lips, reaching for him, but Joel caught you by the wrist before your fingers could wrap around him. You gasped in surprise, but he only brought your hand to his mouth, kissing each pad of your fingers one by one.

“Don’t think I’ll last too long if you start that,” he murmured. “Tell me what’s goin’ on.”

You shook your head. “Nothing. You’re just…you’re so…”

You sighed dreamily, distracted by the feeling of his swollen, wet lips against the tips of your fingers.

“Old?” he offered. “Cranky? Rude?”

Your mouth twitched. “Yes, and…”

He laughed a little, but you went on anyway.

“I was just thinking about how perfect you are.”

Now he really smiled wide, shaking his head before nipping at your index finger. "Think you've got the wrong man, baby," he groaned a little, and then leaned over you.

You shook your head again, winding your arms around his neck, one hand cupping the nape of his hair while your nails scraped lightly along his scalp.

“Don’t think so.”

He hummed, kissing you again, and began to roll his hips against you so his cock slid up your belly, heavy and hot against your skin. The kiss deepened, lips slotting together, wet and tender, tongues sliding slow as your hands tightened in his hair and his weight settled over you.

“I don’t know if you’re gonna fit,” you whispered when he pulled his hips back too far and the head of his cock slipped up through the seam of your pussy.

He licked his lips, looking down at you. “Told ya I’d teach ya, didn’t I?”

You smiled, nodding. “M’nervous.”

“Don’t gotta be. I got ya, baby.” His thumb brushed along your hairline. “We’ll start nice and slow.”

He did as he said, sitting back a little just so he could grasp his cock in one hand, the other still cradling your head, petting your hair where it had fallen across his jacket. The head of him notched at your entrance, wet with arousal and spit, but the difference between two fingers and his cock suddenly felt impossible.

“Easy now,” he whispered, kissing your lips. “Take a breath for me, honey.”

You did as he said, for once without some retort, and pulled in a deep breath.

What started as control quickly turned into a gasp as he pushed inside.

“Oh fuck!” you squealed, clawing at his shoulders over his shirt.

He chuckled, and you wanted to slap him.

“Come on now, honey,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your open mouth. “You’re all tensin’ up. Curl your toes. Deep breaths. C’mere, gimme a kiss.”

Your toes curled automatically, did your best to pull in another breath, and he leaned down to kiss you earnestly, swallowing the next rough sound that left you as he pushed in another inch.

His tongue licked behind your teeth. His chest pressed yours down into the coat. The weight of him made the ground feel farther away somehow, the grass cool beneath your hips, his jacket bunched soft and worn under your shoulders.

“Oh yeah,” he breathed against your mouth, rougher now. “Ain’t that so good, baby? How’s that feel?”

Your head fell back onto the collar of his jacket. “Soooo…full. Fuck.”

“Almost all of it,” he murmured, jaw tight. “Just a little more. Pussy feels amazing, baby. S’like heaven.”

Your eyes squeezed shut as he pulled back a little, your mouth opening in a small, helpless shape when the drag of him caught every tender place he’d opened with his fingers.

“Yeah,” he sighed, watching your face. “There you go. She’s warmin’ up to me now.”

One of his hands slid from your hair to your throat, resting just beneath your jaw, not squeezing, only holding you there while his thumb brushed the jumping line of your pulse. "think she's even startin' to like me."

“You’re so corny,” you groaned, but your chastising cut off when he slid his cock in all the way, his heavy balls pressing against your ass at last.

“Oh—” you choked. “Oh, oh oh.”

Joel nodded like he felt it too, like he needed the confirmation just as badly as you did. Then he kissed you again, and you let him, loose and dazed beneath him, tongue sweeping out to taste his. You could still taste yourself there, musky and sweet on his mouth, and it made your walls contract around him.

Your body was starting to understand him now. The first sharp stretch softened into heat, your muscles loosening by degrees, letting him settle deeper until the fullness became less frightening and more necessary.

“Fuck,” he breathed, forehead pressing to yours. “You okay? How’re you feelin’, baby?”

“So good, Joel,” you whispered, fingers flexing in the fabric at his shoulders. “So good. Please, please fuck me.”

He groaned, ducking his face into your neck. “Gonna give it to you good, baby.”

He started slowly. Though, you weren't sure if he was exactly gentle. He was so big and there was too much of him for anything to feel really gentle. But he was careful, controlled in the sawing of his hips that pulled halfway out, and then pressing back in. Each stroke was concise, your fingers digging harder into his shirt, each little hiccup of air pressed from you.

His coat dragged beneath your back, the grass brushing cold against your bare thighs. Your sleep top had ridden up beneath your own jacket, leaving your stomach exposed to the morning air, but Joel was warm over you, broad and heavy and panting against your throat. Every time he pushed in, your body shifted against his, the ground catching you, the earth taking what the fence no longer had to.

The open air of the field collected your simpering sighs and loud, mewling moans, the day warming around you so that you saw sweat beginning to dapple his forehead when he brought his head up to look at you.

“So pretty, baby,” he breathed. “Such a pretty girl takin’ cock so well.”

You cried out when he changed the rhythm, picking up speed.

“I know, I know,” he moaned, his voice catching rough in his throat. “God, you feel so good, baby. Pussy feels like it was made for me, huh?”

“Yes, Joel, yes—ohhh, yes, yes, yes.”

“She’s tightenin’ up on me again,” he panted, eyes dragging over your face. “Gonna come for me already? What a good girl you are. C’mon, I wanna feel it around my cock.”

Your eyes widened when Joel’s hand slid down your body again, over your thigh, hooking it higher until your leg was thrown up over his shoulder. Your body folded beneath him, his cock reaching deeper as he leaned down into you.

“Fuck!” you squealed, holding tightly onto his hair.

He looked down at you with a little pout, a mock-sympathetic expression pulling at his mouth.

“Doin’ so good,” he murmured. “Takin’ my cock like such a good girl, baby. Come on now, let me feel her again. She feels like fuckin’ heaven.”

“Jooooel,” you whined.

But that crest of a wave was swelling worse now, higher, blood coursing hot through the river of your veins, sparking as it flooded your belly. Your hips tightened. Your muscles locked. Your whole body seemed to pull toward him, toward that hard, dragging stroke, toward the pressure building so tight you could hardly breathe around it.

“Oh god,” you gasped. “Oh god.”

“Make your old man happy, baby,” he panted, hips snapping harder now. “Come on my cock. Know you wanna. Know your pussy loves it.”

“Shut up,” you cried. “Shut up, shut up.”

He grabbed your face again, mock pout gone, teeth bared with the strain of holding himself together.

“Where are those sweet manners you had not too long ago?”

You squealed as he built up a faster rhythm. His hand hooked around your neck, pulling you up just enough to make you look down between your bodies, where his cock was splitting you open over and over.

“You see that, baby?” he groaned. “She’s milkin’ me. Beggin’ me to let her come, ain’t she? Look how good she’s takin’ me.”

“So good,” you murmured between moans.

It was true. His cock was covered with your thick arousal and come, pearly white and glistening around the shaft every time he pulled out, only to swing his hips back into you again.

“So why don’t you use those good manners and ask me?” he rasped. “Hm? Too proud already? Or are you too cock drunk?”

You pushed weakly against him, and he let you lay back down fully, following you down to kiss you. His mouth was wet, his breath uneven, his body still working yours into the coat beneath you.

“Gonna make me beg for it now, sweetheart?” he asked against your lips. “That it?”

You shook your head, too far gone to answer properly.

“I ain’t above beggin’,” he chuckled, though the sound broke wetly into a groan when you clenched around him again. “Wanna feel it so badly.”

He reached down between you, his thumb finding your swollen clit and strumming it with the perfect pressure.

Your eyes popped open, you didn’t even have time to beg. To ask. To tell him.

Your body locked up all at once, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure burst bright and black behind your lids. It tore through you in waves, hips jerking beneath him, thighs shaking where he had you folded open. Your mouth fell wide around a sound you barely recognized as yours.

Somewhere outside the buzzing of your orgasm, outside your own moans and the pulse pounding in your ears, you heard Joel groaning louder.

“That’s it,” he gritted against your cheek. “Fuck, that’s it, baby. Give it to me. Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”

His thrusts started to lose their rhythm, turning deeper, rougher, his hips driving into you with less control each time. His hand tightened at your jaw, his forehead pressing hot to yours mouth open against yours, and then he pushed into you one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go.

Joel groaned your name like it had been dragged from somewhere low in his chest, and then he filled you, cock pulsing inside you as his body went heavy over yours, his breath breaking against your mouth.

For a moment, neither of you moved. There was only breath.

Yours, thin, uneven, still catching in your dry throat when you tried to swallow. He felt heavy over you, his breath thick against your cheek. His weight felt good, like a blanket, though your legs had begun to cramp until he let your leg down.

The open summer morning moved on around you. It all came back to your ears eventually, the cricking of the open barn door, the horses in the pasture and the birds singing from far away. The field smelled like fresh grass and weeds and sunshine, Joel's coffee still faint on his breath.

You hummed against him as he kissed the crook of your neck, his mustache and beard prickly against you. He feathered his lips up your throat until they were over your own lips, which you pressed gently against his. He pulled back, just looking at you. And you did the same. You brought your hand up to his face slowly, tracing the line of his brow, down his sharp nose and over the bow of his top lip.

"You are so perfect." you said dreamily.

He breathed a little laugh through his nose, a crooked, disbelieving smile pulling his lips. A shyness you weren't sure you'd ever seen.

The heat between you had started to cool. Your skin prickled beneath your open jacket, the air finding every place his body didn’t cover. You shivered, and Joel noticed at once.

“Chilly?”

“Only a little.”

He sighed, like he hated that he had to move, then leaned down to press one more long, lingering kiss to your lips before sitting back.

You made a small sound when he pulled out of you, your body too sensitive for even that. Joel’s eyes dropped between you, his jaw tightening for a second at the sight of himself slipping free, slick and spent against your thigh.

"Poor baby," he said, his thumb reaching out to slide up your wet and abused folds. You whined at the touch, and he pouted down at you.

"Easy, easy, I know. Gonna take care of her when we get home."

He sat back on his heels and tucked himself away first, hands slower now, less steady than they’d been when he’d taken the rifle from you. Then he reached for your sleep pants where they’d been left in the grass, shook them once to knock off the loose dirt, and turned back to you.

You blinked up at him, limp and boneless, still spread over his coat.

Joel looked down at you for a second, one brow lifting. “Don’t make me do all the work now, baby.”

You smiled sleepily. “You seemed to like doing all the work a minute ago.”

His mouth pressed into a line, but it didn’t hide the amusement in his eyes. “Smart mouth,” he muttered.

Still, his hands were gentle when he guided one foot through the pant leg, then the other. He pulled the cotton up your calves carefully, pausing when the fabric caught at your knee, easing it loose before working it higher. You lifted your hips only when he tapped them, and even then, barely.

“There ya go,” he murmured, drawing the waistband back into place beneath your rumpled top. He helped you sit up slowly in his lap, one hand braced behind your back, the other fixing the front of your coat around you. His knuckles brushed your stomach as he straightened your shirt, then pulled the jacket closed enough to keep the morning air off your skin.

You stayed like that for a moment, hiked up over his thighs, and he let your limbs fold around him again, hands back into his messy hair.

"I meant it—you—" you began, then licked your lips, staring up into his pretty hazel eyes again, "you're good, Joel. You're perfect."

He opened his mouth to protest, but sighed instead.

"Thank you for bringing me out here," you went on, "I'm sorry if I was mean earlier."

He smiled crookedly, "I was too."

You shook your head, "You had reasons to be."

He leaned down and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to your lips, "Bakery is gonna be wonderin' where you are, we better get back."

You held on tight even when he began to move, and a little mischevious smile twitched your mouth.

"What?" he asked, smile growing.

"One more shot?"

thank you so much for reading! I love youuu!!!

[venusarchivess]

there’s just something about a pixelated man

[gutsby]

Birds & Bees

Pairing: Sex Ed!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel explains how babies are made.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Virginity loss. Creampie. Daddy kink. Girthy, unspecified age gap. Exhibitionism if you squint. Oral (m! and f! receiving). Breeding kink. Assplay. Intercrural sex. Soft dom!Joel. DD/lg dynamics and the use of anatomical terminology to describe various body parts—don’t like, don’t read.

Note: “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” is a song by Journey 🕺🏻

Another note: All characters involved in this story are adults. Reader is described as having grown up in isolation, without access to formal education, and as such, her understanding of the human body and sexual reproduction is limited. This is not a reflection of her intelligence or her ability to learn the topics.

Word count: 18.0k

Surely, it hurt.

It had to.

