When you pad down the stairs that morning, you expected Harry to still be on his run, prepping for another marathon. That’s why you’re surprised to see his sweaty body resting on the couch, his chest heaving with each labored breath. His shiny bare chest captures the sunlight streaming through the windows, highlighting each muscle as they tense and release. The only thing he’s wearing are those infuriatingly tiny shorts he owns a million pairs of, their hems riding further up his legs until you can see the entirety of the growling tiger in its sweaty glory. He hasn’t noticed you yet, his eyes shut and his head thrown back against the couch seat while he tries to even his breathing.
Staring at his nearly naked body reminds you of last night, of both your panting breaths, both your sweaty bodies rubbing against one another, his hard cock pounding deeper inside of you. Your cunt clenches at the memory, remembering the pulse of his head, the warm come he unloaded over your fluttering lips, painting you with his release before diving back inside. Last night had been so intense, you were surprised he even went out for a run this morning, figuring he would be too tired.
Biting your lip, your eyes roam over Harry’s body, no longer thinking about last night. The way his stomach rises and falls, making the moth flutter, the sweat that melds his hair to his forehead, his spread legs that force his shorts to climb even further up his thighs. As you keep watching him, your legs tighten together, desperate to feel like you had last night.
Your steps wake Harry from his post-run rest and a tired smile pulls at his lips seeing you wearing one of his old vintage shirts. “Morning, love,” he greets warmly, unaware of your intentions. He leans up to meet your lips in what he expects to be a lovely morning welcome. But the harsh press of your lips when they connect, your hands tugging on his wet hair, and the needy way your body pushes him back against the couch, creating room for yourself on his lap, has Harry chuckling into your mouth. “Jesus, love, calm down,” he laughs as he breaks away from your persistent kiss. “Did I not give you enough last night?” Even though his tone is light and playful, there’s a breathlessness that only drives you crazier.
You don’t bother with answering him, your lips don’t even leave his body, pressing kisses along his cheek, up to his ear, then trailing down to his jaw. The salty taste of his skin seeps into your mouth and, without thinking, your tongue dips out and licks at the drops of sweat slowly dripping down his neck.
Harry moans as you lap at him, his hand curving around your hips, his finger digging into your flesh. He doesn't mean to, it's just natural, but his grip pulls you closer, tugging you into him. In response, you start aggressively humping him, grinding your crotch against his thigh, alerting Harry to the fact you weren’t wearing any underwear. And even though it kills him to do it, Harry has to hold you back. “I’m exhausted,” he says. “I need a break.”
“That’s okay,” your words rush out before licking a stripe up from his jaw to his ear, lapping at his sweaty hairline. Leaning back, you pull at the hem of your shirt until you reveal yourself to him, showing off your throbbing clit. “You don’t need to do anything. Just sit there, and let me have my fun.” With hooded eyes, you wet your fingers with your tongue before rubbing them against your clit. Your folds twitch against his thigh, arousal beginning to seep out and wetting his leg. As your fingers keep up their even pace, you start to rut against him, sliding along the thick muscle.
Awe overtakes Harry as he watches you hump against his leg, running his thumbs along your hip bones. “Oh baby,” he groans, his eyes flicking between your pussy and your face, unable to keep his eyes focused on one thing. Between your quivering lips that glide along his leg and your gasping mouth, your fluttering eyes that threaten to close, Harry can’t choose which he wants to watch more, entranced by every bit of you. “God, you look so beautiful.” His hand travels from your hip to underneath the shirt you’re wearing, his shirt, until it's cupping underneath your tit. The shirt rides up and Harry finds a quirky intimacy in seeing your belly button. “Look so pretty getting yourself off on me.”
The compliments only fuel your thrusts, picking up speed. His leg hair tickles the inside of your own thighs as you glide across him. With a sigh, your mouth curves up into a smile as you keep grinding.
“That’s it, baby,” he encourages. “Take what you need.”
Slicking up his leg as you slide back and forth, your fingers slip across your clit faster. Your mouth opens to let out a breathy moan before your teeth bite down into your lip, silencing the sound.
“Don’t stop, baby, please. I wanna hear you. Need to know if it feels good,” he begs you, his voice frantic, his eyes desperate.
“Oh, it feels sooo good, Harry,” you whine. Your hips stutter against him and your thighs clench around him as your orgasm rises up inside you.
Harry watches mesmerized as you leak all over him. “Can I…?” he trails off, dragging his hand down your body until it’s hovering above your circling fingers, pressing into your pelvis. “Can I touch you?” he asks reverently. Instead of answering, you stop rubbing yourself and grab his wrist, leading him to your unattended clit. “Oh, thank you baby.” His finger glides across your nub, barely pressing, as if he's scared to touch it. The light brush of his thumb teases you closer to your release.
A bead of sweat starts its gradual descent down Harry’s forehead, curving around his brow. You hone in on it before leaning forward and capturing it with your tongue. The salty droplet melts in your mouth, a pant of a whimper fans across his face and your pussy twitches against his thigh. Needing to taste more of him, you nuzzle your face into his neck, swiping your tongue across his collar bones. His skin is still sun warmed, the heady musk of him engulfs your senses.
“You like getting me wet, don’t you, baby?”
You exaggerate the nod of your head, your tongue trailing along up and down, lapping over the swallow until the sweaty shine is replaced with the wet remains of your spit.
Throwing his head back, Harry groans as he exposes more of his neck to you. “Oh, God, baby,” he moans into your hair, his thumb circling faster around your clit. “So pretty, so perfect.”
Rutting against him, your legs twitch, tightening around him, shivering as you rush towards that tipping point, on the precipice of unleashing your orgasm. It creeps closer and closer, your eyes rolling back as it nears.
“Please, baby, need to make you feel good, need to feel you, please, come all over me, baby, please,” Harry pleads into your hair.
That’s all it takes. Gasping into his neck, you release on him, your hips faltering as you lose your rhythm. Your teeth dig into his skin, biting at the swallow on his chest, then you lick at the indents left behind. Through your nose, your breath putters out of you, attempting to even itself out.
Harry pets your hair, soothing you. “There you go,” he mutters. “Thank you, baby." Puckering his lips, he kisses the side of your head. “Did so good for me.” He lets you rest atop him, shivering your way down from post-orgamic bliss. “If you want, I can go shower and we could go for round two.”
“No!” you panic. “No shower!” Harry raises a brow at you, a smile burgeoning on his lips. “You’ll just get sweaty all over again, right?” The excuse is thin, weakened even more when your tongue involuntarily sticks out and presses against the other side of his neck.
Chuckling at your insistence, and your probing tongue, Harry relents, “I can’t argue with that.”
Hi can you do a smut one where Harry is a doctor? Based on the recent SNL where he was!
Pleaseee, a very dirty and hot smut one shot!
hope this is dirty enough for you. shout out to @deliriumwriting @maudie-duan and @escapismatbest for beta-reading and editing!! thank you for all your help 🥰🥰
The Doctor is In - A Harry Styles Smutty Blurb
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Summary: You book an appointment with the highest rated fertility doctor, hoping he can help you get pregnant. (alternate title The Doctor is Inside of You)
5.2k words (whoops)
C/W: smut, slight dub con, fingering (f!receiving), penetration (p in v), fertility issues, inspection kink, breeding kink, shy/anxious reader, lite squirting, implied cheating (don't worry about it), cursing
“Go ahead and strip from the waist down, the doctor will be in shortly,” the nurse instructs, pointing at the paper-thin cover meant to hide away your most private parts. You offer her a quick, short nod as she exits, swallowing thickly as the door shut.
A part of you never expected to be here, seeking fertility advice from a man who’s paid to understand your body better than you. You hadn’t even shared the details of your upcoming appointment with your husband, too embarrassed to tell him where you were going, setting everything up under a false name, just in case.
All your research had said Dr. Styles was the best fertility doctor in the area. He had amazing reviews, with several women touting their successes, and even more reviewers complimenting his looks, making special mention of his sultry, British accent. One woman even claimed that when he walked into the room, she instantly felt pregnant. It was hard to argue with results like that. So here you are, sitting half-naked on an exam table, the air overwhelming with the sterile scent of cleaner, the lights droning out in a monotonous buzz above you, the paper underneath you crinkling with every little movement as you anxiously wait for the doctor.
You weren't too sure where you were going wrong. All the apps were synced to your cycle, you were jumping your husband's bones every opportunity, yet nothing stuck. Not that your husband was complaining about your increased sexual activities. Normally, you wouldn’t complain either, but you were too anxious about getting pregnant to really let yourself enjoy the moment, nearing your climax before losing it in a flood of worries. You’d forgotten when you’d last had an orgasm.
The knock against the door pulls you from your thoughts.
“Good evening,” the doctor greets you, warm but distracted as he saunters into the room, his gaze focused on the clipboard with all your medical information. Lifting his eyes to you, he lingers in the doorway, his eyes slowly dragging over your body, taking you in, in all your paper gown glory. Or, more likely, he was allowing you a moment to take him in, probably used to his clients inappropriate and blatant fawning.
Who could blame them though? None of the reviews did him justice, he is truly delectable. His jaw clenches momentarily before he swallows, your eyes following the dip of his Adam's apple down his throat. The collar of his button down peeks out from the neck of his green sweater which matches his piercing eyes as they make their gradual climb back up your frame. Tall, broad, and a voice so deep, you swore you could feel the vibrations of it tingling up your spine, it was no wonder he had an impressively long client wait list.
“I’m Dr. Styles. Why don’t you tell me what’s been going on?” he asks, a professional smile gracing his lips, two dimples pinching into his cheeks, a little quirk that none of the reviews had warned you about.
God, you were in trouble.
Clearing your throat, you look down at your hands, wringing them together in your lap. “Yeah, I um… I'm trying to get pregnant. My husband and I have been trying for almost a year now and I know it doesn't always happen right away, but I think I'm just really impatient and I want to make sure I'm doing everything right, and to know that everything is working properly down there and they say you’re the best so I thought it wouldn’t hurt to come down and… just make sure.” Your cheeks burn as you finish your rambling, nervously glancing up at the doctor before averting your gaze again.
“Okay, well first of all, it’s important to remember that lots of people have these struggles, it doesn’t always mean there’s something wrong,” he assures you. “But we can take a look, do a few tests, relieve your concerns, and then hopefully we can get you pregnant.” His confidence is immediately reassuring, even as your thighs quiver at his wording, your hormonal thoughts misconstruing his words.
You needed to calm down. Surely, he would notice if you appeared aroused.
“I have a few questions I’ll ask as we go along regarding your menstrual cycle and sexual history,” he says.
“Um… I already filled that out on the paperwork.” You point at the clipboard in his grasp.
The doctor sets the clipboard down, offering you a small shrug. “I know, but I like to hear the answers for myself, dig a little deeper, ask a few more personal questions, if you’re okay with that.”
You nod. “Sure, whatever, yeah, I’m pretty close to doing anything to get pregnant at this point.” The second the words leave your mouth, the underlying implications of your statement hit you, making your eyes bulge out. “With-within, y’know, reasonable means…”
Dr. Styles’ eyebrow raises, the corner of his mouth twitching with a smirk he was trying to hold back. “Reasonable means?”
“Y-yeah,” you swallow, looking away again.
Licking his lips, he says, “Let’s begin, shall we?” Stepping in front of you, his legs nearly knock into yours as he unwraps the stethoscope coiled around his neck. Warming the metal in his palm, he then pulls back the neck of your shirt to expose more of your chest, placing the device along your skin. Goosebumps prickle where the skin-warmed metal touches, the doctor's fingernails almost brush against the plump of your breast. Could he pick up your racing heart, the palpitations beating sporadically in his ear? Did he know he was the cause?
“When was the last date of your last period?” he asks, moving the stethoscope across your skin, listening in a few different spots.
“Um,” you think back, shivering when he lifts the stethoscope away, “I believe it was two Fridays ago? I use an app to track it.”
“Ok, and have you been sexually active since then?” Dr. Styles questions you like he's asking what you had for breakfast, his tone casual and loose, accustomed to asking such invasive things.
“Yeah…”
“How often?” Reaching behind you, he grabs the blood pressure cuff from where it hangs on the wall. As he leans closer, you get a generous whiff of the cologne he must have sprayed on his neck that morning, a breath of something woody and intoxicating you can't quite place.
“Huh?”
He quietly huffs out a laugh as he sets up the device, making the band squeeze around your upper arm with the click of a button. “How often are you having sex with your husband?”
“Oh, right, um… usually once a day but sometimes more,” you admit, your face flushed with embarrassment, trying to gulp down your nerves. It was his job to know this stuff, there was no need to get flustered.
The room fills with the sound of the velcro ripping as he takes off the device, placing it back in its designated spot. “And would you say you’re getting off every time?”
If the blood pressure cuff was still wrapped around your arm, he would’ve noticed the immediate spike his question caused. “Wh-why does that matter?”
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Dr. Styles reassures you. “Some people believe that both parties reaching climax increases the couples’ chances of becoming pregnant. No study has ever proven it, but, over the years, I’ve learned not to doubt the power of placebo effects.”
