The trolley squeaked gently as Alex lazily pushed it along the aisles, the shelves around you stacked with neat rows of unfamiliar packaging, labelled with text you couldn't understand, dressed up in fancy fonts.
His shoes scuffed along the tiled floor with a muffled huff of his rubber soles against the ceramic as he looked anywhere but where he was walking, the cart occasionally swerving too far in one direction and bumping against a shelf with a metallic clang, rattling both what was inside of your trolley and the items that were piled onto the rack.
“I don't know how you drive it so awfully,” you said in passing as you browsed through packets of strangely shaped crisps, the plastic wrappers crinkling as you tried to read the labels, the Italian staring back at you just as blankly as you were staring at it.
“Not my fault it's got a dodgy wheel,” he retorted with a smile, bending down slightly as he rested his forearms on the handle of the shopping cart as he watched you.
You turned your head over your shoulder to glance at the legs of the trolley. “The wheels are fine.”
He shot you a playful glare before backtracking. “I meant my dodgy wheel.”
You stared at him for a moment with half confusion and half mock disgust before turning your head back to the crisps as you muttered, “Gross.”
You heard him chuckle. “What's gross about my dodgy wheel?”
You felt his arms snake around your waist from behind, tucking his face into the crook of your neck, his soft hair tickling you gently as he pressed a few kisses there. “I don't want to know about your dodgy wheel.”
“If we're married now, there shouldn't be any shame or secrets,” he murmured against your skin. “Especially about our dodgy wheels, Mrs. Turner.”
You laughed, just a sharp breath of air through your nostrils. “That's not my name yet.”
“It will be soon. I'll handle all the paperwork for it.”
“You should take my surname instead,” you said, turning your head to the side to meet his eyes.
“Mine's better,” he mumbled before lifting his head to press another kiss, this time to your cheek.
“Rude,” you managed to say before he cut you off by pressing his lips to yours, almost with the same fervour he had the day before at the altar.
His mouth moved with yours for just a few seconds before his tongue poked at your lower lip, and you pulled back with a smile, your eyes slightly squinted. “I'm not having mouth sex with you in the middle of a shop, Al.”
He scoffed, looking at you with faux annoyance before turning back to the cart. “Suit yourself.”
The contents of the trolley was a mismatched pile of impulse and small comforts, a few unfamiliar items that you insisted on getting to be authentic, coffee pods that may or may not fit in the machine in the hotel, and a growing stack of normalities in the far corner of the cart.
You sighed as you watched him sling in another pack of Haribos, the bright colours and waving bear on the plastic bag almost taunting. “Why are you only getting stuff we can get back home?”
He looked at you, his eyebrows slightly raised. “I thought you were getting the fancy stuff. I'm just getting stuff we know we like, in case we don't like the fancy stuff.”
You tutted. “We didn't come to Italy to eat sausage rolls and digestives.”
His expression turned to one of disbelief, almost offended. “Look at these,” he said, plucking a four-pack of small tiramisu pots from the cart that he'd put in and holding them up dramatically. “Tiramisu. Doesn't get much more Italian than that.”
You stared at him for a moment, letting a long pause settle between you. “You're not allowed to put anything else in the trolley.”
He groaned. “What if I put in something Italian?”
“Not when your idea of Italian is tiny pots of shitty tiramisu that's been mass produced since the seventies.”
You took the trolley from his grip, wrapping your fingers around the handle and drifting away from him down the aisle, leaving him stranded and staring at the sweets with the fascination of a five year old.
You strolled through the shop, your eyes scanning over the shelves, and a wave of goosebumps rippled over your exposed skin as you turned the cart into the produce aisle, the cooler air dusting over your arms as you approached a large box stacked full of cherry punnets, scooting past a young boy arguing with his mother in rapid Italian.
The fluorescent overhead lights flickered slightly while you bent down to inspect each pack of cherries, sifting through them one by one, frowning at anything too anemic.
You'd always preferred the darker ones, ones that were near black, ones that were the colour of blood and stained your tongue and lips with its deep red juice.
You picked up a punnet, satisfied with the colour and plumpness of them, and you carefully placed them in the trolley before crouching down, searching the lower stacks for another pack that harboured that same almost violent colour, before a voice behind you pierced through your peacefulness.
“Unbelievable,” he said gravely. “Do you think it's funny to abandon me alone?”
You turned your head and looked up from your squat to see him stood there with a wounded expression on his face, and clutching a pale blue box of breadsticks in one hand, trying to cover the label like he didn't want you to see what he had.
“Didn't abandon you,” you said, twisting your head back towards the cherries. “You looked enamoured by those sweets. Thought I should give you two a moment.”
He stepped closer to the trolley, the breadsticks in his hand rattling against the cardboard. “Are you getting two?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because you'll eat most of them before we're even back at the hotel,” you said, fishing out a second punnet of cherries after deciding they were a satisfactory colour.
You stood up and turned, slotting the second pack right beside the first, and you looked down at the box he was gripping again, seeing he was still trying to be discreet about it. “What you got there, Al?” you teased.
He smiled sheepishly, inching his hand towards the cart. “You like breadsticks, don't you, love?”
“You like breadsticks.”
“But you like them too, don't you?” he said, trying to be careful as he dropped them into the trolley, but the box hit the metal with a rattling thunk, disturbing the serenity of everything else you'd neatly packed into the cart.
You smiled. “They're okay. Dry if you don't have anything else with them.”
“Do you want me to get a dip?”
You sighed, hesitating for a moment before saying, “That's the last thing you're allowed to put in the trolley, then.”
You watched as he darted off, and you began to make an attempt at reorganising the cart after his clumsy disposal of the breadsticks had jostled everything about.
You picked up the box, a dull golden colour splayed across the front of the cardboard like a thick ribbon, the words jumbled to you, but you could make out two words. Plain. Unsalted. Typical of him.
“Got this one,” you heard his voice behind you approaching, accompanying his scuffed, lazy footsteps, and he held up the pot as he got closer. “Garlic and herb one. All the others were shit.”
You turned towards him, a small smile on your lips as you took the pot from him, the plastic cool against your fingers, and you neatly placed it in the cart.
“I'm done now. Honest. We don't need anything else, do we?” he said, his eyes briefly flickering over the contents of the trolley.
“Let's get a wine. Then we'll be done,” you said, gripping the handle of the cart again and turning it, purposefully knocking him in the hip with the end of it.
He yelped, shifting out of the way as he muttered, “Horrible.”
The wine section stretched across a large wall, dusty bottles wrapped in cream or black coloured labels with curly, looping Italian script and years that meant nothing to you stamped in bold just above the text.
You stood side by side, both of you quietly scanning the rows of pale greens and deep burgundies, all appearing softer in colour beneath the yellow overhead lighting.
He'd grown uncharacteristically serious, almost comically so, his eyes flicking from one bottle to the next with unadulterated focus, though you suspected he was mostly just judging them by how nice the labels looked instead of trying to understand what region it came from or what kind of grape it had been squeezed out of.
You trailed your fingers along the necks of a few bottles as you passed, letting your nails clink gently against the glass as you continued pushing the trolley with the other hand, and Alex walked beside you, frowning slightly in confusion.
“I feel like a fraud,” he muttered half-jokingly as he leaned forward slightly to get a better look at one of the labels. “Reckon we can just pick the prettiest one and pretend we know what we're doing?”
“Isn't that what we do anyway?” you laughed, watching him squint at the text.
You continued to browse through the bottles for a few more moments, before eventually settling on a bottle sat on the bottom shelf, the liquid inside a deep purple colour, and it was wrapped in a black label that was almost velvety to the touch.
“This one,” you said, holding the bottle in your hands as if it were a newborn baby.
He took it from you, wrapping his fingers around the neck, and he gasped softly at the weight, the noise turning into a chuckle. “Christ, it's got some heft, hasn't it?”
He turned it in his palm and tucked it beneath his arm to carry it as you laughed.
A short queue had formed at the checkout, so you joined it, neither of you saying much as the wine went on the conveyor belt with the cherries, the breadsticks, the tiramisu pots, the funny shaped coffee pods, and the ridiculous stack of snacks that was definitely too ambitious for the four short days you were going to be spending there.
The cashier rang everything through with a practiced disinterest. Alex paid, and you bagged.
As you approached them, the automatic doors wheezed open with a hiss, and the sunlight hit your skin directly, a bit harsher, as opposed to filtered through a window.
Alex had the bags, both of them. It hadn't even been much of a discussion, he'd just picked the two of them and slung them over his shoulders with a grunt. You thought he was just doing it to show off, even though the bags weren't that heavy.
“You know,” he said as you walked down the warm cobbled street towards the hotel, “this wasn't in the vows.”
You glanced his way from beside him. “What wasn't?”
“Being your human pack mule.”
You smiled. “I think it was implied.”
He gave you a look, but there was no bite to it. His shirt was stuck to his back already, from the heat, but he pretended it was from how much weight he was holding, and he was squinting under his fringe against the sun, but he was smiling. That faint, boyish smile that he always wore, the one that had always made your chest tighten a little.
You walked slowly, admiring the detailed architecture and buildings as you strolled, the peacefulness occasionally interrupted by the grating sound of him groaning, as if he was doing so much work.
“Still can't believe you got Haribos,” you said, your voice laced with partial mock disappointment. “Uncultured.”
“Tiramisu pots,” he reminded you proudly.
“Okay, Raffaele Esposito,” you said teasingly, maybe a little too confident in your knowledge.
He looked at you for a moment as you both continued walking. “...That's the guy who made pizza.”
You scoffed. “Well, excuse me for not knowing every Italian person ever, Alex.”
He chuckled as he spoke, “The tiramisus do look good though.”
“They look beige.”
“I'll remember that for when you're elbow deep in the fourth pot like a raccoon later tonight then.”
You snorted and the two of you kept walking as the air buzzed with the faint whir of mopeds in the distance and the high-pitched whine of cicadas. Around the corner, just before the stone path sloped upward towards your hotel, a movement behind the wall caught your eye.
A cat.
Thin, long-limbed, with a honeyed cream colour and faint grey smudges across its face and ears like it had been dusted with ash. It stretched out lazily as you approached, yawning with a small squeak that made your heart flutter.
“Hello,” you murmured softly, offering your hand low and open, your fingers curved slightly in. The cat didn't flinch or lower its tail, instead, it leaned in, sniffed, and bunted its forehead against your knuckles warmly, purring with a force and a volume that surprised you, the sweet crescendo almost deafening.