Whatever was happening in the confines of the bedroom next to yours, the woman didn’t sound like she was having fun. A sharp cry had startled you out of your sleep, only slightly muffled by the cabin’s walls, and when you were awake, you heard all of it. Everything.

“Tommy.” The voice rose, pitchy and shrill. “Pleeease!”

It sounded as if someone were begging for their life, frankly; the responding male groan was near-deafening. The quick, hollow thumps against the wall picked up, and before you could even begin to wonder at what that was from, you heard Tommy Miller’s voice rejoin in turn:

“You fuckin’ love it, don’t ya, baby?”

No, clearly, your wife is in pain.

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing with your own two ears; you and Joel had come to visit for the weekend, since the two of you lived a little ways away from Jackson and the balmy summer weather was too good not to travel. It wasn’t all that often you got to see Joel’s only living family, but whenever you did, it was fun. Tommy, his brother, and Maria really seemed to suit one another, and you relished any opportunity to be around other people. You didn’t get very much of that with Joel.

He was technically your closest, and oldest, neighbor.

Since your grandmother had passed some years back, he had taken it upon himself to care for you. At first, it’d been just a matter of stopping by every now and then to make sure you were fed, safe, and content, but that had morphed slowly over time to you moving into his place. Taking up residence in his little two-bedroom abode out in the middle of nowhere, and becoming something like a friend to him. A pet, a plaything, a ward—you weren’t totally sure what to call your relationship to Joel, seeing as though you’d never been anything to any man before.

That was one of the drawbacks to being born and raised in the remote, post-apocalyptic world as you were: pure naïveté. Not knowing one thing by way of societal norms.

You rushed over to his bed now, no hesitation stalling your limbs as you tore off his sheets in a state of panic:

“Joel!”

The man lay there, motionless. His big, broad, black-and-silver speckled chest rose up and down, again and again.

Joel always slept heavy as shit. He wore boxers and nothing more, which you were used to seeing by now.

And you felt such a singular familiarity with him after all this time that you didn’t think twice to climb into the bed, right on top of him. This was just Joel, after all.

Round, brown eyes flew open as soon as you did.

“Fuckin’ sh—” he started, voice thick with sleep.

“Joel, hurry!” you hissed. Straddling his hips, grabbing at his bare shoulders and shaking them as hard as you could. “T-Tommy’s hurtin’ Maria! We need to help.”

A low groan sounded in Joel’s throat—not entirely unlike the one that you’d heard from his brother through the wall, you thought for half a moment—and shortly, a set of hands landed on your waist. They squeezed you tight.

And, just as it seemed they were about to lift and nudge you sideways, you bore down. Insistent, and frowning.

“Just listen! Right now. Please, Joel, I-I’m serious.”

You were pleading with him now, unable to contain the fear in your tone as you clamped a hand over his mouth.

Honestly, you probably didn’t even need to do that—the room was dead quiet, save for the sounds of you and Joel’s breathing, the soft whistle of the wind, then—

“Ohhhh, fuck me! Tommy, it’s—shit!” Maria whimpered.

“You asked for it, baby. Wanted me poundin’ ya, huh?”

Tommy’s words seemed to bounce off of every surface in the room with a grating, nauseating turn. It made your eyes widen, and your palm press even tighter to Joel.

“See?! He—He’s hittin’ her! We gotta g—”

Joel groaned again. Louder, and more pointed this time.

You hadn’t realized it, but your thighs were holding pretty hard, too. Your groin was aligned perfectly with Joel’s, your weight was sinking down, and that touch was concentrated. If there had been any room to consider your current spot, you could’ve sworn you felt a…lump?

“Fuck,” Joel gritted through his teeth. Finally lifting you off him, and wincing as he did, he sat up. He met your gaze with a sharp, stern, and bewildered sort of look.

“What—” he panted, “—are ya talkin’ about, darlin’?”

“Don’t you hear it?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

You blinked.

“So…go!”

“What?”

“Stop ‘em.”

“From what?”

“Fightin’, Joel!”

Now, it was his turn to blink.

He waited several seconds, then continued.

“Babygirl, Tommy and Maria ain’t…ain’t havin’ no fight.”

For a while, you had only to stare back at him, confused.

The ride home was awkward.

Joel could feel it in his bones, beneath his skin, itching from within the deepest recesses of his body: that morning had changed things. For you and for him.

What he had come to suspect for the longest time—and what had only made sense, since the one, lone soul you’d known all your life until him had been your grandmother—was true. You didn’t know what sex was, or what it did.

Joel swallowed thickly, pretending not to be conscious of the warmth on his back. Your arms snug around him. Your cheek resting gently against the cotton duck fabric of his jacket while the two of you rode on horseback to get home, and a pout the size of Texas no doubt marring your pretty face. You’d been cross with him all that day.

“Venison and cornbread for supper. How ‘bout it?” He tried supplying his tone with some playful inflection, hoping to entice with the promise of your favorite meal.

Clearly, though, he would need to try harder.

You shrugged against him.

“Fine by me.”

Joel knew that tone. Could probably pinpoint with surgical precision what you were feeling before the emotion even rose to your eyes. He couldn’t see you now, but he could feel the frustration bleeding through your words. Being treated as if you were too young, too innocent, too dumb to be told this hurt, plain and simple.

He wrestled with this thought the whole way home, then trudging into the cabin that you’d been sharing for months. You strode ahead, steps brisk and decided, and you peeled off your long, light cardigan without a care in the world. You kicked off your boots and set them beside the rest of his in the mud room. Joel followed you, softly.

He set his hands on his hips after toeing off his own Luccheses, watching you and not knowing what to say.

Then you turned to face him.

The cough was both reflexive and immediate. Joel had never seen—hell, it’d been years since anybody, but this…this was even worse, more jarring than he ever…

He forced his gaze away in a blink. He coughed again.

“Sweetie,” Joel started, low. “I think your, uh—”

“Will you just tell me?” you snapped. You threw your hands up, as if sick of having had to hold your tongue this long. “Whatever was going on. With Tommy and Maria. I know you think I’m…I’m…young, or whatever, but, Joel, I am a full grown adult!” Another pause just long enough for you to gnaw at your bottom lip and cross your arms. Bad, bad move for Joel’s resolve. “Ain’t like it’s my fault I was born after outbreak and never learned.”

You were right.

Joel shouldn’t have been so narrow-minded.

Still, that didn’t change the fact that you were wearing what looked to be the most slight, translucent fucking frock of all time. Something short and sweet and swept up in a sea of white tulle: you could’ve been modeling for a wedding night lingerie specialty line, bare as you were.

He must’ve missed it under your sweater. Not turned his head to meet your eyes or your ensemble that morning before you climbed up on the horse behind him and set out. Joel knew he’d never seen this…thing once before.

Your tits practically spilled out of the top. Your arms remained crossed, and you eyed him with a wary look.

“Well?” you said.

“Well,” Joel repeated, still floundering for words. “Wh—Well, y’know, I…see, I’ve—I’ve been…‘S’always been…”

Shit.

He was tongue-tied.

More helpless than a fish trying to ride a bike.

And, like a teenager with an untimely boner growing in his jeans—even though, at his age, Joel couldn’t get bricked that quick if his life depended on it—he shuffled away. Sidestepped you in the hallway and made a beeline for the kitchen, where he could feel an odd stir start to take root in his lower half. He cursed the half-cocked mass in his pants and sincerely hoped it wouldn’t interfere with what he knew he needed to do now.

“I’ll…I’ll explain it, sweet pea. While we cook, OK?”

“Alright.” You started trailing behind him slowly.

You didn’t sound convinced. Joel wasn’t remotely disposed for the conversation awaiting him in the kitchen, or having to look you head-on while half your body was on display to him. You didn’t seem to see it.

You were as innocent and clueless as the moment you’d bat your lashes at him in the half light of the bedroom that morning, straddling his hips, and replying to his last quip by saying, ‘If they ain’t fightin’, what are they doin’?’

“Who gave you that dress, anyway?”

Joel retrieved the meat from the ice box, setting it out to let it thaw while you and him prepped the rest of the meal. Across the room, you were already grabbing some of the ingredients you’d need: flour, cornmeal, sugar, salt

“Maria,” you answered, simply. “She let me have whatever clothes of hers I wanted. ‘S’nice, ain’t it?”

“It looks like something you’d wear on your honeymoon.”

After turning to preheat the oven, Joel sidled up beside you. His gaze affixed itself to the counter through pure force of will, though in his periphery, he caught sight of the outline of your breasts. He tore open a bag of sugar.

Then you turned to him, voice rising a little:

“What’s a honeymoon?”

Joel couldn’t help it; he had to meet your eyes lifting to find his. Inside them, he saw genuine curiosity brimming.

Innocence, too.

“Just a, uh…trip that folks would take right after their wedding,” he said, before clearing his throat. “Vacation.”

“Oh.”

For a brief space of time, silence settled into the grooves and bumps of that slightly uncomfortable realization—what the world was like before it all splintered apart—and neither one of you tried to speak. You worked nimble fingers over the dry ingredients, Joel cracked eggs one by one, and together, you made relatively quick work of readying the cornbread mixture for baking. It was easy.

Stupidly, Joel thought that he might be off the hook in terms of not having to discuss the mechanics of marriage and sex to you then, when you piped up again.

“So this is what I’d be wearin’ after gettin’ hitched? Like…like Tommy and Maria did?” You licked sugar off your thumb before sliding the tray to him, and he took it.

“Yeah. I mean…”

Joel opened the oven door, and more carefully than he probably needed to do, pushed the baking dish inside it.

“…not immediately.”

When he had, you were right back beside him.

“Doin’ whatever we heard this morning, you think?”

The curiosity in your tone was unmistakable. Perhaps emboldened by the plain look of discomfort that was twisting his every feature, you could say it more freely.

Having sex, of course.

Why the hell hadn’t your grandma bothered to tell you?

“Yes,” Joel replied, stiff as anything. “That’s…part of it.”

“How much of it?”

“Well—”

“And why’d it sound like Maria was in pain?”

“Baby, that—that ain’t any real pain, I pr—”

“She was screamin’, Joel! Really hollerin’.”

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

He absolutely hated this.

With you pressed up beside him, eyes wide and glossy and shimmering with intrigue, his cock half-hard in his jeans and his mind thrumming with that constant, paralyzing thought—‘I promised I would keep her safe, not completely obliterate her innocence like this’—he balked. He took a step away from you and shook his head, like something had just rocked him to his core.

Your brows pinched.

“So then, what were they—”

“—can’t do this right now, sweetheart. ‘M’sorry.”

Joel’s whole chest seemed to cave with his sigh: the kind that reminded him how old he was, how naïve you were, and how wrong it would be if he gave you the wrong impression of sex. Make you afraid of it, or averse to it.

“We can go back to Jackson. Have one of them teachers in the schools explain it to you much better than I ever could.” Joel was walking to the pantry now, resealed food items cradled haphazardly in his arms. He didn’t slow.

And, before he had even gotten the chance to open the door, much to his shock and sheer, unmitigated dismay, he heard your voice again. Behind him, as defiant as ever.

“Whatever, Joel.”

Your voice was hard; he could feel the eye roll baked in. Then you stalked past him, straight for the living room.

Stomping ahead, and calling over your shoulder, you said: “If you won’t tell me, I’ll just ask some other guy to explain. Maybe the boys my age won’t be such prudes!”

It was the closest you’d ever gotten to downright bratty in your life. Joel had only to stand there, arms full of various powdered fixings and his jaw gone partly lax. He stared at your back, gaze following you as you went over to the den. You flopped onto the old and weathered sofa.

He dropped whatever he was holding then.

With something red-hot and ugly beginning to pool in his gut, mind reeling from the words you’d just spoken to him, Joel acted without thinking. Footsteps echoed.

“Darlin’.”

He wouldn’t get angry.

“Sweetheart. Sw—Hey. Look at me.”

That simply wasn’t in his nature. He loved you too much.

You turned to face him in your seat, and this time, Joel didn’t feign not to see you. Half-naked as you were, pert nipples poking through your dress and chest rising and falling in fast, shallow breaths, you looked like a dream.

So what if he couldn’t be with you how he wanted?

He could teach you, and that would be enough.

Joel tugged you back up onto your feet.

“Fine. You wanna learn about sex?”

As soon as he said it, your eyes went wider. A heat must have spread from your cheeks all the way down to your toes and strangled your tongue as it did, because all you could do was close and unclose your mouth, repeatedly.

How fast that brave, no-bullshit attitude was to disappear, Joel thought idly. He wanted to smile.

You didn’t even know what sex was, and still, as if by instinct, you knew that that word meant something.

It made you shift on your feet, toes curling.

“I, um…”

Huh.

“What?”