Great, now you find out that the barrier for having a child could have been your own inability to come. “I have been struggling to reach… my peak,” you admit, still uncomfortable with relaying the intimate details of your sex life to a stranger.
“Would you say that’s unusual for you?” he presses as he walks around the exam table, pulling out the stirrups. A flicker of concern passes across his features as he digs further, prodding at your sexual history like an old wound. Locking his eyes onto yours, his eyebrow raised suspiciously, he asks, “Or did you have a hard time reaching your orgasm before you started trying?” There’s a hint of accusation in his tone, his implication clear.
Something inside you leaps up to defend the perceived slight against your husband. “No, no, I usually, um… y’know… before all this, it wasn’t a problem. It’s just recently I haven’t been… able to.”
His eyes remain locked onto yours for a moment longer, gauging your reaction, before he nods, patting the edge of the table. “Go ahead, and scoot over here, put your legs up, and we can get started.”
The paper scrunches underneath you as you shuffle your butt over to where he indicated. While you lift your legs up into place, settling them in the supports, the doctor turns to the sink, rolling his sleeves up. Each fold of fabric exposes another tattoo, the variety of designs capturing your attention. Without realizing it, you’re leaning up on your elbows, watching as he begins the methodical ritual of washing his hands. Inexplicably, the way he massages the soap into his skin, cleansing himself in preparation to touch you, hypnotizes you. What would it feel like to run your own fingers over his knuckles, to grasp his wrist in your hold, to feel the smooth tattooed skin in your palm? Your legs try to clamp shut, your thighs buzzing with the need to press them together, to keep your arousal at bay, but the stirrups make it impossible to cover yourself.
You’re so preoccupied with his hands you almost miss the turning of his head, his gaze shifting to where you lay. At first, you’re embarrassed, thinking you’ve been caught in your ogling, but that wasn’t where the doctor was looking. Despite your attempts to cover yourself, his place at the sink offers him the perfect view of your entire crotch, everything left on display for him. Even as he dries his hands, his focus stays honed in on the spot between your legs. Could he already see how wet you are? Was he judging you over it? Or did most of his patients flash their arousal, proudly showing off the effect the doctor had on them?
Slipping on the blue latex gloves, the room is filled with the sputtering of a near empty squeeze bottle as he smears thick globules of lube over his fingers. He slowly makes his way over to the exam table, back over to you, standing right in front of where you’ve exposed yourself for him. “Ok, I’m going to take a look now,” he explains, his voice deeper than before and tight with restraint, “feel around a little, see if I notice anything. If you feel at all uncomfortable, just speak up and let me know, okay?”
Leaning back against the table, the paper crinkles in your ear as you nod. Your view of him is partially obstructed, his chest blocked by the hospital provided blanket, hanging off your knees like a curtain. Briefly, you wonder if you should move it, but he didn’t say anything about it. Meanwhile, you are too preoccupied worrying over whether you’ve leaked onto the parchment beneath you and praying he doesn’t notice the hitch in your breath when you feel his finger brush against your cunt, the lube chillier than expected.
“Ok, I'm going to touch you now,” he warns. When he slides his finger inside of you, you have to remind yourself to breathe, coaching yourself through each inhale and exhale, careful to not let a whimper accidently slip out. The vulgar sound of your slick pussy fills the room as his finger audibly wades through your arousal. He pushes in until his knuckles press against your labia, his thumb hovering above your pulsating clit.
Tilting his head to the side, he hums as he slides his finger out. “Let me just…” he trails off, inserting two fingers inside this time. “There we go… Are you doing alright?” His gaze flicks up to your face before returning to the parts you can't see.
“Mhmm,” you respond, tight-lipped. If you dared to open your mouth, you would be unable to control what sounds would escape from you. Closing your eyes, you focus on the expansion of your lungs inside of your chest, trying to ignore how far his fingers reach inside of you, or how close he is to rubbing against your most sensitive spot.
Sliding his fingers out of your pussy with a sick squelch, you expect the exam to be over, praying this humiliation will soon be over, when his voice cuts through your focus. “Okay, everything feels good. Your labia are a little puffy,” he notes, pinching at your lips. “Remind me, did you want to address your recent lack of orgasms?”
You lean up, blinking against the fluorescent lights. “What do you mean?”
Clearing his throat, Dr. Styles flicks his gaze up to you, then back down to your pussy, as if he can't stand to look away. “If you wanted, I could perform a little procedure to test your orgasmic responses and make sure there's nothing medically wrong.” His gloved knuckles brush against your thigh as he continues pinching at your lips, raising his hand until his fingers are dangerously close to your clit. If his grip slipped just a bit, if your hips shifted only a little, he’d make contact. “I only bring it up because earlier you said you were willing to do anything… within reason,” he adds on, a sly smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.
Words fail you. No wonder all those women were leaving positive reviews if this was the kind of service they were being offered. You know the answer you want to give, the one dancing on the tip of your tongue, eager to tumble out of you, but it’s impeded by several complications. Would the nurses overhear you? Were you saying yes because you believed this would get you pregnant or because you wanted to orgasm? Would your husband find out? Dr. Styles waits patiently as you contemplate your choices, occasionally glancing down and admiring your cunt, keeping his touch just out of the way of where you crave him most.
Your mouth forms different shapes as you struggle to find an answer, before your shoulders bounce up towards your ears, stammering out, “Ye-yeah, s-sure.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, dragging his fingers around the sides of your pussy, tracing around the lips, a trail of cold lube tracking his progress. “Because I can stop now, if you’re satisfied.”
“No!” you practically shriek, lunging forward as you push yourself upright, surprising yourself with your sudden outburst. “I mean, I would like to… continue… please.”
Carefully, he stares down at you, giving you time to change your mind, challenging you with his intense gaze to back out. But you don't, you can't, you're already under his control.
Laying back down, you position yourself back on the exam table, pushing your hips forward until they’re on the table's precipice, your voice masking itself in a breathy whine. “Please?”
Dr. Styles’ smirk grows even more smug at your pathetic pleading. This time, he gives you no warning as he slips his fingers into your eager pussy, sliding all the way in.
Your chest heaves at the intrusion, letting out a low mewling sound as he pulls his fingers out, the sound pitching up when he shoves them back in. Slapping a hand over your mouth, you hope to muffle your noises, afraid of being caught.
“Now, some people miss it,” Dr. Styles explains, “but there’s a spot in here, known as the G spot, named after some German guy. It should be right about…” His fingers explore around your walls until you gasp, your muscles clenching, the metal of the stirrups clattering at your movement. “Right about there,” he smiles deviously, dragging the latex over that spongy spot, making you writhe along the exam table until he abruptly stops, extracting his fingers. “I’m sorry, but these gloves can get in the way. Would it be alright if I touched you without them? It’ll help me give me a better feel of what’s going on.”
Huffing out through your nose, you shake your head up and down, impatiently waiting for him to continue.
“I’m going to need a verbal resp-”
“Oh God, please just do it already,” you beg, not caring that you interrupted him, only thinking about the stretch of your cunt around his fingers and the way he rubbed you. How much better would it feel without the barrier of latex between you two?
Out of view, you can hear the tearing of his gloves, the doctor ripping them off his hands, but it offers you no relief until the palm of his hand covers your cunt, the pad of his fingers playing with your lips. “You feel appropriately wet enough,” he notes before sliding his bare fingers inside. “That’s good, it means you’re properly aroused. And now your clitoris will grow and expose the glans underneath.” His thumb flicks at your clit, making your breaths falter, groaning into your palm, holding back your loudest sounds. “Yeah, just like that. You hear how aroused you are?” Thrusting his fingers, the audible wet slapping fills the room, making your cheeks burn beneath your hand. “God, I love that sound,” Dr. Styles admits through clenched teeth, his laugh coming out more like a growl. “Love feeling how wet you get.”
His fingers speed up their rhythm, stroking along your walls, his thumb maintaining its circling around your clit. Raising your other hand, you press both palms against your mouth, keeping your moans and whines contained. It’s an all out assault on your most sensitive areas, receiving no reprieve from his touch as he paws and flicks and plays with your body. He’s practically an expert on curling his fingers at just the right spot, twisting his wrist at the right time, using all his medical knowledge to perfectly tune your body like an instrument.
“That’s it, I can feel your muscles contracting, you’re getting closer. Now focus on that feeling, don’t let yourself think about anything but my fingers, okay? Just focus on my fingers.”
In your head, you repeat his instructions like a mantra. Focus on his fingers. When your usual anxieties rise up, you bat them away, not willing to let them ruin your fun. Focus on his fingers. Your body feels tightly wound, pressure building towards something you haven't felt in so long. Focus on his fingers. Whimpering into your palms, your body begins to rock, seeking more as your hips meet the doctor's hands, taking him in deeper. Focus on his fingers. It was right there, you could almost reach out and grab it. Focus on his fingers. Behind your hands, your moans crescendo, little whines trickling out. Focus on his fingers.
That's when the snap occurs, the band loosening around your orgasm as you release it, monthslong sexual frustration melting away as you ride out your climax. Your hands fall away from your mouth, a long, drawn-out groan stuttering out as your body shudders with your release.
“Oh, there you go,” Dr. Styles’ voice is barely above a whisper, his fingers still rubbing over your clitoris as more of your arousal leaks out of you, dampening the paper underneath. “That's it, get it all out. It's been a while since you felt this good, huh? Just let it out.” He keeps massaging you until your body starts to twitch, beginning to shy away from his touch. That's when he carefully pulls out, checking on you with a simple, “Are you alright?”
Slowly blinking your eyes open, you pant heavily, trying to get your breathing back under control. God, you forgot how good that felt. A smile starts to bloom across your face, shaking your head side to side as you begin to come down from the high. “That was…” you struggle to find the right thing to say, your brain stuck rebooting, “that was very nice.”
You hear a small, breathy laugh before he covers it up with the clearing of his throat. “Well, in that case, it seems like there's nothing wrong, everything looks to be in proper condition, but if you're still having issues in a few months, you can come back in and we'll look at more options, okay?” Dr. Styles flashes you another one of his professional smiles, the filthy smirk and dirty glint in his eyes have vanished completely. Then he’s backing away.
“Wait…” you call out, sitting yourself up, “wait, it's over?”
He stops himself just a few steps away from the door, casually looking down at his wristwatch. “Yeah, I have another patient who's supposed to be coming in soon-”
“But isn't there…” your hand flails around as you try to find some excuse to make him stay. After your first orgasm in who knows how long, you weren't ready to go without again. “Isn't there another test you need to run or something?”
“Another test?” he echoes, raising his brows at your demand. “I’m not sure what you think that would accompli-”
Interrupting him again, you say, “I don’t know, I thought that… It’s just that I… You said-” You have nothing to offer, no bargaining chip to negotiate with, he was going to leave with his fingers still shiny with your arousal and there was nothing you could do to stop him. “You said you’d get me pregnant… and I’m… I’m willing to do anything.”
“Within reason, right?” he attempts to joke, his professionalism dropping just a bit to smirk at you.
“No. Anything,” you emphasize. Maintaining eye contact, you watch the realization hit him, his smug exterior vanishing beneath an uncertain wariness, the truth of your statement settling in. His tongue prods at his cheek while his eyes trail over you. It was a good sign that he hadn’t walked out yet, that at least meant he was considering your offer. “Isn’t there a-a… an insemination test you can do?”
Quirking his brow, Dr. Styles clears his throat. “You’ve heard about our insemination trials?” he questions you. “It’s still in the testing phase, we don’t really offer that to our patients unless they specifically ask for it.” He makes his way back over to between your legs, his steps slow and deliberate, not letting himself peek at your crotch, keeping his eyes on you. “Are you… asking for it?”
Maybe there should have been more warnings going off in your head, maybe you were acting a bit impulsively, but you had come this far. “Yes, doctor. I- I want it.” This time, even though you intend for the double entendre to land, humiliation still burns across your face as you say it.
Dr. Styles then lets his gaze slip, dropping down to where you could not see, but you could feel the damp paper underneath. “We’ll just keep this, off the record, yeah? I’d hate for your insurance to bill you over this.”
“Yes,” you agree, all too quickly, “yes, of course, thank you.”
“I’ll have to prep you first, the device is quite big,” he warns, giving you a cheeky glance before his fingers are slipping back inside of you, scissoring side to side, stretching you out more than he already had. Your pussy pulls him in, effortlessly accepting his fingers, like they belonged inside of you. A moan rumbles low in your throat as he pulses into you. “That’s it, loosen up, I’m gonna need you good and wet.”
While his right hand thrusts into you, he brings his left hand up to his mouth, licking his thumb before pressing it to your clit. Your legs shake in the stirrups, making the metal rattle. “Whoa, okay, let’s not concern the nurses out there, yeah?” Sliding his fingers out of you, he quickly sucks them clean with a quiet moan, before grabbing hold of your ankle. He lifts your leg out of the plastic and rests it on his shoulder, repeating the same steps with your other leg, until you’ve boxed in his head with your feet. The blanket that once covered you falls back, revealing your lower half, and the doctor’s thumb rubbing along your bud. Now, your legs quiver against his body silently. “Much better.”
