do you have any interest in writing any alan rickman character experimenting with sex toys?
i think that different characters would choose different toys... (imo lionel prefers a vibrator but sinclair might like a cock ring LOL)
as always, i love your writing and am patiently waiting for the next one 🙈
Aww, that's very sweet of you! I'm so happy you enjoy my writing; it really means a lot to me for you to say that! Admittedly, I was rather nervous to try to write headcanons for these characters. For most characters, I don’t really have hard-set headcanons for them (for example, I could probably argue several favorite toys for each of AR’s characters and make myself believe it in the process, too, lol). Anyway, I know this place is a safe space, and I’ve chosen to interpret these as short prompts. I’m also expanding the prompt to include equipment, not just toys. I’m totally open to doing more for other characters or doing different toys with the same characters! My asks are wide open too, lol, so please feel free to send in more requests! This is my first time writing both Lionel and Judge Turpin, so please be kind!
Alan Rickman Characters & Their Favorite Toys
Character(s): Severus Snape (x GN Reader), Lionel Shabandar (x Female Reader), Sinclair Bryant (x GN Reader), David Friedman, and Judge Turpin (x Female Reader)
Word Count: 1.5k
Warning(s)‼️: Sex Toys/Bondage Equipment. Masturbation. Sex. Erectile Dysfunction/Premature Ejaculation. Self-Flagellation.
Severus Snape - Collar
Severus Snape stalked the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, black cloak billowing in the dungeon’s characteristic darkness. Under the restrictive clothing he wore — layers of formal teaching robes doused in protective spells and held tightly closed with row after row of buttons — no one would have guessed the sour professor wore a thick band of leather — a collar. It was a present from his betrothed, a promise of their faithfulness given in addition to a traditional band for the fourth digit of his hand. The collar was a deep green, nearly black, embroidered with gold trim. The title “Prince” written in gold cursive attached to the front of the collar with a gold chain, almost like a necklace. Being owned, pulled between two different men, two different sides for decades might have made a collar onerous, taxing for some men, but for Severus, it was a relief. Warm relief that tasted ambrosial to belong to someone with only his interests at heart rather than their own or the entire world’s. The metal tag magically pulsed, a soft command for his presence. His cock twitched at what might, what he silently prayed, awaited him on your shared bed in your dungeon quarters.
[Author’s Note: I fully realize a more restrained Snape might not wear a BDSM-style collar. And, in that case, a more restrained Snape likely wouldn’t go for sex toys either. I think he would be very attached to his wedding ring—-perhaps his partner took the time to engrave the inside with their initials and the date—-or other items given to him by them.]
Lionel Shabandar - Your Vibrator
Lionel Shabandar did not share. So when he discovered a black heavy piece of plastic, bulbous head attached to a straight shaft with numerous buttons next to a half-empty bottle of lube buried in the covers of your side of the bed, he immediately grew suspicious. In other words, the great Lionel Shabandar, champion seducer and media tycoon, immediately grew jealous of six inches of battery-powered plastic. He knew damn well what it was before he sat on the bed and pushed the power button. A vibrator, not just a single woman’s best friend, but apparently a married woman’s as well. Did he not pleasure you enough? You always came at least once when he fucked you in bed at night…unless…unless that was pretend. A lie. What was so special about the damn toy that every woman desired one? He thought, trousers already unfastened at his ankles, black briefs pulled to his knees. He brought the massive head of the machine against the seam of his ballsack, an involuntary moan slipping from his parted lips. He dragged the toy from the root of his cock to the edge of his frenulum, grip slipping on the black silicone when the vibrations hit the sensitive skin with an intensity he was not at all prepared for. He bucked his hips, thick thumb hitting another button, the pulse of the long toy ratcheting up in its aggression. He passed the black bulbous head to his frenulum once more, a low grunt escaping from his soul as rope after rope of white cum shot from his girthy cock. The vibrator dropped from his hand, the pulses becoming immediately overwhelming post-climax. And that was how you found the proud lion later that afternoon…trousers and pants pulled down, dried cum staining satin sheets, black vibrator long dead between thick spread legs… and snore after snore slipping from a satiated Lionel Shabandar’s mouth. Somehow, the insufferable, prideful man made a mess look regal. Delicious.
Sinclair Bryant - Cock Ring
Sex after Natalie had never been pleasurable, nor simple, at least, not until you came along. Sinclair Bryant was a man often too deep inside his own head, focused five steps past the task at hand. He was forever grateful for you reminding him that sex didn’t have to be anxiety-inducing, didn’t have to be all nerves and trembling limbs. It did not keep his cock from obeying, however. He wasn’t the only man in the country who suffered from premature ejaculation, but the fact was little comfort when he could feel his erection start to soften and his balls begin to tighten while buried in your warmth to the hilt. Cock rings had been a godsend, like manna fallen from the sky. You’d ordered his first from one of the sex shops you frequented, a present gifted for his birthday night. He pulled the black silicone ring over the head of his weak erection, down his velvety flesh to the base of his shaft. Seconds later, he could feel his penis stiffen, feel the blood in his member sanctioned off from the rest of his body. Each thrust into you was that of a broken man made whole, each thrust taking him further from the failures of the past. Minutes later, you had already orgasmed, entire body shuddering, toes curling at the end of the sheets. Sinclair peeled the black silicone off his engorged member, the denied flesh purple, release overtaking him in one thrust into your warm hole. The dirty blond fell against your side, body drained, a smile of pure bliss still spread across his lips as sleep rapidly overtook him. And you couldn’t wait to order a vibrating cock ring for your anniversary.
David Friedman - Handcuffs
The first time it was an accident. The detective was desperately reaching for a bottle of lube in the bedside table drawer, only a small lamp providing a source of illumination amidst the dim room. His hand bumped into a pile of metal, a crackling noise echoing across the darkened room. He’d just locked himself in handcuffs. The handcuffs he normally kept buried deep in his suit jacket pocket. And he had no idea where the key was. David Friedman considered himself a logical man, but when a man’s been semi-hard since lunchtime and his sheets long devoid of another body, logic tended to quickly evaporate. The lube was found moments after his imprisonment, as if the object were quietly mocking him. Cold liquid soon became warm as his locked hands rubbed together, the ritual familiar for a heavily-anticipated Friday night. Jerking off was anything but familiar. His wrist couldn’t freely turn, couldn’t properly grasp his length from root to tip in one fluid motion. The metal cuffs ended up bumping into his bare belly and spread thighs. He couldn’t keep his mind from thinking how wrong this was, how dirty, how naughty. And that was where his enjoyment, his pleasure, came from that evening as he spilled himself onto fraying, stained sheets. He found the keys to his bonds the following morning on top of his bedside table, a plan for that evening already starting to be tossed around in his head. He smiled.
Judge Turpin - Cat O’ Nine Tails
Guilt settled deep within the old judge’s chest. It was not proper, it was not moral to lust after London’s new pretty, new perfect resident. You were all golden curls, narrow hips, and bursting chest—the sort of sight that often left him breathless. Wanting. And his wanting, his desire, often bred wanton thoughts. The kind that did not just leave his chest aching in the dead of night, but also a certain member of his anatomy. His cock, buried beneath the thick fabric of his trousers, throbbed against his leg. Relieving himself would likely be the easiest, the most prudent course of action. He removed the evening jacket spanning the breadth of his shoulders, shrugged out of the thin linen shirt beneath. White-haired chest now bared to the room, he swiped an object off his dark wooden bookshelf. A cat o’ nine tails, the queen of all whips and floggers available, the chosen instrument for his self-flagellation. Each thread, each strand crafted by his own hand. His hand slipped under his trousers, fingers wrapping around the flesh of his aroused penis, liquid already bubbling out the head’s thin slit. His thoughts immediately turned to you as he began his desperate strokes, the white-hot crest of pleasure the destination he hurriedly sought. The crack of the whip echoed about the empty house, his grunt of pain bit back with practiced ease. He thought of what your thighs might look like—milky white flesh he’d love to mark surrounding a slitted center he would very much like to—the whip struck the space between his shoulder blades, liquid beginning to drip down the spine of his back. His erection throbbed against his leg once more, the flesh pulsing, already so close to satisfaction, to bone-shattering pleasure. With a few more pumps of his hand, wetness painted the inside of his trousers, the familiar smell of his release filling the sitting room. He eyed the painting on the wall, stared at the scene of the woman’s flogging, the handle of the whip absentmindedly twirling between his fingers. He flicked his wrist, braided ends tearing a new gash into the scarred flesh of his lower back.
based on the last few fics, it seems like sinclair is capable of multiple orgasms 👀
i would like to request a fic where sinclair is spoiled with orgasms galore hahaha
enjoy your holiday xx
Oh my gosh!----I am so sorry this took so long to complete!! 😭 I've had so much come up before and after my holiday (which was excellent, by the way, thank you so much for asking!!🥰), and ended up taking forever to revise this one 🙄.
Anyway, our dear Sinclair is very capable of multiple orgasms🤭 as you'll read in this fic.
Delayed✈️
Character(s): Sinclair Bryant x Female Reader
Summary: Sinclair Bryant's flight home ends up delayed. You treat an exhausted and aroused Sinclair to a night of pleasure.
Warning(s)‼️: Footjob. Handjob. Blowjob. Come Swallowing. Public/Exhibitionism. Multiple Orgasms. Come-in-Pants.
Word Count: 5.1k
Read on Ao3 or below the break:
“Delayed” shot across the board in bright, blocky red lettering, its presence like a dagger piercing through his ribs, the blade aimed directly at his heart. He couldn’t believe his poor, rotten luck. He couldn’t believe he was about to go another few hours without your presence. Three weeks had been more than enough for himself, tender heart, and poor, aching groin.
The line to the payphones was massive. He could count at least twenty of his colleagues across the six different lines, and they were all within close distance of him. Who knew how many people from the conference were truly gathered, each individual wishing to inform their spouse they wouldn’t be coming home that night.
“Bollocks,” he muttered to himself, slipping the fallen quarter into the machine and angrily punching the manor’s landline into the keypad. The numbers on the tiles were nearly worn off, the beat-up receiver silently mocking him.
“Hullo?” Your voice sleepily answered from hundreds of miles away, the familiar timber calming the violent, rushing storm roaring between his ears. His heart sighed.
“Hello, love. Don’t be mad, but my plane’s been delayed.” Sinclair Bryant squinted, brown eyebrows drawing together as he anxiously awaited your response.
“Why would I be m—Sorry, dear, when’ve you been rescheduled for?” You yawned. Your husband had woken you up in the middle of the night, but no malice coursed through you toward him at the probable lack of sleep in store for you for the rest of the night. Sinclair frustratedly blew hot air out the end of his hooked nose, a rustling sound like static pounding against the receiver.
“No idea—they’ve not posted a bloody time yet. Sounds like there’s a storm we have to wait to pass,” he grumbled, the sound nothing like the cheerful man you were accustomed to. “I wanted to see you,” his baritone voice was half- hoarse growl and half- high-pitched whine, bashfully confessing his desire into your listening ear.
“I wanted to see you, too, love. I had a whole day of plans laid out,” you let your disappointment weigh your words, hoping it gave Sinclair at least a small degree of comfort. He sighed, the noise heavy with exhaustion.
“I’ve got to go before someone either rips the phone from my hand or the chap ten meters back in the line murders me with his eyes, love. I dunno if I’ll be able to call you again before takeoff, but I’ll ring you at Heathrow. I love you, dearest,” His words were tender, his tone hopelessly apologetic.
“I love you too.” A second’s hesitation before the line clicked and the New York airport chatter dissipated. A moment later, you pressed the receiver back down into its slot, knowing sleep would be impossible now that you knew Sinclair would likely not be returning home that day. Your fuzzy white slippers found your feet as you made your way to a fresh, steaming cup of tea and the dark beauty of the manor’s conservatory.
Sinclair Bryant was not pouting.
Sinclair Bryant was definitely not pouting.
His colleagues were all heaps of wrinkled black suits sitting in the waiting area amidst hastily stacked luggage, lightly dozing or reading some business magazine he could not care less about, each with worse posture than the last. He sat perfectly upright, legs crossed, one jet black oxford bouncing to an imagined rhythm, his impatience steadily mounting every minute the plane’s new time was not announced over the speakers.
He had not wanted to go on this trip. Hadn’t wanted to leave you, his wife, alone for three weeks. Hadn’t wanted to be surrounded by people who thought his parents had handed him his position strictly because it was his birthright. No, he had not wanted to travel to New York and Chicago to discuss a possible company merger that had not even gone through (as he had predicted from the onset, but who bothered to listen to him, anyway?).
The conferences and meetings had been completely, utterly useless. There was nothing to show for them, and now he was likely behind in his normal work tasks—a poor present to look forward to when he arrived back at the office come Monday.
He had traveled around the cities, but the fantastic sights were lackluster, the food bland, without your magnificent form beside him.
A younger Sinclair, a Sinclair single and carefree, might have ogled the brilliantly glowing New York skyline or attempted to strike up a conversation with one of his coworkers. Neither seemed intriguing to him, especially after listening to his colleagues droll on about nothing for weeks. He was content to sit there, back straight, heel bouncing, heart simmering with thoughts of you.
London was bustling with life, the glow of the early afternoon sun glimmering off the steep glass windows of rows and rows of office buildings. Sinclair’s flight had been delayed by five hours, information you had acquired after phoning the help line from your tidy breakfast nook in the manor’s conservatory that morning.
You could picture Sinclair sitting in the waiting area, knees bouncing, back ramrod straight, as he attempted to keep himself from falling victim to boredom. He’d not been happy with the trip—hated, actually, the fact he had been unable to dump the obligation on one of his young staffers.
It took a lot to drive Sinclair Bryant to anger, but apparently, having his time wasted for several weeks was enough. Sinclair liked wasting time—liked walks to nowhere in particular at the park and Sunday drives or train rides simply because he was traveling, going somewhere different. The only caveat was that he enjoyed wasting his time with you.
You had never heard your husband, the golden retriever puppy in human form, so despondent. Each night, his low baritone breathed out a report of the day—a captain’s log of all the conference’s sources of irritation. Underwhelming luncheons, boring conversations, and bleak, overly critical descriptions of the city often made their way into the lengthy list. Sinclair thought the trip useless, and, over the long weeks, so did you.
He’d end each call over the hotel room phone, voice heavy with exhaustion, line crackling with static. He’d speak the words, “I love you,” with far greater reverence, far greater repressed lust than you thought any man, any person capable. You’d hear the bed creak as he flopped across the mattress, and imagined the way his dirty blonde hair flopped forward as his head solidly hit the squishy pillow.
Sinclair had revealed several times, just last evening, that his heart ached, his veins hotly pulsed for your touch. He’d spoken of the growing need pooling deep in his lower belly, his arousal unbearable as he refused to satiate the flame with his own hand.
That confession unraveled your insides, made your back stiffen, and your chest thrum. Sinclair Bryant couldn’t masturbate a continent away because his own hand simply wasn’t yours. Knowing you had that kind of power over a man destined to inherit millions one day was a heady thing—the sort of shock that made hearts stop and jaws gape open.
You had already promised Sinclair so much when he returned home—dinner at the Ritz, a drive along the green-hilled countryside, a night of passionate, toe-curling sex—and yet, your promises did not feel sufficient, did not feel ample enough for what your sweet husband deserved, what his tiresome labor had earned.
Heathrow smelled of stale socks and cheap fast food as you waited in the arrivals area, a white sign with two words inked in black scrawling cursive held between your hands, a dreamy smile crossing your bright red lips.
Sinclair Bryant needed a long nap, he had decided, black oxfords echoing off the exit ramp’s walls, heels uncomfortably rubbing along the shoe’s rigid sole. Unlike his colleagues, he had never managed a wink’s worth of sleep during the lengthy commute back to London.
His hand dug into his right trouser pocket, fingertips searching for the two coins he needed for the airport lobby’s payphone. He was unable to call you before his flight in New York departed, the plane’s rescheduled time announced in a hurry, the payphone line still trailing several meters back into the waiting area even as the flight was boarding.
Sinclair mentally steeled himself for the likelihood of spending several more hours in an airport lobby as he rounded the corner. He was not at all ready for what met his dulled hazel eyes.
You were standing there, waiting, wearing a tight-fitting black dress that reached just above your knees, hair pulled into a loose ponytail—nothing special, but that was all it ever took to make him go wild. His name was written in a far more elegant black cursive script than he thought he deserved across the white board cradled within your arms.
He couldn’t resist; he couldn’t restrain himself from the urge to crush your form against his exhausted body, the tension dramatically easing as he felt your velvet skin along the naked flesh of his neck. Sinclair sighed, finally pulling his limp body away from yours, heart sinking at the loss of such heavenly contact. The board with his name lay crumpled at the ground between your feet.
“Sorry—I—I needed that more than you know.” His words betrayed his weariness, lanky legs falling into a familiar pace beside yours, the baggage claim area sliding into view.
“Don’t worry about it, Clair,” you smiled, eyes bright, teeth sparkling. “So, how was the trip?” Sinclair grumbled something inaudible, his steps momentarily faltering.
“A nightmare,” he muttered, tone unusually irritable. “All they settled on was the idiotic decision to do the entire bloody thing over again in two months—we will be on vacation at that time, dearest.” The conveyor wrapped around in one giant loop, suitcases—new and shabby—spun around in a circle. Sinclair scooped his pitch-black wheeled case from the belt with a grunt, his whiskey-colored duffel bag already slung over one shoulder.
You gently unfolded his long, narrow fingers from the plastic handle, silently insisting on pulling the bag yourself. Sinclair hesitated, his large hand stiffening before finally releasing his tight grip.
Sinclair’s long-legged steps matched yours as you exited the airport, the sigh leaving his lips like a heavy weight removed from his chest.