“It’s just…” you went on, sounding uncertain.

“Baby, if you can’t even stomach the word, I’d say we’d be better off saving this conversation for another day.”

That made you tense up again.

As if he’d just shocked you with a live wire, muscles jumping and skull surely shaking a, no, Joel, I can stomach it fine, I promise, you cut right back in.

Eyes lifting to his, bottom lip no longer snagged between your teeth, and then with your body lowering, slow, back down to take a seat on the sofa, you finally forced it out.

“Joel, I—I want you to teach me how to fuck. Really, I do.”

Well, shit.

Joel reckoned that had ‘pretty please’ beat all to hell.

Your words damn near knocked him sideways.

It was all the man could do to keep from keeling straight over and croaking on the spot—he had to get away from you, if only by a couple extra feet. He shuffled back. Stood at the center of the living room with his feet planted firmly in place, then tilted his head to you.

“And just where did you learn that word, young lady?”

Paternal condescension came too easy to him.

Joel blinked hard to keep his face in check.

You shrugged before him. Hummed back.

“Dunno. ‘S’what Maria said, right?” you replied, eyes locking with his. “Moanin’, ‘Fuck me, Tommy, pleee—’”

“That’s enough.” Joel held his hand up to stop you.

What was he going to do with you? Gaze glittering bright, lips parted, practically careening over the edge of your seat to hear the rest, while simultaneously looking terrified to learn for certain. You knew some words, but not other ones. You had an innocence and an obscenity bound up inside you at once. Joel was afraid to touch it.

“If I’m teachin’ you a thing…” he resumed, slow, stance widening where he stood and arms folding. “I mean one thing, sugar, we’re only using the clinical terms, y’hear?”

Joel scarcely had the words to describe the depth of his own emotion and what he felt toward you; he knew he’d need to keep some…distance when discussing this subject. Making his jargon dry, unappealing, and scientific seemed like the best way of doing that.

“Alright,” you said, tucking your legs underneath you.

Another beat of silence.

Another ripe, strangled breath slicing through his teeth.

“OK…” Joel went on, trying his best not to grimace. “Has anyone talked to you about the, uh…birds and the bees?”

“You mean dicks and vaginas?”

“Hey.”

Joel choked.

His hand scrubbed down his face in an almost vicious way, and he had to shield his stubbled mouth with his palm, for fear of another less-polite sound tumbling out.

Sat on the couch, you wore a faint, smug little smile.

“Sorry. Penises and vaginas,” you corrected yourself.

Again, Joel was blinking furiously, but now his index finger was lifting, too, pointing at you: ‘Thin ice, kid.’

You weren’t going to make this easy on him, clearly. Whether you were aware of the reasons why, or knew just how to wield your power over him was a separate question. Either way, Joel would need to keep moving.

So, pretending to clear a cough from his throat again, he went on. Recovering the grit to his voice, and scowling:

“Yes. Penises and vaginas. Pretty simple stuff, really.”

You raised your brows. Joel ignored it.

“Pole goes in the hole, and—”

“How’s it fit?” you cut in.

“What?”

Joel’s frown deepened. You sat straighter in your seat.

“I mean…every time I’ve seen one, it’s, um…wormy.”

Wormy?

“Wormy?” Joel returned immediately, in disbelief.

And he couldn’t contain the next, which all but launched itself off his tongue: “You’ve—You’ve seen a dick before?”

“Penis, Joel.”

“Penis.”

He sucked in a breath to try and calm himself, but the effort, evidently, was for nothing. He was near-seething.

You peered up at him.

“Just yours,” you said. A little sheepish. “Once or twice.”

Joel let the breath out. His mouth tightened.

“You’ve—” Then he stopped himself. The question was stupid; of course, you’d caught glimpses of him naked before. That was inevitable living in a house this small.

Before you could even try to apologize, he pressed on.

“OK, well, what’s…what the hell’s ‘wormy’ mean?”

“I dunno. Just, like, squishy and pink, I guess.”

“That’s—” Another brief pause. Joel had to steel himself right. “Well, hon, it doesn’t stay like that. It…It gets hard, when a man feels good. Helps him fit inside the woman.”

Not terrible.

Not perfect, but not terrible.

You perked up where you sat, and it was in that moment that Joel realized that his joints ached. His legs burned. The forearms crossed over his chest had unconsciously constricted tighter to the point that it was getting a little tough to breathe, so he released his hold. His hands fell to his sides at the same time you stood up in front of him

Damn that smile of yours.

Damn those gleaming eyes.

“Can you show me how?” you asked softly.

Your gaze trailed to his crotch, and Joel could feel it like a real, bona fide weight sinking him. It was curious. Sweet.

‘That ain’t right,’ was Joel’s first instinct, which he said.

Even faced with the stern, stormy exterior of a man no less than several decades your senior, though, you didn’t seem deterred by those words. If anything, it made the little tilt in your lips kick higher. You smiled lightly at him.

“How come?” you asked. “It’s just teachin’, Joel.”

Too easy.

Joel swallowed and shook his head.

“No. Sweetheart, teachin’s a whole other beast from…from me showin’ you what I mean. You gotta know that.”

Still, his eyes were glossing over, and a haze was settling over his mind like a mist in the sky just before the break of dawn. His limbs felt heavy, and his tongue went dry.

You were too fucking sly and sweet for your own good.

As if on cue, you drew closer to meet him where he stood. The hem of your dress shifted and swayed, barely long enough to scrape the tops of your thighs. Joel couldn’t bear to look higher, so he just stared at your legs. Scrambling like hell to come up with an excuse as to why he’d need to leave the room in less than a second, he wasn’t remotely prepared for what you ventured next.

You took the hem in your hands, and you lifted it.

Not just an inch or two but ten, easily, all the way until the fabric was touching your navel. The move exposed your entire lower half to him, and Joel found himself ogling a pair of bright, white, matching underwear.

Before he could move, you tilted your hips. As if showing him a new bump or bruise—which you often liked to do whenever you were hurt and needed attention—you said:

“Joel, look.”

He did.

He almost had to.

Old and awful and ashamed as he was, he couldn’t keep his eyes away. They were unblinking and ravenous, soaking in your form like a hunter surveying its next meal

Then you shifted on your delicate, socked feet.

“How ‘bout me? Can you show it on me?” you whispered.

Joel didn’t have the bandwidth to mince words right now

Teachin’, touchin’, lovin’, squeezin’—he had that craving.

One look between your legs and the man would’ve died on the spot if you told him. That was how needy he was.

Your fingers wavered a little when you didn’t hear a response. Joel was too busy eyeing you and trying not to drool, but the sight of you starting to lower your skirt snapped him out of it. He placed his hands on your waist.

“Wait.” Then, realizing how abrupt and sharp that sounded, he paused. He tried softening his tone a little. “Sorry. I mean. You…you want me to show ya, sweetie?”

Finally, his gaze slid up to meet yours.

You were watching him closely.

“If that’s…OK,” you said.

Well, shit.

Nothing would make him happier.

Still, fighting his base instincts, and just narrowly managing to keep his hold steady, Joel reeled it in.

Every thick, callused finger splayed across your sides was practically humming with primal energy; all the same, his love outweighed the lust. He lowered his voice to only the gentlest of tones and asked you, point-blank:

“Is that OK with you? Do you want me to teach you?”

Waves of chill bumps seemed to answer first: your skin, your eyes, your smile, every breath betraying that eager, nervous need. Then your grip moving from your dress. One hand clasping around his wrist and nudging it in.

You nodded.

You let him brush one sweaty palm across your skin.

Joel lowered without thinking. Sinking to the floor, onto his knees, felt like exactly what he needed to do, and he didn’t give a shit if it pulverized his joints beyond repair.

“Right here?” he breathed, now level with your heat.

Wooden floorboards creaked under his weight, and the air swelled thick and warm where he knelt. Sunlight streamed through the windows, bathing the space in a dreamlike sort of haze. Joel inhaled through his nose and almost pitched forward; you hummed your soft assent.

You didn’t know what you were doing then.

By what remaining, fraying thread of resolve the man possessed, Joel stopped himself before he went too far.

He blinked fast and moved his hands to your hips, just below where you were holding your dress’s hem for him.

Clinical.

Educational.

Fucking academic was what this would be.

“Anyone ever teach you about her?” Joel asked gently.

A ringing in his ears succeeded that question, louder than anything he’d ever experienced, and he looked up at you. You stared down at him, and one bat of your eyes was all it took to remind him he’d have to take this slow.

“Her?” you murmured.

“Yeah. Her.”

Joel wished his hands weren’t so big, seeing how easy it was to move his thumb: his palm glided across the slope of your tender mound, and in no time at all, he had a thick, callused pad stroking you over your panties. It traced your seam carefully—cautiously, like a single wrong move might wind up losing you to him forever—and then he searched your face. He swallowed, watching the features contort the slightest, slightest bit in yours.

Your breath hitched, and you whimpered.

You spread your thighs a little more.

“Private parts have…pronouns?”

That thumb swiped up. It grazed a tiny bud beneath cotton, and in under a second, your lips were twitching again. Your hips stirred, as if beyond your conscious control, and Joel eased off of you. He nodded his head.

“‘S’called a ‘vulva,’ baby.” Then his palm cupped it. Holding you in place, repeating: clinical, educational, academic like a broken refrain in his mind, over and over again. “This whole thing. Pronouns make it a little more personal, y’know? But can you repeat that word for me?”

“Vulva.”

The word was foreign on your tongue. You didn’t seem acquainted with the taste or the feel, and that forced a tiny line of worry between your eyebrows. Joel went on.

“Just like that, baby. Good. Reckon it’s best you learn about you before we take on any other stuff, for now.” Holding your heat like a weight in his hand, he crooked his fingers, and the pads grazed a smooth, clothed orifice. “Now what’s this called? You already said it.”

“The…um, vagina.” With a smidge more confidence, you still balked when his index and middle fingers prodded the fabric. That was all he needed for it—two tips poised above that tight, tender hole through the cotton of your underwear, and Joel could sense how acutely you felt it.

You shifted on your feet and let out a sharper noise. You clapped a hand to his shoulder and squeezed it, shortly.

“Joel.”

Then it felt like you were pulling back.

“What’s’a matter, baby? Everything alright?”

Inundated as he was with desire, Joel kept a firm grip over his self-control. His touch retracted from your heat.

“Y-Yeah. I’m fine. I just feel…”

A beat passed, and it seemed you were looking for words

“Is it normal? I feel a little…weird, and…and…”

Still searching. Joel was watching you closely, puzzled.

“Yeah, darlin’? What feels weird? Talk to me.”

At length, the internal foray ended, and you had only to clamp your other palm onto his shoulder, holding tight with both hands and letting your hem drop down again.

A sigh escaped you.

“Joel, I’m…I’m just…sticky down there.”

You said it, and at the same time, your thighs clenched.

Joel was no longer touching between your legs, but the gesture, along with your half-whispered, half-whimpered words nearly sucked him back in all over again. His head spun. His fingers were practically aching with need, wanting to tug your panties down and show you that this was a good thing, but, as before, restraint stopped him.

Instead, he nodded up at you.

With your palms pressing hard and your body positioned over him—towering, compared to his obeisant kneeling—Joel could only be sweet. Understanding. Softly coaxing.

“Yeah? Wanna show me, sweet pea?”

It took some more effort after that. Cajoling, for one thing, but also assuring you that the sticky, wet feeling you got between your thighs wasn’t something to hide but a perfectly normal, natural bodily function of yours. That it helped facilitate the act of sex, as a matter of fact.

“Means she’s happy,” Joel said, watching as you peeled your panties down—very nearly hearing the tacky sound.

Sure enough, the truth came to light. Quite literally, he was proven right with a pool of something thick and crystalline collected at the gusset of your undies; the stuff stretched in a half-dozen strings from the fabric to your drooling cunt, bared to him and pulsing with heat.

Clinical.

Educational.

Fucking academ—

“It hurts, Joel,” you said.

“Hurts?” Joel blinked once. “Where’s it—”

Suddenly, you were rubbing two fingers between your folds in a crude sort of way. Your underwear was in a puddle at your feet, and your free hand was back at the hem of your dress, lifting it slightly. Joel’s eyes widened.

“Right—Right here. It aches. Make it go away, please.”

“Baby—”

“Please, Joel. You said you would teach me, right?”

He did, of course.

He just never thought it’d include touching you half-nude

Leaning in on his knees, pretending he wasn’t decades your senior, chock-full of grays, and a man who had sworn to your grandmother that he would keep you safe. Ensuring you would be taken care of. Surely, that promise encompassed the perils of men and their darkest intentions, yet, here he was. Basking in your glow, reveling in the heat, sleek, and that fucking scent.