You scratched lightly behind its ears, then down its narrow back, feeling each bump of its spine shift under the skin. It melted under your touch, completely pliant, its little ribs fluttering with each breath it took as it flopped onto its side, begging for more tickles.
Alex hovered behind you for a moment before setting one of the bags down with a dramatic sigh. “Witch,” he muttered.
“Cat whisperer,” you corrected as your fingertips danced along the little creature's soft fur.
“How is it obsessed with you already?” he asked, his voice slightly strained as he crouched beside you, holding his fingers out as well. The cat gave him a quick, polite sniff, then immediately turned its face back towards your palm.
He blinked, feeling rejected. “See?”
“It knows I'm a kind soul,” you said, your voice peaceful.
You ran your fingers along the cat's arched spine before bringing your hand back up to its cheek, and you asked, “Can we get a cat?”
He stood back up with a small grunt as he straightened his back. “Maybe.”
You looked up at him, squinting against the evening light as you kept scratching the cat. “Can we get a cat?” you asked again, slightly changing your tone of voice.
He stared down at you for a moment, the sun catching in the soft creases at the corner of his eyes, and he couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips.
“Yeah,” he finally said. “Yeah, alright. Let's get a cat.”
You smiled up at him, a real smile, before you looked back down at the cat who was slowly getting up, and allowed a few more tickles before wandering off into the shadow of a nearby lemon tree, seemingly satisfied with its conquest.
You blew a kiss to the small animal, and Alex's hand lightly brushed over yours before interlacing your fingers together, and he murmured, “Come on, love,” you could hear the soft smile in his voice. “Don't want our lovely tiramisus to go off.”
The hotel stood tall and large against the sunset landscape right at the top of the steep path you'd been navigating, the building looking like it should belong on a postcard, or in a painting.
You pushed open the hotel room door with your shoulder while Alex trailed behind you, the cool air conditioning brushing over your skin like an occasional breeze on a scorching hot summer's day.
Inside the room, it smelled faintly of overly sterilised surfaces, a scent that was sure not to last long, sunscreen, and your shared mess; two suitcases cracked open and half-unpacked, his sunglasses forgotten on the floor, and your sandals tipped over by the balcony door.
He let the shopping bags drop onto the corner of the bed with a sigh of triumph, dramatically stretching and rolling his arms and shoulders. “We survived commerce,” he declared boldly. “Now begins the leisure.”
You rolled your eyes, already peeling open the first bag as he flopped onto the bed, pretending to be far more exhausted than he probably was. “You mean I survived commerce. All you did was carry the bags.”
“Tiramisu pots,” he said, his voice almost the volume of a shout as he splayed his arms and legs out on the mattress as if he were making a snow angel. “And I provided morale.”
You ignored him and began unpacking, shuffling and stacking things around in the minuscule fridge. It was almost laughable how small it was. You rearranged the two small water bottles that were already inside, trying to make space as you wedged the cherry punnets in, the plastic packs crinkling as you forced them in, and you slid the tiramisu pots beside them, the sides of the small containers caving inwards slightly at the awkward angle. You didn't even bother trying to fit the wine in.
The cupboard, high up, narrow, and shallow, took the dry things, the breadsticks, some crisps, little foil-wrapped biscuits that looked better than they'd probably taste, and whatever else Alex had picked up. You moved methodically, or at least, you tried to. Cramming and stuffing the items in like it was tetris, and each time you thought you had it, something else toppled out, until you gave up, resorting to shutting the door as quick as you could before giving anything the chance to fall. It didn't help that there was also a pan in there, as well as a chipped bowl that someone must've left behind years ago.
Behind you, he made no effort to help. Of course he didn't. When you glanced over your shoulder at him, he was still spread out on the bed like he'd melted, his shirt slightly twisted, his jeans too low on his hips, and he was watching you with that lazy, amused look in his eye.
“What?” you asked, setting the wine on the side in a spot you thought it looked nice in.
“Nothing,” he said, tucking his hands behind his head. “You just look very…” He paused as if trying to find the right word, though it was obvious he wasn't trying at all. “Bendable.”
You huffed out a laugh. “Idiot.”
He didn't try to defend himself, and instead, you heard the creak of the mattress as he made his way to you, then you felt the warmth of his body pressing in against your back, his arms curling around your waist from behind, his mouth at your neck, his voice low and soothing in a way only he could still manage after being the most irritating person alive.
“I missed you in the shop,” he murmured, nosing at that sensitive spot just below your ear. “Wandering off without me… leaving your poor husband alone… like a very bad wife…”
He sighed dramatically, trying to harbour your pity. “I had a moment of crisis in that sweet aisle… and you weren't there to guide me…”
“You poor thing.”
“Mhm,” he kissed that same spot just below your ear, watching how you tilted into it, and he pressed another one just below your jaw, his hands slipping lower and lower until you pressed your palm over one of them.
“Do you want some wine?” you murmured softly, clutching his hand gently, and he paused, perking up at the mention of the wine.
He smiled and lifted his head slightly, his nose brushing against the side of your face. “I'll pour it, baby. Go lie down.”
He pressed one final kiss to your cheek before you stepped out of his arms upon him reluctantly loosening his grip, your shirt rumpled from where his hands had been tugging and pulling, and you walked barefoot across the room, the hem of your trousers dragging on the floor.
You shimmied out of them, leaving them in a small heap on the floor at the end of the bed, and you left your shirt on as you settled into the sheets, nestling into the mattress.
Across the room, he rummaged in the little cupboard beneath the counter, things clinking and clattering as he rifled through it with the gracefulness of a bull in a China shop. It was almost painful to listen to. Eventually, he emerged with two ceramic mugs, one off-white with a chip in the handle, the other faded terracotta with the hotel's logo half-scratched off.
He uncorked the wine with a gentle pop, giving it a quick sniff before he poured, the liquid dark and glinting as it sloshed into the mugs. He set the bottle back on the side, the cork half wedged back into the opening, and he brought the mugs over to the bed.
“Five stars,” he said, showing them to you proudly. “Luxury.”
You laughed softly, letting your arms stretch behind your head briefly before you reached for the mug he held out to you. The light from the window cast long shapes across the bed, stripes of warmth splaying over the fabric of your shirt on your stomach.
“Cheers,” he murmured before raising his own mug to his lips and taking a sip.
He settled into the bed beside you, placing the mug on the bedside table for a moment as he struggled to shift out of his jeans before finally tossing them aside on the floor with his feet, his shirt not long following after.
You sipped your wine as you watched him struggle, and you asked softly, “You like the wine?”
He looked over at you quickly before picking up his own again and lifting it to his mouth, mumbling against the ceramic, “Do you like it?”
You glanced at him, taking another small mouthful before you said, “It's quite sweet.”
“I thought that.”
“Little bit floral.”
“I thought that too.”
You smiled, setting your mug aside with a clink against the wooden side table, which he copied with a louder thud before shifting closer to you, his hands meeting your skin like a gravitational pull, his touch deliberate, certain, his fingers sliding over your hips and his thumbs pressing into the soft skin of your waist.
He slipped his hands beneath your shirt as he pressed his lips to your neck once more, sliding his hands up to your chest and bunching up the fabric of your top with them.
His hands roamed with more purpose now, his fingertips grazing the warm skin of your stomach, then gliding higher, his palms sliding up your sides, and when he felt the thin band of your bra beneath, he let out a low, amused sound.
“What the fuck is this still on for?” he muttered against your skin, almost to himself.
His fingers fumbled behind you, not out of nervousness, just impatience. You could feel him smiling against your sternum as he worked at the clasp, kissing you there lazily between his futile attempts.
“I mean, honestly…” he murmured, pretending to be irritated, making you laugh softly.
The clasp gave suddenly, and he pulled the straps down your arms through your sleeves, and he tugged your bra away with a quiet triumph, tossing it to the side without looking or caring where it was going. His hands smoothed over your now-bare chest with reverence, adoration.
“There we go,” he whispered, dragging his mouth across one of your breasts, slow and warm and maddening all at once.
You tilted your head back, lips parting, your body arching slightly under the weight of his attention. His mouth was hot and wet wherever it trailed, and when he looked up at you with those big brown eyes from where he was kissing your ribs, you reached down and ran your fingers into his hair, feeling the soft strands against your skin, and you tugged on it lightly.
“Do you want to fuck me?” you asked, your voice barely more than a breath, light, teasing, but there was a thread of real heat that tinged your tone.
He lifted his head at that, looking at you properly while his hands paused just above your hips, his hair tousled from where your hand was still laced into it. “That's what honeymoons are for.”
His mouth continued to move over your chest, the open-mouthed kisses he was leaving almost like a trail of flower petals as he made his way to your neck once more, travelling over the dip of your collarbone and your shoulder. Then, without a word, he gently coaxed you onto your side, and you let him move you, though you rolled off of the warm spot your body had created from where you'd been lying, shifting onto a colder spot of the duvet, and he tucked himself behind you, stealing the warmth. You thought that might've been his plan all along.
He reached down and pushed his boxers off with one fluid but impatient motion, then he pressed himself against you from behind, the weight and heat of him unmistakable. His cock nestled between your thighs like it belonged there, thick and hard, sliding against the soft warmth of your pussy as he aligned himself carefully.
One arm slid beneath you, holding your chest, while the other wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. You could feel his breath in your ear, how much he wanted this, wanted you, but still he moved slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world.
He kissed the back of your shoulder, murmuring something too quiet to catch, and then you felt his tip nudging at your entrance, slow, sweet, and steady, but it made you whimper softly.
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, filling you with the kind of care that made your heart ache more than your body did, and you let out a long, breathy sigh as his cock stretched you gently, the pressure deep and deliberate, his arm tightening around your waist as he sank deeper into you.
He exhaled, soft and slow, as he buried himself fully, your bodies pressed flush together until there was no space left between your skin. His mouth found your neck again, brushing fleeting but deep kisses over the curve of it like he couldn't bear to not be touching you as much as possible at once.
“God,” he whispered, his voice frayed at the edges as he tried to hold back. “You feel so good, baby...”
He started to move, deep, unhurried strokes as he rocked into you with all the care and desire in the world. His hips rolled against yours, the rhythm patient and unbearably intimate, every thrust a quiet but deliberate reminder of his love for you.