The Ritz’s interior was all bright lights, fragile glass fixtures, and delicate leather seats. Sinclair loathed to make the effort of booking a seat, the phone line always overflowing, the voice of the maître d' steadily increasing in frustration as he inquired after a spot. It was the effort of actually receiving a reservation that gave the food exceptional taste, although Sinclair might protest that the meal was already “that good to begin with.”
It was early enough in the afternoon that few people were seated amidst the exquisite restaurant, early enough that the dark booth Sinclair and you were seated in lacked any close neighbors. The section was silent, save for the musician pecking away at the grand piano on display in the room’s center. The soft ambiance of the scene made the dinner even more special, made it even easier for you to lose yourself in Sinclair’s glassy hazel eyes, and for Sinclair to similarly lose himself in your eyes.
Your husband leaned forward in his cushioned leather seat, chin tipped back to unashamedly down his first glass of sweet red, the wine already half-drunk. Pink stained the cupid’s bow of his lips before he licked the stripe clean, the corners of his mouth glistening.
“So,” he asked, head leaning on one propped-up hand, swishing the contents of his glass with the other, “So, how did you know when my plane landed? I didn’t have the chance to—”
“I called.” You couldn’t help the matter-of-fact, borderline sarcasm coloring your tone.
“And you still managed to get reservations for—”
“Yes—”
“—You’re unbelievable, you know that? Absolutely unbelievable!” An incredulous expression had slid across Sinclair’s face, eyes bright in wonder, but beginning to droop. You smiled, drinking in the praise. “Christ, I could sleep for a week!” Nothing remained in the curving glass but the wine’s dark dregs. Sinclair’s body now limply collapsed against the seat cushion in a completely undignified position. His eyes had closed, dark lashes twitching, the edge of his lips ticked up to just the start, just the ghost of a smile.
“How can you sleep when we have so much planned?” You teased, voice dropping seductively. Sinclair’s eyes crept back open, cheeks tinged a light shade of pink.
“Believe me, darling, I can sleep safely and soundly with you at my side.” His brow was raised, his challenging, boyish smirk on full display, his deep voice like melted chocolate.
“You may sleep as long as you want after tonight, darling.” Your cheeks flushed at his praise as you eyed the newly formed tent in your husband’s black trousers, the bump small enough to avoid any unwanted, outward attention.
“I intend to.” His baritone voice was like velvet, brimming with the combination of self-satisfaction and desperate need that only Sinclair could perform. You were just thankful the menus arrived a second after.
You brushed your chapped red lips with the white serviette, your plates finally empty of the poshly named, poshly served food. Sinclair was already leaning back in his seat, belt buckle a notch looser, hands neatly folded to rest atop the slight paunch of his stomach.
“Dessert?” You spoke the word suggestively, like you and Sinclair were alone together under the covers of your king-sized bed. Sinclair’s brow raised, a soft groan tumbling from his lips. He managed to sit upright with a grunt, body protesting from either the filling meal or his prolonged lack of sleep.
“I thought you’d never ask, darling.” The endearment would have been far more suave if Sinclair weren’t slurring his words. “What’d you like to order? We can shar——”
—“Profiteroles. And I have no intention of sharing.” Kicking off one of your uncomfortable, restrictive shoes (new black flats in dire need of being broken-in), you placed one nylon-clad foot against Sinclair’s crotch, the white, neatly-pressed tablecloth parting with ease below. His legs sprang close together, the dirty blond caught completely off guard by your foot’s presence. Hazel eyes met yours, panic evaporating, turning quickly to lust as he registered the dominance, the sex gleaming through your eyes.
“Bollocks,” he coughed out, cheeks red-rimmed, but not merely due to the two glasses of wine. “I guess I’ll get the sticky toffee pudding.”
Sinclair did indeed like the profiteroles. He’d been to the Ritz often enough to sample each of their desserts. Sticky toffee pudding happened to be his favorite—devastatingly British, but also the largest portion featured among the dessert menu. He settled back against the cushioned seat, lanky legs spread wide, your foot slowly teasing, slowly inching back-and-forth the hardened flesh hidden between his thighs.
The desserts arrived quickly—yours a small tower of tan-colored rolls, Sinclair’s a brown, circular lump of a fluffy, cake-like mixture, a scoop of vanilla ice cream that could more accurately be called two, and a generous portion of gooey, sticky caramel resting in a small pitcher on the side. Mouth upturned in a devilish grin, Sinclair reached forward toward your plate, large, narrow fingers nearly all the way enclosed over one of your spherical desserts. The smirk disappeared with a small yelp disguised as a cough—Sinclair retracted his smarting hand, upon which you had bestowed a heavy smack.
“That wasn’t very kind, Y/N.” He was pouting now, his fork overflowing with ice cream, pudding, and the caramel liquid. You gave a soft snort, red lips wrapping around the profiterole, taking a healthy first bite of the puffy pastry. White cream stained your lips and dribbled back onto your plate. The moan you gave had the corners of Sinclair’s mouth twitching, the flesh beneath your foot pulsing madly.
“Must you tease me, woman?” His low voice was a whispered growl, and you could see from his shimmering hazel eyes the desperation coming to a head.
“I find I quite enjoy it,” you smiled, licking the white fluff from your lips, the profiterole now finished.
“One day you’ll be my ruination, my undoing, darling.” The sensuality in his voice was mixed with a bit of fear, his needy hazel eyes quickly turning to his half-eaten dessert, tucking in to the treat with a ravenous hunger that suggested he had not just eaten his entrée twenty minutes prior. Your foot continued its work beneath the table, sliding across the inside of Sinclair’s left thigh, his eyes closing, a low moan released around his fork.
“I’m so full,” he half-whimpered, half-murmurred. All that remained of his sticky toffee pudding were a few crumbs, a puddle of melted vanilla ice cream, and the golden brown residue the caramel had left on the pitcher and his plate. You could feel his slight stomach pressing against his trousers’ waistband with your toes, his penis now at full length, pushing up against his zipper. Your nylon-clothed heel left the soft material of his trousers only to return moments later, sliding with a bit more force between his legs, massaging his hard cock with a newfound, steady rhythm.
Sinclair groaned, thighs falling open, back lightly flopping against the cushioned seat, head tilted, dirty blond hair slipping forward to hide his pinched expression. “Don’t,” he whispered, hazel eyes glancing around the dining room, several more tables in their section full after an hour at the venue. His chest rose, hair rippling with the tired release of breath blown from his parted lips at the mischievous look darkening your face.
Your foot continued to stroke his shaft, big toe hitting the sensitive bit along the underside of his tip. Sinclair shivered, a deep moan wrenched from somewhere within his gut. His hips jerked forward, the space beneath your foot grew damp, and you could feel the flesh of his cock start to soften.
The dirty blond man was panting, struggling to hide his panicked expression, his panicked feelings, from carrying out to the other diners meters away. “Can’t believe you did that,” he groaned, voice like gravel, sweat dripping down his temples.
“I can’t believe you actually came,” you teased victoriously. You tipped the rest of your moscato down, noticing the way Sinclair’s eyes followed the fluid movement of your throat. “It won’t be the last time tonight, either, love.” Sinclair’s eyes bugged out of his head, like a pair of hazel saucers. You motioned for the check, watching Sinclair scramble to hide the mess spread across his lap with a white serviette as the waiter darted forward.
Sinclair’s heaving sigh broke across the empty night air. Cars gleamed underneath the flickering moonlight. You took your purse from his trembling hands, his damp crotch uncovered, the shiny silver car key soon in your possession. Your husband hurled himself into the car immediately after the lock clicked open from the other side, his limbs landing rather awkwardly all about the tan leather seat.
“Sorry about your trousers, love.” Your lips met his lightly stubbled cheek, hands gently carding through Sinclair’s limp hair, a puff of air leaving his relieved mouth with a sigh.
“‘S fine,” he mumbled, a sleepy, involuntary yawn following. You ruffled Sinclair’s dirty blond hair, his locks of hair falling back, his hairline and pale forehead exposed.
Throwing the car into reverse, you glanced out the car’s side mirrors, but no one lagged behind in the empty lot. You hit the main street with ease, Sinclair’s hazel eyes warring between focusing on familiar city sights he’d not seen in weeks and you. “Maybe I can make it up to you.” Your hand left the wheel, finding one of your husband’s knobby, bony knees.
Sinclair glanced down his hooked nose, one brow raised—half in question, half as a dare. The curious man already suspected where your mischievous thoughts were headed, yet raised no protest. “Going to ruin my trousers again, dearest?” Your hand was now massaging the space between his knee and his thigh, his crotch tenting in anticipation once more.
“Again, Clair? They’re already ruined, love, I don’t think I can make them any worse.” Sinclair’s ears were pink in the moonlight. “Although, I suppose you could pull your cock out if you don’t want to wear your mess—but then, you risk all of London seeing your pretty dick.” His neck and face were red in the shadows of London’s bright neon lights, his hazel eyes affixed on the road to avoid your overpowering gaze. “I don’t see how that’s a problem, Clair,” you palmed his cock now, the flesh fully engorged and desperate. Sinclair lowly moaned. “When you just came for every dining guest at the Ritz’s special entertainment.” His hips bucked forward, cock thrust into your waiting hand. You allowed him a few quick strokes before returning to massaging and heavily petting his right thigh. Sinclair disappointedly sat back in his seat.
London’s bright lights, narrow streets, and stop-and-go traffic soon disappeared through the rearview mirror. Your husband’s breaths now came in deep pants, his narrow chest heaving as he pressed himself to the back of the tan leather seat. Green fields, now black, passed outside your slightly cracked windows. The sound of sheep baaing ghosted into the heavy, tension-filled air of the dark blue Triumph.
The road curved, and Sinclair Bryant’s family manor soon came into view in the crippling darkness, the lights in several windows kept lit for your return. You found the head of Sinclair’s cock, still buried within his trousers, with one hand, squeezing the aching flesh in your grip. He grunted aloud into the car, neck bending low to inspect his lap before quickly being tossed back against the headrest. His large hands covered his mouth, stopping the mewls and breathy moans from leaking out. You desperately wanted to hear him as he came this time.
You twisted his cockhead, flicking the underside of his tip repeatedly, before, soon enough, his pelvis jerked, cock twitched, and his trousers grew wet. “Mmmmph,” he tapped your hand, still tightly gripped around his trembling, slowly shrinking shaft.
“Sorry, love,” you released him, then squeezed his knee in apology. Sinclair rested his large hand over yours, his narrow fingers still shaking. He couldn’t say or do anything else but nod.
The Triumph pulled to a stop in front of a black, wrought-iron gate. Gravel crunched and shifted beneath your feet as you walked over to the towering darkness, unlocking the latch with a long, black key. The iron gate swung forward, providing the car passage into the manor’s winding drive.
You brought the car up the driveway, Sinclair, still seated beside you, had finally managed to corral his breaths into something far steadier. You left him to re-latch the gate, heels slipping and turning amidst the uneven ground.
You sat in the driver’s seat, the car turned off, the door still open. Cool night air blew all around, whipping your curled hair back into a veritable mess, the smell of the Thames invading your nostrils. Sinclair sat slumped to one side, hazel eyes glassy—somewhere half between sleep and the waking world. Struck with a sudden surge of lust, you tugged him down by his striped tie, his startled lips meeting your insistent ones, hazel eyes panicking wide before closing in the throes of passion.
Sinclair broke off the kiss first with a gasp, the night air entering, rejuvenating his parched lungs. You pulled him forward again, and he yelped as your tongue latched against his. One hand was stroking his soft hair, the other making fast work of loosening the knot of his tie. You tossed the offending article of clothing somewhere into the dark abyss of the backseat, fingers now unbuttoning the top three buttons of his white dress shirt, the light fabric full of wrinkles and creases.
With one red-painted nail, you traced the exposed skin of Sinclair’s chest, the light brown hairs that grew there sparse. The moan he gave was far more sinful, far more scandalous, than any noise he had made thus far that night. You broke apart again, the car filled with synchronized, labored gasps. You gestured with one hand for Sinclair to remove his black suit jacket before exiting your side of the car, the door slamming closed with a bang in your enthusiasm.
The passenger door wrenched open, Sinclair struggling to untangle each of his arms from his jacket. You unbuttoned the remaining buttons of his white shirt, untucking the material from his still buckled trousers. His stomach was revealed beneath the thick white fabric—the protruding, straining flesh firm under your touch. You glanced below his lightly furred, full belly to see that his crotch was half-tented for the third time that evening.
You fell to your knees on the sharp, stony gravel ground, Sinclair, ever the gentleman, tossing down his rumpled jacket for you to kneel upon. He moaned as you gripped both his knees at once, hands delicately inching their way upward to his trousers’ belt. The buckle loosened with a metallic click, button and zipper popping open, his trousers and grey boxers meeting the gravel in one fluid motion of your hands.
His straining cock was now exposed to the cool night breeze, precum beading at the tip of the red head, his pink balls loose in a nest of darker brown curls below. He gasped at the sensation, cock bobbing, while you admired your husband’s naked form for the first time in weeks.
Your hands settled on his calves, lips sensuously pressing open-mouthed kiss after kiss from the inside of his left knee up to the place where his thigh met the rest of his pelvis before switching over to his right leg to do the same. Sinclair’s limbs wobbled, a noise higher than any pitch you expected his baritone capable of producing lay caught under his shuddering Adam’s apple.
“Mmmmph,” he whimpered into the summer breeze as your lips ghosted across his inner thigh, the muscle tensing, his breath reduced to shallow pants once more.
“Look at you, already so worked up again,” you teased, the pale moonlight shining along Sinclair’s bare legs, red lipstick staining the porcelain skin. You smiled as your husband’s hips inched forward, his firm erection leaking clear fluid, now pooling amidst the rocky ground.
“Yessss,” he hissed, as your warm breath tickled the velvet, untouched, dark skin of his wet cock.
Your lips were a hair’s length apart from him now, teasing smirk staring up at the pained, desperate face of the tall man above. “What do you want? What do you want, Clair?” His cock twitched in silent insistence, his eyes closing in harsh, barely held restraint.
“S-Suck me. Suck me off, please,” his deep voice was ruined, expression pinched, defeated by so vulnerable an admission. After so many years together, dirty talk still seemed to manage to rattle the man raised to be so proper.
“With pleasure,” you waggled your brows, lips wrapping around the very tempting flesh of his hard cock. Sinclair whined, muscles surrounding his stomach fidgeting as he attempted to keep himself from rutting into your warm, wet hole in excitement. Sex had eluded him for weeks, every inch of his body sensitive, tensed, and positively aching to experience the familiar pleasure that continued to surprise, to overwhelm him.
You reached one hand out to cup Sinclair’s loose, heavy sack, until then neglected, giving the tender orbs gentle squeezes. Pleasure shot straight up his groin to his spine, and a series of soft moans was wrenched from his chest. Your cheeks hollowed, suction increasing across his sensitive, spongy head, Sinclair’s legs falling further apart. You eased yourself forward onto him, nose tickled by his smooth, dark brown pubic curls, one hand still holding, kneading his balls.
Sinclair gasped, face a dark scarlet, his narrow fingers now stuck, clenching a fist full of your tresses, not to trap you against his cock, but to ground himself in the reality of the moment, to combat the incessant fear that in seconds he’d be waking up in a New York City hotel bed in a white sticky mess following the most vivid wet dream he had experienced in decades.
He was regularly twitching and squirming within your mouth, hips subtly bucking into your warmth, though not unkindly nor uncomfortably. The bright, pale moon had traveled high above the clouds, high above the manor’s rooftop, the sole voyeur of your coupling.
“Close,” Sinclair whimpered, baritone voice as coarse as the gravel beginning to dig into your bare knees, even with Sinclair’s jacket offering some small semblance of protection. Precum flooded the tip of your tongue, the flavor unnaturally sweet and purely him.
Seeing his lack of movement, you decided to take the initiative, bobbing up and down his scarlet-colored erection, lewd slurps erupting into the night as you continued to suckle. Sinclair’s grip tightened in your hair, hips stilling, balls drawing up close to his body. You felt his penis shiver, ropes of white cum hitting the back of your throat. You swallowed, continuing to hold him in your mouth as remnants of his sticky load dribbled out over your tongue, Sinclair whispering a steady mantra of, “Ah, fuck,” between breathy pants above.
You felt him begin to soften, his thighs shifting around your shoulders as the stimulation became too much. You pulled off his cock, lips creating a wet plop, knees popping as you stood up from the rough ground. Hazel eyes darkly scrutinized you as you swiped a hand across your lips and chin, both covered in drool mixed with Sinclair’s cum. His eyes flickered with appreciation and want, a soft growl tearing through his throat.
You bent low to kiss him, his own seed still at the tip of your lips and tongue, your husband deepening the kiss with a groan at the taste, at his taste. Your hand slipped under his open white dress shirt to clutch the bare, lightly freckled pale skin of his left shoulder. Long, sharp nails imparted crescent-shaped indents below the white shirt. Your hand retreated, lips leaving his to search for oxygen.
“Bedtime?” You murmurred, your own voice hoarse and missing the smooth, silky sensuality from earlier. Hazel eyes glimmered in the moonlight, filled with love and arousal, locking with your own eyes. Not trusting the strength of his own voice, Sinclair nodded, picking up stray articles of clothing and shutting the car door with a snap.
As you walked to the large, solid oak doors, you glanced at his groin, illuminated in the streaks permitted by the glowing moon, now partway blocked by a grey cloud. He was already semi-hard, penis and balls hanging low.
You slipped through the doorway, Sinclair already halfway up the steep steps leading to your bedroom, a smile spreading across your ruined lips at what next you had planned for Sinclair. Your poor husband would be lucky to walk the next day, and just might end up sleeping straight into next week. A chuckle, your chuckle, echoed off the dark hallway walls at the thought.