His lips were the first to give way.

They seemed to act of their own volition as they sank in to press a kiss between your own—lower, and wetter, but still your lips all the same—and they didn’t hesitate. They formed an ‘o’ directly over your throbbing clit and kissed.

Your stomach clenched in response. Your hips stuttered.

The hand that was clutching your dress jerked to Joel’s salt-and-pepper locks and made a fist, tight as anything.

‘Joel,’ you whined.

‘Joel,’ you pleaded.

‘Joel’ became the quietest, most plaintive refrain in a matter of seconds, with that old, lined, and weathered mouth latching onto your little nub and suckling her in.

Joel pulled off with a wet pop. He didn’t waste time.

“That’s your clitoris, sweetheart.” Hooded, hazy brown eyes drifted up to meet yours, while your legs trembled around his head. “Sensitive, ain’t she? Say ‘clit’ for me.”

Your jaw was slack.

Short, shallow gasps were working their way in and out of your lungs while it seemed you were trying to recover some semblance of propriety, but all that came out was:

“Joel…oh…oh…”

“‘Clit,’ baby. Say it back.”

Maybe that was mean. Hell, it definitely was.

Here you were, fighting to make sense of the wild, shocky feeling spiraling up from that tiny bundle of nerves, and he was making you talk your way through it. The smallest grin twitched at the corners of his lips, though he worked hard not to let it show too obviously.

He squeezed one of your thighs and forged on, soft.

“How’s about it? Got lots more ground to cover.”

You swallowed, finally blinking back at him.

“Cl—Clit. Can you kiss it again, please?”

And Joel did: to reward you, but also to contain the laughter that was no doubt about to be bubbling to the surface if he didn’t make use of that mouth of his, fast.

He kissed your clit like he’d done before, smiling against slick, sopping wet flesh and loving on it gently. He licked a ring around the hood and was about to use the tip to lift it up—to really hit your pleasure point and make you squirm—when another thought possessed him. Another step, another lesson, another far-too-tempting-to-resist spot where he might continue this campaign of erudition

“Ever heard of a thing called a ‘g-spot,’ baby?” Joel said.

You shook your head no.

With your hips tilted toward him and his head in the way, the fabric of your dress hadn’t slid down much since you’d let go, but all the same, Joel lifted a hand to grip the hem of it. He coaxed your fingers down while he did.

“Watch as you do it. I want you to put those pretty fingers to use, try and find that place. Can you do that?”

“Where?”

“Inside you.”

“But I—why?”

“Feels good, trust me.”

Your brows knit in that familiar way; Joel could fall apart with just one look at it. He didn’t press, even when your fingers fumbled down your tummy and made a pass through your legs—completely unaware of what those digits were meant to do and simply wanting to try. Perhaps you’d hoped to replicate the sensation he’d given you, too, or you wouldn’t have moved so quickly.

Swiftly slicking up your fingertips and toying, but making a face when it seemed like you couldn’t feel quite the same thing as you had before, you peered down at him.

“In here?” Your index hovered over a wet, dripping hole.

“Right there, baby. Push it in f’me if you can, alright?”

When you did, Joel had a front row seat; physically, he was no more than five or six inches away while you slid your small, trembling finger through the soaked band of muscle, but it felt like he was in you for the whole thing. Ogling the spectacle of your tight and untouched virgin cunt stretching, then hugging that little digit, before you whimpered and keened his name, was unlike anything he’d ever felt. He knelt between your legs and observed with all the outward practiced detachment of a doctor, though inside, he felt like every inch of him was on fire.

“It’s tight,” you whimpered.

“I know, honey, I kn—”

“I don’t like it.”

Right as your wrist flicked back to remove that finger, pussy stuffed too full and not in a good way, you’d evidently decided, Joel leapt to act. He didn’t even decide so much as he simply listened to your cries.

It hurts, you’d whined above him, Oh, Joel, please.

Suddenly, his thumb was rubbing your clit to dull the ache. Before your index could slide out, his own pushed in alongside it, coaxing that tight, wet ring to stretch with the heft and grit of his hand. Decades of experience preceded him, which made him confident in his words of assurance then—even when you grimaced and groaned.

“You’re OK,” Joel mumbled, nodding when you winced. “You’re alright, just stings a little bein’ stretched, huh?”

“Y-You said it would feel good,” you keened, mournful.

Clearly trying to buck that uncomfortable feeling, you moved back. You stumbled, as your ankles were still trapped within your panties, and Joel had to catch you.

You were close to the sofa; he nudged you toward it, swift enough that he didn’t need to move his hand and simply guided you onto the wide, cushioned armrest. Your feet kicked off the cotton, and in a second, you were sitting—straddling—that spot. Joel stepped even closer.

His finger sank another inch, and you looked fit to be tied

“I said, I don’t—” you started, sharp.

“—know where it is. Lemme help you.”

Joel had another half-minute, maybe. Laying sprawled out like you were, still impaled by his finger and yours, you clearly weren’t a fan of this feeling and would be shoving him off at any second. He’d have to be quick.

So, steeling himself and standing over you on the couch, he pushed in. To the knuckle. His pointer finger was big and warm and ribbed all over with little calluses, and it probably felt like a hot poker was forcing its way inside of your too-tight cunt beside your index, but Joel kept at it. Your muscles pulsed again, a tiny line or two of moisture crawling down his palm with the excess of your desire leaking out, and you grit your teeth. Your heels dug into the couch, and just when it appeared you’d had enough, he felt it. The tip of that probing digit brushed the place.

It was spongy and slick. Solid, but not without some give

Touching it made you squirm worse than anything.

Or, better might be a more accurate assessment.

“Oh, baby,” Joel said, relief flooding his tone as he saw it. “That’s the spot, ain’t it? That’s that special spot, there.”

Your reply was a light grunt when he stroked it again.

It was like you weren’t quite sure how to answer for it—your body, however, gave its resounding approbation when your walls bore down again and squeezed him.

Clearly, this wasn’t a pained hug. You wanted more.

“Remember what we call this spot, sweetheart?”

Syrup practically dripped from every syllable, and Joel didn’t refrain from leaning in. Pressing his forehead to yours, bracing his free hand against the sofa cushion behind you, the old man worked his finger back and forth. He dragged your smaller one with it, and he grinned when a hoarse little cry leapt out of your throat.

That wasn’t an answer, unfortunately.

Joel held the couch even harder and sawed his finger in and out, grazing that special place with every movement.

“C’mon, darlin’, I know you ain’t forgot it already.”

Your pussy was as full as it had ever been and making wet, squelching sounds each time that your finger and his moved through it. Clearly, your mind wasn’t firing on all cylinders, simply soaking in the sensations as you whined, moaned, and rutted your hips. Just precious.

Joel wasn’t letting you off that easy, though.

Still stroking, still petting that sensitive flesh, he went on:

“Is this what we call your…clit, honey? Is that what it is?”

Without warning, he pushed a second finger inside, and you hissed. Your own index slid out instinctively, and as if knowing the rest of it by heart, you started rubbing that sweet, pulsing, needy nub like your life depended on it.

“N-N-No, this—this is it,” you stuttered. Overcome with the wishing and waiting—wanting to show him what you’d learned, as well—you were keen. “This is my clit.”

Pleasure must’ve bloomed through your lower half when you said it, because your next words were swallowed up in a strangled moan. You tried lifting your hips instead, seeming to say to him: ‘See? I’m really learning, Joel.’

A grin sabotaged his face, and he couldn’t contain the urge; Joel leaned in and kissed your forehead. He tilted his chin to steal a glance where you were touching yourself, seeing how urgent those little circles were getting to be, and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe. Pride. He halted his ministrations just long enough to take a seat on the old couch and pull you into his lap.

Now cradling you, placing sporadic and comforting kisses along your hairline as he returned his fingers to your heat, Joel felt he could’ve melted between the cushions with just one whimper from your lips—that was how thoroughly you’d softened him already. He loved it.

“Very good, baby, that’s your clit.” His thumb covered yours easily and helped it draw little lemniscates over the bud, which made you squirm on top of him. You bit down on your bottom lip when he scissored his fingers inside you. Then he curled them and brushed that place again. “And what’s this, sweetie? Remember what we call her?”

Your brow furrowed.

Clearly, you were trying to think while the pleasure mounted and spiraled. You tilted your chin to him.

“It’s…It’s my g-spot, right?” you ventured softly.

“Exactly right,” Joel cooed in your ear.

As if to reward you for it, he curled his fingers and tapped that sensitive, special spot over and over again, knowing just what kind of effect it would have on you then. Your breath hitched, and your reflexes sent you lurching toward his chest. You clawed at his t-shirt.

Joel was certain he’d never seen something so goddamn endearing in his life. His smile widened, and he hugged you to him even tighter, not wanting to lose sight of you for even a second. Your legs trembled around his hand.

He nuzzled your cheek.

“That’s it. Good girl.”

Another clench.

“Daddy’s girl.”

And, as soon as he said the words, your chest heaved. Be it a breath, a whimper, a moan, your whole frame shook with the movement, and suddenly you were peering up at him through your lashes and staring, all glossy-eyed.

“Wh-What?” you stammered.

One more plunge of his fingers, and you keened. You looked bewildered, beleaguered, practically bursting at the seams and having only to meet his gaze and squeeze

You were close.

Joel could hear it.

“Daddy?” you repeated, breaths ragged.

Of course, you’d never heard that one before. Joel just nodded his head and let you bask in it—that feeling of wild curiosity. Perhaps not everything would compute.

He could teach you, but you might not get it just yet.

Seeing this look, and sensing how close you were to your climax, Joel leaned close and kissed your temple before murmuring, low: “Yeah. ‘M’not your old man, but that’s another word folks like to use sometimes. If you like it, then that’s all it’s gotta be. Our own little special thing.”

Your fingers tightened at his collar, like a wave was overtaking your body and you couldn’t control it.

Joel foresaw the question before it even arose.

“You doin’ OK, sweetheart? Feelin’ alright?”

“I—I don’t know. It kinda…sorta feels…”

“What? You got a funny feelin’, baby?”

You nodded.

His fingers had been stretching and pumping and pushing all kinds of fiery sensations inside that tiny space, feeling wet muscles contract around him—it didn’t surprise him in the least that you needed some extra time to come. You didn’t even know what it was.

“That’s an orgasm, honey. ‘S’a good thing. Real good feelin’, if you just let it build and build for a little bit lo—”

“Wanna stop,” you hiccuped. “Feels like I’m gonna pee.”

Joel had to hide a grin behind a bevy of kisses. He kept cradling you, kept fingering your soaked pussy with all the soft, practiced resolve of a man much gentler than he’d ever known himself to be. You weren’t pushing him away; he wouldn’t force you toward it. He just wanted to guide you to a path that would give you replete pleasure.

Hell, maybe he could even get you to squirt.

“You’re not gonna pee,” Joel assured you gently. “Even if you did, I wouldn’t care. You know your pleasure’s the most important thing, right? ‘S’why I’m here, baby.”

It seemed to strike you at almost the same moment it did him: this was not only for you, but about you. More than a step above simple pedagogy, Joel was trying to make sure you understood all the inner-workings of sex.

“That’s makin’ love, y’know? Takin’ somebody’s pleasure into your hands and treatin’ them right. Makin’ it…good.”

“Makin’ love,” you repeated, just like you’d done for every other term he’d taught you that day. You drew in a breath

And, at the same time that Joel’s movements slowed with his speech—fingers pumping slower, deeper, to make your insides all but strangle him with just how good it made you feel—something stirred in him, too. Hell, it was the first real movement he’d had in ages.

Decades, maybe.

Thank the stage of life that he was in, his lack of access to peri-geriatric care, or his blasted uncooperative cock, but the man hadn’t had a real, bona fide erection in a long time. He’d figured that that would help keep his urges at bay while he was teaching you these things.

Now he was almost fully hard in his jeans. You were about to finish all over his fingers, and then what?

“Daddy,” you whimpered. Your feet kicked and inadvertently brushed over the bulge in his pants. “Faster, please. I—I think that feels even better f’me.”

Joel couldn’t have you see it, or feel it, or know exactly what you were doing to him and think that you were in some way responsible for helping out with the rest. No, he wouldn’t allow that. This wasn’t about him getting off.

He slid your body back. He slotted his own, head-first, between your legs and dove in. Out of sight, he started to grind his lower half into the sofa, but only after you’d taken hold of his hair and rocked your hips into his face.

That’s it.

This is for you.

“Daddy’s gonna take real good care of her,” Joel said, as if finishing the thoughts that were brewing in his head. “You just lie back an’ close your eyes. Soak it all in, OK?”

And you did.