You pressed your head back into the pillow, your eyes fluttering as one of your hands gripped the sheet while the other reached behind to touch him wherever you could, his thigh, his hip, his ass, just needing to feel something of him.
“I love you,” he murmured into your hair, his voice quiet and near trembling, kissed into your scalp like a wax seal on an envelope encasing the dearest love letter.
You turned your head, just enough to meet his lips, and kissed him over your shoulder, slow, open-mouthed and all-consuming, tasting his breath, still tainted with the sweetness of the wine, and his softness, warm and tender as he gave everything to you.
“I love you,” you breathed back against his mouth, and he groaned, like those words undid something tight knotted inside of him.
His pace stayed tender, every motion careful and measured, like he wasn't just inside your body, but inside the moment itself, like he never wanted to leave it. He really didn't. His cock stroked deep and steady against your sensitive walls, nudging places inside of you that made your fingers curl into the sheets, but still, he kept it slow, almost torturously so.
His cock filled you with such gentle persistence, each stroke steady and sure, the kind of fucking that didn't rush towards a climax, or send you hurtling into one, but instead lingered in everything before it.
The friction was warm and constant, the skin of his chest damp against your back and your legs parted just enough for him to keep moving like that, deep, slow, and sweet, his warm tip pressing against that spongy spot inside of you with each lazy thrust.
He kept kissing you anywhere he could, between your shoulder blades, the nape of your neck, the edge of your jaw whenever you turned your face towards him. Every few minutes, he'd murmur a soft, I love you, or a devoted, You feel so good, or a lovestruck, I'm so happy we're married now.
Eventually, you felt it in the way his hips began to slow, the way he paused deep inside of you, like he wanted to stay there, to stay exactly where you were, but he shifted, his hand smoothing down your thigh as he slid out slowly, making you whimper softly at the emptiness.
“Come here,” he murmured sweetly, already guiding you onto your back, his palm warm and steady at your ribs.
You let him move you, your limbs pliant and tingling, and he climbed over you, his eyes dark from his dilated pupils. His cock glistened in the low light from your wetness, flushed and hard as he settled between your thighs again, the hot tip brushing your entrance once more.
He leaned down to kiss you, slow and deep and purposeful this time, his lips parting yours, one of his hands cupping your face while the other braced beside your head on the pillow. Then, he pushed back inside, filling you again in one measured, perfect motion, and he kissed your forehead as he watched your features respond to the fullness once more.
He moved slowly, the rhythm of his hips steady and careful, like he was trying to memorise every inch of you from the inside out, as if he hadn't already. His hips rocked into yours with precision that made your toes curl, dragging his cock deep and then drawing back just enough to do it all over again and again and again, never rushed, never careless.
His mouth wandered from yours to your throat, to your collarbone, then lower still as he kissed your chest the same way he fucked you, soft and warm, his kisses open-mouthed and reverent. He sucked gently at the swell of your tit, his tongue tracing the curve, then circled your nipple with a lazy kind of attention, making you gasp quietly, arching up to him, and you felt him smile against the sensitive skin at your reaction.
“You're perfect,” he murmured, his voice thick and half-muffled by your skin. “So fucking perfect, baby.”
He cupped your other breast in his hand, his thumb stroking over your nipple as he kept moving inside you, and you clenched around him instinctively, your body clinging to the rhythm of his cock, and he groaned low in his throat, his eyes fluttering shut as he pressed deeper, more insistently.
He slid one hand down between you, his fingers finding where you were slick and swollen, fluttering around him, and he circled your clit slowly, barely any pressure at first, then just enough to make your moans a little louder.
“You like that?” he asked softly, kissing the valley between your boobs, his fingers still playing and his hips still moving as you whimpered in response, your breath catching as you nodded.
He kept moving in that same sweet rhythm, his cock dragging in deep and slow, his hips rolling as if time wasn't real there, like the world outside the hotel room had been stripped away, and there was only you. Your body, your warmth, the soft sounds you made beneath him as he took you.
You could feel him trying, really trying, his pace starting to shift just slightly, the muscles in his arms tightening as he held himself up over you, his lips pressed to the centre of your chest like it kept him tethered. His breath hitched more with every thrust now, the edge of something building in him, close and undeniable, but you could tell he was trying to fight it, his whole body tensing against what he knew was coming.
His fingers circled your clit with more precision, more pressure, coaxing you closer and closer, desperately trying to pull your orgasm out of you before his own hit.
“Come on, love,” he murmured against your skin, hus voice strained as he kept kissing your skin between shallow gasps. “Want you to cum for me, yeah? Please, baby…”
You clenched again as you moaned his name softly, your body responding, the pleasure building like a tide rolling in at dusk, and he felt it, felt you tightening and fluttering around his cock, and that was it.
“Fuck,” he gasped, raw and ugly, and his body stilled, his hips pressing as deep as he physically could, and the sudden rush of warmth flooding inside of you as he came, babbling your name as he buried his face in the side of your neck.
He groaned into your skin, low and desperate and almost apologetic, holding himself inside as his cock pulsed, wringing the last dregs of his cum into you, but he didn't stop, nor did he pull out.
Even as he trembled, even as his breath faltered, even as his legs felt like they might give way, he kept moving, soft, shallow thrusts now, just enough to keep the friction going, his fingers still working your clit with slow, determined circles.
“Still got you,” he whispered, slightly out of breath as he kissed your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “I've got you, baby. Just let go. Let me give it to you.”
He kept going, hips stuttering but persistent, fucking himself through the aftershocks of his own release with a kind of desperate devotion. His cock stayed inside you, thick and softening slightly, but still moving, still trying, even as his thighs wobbled with the effort, his muscles taut and shaking, but he didn't let up. He couldn't. Not when he knew you were so close.
“Come on, baby,” he breathed, almost pleading now, his voice wrecked, his breath hot and uneven against your cheek as his fingers worked your clit with more tender urgency. “Almost there, yeah? I can feel it, pretty, give it to me. Cum for me. Please.”
His voice cracked towards the end, and you moaned softly as your body tightened, every nerve pulling taut like a wire about to snap, his words and his touch and the fullness of his cock pushing you right to the edge, and then, you broke.
Your hips jerked, your breath shattering in your throat as your orgasm tore through you, hard and hot as you clenched around him with a force that made him whimper. Your pussy fluttered, gripping him as you came with a soft, gasping cry, your thighs trembling around his as they bracketed them.
He moaned at the sensation, dropping his sweaty forehead to yours, his lips catching yours in a shaky, messy kiss, the heaviness of his breathing making it almost mouth-to-mouth.
“That's it,” he whispered against your mouth, terribly out of breath. “Fuck, that's it.”
You could feel him smile a little against your lips, relieved, proud, and utterly spent, but still holding you, still inside you, his body sagging gently into yours like he had nothing left.
He didn't pull out right away, and instead, he stayed right there, chest to chest, his cock softening inside you slowly, warmth still blooming low in your belly where he'd finished. The room was quiet but not silent, the muffled hum of the tiny fridge in the corner, the occasional car passing by outside the shuttered window, but around the two of you, there was stillness.
His nose nudged yours lazily, his lips brushing your cheek as he breathed in and out, and he murmured, “I didn't mean to cum first. I tried really fucking hard. Honest.”
You smiled, your eyes half-lidded and your lips brushing the curve of his jaw. “You made up for it.”
“Yeah?” he said, his eyebrows twitching up, hopeful and cocky all at once.
“Mmhm,” you hummed, dragging your fingers down the slope of his back while your other hand brushed back his damp fringe. “You're lucky I love you.”
He chuckled before he kissed you again, this time slower, less messy, less urgent, but still full of all of the love he had for you that he always saved to exude in this way. Just lips to lips, soft and lingering, and he finally slid out of you with a quiet sigh, careful and slow, like he didn't want to disrupt anything, like the space between you couldn't stay empty for long, and it didn't.
He lay beside you almost immediately, pulling you into his chest as his arms wrapped around your back as you curled into him, your legs tangled together. He kissed your the top of your hair, your shoulder, the tip of your nose when you tilted your face up.
“Do you think the people in the next room could hear that?” you asked against his collarbone with a smile.
“Hope so,” he mumbled. “Let them know I treat my wife right.”
That made you laugh, and he beamed like it was his favourite sound in the world, and it was.
After a while, once your breathing had evened and your bodies had cooled, he nudged you gently. “Roll over,” he said.
You turned your head, suspicious.. “Why?”
“Just do it.”
You smiled and turned over, burying your face in the pillow, your arms folded beneath your chest, and his touch came a moment later, making you laugh softly as you realised what he was doing. His fingers pressed clumsily at your shoulder blades, too light in some places, too firm in others, but utterly sweet in his intent.
“Massage,” he said proudly as he dug his palms into your spine.
“Jesus,” you muttered into the pillow with a grin he couldn't see as he ‘massaged’ your back like he was kneading a bread dough that was trying to fight back.
He snorted at your mutter, and he paused only to flop forward dramatically, his head landing between your shoulder blades. “Don't make me laugh, love, I'm about to collapse.”
You did laugh then, full and breathless, your shoulders shaking beneath him, and he kissed your spine once, then twice, then he sat up slightly, his palms resting on your lower back.
“Do you want a tiramisu?” he asked softly, smiling cheekily as his eyes drifted over your back like he already knew what your answer would be.
warnings : he's back. very long one to make up for the wait. sex work, cheating, age gap (19 & 38, then 39), phone sex, masturbation (him), fingering (reader), argument, i guess implications of a little drinking problem, missionary, TINY footjob, feet kink, daddy kink, hes a bit strange again, hes still sad
You'd only given him your phone number a few days ago, writing it on the back of his hand with a broken pen you'd found in one of the hotel bedside table drawers that barely had any ink left. He'd been circling the topic for a couple of weeks, always in that tone where you couldn't quite tell what he was trying to convey, whether he was joking or if he was completely serious.
“At my age, you know, it gets hard walking halfway across the city as often as I do, looking for you,” he'd muttered last time as he tied up the laces on his shoes. “And it's not like anyone else has got a hold on you, anyway.”
You'd known what he was really asking for from the very first subtle hint he'd dropped, but you'd just been waiting for him to ask you properly, to tell you what he actually wanted.
It was just past midnight when your phone lit up on your bedside table with a dull buzz against the smooth oak wood, and you reached over with a quiet grunt to pick it up, tugging the charging cable out of the port with a click.