Humming, you’re too wrapped up in the pleasure to pay much attention to what he’s saying, too engrossed in the pressure of his thumb as it spirals around your clit, unable to hear the dragging of his zipper. Everything besides the doctor’s thumb disappears. Until the tip of his cock nudges against your lips, the heat radiating from his member drawing a sharp gasp from you. Looking down, resting in the crux of your thigh, erect and long, is his dick, a little bead of precum just starting to spill out of his slit.
“During this procedure, we’re going to test how much strain your cunt can take,” he informs you, adjusting himself so that his dick can prod at your entrance, “as well as how much of my come you can hold.” His filthy words make you squirm, the facade of professionalism completely gone. He’s now acting on his more feral urges, the wild look in his eyes making you clench expectantly. The bulge of his head dips between your lips, collecting some of your arousal before smearing it over with his hand, using your slick to lube himself.
You’re whimpering and whining and vibrating with need, the slow drag of him running through your lips making you feel crazed, his cock sweeping right by where his thumb was still rubbing circles. “I’ll hold it all,” you murmur, delirious with desire. “I want all of it.”
“I’ll give it to you, don’t worry,” he coos at you, pushing himself just inside. “I’m going to get you pregnant just like I promised, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you whine pathetically, gasping when he drives his dick in further, brushing along your sensitive core. Your eyes squeeze tight, blocking out the rest of the world as you get lost in the feeling of his cock shoving into your cunt, massaging over your G-spot.
“It’s right there, right?” he asks when you hum sweetly, thrusting shallowly, he rubs over that area again and again, making your toes curl. “That’s the spot, right? That’s where you like it? Well, I like it…” Pushing into you, he doesn’t stop until he’s fully encased inside you, his hips flush against you. “Oh, here,” he groans, his dark eyes meeting yours. “I like it here. Buried so fucking deep inside you.” He moves your legs so they’re both on his left shoulder, causing your pussy to tighten around him. “Mmm, yeah, that’s it. Oh, you’re gonna be so full of me, you’ll be dripping.”
“No, no dripping. Want it all.”
“Of course, baby, we’ll make sure it all stays. Gotta keep it inside if we wanna see your belly fat with my child.” His hand abandons your clit to slide underneath your shirt, sweeping across your stomach, a dreamy look passing across his face.
“Yes, yes, I wanna give you a child. Please,” you plead, your finger curling around the edge of the bed, gripping it frantically. “Oh, God, please.”
That’s when your mind begins its usual trailing off, wandering away from the pulse of the doctor's cock. What if you still didn’t get pregnant? What if you had pissed off some high being and they cursed you to never have a child? What if you disappointed your husband by never making him a father, and he grew to resent you for it, then you'd go through a nasty divorce and-
When his thumb connects back to your clit, you're reminded of the mantra you repeated earlier. Focus on his fingers. Your worrying thoughts don't go away, prickling at the edges of your brain, but they aren't as loud now. Focus on his thumb. Pressure tickles at your belly, another orgasm rising inside. Focus on his cock. Your legs begin to shake, your heart beats in your ears, and your nails imbed into the vinyl of the table. Focus on him.
Blinking your eyes open, you look up at the doctor. His forehead carries a light sheen of sweat, his cropped hair starting to plaster to the skin. Gritting his teeth, he pulses into your pussy faster, snapping his hips quicker, his rhythm becoming off-balance as he nears his own release. “Are you gonna take it, baby? Gonna take all my fucking come? Gonna keep it all for yourself?”
“Y-yes, doctor, yes, gi-give it to me!”
“Oh fuck,” he groans, his hips stuttering as his cock pulses, come splattering over your walls. “Fuck, fuck, take it. Ah fuck, take it all, baby.” Even as he releases into you, his thumb doesn't stop looping around your clit, his hips keep pounding against your ass, his dick still rubbing at your core. “Need to feel you now,” he tells you, watching how he disappears inside of your inviting cunt, feeling the way your clench around him. “Come on, baby, you need it, too. Let go.”
Arching your back off the table, your mouth drops open, a choked gasp getting stuck in your throat. Everything coils inside of you, the pressure heightening, the immense pleasure becoming too much to hold back anymore. Then it all collapses, falling back against the table, your legs becoming slack as your pussy constricts around Dr. Styles' cock, your orgasm flowing through your whole body.
“There you go. Oh, you feel so good, baby,” he praises, running a hand through his sweat slicked hair. Resting his forehead against your ankle, he takes in a deep breath, releasing it in a shaky exhale, the air cool along your skin. “You know,” he huffs, his nose scrunching up as he sniffles, “you could've told me you weren't getting off, anymore. My pride would've been only a little wounded.” Harry’s lips curl at the corners, smirking at his own joke.
Rolling your eyes, you shake your head. “I thought it would go away but it didn't and by then it was harder to open up. And it's a lot easier to admit to someone who isn't my husband, but a-”
“But a doctor who just so happens to be your husband?” He finishes for you, carefully pulling out of your cunt.
“Exactly!” Walking over to the sink, Harry wets a couple sheets of paper towels, using one of them to wipe himself clean of your arousal. “Plus, I thought a change of scenery would help the issue.”
“Next time,” he says, turning to you and pressing the wet paper to your pussy, gently wiping away the mess there, “please just rent a hotel room. Don’t defraud my practice.” Discarding the soiled paper in the small trashcan, Harry quickly zips himself back up, walking around the exam table and pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. “I really have to go, but we can talk more about this at home, okay?”
“Okay,” you agree, pulling him in for one more kiss, sneaking in a third just as he went to turn away. Those anxious thoughts still hover on the outskirts of your mind, but as you watch your husband walk out of the exam room, tossing you one last smile over his shoulder before the door closes, you comfort yourself with the knowledge you could always schedule a second appointment.
hey mal, would you ever write anything about harry jerking himself off infront of reader as a punishment?
yes. yes i would.
reader is a nightmare in this, so if this is too much for you, i do not blame you 🤭🤭 this is a fast one but they are called quickies.
Impatient - A Harry Styles Smutty Blurb
Quickies Masterlist or Main Masterlist
Summary: All you wanted was to suck his dick but Harry's tired of your attitude.
2.1k words
C/W: smut, m!masturbation, reader is a BRAT, belt used as restraints, semi public, being ejaculated on (salirophilia)
You wouldn’t say you’re spoiled, you preferred to call it “knowing how to get what you want”. All it took was a little pout, the batting of your eyelashes, and, usually, things ended up working out in your favor. It wasn’t your fault your boyfriend was so easily won over, incapable of turning you down.
Until you pushed too far.
Work had been hectic this week and all you wanted to do that weekend was chill out at your boyfriend’s place and watch a movie while you both traded off giving each other head. Except, Harry sprung on you Friday that he had to attend a party Saturday night, some unavoidable work event that his manager informed him of at the last minute. You could’ve sat this party out, stayed at his place and ate all his fancy imported snacks by yourself, but, selfishly, you wanted to spend some time with your boyfriend before being dragged back into the office on Monday. But now, you’ve been stuck at a stupid party at some gaudy high rise for several hours, arms crossed tightly across your chest, your mouth quirked to the side in annoyance while Harry laughed with a group of people you didn’t know, debating the validity of the most recent celebrity gossip you couldn’t bring yourself to care about.
The first time you asked if you could go home, barely an hour into the night, leaning in close so no one else could hear, Harry chuckled, kissing the top of your head while he whispered, “Soon, my love, just a little while longer.”
Your definition of soon apparently didn’t align with Harry’s because the second time you asked, almost twenty minutes later, not even whispering this time, he once again said, “Soon, don’t worry. Do you want a refill?”
That’s when the attitude started. “No, I want to go home.”
Harry just shook his head, wandering off to get more drinks, assuming the alcohol would temper your increasingly bad mood. Instead, you don’t touch the drink, leaving it on the table, condensation dripping down the sides, despite Harry’s insistence to “use a coaster, love.”
It didn’t help that you were mind-numbingly horny, yet another thing Harry had put off, stating he’d rather put it off until you got home. The longer the night continued, the longer you went without the taste of Harry’s cock in your mouth. Was it really so wrong for a girl to want to suck on her boyfriend’s dick? But Harry was more concerned about getting to the party on time, about making a good impression, so he declined your offer, promising you could blow him later that night, after the party was over.
So, when there’s a lull in the conversation, you take the opportunity. Running your finger up and down Harry’s forearm, dragging your nail over the art imbedded into his skin, your eyelids fluttered in the exact way you've practiced, your lip jutting out just so as you ask in your most sickly sweet voice, “Can we go soon?”
Someone next to Harry snickered, and a couple people raised their eyebrows at your brash question. Harry gave you an incredulous look, his annoyance simmering just beneath the surface. “We’ll leave soon, I promise, princess.” The nickname is a tell, a warning to keep you in line. If he had pulled it out the second time you asked, you probably would’ve complied, but it was too late for that now.
Dropping the act, you remove your hand from him. “You said that three hours ago.” Behind you, someone was failing to cover up their laughter.
“And I said we’re not leaving yet.” The tension between you two was seeping into nearby conversations, tempted by the brewing drama.
“Fine, you can suck your own dick then! God forbid a woman wants to pleasure her man.” As you stand up and head towards the front door, a murmured chorus of chuckles and snorts trailed behind you, your outburst capturing the attention of half the party, it seemed. You didn’t have the capacity to be embarrassed about it, too sexually frustrated to stop, even when you heard someone call out your name.
Stomping down the hallway, you made your way to the elevators, tapping the call button with such ferocity, as if the elevator would reach the 28th floor faster the more you clicked it. Music from the party pumped through the walls while you waited, growing louder then softening again when someone else left the party, the door clicking shut behind them. You keep your gaze fixed to the numbers above the elevator, tracking its gradual progress, even as someone sidled up next to you. From the vanilla scent mixed with warm sandalwood, you knew it was Harry. His silence is enough for you to know how upset he is, though you refuse to acknowledge him, and he’s content to do the same.
When the elevator dinged, opening in front of you, you stormed right in, claiming the far corner for yourself, crossing your arms and legs as a protective barrier. Harry entered behind you, and through the mirrored walls, you watched as he pressed the garage button, a tick in his jaw. Just as he looked over at you, you diverted your gaze quickly, finding the patterned tile on the floor much more interesting than your annoying boyfriend.
“Are you proud of the way you acted back there?” Harry asked once the door closed, his voice low and restrained. “Do you feel good about causing a scene in front of everybody?”
All you offered in response is a shrug, rolling your lips into your mouth as you kept up your silent pouting.
“Do you even know who was at that party?”
“I didn’t know anyone at that party so, no.”
“Max Martin, the music producer-”
Sarcasm dripped from your words as you rolled your eyes. “Whoop-dee-fucking-doo.”
“-who has worked with people like Britney Spears, Ariana Grande, Taylor Swift-”
“And now you’re bringing up your ex, great.”
Harry let out a mirthless laugh. “What the hell is your problem tonight?”
“I think I was pretty clear about what I wanted back there.”
Finally, the elevator stopped its descent, opening up into the parking garage and you’re quick to exit. Harry’s long legs meant you didn’t get far before he’s beside you, grabbing onto your upper arm and pulling you towards the Audi he had rented for the night. You don’t even fight the way he manhandled you, relieved to be returning home at last.
Still the polite gentleman, Harry opened the passenger door for you, muttering between clenched teeth, “Get in.” Shrugging off his grip, you ducked down into the car, settling in the seat. Before you could grab the seatbelt, Harry snatched your hand, reaching across you to grab the other one, holding both your wrists in just one of his hands.
“What the fuck, Harry?” you cried, trying to wriggle your hands free but his strength overpowered your agility.
Single-handedly, Harry undoes his belt, tugging it loose from his pants. Wrapping it around your wrists, he then felt around the car ceiling, pulling down the grab handle so he could loop the belt through it. He gives your hands a couple of tugs, making sure the belt is secure before letting go. You put up less and less of a fight as you realized what he was doing, rubbing your thighs together in anticipation when he unzipped his pants. Now, you would get what you had been wanting all night.
Harry’s cock is only partially erect, the head of him blush pink when he pulled it out, licking his palm before he started rubbing himself. He groaned through his strokes, huffing out a breath as he grew in his own hand.
Eagerly, you opened your mouth, your tongue lolling out and glistening with your saliva. Straining against your restraints, you tried to dip your shoulder and lean out the car in a weak attempt to get closer to his crotch. The air of the parking garage dried out your tongue as you waited, looking up at Harry with pinched eyebrows as he kept stroking himself, slowly retracting your tongue back into your mouth.
“Oh, is princess upset she’s not getting her way?” Harry mocked you, shaking his head back and forth as he smiled down at you darkly, his hand passing lazily over his now fully hard dick. “You think you deserve my cock after how you acted back there?”
Consequences? For your actions?
Desperately, you wrestled with the belt wrapped around your wrists, uselessly trying to loosen it. “C’mon, Harry, please,” you whined, “I only wanted to make you feel good.”