Is it possible to request another Sinclair smutty fanfic? Like a continuation (or stand alone) of the one with him in pink laces. This time his now wife is giving him a good pegging first before the main course (or just gave him a soft aftercare) 🥺
*Exhales.* This was definitely my most difficult request yet, not because I didn't want to undertake it, but because I received a similar request on Ao3 within days of this one hitting my inbox. I've been nervous to release this, and that editing took absolutely forever, lol. I'm pleasantly surprised by all the love Sinclair is receiving, *wink*. I also did not originally intend on making Pink Lace a series, but moving, I'll be referring to it as the "Pink" series.
Enjoy! I hope I did Sinclair and the first fic in the series justice!
🎀Pink Silicone🎀
Character(s): Sinclair Bryant x Female Reader
Summary: After an outing on the boat, with a picnic in a verdant green clearing of Sinclair's choosing. That evening, Sinclair's wife (you) later bends his arse over the mattress in the living space below deck.
Sinclair Bryant had had a rough week. Angry clients had thrown furniture about his office. His secretary of ten years had announced her retirement. His car tire had blown a flat on the expressway. And, worst of all, at least in his mind, his favorite café a block from the office complex had posted its closure on the front window. He wouldn’t be walking to Emily’s first thing in the morning any longer, a thick paper cup of heavily doctored coffee and a small brown bag of assorted pastries in hand, as he made his way to work.
Those worries, those concerns, were far from his mind, floating in the ether separating time and space. It was the weekend, and Sinclair was spending his blessedly free hours stretched out in a white plastic chair, sitting up on the bow of his boat. You joined him, seated across in your own white plastic-backed chair, fresh, windy, breeze coming from where the river spilled itself into the endlessly wide ocean, whipping your unrestrained locks in every direction.
Sinclair sighed, long brown eyelashes fluttering closed, head leaned back into his chair, yellow visor cap shielding his pale face from the sun. You smiled when minutes later a soft snore broke across from you into the sunny afternoon air.
The banks of the river flew by. Parks with young children playing tag and frisbee. Expensive estates and mansions where the occasional elderly couple sat at a wooden or dark metal bench, examining the sailing vessels coast past like attendants at a tennis match. Open green fields with rows upon rows of tulips of all different colors—white, peach, pink, red, and purple—that had blossomed neatly. Naked iron frames lingered far away in the backdrop of the rapidly expanding London skyline.
One hazel eye lazily peered open. “We should nearly be there,” Sinclair’s low voice rumbled, deep with sleep. He stood up from the flimsy chair, arms pushed to the magnificently blue sky, shoulders cracking with two sharp pops. He stood at the silver railing, looking down his large, hooked nose at the right bank. You joined him at the rail, clutching the hot metal as soon as you reached it, legs not at all acclimated to the constant listing and rocking of the boat.
“Careful, love,” Sinclair held your waist with one large hand, steadying you against him. His body was warm. Reassuring.
“Here we are.” He leapt off the side of the boat, your hand dwarfed in size as you accepted his assistance descending from the vessel’s steep edge. The skipper handed you a heavy brown wicker basket, filled to the brim with whatever Sinclair thought necessary for your outing. The basket nearly knocked you to the ground.
Your bare feet left the pebbled edge of the bank, toes curling as soft blades of green grass tickled your heel. Sinclair, as he was wont to do, had run ahead.
The clearing the narrow path led to was beautiful. Patches of tulips and wildflowers littered the wooded edges, glistening water peaking through the thick trees. Sinclair was lying on his side, most of his weight resting upon his propped-up elbow atop a spread green-and-white checkered blanket. He smiled as you placed the basket in the blanket’s middle, his hands gesturing to the verdant world around him. “What do you think?”
“It ’s-It’s breathtaking!” You smiled, Sinclair’s hazel eyes flashing in mirth.
“Told you so,” he teased, although you knew he didn’t mean it unkindly. “I’m just sorry it took so long to finally make the trip.” His eyes fell away from yours, suddenly taking an interest in a thin, sepia-colored stick over his shoulder. “I came here with Natalie once,” the twig was in his hands now, the sunny visor shading his face. “I actually proposed right over there,” he pointed with one end of the stick to a pair of red tulips at the wood’s edge, the gap between the low branches perfectly framed and exposing the river hidden from your angle on the blanket. Sinclair began snapping off small pieces of the twig, idly tossing them among the wavy strands of grass, sepia immediately disappearing among the bright green.
“Came here with Richard once, too.” His voice shook, whether from unshed tears or unreleased anger, you couldn’t say, perhaps because anger was an emotion that seemed unreconcilable, utterly incapable of existing within the unusually happy man. The bits of stick flew further into the sea of green. “Right before—before it all happened,” the last fragment of twig rolled from palm to palm, until Sinclair hurled it into the heart of the clearing. “I already had my suspicions at that point.” He fiddled with the edge of the blanket, worrying the fabric between his fingers.
Sinclair said no more; the series of admissions clearly had drained him. The empty space of green, green of every shade, a veritable hiding place in nature so close, yet so far away from the modern, the industrial world, surprisingly did not seem, did not feel, tainted by their past presence. The grass had forgotten, the trees remembered to grow taller, and the sea’s wind continued to blow at their memory. Sinclair bit his lip, sliding his visor off and onto the green-and-white blanket. The sun now hid behind a mountainous cloud.
“Why’d you propose here? You didn’t just stumble upon this clearing one day, Clair.” Red crept up his neck and bloomed across his cheeks, the lack of the visor leaving his pale, handsome face on full display. His signature timid, boyish smile began to tumble across his lips, only a hint of mischief hiding behind a lone dimple.
“You know me too well,” he mumbled into the spring day, deep voice thoughtful. “I used to come here as a boy. I was around six or seven when I did, as you put it, “stumble upon this clearing.” Quite accidentally, I might add.” He ripped a blade of grass from the field, rubbing his thumb and narrow index finger against the smooth green. A faraway look crossed over his hazel eyes, dirty blond hair rippling in the wind, his fidgeting momentarily stilling, a rather unusual occurrence for Sinclair, before immediately beginning once more.
“I was a curious boy,” he paused, mischief glinting through hazel, “I am certain that is shocking to you.” Peals of laughter burst across the open clearing, Sinclair and you now resting on your backs, gazes turned to the cloudy baby blue sky.
“You? Curious? Never!” you said aloud, teasing sarcasm causing your voice to melodically lilt. Sinclair let out one last deep giggle, an undignified snort leaving his hooked nose.
“As you know, the manor belonged to my grandfather, and I stayed there in the summertime. There was no better place for a young boy to be than the outskirts of London, especially with all the tourists, all the holiday traffic, filling the city to the brim.” The green scrap of grass still lay against his open palm, bottom lip worried between two teeth, smile suddenly absent. You turned to him, the sky not as brilliant in that moment as he was. “I love that house. That’s part of the reason why I asked for it when he passed. But sometimes—sometimes even its overflowing grounds and voluminous rooms became overbearing. I had no playmates—only busy adults, attending the manor’s needs or their own personal matters.” The blade of grass slid from his palm, falling back into the waiting arms of its kinfolk. “It was a lonely existence,” he paused, and somehow you knew that loneliness must have extended into his adulthood. You frowned, concern growing when Sinclair stopped speaking, stopped relaying his recollection of past summers. Your hand met his across the checkered blanket, his body minutely jerking, and awareness of his current state returned.
“The Thames fascinated me. I spent much of my time watching from the banks of the river along the manor’s property. I saw large barges and small joyriding vessels like ours—saw people living their lives and couldn’t help but envy them. I wanted to go where they were going—it seemed far better than where I was.” Sinclair took a steadying breath, launching himself into his next sentence. “One day, the Thames was empty. No boats were on the water, and the sky was horribly overcast. I was staring into the water’s dark depths, frustrated that my reflection was unclear in the river’s inkiness. I, a curious child, was leaning precariously over the bank’s ledge, unsuccessful in seeing myself in the water, but highly successful in landing myself headfirst in the bloody drink.” Sinclair shook his head, dirty blond hair disheveled from his efforts.
“It might not look it, but the river’s current is quite strong. I was exceptionally lucky I didn’t drown that day,” he tutted into the spring day’s brightness, the sun finally showing through the cloud’s puffy greyness. “The current carried me here. To this exact spot. I crawled to the bank, winded and waterlogged, gasping for air. I explored the clearing, cherishing the blossoming flowers and swaying trees. After an hour’s rest, and my curiosity momentarily satiated, I knew I had to return home.”
“The river was not nearly so built-up as it is now. There were no parks, only a scarce few wealthy mansions that the prats who lived there only did a few weeks out of the year. As such, there was no one to contact, no one for a six-year-old boy to plead with for assistance. It was well into the night before I made it back home,” Sinclair swallowed, nose scrunching up as he remembered his reception that night.
“I anticipated my grandfather being furious. My clothes were well and truly ruined, and I knew well enough at that age not to play so closely beside the water’s edge. I’d been lectured many a time about the water’s dangerous current. He wasn’t angry…not even an iota. Hugged me and my muddy suit jacket to his chest for an hour while he looked me over, letting me go only when he realized I hadn’t broken anything. I heard he absolutely reamed the housekeeping and grounds staff for not keeping an eye on me.” Sinclair sounded chastened by that, even if you didn’t agree with where his grandfather targeted his ire. He cleared his throat.
“I didn’t make it back here until I was a young adult, soon to be leaving for university. My grandfather had finally purchased a boat, and I told the captain what it was I was searching for.” He paused, thinking over his words. “We almost didn’t find the bloody thing. The clearing had been overgrown, the field shrunk five times its size.”
“Or perhaps, you had grown taller,” you argued, teasing the silly man.
“True,” he allowed, mirth entering his hazel eyes and brilliant smile. The happy expression faded ever so slightly, the story continuing. “I own this property now. Cost a fair penny to clear and restore, but worth it, I think,” he breathed out in his thoughtful, deep voice.
“I think it was worth it,” you told him, voice firm, eyes blazing. Sinclair chuckled.
“That’s all that matters to me, dear heart.”
“I’m famished! What all did you pack in here?” You began unloading the picnic basket, container after container of food exposed. You wondered if there was anything in the refrigerator Sinclair hadn’t brought with you.
“Oh, you know, just the essentials…” Sinclair trailed off, and you couldn’t help but smile at his innocent antics.
Night had fallen across the Bryant Estate’s grounds, the Thames only a soft, rustling wave to match the evening’s stillness. The skipper docked the boat with practiced ease, murmuring, “Evening, Miss,” with a tip of his cap as he made for the gate, his services no longer required. You thanked him, watching his form quickly disappear in the distance.
Turning, you smiled, catching sight of Sinclair, checkered picnic blanket pulled to his chin, yellow visor pulled over his eyes despite the sun’s long absence in the western sky. You pulled the hat from Sinclair’s head, dirty blond hair disheveled, a gentle snore issuing from his nostrils. Small hands wound through greying hair with careful precision, as if you regularly performed the loving gesture. Sinclair stirred, a low yawn in his gravelly deep voice disturbing the night’s peace.
“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” you teased, enjoying the dusting of scarlet splattered over Sinclair’s cheeks. You pulled your hand from his head as his arms stretched above his head, shoulders popping with a crack.
“Did I really sleep the whole trip back?” he asked, voice still husky from sleep, a bashful, embarrassed expression marring his handsome features. He looked around the boat, likely checking to see where Everett, your skipper, had gone.
“Yes, Clair, you did. I’ve told you countless times that you need to cut back on hours spent at the office.” Sinclair had the good sense to look guilty at your lecturing tone, head ducked down at the thought of disappointing you. That simply would not do.
“Would you like to have some fun tonight, pretty boy?” You dropped your voice to a sultry whisper, soft hand returning to brush the greying, dirty blond hair from Sinclair’s eyes. He bucked up against you, very much seeking further contact, a sinful moan slipping from pink lips only just slightly parted.
“Y-Y-Yes,” he stuttered weakly, blush spreading full force across his face as you cupped his cheek. With one finger, you pushed his chin up, and his dilated hazel eyes locked on your towering gaze.
“There’s nothing to be worried about, pretty boy,” you assured, stroking a thumb along his still parted lips, smiling at the growing bulge tenting his sweatpants. “Remember what you asked of me? That very special request you asked, curled up against me, pretty cock leaking cum between my legs?” Sinclair’s mouth was parted into an ‘o,’ your thumb, seeing its chance, plunged inside, playing with his pliant tongue. Drool dribbled down his chin. “Your wish shall become reality tonight, sweetheart.” You pulled your saliva-covered thumb from Sinclair’s mouth, hazel eyes dulling at the loss.
“Here, be a good boy and put these on downstairs. Call me when you’re ready.” You placed a small brown satchel across Sinclair’s lap, a dazed, dumbfounded expression suddenly worrying his face.
“Downstairs? You don’t mean. . .” he timidly trailed off, bottom lip nibbled between his teeth, hands fidgeting at his sides.
“Is that alright, Clair? We don’t have staff at home, and the neighbors are miles away, lovey. What’s the matter? What are you thinking?” His hazel eyes had gone vacant. You bent down to his level, grabbing his hand to rub circles along the lightly haired flesh. “I need you to speak for me, Sinclair.”
The use of his full name seemed to shake away the uncontrollable, spiralling thoughts, awareness flooding back into hazel eyes in an instant. “Sorry,” he weakly spoke, his low voice cracking with shame. There would be none of that, you thought.
“You have no reason to be sorry, dear heart. None at all,” you whispered, pressing a kiss against his forehead. “The boat is quite safe, and I have everything we could possibly need, even an extra pair of clothes if we spend the night in bed. Do you want to do it on the boat, love? Or we could go inside, go to our bed. We don’t have to do anything fun if you don’t want to either, pretty boy.”
Sinclair whined through his nose, eyes blanking, before he took in a deep, fortifying breath. “No–No, I want to,” he mumbled, his low voice suddenly high in desperation. “I want to do it in the boat, like–like you planned.” His chest was puffed up in front of him, even as he stuttered and tumbled over his words. He was trying very hard to be brave for you, and the sight made your chest ache.
“If you don’t like this at any point, Sinclair, you need to tell me. This is primarily for your pleasure. It’s supposed to feel good.” Sinclair bobbed his head up and down, an affirmative choked from the back of his throat. Worry tore at your chest. The man rarely became so submissive so fast.
“Go get yourself cleaned up, lovey. Quick as a bunny, now,” you encouraged, placing the straps of the brown sack directly into his hand. Sinclair unsteadily rose from the white plastic chair, gingerly making his way below deck. You breathed out an exhausted sigh, preparing yourself for him.
Fifteen minutes passed, your heart racing inside your ribcage. Sinclair was not one to be trusted when so submissive, you internally chastised yourself. The checkered blanket was wrapped about your body, shielding you from the river’s cold wind, your hand clutched around your red-and-tan tote bag. You walked down the boat’s narrow stairs to the hold below, passing the tiny kitchen and cooler, rounding the corner to see the bed built along the bow. You set the blanket and tote bag to the side, your destination only inches away.
Pillows, pillows, and more pillows piled across the mattress, a white duvet patterned with black and blue inked in anchors and wooden ship’s wheels spread across the awkwardly cut bed. Sinclair stared out into nothingness, evidently taking great interest in staring at the navy blue curtain to the privy. His penis, currently at half-mast, strained against his pink satin panties, nipples pebbled below the pink lacy teddy he wore around his torso. An involuntary shiver took over his spine, his movements uncoordinated. Jerking.
“Clair?” He started toward your direction, pale face turning to ash.
“Y-Yes?” He stuttered, nervousness clear as day. Or, you suppose now, night.
“How are you feeling?” His bottom lip was bleeding.
“Scared,” he hurriedly muttered, hoping that if he hurled the truth quickly away from himself, perhaps it would not sting so much. You settled yourself beside Sinclair, hand beginning to rub against his tensed, hunched-over back, your legs adjusting to allow for the new hardware strapped to your crotch. He looked at your lap, eyes going wide. “There’s no way that’s fitting,” he mumbled, face like a tomato. You shifted, pushing the pink silicone dildo down, trying to make your situation more comfortable. The cabin was chilled, your black silk lingerie offering no protection amidst the cool spring night air.
“It’s the smallest I could find,” you whispered apologetically. The dildo was larger than Sinclair, only four and a half inches in length, with small, round pink balls attached at the end. It truly was the smallest from the catalog you could purchase. “Besides, I’m going to prepare you.”
“Prepare me?!” His incredulity might have been adorable if it weren’t so troubling.
You lifted one eyebrow. “You didn’t think I was going to shove it in dry, did you?” Sinclair’s lack of response and beet-red cheeks made it abundantly clear he very well did think that, in fact. You fought the urge to shake your head.
“Clair, I’m going to be giving many choices tonight, and I expect you to answer them truthfully every time. This is going to be about your pleasure, so if it doesn’t feel good, you are to tell me to stop.” The rant made you breathless, but at least Sinclair nodded his head in acquiescence.
“My first choice for you to make,” you began, eyes searching his hazel ones, hand continuing your ministrations along his back, “is where you want to be positioned: on your belly or on your back?”
His eyes nearly crossed, the word “belly” falling from his mouth in a blur, as if it were a hot coal he wished to quickly be parted with. You nodded, giving the anxious man a moment to collect himself before pressing on. “Your second choice—would you like me to leave your panties on? Or would you like me to take them off?”
“Leave them on,” he weakly murmured, face matching his undergarments in shade. Sinclair was positively adorable when nervous.
“Alright,” you rubbed the skin of his bare thigh, internally smiling at his cock’s slight twitch beneath the pale satin. “Last choice, for now. Would you like to touch your cock, would you like me to touch your cock, or do you not want to be touched at all?” He closed his eyes, frown lines wrinkling the place between his brows and the edges of his mouth, the choice seeming to physically drain him.