You squinted your eyes as the screen bloomed to life, a gentle glow that was a little too harsh for your eyes after they'd adjusted to the dark casting across your face as you smeared a spiral pattern across the dots on the grid to unlock it, your homescreen wallpaper greeting you with familiarity as it blinked on.
You swiped your notifications down, and nestled between a notice from the bank and someone adding to their Instagram story, there was a text with his name perched above the message, reading, You awake, baby?
You shifted on your side, one hand coming up to rub at your eyes while you considered whether or not you should even reply. You could leave it. Turn your phone off, plug it back in, roll over and fall asleep. Deal with him the next morning. But there was that nagging feeling inside you, whether it was in your heart, your stomach or your brain, you weren't sure, but it was persistent, gnawing. The thought of him sat hunched over alone in bed, or on the edge of the bath, or on the couch, undoubtedly with his trousers around his ankles, his cheek slightly squished as he rested his face in his hand, and staring at his phone screen as he waited for your reply. It made your heart ache, in a strange way.
You sunk your teeth into your inner cheek, your lips pursing as you contemplated for a moment more, before you pressed on the notification, the screen opening up to your messages with him. You hadn't sent many to each other, and most of them had been sent by him, usually just a ‘hello’, or small updates on how his day was going.
You pulled up your keyboard on your screen and typed, Yeah. You okay?
The two ticks tucked just beneath your words flickered to blue immediately after you pressed the send icon, and he replied quickly, Need to hear your voice.
There was a short pause after he sent that text, and your chest tightened, heart stuttering with something between dread and anticipation. You imagined him typing, deleting, then typing again, the hesitation palpable even through the screen, before he sent another message. Can I call you?
You let his message sit for a moment, your tongue poking out to wet your lower lip where the dryness had been spreading from your breathing, and you sighed before sending, Yeah.
Your phone screen lit up with the incoming call just a few moments later, softly buzzing against your palm like a heartbeat as it chimed. It felt heavier, as if just his name brought the weight of all of his burdens with it, no matter where it was. You answered it, rolling onto your back and looking up at the ceiling as you brought your phone up to your ear.
You could hear his heavy breathing on the other end of the line, coming in sharp, quick exhales and slow, quiet inhales. He didn't speak for a moment, waiting to see if you'd say something first, but when he realised you weren't going to, he said, “Hi, petal.”
His voice was rough, slightly gravelly, like he'd just been crying, or like he was trying his very best not to. You breathed in slowly. “Hi.”
You heard him swallow thickly before he asked, making an attempt at softening his voice, “I didn't wake you up, did I?”
One of your hands came up to your hair, your fingers fiddling with the messy strands, twirling and tugging, before you replied simply, “No.”
He exhaled and you heard the soft scrape of his hand rubbing over his face, over and across his stubble, and he murmured, “She's asleep on the settee downstairs. Told her I had heartburn. I'm upstairs. In the bathroom.”
“Are you?”
“Mhm.”
“You okay?”
“No.”
He sounded more tired on the phone, his voice weighted, and he sounded older, in a way, carrying a subtle rasp. “I've been thinking about you a lot,” he continued.
You smiled a little, and he heard it creep into your voice. “You say that all the time.”
“Because I'm thinking about you all the time.”
You didn't reply, letting the silence settle between you for a while, heavy, but not entirely uncomfortable, until his voice split through the quiet once more.
“What are you wearing, baby?”
His tone was gentle, sweet, coaxing, almost paternal, in an odd way. It made you feel warm, the tone of his words wrapping around you like a blanket despite the physical distance between you.
“Just my t-shirt. The one I sleep in,” you answered, idly running your fingers along the neckline of your top and fidgeting with a loose thin string.
There was another short moment of quiet, before he licked his lips, gripping his phone tighter. “Nothing else?”
You smiled. “No. Why?”
He didn't answer for a moment, his slow, slightly uneven breathing filling the silence on the other end. “I just wanted to imagine you. Safe and soft… all tucked up in bed…”
He trailed off, chewing on the inside of his cheek as a slow, coiling heat curled up through his belly like smoke from the end of a cigarette.
“I bet you look so cute…” he whispered, his voice slightly strained as he adjusted his grip on his phone, the stirring in his groin growing more pronounced and insistent as he imagined you. He closed his eyes with a small sigh, imagining you in a way he'd had you many times before, down on your knees in front of him, nestled between his legs, looking up at him with those devastating eyes that made his heart beat as loud as thunder.
You pictured him, whether he was sat on the floor, on the rim of the tub, or on top of the toilet seat, the harsh light of his bathroom throwing uneven shadows across his tired face. It sent a dull wave of warmth through your stomach like a tide at dawn, rippling up to your chest.
“What are you wearing?” you asked, shifting under your duvet and raising your back up off of the mattress, propping yourself up against the headboard before adjusting the neckline of your shirt around your shoulders.
He let out a small breath of something that resembled a laugh, just barely audible, and he said, “My top. Boxers. That's it.”
“No trousers?”
“Not at the moment.”
You heard a soft creak from his end of him shifting his weight, and he bit his rough lower lip. One hand rubbed along his thigh, over the soft cotton of his underwear, the fabric growing taut as his cock stiffened beneath it. He let out a small groan as he brushed his finger against his clothed tip, his eyes fixed on his crotch, and he murmured, “Wish you were here, love…”
The stems of the heat that had been rooted in your crotch made their way up your body, constricting and winding around your stomach, lungs, ribs and heart until they bloomed and blossomed in your chest, spreading a warmth through your, seeping deep into your bones.
“What would you do?” you asked softly, reaching behind your head to scratch an itch on the back of your neck “If I was there?”
There was a pause for a moment, and you pressed your thighs together beneath your duvet before crossing your legs at your ankles, and he finally replied with a slow breath, dragged out by tension and need, “I'd kiss you, baby… I've not been able to stop thinking about it. I haven't kissed my wife for days because I'm scared I'll forget what your lips felt like.”
He swallowed, his throat tightening as he heard your soft breathing on the other end of the line, uninterrupted, waiting, so he continued, thinking each word out to the best of his ability.
“Then I'd kiss your neck, all the way down… you'd be on top of me, baby. And I'd hold your hips, help you grind on me, feel how hard you get me…”
He cut himself off as he bit his bottom lip, his palm now working in slow, meditated strokes along his shaft through the thin fabric of his boxers, the friction of the barrier between his skin making his breath catch in his throat. A few of his particularly thick pubes poked through the soft cotton, scratching lightly against his skin.
You ran your hand through your hair as he continued to talk, his soft words laced with equal parts promise and lust. “I'd make you keep your eyes on mine… wouldn't let you look away, not once. And you'd call me daddy, wouldn't you, petal?”
“Mhm,” you replied quietly, letting him immerse himself in what he needed so desperately.
“Say it for me, baby…”
You could hear his breathing, thick and ragged, and you said softly, “Daddy.”
“Yeah…” he sighed, the sound melting into a whimper towards the end, and you heard the quiet sound of elastic snapping back against skin as he freed himself from the tight, constricting confines of his underwear, the cool air of the bathroom hitting his throbbing cock like a whip.
He wrapped his fingers around the base where his thick thatch of pubes had climbed up just a little like ivy, not too loose but not too tight, and he squeezed a little before you interrupted his thoughts, your voice gentle but enticing as you said, “Keep talking to me, daddy…”
He let out a small moan, dragging his fist up his shaft as he murmured, “I'd help you put it in, petal… make you feel every inch until it's all the way in.”
He rubbed his thumb over the tip, collecting and smearing the dewy precum that had gathered there along the swollen, angry red head before dipping it a little bit lower, using the pad of his thumb to rub small circles around that small ridge tucked just beneath the head.
He hissed out a moan through his teeth, pulling his hand up from the base all the way up to the tip, twisting his wrist to the left when he reached the top before bringing it back down again.
“Baby…” he whined, chewing on his lower lip as he felt himself growing so near to peak so soon. “Tell me you're touching yourself too, baby.”
You shuffled back down on your bed, resting your head against the pillow again before you said, your voice laced with a subtle, velvety rasp that he loved so much, “Mhm…”
You weren't, but that didn't matter. All that mattered to you was enabling him, letting him surrender to what he craved the most.
His chapped lips formed a soft ‘o’ shape as he let out a breathy, high-pitched moan, the noise raw and packed full of desire. The soft, wet squelch of his hand stroking up and down his cock bled through the small speaker on your phone, punctuated by his quick, shallow breaths, making your chest ache.
He choked out another few words, to keep the fantasy in his head going, his eyes fluttering shut. “I'd rub your clit for you, love… little circles… and I'd thrust up into you, just so you wouldn't have to do anything.”
He swallowed hard and tilted his head to the side, securing his phone between his shoulder and his cheek as he brought his other hand down to his shaft, planting his palm on the tip and rubbing in slow, tantalising circles, his hand growing slicker with each movement.
“You'd- fuck… you'd let me touch your feet, wouldn't you, sweetheart?” he panted, licking his lips at just the thought of them as a few of his sweaty strands fell in his eyes, and you hummed affirmatively in response.
The spark ignited in his lower belly as he tightened his finger around his shaft, his palm circling his slit as precum poured out of him like a fountain. The flame travelled up the fuse coiled inside of him, gradually burning and withering away the string as his grip on his cock tightened and his grip on his control loosened.
He managed to sputter out a few words in the midst of his haze, babbling, “Are- are you gonna cum too, baby?”
You smiled a little and let out a soft, fabricated moan before you hummed, “Mhm…”
He panted out a long, drawn out whine at your small noise, and he said, voice strained from both the angle of his neck and how close he was to the brink of his orgasm, just teetering on the edge, “Yeah- yeah, baby… gonna cum with me?”
His voice sounded broken, ragged, similar to how his tone usually sounded before he cried, and you murmured, trying to mask the fact that you weren't even touching yourself at all, “I'm gonna cum, daddy…”
He bit down on his bottom lip, hard enough to leave marks, and his flushed face scrunched up and he shut his eyes as the flame finally reached the bomb, his hips twitching and stuttering as he desperately clawed after his release.
His orgasm exploded inside of him, shrapnel hitting every inch and corner of his body as he cupped his hand that was on his tip around the head while his other stayed tightly wrapped around his shaft, his fingers squeezing and his wrist faltering as his cum shot out and pooled in his palm.