When he reared back and spit on your pussy, smeared it in with his fingers and panted again, just for good measure, ‘What’s the word for all this, baby? What do we call her?’, you raggedly answered. You told him that it was your vulva, and then you moaned so loudly that Joel thought it might blow his eardrums out. He rutted his denim-clad cock into the couch and kept going. Pleasure spiraled from some of the furthest recesses of his gut, and he dragged his warm, wet, silver-stubbled mouth up your slit, glistening with saliva and your own arousal.

“Smart girl,” Joel murmured appreciatively. Licking lines around your clit, before dropping a quick kiss over it. “And what’s this little button called, baby? It feel good?”

You replied by digging your heels into the couch first, head lolling back on the armrest. Then, light as anything:

“My clit. It—It feels so good when you do that, Daddy.”

“When Daddy kisses her and licks on her some?”

“Gives me that…funny feelin’ all over again.”

Joel could say the same for himself. Something tightened in his balls, right as he humped the cushion with a little more force, and then he knew it, without a shadow of a doubt—that old, worn, once-dysfunctional member of his was now engorged with blood and stiff. He could probably fuck his fist once and blow his load.

He tried to ignore it.

He pushed two fingers to the rim of your cunt, feeling tender, taut flesh bar his entry again, and he worked his way through it. Delicate as ever, your hole spread for him.

“And this?” he asked.

You told him.

He slid in deeper, and before he could even inquire after that ridged, sensitive wall of your insides, you stuttered:

“Th-That one’s my g-spot, Daddy. That’s—That’s—”

Joel sucked your throbbing clit between his lips and flicked the tip of his tongue, just as his fingers curved in.

“That feels good, Daddy, please.”

Your pussy pulsed against him; it wet his silver beard in streaks and left him groaning between your legs, dry-humping the old couch like he was an animal in heat.

He was much, much too old for you.

This was just a learning experience.

One measly orgasm and then he’d—

“Faster, faster, Daddy. P-P-Please.”

Joel pistoned his fingers and flicked his tongue and sucked mercilessly on that little nub until you squealed.

“Let it happen, baby. Come for Daddy,” he beckoned.

“Come? Where?”

“Here.”

And with that, Joel crooked his fingers one last time and made you finish on his tongue. You didn’t squirt, but your whole body convulsed, and you kicked your feet and made those pretty little whiney sounds and pulled his hair—as if you were stunned by whatever was happening to your body, your thighs clenched around his head and damn near yanked out half the grays. Joel kept licking and fingering and mumbling sweet nothings all the while

Pretty girl.

Precious girl.

Daddy’s girl—you were everything, everything to him.

Heat flooded his jeans, and he didn’t even realize it.

It took him more than a couple seconds; he’d just finished lapping up the last of your release and was trying to catch his breath, panting and blinking and savoring your taste, when that recognition dawned.

The man had reached his peak entirely untouched.

Sticky and warm, trickling down his front, it went quietly.

Joel swallowed and propped himself up on an elbow, meeting your gaze with a hot and semi-hooded stare.

He needed to clean up. He needed to get out of there.

Suddenly, you reached for him, fingers outstretched.

“Daddy.”

It sounded so sweet—still as innocent as ever.

You had no fucking idea how badly he wanted you now. How much he hated himself for even taking as much as he had. But he did, and nothing else would take it back.

He really, really needed to go.

“Are we gonna make love now?” Your smile was crooked.

Joel sat up. His mind was clear. Conscience was fucked.

He shook his head as he wiped his mouth of you.

“No. We aren’t,” he answered, pushing to stand.

He turned before you could see the spot in his jeans. Before you could protest, he hardened his voice out of necessity and, already striding from the couch, said:

“Lesson’s over. Put on your underwear, sweetheart.”

The look you gave him then could’ve broken him in two. It was raw and soft and hurt, clearly. You blinked a little faster as you sat up, dress falling back down to cover your modesty and everything the two of you had done.

“But—”

“Don’t talk back to me, neither,” Joel forged on, despising every syllable coming out of his mouth. He was already at the threshold of the room and turning away. “Whatever happened today was teachin’, remember?”

You blinked again, eyes glossier than a moment before.

You rocked back on your heels and tried to stand, but Joel was already retreating. He pursed his lips together, throat clearing and the most flimsy, pathetic veneer of paternal concern working to stabilize his tone. It failed.

“B-But, Daddy, I—I thought—”

His voice audibly cracked when he curtailed your speech.

“Ain’t nothing, honey.” He shook his head against the lie. “This was wrong. If you wanna pout and whine ‘bout it, best head into your room, ‘cause I don’t wanna hear it.”

That made your lip curl in surprise. Soft, muted fury.

You made a fist at your side as he turned on his heel.

And, though he tried moving fast—pretending to shrug off the moment and trudge his way out through the door like nothing had happened—he evidently couldn’t make it quick enough. Over his shoulder, he heard your voice.

Having just made it onto the porch and felt the warmth of the outdoors on his skin, it was as faint as anything. A slight breeze, along with the crushing weight of knowing how badly he was fucking this up, greeted him swiftly, but not before your words reached him. Joel swallowed.

That hurt just about as bad as anything he’d ever felt.

He knew he was wrong, especially hearing you sob:

“Daddy, please come back.”

Your body was abuzz from head to toe.

Anticipation was one thing, and hatred was another—both feelings seemed to be at war within you constantly.

Though, really, you didn’t hate Joel, and judging by the way things had panned out lately, you likely never could. A week had passed since your little ‘lesson’ with the man, and nothing had ever made you feel so shaken. Or lonely.

One moment being the most precious thing in a person’s eyes, only to fall from that staggering height to nothing. Joel had up and left and brushed you to the wayside, leaving you to clench your fists and kick and cry like a child throwing a fit. But you weren’t. You were a full-grown adult trying to learn what sex meant, and damn if you didn’t feel the sting of being abandoned so easily.

You wanted to hate him more than anything else.

You wished with every fiber in your being not to need a man like him, but you did. It confused you, particularly during moments like these when you’d sneak off to his bedroom in the early morning hours—he’d offered to take you fishing that day, and you’d declined. Now you were in this cabin alone, sifting through all his jackets, flannels, and chambray shirts hanging in the closet and hoping you’d locate one that smelled the most like him.

One you could get off with, maybe.

“Ow,” you murmured presently, having hit your knee on the little hickory nightstand before clambering into bed.

You slid the long-sleeve on. You shuffled forward for a pillow, then grabbed it. Following the same four or five steps you’d been replicating since That Day—seeking identical pleasure and failing spectacularly each time—you stuffed the big, bulky, feather-filled cushion between your thighs and pressed on. You let your eyes droop shut.

Good girl.

Daddy’s girl.

‘S’what you are, right? All mi—

You pivoted and gripped the footboard, bracing your knees even harder against the bed. So what if you needed to wear his shirts and reminisce on all the delicious, filthy words he’d spoken to you just days ago? It wasn’t like you were wailing for the guy’s attention.

That would have been embarrassing. Sad, and all-too predictable for a girl who had been raised without the influence of a male all her life—weepy and needy wasn’t what you hoped to emulate. You wanted to be tough and self-sufficient, just like it appeared Joel had always been.

You wanted to eat, sleep, read and write and cry yourself to sleep whenever you needed it, alone, so long as it meant you wouldn’t have to feel what you had back then, rejected by someone else. That, more than anything, made you realize how dependent you truly were.

This wasn’t working.

After five minutes humping at a pillow like your clit was on fire, you didn’t feel a thing. Well, other than defeat.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” You tugged Joel’s shirt tighter around you, blew out a breath, and leaned back.

Your eyes scanned the room—for what, you weren’t sure.

You’d been in here plenty of times before, whether you were cleaning or doing Joel’s laundry or whatever the case may have been, so your surroundings were familiar: old, five-drawer dresser across the way, stacks of quilts that should’ve been shelved ages ago, little trinkets here and there, a canteen hanging off the side of a ladder back chair, and then a desk, wide and shining and empty.

Finely ground specks of pine littered the surface of it.

This was where Joel did his woodworking. Off to the side, a partway-whittled bucking bronc stood, aloof.

You rose from the bed and walked to it.

Maybe—most likely—you were stupid. Joel had all but told you this to your face. Your fingers were small and helpless, and they couldn’t reach nearly close enough to where you needed them; they didn’t know what to touch.

What if you just…

Your brain didn’t get the chance to finish that thought. Your body acted first, and time sped up as soon as it did.

Before you knew it—and damn, were you so, so stupid—you had a hand on a tool. Vaguely recalling the name, some quarter-inch straight chisel or other, you held it up. Set it down. Shook your head, like this was the single dumbest idea you’d had in your life, then took it again.

You grabbed it and examined the handle briefly.

It was wooden and rounded, maybe three inches in diameter. Five inches long. You hadn’t the faintest idea as to what the appropriate size for a…substitute should be, or what the real deal even looked like, for that matter. All you knew was that man parts were hard, and probably much longer than any one of your fingers. You sat up on the woodworking stool and slid the chisel between the tails of Joel’s worn, buttoned shirt.

You were wet. That was the byproduct of thinking of him and humping a pillow mercilessly, plus brushing your fingers through your folds a few times that morning.

But you were tight, too. As if trying to stick your finger through a concrete wall, your walls wouldn’t budge an inch. If anything, the more you tried it, the more your body started clamming up and shutting anything out. You held the tool upright in your fist, tried sinking down, and, in a too-quick move, damn near slip-n-slided your silly, virginal rear end off the chair and onto the floor. You clamped your legs together and let out a wretched sigh.

“Just…go…inside,” you pleaded helplessly. Missing Joel’s thick, callused fingers and wishing he wasn’t such a dick, you tried thinking of him. Attempted imagining his voice.

“Hey, sweetheart?”

Then the bedroom door flew open.

Your hand released, and immediately, you jumped in place. Out of habit, your palms slammed on the table, like, I have nothing to hide, and you made a pass for the half-finished horse figurine. You grabbed it thoughtlessly.

Right as you flipped the thing upside down, pretending to study the base and looking for anything to fix your gaze on, Joel walked in. His footfalls echoed behind you.

A light touch grazed the nape of your neck.

“Hi, baby.”

“Hi, Daddy.”

It slid out without you thinking, like that was natural.

You tried covering it up as quick as you could anyhow.

Turning to face him, chisel still trapped between your thighs, and wearing nothing but the shirt on your back which also happened to be his, you held your arms out.

For the first time in a week, you smiled at him.

Joel hugged you after you set his latest creation down, and you could feel how surprised he was in that embrace. You hadn’t gone near him in days, and the last things you’d said to him, apart from, ‘No, thanks’ when he’d asked you to tag along on his fishing trip that morning, had been, ‘Whatever’ and ‘Leave me alone.’

You were bratty and full of anger. Who could blame you?

Now you were back to being his pet, or at least behaving like it. Joel seemed to heave the smallest sigh of relief as he stroked your head, kissed the crown of it, and rubbed your back. Told you all about the trout that he’d caught and the bear tracks he found, the sights he wished you’d been there to see and the flowers that he picked for you.

“Sittin’ in a jug in the kitchen if you wanna see ‘em,” Joel said, eyes glittering as he stroked your cheek. He really did seem to miss touching. “Lupines, just like you like.”

You tilted your face away from his fingers, smile tight.

“Thank you, Joel. I appreciate that.”

And, although the words, along with the slight movement away from his touch, were likely more than enough to clue him into the fact that you were still cagey—maybe turn a weaker man away from you, discouraged—Joel just stood straighter. Hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and surveyed the table out in front of you.

“I’ll clean the fish. You sit back, sniff them pretty flowers I picked ya, and afterward, I’ll show you how to whittle. How’s that sound?” The man wore an easy look. Underneath several decades of wrinkles, you could make out an expression that was lighthearted and jovial still.

You had a wood chisel about one inch shy of your pussy.

With that in mind, you shook your head and pressed on:

“I wanna try learnin’ on my own first. That’s what I’ve been doing, sittin’ here and admiring your handiwork.”

Lie.

“Get started in the kitchen, and I’ll be out in a little bit. Wanna try the, um…push-cut technique I read about.”

Whatever that fucking means.

You’d heard Joel mention it maybe once.

In reality, you simply needed an excuse to get him out of your hair so he wouldn’t notice that you weren’t wearing pants underneath that oversized long-sleeve shirt of his.

“Well, shoot, I can show you that right now, sweetie.”

Before you could protest his kindness, Joel bent over you, over the table, and reached for a coffee can full of loose materials. He took what seemed like a regular knife

If looks could kill, the man would’ve dropped on the spot.

Your body sagged a little in your seat, and you crossed your thighs tighter to make sure that the tiny metal-and-wood gadget in between them wouldn’t budge an inch.