“It can be an overwhelming experience,” your hand was kneading the area right above his knee, “and you can change your mind too, if you need more…” You took a breath, “Stimulation.” Your touch and teasing words drew a gaspy moan from his lips, pelvis jerking forward involuntarily. Sinclair was thoroughly worked up, and you intended to take advantage of the fact.
“Don’---Don’t wanna be touched,” he grunted, voice already wrecked. Ruined. “I’ll come too soon,” he breathed out, cheeks dark with shame. You didn’t like where his mind was going.
“That’s the goal, sweetheart.” You pushed the man onto his back, yourself propped up on one elbow, finger trailing down the sheer fabric covering his chest. “I want you to feel so, sooo goood,” you purred, cupping his engorged length through the pink satin, smirking at the small circle of precum darkening the front. Sinclair half-sobbed, his dirty blond hair spilling across the mattress and clearly fighting the urge to arch his back to meet your touch. You pulled away from him, a sad whine released from deep within his throat. “Sorry, pretty boy, you said you didn’t want to be touched,” you laughed at the pout spread across his pink lips, soft fingers tapping the inside of his knee. “On your belly.”
Sinclair scrambled onto his stomach, limbs hurriedly fumbling for purchase across the misshapen mattress. You made sure to throw a few pillows beneath him, for he wouldn’t ask for his personal comfort to be further met in the middle of a scene. “Comfortable?”
“Yesh,” he mumbled into a pillow, fingers clutching and fisting the bed’s sheets. You ran your hand down the center of his back, hoping the action would calm him a little. He moaned, hips stuttering forward against the bed.
You stood up from the bed, walked over to your bag, and found your bottle of lube, setting it within easy reach. Standing between Sinclair’s legs, dangling off the boat’s bed, you knelt on the floor, face inches from his arse. You grabbed his hips, not expecting the aching groan from higher up the bed that accompanied the movement. “May I use my mouth, Clair?” A whimper.
“Fuck.”
“That wasn’t an answer, pretty boy,” you squeezed both your hands, his left leg jerking in response.
“Yes, Mummy,” was the small-sounding reply from above. Sinclair very rarely used your agreed-upon title, not unless he was feeling very submissive. You moved your hands inward, cupping the tightly clenched globes of covered pale flesh between your palms. You squeezed. Sinclair groaned.
The lacy pink satin was slipped to the side, his arse finally unshielded from view. His pink-lined furled hole remained hidden from sight, white cheeks still firmly clenched, only a scarce few freckles blemishing their pallor. Not wasting any time, you pressed your nose between the mountains of snow-colored flesh and licked. Sinclair whimpered, but said nothing. Burrowing deeper, you soon discovered Sinclair’s tightness, your determined tongue plunging past the thick ring of muscle and into his narrow entrance.
The taste was nothing to write home about; his scent and flavor were a heady, masculine musk with notes of his natural sweat from the long day the two of you had together. Your true enjoyment derived from the litany of noises slipping from the trembling man at your tongue’s mercy. Melodic whimpers and moans, accompanied by the occasional huffed-out curse word, created a sweet-sounding score. Sinclair let out a high-pitched whine as your tongue gave one last lingering, almost apologetic lick to his winking hole, the tightness thoroughly loosened.
“That was dirty.” His voice was deep. Scratchy. His tone was sadly, completely, lost. You gently stroked the inside of his knee. Your brows drew together. He had not told you to stop.
“How was it dirty, my sweet boy? How is it dirty for me to worship my husband’s body?” A rumbly moan erupted from his lips, legs pulling together in a poor attempt to hide himself. Sinclair did not attempt to contradict your words. “There’s no need to be embarrassed, pretty boy.” A disbelieving sound caught in his throat. Sinclair likely would never be dissuaded through words, so you decided to progress in your loving motions.
You spread his legs further apart once more, ensuring your index finger was healthily dripping with clear lubricant before burrowing within his most private place. “I’m stretching you out now, my love. Let me know if I need to slow down.”
The thick ring of muscle resisted only for a moment until it allowed your finger’s passage, your digit’s pad scraping the spongy walls, searching, aiming, for the walnut-shaped flesh of Sinclair’s prostate. The pleasure center eluded you, so you slipped another finger within the man’s hidden depths.
Sinclair was a babbling mess atop his mound of fluffy pillows, unintelligible plea after unintelligible plea spilling from his lips against the dark blue pillow cradling his dirty blond head. His pleased noises turned to painful whimpers when a third finger was added to his arse, the stretch far more than his small, unpracticed hole was accustomed to. You rubbed the back of his thigh as sweet little nothings fell into the cooling night sea air like an early spring rain, the muscles in his sphincter finally relenting. “Alright, love?” you called to Sinclair, worried by his lack of verbal response in the past few minutes. You didn’t want him hiding his hurts.
“Mhmmmm,” his baritone voice hummed, cracking in the middle. You gently eased your fingers out of him, eyeing the red-rimmed hole with a pleased expression on your face. Sinclair was well and truly stretched out.
The pink strapon gleamed in the limited light of the boat’s hold, the silicone liberally coated in wet lube. You stroked across the shaft with your right hand, expertly lining yourself up with the man’s furled pink entrance. The tip slipped inside with relative ease. You stopped midway with half the pink cock exposed to the room, half sheathed in Sinclair. He moaned, shifting his legs in discomfort, the strap-on’s length difficult for his insides to adjust to.
“More.” You stayed still, Sinclair’s begged words shocking you into inaction. His arse eagerly wriggled backwards in an attempt to further sheath himself on your pink length, your hips untidily jerking forward to accommodate his need. The small, bright pink balls were partly sucked in by Sinclair’s needy hole before you halted your movements, your hand reaching between his legs to soothingly rub the inside of his right knee.
“How’s that feel, pretty boy?” You cooed to the man below, his arse clenching on the pink cock, a low moan drawn from his bruised pink lips.
“Full,” he whimpered, hips stuttering forward, covered cock seeking stimulation against the mattress. “Fuck me. Fuck me, Mummy, please.” He was close to tears, voice catching, crotch weakly humping the bed. You’d never seen the man so positively desperate, and who were you to continue to deny him?
You pulled out all the way and evenly jammed the small pink cock back into his arse, Sinclair grunting as the silicone scraped against his walls. “Faster—please,” he half-sobbed, and you could hear the sniffle in his voice. You must have hit his prostate with that stroke.
You followed Sinclair’s orders, hands squeezing his hips for dear life, your own hips snapping into an unrelenting, wicked rhythm. Your thrusts were fast, but deep, regularly hitting the walnut-sized lump of hidden flesh that caused Sinclair’s legs to thrash with every subtle touch. His mangled whimpers and hoarse moans drowned out the soft sound of the river’s steady waves, volume steadily increasing.
“There you go, pretty boy.” His long, narrow fingers were fisting the sheets, teeth biting his bruised bottom lip in a fruitless effort to quell the sounds of his pleasure. “Let it all out.” His jaw unclenched, teeth removed from tearing into the torn flesh of his pink lips. He was all sobs and choking breaths against the damp blue pillow. “Be a good boy, and let it all out for Mummy,” you panted, ramming the pink cock far into his arse, the small pink balls nearly sucked up entirely by his greedy, wanting hole. Sinclair came, a cross between a high-pitched yelp and an eerie wail, leaving his sore, overworked throat. You shallowly pounded the thin cock into him, milking him for all he was worth, as his satin-panty-covered cock rocked against the mattress.
The pink cock exited his arse with a loud, obscene pop. Sinclair’s hole looked ruined in its absence, the rim pink and puffy, the dark void far larger than it had been before. Lube spilled down his rim, trickling down to his balls and staining the bed’s blue, black, and white sheets. The sheets were hardly a present concern, however.
The blissed-out man keened when a wet flannel pressed against his dripping entrance; the sloppy mess vanished in a few quick strokes. Massaging his right calf, you urged Sinclair to roll over so you could properly clean his cock with another warm, wet flannel. He turned with a sniffly huff, white bow of his panties rumpled, the pink satin drenched with his milky load.
He moaned as the panties were pulled to his ankles, whimpered when the wet warmth erased the cooling cum from between his legs. His pink cock was small now, round balls loosely nestled below. “C’mere,” he croaked in his ruined deep voice as you wiped the last traces of semen from the sensitive head of his penis. The inside muscles of his right leg tightened. “Please,” he begged when you failed to respond.
“I’m coming over soon, lovey. I’m putting your nice, clean, dry boxers on.” The waistband snapped against his softly protruding stomach, pale pink teddy having ridden up. Sinclair gave a frustrated noise at the continued lack of your presence in bed. You slipped into place, draping yourself over the man’s chest, pulling the green-and-white checkered picnic blanket over both of you. Sinclair sighed.
You gave him a good look, noting the red-rimmed hazel eyes and dried teartracks staining his stubbled cheeks, the flesh of his lips broken and dirty blond hair enthusiastically mussed. “How was it? How was your first time?” You waited for his answer with bated breath, watching the way his lanky limbs limply settled into the misshapen bed’s mattress. Sinclair hummed.
“Pleasantly draining,” he mumbled in his creaking baritone. “I feel like I could sleep for a bloody week.” You snorted.
“You’ve slept most of today away, sweetheart.”
“So? The best place to sleep is next to you.” You pressed a soft kiss against his temple. You could not agree more.
requesting a frank benson fic where reader treats frank by planning an unforgettable birthday (smut smut smut smut smut LOL)
im thinking handcuffs... 🙈
can't wait for this one!
Operation: Best Birthday Ever!🎉
Author's Note: Welcome back, SmartOwl! I hope your exams went well! <3 I can certainly try to write more Frank smut! I hope I delivered once more on this one! <3
Summary: It's Frank's first birthday since the two of you married, and you feel pressured to do something special. How will Frank react to being made to wear handcuffs in bed?
Character(s): Frank Benson x Female Reader
Warning(s)‼️: Smut. PIV Sex. Handcuffs/Bondage. (Frank's also a little self-conscious about his body).
Word Count: 3.2k
Read on Ao3 or below the break:
Frank Benson awoke with a groan, wordlessly pulled from his lips, the familiar ache residing deep within his lower back already present. Fumbling in the darkness of his bedroom, he somehow located his phone, silencing his insistent alarm—still the preprogrammed, irritating beeping—with a sharp jab of his thick thumb. Beside him in the blackness, he felt the bedsheets stir, your knee brushing against the knobby bone of his leg.
“Frank?” You asked the man, voice full of sleep, and far too much sweetness than he deserved.
“Mmmm?” He answered, with a great, deep rumble of his throat. Your narrow fingers, much shorter than his, had found one of his bare, rather hairy forearms over the duvet, and begun to give the limb gentle pets.
“Happy birthday, love,” he softly heard, chest breaking at how sincere you were, even in the wee hours of the morning, when no human should be awake.
“Thank you, darling,” he spoke, baritone catching, whether from disuse or emotion, he did not know. Your hand’s stroking slowed.
“I have a surprise for you…” You told him, and he could hear the mischievous spark in your eyes through your voice.
“Ohh?” He asked, already knowing there would be no chance of you revealing one of your schemes.
“Later tonight, when you come home…” There was hope, and a trace of something horribly affectionate edging your tone. Your hand had left his forearm, entwining itself with his thick fingers. Your metal ring was ice cold against him.
“However, will I wait?” The playful, slightly sarcastic query earned him an eyeroll he did not need to see to know it was there, and a half-hearted slap aimed at his bicep as you pulled your hand away from him in mock indignation.
“Frank,” you exasperatedly huffed, breaking into uncontrollable giggles alongside your husband’s low chuckles. “You’ll wait patiently if you know what’s good for you,” you tried to sound serious, but one could hardly sound so serious after being brought to tears of laughter.
“Ah, so it’s that kind of surprise.” There was far too much pride and satisfaction brimming in Frank’s voice for your taste.
“It’s a surprise, Frank, you can hardly expect me to be so forthcoming.” He had stood up from the bed and turned on a lamp, now dragging a military green jacket over his plain white undershirt with less coordination than usual, intent as he was on winning this new round of banter.
“So it is a fun surprise. Deflection always signals a direct hit, sweetheart. You should never have married a former interrogator if you wanted to keep your secrets safe.” He was smirking, zipping up the tight-fitting trousers you thought perfectly complemented his arse, when you could get away with ogling him from behind.
“You’re insufferable.” There was no bite to your words.
“And? I already know that.” His boots were nearly laced to his ankles.
“And you’re lucky you have work.” He stood up so fast he was swaying, face wrinkled in fake hurt.
“Oi! That was hurtful!”
“And you’re lucky it’s your birthday, Franklin. It’s not every day a man turns sixty-three.” He supposed his wife had a point, as he kissed you goodbye, making his way out your shared bedroom and downstairs, the smell of coffee wafting to the upper floor entirely welcome to his nostrils.
Frank was in between meetings, walking to the large conference room at the end of the hall, when he thought of his wife’s words once more. It’s not every day a man turns sixty-three.
It wasn’t one of those important birthdays—not a milestone or an age ending in nought. But you were making it feel special—perhaps because it would be the first time they’d be celebrating while married.
The Lieutenant General could not shake the excitement swelling within his chest at the thought of what you might have planned that evening—he only hoped he could be home early.
Frank shook himself from his wandering thoughts—it wouldn’t do to be thinking of–of whatever sinful things you wound up doing for him later tonight while in a meeting concerned with the prospect of launching a proportionate response to a recent anti-democratic uprising in southern Africa. Frank was suddenly quite pleased he’d be able to retire in two years.
Frank stumbled through the doorway, utterly exhausted and forty-five minutes later than usual. His meetings had run long—an attack had been planned, but the American Secretary of Defense and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had both dragged their feet trying to come to a decision. As a result—everyone decided against engagement, stating the risk of civilian casualty to be too great, and other bureaucratic nonsense that often convinces Frank that perhaps he had chosen the wrong profession. War was not like it once was, he thought to himself, wryly.
He left the doorstep and entered the kitchen, spotting the chocolate cake resting on the stove, stopping at the island in the middle to nick a few chips before being discovered. Hearing the door click shut, you popped your head around the corner, snorting at the sight of Frank chewing and guiltily looking about the room.
“Hullo,” he tried to mouth through cold, fried potato, sounding more like, “Hul–ommsh.” You let out another undignified snort at Frank’s vulnerable state, beginning to reheat Frank’s favorite meal you had cooked for him: fish and chips.
“You’re late,” you quietly murmured, back turned to Frank, who was sheepishly swallowing the last of his chewed-up chips with an audible gulp.
“Meetings again with a bunch of indecisive pricks who should never have gone into the business of modern warfare—the rest is classified, I’m afraid, my dear.” He was awkwardly sitting at the counter, legs too long for the small metal chair, his knees bent at an odd angle.
You didn’t mind Frank’s need for secrecy, but it did sometimes make it difficult to offer the restrained man comfort or understanding. “I just wish they didn’t keep you so long—the hours aren’t fair for you.”
“That’s part of the gig, sweetheart,” Frank smirked, watching the muscles of your arse shift as you pulled the meal from the oven. His tight-fitting trousers suddenly felt a few cinches tighter. “All the higher-ups were held back.”
“Still,” you grumbled, blowing a few wisps of hair out of your eyes after standing upright, waving an oven mitt over the steaming food.
“It won’t be forever.” Frank’s voice had gone uncharacteristically soft and fragile, something you did not have the heart to wheedle out of him on so momentous a day. You placed a steaming plate in front of the man with a smile, and Frank’s socked feet tapping an unrecognizable beat along the metal chair’s low-hanging bar stopped.
With a whir, the dishwasher roared to life, the sound of water tossed around deafening in the otherwise silent kitchen. Frank was leaning back in his metal chair as far as the hind legs allowed (which was not very far, in truth), thick hands folded over his stuffed belly. He’d already loosened his belt’s notch two holes while you weren’t looking.
You had waltzed behind him, small hands, still wet from rinsing off dishes in the sink, running through his thinning snow-white hair before trailing lower to knead the stiffening muscles of his neck.
He groaned, the sensation of your fingers caressing his scalp magic, like belonging, like home. You pressed a kiss to his forehead, a murmured, “Bedroom,” breathed against him. Excitement pressed to the forefront of his stomach, the thing he’d been mentally ready for all day, his promised surprise, only minutes away.
Frank hesitated, his large body backed up against the solid wooden door, heart hammering like he was expecting a sentence of execution to fall from your pink lips. How often was it that he had you pinned, back hard-pressed to a door or wall? Oh, how the tables had turned, and for some reason, likely tied to a buried portion of his psyche, he quite liked it, this strange turn of events.
Your nimble, narrow fingers were making quick work of his green jacket, untucking the material out of his trousers, the movement across the front of his crotch causing his drowsy cock to stir. Purposefully taking your time with the buttons at his collar, you stroked along his finally bared neck, marvelling at the way his shoulders, the shoulders of a man who never flinched when met with imminent danger, shivered.
You kissed at the loose, warm flesh of his neck, Frank’s breath coming in sharp, short pants, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath your mouth. You released him, stroking the wispy curls of hair sprouting above the collar of his white undershirt. He was not calm, his neck tilted back in bliss, eyes pinched shut, and still gasping as if he had just sprinted a marathon.
“Stop teasing me, woman,” he grumbled, baritone husky and straining. You responded by lifting the white undershirt up over his broad shoulders, exposing his chest and stomach to the drafty room. He was hairy, wiry black and white curls peppered across his front, thinning only where a jagged scar, pale with age, scraped from his navel to below the cut of his trousers. Frank’s nipples, pink and pebbled beneath the sprawling hair, seemed to beg you to be touched. Ignoring the Lieutenant General’s warning, you guided your index finger from the center of his chest, barely touching his soft flesh, until you met the end of his sagging belly. His eyes fluttered. Your fingers disappeared, and he was now adrift.
Frank shifted uncomfortably under your ministrations, suddenly aware he was half-naked in the bedroom's yellow lamplight, while you remained fully dressed, hands held behind you, shaking uneasily. He startled back into the wooden door when your hands flew from behind your back, whatever was held in your grasp catching the light, the reflection shining straight into his face.