His phone fell to the floor beside him from his shoulder with a clatter as he moaned your name between breathless pants and gasps as he wrung himself out, the last dregs of his release dripping down his shaft with each slow upstroke of his fist.
Phosphenes contaminated his vision behind his closed eyelids, black and white shapes morphing and stretching like an optical illusion, like a kaleidoscope of checkered squares on a chess board.
When he finally peeled his eyes open, a little dazed, his pupils sunk down to his phone that had fallen on the floor beside his hip, face up, your name still displayed on the screen. He dragged his eyes to his cock, pulsating and twitching tiredly, lay spent across his palm as it slowly deflated.
You were still able to hear his deep, raspy breathing, though it was distant due to his phone being on the floor next to him, and you heard him shuffle a little, the crack of his knees giving him away as he stood up.
He hobbled the few steps towards the sink, twisting the tap on and rinsing his hands beneath the warm, constant stream of water, watching the remnants of his milky release swirl around the porcelain before meeting its demise and washing away down the drain.
He didn't bother with soap, just got the worst of it off with water before flicking the tap off and drying them off with an old towel with tears and holes around the edges that was draped over the rack.
He came back to his phone, dragging his feet with each small step, and he bent over to pick it up before bringing it back up to his ear, and he exhaled before murmuring softly, “You still there, petal?”
You let out a small, tired groan in response, and he laughed quietly. “Are you sleepy, baby?”
“Mhm,” you responded, slightly muffled, and you could hear the warm, gentle smile in his voice as he continued.
“You all tucked in, nice and warm?” he murmured, each word feeling like a kiss. “Daddy doesn't want you to be cold.”
That made your stomach tighten, even with how tired you were. He never referred to himself as daddy, he just liked to be called it by you.
“I'm warm,” you replied, letting your drowsy eyes fall shut as he continued to speak, his gentle but gruff voice gradually lulling you to sleep.
A small huff of air came from his nose, accompanied by a little quirk of his lips. “I wish I could take care of you, baby… all the time. I'd look after you how you need. Promise.”
You hummed gently, barely a vibration of your throat, before he continued, his voice more fragile, making way for his stream of emotions that usually followed his orgasms.
“I'd cook for you. Or I'd learn to cook for you, then I'd cook for you. I'd clean the sheets. Clean everything. I'd rub your back when your tummy hurts. You'd never have to do anything, petal.”
You let your mind feed into and believe what he was saying, his words tugging and pulling at the strings of your heart. It's times like this that made you wish it wasn't so unconventional. Wish he was twenty years younger, wish he was never married, wish you'd never gotten yourself into the harrowing cycle of sex work.
“Are you free tomorrow, sweetheart?” he asked carefully after a moment of quiet.
You inhaled deeply, still sleepy, before you replied, your voice barely a murmur, “Yeah.”
His smile crept into his voice. “Great, love. Can I see you tomorrow night? At The Swan?”
You couldn't recall which pub he was referring to, your mind starting to slip into unconsciousness, and you whispered, bordering on sleep talk, “Mhm.”
“Good girl,” he said, softening his tone as he started to realise you were hardly awake anymore. “I'll give you kisses, okay, baby?”
He didn't expect a proper response, and you gave another half-hearted hum, before he murmured, “Goodnight, sweetheart.”
Before ending the call, he brought his phone from his ear to his face, his heart clenching as his eyes scanned over your precious name, and he pressed a kiss to his screen, closing his eyes, letting himself feel closer to you for a moment. He pulled his lips back with a quiet mwah sound, a subtle pop of his lips, and he reluctantly pressed the red icon at the bottom of his screen to end the call.
He stared at his phone for a few minutes after. You were on call for just over thirty-four minutes. He read the numbers lined up in your phone number over and over again, studying them. He never wanted to forget them.
When he tore his eyes away from the poison of his phone screen, he looked down, his now-soft cock hanging heavy between his thighs, the underside brushing against the fabric of his boxers which were left clung around his hips.
He swiped his thumbs beneath the taut elastic waistband and pulled them back up to his hips with a dull snap as it hit his skin, and he trudged towards the bathroom door, wrapping his fingers around the handle before pulling it open with a squeak and a whine from the hinges.
He dropped one arm to his side, the cool screen of his phone brushing against the side of his thigh with each step as he padded down the hallway towards his bedroom, while the other idly played with the hem of his shirt, his fingertips accidentally brushing against his belly every so often.
He bunted the door to his bedroom open with his shoulder, and he craned his head around the doorframe quietly, just to make sure his wife hadn't come upstairs while he was on the phone to you in the bathroom. The bed was empty, as it almost always was these days, so he pushed the door shut behind him with a click, bent down to plug the charger into the port on the bottom of his phone, and he set it on the bedside table before climbing into bed, settling on the left side where he usually slept.
There was an indent in the middle of the pillows on his side, further indicating which side was his, and he nestled his head into it, letting the softness of it surround him, block out what he didn't want to acknowledge. His hair was a little greasy, falling in thick strands around his face, but he told himself he'd have a shower the next morning before he saw you, despite knowing you probably wouldn't care. You'd very happily fucked him in worse states before.
He let his eyes fall shut, sliding a hand beneath his pillow as he steadied and evened out his breathing, letting sleep take over his aching body and bruised mind.
When he woke up the next morning, it was to a soft hand snaking around his waist from behind, thin, delicate fingers dancing along his side.
He pursed his lips a little, his face scrunching up. She'd been touchier recently, not necessarily with love, but something that made itself comfortable in the space where their love used to lie.
“Morning,” she murmured, her voice hoarse in a way that felt too forced, too fake, like she was trying to trick him into thinking she slept well, something so small, and it irked him.
He hummed, his back still facing her, and he spoke with a groggy voice, “Didn't hear you come in.”
She hummed vaguely, moving her hand up to his chest and fiddling with the short hairs there before adding, “Didn't want to wake you.”
Her fingers traced patterns over his sternum, occasionally brushing against his nipples in a way that made him feel disconnected from his own body. He didn't like it. It had been a long time since he had liked it.
She kissed his shoulder blade, pressing her lips to his skin once, twice, then a third time, and it felt like she was doing it more for herself than for him.
He sighed internally before forcing himself to turn, the small movement looking and sounding like it took a lot more effort than it should, all the weight on his shoulders and in his mind making it hard for him to move as effortlessly.
He glanced down at her, nestling against his arm like she wanted to be tucked beneath it, but he didn't budge. He brought a hand up to his face, rubbing at his eyes as he asked half-heartedly, “You alright?”
She nodded quickly, the tangled strands of her hair tickling his arm, and it made him sigh. “Just tired.”
She shifted closer to him, throwing a leg over his, wrapping a hand around his wrist, resting her head on his shoulder, all with zero reciprocation from him.
He'd thought that maybe she was just trying. An attempt to fix what they both knew had long since crumbled.
Her tongue poked out to swipe along her bottom lip, her fingers still tracing patterns on his skin that had begun to irritate him, and she said, “I was thinking we could go out later. For a drink. Just us.”
He blinked up at the ceiling, biting at the inside of his cheek, and he looked down at her again. “Tonight?”
“Yeah, tonight. It's been a while, hasn't it?” she said, but to him, it sounded rehearsed.
He paused, his lips slightly parted before he said, making something believable up, “I can't, I'm going out with my mates tonight. I thought I told you.”
“Oh,” she said quietly, though he could tell there was some semblance of relief laced deep into her tone. “You didn't tell me.”
“Sorry,” he muttered, propping himself up on his palms behind him, the mattress denting and sheets creasing beneath his hands.
She let her hand slip from his chest as he sat up, the silence stretching between them thin and sharp as a blade.
He carefully swung his legs over the edge of the bed, easing himself out from beneath the duvet, and he crossed the room to the door that she must've pulled to after coming in. He ran his hand through his hair as he walked down the hallway towards the bathroom, and it clung to his fingers slightly, the strands weighed down and a little limp.
He stepped into the bathroom, the harsh yellow overhead light illuminating the room as he flicked it on and stepped in. He could see the dark shadowed corpses of a few bugs above in the fixture of the light, but he brushed it off. I'll clean it another time, he said to himself for the thousandth time.
He closed the door behind him with a click before pulling his shirt over his head and peeling his boxer shorts down his legs, kicking them off and tossing them aside along with his top.
He reached over the edge of the bathtub, twisting the dial to turn the hot water on, and the shower head sputtered to life before turning into a steady stream. He scratched the corner of his eye before stepping in, the heat of the water hitting his skin and flushing it a soft red, like ruby roses blooming all across his body.
He tilted his head back, letting it run through his hair, over his shoulders, down his back and across his legs. It felt good, letting the steam envelop him like the embrace his body craved for, and he worked the shampoo through his hair, fingers scrubbing against his scalp a little harsher than necessary as the soapy water dribbled down his nape.
His hands travelled and explored his own body as he lathered the soap over his limbs. The scent was hard to put a finger on. It was undeniably very masculine. Almost minty, in a way. Musky. Woody.
He rubbed it into his skin with languid circular motions, the thin white bubbles spread across his body like sea foam. The water travelled through his hair and trickled down his spine, and he closed his eyes, damp lips parted as steam curled past his mouth, and he let out a long breath.
He let his mind wander to you, to later that night, picturing your sweet smile, your delicious moans, your soft hands. His cock stirred slightly, undoubtedly, twitching purely from the mental imagery of you. It was pathetic how easy it was for you to wind him up, even when you're not even there. Your warm mouth that just felt like home, your quiet whimpers whenever he coaxed you through it, your gentle voice calling him daddy in that tone that made his heart ache and his cock throb.
He swallowed thickly, his jaw tight and neck tense, and he rubbed his forehead, trying to distract himself from how much he missed you.
He rinsed off the rest of the soap in silence, slowly, dragging it out as much as possible to elongate his alone time. To try and gather his bearings, at least a little bit, before he had to pretend again. Pretend to enjoy her company, pretend to like the way she speaks, the jokes she makes, the opinions she has. Pretend to not hate the wallpaper plastered across the walls, the knick knacks tucked and perched on top of and in between bookcases and dressers, or all of the furniture that just looked wrong. All of which had been chosen by his wife.