Joel held his project up to the light.

“See…whatever you do, you gotta keep a real tight grip on the base. Like this.” He demonstrated by holding the flared bottom of the woodblock. “Wrist is always steady.”

Just shoot you in the head.

Wondering if tetanus might not be a legitimate concern in the event that the rusted chisel nicked your skin, you sat in stiffened silence. You listened to Joel wax poetic on finding the grain, saw how invested he was in sharing all the things he knew about his beloved hobby, and felt his palm fall next to yours on the table. He nudged you playfully, and the warmth of that touch made it hard not to remember. Just a week ago, the two of you together.

Then nothing.

‘This was wrong.’

“Wanna try it out yourself?”

Joel was still standing over you, still smiling, and the look on his face as he held out that mini cottonwood figurine made you want to say yes. You lifted your hand to take it.

Then Joel glanced down, grin stretching wider still.

“Gonna wanna use the quarter-inch straight chisel, hon. Why don’t you take that out from in between your legs and hand it over to me?” he pressed. He didn’t blink.

For a second, your world stood still.

Your breath hitched in your throat.

Meanwhile, Joel’s was flowing easy. He extended his free hand out to you, crooking his fingers in a ‘give it’ motion.

You didn’t think—probably couldn’t have done it anyway. Your eyes were glazed, and your heart was thrumming at at least a hundred beats per minute while you unstuck your legs from the seat. Numbly, you parted your thighs.

You pried the little chisel out of place and held it, shaky.

Joel’s expression above you was bafflingly calm. Like this was an everyday occurrence, he just took the tool that you’d retrieved for him, and then he turned it in his hands. Gave you a once-over that seemed curious.

Amused, even.

“I’m sorry,” you spit out. “It’s…It’s gross, I know. I’m—”

“—not mad at you, darlin’. Ain’t a thing to be sorry for.”

Joel shook his head, and in that low, rasping drawl, you sensed more than just an effort to console. His words were slow, like he was spoon-feeding you honey, and affection bled through every note. He focused on you.

His expression softened even more, if that were possible.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, darlin’. This is my fault.”

You stood.

You didn’t wait for him to tell you not to go, and you moved to leave. More than halfway across the room, you only stopped when he stepped in front of you, hands out.

Pleading with you gently.

“Baby—”

“Stop calling me that!” you snapped, all rancor and heat. “Quit callin’ me sweetheart, and honey, and darlin’, and whatever other name you think’ll make this all OK again.”

You could barely think having him this close to you, but you went on anyway: “Wouldn’t hear one word of that when you left me alone last week. We did what we did, and then you made me feel like I did something wrong!”

Joel’s expression splintered on hearing that. Above you, it was clear that there was a pain behind it—he wanted to reach out and touch you—but he had to control himself. Instead, he swallowed the big lump and shook his head.

“Wasn’t nothin’…nothin’ wrong that you did,” he croaked.

“Was it?” you said, voice cracking in the same way. “Because you haven’t been able to look at me all week, and every time it feels like we might talk, you just leave.”

“‘Cause I was in the wrong. I shouldn’t have done any of those things and…and stolen your innocence from you.”

“But I asked you to!”

“Don’t make no difference. ‘M’too old, and I shouldn’t—”

“—leave me to feel like I’m an idiot!”

“You’re not—”

“Like I’m broken and useless and stupid.”

You probably could’ve talked until you were blue in the face, and Joel’s expression only would’ve grown more distraught. He ran a hand through curls of black and gray and seemed to be making a concerted effort not to let his fingers shake as he did. He faltered in front of you.

He felt for his breast pocket, brows bunching together.

“Baby, you gotta…” He stopped himself shortly. Swallowed like something got stuck in his throat. “Believe me, ain’t none of that true. Wasn’t nothin’ you did—and you shouldn’t feel like you need to be usin’ my woodworking tools, neither…Should be somethin’…real.”

You couldn’t read his expression at the last.

Still, you knew what you hoped it meant.

“So show me,” you said. “Teach me.”

Your voice was weak. His lowered.

“You know why I can’t do that.”

Every spot, scar, and wrinkle gracing those weathered, middle-aged features seemed to harden at once. He wore a stern look, like a father’s, and didn’t budge when you reached out to touch. Just lifted a hand to his chest.

And, sliding something small out of his breast pocket:

“I stopped into town. Got you this.”

A little hand-held mirror.

You took it.

What for?

And you asked him that.

Watched Joel shift from foot to foot as you held it up.

The look in his eyes should have been answer enough. They told you, without prevarication, what this mirror was for. It was up to you to make sense of it yourself.

You took a seat on the bed.

Joel’s bed, big, broad, and soft as a cloud, made for the perfect space to do this. You didn’t have to think about it.

“Like this?” you asked him.

Joel stiffened where he stood. The moment you leaned back and set your heels apart on the bed—facing him directly, with nothing but his shirttails keeping you covered then—he scrubbed a hand down his beard.

He stared no lower than your collarbone.

You sat the mirror between your legs.

“Not here,” Joel said, jaw clenched.

The glass was rounded with a handle.

Perfect for holding it an inch away from—

“Baby,” Joel cut in, a little more choked. “I meant alone.”

“Then go.”

You were tired of feeling spineless—something naïve and meek and incapable of doing things on her own. Guilty as Joel may have felt, it didn’t change the fact that you had needs, same as him. If he didn’t want to see this, so be it.

You lifted the ends of your shirt to take a look at yourself.

The mirror was propped up on the comforter, affording you a near-perfect view of what had made you curious.

She was pretty. Plush. Simple.

You’d never gotten a glimpse at her from an angle like this, but with one look, you realized why the female form had held so many captive for as long as the human race existed. You had power—real, tangible power—inside it.

Joel’s mind seemed to mirror your every thought to a T.

His gaze had tripped from your neck to your shoulders, down your stomach and toward your center. Once it landed on open, dripping folds, it was like they froze him.

Rooting the stubborn, stern, frowning old man into place, your pussy worked like a spell. That knowledge alone was enough to send your muscles pulsing for him.

For yourself, you corrected.

Your pleasure came first.

“Baby…” Joel trailed off.

He stared, and he sulked, right as your middle and ring fingers teased a line up your aching slit. You were so wet that the most featherlight of touches got them soaked.

Joel swallowed again, bracing both hands on his hips.

“Darlin’—”

“What did I say about names, Daddy?” you cut in. You teased him with the D-word at the same time you found your clit, and a ripple of pleasure pulsed through you. “Don’t talk sweet if you’re not gonna treat me like it.”

You surprised yourself with just how steady you spoke. Similarly, Joel seemed to be stunned himself. He took a step forward so that he’d be stood at the foot of the bed.

“‘M’always sweet on you,” he mumbled. “…ain’t I?”

“Maybe when you feel like it,” you countered.

You made a messy circle with your fingers.

Then another, and another, and another. Sensations rose sharp and hot, further heightened by eyes on your body.

“When you need it,” Joel rebutted once more.

His voice was stern. Underneath it, though, a tortured man was trying to claw his way out. Fighting for control.

Losing the battle momentarily, he leaned in.

Hands still on his hips, eyes still glued between your legs, in an act that you would’ve deemed crude were it done just about anywhere else, Joel bent forward and spit.

A glob of saliva landed squarely between your fingers, almost too perfect for you to believe after you’d seen it.

But then you felt it: warm moisture mixing with yours, motions circling faster and faster around that little bud, Joel’s gaze growing even more intent as he watched you.

There was a frown on his face, but he was crumbling.

“Want Daddy to be sweet on you, huh? Is that it?”

The answer he received came in the form of your fingers sliding between your desperate, clenching, needy walls.

One inch.

One measly inch, and then they stopped.

That was all you could fit inside. You whimpered, shrill.

“Daddy, ‘s’too tight. Can’t go any deeper.”

“An’ what did I teach you ‘bout squeezin’? ‘Bout keepin’ her nice an’ wet so the stretch ain’t so painful goin’ in?”

That line of questioning was pointless, clearly.

You were drenched. Your legs were spread, revealing a wet, drooling pussy practically soaking straight through his comforter. The fingers you’d tried to push in wriggled

Joel grabbed the mirror.

“What’s this for?”

With your fingertips otherwise occupied, the man was free to thumb at your clit while holding the mirror to it. Your hips bucked instinctively, and it was like you could hear the arousal trickling out of you. Joel’s eyes slid up.

“Well?”

So this was a review, apparently.

You babbled, “My clit’s for—for makin’ me feel good.”

“An’ where else can you do that?”

“Here.”

Again, your fingers tried to slide in to locate your g-spot, but the effort was fruitless. Your hole was as tight as anything, and you simply didn’t have the grit to get it in.

“Here?”

So Joel did it for you.

With one thick, sure finger, he split your digits apart and entered your pussy pushing in between them. Languidly.

He held the mirror with more force, sawing the finger of his other hand back and forth to coax you open. To no one’s surprise, it was an easier go. Though one of Joel’s was almost as thick as the two of your own, this stretch was good. The pleasure it elicited made your jaw slacken.

And, just as a gasp left your lips, Joel put the mirror down. He reached for the back of your neck and, angling your chin to your chest, made you watch your reflection.

With the mirror resting between your legs, you had a front row seat to see it all: Joel’s finger dragging in and out, a tiny, gaping ‘o’ in its wake, your arousal trailing it.

He’d done this before, but it was your first time watching

You loved it.

You loved how lewd it looked with this big, coarse, liver-spotted hand flexing back and forth, making a finger disappear and reappear outside your pussy over and over again. You relished the sight of your juices trickling down his palm and wrist. You adored the grip at the nape of your neck, how Joel kneeled into the bed and lowered his mouth beside your ear, telling you the filthiest of things while he fingered you. ‘Missed her Daddy, didn’t she?’ and ‘That’s it, open f’me’ made you dizziest.

Then Joel told you to strip down.

Your fingers trembled with the buttons of your shirt—luckily, you’d only done three or four—and you got it off. You shrugged the thing behind you while Joel added a second finger, and you spread your thighs even wider.

It was a tight fit without his tongue to help. Whimpering and whining and murmuring, ‘Daddy, please,’ you made the sting evident, and that was when he started petting your g-spot. At the same time, to your surprise, Joel leaned down and took one of your nipples in his mouth.

The pleasure together was mind-numbing. Joel licked and sucked while his fingers drove in relentlessly; his tongue lapped over that hard, pebbled flesh and smeared the skin all over with saliva. He panted.

“This is…another spot,” he managed raggedly.

Another lick. Another loud, wet pop of his lips.

Your pussy clenched so tight around his fingers you feared you might cut off the circulation, and you moaned

Erogenous zones, Joel muttered against you.

And what a gift it was to be told—shown—where to find your pleasure. To have the doors thrown open wide and nudged inside that special, private place with the help of someone else. Perhaps the act wasn’t so much a loss of control on Joel’s part, but simply that: giving. You hoped he didn’t feel guilty again, and could enjoy this with you.

A minute later, you were watching yourself come undone

Trembling, fluttering, pulsing around Joel’s fingers while he sucked your nipple between his teeth, like he was feasting on you, you were inundated with ecstasy.

A shrill, pleasured shriek starved you breathless. Spit leaked and dribbled down your chin. The sight of your pussy getting stuffed with Joel’s fingers, at the same time he practically tongue-bathed your chest within an inch of his life, drove you wild beyond all understanding.

You pawed at him the second that your orgasm receded.

“M-More, Daddy,” you whimpered, greedy. “Please.”

No making sense of it then: you were desperate.

Beside you, Joel was sucking in deep, shuddering breaths and blinking furiously, as if trying to clear his field of vision or shake his head of some ugly thought.

You touched his chest, and he lurched backward.

He was doing it again.

“Joel—” you tried his name, gentle.

“I—I can’t.” He shook his head. “We gotta stop.”

“But you don’t wanna. You’re just sayin’ that now.”

You were out of breath, panting on the bed, and you realized then with some embarrassment that you were completely naked. Joel was clothed. He started to stand.

The old man had a look on his strained, weathered face like he’d witnessed fifteen wars firsthand. He braced a hand against a bedpost, clenching his jaw, and when your hand reached out to touch him again, he balked.

Groaned.

You must’ve nicked him someplace painful, inadvertently

Glancing down, you saw your hand atop a denim mound.

That hadn’t been your intention. You’d meant to grab at his belt loops and pull him close, help him see that he wouldn’t be doing you wrong, but your palm had landed on his crotch instead. You weren’t sure what this meant, but you couldn’t help but recall the noise he’d made when you straddled him early that morning at Tommy’s place. It sounded eerily familiar—and you really hoped you hadn’t fucked things up and hurt Joel in some way.