“Handcuffs?” He heard his low voice mutter, unnaturally hesitant. Your expression merged from hopeful to sheepish, confidence lacking behind your bright eyes. Frank could kick himself for causing you disappointment.
“Errr—I wanted to—erhm—tease you a bit—and—well, take control.” You were biting your bottom lip innocently, though less than innocent images were making themselves known in Frank’s mind, particularly ones involving you, straddled atop his—-
“Put them on,” he spoke, so quiet it was a wonder you heard the sound over the radiator’s incessant rattle.
“If you don’t want to, Frank, I won’t make—”
“Just do it, before I change my bloody mind, woman.” Frank then realized this might have been a mistake, your eyes sparkling with mischief. A smile he’d never seen before, and perhaps more wicked-looking than he’d ever seen you wear, now flashed his way.
He never registered you spinning him around by the belt loops of his trousers, his belly now tightly pressed, flush against the door. He heard the click of metal closing against metal, felt you tug the chain that now connected his wrists behind his back until he was facing you once more, his cock half-hard and aching.
Leaning up on tiptoe, as tall as you could reach, yet still shorter than Frank’s imposing stature, you whispered a command into the older man’s ear. “On the bed.”
A man as accustomed to obeying orders as he was commanding them, Frank’s feet took him to the bed before he registered the dominance in your tone, his need for release all he could think about. He flopped against the mountain of pillows piled in front of the walnut headboard, stocky legs spread wide apart, trapped hands playing with a loose thread from one of the pillowcases behind him. His hazel eyes focused on you, laying the key to his bonds on the faraway dresser, slowly unbuttoning the fastening on your denim jeans.
He was enthralled, watching your lightly tanned thighs appear out of the sea of blue, distracted by the muscle stretching along the side of your calf rippling when you kicked the trousers to the corner with just the lazy flick of one leg. Your emerald green sweater, a present from him for your birthday, was next to go, leaving your shoulders fully bare, hell, leaving most of you bare.
Metal clinked as he wrestled with his bonds, his hands desiring nothing more than to be permitted to touch. Frank wanted to feel the soft crevice of your bony collarbone, wanted to press the wavy curls gathered at the back of your neck his way for a passionate kiss, one that expressed far more than he ever could with the limitations of the English language.
He was firmly struck by your lingerie—a gentle green bra, decorated in black lace so sheer he could see every detail of your breasts—of your nipples—when you swayed toward the light. Your panties were that same gentle green with black lace—but crotchless—and he was hard-pressed to avoid staring at the perfectly framed exposed slit resting between your thighs.
Frank did not know which part of you was the most sensible to maintain eye contact with, so he instead was left to eye you up and down as your legs strutted forward, not stopping until you were straddling his lap. A moan, unrestrained and vulnerable, tore from deep in the recesses of his throat as he watched, unhindered, as your lower lips spread apart, clear slickness already glistening against the pink flesh. His dick, fully erect and impatient, throbbed against his leg, displeased with the layer of fabric separating him from your cunt.
Frank jerked forward, fluffy white hair, soft and disheveled, pressed into your neck in an armless embrace. He gave a frustrated huff, as you cradled his head, fingers carding through his hair before rubbing circles along his broad back. “Patience, birthday boy.” You smirked at Frank’s groan, pushing him back into the mountain of pillows with a little thud. He struggled to return upright, trapped hands no help in maintaining even an iota of balance.
“To hell with patience.” Frank was more bark than bite, his unbearable frustration obvious beneath the tent pitched within his trousers.
Tracing down the jagged scar striping across Frank’s stomach, you met the buckle of his belt, slipping the leather out through the curving metal fastener. Frank’s zipper and the button of his trousers were next, each touch making his dick grow firmer, each touch forcing him to swallow back an unmanly whimper.
His trousers were pulled down, boxers included, into a bunched-up bundle at his knees, erection finally springing free, happily curving toward you. He was big; nearly seven inches ending in a spongy, angry red tip steadily leaking pre like a broken faucet.
The gentle green silk lace fell to the floor. Frank couldn’t keep his eyes from boring twin holes at your chest, so engrossed was he in the work of art before him. He hissed when you pressed against his front, heartbeat to racing heartbeat, hazel eyes finally breaking their impenetrable stare as he met the mischief bubbling deep within your gaze. His cock jumped beneath you as you kissed along his jaw, lightly stubbled and scratchy, and beginning to lose definition with age.
“I love you.” It was spoken so soundlessly you barely even caught the faint syllables gasped aloud into the darkness, yet they brought warmth to your chest, reassurance to the shaky confidence you were desperately trying to strengthen for the general. You said nothing, for it was often better to say nothing at all when Frank was so tenderhearted and bare with you, never breaking eye contact as you slid his rigid shaft inside your glistening wet entrance.
Frank groaned with your movement, nearly losing full control early as you began to hump his cock, mourning the imprisonment of his arms, for there was nothing he desired more in that moment than to ease you up and down his aching member himself. You mewled freely, his swollen dick hitting the back of your walls, just how you liked, leaving Frank to feel as if he were little more than a glorified dildo.
Pressure had begun to build within his lower balls, the tightness coming with every labored thrust of his hips he gave to meet your hole, his arms still restrained behind his back, pressed into the puddle of pillows stacked along the headboard. Once again, he didn’t know where to look, caught between your sagging breasts swinging with each thrust, begging for a touch he could not gift, or your pussy lips, through which his shaft entered and exited, dripping with the collected juices of your lovemaking, or your eyes, heated and loving, sending a twitch to both his heart and his cock with every second of pleasure that passed.
Frank was slowing down, and you both knew it. Each upward thrust of his hips was even more unbalanced and erratic than the last, the ache in his groin growing to be too much for him to bear. You were attempting to steady him, thin, narrow fingers digging little crescents into his broad shoulders, likely to remain a scar for the next week for him to proudly hide beneath his uniform.
“C–Close,” he stammered, quite uncharacteristically, the sound sending a wave of pride deep within your belly. Frank was not one to be so discomposed, even during sex.
“Cum, cum for me, Frank,” you raspily panted, hips roughly slamming onto his. “Give it to me—give it all to me!”
Frank moaned; how could he deny you that? Your walls fluttered against him, squeezing his shaft like a warmed blanket, your orgasm underway. He followed, balls pulsing, drawing up, his cock releasing spurt after spurt of warm seed deep into your womb. You rocked into him, only shallowly thrusting in the aftermath of pleasure, you enjoying the feeling of fullness, Frank enjoying the feeling of filling you. You were curled against his chest, your bodies sweaty and panting. Frank was breathing heavily, scarred belly rising and falling beneath you, your head tucked under his chin in your caring embrace. You missed his strong arms holding you, suddenly regretting locking him in handcuffs for the first time that evening.
“M’ arms are falling asleep.” As if on cue, Frank grumbled into your curls, baritone voice coarse and gravelly. This would be Frank’s subtle signal that his arms were hurting, and you silently worried that perhaps pinning his wrists behind his back may have been too stressful. You weren’t quite ready to move yet either, Frank’s dick fully sheathed inside, still quite stiff and already prepared for a second round, pressed as far in as he could manage.
“It’s on the dresser.” With a pained cry, you attempted to unbury yourself, the movement much too harsh a sensation for your sensitive limbs to process just yet. A noise—like metal scraping and chinking against metal—sounded, strong arms surrounding your shuddering form, grounding you. The pain between your legs stopped, the image before you suddenly clear.
Frank grasped you at the upper arms, hazel eyes crinkled with worry, broken chains dangling from the metal cuffs attached to his wrists. “Are you all right?” His tone was gruff with hidden fear, the tight grip on your arms beginning to sting. You nodded, mouth open in awe as you stared at his wrists.
“You didn’t really think those could hold me, dearest, did you?” You looked up into his hazel eyes, the corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk of satisfaction.
Impressed, but not wishing for him to detect that, you launched yourself into a tirade, “Frank, those cost me nearly twenty quid! You’re lucky it’s your bloody birthday!”
Frank snorted, the sound undignified for a man of his rank. Yes, he was quite lucky that it was his birthday, the best he’d ever had.
Author's Note: A request for more Lionel from Ao3. Also, guys, I recently made it to 100 followers on Tumblr!! I am so thankful for everyone who has subscribed just to read my incoherent ramblings <3.
Summary: At a casino-night-themed charity event, Lionel Shabandar is forced to protect a young server. Clearly, Lionel's luck isn't poor; he's just been looking for it in all the wrong places...
Lord Lionel Shabandar grumbled in annoyance under his breath, reaching over with his right hand to grab a flute of golden, bubbling champagne off a passing server’s tray. The aged multi-millionaire media tycoon was losing quite spectacularly at the roulette table to a young, upstart tech genius who’d just landed his first million and a middle-aged woman recently made wealthy as a result of a cashed-in inheritance collected from a long-forgotten uncle.
The continued losses were starting to truly sting; the repeated mantra of “it’s for charity” was the only thing grounding him and persuading him from storming out the double doors, out into the busy street. Lionel Shabandar did not routinely gamble. Lionel Shabandar could never afford to appear to lose, let alone actually lose.
He placed his bet—the odd number seventeen—not because it was Lionel’s “lucky” number or anything of meaning. He remembered seeing it in a movie not too long ago—something with action and romance. After all, even refined billionaires could be whimsical every now and then.
“No more bets.” Lionel sipped from his flute, the alcohol going down the back of his throat easily. The wheel spun, the round ball bouncing, clattering against the wooden slats. It rolled to a stop in one of the compartments; Lionel swore under his breath.
A group of men loudly whooped to his right at a small table, cards haphazardly tossed in the centre, several men looking as annoyed as he felt, making ready to exit the game. A server approached the men, easily the prettiest of the bunch. She was dressed in a bright red dress shirt, tightly cinched black apron, and short black skirt that revealed long tanned legs ending with black stilettos. She hid under a dark visor pulled low, throat nervously swallowing beneath the sharp black bowtie firmly tied.
The men emptied her tray; their leader, a blond-haired man with a thin goatee, was speaking out of the corner of his mouth, grey eyes flashing dangerously. The girl blushed, clearly uncomfortable, backing away before being restrained by the man’s hand, grabbing her around the waist, pulling her toward his waiting lap.
Her red lips mouthed the word “stop,” the man displaying no sign of adhering to her refusal, and Lionel’s feet responded far before his brain properly could.
The scene before him blurred within his vision, the man sneering at his visage, the server girl wary and nervously eyeing him up and down. He acted on undiluted instinct, punching the swaggering youth with a well-landed right hook, his hand smarting painfully from the bone meeting bone. Lionel was suddenly grateful for taking up boxing all those years ago.
The man’s entourage swarmed him, the party hushed for only a moment, until the gamblers resumed their individual games. He led the stunned girl away from the table with one large hand guiding her by the small of her back. “Just follow my lead, and you’re free,” he whispered against the shell of her ear, his warm breath a tickle.
Lionel waved down his driver, opening the door for the young server before ambling over to the driver’s side. He instructed his chauffeur to drive, to no destination in particular yet, not wishing for the event’s security to flag down his limousine. He was lucky the vehicle was fairly inconspicuous—well, about as inconspicuous as a limousine could possibly be.
They were already down the street as he buckled his seat belt, hand smarting and beginning to bruise where his fist came into contact with the smarmy wanker’s face. A worthwhile wound, he thought to himself. “Where to?” He asked his unlikely passenger, taking note of the nervousness etched across her face. It was a look he had grown accustomed to over the years—the look of an average person realizing the true extent of his momentous wealth. It was a look he had come to despise rather than cherish.
“The nearest tube station will surely suffice—”
“Nonsense! I’m completely capable of driving you home; it’s the least I could do—” She shifted uncomfortably, eyes fixated on the car’s windows.
“With all due respect, I’m not very—thrilled—at the thought of a strange man with the likely GDP of a small province.”
“Large province, actually, not to brag, but—well—Look, I’m not pleased at the idea of leaving you alone on the underground at—” Lionel glanced at his silver Rolex watch—“eleven o’clock at night. No chance.”
Lionel bit his bottom lip while he glanced out at the neon lights passing by, an idea nearly crafted to completion. “Look—I rented a hotel room for the night—there’s an extra couch you can take for the evening.”
“Fine,” She mumbled, accepting the man’s generous proposal. “What’re you—?”
“—-I fully intended on ending the day sloshed or in bed with another woman. Allow me the former, at the very least, sweetheart.” He had one arm lazily draped around the leather seat, holding out a glass of red wine he’d expertly poured while the vehicle bounced over a bridge. She took the glass, tipping the alcohol back immediately. Lionel raised his drink with a muttered, “Cheers.”
When Lionel Shabandar, a man whose image you had seen plastered across downtown buildings and book covers at your local drug store alike, had said he’d rented out a hotel room for the evening, you never imagined him to be so casually referring to the Savoy. The room was massive, and you were only two steps out of the hallway and into the atrium.
Two armchairs and a long couch, all black leather, surrounded a pure glass side table, which held a seemingly ancient sculpture. Something Asian and reflecting the light off the golden chandelier onto the seventy-inch flatscreen TV hanging on the wall.
Lionel had already found the bar, his looming figure pouring a shot of whiskey into an expensive-looking tumbler behind the dark wooden furniture. He sat on a barstool, shrugging out of his tuxedo jacket and white tie, the white button-up underneath thoroughly wrinkled. He ran a hand through his gelled hair, sipping his crystal glass with a rich hum. “Well, sit down. The view isn’t going anywhere, darling.”
You finally entered the room more fully, ignoring Lionel’s instruction and accompanying lifted eyebrow. The window opposite the door appeared cracked open; the sound of London traffic and a wave of barcrawlers drunkenly walking down the street intrigued your curiosity. You had never seen the bustling city from so high up in the sky, the sight strangely calming.
A knock sounded on the hotel room door, Lionel springing up from the bar to answer. The porter tucked a stack of luggage just inside the room, Lionel passing a bundle of bills sleekly into his waiting palm. You went back to watching the outside world as the porter turned to leave, your eyes drawn to a Rolls Royce, classic and expensive, as it vanished behind a tall building.
“Here.” You jumped, not hearing Lionel approach from behind, his breath warm and stinking of alcohol. He offered a change of clothes, his clothes, held across his forearm like a server holding a towel. “You can’t possibly be comfortable in—in that,” he said, thickly, nodding at the skimpy and flamboyant outfit you were wearing at the charity event. You felt suddenly exposed beneath the gaze of his intelligent hazel eyes—recognising a flash of—a flash of lust you’d seen similar men give you before.
Lionel was first to break from the stare, his cheeks, already dusted pink from the liquor, reddening significantly. You quickly grabbed the proffered clothing from his arm, the luxury fabric brushing against the bare flesh of your hands.
“The bathroom’s just down the hall,” he murmured, and you thought you detected a hint of defeat in the softened tone. You still did not know what to think of the great Lionel Shabandar. He did not seem so proud, so lion-like and regal, nursing his third refill of whiskey, his gait now far more laboured and uncertain, his amber eyes unfocussed and glassy. He was not what you had been expecting, although, even you did not know what you were expecting to see.
Lionel coughed, the whiskey burning down his throat, but doing nothing to alleviate the burning of his mind. The girl had returned from the loo, now dressed in the clothes, his clothes, that he had provided her.
Lionel Shabandar did not do casual; he did not mill about in baggy sweatpants and a loose-fitting t-shirt like the present-day youth. He’d given her his pyjamas—a long-sleeve, button-up navy blue silk shirt with the emblem of a lion embroidered along the breast pocket and matching bottoms. She was swimming in the clothes—his shoulders far too broad for her frame, the trousers cinched at her waist tightly, yet several inches too wide and too tall.
He gulped, Adam’s apple bobbing uncomfortably, discreetly crossing his legs to hide the bulge stirring below his crotch. Lionel was sitting on the couch, the bar’s mahogany rail no longer present to provide him coverage and security. The crystal tumbler felt big and awkward resting in the palm of his hand; he downed the rest of the amber liquid in one swallow, resigning himself to the borderline painful, fiery burn tearing apart the lining of his throat like broken shards of glass.
The girl stared at him, lingering underneath the arch of the hallway. Lionel, not at all at ease, shifted in his seat, wishing he had not finished his alcohol so he could indulge in a comforting sip of liquid courage. Awareness coursed through him, and he realised he had stupidly taken up residence in the poor girl’s bed. “Right—right, I should make myself scarce.” He stood, too fast, too late, and the room momentarily spun in his addled vision.
The girl rushed forward, tightly gripping his bruised wrist, ushering him back onto the couch. She sat next to him, relaxing into the black leather merely inches away. He did not know what to think—where to look—what to say. He dumbly raised the tumbler’s rim to his lips, only a drop dribbling upon his tongue.
His cheeks were scarlet, he knew without glancing in a mirror. Attempting to salvage his draining dignity, he decided to ask the girl, really still a stranger in his mind, a question. “What’s your name?” he partially slurred, suddenly aware he did not know such a basic asset, when his own identity was surely realised moments after their meeting.
“Y/N,” she softly spoke into the dimly lit room, the evening feeling later than its true hour.
“Y/N,” you softly spoke, watching the older man’s thick fingers twitch against the crystal glass. He was well on his way to becoming fully “sloshed,” as he had stated as his intention in the backseat of his limousine. He’d slurred his words, the act of standing sending him into a fit of wobbliness. Dilated hazel eyes found your own, and you found heat pooling within the depths of your stomach.
“If you could be so kind as to fetch me the—the bottle,” his eyes darted back over to the bar and returned to your stare.
“You’re drunk.”
“So?” He whined, annoyed. “One of the perks of being a billionaire, darling, is that the liquor is to die for.”