“By causing a scene? By embarrassing me in front of everyone?” His grasp on himself tightened as he described your ill behavior, his dick deepening from pink to red.
“Why is it embarrassing?” you argued. “Most men would love to have someone begging to suck on their dick.” A drop of precome slipped out of his slit, temptingly delicious, a peek of what you’d been fantasizing about all night. Harry collected it into his palm as he swiped over his tip, smearing it over him, wasting it. You stamped your feet against the car floorboards. “Please, Harry, I want your come so bad.”
He breathed out a short laugh. “Oh I’ll give it to you, don’t worry.” Leaning his head back, he released a sigh, biting his lip as his strokes speed up. His cock remained firmly erect as he let himself go, wetting his palm some more before he grabbed his cock and started fondling himself again, his balls clenching at his touch. A growl rumbled in his chest and his hand grew sloppier as he rubbed over himself.
It’s only when he started to pant through his nose that you realized just how close he was, how quickly he was trying to reach the end, speedrunning through his pleasure like it was a nuisance. You were insulted that he’d rather race through his ejaculation than let you lavish him, slathering him in your spit, worshipping the ridged vein on the underside of his cock with your tongue. If he let you have your way, you would’ve taken your time but now you’re forced to watch him twitch closer to his rushed release.
“Harry, please, I wanna taste you, please let me, I’ll be good, I swear,” you babbled. “Please!”
His hand wrapped around your throat, pressing you back against the seat. “Stop talking,” he ordered, his hips thrusting into his hand as he neared his climax.
In a last stitch effort, you complied, silently opening your mouth, letting your tongue droop out. He said he’d give you his come, and you figured if he wasn’t going to let you suck his dick, he’d at least let you swallow his release. Surely, you’d been good enough for a little taste.
After a few more flicks of his wrist, Harry whimpered as his cock spurted, leaking semen onto your dress with each squeeze.
“Hey, what the fuck?!”
He ignored your cries, continuing to stroke his cock until nothing more came out, depositing his load over your body with a relieved sigh. The semen seeped into your dress, staining the black fabric. Harry released a wavering breath before tucking himself back into his pants, tugging the zipper back up.
“Do you know how much this dress cost?” you chastised him.
“I mean, I bought it so, yeah I do.” Harry checked the belt and the red lines splotched across your wrists, making sure they weren’t pinching your skin too tightly.
“Yeah, well you can also pay the dry cleaning bill! I can’t believe you just jizzed all over a silk dress!”
A mischievous glint sparkled in his eyes before he stood back up, reaching back for the door. “Ok, you seem comfy. I’ll see you in an hour.”
“What?!” you shrieked, making Harry pause when he went to shut the door.
With a shrug, Harry pointed back towards the elevators. “I’m going to go back to the party. See if I can still meet Max, maybe grab his number.”
“You’re just going to leave me here?!”
“Think of it as a time out,” Harry clicked his tongue, letting his eyes travel across your ruined dress. “You can think about your behavior while I’m upstairs.”
“Hey, wai-” you called out, but the door slammed shut anyway, prohibiting the rest of your complaint from reaching Harry’s ears. But that doesn’t stop your screams. “Are you serious? You’re leaving me in here?” The car beeped, the locks clicking shut. “Did you just lock me in? I can’t even use my hands, you fucking jerk!” Harry keeps marching over to the elevators, oblivious to your protests. “I’ll get you back for this, Harry Styles!” you continued to yell, your throat getting scratchy with the excessive use. “I will make you pay for this, I swear to God!”
Once Harry’s inside the elevator, he finally looked back at you, waving his hand condescendingly as the doors slid shut, leaving you in his car, covered in his semen, waiting for his return.
Hello my freaky deaky queen!! I have an idea for youu!!! Harry using the cord to his microphone during rehearsals to keep you still during a quickie with lots of focus on his hands because well I’m a hand girlie and he has nice ones😂 anyway if you hate it that’s fine I still loveeee youuu!!!💖
girl if you think i'm gonna turn down Harry bondage, then you don't know me. thank you both for the requests! (also this sucks i'm so sorry)
All the Time - A Harry Styles Smutty Blurb
Summary: Harry invited you to his rehearsal and keeps getting distracted when you won't stay still (alternative title Fingers All the Time, Orgasms Occasionally)
“Go on ahead,” Harry calls out to his bandmates, “we’ll catch up.”
Rehearsals had dragged on far longer than they expected, to the point Harry’s voice wavered, Mitch kept messing up his strumming, and Sarah’s drumming had grown lethargic and offbeat. The music was no longer lively and Harry could feel the hungry tension building in the room, so he dismissed everyone for lunch, allowing them an hour to recharge and rejuvenate.
But he wasn’t planning on joining them.
“What do you want to have for lunch?” you ask from behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist. Harry had invited you along for his rehearsal of the new album, gearing up for his One Night Only performance, something he was excited to share with you at first. Except he hadn’t expected you to be so… distracting. Throughout the day, he watched you dancing along to his music, grooving to the beat with miss-timed yet boisterous moves, capturing his attention. It was the exact reaction he wanted from the album, to have the music move people physically, not just emotionally, but it was another to watch the woman he loved, dancing around the room with a proud gleam in her eyes. Your shirt rose up when you raised your arms, revealing your soft belly that he loved to caress when you rode him, and the bell bottom pants you wore clung nicely to the curves of your body, enticingly reminding Harry of the flesh underneath your clothes and how it would jiggle. Slyly, he’d adjust himself between songs, taking the time while everyone was distracted to lessen the ache of his thickening cock in his pants.
Harry only partially hears your rambling about possible options for lunch, entirely too focused on making sure everyone has left. As soon as the door clicks shut behind the last straggler, he’s spinning in your hold, tilting your head to look up at him. “I want you.”
Your first reaction is to giggle, assuming he’s just being cute, but when his hand slips from underneath your chin, to the back of your head, twisting your hair in his grip, your laughter stops, coming to a quick halt with a sharp inhale. Tugging your head back, his lips rush to the curve of your throat, kissing down in a line before licking back up, his mustache leaving ticklish tingles along the path.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he whispers darkly as his free hand drags through your spit covered neck, smearing his saliva. “Watching you shake your ass, your tits bouncing around, and I can’t do a bloody thing about it?” His teeth nip at your jaw, taking a moment to deeply inhale your skin. “Distracting me all damn day with this gorgeous fucking body.” Biting on your ear lobe, smirking at the yelp you emit, his hands roam over your body, sliding down your back and cupping your ass.
As Harry sucks on your neck, nibbling and salivating over your pulse, your own hand twitches to life, reaching for his jeans. Your fingers have just brushed against where his cock bulges but Harry shifts his hips away. With a whine, you blindly stretch your hand again, trying to find him.
“Knock it off!” he growls when you skim along his crotch. Yet, you greedily run your hand down from his abs, tracing the line of buttons on his shirt, slipping over his belt, towards his shaft when his hand smacks against your ass. “Stop it!”
“I want… I want to feel you!” you stammer, still straining to reach him.
Harry pushes you away, grabbing both your wrists in one of his hands, easily holding them above your head. “Keep still!” he orders, his eyes darkening with agitation. Despite his warning, your body wriggles closer, struggling within his hold. If he took a step closer, you could thrust your hips forward and meet his. “That's it!” He forces you backward, leaning you back over the soundboard. Buttons and knobs impale into your back, laying unevenly on the recording equipment, but Harry holds your arms down above your head, his groin pressed into your leg, keeping you pinned beneath him. With his free hand, he grabs one of the microphones he's been crooning into all day, his lips pressed into the metal. Gathering your hands in front of you, Harry coils the cord around your arms, looping the microphone through the wire until he rests it between your bound hands. “That should keep your hands busy.”
You struggle against your restraints, trying to peel your arms apart. “Harry!” you whine, desperate to touch him, needy for the heat of his dick in your palm, craving the weight of him in your grasp. Wriggling back and forth, you seek any comfort atop the console, but each time you shift, the dial digging into your spine would lessen but the switch at your shoulder blade would press harsher. Your toes barely scrape the ground, leaving your feet dangling over the side of the soundboard, Harry's thighs keeping you up, just on the precipice of falling over.
“Shh,” he quiets you, petting your hair to soothe you. “You'll be taken care of, pretty girl. Don't worry.” When your mouth opens to complain again, Harry slips his fingers in before you can get a single sound out. Your eyes widen at the intrusion before fluttering close, suddenly pacified by the stroke of his long finger. The nail scratches at the inside of your cheek, roaming over the bumps in your teeth, dragging through the saliva on your tongue before pulling it out and sucking on his own finger, moaning around the taste of your spit.
Undoing the button on your pants, Harry's wet finger delves underneath your underwear. The trail of icy wetness leaves an echo of his touch as he nears your cunt, your lips twitching with desire. When his slippery digit brushes against your clit, your body recoils at the cool touch, your knee jerks up, flinching away with nowhere to hide.
“I know, pretty girl,” he coos as you whimper, flicking his finger across your nub, “I know, I'll make it all better.” His finger warms between your thighs, his movement speeding up, combining both your spit and your arousal. Your leg kicks up again, your heel catching on the edge of the device, opening yourself up more to him. “That's it, pretty. Let it out.”
“Oh, God, Harry!” you moan, gasping when the microphone falls onto your chest, the metal cool against your collarbone. “Please, I w-want your cock, please Harry!”
“Are my fingers not enough, pretty girl?” At that, he lowers his finger, dipping into you, curling his finger further up inside until he tickles at your sensitive spot, then pulling it away, testing you.
Your body clenches then relaxes, whining miserably at his teasing. “No-no, please Harry, wanna make you feel go-od too,” you plead, your voice pitching when he thrusts his finger in again. He reaches far enough to just casually brush over the same area, your fingers rolling tighter around the microphone, wishing you were holding something else. When he presses forth another time, he’s careful to only press so far, missing where you ache for him most, toying with your pleasure like a cat with its prey. “Harry, plea-”
“No.”
His dismissal is shocking, usually he’s compliant to your wishes, especially when your voice is breathy and you're spread open beneath him. Still confined by the microphone cord, you can't do much to fight back. “B-but I-”
“Shush now,” he says as he leans over you, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of your lips, “or I'll bind your feet next.” Before you could complain, he's shoving his fingers deep into your pussy, pressing as deep as he can. When your mouth drops open as he massages your soft walls, his other hand clasps around your jaw, his fingers dipping into your mouth, pulsing into you on both ends. His fingers work you like a salve, softening your high-pitched whines into deep moans, your wide eyed stare drooping into a lustful, hooded gaze. “There you go, pretty. Just needed something to suck on, huh? I got you, pretty girl. Daddy always takes care of you, doesn't he?”
Sucking on his left hand, grinding on his right, you hum around his fingers, rocking yourself back and forth between them. The soundboard beneath you still pokes at your back, but as you circle your hips, your constant movement makes it difficult for one spot to bother you for too long, shifting around the console restlessly as you chase after your pleasure despite the irritating pain prodding into you.
“Yes, that's my pretty girl. If you're good, I'll let you have Daddy's cock later. Is that what you want?”
Your humming crescendos up into a long drawn out moan as he presses another finger inside of you, increasing the pressure on your walls. Clamping around him, your clit drags over the heel of his palm, adding on to the mounting pleasure coiling in your belly. Biting at his fingers, you try to signal your approaching orgasm.
“Oh, I know, I can feel it. Can feel you getting closer, can feel you getting wetter.” Slipping out of you, he smacks his soaked fingers against your pussy, smirking at the sound of the obscenely wet slaps. Then he thrusts back into you, slowing down his rhythm. “But we've got 40 minutes before anyone comes back and I wanna see how long you can go for. Can you do that for me, pretty girl? Can you show Daddy what a good girl you are?”
The torture of his slow pace is driving you insane. Dragging this out longer sounded awful, it was sadistic, it was… kind of hot? You've reached the point where anything he offered sounded like a fair trade so long as you reached your orgasm. Ignoring the burn of your arms, the muscles sore from being bound still for so long, despite your sore back, you nod, willing to take whatever he will give you.
Above you, Harry's eyes sparkle with mischief, his smirk deepening. “Knew you would.” Then, he removes his fingers from you, making you feel suddenly empty without him filling up one of your holes. Pulling on your arms, he lifts you up until you're standing on your feet, making sure you're steady before dropping to his knees, tugging your pants down, along with your ruined underwear. It's a bit of a struggle to get them off around your shoes, so Harry has to lift up the wide hem and untie the laces before he can fully remove your clothes. “Finally,” he jests, his playful gaze melting into adoration at your pussy, shiny with arousal. “God… Oh, pretty girl…” Already, his fingers are pruned, wrinkled with your arousal, but he dips them back in, edging in a third finger.
“Oh, oh fuck, oh Jesus,” you ramble, falling back until your ass hits the console. “Oh yeah, oh fuck, Harry!” Sweat starts to coat the wire as you thrash your arms around, twisting them back and forth. The microphone clatters against your neck, the metal bitingly chilly on your skin, goosebumps rising where it hits.