“I’m sorry!” you squeaked, yanking your hand back. “I’m— I— I didn’t mean to, I promise. Did I hurt you, Daddy?”

“Go—” Joel swallowed. Turned. “Go to your room, baby.”

Your heart sank.

You’d run him off again.

How many times would it take for this to be enough? When would you not be messing things up so pitifully?

You sniffled at the same time Joel took a step away.

His back was facing you, and his gait was unsteady.

Just as you started to slide off the bed, about to scamper off naked and humiliated, you stopped.

Joel halted where he stood, torso folding in slightly.

“Daddy!” you cried.

Before you knew it, you were in front of him. Hugging him. Trying to fit your arms around that thick, sturdy waist and babbling incoherently, something to the effect of, ‘Are you alright?’ and, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’

Something poked your stomach.

The reason that you weren’t able to fit your wrists around his back, you swiftly realized, was that something was standing at a perpendicular angle from Joel’s lower half.

You pulled back. You stared.

Joel was already hastening to shove the appendage away, but you saw it, clear as day: all of that was him.

He must’ve tugged it out of his jeans in the split-second that he’d been turned, hissing through his teeth and saying some words you were half-certain you weren’t allowed to repeat. Now Joel was fisting the thing, all thick and angry and pink, like it were something bad.

For some reason, the sight made your mouth water.

“Daddy?” And it was more a breath than a question.

Joel’s expression hardened, same as it had earlier—only this time, there was a tinge of pain behind it. He grunted.

“Darlin’,” he said, stern. “This is a grown man problem. Don’t want you havin’ to deal with none of it f’me, OK?”

“But I’m grown, too.”

You said it without thinking.

It was like a primal drive cut in, and your mind spun.

Your fingers trembled by your sides, and when you stole a look at Joel, you saw him eyeing you steadily. Chest rising and falling in shallow breaths and teeth grinding.

“Sweetheart—” he started to warn.

“Can I touch him? Just…just a little.”

Your voice was soft as you asked him.

Your movements were slow as you approached—you didn’t touch until Joel had breathed a fierce sound through his nose and jerked his chin once. Assent.

“One touch an’ you’re done. Y’hear that, honey?”

It was as if he were actively trying to deter you.

And it wouldn’t work—you were reaching out.

Your fingers curled around flesh that was hard and warm, and intrigue blossomed from the tips of your toes to the lips that wanted to grin at the feeling. Your eyes peered down, and you saw it, plain as anything: this…thing in your grip was dense. Long. Veiny. Flushed. And rigid.

It amazed you just how big the flesh could swell, and how hard it had gone underneath your touch. Holding him like you might a length of rope, you couldn’t even reach your middle finger to your thumb—that was how thick he was. You probably should’ve been frightened by the size, but instead, you found yourself admiring him. Ogling one small, shiny pearl of moisture sitting atop the rounded end and feeling your mouth start to water again.

Joel let out another rumbling sound.

He pried you off by your wrist.

“There. You touched ‘im.”

“Daddy’s…penis, right?”

You knew that he’d taught you the word before already; you just liked the way his pupils dilated when you said it.

And, sure enough, Joel’s irises were swallowed up.

His throat bobbed. He put a hand on his zipper.

“Yeah. Now Daddy needs to take care of ‘im.”

He took a load off in the easy chair behind him, collapsing with a sigh. You didn’t follow at first.

You just watched, enrapt, while Joel planted his feet wide on the floor and fisted his length, eyeing you close.

A grown man’s problem.

Not yours. Not now.

“Can’t even stay hard,” Joel said suddenly. Humorless. “Takes me more’n an hour on a good day. That’s why I say it’s a problem for me, not a little thing like yourself.”

That made you bristle.

You stepped closer. “‘Little thing’?”

“You know what I mean. Don’t got nothin’ to do with your bein’ a full adult—which you are—but your experience. Years you got under your belt.” And in a semi-ironic gesture, Joel hooked a thumb through a denim loop and tugged his jeans lower, exposing more of himself to you.

Spit burned in your throat going down. It was the most infuriating thing; knowing your body was just as good and ready as his, but because Joel deemed you little…

You walked to where he was and got on your knees. Kneeling, you saw the man tense and sit up taller.

“That wasn’t no invitation, sweetheart—”

“I want you to treat me like I’m grown.”

And really, that was all you could say.

No amount of pleading eyes or pawing, needy hands, fingers curling into fists and demanding in a shrill voice, ‘Treat me as an equal, Joel’ would ever accomplish what you managed with the uttering of those nine little words.

For the first time, Joel looked like he understood.

Leaning forward, squeezing the base of his length in one hand and cupping your face with the other, he hummed.

“That what you want?” Thumbing at your cheek.

You nodded. You softened under that touch.

“C’mere, baby.”

C’mere.

Come to daddy.

The next thing you felt was a set of lips on yours; Joel kissed you gently. His mouth was warm and soft and tender beyond all comprehension, drawing you to him and tasting you by turns. Heat fluttered low in your belly, and before the rest of your body could even fully respond to it, he was pulling back. His lips shone, red and swollen.

Smiling.

“‘S’what I wanted to do this whole time,” he murmured, sounding a little bit sheepish as he said it. “Should’ve been the first thing I did—that’s how real folks do it.”

Frankly, you were too light-headed to reply.

You nodded airily, jaw hanging slack.

“Now where’s my sweet girl?”

That you could answer without words. So you did.

Letting Joel capture your lips again, setting your hands on either one of his denim-clad thighs and rising off your heels. Kissing him, and feeling the vibrations of a groan.

Hearing him stroke himself faster, then pulling from him.

Gaping.

“Y’know what made him so hard, baby?” Joel asked you, expression going a bit more lax while he rubbed himself. Evidently, whatever he was doing felt good. “Tell Daddy.”

So he was still in teaching mode.

Your spit was practically leaking out in strings at either side of your mouth, but you managed to steel yourself.

“A-Arousal,” you stammered. Swallowing. “Your penis gets big whenever you’re aroused, uh, seein’ something.”

“And what did Daddy see?”

Your face heated.

“Well…”

Joel drew closer, eyes bright and glistening.

“You can tell me, darlin’.”

Another beat.

“Me?”

Very good, baby seemed to shine in every blink of that honeyed gaze, and Joel bent forward to kiss the tip of your nose, then your cheek. You preened under his touch.

“That’s right. You made Daddy so hard,” he murmured.

Trapped between wanting to curl up on Joel’s lap and soak in all his praise and actually hoping to learn another lesson, you let him take the lead. You tilted your chin with the beckoning of his forefinger and thumb, and you squeezed his legs harder, toes curling underneath you.

In his fist, Joel’s length was ruddy-looking and flushed. The little bead of liquid at the tip had grown even bigger, but the sight was fleeting. At the next possible opening, Joel slid his palm up and over that end and stroked it rapidly. He smeared the moisture over his dick and, peering down at you with an almost curious look, widened the spread of his legs. He shifted closer.

“I’m an old man,” he said, a little deflated. Shaking his length near your face. “He don’t…stay hard for very long.”

You swallowed.

You watched Joel continue to pump himself, but it was clear those motions were slowing. His member was beginning to soften in his hold, sagging at the tip.

“Daddy…” you whined. You didn’t like to see him sad.

“Couple kisses from your pretty lips might wake ‘im up, though. Could ya…Could ya do that f’me, hon? Kiss ‘im?”

You didn’t think twice—you treated it just like you did with his mouth before. You bent down and kissed him right on the thick, glistening head, all round and pink.

Joel groaned.

He cursed again.

“That’s it, baby,” he praised you, voice strained.

You were starting to get the sense that certain grunts of pain—or what sounded like them to your ears—were really more bound up in pleasure. Because of this, you went on, quietly, ‘That feel OK, Daddy? That…better?’

“Ten times better,” Joel hissed through his teeth. Releasing his hold on your face to grip the armrest. “That—That’s what Daddy likes. Little game of lollipop, huh?”

You cocked a brow at him.

Joel chuckled, “‘S’what it’s like, right? Lickin’ a lollipop.”

Hearing that, you couldn’t keep your lips from twitching.

Okay. Lollipop.

That made it more fun.

When Joel held his big, still partly flaccid length out to you again, you acted even quicker. You kissed his tip, and then, not needing to map it out, you pressed your lips to the side, the base, someplace near the thatch of black of gray hair by his tummy, peppering pecks. It was a game.

And your old man seemed to be enjoying it thoroughly, as his hips jerked with every other movement of your mouth. You stuck out your tongue and licked a stripe, and you heard a low, prolonged growl peel out of him.

“That’s it, sweetheart. That’s a good fuckin’ girl.”

You licked the warm, gummy flesh again and relished the taste. That texture, frustrating as it may have been for Joel, was tantalizing all the same. You reached up and replaced Joel’s hand with yours, and strangely, you loved the feel of his dick all soft and wormy beneath your fist.

Your old man.

You peered up and met with scars, slightly sagging skin, silver-flecked hairs, a wide, bushy trail that spanned all the way to his navel over a heaping mound of muscle and fat. Joel was thick, and he showed his years through every inch of his body. Words couldn’t begin to describe how much you loved that, and how feral it made you feel.

Parting your lips, about to stick out your tongue to give him another long, wet, and tender lick, Joel stopped you.

He twitched in your palm.

“Baby, how ‘bout you put Daddy’s penis in your mouth?”

He said it so soft—so ragged and broken and wanting, by the sound of it—that you almost froze on the spot. Spit smeared your lips and down your chin, falling in little droplets onto his jeans every now and then, and your mouth hovered over the head of him. Your eyes rounded.

“Like…Like this?” you stammered. Lowering.

You took his tip between your lips; it started out with a kiss, just suckling the edge, but then, swiftly, your mouth opened up around him and stretched. Your jaw ached to accommodate his girth, and with just one inch, you felt the sting of what seemed like ten. You gagged, not used to that sensation, and your head jerked back by instinct.

You expected Joel to be put off—irritated, even.

But when you turned a coy look his way, you were surprised to find his eyes heavy-lidded and glazed. Expression as limp as ever—his member stirring stiffer near your lips and between your fingers, simultaneously—he watched you. He nodded. He sucked in half a breath

And when he spoke again, it was like he really was in pain

“Honey…” Dick swelling nearly to full-size in your fist. Hand moving from the armrest to lay flat on the crown of your head, a little shaky. “Darlin’, I’m—I’m— I can’t last.”

You were about to question that, confused as to how one little suck of your mouth could make him so squirmish all of a sudden, but then Joel’s other hand was moving, too.

This one reached lower.

It shoved his pants and boxers down, almost to the point of the fabric pushing past his thighs, and then you saw it.

More squishy stuff.

It wasn’t…part of Joel’s dick per se but rather sat at the base. Hairy and round and plush in a funny-looking duo.

“Y’know what’s in there, baby?” Joel murmured.

You had no idea. You said as much in a shrug.

That made Joel stiffen more, teeth flashing.

A soft chuckle, “Guess we never got to that part, huh?”

For a second, you were puzzled. In the next, you were being lifted to your feet. You might’ve stumbled, except Joel picked you up and carried you all the way to the bed.

You landed with a soft thud and saw Joel undressing before you’d even regained your bearings. As with most things he did, the man was relatively slow-moving and careful, but there was a grit and a resolve just the same.

He unbuttoned his flannel shirt and didn’t unglue his gaze from you once. He kicked off his boots, toed off his socks, and when he got to his boxers and jeans, he put a hand on one of the closest bedposts and paused, briefly.

“Baby.”

You were lying sprawled out over the bedspread, naked, with Joel standing off to the side, eyes as ravenous and wild as you had ever seen them. At the same time, it looked like the man had just swallowed a cup of nails.

He leaned closer, and you did the same, crawling over.

“Yeah? What is it, Da—”

“We don’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t wanna do, OK?” Joel cut in over you. Cupping your cheek in one hand. “Hell, we can stop this right now. Save your—your, uh, first time for somebody a little more suited to you in—”

Now it was your turn to interject, eyes rolling at him.

“If you say ‘age’ one more goddamn time, Joel…”

And it made you giggle, partly because you weren’t often in the habit of cussing, but also because of the look that was suffusing Joel’s whole face as you said it: the guilt.

You could tell that it was still tearing him up, knowing how that wide, yawning chasm of decades wedged between you two wouldn’t close no matter what he did. Fingers gripping the bedpost like a vise, eyes studying you by turns, and his underwear and pants all but bursting around the strain of his dick, he looked…

“—scared,” you finished presently. Tugging on his jeans. “Isn’t it my job to be freaking out? This thing’s colossal.”

You’d helped him strip completely nude, watching him kick off the fabric at his feet and climb into bed beside you, and there was a granule of truth to what you said.