Lionel eyed you from his perch atop the leather cushions and fluffy pillows, following your figure as you returned from the bar with the bottle of whiskey and an extra tumbler. “Joining me, eh?” He smirked at the crystal in your grasp.
“I need it after tonight,” you muttered, meaning it.
“Indeed,” he practically purred while you filled his glass.
You took a sip of the expensive whiskey, eyes watering as the smoky liquid hit the back of your throat. Coughing, you placed the crystal glass, still half-full of liquor, loudly onto the table with a sharp slam, hand upheld to your mouth. “Too strong?” Lionel asked, sarcastic, as your breathing finally evened out. He idly played with his drink, tipping the glass and watching the amber liquid follow.
“No shit.” You felt more than a little tipsy, the earlier glass of wine and status as a lightweight no help in your current predicament. Lionel snorted, taking another sip. His eyes were drooping, and you wondered when he would finally reach his limit for the night. You found yourself staring, staring at his hands still fiddling with the nearly empty glass before your gaze landed on the crotch of his trousers. Beneath the rich material was the clear, well-defined outline of something long and rigid, tucked along his left thigh.
It hadn’t been your objective to get laid that evening. Plenty of your friends working the casino night charity event had mentioned many of the wealthy patrons; i.e. the wealthy men, would hit on the servers and tip more if it meant a free, untethered night of sex. There’d been bragging that night over who could land which millionaire—who could land the richest, handsomest, or most well-endowed at the end of the night.
And Lionel had admitted point-blank his main objective was to get drunk or get laid. On a whim, an alcohol-fueled whim, you decided to see if you could help him achieve both.
Lionel emptied the remainder of the bottle into the crystal tumbler, the liquid rippling and fragrant. He was still horribly aroused by the continued sight of her slim figure filling—or, rather, underfilling—out his pyjamas.
He was slowly reaching his limit—his peripheral vision blurring, body warm and relaxed, and his brain delightfully sluggish. It was nice to have his senses dulled after—after any day, really, no matter how arduous or not his schedule had been. He had only hoped to be ending his day differently.
The girl inched closer to his corner of the couch, fingers wrapping around his bony knee, and the man nearly jumped a foot in surprise. Lionel schooled his face, willing himself to remain calm, the hand on his person surprisingly warm and only a short distance away from his cock.
The machinery at work in his mind misfired, unable to comprehend what this touch meant, but he was not about to call attention to the fact and potentially lose their connection. He sipped at his drink, her grip tightening to squeeze his knee before slowly inching up his thigh. Lionel felt his erection twitch—surely the girl knew exactly what she was doing?
You were smiling—smirking, really—at the older man’s laboured breaths and heaving chest, movement erupting along the seam of his trousers as your fingers explored his upper leg. Lionel appeared to be both fighting the alcohol and fighting to retain his slowed senses, hazel eyes none too discreetly finding his knee and your hand resting there, at work.
Deciding to take things a step further, you palmed his package at the seam of his crotch, marvelling at the size. He was hot to the touch, pulsing, throbbing; a groan choked into the crystal tumbler still held to his thin lips. Lionel’s hips jerked, thrusting his member up into your grasp, seeking added friction he could not adequately hope to receive through two layers of fabric.
“Fuck.” His deep baritone was raspy—either from the liquor or your ministrations or their combined efforts—you could not be certain of which. You took the drained glass from his loose grip, setting the crystal on the neighbouring table before it could shatter all across the carpet.
Feeling suddenly brave, you straddled his thighs, pride surging throughout your chest and spreading to your stomach at the expression of shock flaring within his eyes. Lionel went red—scarlet from the tips of his ears to the back of his neck, contrasting sharply with his mussed white hair, the product holding his thinning hair against gravity remarkably strong.
“Don’t—Don’t fuck with me,” he spluttered, the shock replaced with irritation, and you wondered if you had been too forward. He didn’t brush your hands away from where they’d come to rest along his broad shoulders, didn’t toss you from his lap. You closed the gap between your faces, capturing his parted lips in a passionate kiss. He responded a second later, tongue exploring your mouth before breaking the seal of your joined lips. “No funny business—I’ve got a team of lawyers that’d eat you for breakfast,” he hissed against the shell of your ear, voice low and gravelly and awfully dangerous—moving to kiss along the soft skin of your jaw. His lips devoured yours, the taste of whiskey powerful—you couldn’t tell if you were drunk on the liquor or the lust growing in your insides.
Lionel’s hands—large, warm, and a bit uncoordinated—found your waist, pinning you in place against his thighs. He unconsciously rocked forward—as if his hips had done this with you a time or two before; a half-moan, half-sigh, breathed beside your cheekbone.
You reached for the buckle of his trousers—eager to lay eyes on your prize—but a hand caught your investigating wrist, holding you in place. “Bedroom,” Lionel croaked aloud, hazel eyes unfocused, yet flaming with the heat of his arousal.
You leapt off his lap, instantaneously missing the lack of contact, helping Lionel unsteadily get to his feet. He smelled nice, his arm now heavily draped around your shoulder—the expensive cologne he wore spicy, yet sweet, a blend of cinnamon and something vaguely familiar yet unrecognisable.
His walking stabilised significantly when you reached the hallway, most of his weight distributed to the hand leaning against the wall. The bedroom came into view, Lionel starting at the sound of your gasp of impressed shock.
The bed in the room’s centre was larger than king-sized, canopied, and adorned with black and gold linens. A balcony shone through the thin, floor-to-ceiling curtains, two mahogany bedside tables and a large wardrobe completing the ensemble.
“I take it you’ve never stayed in a room at the Savoy before,” Lionel muttered, his low voice lacking its usual bite. You stumbled over to the bed, grateful you no longer needed to support Lionel’s weight along your back.
Pinning Lionel against the covers, you began to undress him, the combined scent of his cologne and the lingering smell of whiskey both heady and utterly intoxicating. His dress shirt disappeared, revealing the pale, lightly haired skin of his broad chest, his stomach pudgy but firm. A thin trail of wiry grey hair led below his navel, below the belted waist of his black trousers.
Lionel tugged away the overly-large pyjama shirt and baggy trousers, chucking the clothing into a pile you’d worry about discovering the next morning. You straddled his thighs, wearing just a plain black bralette and a black, lace-trimmed thong, leaning against your heels as you loosened his belt buckle, his trousers and pants removed in quick succession.
All you could do was stare, drinking in the sight of his hardened, interested erection, surrounded by a nestling of wiry, trimmed, grey and black curls. Lionel was smirking against the pillows, clearly knowing he had absolutely nothing to be embarrassed or ashamed about. He was nearly eight inches in length and girthy, a slight curve leading the engorged organ to point to the right. The velvety skin was darker in shade than the rest of his body; a prominent vein stretched along the top of the shaft, leading to an uncut, ruby-red tip leaking a steady stream of clear, sticky fluid, a puddle already forming upon his thigh.
Lionel was impatient—thick hands tugging the black bralette to expose your pair of breasts you were deeply unconfident about, the flesh sagging low despite their mediocre size and your young age. He seemed not to care, covering the pale orbs almost entirely with the palms of his hands, the touch warm and sending a surge of need to the hidden place between your thighs. He twisted the firm, rosy buds between thumb and forefinger, eliciting your first moan that evening.
The feeling was heavenly—he wetted the pads of his fingers, hazel eyes locked on your face as he purposefully licked himself, before repeating the earlier movement. It made your insides throb, made you pulse in time with the beat of your heart, the friction so little, yet absolutely necessary.
He removed his probing fingers, pushing you close to his chest, his soft, pink lips delicately wrapping themselves around one of your nipples, suckling as if his life depended upon it. He flipped you over, your head tumbling onto the pillows he had laid upon seconds before, the silk sheets still warm from his body heat. You swore you heard something leave his throat that sounded like an animalistic growl—like a lion’s roar—before he eagerly sought the subject of his pursuit.
Lionel’s tongue was hot—licking and lapping at a trail surrounding each breast and the valley separating the plump mounds. The day-old white stubble etched along his jaw rubbed at the wet, sensitive flesh, the friction starting to drive you insane. A large hand slipped below the elastic of your panties, the wet pads of his fingers burrowing into your folds, his thumb finding the perky bundle of nerves at the crest of your sex in record time.
“Fuck.” You bit the skin of your bottom lip, your walls already fluttering while he twisted and stroked the small, sensitive button, his index finger buried to the hilt between your damp folds. Lionel added another digit between your legs, your hole feeling properly filled with only two fingers inside rather than three or four. You suddenly felt nervous for the first time while in bed that night, the prospective stretch of his cock deeply burrowing within your hole now daunting.
You moaned while he scissored his thick fingers, his head resting against your breast, his breath hot and gasping, cock shuddering against your leg. “There’s a good girl.” He added another finger, the third, the stretch momentarily burning. Lionel thumbed your clit, rubbing easy circles that made your knees weak and insides shaky. You panted out a high-pitched cry—the sensations too much in too many places—wetness pooling around his fingers. “Relax, pretty girl,” his deep voice slurred, the only part of him that was not overtly sober. “Breathe.”
He extracted his hand from your dripping hole, licking his fingers like one might lick away melted chocolate. Lionel moaned at the flavour, thick fingers still filling his mouth and rounding his cheek, the sound lewd and positively pornographic. Air no longer entered your lungs through laboured huffs, the aftershocks of your orgasm finally at an end.
Lionel shifted away, the hand he had just licked your juices off from cradling his aching cock, giving the reddened shaft a few quick pumps, precum beading out the mushroomed head, just peering out from beneath the retracted foreskin. “This might sting a bit,” he mumbled apologetically, lining himself up with your entrance.
“Right,” you nodded, with far more assurance and bravery than you currently felt. Lionel pushed inside, the head of his dick lodged against your hole, the man’s thin lips pulled into a pleasurable grimace—his restraint commendable. His hands rested against the mattress, beside your shoulders, grounding himself in the moment. With a groan, his hips started forward, the stretch immeasurable and painful, your walls feeling like something would soon tear. Break irreparably in half.
“Fuck. So tight,” he moaned, baritone voice like gravel. Lionel had finally bottomed out, cock sheathed fully to the hilt, heavy, pulsing balls brushing against the dripping seam of your entrance. You didn’t know how he managed to fit all of him inside of you; you only knew every bit of you felt on edge and sensitive as the two of you each adjusted to the new sensations brought about by your present entanglement.
You were first to move—hips bucking to kiss Lionel’s, the movement causing his cock to press delightfully against your cervix. He was soon stirred to action, his pelvis rocking into a stilted rhythm—the lust and whiskey leading the man to unskillfully rush toward completion.
Even not fully sober, his cock felt heavenly—dragging across your walls every time he exited and re-entered, balls loudly slapping—hot flesh meeting hot flesh. The room was enveloped in the smell of sex and the sound of gasping, panting, wet thrusts.
Lionel fumbled about in the dimly lit room, the pad of his thumb reuniting with the bundle of nerves between your legs. Your walls clenched, Lionel hissing at the sudden tightness, and each of you instinctively knew the other would not last much longer. “Fuck,” you panted, belly leaping as your insides shuddered.
He renewed his efforts, white hair a mess and standing in different directions, his hips pounding recklessly into you. Your hands, wrapped around his shoulders for dear life, travelled up to the back of his neck, pulling him into a deep, sloppy kiss. You could taste yourself on his lips, along with the remnants of the expensive whiskey. “Cum for me,” he grunted, baritone wrecked and needy.
Your stomach jumped, the thumb prodding circles along your clit stroked with a renewed vigour, his thrusts hurried and uncoordinated. Lionel pressed a column of kisses from your clavicle until he reached your sternum—your walls fluttering around him. “Mmm, fuck!” He came, your orgasm triggering his own, hot cum spilling deep in your womb, fucked further inside with Lionel’s continued shallow thrusts. He lifted his dripping thumb to your lips, and you absentmindedly licked, the taste of your orgasm settling against the tip of your tongue.
Lionel’s lightly-furred chest rose and fell more evenly, rocking gently even in the afterglow of orgasm, your bodies still joined. You held up the sheets, slipping beneath the luxurious covers, falling asleep with Lionel still inside, your head resting upon his bare chest, tucked peacefully under his chin.
i just had a sudden thought about sinclair being very loud in bed lol
i can't wait to see how you spin this into a fic! eagerly waiting 👀
Thank you so much for the ask! Sinclair loud in bed?---Yummy. Delicious. I had a whole lot of fun writing this, although I hope I didn't make Sinclair too ooc/Lionel-coded. Also, new to this fic, I am now tagging those who wish to be mentioned. So if you don't want my posts to be lost on your dashboard, let me know if you want to be added to the list!
Exhibition🏛️
Summary: After a day spent teasing and wandering inside a museum gallery, Sinclair wishes to enjoy your beauty back at your hotel---and he wants the whole place to know just who you belong to.
“Bloody medievalists,” Sinclair scoffed next to you, an adorable scowl plastered across his face. “Damn fig leaves cover the best part.” Scarlet quickly dusted your cheeks as you vigorously searched the exhibit, wondering, praying, that no one heard your husband’s words.
“Clair!” you hissed, watching an elderly, evidently oblivious, couple stroll into the next room full of sculptures. One of these days, your husband’s mouth would get the both of you in trouble.
“You know I’m not wrong,” he flashed a boyish smirk in your direction, the one that made you fall in love with the man years ago. “I mean, look at her—teasing eyes; plump, full lips; soft, cuppable breasts; legs that could break a man in half; slightly bloated stomach, recently full from an extravagant feast—or—rather—as I’d like to believe—full of her lover’s cum.” The rosy blush reddening your face darkened at Sinclair’s seductive words—a reference to what at that very moment lay between your thighs, slowly seeping into your black silk panties.
“An admirable attempt at beauty, this sculpture of Venus—yet—she doesn’t hold a flame—nay—a flicker of light to my sexy wife.” The dirty blond made a show of examining your form up and down, earning him a weak slap to the bicep. “Ouch!—Bloody looks like Venus, but fights like Minerva—Christ.” You nearly hit the ridiculous man again, but the gathering of people in this next alcove dissuaded your attack. Sinclair rubbed his upper arm as he came up beside you, hazel eyes scouring the sizable informative plaque at the marble’s plinth.
“Well, he’s a good-looking fellow, isn’t he?” Sinclair eyed the portrait, a Roman emperor whose name you had already forgotten, your husband’s hooked nose scrunching in minute distaste. So far, the other emperors had been all chiseled jaws and hard-marble muscles—only their facial expressions unique, less than picturesque. This man—on the other hand—looked weak. He was all lanky limbs, body resting against a tree trunk—his soft torso, with only the ghost of abs showing, delicately draped in a limp cloak. The lower half was unsurprisingly bare, thighs a bit pudgy, a small smattering of curls carved above a flaccid penis, round, bulky testicles not drawn up into the body’s warmth, but not quite sagging like an older man’s might either.
The Roman’s face was distinct—hooked nose, tightly pressed thin lips, stringy hair styled in a poor bowl-cut—and his eyes—eyes suspended halfway between curiosity and despair. The portrait was striking. Compelling. You wondered what Sinclair, half-turned toward the next statue, thought.
A tug on Sinclair’s wrist kept him rooted in place before the stone Roman, his hazel eyes narrowing in confusion, thick brows drawn together on his handsome face. “What do you think about this one, Clair?” He took another step closer to the sculpture, arm brushing against your own, shoulders now squared with the unliving man’s. Your husband frowned, bottom lip worried between his teeth.
“It’s different than the rest, isn’t it?” he paused, casting his intense gaze up and down the statue, eyes lingering at the man’s torso. “Bloody medievalists didn’t get to his bits though, did they? Even if there isn’t much to cover up down there,” he muttered under his breath. “Absolutely unfair that you get to see all the pricks and bollocks you want, and I can’t even see a hair of Venus’s pubic triangle.” You flicked the back of Sinclair’s palm in retaliation, your eyes closely monitoring the teenage couple only a few statues down from the lanky Roman, their voices loudly echoing off the crisp white walls, giggling at another poorly endowed male portrait.
“He reminds me of you.” Your voice was soft, fragile, much more serious compared to the mischievous tone you used to tease and rile Sinclair up.
“My cock isn’t that small, Y/N, even if I’m not as impressive as other me—”
“I’m not talking about his dick, Clair, I just mean—he’s got this look—your look. The kind you wear when you’re halfway out the door for work, briefcase in hand, eyeing me, still dressed in pajamas in the kitchen, looking like you’d much rather skip work and have your way with me than do anything else in the world.”
“It’s also the look I give our boat in the height of summer and the pantry once it’s been restocked, Y/N, what’s your point? Don’t think I didn’t notice just how skinny this bloke is compared to the literal chiseled jaws and muscular gods we passed in the last room. The only thing remarkable about this man is his un-remarkability.” Sinclair scowled, ripping away from your grasp, oxfords clacking sharply against the museum’s recently waxed floor.
“You might not look remarkable either, Sinclair, but you’re a far better man, and a far better fuck than anyone in this building would ever expect. And most of the lot will never know any better.” Your lips ghosted across the shell of his ear, your husband’s lips twitching in response, adorable pout disappearing into an adorable, frustrated grimace.
“I want to fuck the ever-loving shite out of you, you know that? I want the whole bloody floor below us, the whole bloody hotel for that matter, to know that Sinclair Bryant knows damn well how to fuck his wife—that he knows how to fuck his wife to completion.” You could see a slight bulge forming at the crotch of his navy blue dress trousers, undersized cock dangerously stirring into action.
“Prepare yourself, wife. You know damn well what’s going to happen this evening.” A dominant, possessive Sinclair was a Sinclair that was going to leave you marked, exhausted, and satiated by the end of the night. Your panties were damp just thinking about it, and not just from the morning’s creampie.
Sinclair Bryant had been a quiet, reserved man when you met him. Some would even describe him as being shy. After dating for six months, the cold, rigid exterior broke into something lighter, positively glowing. Sinclair was romance and goodness personified, and a man who could talk about anything or nothing of consequence. His mouth was your favorite attribute on him, and one that came quite in handy in bed.