“Prettiest pussy I've ever seen. So pretty, so wet,” he compliments, driving his fingers into you. His left hand presses against your pelvis, his thumb caressing your clit, making your legs shake on either side of him. “Are you gonna come for me? Wanna feel you on my fingers. Can you do that for me, pretty girl?”
Building up, your release is imminent, it’d topple out of you even if Harry were to stop again. His fingers stretch you open, his thumb plays with your clit, you cannot stop your body from shivering. Cresting over you, you surge forward as your orgasm shutters through you, your tied up arms collapsing down in front of you, the microphone slipping from your grasp, hanging between your quivering legs.
Harry groans, his teeth biting into his lower lip as you clench, your muscles tightening around his fingers before relaxing, easing into post-orgasmic bliss. “That’s my girl.” Keeping his fingers inside you, he feels the flutter of your warm muscles as you come down from your high. Pressing his lips to your thighs, his hair tickles at your crotch before he's moving his fingers again, gently opening you up again despite your protesting whines. “You're alright, we've got time, just let me enjoy you.”
People slowly start to trickle back from lunch, spirits lifted and hunger satiated. Harry had tucked you in the backroom, letting you rest after he worked you through five arduous orgasms, taking his time between each one. Now, he was massaging his hand, hoping he'd still be able to strum a guitar later.
“Did you record something while we were gone?” Kid asks, looking at the tracks they've recorded for the day, a new 30-minute long file at the top. When he clicks on it, his laptop plays some clatter, before a voice cuts in.
“Oh yeah, oh fuck, Harry!”
Harry immediately perks up at the sound of your voice, pitched and warbled with effects but still, distinctly, your voice. Swiftly, he marches over to the laptop, slamming the screen down but the track keeps playing, his dirty talk muffled but still loud enough to hear. So, Harry forces the laptop back open, furiously clicking the pause button, then he closes the laptop shut again, heaving out a breath.
Titters ripple amongst his bandmates, faces flushed red, but Kid is the only one who seems unsurprised.
“You want me to delete it?” he asks deadpanned, slowly opening the laptop, already hovering his finger over the DEL key.
Leaning down towards his friend, Harry looks around before whispering “Send it to me first.”
Summary: Desperate, you corner your boss in the bathroom to ask him an important question.
3.6k
A/N: i think i'm gonna turn these two into their own series. sorry to the folks who hate this trope 😬
C/W: smut, anal, kinda dom!Harry, mean CEO!Harry, degradation, name calling, use of babygirl, spanking, cheating
The office is buzzing with whispers, the same secret passing around, people conspiratorially leaning over and asking, “Hey did you hear?”
Mr. Styles' fiancée is here.
No one knew he was engaged before she appeared, not that they would've had the gall to ask such a personal question of their strict, no-nonsense boss. Rings always adorned his fingers so they never suspected anything. But when the tall, brunette woman with crystalline blue eyes asked if her fiancé was in his office, it didn't take long for the news to travel throughout the whole building.
Outside his office, you stare at an empty Word document, unable to get any work done as you impatiently wait for this stranger to leave. You had debated over whether or not to listen at the door, desperate to satisfy your curiosity, ultimately deciding the risk wasn't worth it. So you anxiously tap your finger against your knee, accidentally snagging your nail in your tights, ripping a small hole in them. You'd have to throw them out now, Mr. Styles' dress code didn't allow for imperfections such as ruined pantyhose.
Why was she here? There were a number of perfectly normal reasons why someone would like to visit their fiancé, but you were concerned that the reason may have to do with what had happened two weeks ago, when your boss had shoved his cock down your throat in his office, then took you back to his place and made you orgasm so many times you lost count. All of that occurred after the week prior when the two of you had ended up sleeping together at a work event.
Since then, over the past two weeks, Mr. Styles' behavior towards you has been inconsistent. Some days, he treated you as any other employee, reserved and irritated. Other days he did everything he could to keep himself from needing your assistance, sometimes to his own professional detriment. Once, he'd brought you coffee in the morning, a gesture that spread throughout the office gossip chain like a plague.
Mr. Styles being nice to an employee? It’s unheard of.
As worried as you were that she was here to confront him about his infidelity, you couldn't help but think selfishly while you waited. From the way his hand caressed your body, and the thick pulse of his hard cock in your mouth, to the dark look in his eyes while he watched you touch yourself…
She emerges out of his office, quietly closing the door behind her. With a polite smile and a brief nod, she walks past you without much care.
“Have a good rest of your day,” you call after her, remembering your role here. Impatient as you were, you make yourself stay in your seat until you hear the elevator doors close, making sure she’s gone before you dare to stand up and go into his office. There was something you had to ask your boss.
His office is empty when you sneak inside, the only evidence of him is the jacket wrapped around the back of his chair. The privacy is a relief, allowing your professionalism to slip away as you sigh. Safely tucked away in this room, away from the inquisitive stares of your colleagues, you feel like you can breathe freely. They'd want to know what happened, hoped you would give them intel, more gossip to share, but that wasn't why you had come in here.
The sound of water catches your attention, coming from his private bathroom. You contemplate waiting, before deciding to just march on in. Whichever version of him you were about to see, you want to confront it head on.
Mr. Styles is in the middle of drying his hands, when you barge in. His sleeves are rolled up, showing off the ink he usually hides, his tie is thrown over his shoulder, and his hair is perfectly styled, not a strand askew. The look of surprise on his face shifts into a tired defensiveness, guarded and tight. “What are you doing in here?”
Swallowing, you say, “I wanted to ask you something.” It comes out meekly, absent of all the courage you had summoned to come in here.
“It's none of your business,” he dismisses you, assuming what you were going to ask. His hands grip the sink edge as he ignores your gaze.
“That wasn't what I-” you insist, stepping towards him but he interrupts you, accosting you with a harsh glare through the mirror.
“I don't have to explain myself to you. If you can't get over it, if you can’t keep quiet, then you can pack your things.”
Shaking your head, you're only marginally concerned about your job as you press, “I'm not going to say anything.”
“Then what do you want?” he asked exasperated.
“I just…” you falter over your words. It sounds silly now, the reason you came in, the rationale that led you in here, alone with your boss. “I just wanted to feel your cock one last time.”
Spinning around to face you, Mr. Styles cinches his eyebrows, looking you up and down incredulously. “Let me get this straight.” His voice is quiet, restrained, if not for the echo of the tile, you probably wouldn't hear it even in the tiny space. “You just watched my fiancée walk out of here and you decided now would be the time to come in and ask me to fuck you?”
Your cheeks burn with shame. It sounded worse when he put it like that. “You… you didn't give it to me last time,” is your only excuse, bouncing pathetically around the bathroom. If this was your last chance to feel him, you needed to take it.
But all he does is stare at you, slack jawed, his chest slowly heaving, the only sound in the room is the hum of the overhead lighting. The longer he does nothing, the more uncomfortable you feel, running your hands over your skirt with agitation under his judgmental stare.
“Forget it. Forget I said anything,” you dismiss, turning to leave, planning on packing up and going home early for the day, faking a sudden bout of whatever cold had been going round the office.
You’re pulling open the door when it suddenly slams shut in front of you, your body forced up against the wood as Mr. Styles presses against your backside.
“Where do you think you're going?” he growls, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I thought you wanted this.” He ruts against you, his cock sliding along your ass, teasing you with the exact thing you wanted. You moan as he does it again, loving the way it feels to be crushed between him and the door. “You are a slut, aren't you?” he asks as his hand snakes its way between your bodies, curving around your ass until he reaches the warmth emitting from your pussy. Through the tights and the string of your thong, you feel his fingers pushing against the confines, smearing your arousal until it’s seeping through the mesh fabric, wetting his fingers. “Did you get this wet while you were waiting for me? While I was busy with my fiancée?”
As perverted as it is, the mention of the other woman, the other person who knew him like this, riles you up further. Did he touch her like this, you wonder, did he talk to her the way he did you? Or was this cruelty saved for only you? You selfishly hoped so.
Tangling his hand in your hair, he uses his grip to control your movements, turning you around. You nearly trip in your high heels as he directs you, leaning you over the sink counter, making you face yourself in the mirror. In the reflective glass, your hair bunches up in his grasp, your pupils are already blown out, but, most importantly, you have the perfect view of your boss as he slams his hips into your backside.
“Are you gonna let me have my way with you?” Mr. Styles asks, pulling your skirt up until it was gathered underneath your breasts, his hands snaking over your spine.
“Y-yeah,” you stutter. Then your ass stings, making you gasp at the unexpected ache.
Mr. Styles glares at you through the mirror, rubbing his palm over the spot he had just smacked. “Did you forget the rules?”
“N-no, sir,” you respond, stumbling over your words, quick to correct yourself.
A wicked smirk curls up on one side of his face. “That's my babygirl.” Without warning, his nails pierce through your tights, ripping through the thin fabric. Your skin breaks out in goosebumps from the stale bathroom air as he keeps tearing through the mesh, widening the hole until your entire ass is exposed. Pushing the string of your thong aside, shoving his fingers into your sloppy pussy, you watch as both of your mouths drop open into soft moans. “Filthy fucking thing,” he grumbles, working his fingers inside you. “You’re my little slut, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” you whine.
“Mine to play with.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mine to do whatever I want with.” He slowly pulls his fingers out, collecting as much of your slick as he can, then applying it over your other hole, intently aware of the way your body clenches instinctively at his gentle prodding. “Have you let anyone touch you here before?”
Gulping down, you see the blush creeping across your face as you admit, “Yes, sir.”
“Are you gonna let me?” he questions you, raising his brow as he meets your gaze in the mirror. There was a hunger in his darkened eyes, want in his shallow pants, an animalistic need emitting from his touch, which grew tighter, harsher, rougher as he waited for your response.
Sinking down onto your elbows, you bend over more, offering him more access, his finger nearly slipping in as you display your enthusiasm. “Yes, sir.”
His middle finger dips in experimentally, only to the first knuckle before pulling back out. Then he presses back in, going a little deeper, reaching a little further into you. Your eyes want to flutter shut but you don’t want to miss anything, especially if this will be the last time you’ll get to see him like this, the last time you’ll get to feel his hands on your body, the last time he’ll bring you to pleasure. When he finally pushes his whole finger in, you let out a hearty groan at how deep his finger is.
“Yeah, that’s it babygirl, let it out,” Mr. Styles encourages you, sliding his finger smoothly through your asshole. “Don’t worry, no one out there can hear how much you sound like a whore.” He leans forward, kissing the back of your head, before whispering, “My own dirty little whore, getting her asshole wrecked in the bathroom, you’re dirtier than I thought.” He waits until your body starts pushing back against his hand to push his other finger in, stretching you out more. “Need to make sure you’re good and stretched out. You remember how big it is, don’t you, babygirl?”
The intrusion of his fingers has an edge of pain to its pleasure, only making you squirm more, only making you more whiny. “Yes, ye-yes, sir.”
“That’s why you came in here, because you missed it so much.”
“Yes, sir,” you respond. It wasn’t a question, but you needed him to know just how badly, how desperately you’ve thought about his dick. That this was necessary for you, you had to come in here, you needed his cock.
“Reach into that top drawer, there's some condoms and lube in there,” he orders, his gaze barely flicking away from where his fingers disappear inside you, a cocky smile pulling on the corner of his lips.
Your hand pats along the counter top, curving around the edge, fumbling to find the drawer handle. When you feel the cool metal, you yank on the handle, the items clattering around at the forceful movement. If you tore your gaze away from the mirror, you would find what you were looking for easier, but then you ran the risk of missing the way Mr. Styles revered your body, the spark of lustful hunger in his dark eyes, the slow drag of his tongue across his lips. Eventually, you grasp the foil square, handing it back to him before searching for the lube. You briefly get distracted when he undoes his pants, savoring the sound of the dragging zipper, the view blocked by your own ass. When you find it, the bottle is slippery, escaping your hold several times before you successfully lift it out of the drawer.
“Can barely follow simple instructions and you think you deserve my cock?” he teases you. Sliding his fingers out of you, you're left gaping and empty as he rips open the foil with his teeth, spitting out the excess, letting it flutter down to the floor. You're able to catch glances of his dick while he rolls the condom on. Arching yourself back, your spine twinges in pain but you just want to get a look at him before he fucks you. Caught up in your desperation, you don’t notice him opening up the bottle of lube, squeezing some out onto his hand. Once you feel the chill of the lube being smeared over your hole, you’re startled back down onto the counter. Rocking yourself back to meet his finger as he spreads the lube, your boss just laughs. “God, how’d I get so lucky in finding such an eager whore?”
Resting your head on your arms, you whine as he starts scissoring his fingers inside you. You’ve grown so impatient for his dick, tired of all the prep work, you almost believe he won’t even fuck you, this whole thing a farcical punishment to torment you. If so, you don't want to see him deny you, wanting to be oblivious of his impending refusal.