But tonight, he'd see you again. Maybe he'd still hate the dated furniture in the dingy hotel room, despise the oddly patterned wallpaper stuck onto the walls of the rented space, but at least he'd be with you. And that was enough motivation to make it through another day.
Though it dragged on, like it was attached to two ball and chains, he pushed through. You were his prize for completing a tough day.
After his shower, he dressed himself quietly, quickly, a soft shirt followed by a black pair of boxers, then a pair of deep blue jeans that seemed to hang a little looser around his hips than they used to, and his black leather belt to hopefully hold them in place.
He made his way downstairs, the faint hiss of the kettle coming down after reaching its climax filtering into his ears as he stepped into the kitchen, and he saw her leaning against the counter, giving her a half-hearted smile before she asked, “Want a coffee?”
He shook his head, his damp strands shaking with the movement, and he said, “No thanks, love.”
He lingered in the middle of the room, watching as she tore open an instant coffee sachet and poured it into a black and white stripey mug that she often used before filling it with the boiled water, and he said, a bit awkwardly, “I'm gonna head out for a bit now.”
She turned her head over her shoulder. “I thought it wasn't until tonight?”
He dragged a hand through his hair, a few droplets clinging to his fingers. “No, no, it's not, I just want to get some fresh air.”
She peeled her eyes off of him after a moment too long, looking back down at her mug as she stirred, watching the foam swirl and spiral under the twirling movements of her spoon. “Okay.”
She didn't say anything else. Maybe she was happy he was going.
It was around mid-morning when he left the house, climbed into his car, and just drove aimlessly. He was on the road for a while, driving past familiar places as well as some places he'd only passed once or twice in his life before.
After about an hour, he finally pulled into a car park and slotted himself between two of the white lines on the ground, albeit a bit wonky.
He pulled out his phone and opened his messages with you, scrolling all the way back up to the start. You hadn't sent very many, usually just a few short words in response to something he'd said, but he cherished each and every one of them.
He pulled up the keyboard and typed, Can't wait for tonight x, before turning his phone off again and tossing it onto the passenger seat. His lips pursed as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, his eyes squinted against the gentle sun as he looked over the sparsely filled car park through his windshield.
He sat there for a while, in the quiet, in the still, indulging himself in his thoughts as he found a soft comfort in the silence. He thought about what he'd ask you for, if anything. Sometimes he just liked a cuddle and a chat, a shoulder to lean on and an ear to listen.
The sun travelled higher in the sky, heating up the black leather of his car seats until they burned to the touch despite it being so late in the year. It was boring, sat alone in his car, doing nothing, but it was better than being home. Anything was better than being home.
The hours passed like boulders as he sat alone in his car, grueling, slow and heavy as they rolled by. He didn't know what to do with himself until the evening, until 7PM when he'd told you he'd meet you. The birds chirped and sang as they flew through the air and perched in trees, and his eyes scanned over the skyline once more before starting his car up again, the small screen in the middle of the dashboard flickering to life. The clock on the screen was an hour ahead, something that had been an issue ever since he bought the car that he'd never been able to fix.
By the time 6:30PM rolled around, he had already driven back to town and was sat in the small car park of the bar, tucked behind a few other buildings and a small, dingy playground that looked like it had definitely seen better days.
He reached over and picked up his phone from the passenger seat and opened his messages before typing a quick text to you, reading, Here x.
He hit send before tucking it into the back pocket of his jeans and opening his car door with a creak. He stepped out, the gravel crunching beneath his feet as he made his way to the front of the bar. The exterior was nice, deep blue-purple lined with dark oak wood. You'd been here with him a handful of times, and he was sure the workers knew what you two got up to upstairs by now.
He pushed open the door of the bar, the hinges whining, punctuated by a small ring of a bell above the door. He made his way across the intricately patterned carpet, rogue pieces of chewing gum dotted across it, accompanied by a rather large beer stain contaminating the design of the floor in one corner.
He perched his elbows on the sticky oak wood of the bar, his eyes tracing along the edges of the rubber beer mat before asking the bartender for a whiskey.
His eyes scanned over the room as his drink was poured, over the group of elderly men in the corner who looked like they bet too much on the horses, over the woman with bleached hair and chipped nail polish chatting loudly on the phone, over the small group of lads who looked to be about your age dressed in football t-shirts with pints in their hands.
He took his drink to a small table in the corner, the chair squeaking as he sat down, and he set his glass atop a flimsy coaster. He took a slow sip, the liquor burning as it trickled down his throat, and he watched the clock, watched the seconds tick by with an embarrassing amount of concealed excitement.
He fished his phone out of his back pocket once more, more out of instinct than need, and he swiped it open with the pad of his thumb. No new messages, but he didn't mind. He opened the app anyway, your name perched at the top of his screen with a red heart beside it. It made him smile a little.
He wrapped his fingers around the short glass again, bringing it up to his lips for another swig. He drank a bit more this time, letting it fill his mouth half-way before he swallowed, the flame of the spirit tingling down his throat like the curling, blackened edges of a burning piece of paper.
He glanced at the clock mounted high up on the opposite wall. 6:44PM. Only sixteen minutes. Nine hundred and sixty seconds.
They crept by like years, 6:47, 6:51, 6:56. He shifted in his seat, the torn leather cushion beneath him on the seat creaking quietly, and he drained the last of his whiskey before setting the glass down with a quiet clink and wiping his palms on the front of his jeans.
He checked his phone again, lay flat on the shiny, tacky table. The read receipt nestled beneath his text had turned blue, indicating you'd read it, that you were on your way. His knee bounced and he fidgeted with his fingers beneath the table, but quickly retracted his hands when they accidentally brushed against a chewed up piece of gum that someone had stuck to the underside of it.
He licked his lips before lightly biting down on his bottom one. 6:58, 6:59, 7:00. His eyes darted to the door, but nothing. A couple more minutes passed, 7:01, 7:02, 7:03, and a miniscule flicker of doubt sparked in his chest, but he quickly buried it. He knew you weren't like that, but he knew what you were like. Usually late. But it didn't stop the small twinge of worry from festering in his heart, stemming from the strange paternal instincts he nurtured for you.
When the rickety door finally squeaked open, he smiled widely, his eyes squinting, and he tucked his phone back into the back pocket of his jeans. You looked beautiful in the dim light, making his throat tighten as he swallowed and his arm going still, thankfully preventing him from waving like an idiot.
When you spotted him in the corner, a smile spread across your face. He stood up as you crossed the room towards him, and he reached out to help you out of your jacket, just to touch you.
He pulled it loose off of your shoulders and bit down on the flesh on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling too wide. “Missed you,” he said softly as he draped your jacket over the back of the chair opposite his. “Do you want a drink, love?”
You smiled, sitting yourself down in the chair he'd pulled out for you. “Please, yeah.”
He gave you another small smile before turning back towards the bar, the same bartender giving him a small nod.
He cleared his throat slightly. Vodka cranberry, please,” he paused for a moment before deciding to get another drink for himself. “And a vodka coke, please.”
He reached behind him into his back pocket and pulled out a few notes from his scuffed leather wallet as the bartender turned to pour the drinks.
He glanced around the bar quickly before asking, his voice more hushed, “Are there any rooms available upstairs? For tonight?”
The bartender looked back at him briefly over her shoulder. “Just for one night?”
He nodded.
She didn't ask any additional questions, just reached below the bar and pulled out a brass key with a wooden fob marked with a 3 in permanent marker. “Thirty for the night, then. Checkout by ten.”
He pulled a few more notes from his wallet and slid them over before tucking it back into his pocket along with the key.
He gave her a half-hearted smile and a muttered thank you before picking up the drinks and turning back towards the table.
He made his way towards you and set your drink in front of you. “Here you are, sweetheart,” he said before sitting down himself with his own drink. “I sorted the room as well.”
The corners of your lips pulled up slightly before you brought the glass to your mouth, the cold bite of the vodka and cranberry filling your mouth and travelling down your throat.
He watched, mesmerised in a way, looking adoringly at your lips pressed to the rim of the glass, the way your throat bobbed when you swallowed, the way your fingers wrapped around the cup.
When you set it back down, he murmured, his eyes dragging down your frame fondly, “What have you been up to today, baby?”
You sighed, swirling the ice around in your drink, the clink ringing in your ears. “I had work earlier.”
His heart stopped for a moment. Work? Did you see someone else? Was he not the only one anymore?
You looked back up at him and saw how his face had dropped. You brushed a few strands of your hair back before saying, “Petrol station. I have another job, I don't just do this.”
You saw a wave of relief pass over his face and he nodded, his dry lips slightly parted as he inhaled deeply. “Yeah, of course, cool. How was that today, then?”
As you started to tell him about your day at work, annoying customers, irritating managers, grueling tasks, his eyes drifted down your body, your curves carrying his gaze like a tide, and they landed on your fingertips, your nails still coloured with the deep, gloomy purple he'd painted for you. They were a little chipped now, a small gap between your cuticle and where the polish began from where your nails had grown, but it still made him smile, his heart fluttering in his chest.
When he looked back up at you, his cheeks lightly reddened, he gazed into your eyes as you continued to chat about your tiring day at work.
He glanced down to his glass, the carbonated bubbles swirling around the top of the dark brown liquid, weaving in and out of between the ice cubes floating in his coke like little islands.
When your ramble came to an end, you took another mouthful of your vodka cranberry, savouring the tart flavour as it embedded itself in your tongue, and you asked, “So, how was yours?”
He took a small deep breath, shaking his hand beside his upper arm with a motion similar to that of a tambourine being played, and he said, his voice coming out more awkward than he'd've liked, “Just, um… was in the car for a while. Drove around for a while. And that's about it.”
“You didn't have work today?”
“Not today, no. Just… a bit of breathing space.”
“Right.”
He brought his glass up to his lips, tilting it and taking a long sip as the sweet, fizzy liquid filled his mouth, chasing it with a gentle burn as he swallowed it down.
He shifted idly in his seat, feeling the key digging into his skin slightly through the denim of his jeans, and he murmured while watching you take a sip of your own drink, “I really missed you, petal.”
His lips quirked up in a small smile, and before you could reply, he added, “I loved our call last night.”
You let out a small huff of laughter through your nostrils, a soft sound that always tugged at the strings of his heart, and you said, your voice sweet, like honey drizzling into his ears, “I'm sorry that I wasn't very awake for it.”