Sinclair was loud. He wanted the world to know that you were his, that his cock belonged buried deep within your pussy, that his cock owned your pussy. And he especially got off on the fact that a man like himself—a man with an unimpressive physique and a below-average penis—could please his lover.
It really should have come as no surprise that you would find yourself pushed onto the bed—stomach landing hard against the mattress, Sinclair straddling you from behind, his large hands exploring your full belly before journeying forward into your silk panties.
“Do you really think I’d let you get away with mocking me in public today, wife? I call Venus a poor replica of your beauty, and you compare me to a mortal man?” He growled in his low voice against your ear, thumb brushing over your slit, but making no move to enter your wetness. “What ought I do in the face of your slander of my character?” His middle finger plunged into your entrance, the morning’s cum sliding deeper into your womb.
“Fuck me,” you whispered into the plain, mediocre hotel room, already knowing your plea was bringing a satisfied smirk to Sinclair’s lips.
“Did you say something, wife?” He knew damn well what you spoke into the room’s stillness, his new demand merely a product of his deep-rooted mischievous desire to get you to be just as vocal as himself in bed. It was an action that always soaked your lower half in slick, layering both thoughts and flesh in a dizzying, head-spinning fuzziness.
“Fuck me,” your voice was at normal volume; if anyone had passed the room’s thick walnut door, they would have heard you begging, pleading to be filled. But Sinclair wanted more.
“Louder, my wife. Tonight, I want the neighbors across the hall and below to know my minx of a wife asks her husband to fuck her.”
“Fuck me, Sinclair, please!” His middle digit pulled out hard from your cunt with a wet plop, the silk panties torn from your legs so fast you thought Sinclair had ripped the poor fabric into two or perhaps even three pieces. You felt his weight leave you and the mattress rise in his absence, the sound of an unbuckled belt hitting the carpet spurring you into action. You lifted the short black-and-white polka dot dress over your head and unclipped your matching black silk bra, tossing the articles of clothing wherever your abysmal aim landed them.
The mattress dipped, signalling Sinclair’s return, his large hands groping your ample breasts before sliding down to your stomach. He moaned, lifting you to your knees with ease, hips involuntarily bucking forward. “I’m going to fuck you so good, you’ll limp all day tomorrow. We’ll walk down to the lobby for checkout tomorrow, you're stumbling in my favorite pair of heels of yours, the black stilettoes from Milan, and you’ll have to hold my arm to keep upright. Everyone in the bloody lobby will know what we did, dearest.” You moaned, his warm puffs of breath tickling your shoulder, words causing a shiver of anxious lust to overtake your spine.
Sinclair nipped your collar, the bite though delicate, certain to leave a mark, as he began to shallowly thrust his erect cock against your dripping pussy lips. He was just shy of four inches in length, and nothing to write home about in girth. You had at first believed it disappointing that such an over-the-top, generous man had been blessed with an average, really below-average, member. But Sinclair had easily proved his prowess in bed; he knew how to use his cock. He’d never left you unsatisfied or wanting for more. He was plenty.
The scarlet head of his erection was just peaking out of its thin foreskin, his shaft now thoroughly coated in the mixed juices from your earlier lovemaking. You wouldn’t need any real preparation. Sinclair had already given you that between your morning sex and your brief tussle in the restaurant bathroom that evening.
Calloused fingers stroked across the soft pouch of your belly, the familiar fuzzy tingle of arousal coiling underneath. “Did you like holding my cum all day, dearest? Did you like walking past all those couples, all those men, knowing, feeling my cum cradled in your womb? Did it feel dangerous, knowing my thick seed could dribble down your thighs, down your calves at any point today? Visible for anyone to see, anyone to look and learn what a slut you are?”
“Yes,” you whimpered in a strangled voice, legs trying to close together, but Sinclair kept your knees wide apart on the bed.
“You’ve been teasing me all day, you know that? You know what that damn dress does to me. I’ve been semi-erect all afternoon.” He growled against your ear, hands still clutched over your thighs, grip tightening. His cock was now properly lubricated, one hand leaving your skin to guide himself into your entrance with a devilish groan.
“It’s sinful, you know, absolutely sinful, how well you fit on my cock. No, scratch that, how good you look speared on my cock. It’s enough to drive a man mad enough to buy the entirety of southern France.”
“You’ve nearly bought all of southern France, Clair.”
“Right, that’s my bloody point,” he breathed out exasperatedly, his thrusts beginning to grow manic. “And I could’ve saved nearly 3,000 quid if I hadn’t brought along my dearest wife on a business trip to Jersey, but where—would—the—fun—be—in—that?” Every word he punctuated with a solid thrust, every syllable loudly uttered with the sole intention of showing off.
“I wonder if the bloke below us can hear—I wonder if his wife can hear us. Do you think so, dearest? I wonder if he’s bigger than me. I bet the bloody boat he is. And I bet his wife will cringe with jealousy when I make you scream for me.” The bedframe rattled, banging against the cheap blue paisley wallpaper, but Sinclair kept pace. He entered balls deep with every thrust, and all you could do was helplessly mewl into the soft off-white hotel pillow.
“Mmm, are you close, wife? Are you ready to make yourself a proper exhibition for our neighbors?”
You whimpered out a strangled, “Yes,” as Sinclair slapped your arse with two loud smacks you hoped wouldn’t be heard below.
“My cousin owns a gallery, I’ve told you, yes?” You hummed against the drool-covered pillowcase. “He’d let us fuck in it, you know. At least, so long as he was allowed to watch.” You groaned, cunt quivering around Sinclair’s throbbing erection. “We’d just be another piece of fine art in his collection. To be studied. A—Appraised.” The pad of his thumb reached across your stomach to venture below to your clit, circling the little button with more adoration than you ever thought possible. Sinclair wanted you close.
“Say my name when you come. I want the whole bloody building—whole bloody world to know who fucks you in bed so well—makes you behave like a little whore.” Your pussy clenched around him as he continued to frantically thrust, balls crashing against your wet entrance. You were seconds away, Sinclair’s thumb and index finger suddenly twisting your hidden nub, sending you plunging headfirst into the heated abyss of your orgasm.
“Sinclair!” Your walls fluttered about his cock, wave after wave of pleasure washing over your belly, spreading to your extremities, causing your toes to involuntarily curl. Sinclair tackled you to the bed with a grunt, his own orgasm arriving after a few thrusts. He buried himself against you, face nuzzled into your neck, nose sniffing, taking in the scent of your shampoo and the aroma of love overpowering the room. You could feel the sweat dribbling down his chest, now soaking into the flesh of your back. His cock happily finished spurting its milky load into your womb, a feeling of fullness settling over your satiated body.
“That was wonderful, wife.” His voice was all gravelly hoarseness, breath coming in hot pants across your neck and shoulder, fine, dirty blond hair tickling your skin. Sinclair kissed your collar, his lips and softening cock twitching in unity. “Be ready for another round in an hour.” Your belly flipped, pulsing arousal already beginning to reenter your limbs.
a while back i started imagining frank reaching release from humping y/n’s thighs and now i can’t get it out of my head lol
maybe it's now y/n's birthday and her wish is to have some more fun with frank 👀
can’t wait to see what you do with this prompt!!
Hiya again. I'm doing ok at the moment, sifting through requests before I begin tackling drafts for Rickation. I'm so sorry this took so long to write, but I hope Frank's release is well worth the wait! <3
👉Chapter One and Chapter Two of Operation: Best Birthday Ever!🎉
Chapter Three: Her Birthday Wish🎉
Summary: A few months after Frank's birthday, neither one of you can stop thinking about the experience. Frank longs to relinquish control to you, and you long to witness the stiff general lose himself to further pleasure brought by your hand...or rather, your leg.
Character(s): Frank Benson x Female Reader
Warning(s)‼️: Smut. Oral Sex. Dry Humping/Humping. Collar and Leash. Sex Toys.
Word Count: 3.5k
Read on AO3 or below the break:
A grizzled, overweight man lifted the thin piece of paper upward, and a new image of a picturesque waterfall somewhere in Wales met his hazel eyes, a new set of boxes appearing below. Frank Benson tutted beneath his breath at two words hastily scrawled in black cursive lettering not belonging to himself, two words that immediately sent his mind spiraling.
Y/N’s Birthday…
“Y/N’s Birthday,” he quietly murmured into the empty kitchen’s dim light, thick brows drawn in tension. Only months before, you, his darling wife, had given him a night of steamy sex he went to bed the next night longingly dreaming of, wanting his birthday to come soon for the first time in decades. And he hadn’t been in control…
That was the strange part—his submission had not felt awkward or painfully forced, despite his initial reluctance. It had felt pleasant—like a warm, freshly baked cookie or a soothing massage after weeks stuck in office meetings and strategy sessions. Frank had regained his position as leader, stalwart commander, in the bedroom, the experiment that occurred on his birthday never repeated since then.
The lieutenant general walked away from the wall calendar, one hand subconsciously fiddling with the wrist of his tight-fitting, military-issued shirtsleeve, the garage door slamming shut in his wake…
“Wake up, dearest,” a familiar, gravelly baritone grumbled from beside your ear, recognition slowly reaching your senses. “Happy birthday.” A weight settled on top of you, over the bedspread, the smell of newly cooked eggs and slightly burnt toast wafting to your nose.
“Frank,” you irritably groused, fumbling with the bedsheets, squinting in the darkened room as another light from the corner infiltrated the space. Your eyes snapped shut with a groan. “Frank, you know I don’t eat breakfast before six.” Frank playfully scoffed from somewhere above.
“Honestly, woman, can’t a man be romantic every now and then! If you’re not going to eat, then I damn sure will!” He snatched a slice of toast, grunting as you swatted his thick fingers away from the remainder of the tray.
“Fine! I’ll eat it!” came your shout through a mouthful of warm egg. Frank rolled his eyes heavenward. “Happy! When you said you were going to surprise me this morning, I thought you meant something more,” you paused. “Carnal.” Frank snorted around his toast, a smirk growing upon his thin lips.
“Oh, that can still be arranged,” he scooted beside you near the headboard, thickly haired hand slipping under the covers.
“Frank! You have work in thirty minutes!”
“Well, I certainly won’t be able to find a pair of cheaply-made handcuffs for twenty quid on such short notice.” That earned the silly man a hearty smack that heavily connected with his thick thigh, the flesh jiggling through a layer of fabric. Frank laughed, the kind that encouraged an entire room to join, his deep voice raucous and throaty. “Huughn,” Frank’s laughter came to an end, his hand gripping your inner thigh, steadying, promising. “So, no handcuffs, then.” You snorted, Frank’s mischievous smirk endearing. “Anything else my darling wife desires for her birthday night?”
Whether it was a flicker of the lamplight or something shifting in your eyes, for some reason, Frank was able to sniff out your hesitation at that early hour. “No, Frank,” you stared past your husband’s white-haired head, not meeting his concerned hazel eyes.
“There’s something else, isn’t there, sweetheart? Something you want for tonight?” He reassuringly rubbed his large thumb in small circles along your thigh, leaning forward to press a fluttering flurry of kisses upon your unkempt, bedraggled hair. “Tell ol’ Frank what’s the matter.”
Your breath remained captured by some entity deep down the back of your throat, Frank’s worry agonizingly soft and relentlessly touching. “Frank,” you mumbled, the irritation absent, only the pure exhaustion remaining.
“It’s not something I can purchase, is it, love?” The urge to curl up in a small ball beneath the covers, never to emerge from hiding again, swelled inside your belly, Frank’s hand on your leg keeping you grounded and present. You shook your head, tangled locks swishing, cheeks suddenly scarlet with shame. “You were thinking of my birthday, darling. Weren’t you?” You wished he were not so observant, not nearly so intelligent or knowing as the man he had come to be. The man’s question earned a miniscule nod, but you still could not meet his pursuing eyes.
“You want to–-to do something like that tonight, don’t you? Where I’m—Where I’m at your disposal.” A pause spread a breath of silence about the room. Frank swallowed. “Where I’m at your command.”
“Yes.” You bit your bottom lip, that feeling of shame traveling down your limbs, trembling along your spine, causing your belly to somersault. “I’ve—I’ve thought about it a lot in the past weeks—months. I liked watching you come undone by my hand and knowing you’d—you were willing to submit to–to me.”
“I enjoyed that night.” Frank felt the tips of his ears turn to fire, and he weakly attempted to school his face before proceeding. “And not just because of the handcuffs or—or the ridiculous number of times you made me cum,” the grip on your thigh tightened, the circular caresses momentarily stilling before continuing at their steadfast pace. “I didn’t think—didn’t realize you wanted to take control in–in that way. You so rarely ask to ride me–or–or ask that I try something different…new.”
“I didn’t think you enjoyed following my lead so thoroughly, Frank—you’re so difficult to read at times, and so playfully irritable, I—”
“----Shite.” Frank’s pale face now looked as if it had been doused in an inhuman ash-colored paint, the large hand at your thigh disconcertingly unmoving before finally pulling away. You felt a peck at your lips and watched him straighten his jacket as he stood upright. “I’m late.” Worn-down brown boots halted at the doorway, your husband’s face turned to glance one last time at you, index finger not unkindly pointed at your form, still huddled under the bedcovers. “Whatever you want tonight, we’ll do, alright? Anything within reason, love—I’m yours to unwillingly command.” He was out the bedroom door with a wave, a plan already developing beneath your arched brow.
23:27
23:27, and Frank had yet to appear. The gravel drive had yet to crunch beneath the weight of his black SUV, the car door had yet to thunderously crash shut, and his brown boots laced to his knobby knees had yet to heavily clunk up the concrete back door steps. Worry, as it always tended to do when Frank never returned at his usual time, laced your heart and pulsed through your veins, the winding tendrils of something suffocating lodging around your stomach.
Your husband’s offer that morning, when not even the birds dared stir, had been incredibly tempting. It was slightly unnerving at times, just how in tune Frank could be to your desires. Unless…unless he too wanted what you wanted. Unless he too needed the intoxication inherently attached to the subverted dynamic…where the strong knelt for the small. Where the old soldier obeyed his wife.
Whatever reason Frank had for providing you a second opportunity to retain him beneath your thumb, you gave no further thought to it. Your supplies for that evening, buried in a box of old clothes in the corner of your shared closet, would surely make the stressed man think twice before asking for a third night of…of whatever exactly this was.
Stone crunched outside the darkened window, a loud slam following in its wake.
A smile darted across your lips.
Lieutenant General Frank Benson swore softly below his breath, the small illuminated letters from his phone glaring up at him in the neighborhood’s inky blackness. Why was it that the leaders around the world always chose to stir up trouble on the days he wanted to leave work on time? Or, heaven forbid, early?
No matter, he thought to himself, the SUV door cracking shut far harsher than he wished. His boots felt weighted, as if someone had poured buckets of the loose stone he now tread upon, his key sliding through the solid garage door with ease.
The house looked no different than usual. The same chipped wallpaper and carpeting running threadbare along the common footpaths greeted the tired old man as he entered, your figure missing from his line of sight.
“Y/N!” Frank called, a tinge of foolishness coating his stomach, his mouth gone sour. He set the store-bought cake he ordered from a local bakery down on the granite kitchen counter, shoulders drooping as he searched the house, but his search was to no avail. Only the bedroom remained, and he did not know whether or not that should fill his gut with trepidation or the beginning tingles of arousal.
A light, fragile and soft, poked under the wooden door's crack, his anxious fear evaporating to return as hesitant lust. The hinges squealed open, your eyes meeting his from your lazy perch on the bed, your book quietly closed and set aside. And the sight…well, the sight quite frankly stole his breath away…
You were fully bare, legs a golden glow beneath the lamp’s electric gleam, rosy nipples hardened and beckoning for his touch, your pleased smile shining past the room’s dimness. Frank felt his cock lunge upward, his member’s daylong slumber shockingly disturbed. The man groaned, feet halfway across the floor, before he registered he was walking. His thick hand cradled the back of your neck, calloused thumb brushing your cheek’s peach-like softness, sensation only returning to his body, his limbs, when his lips locked over yours.
He was first to pull away, air barely refueling his lungs as he eliminated the gap between mouths, between tongues, confusion flooding his brain when he felt a finger tapping atop the crumpled knot of his tie. Frank broke the kiss once more, index finger sliding to his swollen lips, as if he had not understood the last minutes as real, as if he wanted to trap the sting of his lip in a box deeply buried in his memory, carefully curated for the remainder of his life.
Your naked hand lifted your husband’s dark green, formerly ironed, tie from his jacket depths, latching on to the coarse material with an iron grip. Frank felt the tug, like a noose tightening about his neck, except his nerves were aflame with existential arousal rather than dread. His heartbeat thudded against his ears just the same.
“Strip.”
He felt his mouth run dry, dry as an abandoned riverbed. The hand at his tie had yet to relent.
“And put those on.”
His penis throbbed, rubbing helplessly against his trousers’ zipper as his eyes took in the image at which you nodded. A pile of leather and chain sparked his imagination, ears ringing with the desperate thudding of his old heart. The pressure at his throat ceased, and he was quick to obey your commands. Clothes piled up in the bedroom corner, a mischievous grin gracing your relaxed face as Frank’s clearly interested erection was revealed. Heat pooled low in your belly, the place between your thighs beginning to grow slick.
Pink. Frank’s cheeks blushed a bright pink, his body feeling as if he were on fire, despite his newly acquired nudity. The leather ring encasing his neck was cool, the metal chain linked to the collar idly bouncing against his rapidly rising and falling stomach, parallel to the jagged, narrow scar running below his navel. “This wasn’t twenty quid, right?” his smirk was stronger than he felt at that moment. You just glared from across the room…waiting.