But then you feel it, the weight of his cock, resting between your pussy lips, and hope is restored. His knuckles carelessly brush over you as he strokes his cock, coating himself in lube. “I can feel how wet you are. Can feel how badly you want this.” Mr. Styles inhales sharply, the exhale coming out choppy and sporadic, like he’s holding himself back. Grinding his teeth together, he allows himself to rub himself over your lips, collecting some of your arousal on his cock. “It's a shame, if you weren't so greedy, I probably would've begged you to come back to my place, and I would’ve fucked you good and proper. I should've known better.” He leans over you, nipping at the shell of your ear, his cock sliding up between your lips, nearing your prepped asshole. “Should've remembered how you like it, my filthy little slut.”
That's when you feel his tip, circling around your pulsating hole, the head of him warm even through the condom. He doesn’t offer any words of warning, doesn’t prepare you for what is to come. Instead, he presses into you, slipping through your clenching muscles without pause. Your body can’t keep up, just as you’re accommodating to his length, he’s pushing further into you. Without the time to adjust, you’re left panting and gasping, unable to form words or even sounds as he thrusts deeper into you. He doesn’t stop until his hips are flush against your backside, your ass jiggling at the contact.
“Ohh,” Mr. Styles sighs, pushing himself upright, looking at where his body merges into yours, your plump cheeks enveloping him. “Aww, fuck babygirl.” Experimentally, he drags himself back, watching himself slide out of you before plunging back in, enjoying the way you let him in so easily, how your muscles wrap around his dick, pulling him back inside you. “God you’re so tight,” he complains with a groan. “Can barely fit, fuck.” His movement speeds up, ramming his cock into you, pounding your crotch into the edge of the counter. “Oh, but you take me so well, don’t you babygirl?”
Your face is pressed into the countertop, making your words come out strange and muffled. “Ye- yesh, nnn, yesh, shir.” It’s important to follow his rules now. Any deviation and he might stop, might leave you bent over in his bathroom, your tights torn open, and arousal dripping down your thighs.
Even though he had stretched you out with his fingers, it wasn't enough to prepare you for the girth of him, the thick pulse of his cock thicker than his two fingers. Through the mirror, you watch as Mr. Styles kneads your cheeks in his grasp, gripping the flesh to pull you back, to meet his thrust, to slip even deeper into you. The edge of the counter pierces into your pelvis, your tits ache as they're smushed into the marble, there's no escape from the dragging of his cock or the slapping of his balls against your pussy. You're entirely under his whim.
“Can't get enough of you, babygirl,” he praises. “Did you really think I'd let you go? That I'd be done with you?” Threading his fingers into your hair, he forces your face up, makes you watch as your eyes blearily blink open, your hair disheveled within his twisted hold. “Answer me, dirty girl,” he purrs, leaning over top of you, slowing his hips down to a gentle rhythm. “Did you really think I was going to stop fucking you?”
With his sluggish pace, you feel like you can breathe, take your time to let his words sink in, understand what he's asking of you. It was inevitable, wasn't it? You were just a plaything, his toy, meant to be used, waiting to be replaced. Surely, his fiancée would be the one to take your place. “Yes, s-sir,” you answer.
“But I haven't grown bored of you, yet,” he whines, condescension echoing in the room as his lip juts out in an exaggerated pout. Nuzzling into your neck, he smiles at the surprised look on your face. “I can't lose you just yet. There's so much I wanna do with you still.” His teeth sink into your collar as his hips quicken, ramming into you recklessly while he lists off his fantasies. “Haven't seen you tied up yet. Or watch you struggle to ride my cock.” He leans back and smacks your ass, the clap reverberating off the tile walls. “Last week, fuck, last week when you kept biting your pen during that meeting, I couldn't stop fantasizing about making you wear one of those remote controlled devices, making you squirm in front of everybody, my needy little slut begging me to let her come in front of a whole room full of people.” Mr. Styles pauses, taking a moment to groan as he fucks you. “Haven't even seen what it looks like when you're covered in my come. No, I'm not done with you, not yet,” he vows, sealing it with a kiss to the side of your head, “not yet.”
The promise of more only brings you closer to your release, getting wetter at each image he conjures in your mind. Every fantasy he mentioned, you had imagined them as well, had even pleasured yourself as you thought about it. Had he done the same? Did he not think about the woman he was engaged to while he touched himself? Did you occupy his mind while he jerked off? The thought of him rubbing his cock while fantasizing about you leads to your undoing.
Your eyes roll towards the back of your head as you cry out, your moans amplified in the small room, vibrating in your ears as your orgasm hits. Squished between your boss and the countertop, your body shivers through your release, your movements restricted underneath his confinement.
“Aw fuck, babygirl, fuck yeah, shit.” Mr. Styles groans behind you, his grip tightening. You focus your gaze back on the mirror just in time to catch his eyes screw shut, his mouth drop open, watching him come undone as he releases into the condom, his hips stuttering against you. The blissful relief that washes over him is striking, the bathroom light catching on the spit that lingers on his lips when his tongue darts out to wet them. As he pants, his chest pressing into your back, his green eyes lazily open, sweeping over to the mirror, meeting your wide-eyed stare.
There's a moment, a flicker of time, where you're both watching each other, both of your faces flushed, your breaths rushing out in thick heaves. Your hair sticks up in awkward strands from his twisted grip, your mascara has melted around your eyes, you look just as dirty as you feel, yet he can't tear his gaze away from yours.
Until he blinks, slowly then more rapidly, straightening himself up. He sniffles then clears his throat as he slips out of you, disposing of the used condom in the trash before zipping up his pants. Then he steps up beside you, turning on the faucet and washing his hands, eyes cast downward. You’re still bent over the counter, frozen stiff as the moment passes, soreness taking over. Wiping his hands clean, he doesn't cast a glance towards you before spinning around. “Throw out those tights, they're ruined,” he orders over his shoulder, clicking the bathroom door shut behind him.
Pushing yourself up onto your elbows, you hold back a whimper as the adrenaline dissipates. Your breasts ache, your tights are destroyed, your asshole is stretched out and tingling with pain, but there's a smile blooming across your face. Maybe you’d feel bad for his fiancée later, after the guilt had chewed away your glee. For now, though, you were content, already anticipating the next time you’d get to see Mr. Styles’ dick.
I seriously LOVE your writing, been devouring your quickies at the mo too. Wondering if you might be willing to write just a basic cowgirl fic with y/n just riding the f outta harry? No pressure just would be very interested if possible xx anyway love your writing and thanks for blessing our timelines all the time!
we ride at dawn, ladies!! thank you both for these requests, i hope you both enjoy!!
Can you hear me now? - A Harry Styles Smutty Blurb
Quickies Masterlist or Main Masterlist
Summary: Harry and Kendall need to have a conversation and you swear you're not jealous
2.8k words
C/W: smut, p-in-v penetration (cowgirl style), lite oral (m!receiving), lite hand job, jealous/insecure reader, kinda sub!Harry, kinda dom!reader, auditory exhibitionism (had to look that one up)
Harry had attempted to explain the situation, the exact details as to why he needed to have a phone call with Kendall Jenner, but you hadn’t bothered to remember them. For some reason, they were both working on some project, you couldn’t recall what, and Kendall felt like she needed to call Harry to iron out the kinks, according to her, and she was tired of calling her people to reach out to his people so she could ask Harry a singular question. Hashing out all the particulars in one phone call over the course of one evening would simplify things, make it easier for everyone.
Everyone except you.
Envy prickled your skin whenever you thought about the impending call. You knew of his history with Kendall, but not much else. Harry preferred to keep his prior relationships to himself, though he promised to answer any questions you had. But your relationship was still so fresh, too new to be as inquisitive, as invasive as you wanted. Now this phone call was answering questions you never asked, filling in gaps with the worst possible scenarios. Why did they break up? Was she aware that he had moved on? Did he still want her? Did she still want him? If you asked those questions now, Harry would get all smug, and ask if you were jealous, which you didn’t want to flaunt, you weren’t proud of it.
Instead of revealing your sour emotions, you keep them locked tight. Your greed for Harry’s time and attention expands into brand new levels of clinginess, not that Harry seems to mind the way you make room for yourself on his lap or how your lips never seem to leave his skin. Or how much more frequently you were parting your thighs, begging for him to ease the ache he caused.
The fateful day of the phone call finally came and all those bitter feelings pool into your panties, possessed by an insatiable horniness. You tried to sort it out yourself, but none of your usual tricks were working, your favorite toy wasn’t satisfying, and your clit was starting to hurt with how furiously you rubbed at it. There was only one solution left: you needed Harry.
Tiptoeing your way into Harry’s office, you see him lounging on his couch, nose buried deep into his phone, his fingers pinching at his bottom lip, making them seem more pouty and red and kissable. His gaze is distracted by your squirming in the doorway, smiling easily as the tension surrounding the call melts away.
“She hasn’t called yet?” you ask, breathy and unaffected, trying to appear nonchalant, as you lean up against the doorframe.
The exaggerated calm you display clues Harry into what you’re doing, the game that you’re not so subtly playing. “No, she texted to say she’ll be a little late.”
“Hmm, shame,” you note, sauntering over to where Harry rests, his legs extended out along the other couch cushions. The light tug he gives your hand is enough invitation. Laying down atop him, you snuggle into his chest, curling up so that you could hear his heartbeat thumping against your ear. “Did she say how long she’d be?” Your finger starts tracing looping patterns over his shirt, dipping into the crevices his muscles formed, carving out the body you’ve been getting to learn the past few months.
“Um, no…” he trails off, checking his phone again. “Just that she’d be a bit.”
Even before the call has started, before her honey sweet voice has the chance to worm its way back into his life, the dip of his attention away from you enrages you. Despite his hand on your back rubbing soothingly, the way his gaze flicks to his phone, to her, you feel envy spark through you like lightning, igniting a need for validation that must be quenched.
Holding back your fury, you press your lips to his pecs, dipping your hand below the hem of his shirt to feel his skin on yours, thumbing at the top of his jeans. “Does that mean you’ve got some time?”
Harry laughs, his belly jostling underneath you, the slight movement along your crotch making your brain short circuit with desire. “Love, she’s gonna call any minute.”
“You’ve finished in a minute before.”
“Oi, I’m not proud of that one, love,” he defends himself, his laugh lingering, only marginally offended. “It was a specific set of circumstances.”
While Harry tries to save his reputation, your fingers have been busy with his jeans, undoing the button and dragging down the zipper as fast as your clumsy hands could. He sighs as the zipper lowers past his bulging cock, a little moan slipping out as his member stretches out from its confines.
“Oh, I-I can’t promise anything, my love,” he warns while you stand up, lifting up his hips to help as you tug his pants down his legs. “Kendall might call at any mome-ooh.” He’s interrupted by a deep moan as you lean forward, taking his cock into your mouth, letting your spit collect around the tip as you sloppily coat him. Swallowing more of him down, you smear your saliva all over him, lubing him up for your use, gagging as you reach the base of him. “Jesus, love, don’t choke yourself,” he worries, petting your hair gently.
Raising your head, you gulp down your remaining spit, wiping your chin clean of the excess spilling out of you. “Could she do better?”
“What?”
“Could she take your cock better than me?” you question, running your fist up and down his dick, your hold tightening when you mention her. You don’t dignify her with a name, already tired of hearing it.
Harry gives you a confused shake of his head, having a hard time understanding your question while you're jerking his cock. “Aw, love, it's not like-”
“That's not a no,” you cut in, letting go of him, his dick flopping down and landing on his tummy with a wet slap, settling between his ferns.
His hands come up to rub at his face, floundering for how to salvage this. “I didn't mean-" but he stops himself when he removes his hands and catches you in the middle of disrobing, your pants and underwear already piling up on the ground, stretching your arms above your head as you pull your shirt off, quick to reach behind and undo your bra strap. “Oh Christ, you're beautiful.”
You can't stop the proud smirk from forming at his breathless compliment as you crawl back on top of him, situating your legs on either side of his hips, sitting so that his cock rests between your lips. Sliding along his length, you wet yourself with your own spit, mixing it with the slick that secretes from your pussy.
Gripping your thighs, his fingers indenting the juicy flesh, Harry thrusts his hips up, running his dick through your slit.
As good as it feels, as much as his enthusiasm for your body tempers your jealousy, you didn’t want him to assist you. You had a point to prove. Slamming your hips down onto his, you force him to be still beneath you. “Nuh-uh,” you say. “You don’t get to move.” Rolling your hips above him, you twist your nipples between your fingers, moaning at the twinge of pain. “Did she need you to help? Could she not ride you on her own?” Your tone has grown sickly sweet, mocking and degrading.
“Mmm, baby, I…” Harry struggles to form his words as you tease him with the warmth of your cunt, dragging it over him, taunting him with how close he is to feeling you wrapped around his cock. “You’re so- oh, baby- mmm, you feel so good, baby?”
“Better than her?”
He doesn’t answer, doing his best to not speak ill of his ex, trying to follow his famous mantra, but you couldn’t care less about treating her with kindness.
Halting your movements, you sit up on your knees, separating your pussy from his cock, strings of arousal snapping as you lift off of him. “Is she better than me?”