He reached over the table, putting his hand over yours, feeling the soft, smooth, glossy polish on your fingernails against his palm, and he said, his tone full of reassurance, “Don't be sorry, baby. I know you were, and it's fine. As long as you were fine.”
You smiled and nodded once, the warmth of his strong hand enveloping yours. “I was.”
A quiet settled between you, comfortable and laced with ease, while the pub's murmur faded into the background. You both gradually finished your drinks, leaving just the melting ice cubes piled in the bottoms of the glasses, the water they exuded diluting the last dregs of the liquids inside.
He pushed himself up out of the chair with a slight scrunch of his face, his hand coming behind him to his lower back for a moment as he turned, before he picked up all three of the glasses and crossed to room towards the bar again, offering the bartender a little smile as he set them on the beer mat.
He came back over to you as you stood, and he reached behind you to grab your jacket off of the back of your chair before you could, and he draped it over his forearm.
With one hand ghosting lightly over your lower back, he guided you through the narrow hallway to the stairs that led to the second floor, and he let you go up first, gesturing towards the worn-down stairs, each wooden step a lighter shade of brown in the centre from years of being walked on and climbed up.
The click of your boots accompanied the creak that came with ascending the stairs, and he pulled the key from his back pocket, the metal cool against his fingers.
Once you reached the top, he slid past you, anticipation blossoming in his chest as he looked over the handful of doors, each one dark oak with a small sign with a number on mounted in the centre.
He slid the key into room three, twisted and unlocked it, before holding it open for you. You stepped in with a small smile, and he walked in after you, closing the door behind him, before he draped your jacket over the foot of the bed and toed his shoes off, kicking them aside.
His jeans followed, unbuckling his belt with a clink of the metal before he pulled the long strap of leather to one side, tossing it in the same general direction of where his shoes went, before he started on undoing his jeans, pushing the cool metal button through the hole and pulling the zip down with a metallic whir.
He slid his thumbs beneath the waistband and tugged them down his hips, off his ankles, and left them in a pile on the floor, leaving him in just his black boxers which clung to his thighs and ass like a second skin.
You watched as he undressed, your pulse quickening beneath your skin with each garment he shed, and you slipped your own boots off, tucking them neatly beneath the bed. Next came your jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping before pulling the fabric down your legs. They were tight at your thighs and hips but loose and flared at your ankles. You folded your trousers and draped them beside your jacket over the foot of the bed, now only in your underwear and loose t-shirt.
He let his eyes float over you, slow and reverent, drinking you in, and your skin tingled under his gaze. He crossed the small space between you, his hand coming to your waist like gravity, and the soft fabric of your top bunched and creased slightly beneath his touch. He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, his pupils wide with adoration as his eyes met yours, and he whispered, “You're so beautiful… my girl.”
He tilted your chin upwards with his hand, his fingertips brushing against your jawline, and he traced your soft lips with his eyes before he leaned in, his eyes fluttering shut as he pressed his mouth to yours.
He pulled you close against him with his hand on your waist, his rough lips a stark contrast to the overwhelming gentle love he always gave you. His mouth moved against yours with patience and control, and his other hand moved from your jaw to the back of your neck, keeping you pressed to him.
You kissed him back, the chapped skin of his lips scraping against yours. There was no frantic urgency, no burning fire. At least, not yet.
He let out a soft whimper, a noise that seemed to escape him without him even realising it was brewing, and the kiss deepened, his nose pressing into your cheek.
When he finally pulled back, it was with a long sigh, and he rested his forehead against yours while his hot breath brushed over your lips.
He smiled, a little out of breath. “Told you I'd give you more kisses, baby.”
The corners of your lips tugged upwards at his words, and he glanced over your shoulder briefly, towards the bed, and he said, his voice low, “Come on. Let's get in.”
He gently helped you under the duvet, making sure you were comfortable, before he climbed in beside you, lying on his side to face you, and he slipped his hand beneath your shirt to feel your soft skin against his hand.
He propped himself up on one elbow, his head in his palm, and he looked down at you like you were the sun, like you were the stars and the moon, like there was nothing else worth even thinking about looking at.
His short fingernails grazed over your belly in soft patterns as his hand trailed over your body, and he said, his voice as soft and as sweet as a marshmallow, “Had a difficult day, didn't you, petal?”
You looked up at him, and you swore his pupils had turned to hearts. You nodded once. “Mhm.”
He trailed his hand lower blindly beneath the thick duvet, but using your body as a guide for his fingers, like following a map for treasure. “Want daddy to make you feel better?”
There it was again, referring to himself as daddy. You didn't question it though, didn't ask, instead, you smiled as you felt his hand gently rub over your thighs, slipping his fingers in between them to part them slightly. “Yeah…”
He rubbed his middle and ring fingers over the soft cotton of your panties, over that tender spot right in the centre, and he rubbed gentle circles over your clit through the fabric.
You let out a small noise, somewhere between a sigh and a moan, and he kissed your cheek. “That feel nice, petal?”
You nodded, and he pressed his face to the side of yours, his lips dragging along your skin as his fingertips rubbed along your clit through your underwear, the gentle friction making your breath stutter in your throat.
Your head tilted back against the pillow, and he took the opportunity to move his mouth to your neck, planting kisses along the side, accompanied by small licks or a light bite every so often.
He felt the dampness against the pads of his fingers through your underwear, and he moaned softly against your neck before he shifted his hand from between your legs, the sudden lack of contact making you frown, until he hooked his thumb beneath the lace trimmed waistband of your panties.
You lifted your hips slightly off the mattress as he gently tugged the fabric down, running his hands over the soft swell of your hips and giving a light squeeze to your ass before he pulled the cotton all the way down your legs until they were loose around your ankles, and you shuffled out of them entirely, losing them somewhere in the sea of the duvet.
He spread your legs a little wider before he slotted his hand right back between them again, the heat radiating from your cunt making his lips curl upwards against your skin.
He gently circled your clit, dipping his fingers lower and gathering some of the dripping wetness that flooded your hole, before tracing them back up and rubbing your clit with the slickness.
You moaned softly, your hand coming up to hold his that wasn't on your pussy, and he squeezed it tightly, reassuringly, interlocking your fingers with his.
He pressed a kiss to your jaw, his eyelashes lightly brushing against your skin, and he murmured, “How many, baby?”
His fingers continued their small, slow circles, and you panted softly, “...Two.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
He lifted his head slightly from the crook of your neck and pressed a kiss to your high cheekbone. “Tell me if it's too much, sweetheart. Or not enough.”
You hummed softly in response, and he dipped his fingers lower again, slowly easing his two fingers inside, and your muscles tightened around them straight away, holding them in.
He hovered his face above yours, looking down into your eyes as he gently slid inside. You let out a soft, airy sigh, the noise trickling into a whimper towards the end of your breath, and he pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose.
Your eyes flickered shut for a moment as he fed his fingers deeper, centimetre by centimetre, but you opened them again when he murmured, his hot breath fanning over your cheeks, “Look at me, baby…”
When he finally pushed them to the hilt, his palm pressing against your clit, he squeezed your hand with his free one, keeping you in the moment with him, and you moaned under your breath, “Daddy…”
“That's it… you gonna take them deep for me?” he whispered. “You're being such a good girl…”
His thumb brushed against that aching spot just above where his fingers were buried deep, tantalisingly teasing, and he began to gently pump his fingers in and out, curling and bending his knuckles against the ridges of your walls.
You whined, pressing your lips together tightly before they parted, letting out a long sigh. You did your best to keep your eyes on his as he coaxed you through it above you, but with the gentle rubbing from the pad of his thumb on your clit and the slow twisting and thrusting of his fingers inside of you, it proved very difficult.
He pressed his lips to yours, swallowing your moans and whimpers before you could voice them, and he kept up the pace of his fingers inside you, his own centre pulsing, twitching, straining against the tight jail of his cotton boxer shorts.
He felt your walls throb around him and he smiled against your mouth, taking your lower lip between his teeth and tugging gently before releasing it, just slightly reddened ghosts of a teeth indent remaining.
He kept your eyes locked on his, whispering your name whenever they fluttered shut if he curled his fingers a little too tightly or pressed a little too hard on your tingling clit.
His fingers moved with a purpose, now drenched with the slick that proved how strong your desire was, how badly you wanted this, how much you needed him. Your legs twitched as he plunged deeper, the pads of his fingers insistently pressing on that spongy spot nestled deep inside you.
“So pretty…” he whispered, his voice thick with lust no matter how quiet he made it, how low he dimmed it. “My pretty girl, aren't ya?”
You nodded, your lips parting and eyes widening slightly as he circled your g-spot in time with his movements on your clit, and you bit back a cry, your throat tightening around the noise before it was able to escape.
“Say it,” he murmured, voice husky and gruff.
“I'm- I'm daddy's pretty girl…” you stammered, voice hoarse and trembling from the intense sensations and pleasure.
“Yeah…” he muttered, lowering his head and pressing his lips to your cheek once more.
Your hips rolled up into his hand unconsciously, chasing the build up, chasing the climax, starving and greedy for any ounce of friction.
His lips lowered to your shoulder, planting open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, sucking gently with every other press of his mouth against your skin.
You felt his length brush against your thigh, the heat scorching to the touch even through his boxers, and a choked moan came from your throat, a kind of sound you didn't even know you could make, and you promptly bit down harshly on your bottom lip to quiet yourself.
He felt the walls of your cunt fluttering and tightening around his fingers, and he smirked against your shoulder, licking a small stripe from the base of your neck up to the back of your ear, leaving a trail of faint sheen in his wake, and he whispered, nibbling on your lobe, “You gonna cum for me, petal?”
You whimpered, desperate and broken, and he smiled, licking his lips before it morphed into a grin, and he murmured, “Let go for daddy, baby. Come on.”
His coaxing words pushed you over the edge, and with a final press of his fingertips on your g-spot, a final flick of his thumb on your clit, you came. Your legs quivered, core tensed up and moans spilled from your mouth uncontrollable, babbling daddy for him, and he watched your face as the waves washed over you, slowing down but not stopping his hand movements.
He guided you through it as it tore through you, fast and hot, squeezing your hand and kissing your forehead while his fingers continued to move in slow, curling strokes inside of you, easing you down from the high.
“You did so good for me…” he whispered, his voice laced with pride, with love, and he gradually stopped the torturous movements of his fingers, leaving you breathless beneath him, spent, boneless, and twitching.