A lone item remained on the bedspread, a small circle of black silicone, and he suddenly worried where this new device might be placed on his person. “Need help, sweetheart?” Frank’s stomach dipped at the confidence rippling throughout your tone, cock jumping at the subtle tease. He nodded, cheeks nearly returned to their normal pale, alabaster color. You gestured for him to move toward the bed, Frank coming to a standstill at your side, fully erect penis gently bobbing. A sharp smack echoed about the bedroom, his right arsecheek smarting.
“This,” you took the silicone band from Frank’s loose grip, “belongs here.” He felt tugging at his penis, letting out a moan at the welcome touch on the sensitive organ, an involuntary grunt torn from his throat as he noticed his balls passing through the band.
“What?” He quietly mumbled, his erection visibly fuller, testicles feeling rather frustratingly tight.
“It’s a cock ring, Franklin.” He shivered, yet the room’s temperature had not shifted, precum starting to dribble down the side of his proud dick. “It maintains erections, particularly for those less capable, and can even…delay orgasm.” Frank’s legs turned to jelly; it seemed as if a rug had been removed right out from beneath him. It was all too obvious to him what this night would not be focused upon…
“It’s my birthday, Frank. You didn’t really think I wanted the fun to end early?” A tug at his neck brought him back to the present. He crawled onto the bed, restrained cock and sagging balls dangling below him. Your hand tangled deeply within his thinning, fluffy white locks, nose inches away from your lightly trimmed cunt. Frank’s mouth watered, lust making his senses heavy and crotch steadily leaking between his thighs, pre running down his calves. “Make me cum.”
“Fuck.” The word uneasily slipped out, heavy and unwieldy. Your command was not what he had imagined, but neither was it something he was prepared to refuse.
“Auhh—ohhhh.” Oral was not a usual occurrence in the bedroom, least of all for Frank. Not because he did not enjoy the taste or the act of feeling you come undone against his lips, but rather because Frank was a rather impatient man during sex. He found using his dick a far more efficient approach, the results quick and never disappointing.
“Deeper, Frank.” He felt an insistent hand jerking him forward by a tuft of white hair, the pain utterly lost in the pleased mewl you moaned. His hooked nose brushed across your clit just right, his tongue lapping eagerly at your slit, heeding your command, and pressing deeper. You found his stubble tickling the sensitive flesh of your thighs, his cheeks gathering your sweet slickness.
Frank smirked against your cunt, self-satisfied, hips rutting against the mattress, the duvet already damp. The telltale trembling of your thighs at his shoulders told him he had struck gold, and you pressed him further into your wet heat, his working tongue excitedly reaching the back of your walls at long last.
You felt something suddenly snap, deep at your core, the dam trapping, locking your pleasure behind towering stone barriers broken. The orgasm bloomed, your belly fluttering, toes curling in the air, Frank remaining against you, stable, real. You continued to thrust your groin, riding the high out on your husband’s prominent nose, his eager tongue unwavering in its devotion.
The hips crashing into his jaw slowed in pace, now stilling completely, the heavy pants above him steadying. The distinct flavor of cum was all he could taste, all he could think about. Frank pulled away from your cunt with a wet slurp, your slickness healthily coating his face, from hairline to leather collar, to the end of his neck, lightly dribbling into his sparse white chest hair. He licked his lips clean, cock twitching against the bedcovers, his balls hanging low, heavy and full.
All Frank could think of was when his own orgasm would arrive, when it would be permitted.
“You taste divine,” his baritone voice rumbled beside your lower folds, tickling. Frank lapped at a puddle of slickness slipping from your entrance, as if to prove his point. “But when is it my turn?” You snorted, meeting his hazel eyes, the mischief sparking dangerously in your own.
“When I say you may.” Frank moaned, his fisting grip upon the sheets piled at your back tightened, his pelvis jerking in frustration.
“Sweetheart, I can’t—I can’t take much more of this.” He groaned, the hand tenderly carding through his thinning hair welcome, wholly comforting in the urgency of his need.
“Whose birthday is it today, Franklin?” A surge of shame shot to his lower belly, his erection momentarily falling.
“Yours,” he whispered, chastened. You hummed, pleased.
“Alright, sweetheart,” Frank grunted as the leash jerked at his collar. “I’m going to make you a deal.” A deal sounded brilliant to Frank, his cock springing right back into action, arousal boiling within his veins. “I want to cum once more from your tongue,” he moaned, surely the taste of your orgasm would drive him completely mad, “and if you don’t cum,” ah, there is hope, he thought to himself, “then afterward I will give you release.”
Frank sat up, tugging at the ring settled around the base of his shaft. “The ring stays.” You batted his hands away while he sourly pouted, moving back into place. You wedged a leg between his thighs, his cock wriggling at the contact, a string of clear precum wiped above your kneecap. Frank lifted a brow in question. “The catch is, I expect you to be humping my leg the entire time”.
Frank felt his heart stop—felt weightless and in free fall at the same time, his pupils blown, mouth dry. He watched your leg rise up and down, stimulating his rock-hard hard-on, felt his spine shudder in repressed lust. You would be the death of him, he was certain of it, as certain as he was the sky would be blue the next morning, and the morning after.
“Fuck,” he grunted, parched. His hips bucked to meet your shin, the angle perfect, yet unsatisfying. He’d prefer all seven inches of his cock sheathed deep in your womb, balls slapping against your bum with every thrust. But, he supposed this beat idly rocking, fucking his own damn duvet to a messy, underwhelming finish. The mild discomfort, mild humiliation, still remained as he felt you pull his leash, your hand guiding him to your cunt.
Frank reentered your folds, hooked nose finding your swollen clit, tongue heartily lapping at your walls. His hips stuttered, the vein running beneath his cock sliding along the smooth flesh of your leg, his need utterly palpable. Oh, how he needed his balls drained dry, needed to paint your body with his hot, gleaming white cum.
His cock pulsed, frenulum catching against your knee, and his balls nearly emptied then and there. Frank lifted himself away from your lower lips, breath coming in warm and unsteady puffs along your soft skin. He moaned, more heat covering your thin bush like a gentle, teasing breeze, your hands burrowing into the hair drifting close to his neck in quiet reassurance. “Fuck,” he moaned, tongue burying itself deeply, your knee pressed against his cockhead, the thick vein throbbing.
Frank found your sweet spot for the second time that evening, a sigh catching within the depths of your throat, a certain confirmation. Your walls fluttered at his tongue’s touch, the pebbled surface rough against your smooth surface. He wished to rush you forward, headfirst into the utmost pleasure, anything to accelerate his own. He was humping your leg enthusiastically, restraint thoroughly abandoned, sitting next to where he left his trousers and his pride. He slowed his thrusts, balls attempting to draw up but meeting resistance, his mind torn from sheer concentration.
He felt your hastily reconstructed dam burst, floodwaters soar and crash over you in tsunami-like waves. Your legs fell open, his engorged cock left frictionless and frustrated, your lips forming a silent, open-mouthed “o.” He looked past your soft, slight stomach in concern when that silence carried on for several beats too long. Your eyelids were slammed rigidly shut, nostrils flared, and he felt a tap at his collar. He removed himself from your folds, lips glimmering with excess slickness, his cock twitching in expectation.
Frank moved up the bed, wetly placing a kiss upon your bare forehead, the smell of sex dripping off him like cologne. You felt him cuddle protectively around your side, his ignored cock wet with pre, poking against your lower belly. In the hazy afterglow of orgasm, you fumbled with the black silicone ring, a sharp cry from Frank letting you know he was finally freed.
The man moved down the bed, cock inches from your left thigh. It took Frank two quick bucks of his hips until he came, erection happily splurting what felt like more than two loads of cum. Frank fucked your thigh until his semen began to cool and his penis grew limp, spent and sensitive lying against his tender bollocks.
Frank settled himself against you, sleepy in his post-orgasmic, blissful state, the coarse curls of his white hair tickling your breast. He pressed a kiss just beneath the round globe. “Happy birthday, dearest.”
“Thank you, Frank,” you murmured, a booming snore your only accompanying answer.
It had indeed been a happy birthday. A very happy birthday.
now that frank's handcuffs are broken, will he continue to pretend that his hands are tied together? i sure hope he does 😂
and now we get to torture frank with orgasms while he tries to focus on not moving his hands 🤭🤭🤭
Operation: Best Birthday Ever!🎉: Bonus Chapter
Chapter Two: Keep Your Hands To Yourself
👉Chapter One Here
Author's Note: So sorry for the wait! I hope you enjoy some impatient, desperate Frank!
Summary: It's Frank's first birthday since the two of you married, and you feel pressured to do something special. You introduce a pair of handcuffs to the bedroom---handcuffs Frank breaks at the end of a scene. You insist on Frank keeping his hands held together above his head---but your husband grows ever more impatient and needy and not as accustomed to following orders as he might have everyone believe.
“You didn’t really think those could hold me, dearest, did you?” You looked up into his hazel eyes, the corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk of satisfaction.
Impressed, but not wishing for him to detect that, you launched yourself into a tirade, “Frank, those cost me nearly twenty quid! You’re lucky it’s your bloody birthday!”
Frank did not look even remotely chastised, grinning like a dog receiving a new bone from its owner as the chains of each of the handcuffs’ wrists limply, uselessly, dangled. “Twenty quid, you say? I think they overcharged you,” his tone casual and disbelieving, as if he were speaking of the weather.
You fought against the mounting urge to playfully slap your teasing husband against his bare shoulder, a devious plan already forming beneath the surface of your mind…
“Smartarse.”
“Your smartarse.”
“Sure, old man.”
“Oi! Who you calling old man!”
“The blooming sixty-three-year-old, that’s who!”
“You wound me.” Frank’s head tilted back, the palm of his large hand dramatically resting atop the wiry curls sitting along his chest.
“I wasn’t finished with these,” you flicked the dangling chain suspended from his right wrist, eyes flashing dangerously. A low groan hummed from the depths of his throat, his cock jumping where it lay, pressed between your stomachs.
“Fuck.” The desire, the pure neediness, lacing Frank’s breathless baritone caused your own lust to stir, bubbling precariously at the pit of your belly.
“Do you want to be sucked off, birthday boy?” You asked, teasingly, Frank’s Adam’s apple bobbing anxiously as he swallowed.
“Christ, yes.” His breast rose and fell dramatically, his torso squirming as you ran a fingernail across his skin from the first sprouts of his chest hairs to the end of his pale, long-ago earned scar. Frank sucked in a quick breath of air, his heart pounding, your index finger at a halt, wavering at the top of his pelvis. “Please.” He thrust his hips upward, your finger dodging his straining erection.
“Ah-ah-ah,” you wagged your finger, Frank’s cock twitching in desperation, his face grimacing at the wait. “Hands over your head.” His thick fingers fidgeted, remaining firmly planted on your sides. “You broke my cuffs before I made my full use of them—think of this as a compromise.”
“Yes, commander,” Frank lazily murmured, hazel eyes mischievous and teasing. “One would think it was your birthday, sweetheart.” You playfully rolled your eyes, trying your best to act annoyed.
“Well, general, perhaps you can return the favour at a later date.” The large hands gripping your waist tightened, squeezing, a groan spilling from your husband’s parted lips.
“Yes, perhaps I will,” he spoke, his baritone voice husky and low. You grasped his handcuffed wrists, manoeuvring his limbs into place above his head, brushing past his thinning, fluffy white hair. Frank moaned, hips jerking up, his cock finding much-desired friction against your thigh.
“Don’t,” you whispered before joining his lips with your own, tongue exploring his mouth as if it were only your first meeting. You pulled away, saliva still dripping from the wet kiss. You licked your lips, belly burning with the fiery embers of arousal, trailing the pads of your fingers down Frank’s sides, enjoying the way his ribs strained and his back arched above the duvet.
“Fuck, please.” Your palms found his chubby thighs, pressing him down into the mattress. Your pink lips opened ever so slightly to blow a small stream of cool air directed toward the scarlet, painful-looking tip of Frank’s cock. “Mmmmph,” Frank moaned, hips attempting to burst forward, your grip on his thighs keeping him firmly locked in place.
The mushroomed head of his dick steadily leaked clear, transparent precum, the liquid dribbling from tip to shaft, pooling at the base. His large, heavy balls still appeared full, the dark red sack firm, yet sagging. You licked at his frenulum up to his weeping slit, his legs shuddering. You moaned at the slightly salty taste, diving back in to torture the poor man with a few more licks. Frank whimpered, calves wrapping around your naked torso, muscles of his back stretched and rigid, as he lifted himself off the bed in overstimulated pleasure. “Suck my cock, wife. That’s an order,” his low voice had lost its commanding, militaristic edge—his words sounding whiny and desperate.
“As you wish, Lieutenant General Benson.” All seven inches vanished, submerged, pressed deeply down your throat, Frank yelping out a groan that resembled an animal’s frustrated growl.
“Insubordination,” he grouched, thighs falling even further apart. All you could do was smirk at the lovely sight. “Fuck,” he mumbled, positively breathless. His erection throbbed, buried inside your throat, your nose burrowed within Frank’s trimmed, wiry salt-and-pepper-shaded pubes, the hairs tickling your skin, body filled with the woodsy musk that purely was the scent of Frank.
Your cheeks hollowed out, suctioned around Frank’s shaft, the man’s hips stirring, shallowly thrusting of their own accord. His hands intertwined in the curls along the base of your skull, hoping to ensure his member remained sheathed in your sweet, hot warmth. You released his dick, gasping for breath now that his length no longer blocked your airway, his thick hands relenting, but still tangled in your tresses.
“Wha’s the matter?” Frank rumbled, voice gravelled and coarse, yet concerned, his fingers softly stroking along the sensitive back of your neck.
“You didn’t listen,” you tugged the chainlinks swinging from his wrists behind your head, tone scolding, as if you were scolding someone far younger than the man willingly submitting to your control.
“Shit,” he hissed, annoyed. “I didn’t mean to do it—-it felt right.” He finished lamely, a bit sheepish but not inclined to beg for forgiveness or expose himself to any further displays of vulnerability.
“I bet it did,” you spoke, low voice even and hoarse. You already knew your throat would be thoroughly bruised by morning. “Still, I want you to keep your hands above your head,” you guided him back into place, his large hands dwarfing your own in size. “Focus on the feeling Frank, on the sensation.”
“Alright,” You heard him loudly gulp, his throat bobbing. “Alright, my wife.”
You shifted your tactics, eyes locked on staring, out-of-focus hazel, unblinking as you licked the wrinkled flesh of his testicles, pulling one spongy orb inside your wet warmth, for that was all of him that could fit. He pulsed within you, hazel eyes crossing before slipping shut. His member, damp, hot, and throbbing in time to the beat of his heart, gave a sharp jerk, precum sliding down the side of your cheekbone.
You released his ball, tonguing the other heavy plum before encasing the tender pouch in your mouth. Humming around velvety flesh, you checked Frank, his usually tensed brows lifted and at ease. He was slack-jawed, hazel eyes dilated and half-lidded, peering below his heaving stomach to watch you. You smiled around him, letting his sack gently fall from between your lips, licking his cock from base to tip before engulfing half his length, sucking with hollowed cheeks.
The white-haired man above you moaned, his wrists, still raised up against the headboard, shifting and writhing atop the pillows. You continued to take more of him into your mouth, bobbing up and down upon his curved shaft, meeting Frank in the middle of his shallow, barely restrained, thrusts.
One of your hands found his sack, still coated in a thin layer of your saliva, separating and gently squeezing the full plums in the manner you knew he liked best. He no longer made eye-contact with you, his head laid back, arching on the pile of pillows and bedcovers.
His balls tightened, drawing up in their pouch of soft flesh, Frank’s precum now more salty and plentiful. You flicked at the sensitive place along the veiny underside of his shaft and head, Frank’s erection twitching, his legs struggling to remain stoically in place. His hands still fidgeted, locked in place despite the lack of a connecting chain to truly bind the metal cuffs together. “‘M gonna cum if you keep doing that,” he hissed, low voice raspy and wrecked, every inch of his body tensed, wantonly straining.
“That’s the idea,” you thought to yourself, throat stuffed to the brim with Frank. With the tip of your tongue, you licked and stimulated his wide slit, cheeks aching from how forcefully you suckled his member. Liquid sprung out from his spongy head, powerfully hitting the back of your throat. He moaned, even two swallows around him in, it was difficult to keep up with the flowing, happily splurting cum draining from his balls. You removed yourself from his cock, white hot cum jetting out the dripping, angry-red weeping head, covering your face in thick sperm that dribbled down to your naked breasts.
Frank was panting and squirming beneath you from your ministrations—his face red and ruddy in post-orgasmic euphoria, his hazel eyes drooping with peaceful exhaustion. You smiled at him, completely genuine, his hands reaching forward to clear your rosy cheeks from his rapidly drying cum. “Fuck, you’re pretty,” he grunted, while your tongue swiped the cum from his fingers, his grey brows raising in shock. You whimpered at the praise, swallowing, the wide pad of Frank’s thick finger stroking along your puffy bottom lip. “So fucking perfect. Thank you for making my birthday special, love.”
You lunged forward, tackling your husband to the bed, your bruised lips devouring his, Frank left with the taste of lust and his own seed upon his tongue when you pulled away. “Of course, Frank. I love you, you silly man.”
You awoke early the next morning, only a dim, vague light entering the darkened room through the curtains. Frank’s place in bed was cold, only the smell of his aftershave lingering on his pillowcase. You arose, toeing on your slippers, the smell of black coffee filling your flared nostrils as soon as you exited the room.
Padding down the stairs, you peered into the kitchen, the stove light lit, orange light escaping from the crack underneath the garage door. Worry bloomed within your chest, even though Frank was often called to the makeshift skiff at all odd, godforsaken hours of the night.
An extra slice of chocolate cake had disappeared from the serving tray, brown crumbs littering the stovetop, and you couldn’t help but smile.