“N-no, no, no, no she’s not. You’re better, so much better, baby,” Harry reassures, babbling out what he hopes is an appropriate response. Without the enveloping heat of you, his dick suffers from the chill of the room, twitching angrily. He'll say anything to get you to move, to let him feel you again.
“Good boy,” you praise, patting his cheek condescendingly as you lower yourself back down, cooing at the squelch of your wet pussy slotting around his dick. “Can you hear that baby?” you ask him, bouncing on the spot again, creating that same sound. “Oh, yeah, I bet she never got this wet for you.”
Shaking his head, Harry whimpers beneath you as you keep raising yourself up, then landing back on top of his cock, filling the room with the melody off your colliding genitals. “No, only you, only-oh baby, so wet, baby.”
“That’s it, baby.” Sufficiently satisfied with his compliance, you lift up again, reaching between your thighs, adjusting his shaft so that when you settle back down, you force his head through your lips. As you sink further down onto him, you make yourself push past the harsh stretch, the hitch of pain Harry normally helps work you through by rubbing your clit and whispering sweet nothings in your ear, taking on all of him in one slick movement. Once you’ve fully sheathed him, you give yourself a moment to savor the fullness of him, the thickness, the mouthwatering way he pulses inside of you, the tip of his cock caressing that spot that makes your eyes roll into the back of your head.
Harry’s hands haven’t moved from your thighs, his grip faltering then tightening, flexing with each clench of your walls around him. His eyes flutter close, fighting to keep them open, wanting to watch you fuck him. “Oh baby,” he mumbles. “Oh, baby, but what if Kend-”
“Don’t say her name!” you order, your body tensing up at the first syllable. Harry throws his head back, extending out his neck, as the tight coil of your body clamps around his dick, the pressure unbelievable. A few more clenches like that, and Harry would be painting your cunt with his come, reaching his orgasm embarrassingly quick. “I’m the one fucking you, not her.”
“Ye-yes, baby,” Harry agrees. “Only you can fuck me. You fuck me so good, baby.”
Rewarding his compliance, you raise yourself up then slide back down, working yourself up and down the length of him. With a rumbling groan, you start building up a rhythm of grinding down onto Harry, making him nudge against the deepest part of you. “Ooooh, fuuuck yeeeaaah,” you growl. You remove one of Harry’s hands from your thigh, moving it so that he cups your tit, running his thumb over your pebbled nipple.
“Thank you, baby,” he whines, “thank you for fucking me, oh baby, plea-”
The phone rings, the obnoxious ringtone startling you both out of the moment. Harry lets go of your boob, twisting underneath you so he could reach for his phone on the table next to him, accidentally knocking it to the ground. With a curse, he grabs the device, swiping the screen and bringing it up to his ear. “Hello?” His hand travels up from your thighs, curving around your hip, attempting to hold you down. “Yeah, hey, you alright?”
Your face scrunches up in annoyance as he’s immediately absorbed into his important work conversation, ignoring your naked body writhing above him, instead focusing on her. Quirking your lips into a crooked scowl, you look down at where your crotch meets Harry’s, where he disappears inside of you.
“I’m alright, thanks for asking.”
The commentary isn’t meant for you, but you can’t help but take it personally. “Alright”? He called his girlfriend riding him “alright”?!
Leaning back, you rest your hands between his thighs, adjusting your position above him. His nails dig into your skin as you move, but he doesn’t tell you to stop. Slowly, you shift back, watching Harry’s face flicker with restrained desire, holding back a filthy moan as you slide back across him. Then you do it again, and again, rolling your hips above him at a rapidly growing pace. You know this way doesn’t provide much enjoyment for Harry, at least not as much if you were able to bounce on him, but you don’t really care for his pleasure at this time. If he doesn’t want to focus on you, then you won’t focus on him.
This position allows you to use his cock for your own, like your own personal dildo. Rutting along his length, your mouth drops into a sigh, breath low and silent then growing louder. As you punctuate each grind with a whimper of a moan, you feel that familiar brewing in your belly.
Harry’s eyes flicker up to you, hypnotized by your swirling hips, his teeth biting into his lower lip. He was being rude, he knew it, but how could he focus on the phone call when you were using his dick to get yourself off. Each moan is accompanied with a squeeze of your cunt, your pussy fluttering around him, nearing your release.
“Do you like this?” you ask him. Pumping yourself atop him, you breathe out a laugh. “Do you like getting fucked while she listens?”
“Mhm,” Harry hums.
“Ok, great,” the phone speaker relays. Harry isn’t sure what he just agreed to, but he can’t find it in himself to care right now. “And then I wanted to discuss the color scheme…” The rest of their monologue muddles, droning on like some Charlie Brown character because Harry isn’t paying them any mind now. How could he when he’s enraptured by your shaking thighs, your twisting nipples, and the delicious way you clench around his cock.
“Oh, fuck,” you groan, “I’m gonna come. Gonna make a mess all over you while she listens.”
He clears his throat to cover up his moan, then wets his lips. “Yeah, sounds go-od,” Harry says, choking on his words when you clamp around him harshly.
Tossing your head back, your groans crescendo as your orgasm pulses through you, stuttering above him. Your pussy clenches around Harry’s cock, trapped within the rolling waves of pleasure as your muscles constrict then let go, releasing yourself with a gasping moan, your body shuttering through your orgasm.
Harry presses the phone harder against his ear, something to alleviate the pressure that’s coursing over his dick. His bottom lip slips out between his teeth and he can’t help but mutter, “Oh, fuck.”
“Are you okay?” the person on the phone asks him, concerned by his random outburst.
“Yeah, sorry, I-” Harry stalls, his mouth opening and closing, trying to get some blood to flow back up to his head in order to come up with an acceptable excuse. “I stubbed my toe.”
The person on the other end buys the excuse but you just smirk at him, already rolling your hips, pushing your still sensitive cunt to be filled again. Rising up on your knees, you slowly sink down, taking him inch by inch. “What’s the matter, baby? You don’t want her to know you got someone better fucking you now?”
Holding the phone away from him, Harry whispers, “Look so pretty, baby. So fucking pretty,” then places the phone back by his ear, trying to return to his work.
Leaning forward, you press your chest into Harry’s, laying atop him as your hips pound into him, now edging him on. Your lips trail up his jaw until you near his ear, the one not currently listening to his ex. “You know what else is pretty? Those gorgeous moans of yours. Do you think she remembers them? Or did she never get to hear them?” you tease, speeding up your rhythm, chasing that second high that was beginning to rise. “Are all these pretty noises just for me?”
“Mm, fuck,” Harry whines, forgetting to cover up, too lost in the sensation of your quivering pussy around him. “Hey, I’m sorry, I-I’m gonna have to call you back. I’ll call you later, yeah? Sorry, I gotta-” He doesn’t even finish his thought before he’s hanging up the call and throwing his phone across the room, not caring where it ended up. “Holy fuck, baby, just like that, yeah baby, yeah, just like that,” he pleads through clenched teeth, raising his hips to meet yours, unable to hold himself back anymore, reaching even further inside you.
With both of you working towards it, it doesn’t take long for the two of you to reach your peaks, Harry thrusting his hips up into you as you slam yourself back down, twitching and writhing within each other’s arms. Your cunt strokes him until he’s spent all his come inside you, gasping with each additional squeeze you give him. Harry flops back against the couch and you collapse on top of him, shoving your face into his pecs, the both of you worn out.
“You could’ve just said you’re jealous,” Harry pants, running a hand through his hair as his breaths struggle to even out.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you shrug.
omg mal you need to write something about harry eatingggg!! i have an idea: do you know that line from that one tate mcrae song ‚you can do it on your own while you’re looking at me‘ and what if harry wants her to do it one her own infront of him but then eventually caves and does it himself 😋
i would truly like to thank y'all for helping me think up new ways to have Harry Styles ruin my life because this ^^^^^^^^^ perfection!!!! also i can't be held accountable for what happens here, i kinda went off the rails 😬
Please, Sir - A Harry Styles Smutty Blurb
Summary: Your boss, Mr. Styles, brings you back to his place with the promise of being taken care of (this is a sequel to Yes, Sir but can be read separately)
2.9k words
C/W: smut, masturbation (f!receiving), oral (f!receiving), ice cubes, power dynamics (CEO!Harry/assistant!reader), use of babygirl, overstimulation, spitting, lite squirting, lite orgasm denial
Mr. Styles escorts you up the brownstone stoop, his hand radiating heat that punctures through your blouse. You've seen the outside of his home before, when you've carpooled to work events together, preparing an old fashioned with the provided backseat bar before picking him up. But now, as he inserted the key into his front door, you were being led into uncharted territory, about to enter the unknown. Even though you're scared to breach this boundary, you're more afraid that if you walk away now, you will never get to feel Mr. Styles' cock ever again.
The car ride had been quiet and tense, neither of you sure how to fill up the time. Most of your conversations centered around work, meeting notes, employee performances, nothing that seemed appropriate when your knees were still sore, when you could still taste the salt of his come in the back of your throat, and especially not when you were struggling to sit still in your seat because your ass still stung from his earlier spankings. No music played, either, silence consuming the whole drive. The air conditioning was turned up too high, chilling you to the bone, but you were much too nervous to ask him to turn it down.
His door opens and he's pulling you through unceremoniously, like it means nothing to be walking past this threshold. While he locks the door, taking the time to hang his jacket in the closet and put his shoes away, you catch a quick glance around his home. There's a lot more color than you expected, more personality than his sterile office. A framed poster of the Beatles’ A Hard Day's Night occupies the wall to your right, his living room is cluttered with vinyl records and spine-cracked books, and an aquarium rests on a stand, multi-colored fish swishing their flashy tails in the water.
“Can I help you with your heels?” his voice comes from behind you, interrupting your inspection. Looking over your shoulder at him, you notice a sheepish flush on his cheeks, his hands tucked behind his back, nervous ticks you’ve never seen him display before. He's already dropping to his knees before you've answered him. Delicately, he undoes the buckle, his fingers curling around your ankle as he sets your foot down onto the floor. Your fingers skim along his back as your balance wavers, almost daring to touch him, before you retract them, unsure if it was allowed.
Once both your shoes are neatly tucked away with his, Mr. Styles leads you to his staircase, encouraging you up each step with the press of his hand along your spine, bypassing the knick-knacks and decorations without commentary. Then he’s reaching around you, opening the door to a bedroom, his bedroom presumably, and pushing you inside, only a step behind you. You don't have time to admire the navy sheets that compliment the chestnut wood frame before his hand changes its position, moving around to your hip and halting your movement.
“I want you to strip,” Mr. Style orders in a low voice, tight with control, “then I want you to get on the bed and wait. Think you can do that?”
Your pussy flutters at the shift, from the shy apprehension downstairs to this dominant power upstairs. With a shaky inhale, you nod your head, holding back a needy whine. But that's not the correct response.
His nails pinch into your flesh, indenting your skin through your clothes. “What was that? I couldn't hear you,” he coos, his tone mocking and patronizing and so fucking deep.
“Yes, sir,” you breathe, vaguely recalling his earlier rules.
“Good.” Mr. Styles pats your ass, a whimper sneaking out of your lips as he makes contact over where his rings had branded you. “Get moving then.”
Hurriedly stepping over to the bed, you pull down the zipper on the side of your skirt, eager to comply, eager for what he promised. The skirt drops to the floor as you hear the clink of glass behind you. While you unbutton your shirt, you sneak a glance over your shoulder to see Mr. Styles has his back to you, fixing himself an amber colored drink. You watch as he brings the drink to his lips and shoots it back, gulping it down quickly. Unhooking your bra, your mouth goes dry as he rolls his sleeves up his arms, showing off his decorated arms, watching the art flex as he pours himself another drink, swallowing it just as fast as he did the first one.
As you step out of your underwear, you wonder what you should do with your pile of clothes before casually kicking them underneath the bed. You crawl across his mattress, questioning how he wanted you. Were you supposed to stop as you were, on your hands and knees, presenting yourself for him, or did he want you splayed on your back, legs spread wide, on display for his viewing pleasure? Completely unsure of what he wants, the very thing he pays you to do, you choose to sit back among his pillows, leaning against his headboard, crossing your ankles. Your hands nervously brush through your hair, while you wait for him, needing something to do.
“We should go over the rules,” Mr. Styles says before turning around, his breath catching when he sees you, naked and in his bed, just as he asked, better than he imagined. Blinking a few times, he comes out of the trance your body holds him under. “First, you can only say ‘yes, sir' and ‘no, sir', do you understand?” he tests you, swirling his third whiskey, the glass filled near to the brim.
“Yes, sir,” you respond correctly.
“Second,” he proceeds, walking up to the edge of the bed, “you will do exactly as I tell you, unless you tell me ‘no, sir'.” He pauses, expectant, raising his eyebrows at you.
“Y-yes, sir,” you stumble through your words, remembering your place, the role you’re supposed to play. Your gaze starts to drift from his stern eyes, the tight tick in his jaw, down his neck to where he's unbuttoned his shirt, the dip of his collar bones, tracing the lines down to his tattooed arms, trying to decipher each piece of art, trying to work out what they could mean.