What were you going to do with it? Would it even fit?

Then Joel was on top; fear dissolved into laughter.

“Hey!” you hissed around short, gasping shrieks.

“That’s a big word,” Joel mused, barely having to move a muscle against your writhing and squirming. “‘Colossal.’”

“You’ve got a big dick.”

“Baby.”

“Sorry. Penis, I mean.”

Above you, Joel had only to shake his head and scrunch his nose—with his length hard and bobbing between your bodies, there was certainly no sense in denying it.

Still pinning you with his weight, he slid you both up the mattress. He nudged your head onto a pillow. Once comfortable, safe, and secure, and only then, did you feel him start to shift. You glanced between your legs.

His shaft was heavy. It stretched all the way from your pubic bone to your belly button and then well past it by an inch or three-and-a-half. Your presence was like a pebble beside a pillar; this walking, talking wall of fur and muscle couldn’t be outstripped by anything, it seemed.

Joel stroked your cheek with his knuckles, at the same time watching moisture from that tip wet your tummy.

“Y’know…” he trailed off, low. “Y’know how this goes?”

You did, sort of.

Your brain flashed back to the noises stifled behind cabin walls; Joel’s fingers plunging in and out of you; tongue dragging circles, telling you it was best to be wet and stretched, to make sure there was plenty of room for it.

Not a quarter-inch straight chisel, a finger, or a tongue.

Not even just the tip.

“All of it goes in?” you asked him, gaze flickering up.

“All of it.”

Joel’s hips canted once forward, then once going back.

Then again, in a sawing motion, as if to show you.

“Daddy goes in…” Another undulation. “…an’ out.”

Over the course of all your time observing Joel, you’d come to realize that the man reverted to modes of teaching when he was worried; concealing his nerves became a game part-detachment, part-pragmatism.

You saw it now as he shifted his hips in demonstration, simulating sex with his length dragging back and forth across your belly. His brow knit, and he held your gaze.

“‘Fore he can…‘fore he can move, or anything, Daddy’s gotta stretch your little hole out for him. Get her ready.”

“Like you did with your fingers?” you supplied helpfully.

Joel winced.

“Well, a—a little like that.” And he paused to consider his words. “Except, uh…Daddy’s gonna stretch you a bit bigger. Tougher. When he goes in for the first time, he might…well, there’s this stretch of skin he might…rip.”

“Rip?” You raised your head off of the pillow, voice taut.

Joel tried talking you down, both literally and figuratively.

“Ain’t that bad, I-I don’t think. You might not even have it. There’s just this thing inside of some women—a little tissue, I s’pose—called a hymen. Might break the first time you have sex, and—and with everything else… stretchin’, y’know, if it hurts, you just talk to me, OK?”

You nodded, “OK.”

Joel lined himself up.

He gripped his length and angled it. Shifted on his knees.

Swiped the head through your folds a couple of times and made you shiver—was this supposed to be painful? You liked him there, and you tried relishing the feeling. Being wet, and sensitive, and spread with your legs wide open to Joel, you felt as vulnerable as you’d ever been.

You wanted to get the hurt over with.

“Put it in,” you urged, soft. “Go on.”

Joel’s lips twitched overhead. A light chuckle rumbled through him, and he continued the languorous strokes.

“Ain’t that simple,” he mumbled back. “It ain’t…polite.”

For what?

You were about to ask him as much, when Joel slid the flushed, leaking head of his dick from just grazing and bumping your slit to tapping directly—poking your clit. Smearing that pearlescent liquid from the little hole at the end to your throbbing bundle of nerves. You gasped.

Pleasure blossomed from that site. Joel tapped the head again—gentle, but insistent—and sparks ignited across your lower half. Your hips jerked, and you let out a whine.

“That’s why, darlin’,” Joel answered your wordless query. He smiled, sliding his dick back and forth between your thighs, over your trembling, glistening mound. “Only polite to knock on the door before he comes inside.”

And if you weren’t almost shaking in fear, you wouldn’t have hesitated to roll your eyes. Told the old, beaming man with his length poised over your pussy he was corny and not funny at all, y’know that? But instead, you just mirrored his grin, all crooked, soft, and indolent, and you leaned in to kiss him. You wrapped legs around his hips.

You trusted him.

Yet another confirmation of it came when Joel cradled the back of your head and kissed you deeper, sweetly, and then dragged his lips from your mouth to either one of your cheeks, your nose, your chin. Peppering kisses.

Trying to distract from what was forthcoming, maybe.

“Just look at me,” Joel murmured, drawing back and meeting your eyes. “Look at Daddy now, alright, baby?”

You did.

You nodded.

Joel pressed his hips forward, and—

“Fuck!” You swore under your breath.

It stung. No side-stepping the pain, the push of Joel’s length a mere quarter-inch inside stretched the rim of your pussy to what felt like maximum capacity. You dug your heels in his ass, and at the same time it felt like that thrust was going to halt where it was, you grit your teeth.

“Keep going. Please,” you begged him.

Joel groaned. His whole body shook.

“Baby, this pussy’s so fuckin’ tight.”

You must’ve felt like a fist to him—whether that was a good thing or a bad thing was yet to be decided, as the man’s mouth fell open, and a string of curses flew out. His hips stuttered, like he couldn’t bear the feeling, and then his hand lifted to stroke your cheek. His thumb trembled down the cusp of your jaw as his throat bobbed

“Oh…oh, honey. Can’t hurt ya, little one,” he said, choked

“You won’t. I want it,” you murmured back.

As if to affirm that statement, your walls clenched around his tip and sucked him deeper. Maybe a half-inch.

Once sheathed almost past his throbbing, leaking head, Joel seemed to grow even more delirious. He opened and closed his mouth, gray stubble shining from the faint lamplight of his woodworking station across the room, and you thought he’d never looked sweeter. Or needier.

You snaked your arms around his neck just as you felt your body begin to leak more moisture down his length. One soft, minuscule squelch where Joel’s most intimate part and yours molded together, mixing juices, and you could almost taste him on your tongue—feel him swelling bigger and harder pointing in toward your belly.

“Right here, Daddy,” you breathed, voice shrill from how badly you wanted him. “Show—Show me where it goes.”

You should’ve known that tapping into Joel’s pedagogical side would’ve stopped him on a dime.

And it did.

He blinked.

Eyes already clouded with lust and need, he swallowed.

“Y-Yeah?” He leaned closer and blanketed your body.

You nodded at him sweetly, spreading your thighs.

“Please, Daddy. Teach me how to be a big girl.”

Your words might as well have knocked him sideways. The man heaved the longest, lowest groan through his teeth, and muscles ticked on both sides of his mouth.

He liked that a lot.

He’d give you exactly what you needed now.

And, in short order, that was what he did—lowering his head, capturing your lips, kissing you sweetly and savoring your taste, he relished you. Pleasured you. Braced his elbows on either side of your head on the pillow and sucked in a breath and then slid in, finally.

“Open for Daddy,” he said, without pretense or pause.

No equivocation to his movements now, he drove deep. Your body followed as if by instinct, blooming around the intrusion and letting him in. It hurt; like you already knew, there was no sense in pretending as if it wouldn’t sting, but Joel was there through every second of it. Caring for you, kissing you, sawing that big, slippery member of his in and telling you, gently, ‘This is where Daddy belongs.’

“In—In my tummy, Daddy. Can feel ‘im in my tummy.”

“Yeah? Show me where.”

Joel’s hand moved under yours, swiftly guided to your stomach. His gaze shone with pride when you started drawing little circles over your belly button, all while his length was plunging in and out of your wet, needy hole.

You felt a bulge under the skin, and he felt it, too. Whatever hymen you had was probably split in half.

“See Daddy there? All up in your guts?”

You did. You whimpered, “Uh-huh.”

Then, somehow, the man sank even deeper—what once felt like it was teasing at your tummy touched your lungs.

Joel let out a strangled sound.

“Feel—Feel Daddy here?”

As soon as you answered yes, Joel rocked his hips forward to make sure he hit that spot again. It made stars fly before your eyes, not unlike the way you’d felt when he was knuckle-deep stroking your g-spot, but you could tell that this place was different, too. Your toes curled in anticipation, and your walls pulsed around him.

You liked it, not only for the feeling, but the meaning of it.

Something more significant lurked under the surface.

“Your cervix,” Joel said, voice thin and near hoarse.

Another stab of his pelvis, and your mind went dizzy with the pleasure—silly as it was, it also scared you, so you hugged Joel’s neck and nodded your head, ‘Cer-vix.’

“You know where…babies come from, right, hon?”

That question stumped you for a second.

Slowly, you shook your head at him.

And, like the time not long ago when you’d told Joel you wanted to be a big girl, this admission seemed to leave a lasting impression, too. Above you, Joel continued to roll his hips in fast, shallow thrusts and stretch your pussy out with it, prodding at your cervix in every movement.

“Well, this—this is what I was gettin’ at, darlin’.”

Another beat. Another thrust and a groan.

Joel had just managed to steel himself when he went on:

“The birds and the bees, I mean. This is…it. This is…”

Making love.

Making…

Joel didn’t even need to finish his thought, but he reached down anyhow. Feeling for the soft, squishy globes attached to the base of himself, between his legs, he ghosted fingertips over them and stifled a grunt.

“In here, ‘s’where a man stores semen. That’s—”

“The stuff that makes babies, right, Daddy?”

The pieces fell into place without him having to say another thing. The jostling of your body underneath him, pussy taking him deep with every stroke, how Joel would grunt and groan and pant in keening desperation, ‘Oh, sweetheart, that’s just what Daddy likes. Keep goin’,’ it only surprised you how long it had taken for you to see it.

Instinct clouded your sense; you said it without thinking:

“Want it in me, Daddy.”

Joel choked.

Oh.

At the same moment, your walls reflexively clenched, and your fingers wound through the dark, sweat-dampened curls at the nape of his neck. Inhaling a whiff of his aftershave and his natural scent, you felt something stir within you. You couldn’t name it.

You couldn’t place that primal need or why you craved him in you, pulsing out however much of that seed his body could give. It was as simple and as insistent as breathing; your pussy enveloped his length from root to tip and gave it a squeeze like your walls were trying to milk him. Joel’s body responded in kind, and he groaned.

“‘M’sorry, Daddy,” you squeaked. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You want Daddy to make a baby in your belly?”

Joel’s mouth was hovering less than an inch away from your own, and the look on his face was that of a man starved. His thrusts slowed. Hard, hot flesh twitched inside you and sank all the way in until you squirmed.

This gruff man, this tough man, this caretaker and wellspring of kindness and warmth. Protection since the day he’d entered your life. And now he was buried to the hilt, hips digging into yours, and he was smoothing a hand over your cheek. Seeming to be waging an internal war, he swallowed and held your hip with his other hand.

“Don’t—Don’t answer that,” he rejoined, hoarse.

“Please, Daddy. Please,” you whimpered back.

In an exploratory move, you reached to lick at his bottom lip. After that, his chin, down the plane of prickly silver stubble and then around his mouth, like you couldn’t get enough of the man. It felt natural; you lifted your hips and raised your eyes to him at the same time, begging.

You didn’t need to ask. Joel didn’t need to speak again.

But after taking a look deep in your eyes and feeling you hug him—tug him in, both between your arms and your thighs—it became readily apparent his resolve was shot.

His hips drew back and rocked forward.

His tip nudged your special spot, and you both groaned.

No further teaching or talking was needed from that point forward; you and Joel seemed both to operate on instinct, with your bodies making all of the requisite decisions to keep moving. Joel slipped his arms under your body and held you tight, pressed himself as near as he could while he drilled you into the bed and pushed you closer and closer to your peak. His length swelled and throbbed, and the whole time through, he couldn’t take his eyes off your face to watch what his movements were doing. Always ‘my girl,’ ‘my darlin’,’ or ‘my sweet, precious baby’ as his pubic bone bumped your clit and he cradled you to him. The bed creaked underneath the weight of each thrust, and before you knew it, your moans were increasing in pitch. Your body tightened.

Joel’s did the same, and with the tight, wet suction of your pussy all but cutting off the circulation to his dick, neither one of you had much say in what followed after—ropes of warmth coated your walls with every pulsation of his length, and euphoria seized you from head to toe.

How long it lasted, or how long Joel remained buried in your aching heat was anyone’s guess. All you knew was that when you re-opened your eyes on recovering from your pleasure, Joel was watching you. Thick, sticky warmth stuffed you to the brim before starting to leak out—and, evidently, your old man loved that feeling, as he couldn’t keep a grin from spreading across his face.

Cheeks glowing, eyes bright, and smile mirroring your own, it was clear he wasn’t going anywhere this time. Joel held you closer, then pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“So, that’s how you do it.”