Taking a sip of his drink, he clears his throat before continuing. “Third, if you need to take a break, or want to stop, just say ‘stop' and we will. That's the only other word you're allowed to use.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No, I need you to look at me,” Mr. Styles demands, commanding your attention, your focus snapping back up to his face. “If you need to stop, you say ‘stop'. Understand?”
Maintaining eye contact, you nod. “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” he growls, the only praise he's offered to you, and it's all you need to feel your pussy slick, your thighs clenching together. “And lastly, you will signal to me when you're about to come. Just pat the bed twice when you're close. You will not be allowed to come unless I say so.”
Your cunt tenses with the threat. “Yes, sir.”
“If you break any of these rules, you will be punished. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you like to make any adjustments to the rules?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then spread those legs and let me get a look at you,” Mr. Styles orders, lifting his drink up to his lips while keeping his eyes glued to your crotch.
Without removing your gaze from his face, you uncross your legs, bending your knees and exposing your glistening center to your boss. You catch as his eyes darken, the dip of his tongue as he licks his lips, the flare of his nostrils as he exhales deeply.
“Do you ever touch yourself?” he asks, his grip flexing around the glass.
A blush creeps onto your cheeks, embarrassed by the question, despite being completely exposed to him. “Yes, sir,” you admit bashfully.
“Show me how.”
Obedient to his words, his accent seductively entrancing, your fingers press into your clit, the sensitive nub engorged and pulsing beneath your touch. As you rub circles into your bud, you watch him watch you, his gaze refusing to move from your pussy, taking another sip of his drink. A drop of condensation seeps from the bottom of the glass, dripping onto the carpet. If Mr. Styles keeps his heated gaze on your roving fingers, keeps darting his eyes over your quivering lips, keeps smirking when your breath hitches on a whimper, you're pretty sure you could get your pussy to perform the same trick.
Mr. Styles leans closer, inspecting your masturbation technique as intently as he does business portfolios, not wanting to miss a single detail. “Is this how you pleasure yourself?” he asks, glancing up at your face for confirmation. “Is this how you do it at home?”
“Yes, sir,” you sigh, sinking further into the bed, relaxing underneath your ministrations. Even his intense gaze was becoming soothing to you.
“Do you ever use toys?”
Your teeth pierce into your bottom lip, holding back a moan before you answer. “Yes, sir.”
Raising an eyebrow at you, he presses on, “What do you use?”
It's a trick. You're not allowed to answer him, remembering the first rule he gave you, scared of what punishment he would dole out. So you clamp your mouth shut, rolling your lips into your mouth, keeping silent while rubbing yourself, the growing pressure in your belly taking up your concentration.
His mouth curls up into a proud, lopsided smirk. “Just testing you, babygirl.” Your legs twitch at the pet name, making your boss's face light up at the movement. “Oh, do you like that? Do you like being called names?” he quizzes you, resting his knee on the mattress, the bed sinking underneath his weight as he nears.
“Yes,” you whine, your fingers circling faster, his proximity edging you closer, hastily adding on, “sir.”
“That's good to know…” he mutters to himself, his head cocking to the side as he loses himself to the pulsing beat of your lips.
Your hips buck forward, into your hand, pressing against yourself harder, making your eyes roll as the pleasure mounts, building up more and more. Smacking your hand against the bed, you give Mr. Styles the signal of your impending orgasm, eager to have your release.
“Close already? It's that easy to get you off, huh?”
Without the freedom to argue back, you can't inform him that no, it usually isn't this easy to get you off. That when you do this at home, you couldn't smell his citrus scented shampoo wafting from the pillows, couldn’t feel his penetrative stare deep in your core, couldn't imagine the filthy way he talked to you.
“Go ahead, babygirl,” he encourages, almost pleadingly, reaching out to grasp your ankle, running his thumb over the bone. “Show me how you make yourself come.”
The gentle caress of his touch, coupled with his words sends you toppling over, your orgasm spilling over you and onto his sheets, arousal dripping out of your lips. Your legs shiver, your hips stutter, and your cunt clenches around nothing but the memory of his cock as you come undone, your mouth dropping open as you moan out your pleasure.
“Oh, Jesus…” Mr. Styles trails off, watching you completely awestruck as you leak onto his bedspread. “Making such a mess…”
Quaking with aftershocks, your fingers slow as you come down from the high, removing them when your clit grows too sensitive.
“Don't stop!” he orders, his grip tightening on your ankle. “Did I tell you to stop?”
“N-n-no, sir,” you stammer, gasping when your fingers connect back onto your still throbbing clit, the brief touch making you jolt.
Mr. Styles shakes his head, plucking an ice cube from his glass. “And you were doing so well…” He sticks both the ice cube as well as his wet fingers into his mouth, sucking the whiskey from them both. Then he spits the ice cube back into his hand, leaning forward until he's laying down in front of your crotch. “Move your fingers,” he demands.
Grateful for the break, you drag your hand up your body, resting it along your stomach, taking a breath to ease yourself down from the pressure already beginning its second rise. Your eyelids droop down, your legs fall open more, your body relaxing without the pressing stimulation.
Until you're surprised by the chill of the ice cube pressing into your worn out clit, suddenly tensing up underneath his cold fingers. Droplets of water melt down your pussy, some curving around your fluttering lips, others dipping into your heated center. He doesn't move, keeping the ice still, and you can't decide if that makes it more bearable or more torturous. The ice’s freezing effect takes over your body, shocking your system and halting your mind on a singular thought.
Who knew punishment could feel so excruciatingly good?
He removes the ice and places it back into his mouth, groaning as he slurps up the beads of your arousal that cling to the cube. “Keep going, I wanna see you come again,” he speaks around the melting ice, taking another sip of his whiskey.
When you press into your clit, the icy bud twitches beneath your warm hand, startled by the stark temperature difference. A yelp squeaks out of you at the contact, your fingers dancing along your nub in a stuttering attempt to warm it up.
“Here, let me help,” Mr. Styles offers kindly, generously, a little too sweetly, only making you suspicious of his help. He leans up so he’s hovering above your crotch, puckering his lips as a swirl of spit leeches from his mouth. The glob dangles then breaks off, slipping through your fingers and soaking through to your clit, the mixture cool and warm at once. “Go ahead, rub that in for me, nice and gentle,” he instructs lowly, grabbing your wrist and moving your hand in a slow rhythm. “That’s it…”
Your body doesn’t feel under your own control anymore, too lazy to fight back against the overwhelming ache of pleasure coursing through your body, your limbs twitching and jolting at every little feeling. Mr. Styles controls your movement, mirroring the way you showed him, following the pattern you set. All you can do is cry out and fight to keep your eyes open, not wanting to miss the way your boss admires your cunt, his eyes dark and wide with veneration.
“Do you remember the rules, babygirl?” he questions you, resting his head against your thigh, his hair tickling the inside of your legs.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No!” you panic, your words racing out before you can think them through, quickly amending them. “No, sir!”
“Thank God…” he sighs. He swallows down the last of his alcohol before his head dives into your crotch, tossing your hand aside before slurping your clit into his mouth.
“Oh fu-” you moan before catching yourself, holding back what you really want to say. “Oh, yes, sir… oooh, yes, sir!” You repeat the words over and over, using your reduced speech to your advantage.
His tongue is still cool from the ice cube, the chill press of it against your bud is equal parts a salve and an irritation. The focus on your clit makes it overworked, tired from all the attention, but his mouth feels too good to ask him to stop. He moves further down, prodding at your core before his tongue enters inside, lapping at your muscles that convulse around him. His groan rivals yours as he eats you up, feeling with his tongue, filling his mouth up with anything that drips out of you. It’s a messy mixture of melted ice, his saliva, and your arousal, but he takes it all, sucking up every drop.
“Sir, yes, oh God, yes! Oh, sir, please, yes,” you babble, no longer capable of paying attention to what you say. “Please, sir, fuck, yes, please sir!”
Shoving his face further into you, his tongue delves deeper, his nose nudging along your tender clit. His whole face is pressed into your crotch, breathing you in as easily as he does air. He rolls his tongue all around, lapping at you like a dog at a water bowl, drinking from you more intently than he did the whiskey. Each shake of his head, makes his nose brush across you, flicking the nub and adding to the immense pressure growing bigger. Nothing else matters, just the approaching pleasure you’re desperate to feel, desperate to release onto your boss..
But you do remember to pat the bed twice as he keeps licking, keeps consuming you, sucking you closer to your second orgasm.
Mr. Styles flattens his tongue and licks up your entire slit, circling once around your clit before retreating back into his mouth, sitting himself up and pulling away from you.
“N-no, no, sir, stop please, no!” you cry, hoping your whining will make him return, that your pleas will convince him to let you come.
He pushes out a heavy sigh, running his hand over his mouth, collecting all the wetness surrounding it. “That was a lot of rules you broke there, babygirl.” Mr. Styles stands up from the bed, walking back over to his minibar. Rummaging in a little bucket, he pulls out a few more cubes of ice, showing them off as his smile deepens. “We’re gonna have to do something about that.”
Summary: You ask Harry why he never sends you any nudes
789 words
A/N: couldn't stop thinking about the "touch yourself" scene from Heated Rivalry, here's my spin on it
C/W: smut, male masturbation, video sex, exchanging nudes, text fight
Harry: Can I see what you're wearing love x
You: Why don't you send me something first?
Harry: We've talked about this, love, I can't risk it
You: Just one??
Harry: No.
You: Fine. Then I'm not sending anything either
Harry: You know why I can't. Why are you being so difficult today?
You: That's super dramatic
Harry: Whatever
You: I don't know why you're in such a mood, I just wanted a little equality in this relationship
Harry: Who's being dramatic now?
You: Still you, dickhead
Harry: Real nice, real mature
You: I could say the same thing to you
--------------------------------------------
You: How was your show?
You: Ok, I know you're mad at me but could you please just let me know if you're alive
Harry has sent an attachment
The video opens with Harry leaning back in the hotel-provided lounge chair, his face cut off at the top. His bare chest is rigidly taut, his stomach expands with a controlled breath, evidence of his nerves seeping through the screen. Loose sweatpants are all that he wears, the black fabric hanging low enough on his body that his muscles start to curve in, angling down towards his crotch. The ferns are on prominent display, further directing your gaze toward what lies underneath.
He expels a breath, his hand running back and forth across his leg, smoothing the unwrinkled pants. Dragging up his thigh, his hand curls inward, carving around his leg until he's caressing over his clothed crotch. A shiver runs through him when his hand cups his bulge. Then Harry removes his hand, sighing as he lets himself go, building tension for the both of you.
Grabbing himself again, he lets out a sound, a mix of a whine and a moan, while his other hand travels up his chest, dragging over every bump of muscle until it leaves the top of the frame. He lets out a sudden gasp that’s barely audible through the speakers, his body freezing momentarily as his fingers press into his throat. The hand that remains on his crotch squeezes around himself, shaking with agonizing reservation. Harry wasn’t one to waste time when masturbating, he preferred to get it over with and move on with his day. Seeing him take his time, putting on a show of touching himself, performing for you like this, enhances the rush of desire pulsing through you.
Adjusting in his seat, Harry sits up, his hands dipping into his sweats and yanking them down his legs, baring himself fully. His legs widen, showing off his erect cock, the way it lays on his stomach, framed by the ferns, reaching up past his belly button, stretching toward the moth. The tip is red with neglect, Harry releasing a hiss when he grabs himself. “Oh, fuck,” he sighs, leaning back against the couch as his hand glides up and down.
When his hand nears the head, his fist tightens, his tempo stalling before sliding back down the shaft. You rewind the moment to watch him grip at his cock again and again, catching his breath hitch on the third rewatch. As you let the video resume, so does Harry’s hand, his wrist flicking back and forth. Through the screen, his impatient hand speeds up until he groans, forcing himself to slow down. His chest expands as he holds his breath, heaving out a shuddering gasp when his hand picks back up. “Fucking hell,” he growls, the words muffled between his clenched teeth.
Harry, having grown tired of extending his pleasure, of denying himself that release, stops holding himself back. One hand jerks his cock, quickening his pace. The other reaches below and tugs on his balls, making him whimper at the dual sensation. His leg hitches up the seat, exposing more of his crotch to the camera. “Oh, God, fuck fuck fuck,” Harry groans, his voice waning as he keeps pumping his hand. His muscles contract, his chest stutters with panting breath and with one more twist of his wrist, Harry’s cock spurts, semen shooting out of his head before he can catch it, landing across his stomach. Another streak of come arcs up, dotting his belly with his own arousal with each pass of his hand until his hand is coated. He lets go of himself, becoming sensitive to his own touch. Completely spent, his dick flops against the seat, a bead of semen leaking out the top. Then the video stops, dimming as the control buttons pop up, hiding Harry and his semen covered body behind the replay button.
Your fingers are trembling as you press replay, needing to watch it again, when your phone vibrates with a new alert.