He pulled his fingers from you with utmost care, and he rested that hand on your stomach on top of your soft shirt, leaving a small patch of wetness on the fabric.
He didn't say anything at first, just dotted a few more kisses across your skin, on your forehead, your shoulder, your jaw. He gently stroked his thumb against your hand that was interlocked with his, helping you come down from your climax.
“You alright, sweetheart?” he asked quietly, his voice rough but doused in adoration.
You nodded, and he lay back, his head beside yours on the pillow, and he took his hand that had been inside you back, wiping the wetness off on his shirt. His eyes were fixed on a crack in the ceiling above, tracing it like it was fine art, and that's when it came. Like it always did, the words he'd been bottling up for a few days, waiting to be spilled in the safety of the silence he shared with you after the intimacy.
“This morning,” he began. “She got into bed with me. I told you, she fell asleep on the couch last night, but when I woke up, I felt her hand on my waist.”
You turned your head slightly, your chin nudging against his shoulder as he continued.
“She never does that. Well, I mean… I was sleeping in that bed alone for months, but every so often, for the past couple of weeks, she's been coming in and curling up like nothing's wrong, like we're all okay.”
He shook his head at the thought, his hair bouncing lightly under his movements. “It made my skin crawl. I felt… itchy. I don't know. It felt awful.”
You stayed quiet, just listened, like always. He never needed advice, just needed somewhere to store the ache, someone to listen, and that someone had become you.
“It's been like that recently, though. She's just been being… nice. Overly nice. It's never really been shouty, but… she's been trying to act like she used to. Like when we got married, when we were still good. But I can tell it's fake, that she's forcing it, and it makes me feel ill.”
There was a touch of venom running through his tone now as he drummed his agitated fingers against the mattress.
“She asked if I wanted to go out for a drink with her. Tonight. But she didn't seem too disappointed when I said no.”
Something inside you ached for him, either your brain or your heart, and you pursed your lips, contemplating for a moment, before you decided to say something, your voice soft as you spoke carefully.
“Maybe she's cheating on you too.”
He stilled, you felt his body tense up and stiffen against yours, and you regretted even opening your mouth, but that didn't stop the words coming.
“I've seen people do it. People get nicer when they're hiding things, it makes them feel less guilty. Like if they do enough nice things, it cancels out the bad.”
You turned to look at him. You'd made a mistake. But still, you added quietly, “Maybe she's got someone too. Someone she fancies.” you let out a small, awkward, self-deprecating laugh as you said, “Maybe she's got a sex worker too.”
The air froze cold.
He sat up slowly, his face unreadable in the dim light, but his jaw was clenched, his face hard. You'd never seen him look at anyone like that, letting alone look at you like that.
“Don't,” he spat sharply.
You blinked. “I didn't mean-”
“I said, don't.”
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, grabbing his jeans from where he'd left them in a pile on the floor. The silence that fermented between you was loud enough to deafen.
“You don't get to say that,” he muttered mostly to himself as he tugged his trousers up to his hips, doing them up with more force than needed. “You don't know her. You don't know what she's like.”
You swallowed, the guilt mixed with confusion clawing at the backs of your eyes and constricting around your throat. “I was just trying to help-”
“Yeah?” he snapped, raising his voice. “Well, you fuckin’ didn't. Jesus Christ.”
You sat up, propping yourself up with your hands behind you on the mattress, your heart pounding and stomach clenching.
“She's not you,” he said, bitterness flooding his tone. “So don't pretend you understand her.”
He shoved on his shoes and picked up his belt before reaching into his back pocket, ripping out the brass key and wooden fob before throwing it on the bed. “There's the fuckin’ key. Now you can fuck off.”
Then, without another word, he slammed the door shut behind him hard enough to make the wooden frame rattle.
You sat there in the bed, heart aching, stomach hollow, like your organs had just been brutally ripped out, but your skin was still warm, still tingly from where he'd touched you just moments before you'd made the mistake of speaking.
The room was quiet. Far too quiet. Save for the occasional round of laughter or clink of glasses from the bar downstairs, it was uncomfortably silent. Your shirt clung to your skin, and your eyes drifted down to the key he'd chucked on the bed, and it made you wonder what exactly you said that made him so angry.
Because he was cheating, wasn't he? He was a married man constantly and consistently sleeping with another woman. So why did he get so offended when you proposed the idea that maybe, maybe, his wife was cheating too?
You lay yourself back down flat on the bed, head in the pillow with your hair sprawled out, and your eyes blurred as you thought to yourself about why. Why did you have to speak? Why did you have to break the unspoken rule between you, where he talks and you listen?
You weren't meant to analyse. Not out loud, at least. It wasn't what he wanted to hear. You were his escape.
You pulled the duvet up higher, every breath of air you inhaled choking you on the way in. The hollow had settled inside your chest, spreading and infecting like rot, like burning poison.
You didn't cry yet, though your eyes stung in the corners with the need to. You just lay there in the stale air, breathing in the scent of him on the sheets, the once comforting smell now making your stomach twist, wishing you could go back a few minutes, wishing you'd've just stayed quiet.
The loud noise of a woman laughing downstairs echoed up through the floorboards, the cackle cutting through the quiet, and you looked down at your hands. Trembling. You let the silence swallow you whole, the guilt pressing heavy on your ribs with each breath you dared to take.
He'd never gotten angry at you before, and you didn't know if he was going to come back.
He drove fast, almost too fast. Just barely under the speed limit. He gritted his teeth, his fingers clutching the steering wheel with a force that bleached his knuckles white. Your words circled in his brain like a toy train.
“Maybe she's cheating too.”
His brow furrowed, wrinkles creasing lines across his forehead as he scowled. You didn't know anything about her. Sure, he'd endlessly complained to you about her, but that didn't give you the right to say something like that. To intrude on his life in that way.
And yet you'd dared to say it, dared to say it so casually as if it was just a fleeting thought. As if it was just a simple observation.
The city blurred past his window, the street lights smearing across the glass. The car felt too hot and too cold at the same time, but he didn't care. He wanted to sweat, and he wanted to shiver. He wanted to give his brain something to focus on other than the churning in his gut.
When he pulled into his driveway, the house was dark. No bedroom, living room or bathroom lights illuminating the windows. Her car wasn't even in the drive.
She wasn't home, and it made his chest tighten.
He got out of his car and slammed the door shut with more force than necessary, the loud thud echoing through the otherwise silent, still street, and he fumbled with his keys in his pocket as he trudged over to the front door, cursing under his breath before he unlocked the door and let himself in.
It was silent. Silent in all of his senses, except for one. No lingering smell of dinner, no sound of the television, no lights on in the house, no warmth enveloping his body from the radiator. But there was one thing he could sense.
As he parted his lips to inhale for a deeper breath in, he tasted it. The chemically burn of her perfume hit the back of his throat as he yawned, making him cough and sputter in retaliation.
His tongue poked out and swiped along his lower lip, wetting it as he dropped his keys onto the entryway table with a clatter. Maybe she'd gone out with her friends. He'd said no to her asking him to go out that night, so maybe she'd gone for a drink with her girls instead. For an end of week wind down, a gossip.
He dragged a hand down over his face, his hair ruffled, his stubble scruffy and his eyes still stormy.
He moved into the kitchen with heavy steps, the burden of the night weighing him down. The kitchen floor was cold under his feet, and he didn't flick the light on. The moonlight that seeped in through the window was enough for him to guide him to the liquor cupboard.
He swung open the door to the cabinet, reaching straight for the back where he knew the vodka was. It wasn't open. It was one of the expensive ones that she insisted they save for a special occasion that never seemed to come.
He cracked the seal after a few tries, his sweaty hands making it difficult for him to grip the cap properly, before he grabbed a shot glass and set it on the countertop with a dull clink. He poured it in, right up to the top, and he downed it. He hissed quietly as it burned down his throat before wiping his lips with the back of his hand, a thin streak of the clear liquid glistening slightly in the pale light of the moon, before he poured himself a second one.
He felt warm, both from the alcohol and the leftover rage. The words still echoed in his mind, over and over again.
“Maybe she's cheating too.”
He swallowed the second shot without much more than a quiver of his shoulders, much easier than the first one.
How dare you suggest that, as if you knew. As if you knew anything about the problems that came with being an adult. You were still a teenager, just barely out of your childhood years, and there you were, trying to act like you could and knew how to psychoanalyse his own wife.
The third shot hit harder, burned hotter, and he braced his hands against the counter as it settled in his chest, simmering down into his belly.
He didn't feel sorry for you. You'd overstepped, and you'd hurt him by doing so. He had a right to be angry, or so he told himself.
He left the small glass on the counter, not bothering to put the bottle away either. He barely managed to will himself into putting the cap back on.
He dragged himself upstairs, his body much heavier than it had been half an hour ago, and he stumbled into his bedroom. The room was cold, almost sterile, in a way.
He lay down, fully clothed, even his shoes still on his feet, and he stared up at the ceiling, his breath reeking of vodka with each exhale.
Something aching gnawed at the edges and backs of his eyes, something he recognised but didn't want to admit to himself that it was what he was feeling. Guilt. It stung him uncomfortably, but it was the truth that he wasn't ready to look at yet.
You hadn't moved, not really. You'd tucked your legs up to your chest, lay like a fetus, but that was about it. The tears that were gathered in the corners of your eyes threatened to spill at any given moment, the blur obstructing your vision, so you opted for closing your eyes completely.
God, you should've just kept your mouth shut.
It wasn't your place, and you knew that.
The guilt chewed on your insides with its rotten, razor-sharp teeth. It felt like your organs were bruising.
At some point, the weight of it all became too much, settling in your stomach in a way that felt like you'd eaten your body weight in wet concrete, and now it was drying inside you. The endless pit in your stomach somehow deepened, the ache in your chest persisted, and the silent throb of being wrong in your body continued.
Sleep didn't come gently, though. It didn't approach, it dragged, ruthless and raw in its determination to make you miserable in your last moments conscious before finally letting you succumb to the all-consuming exhaustion.
Weeks passed like slow healing bruises.
Christmas came and went, but it didn't feel like anything. Nothing special, anyway. You didn't have anyone to spend it with. No family, no friends, just you behind the dingy till of the dodgy petrol station, fluorescent overhead lights buzzing as they blinded you with their harshness.
He didn't come back that night. Not to you or to the hotel. He didn't text you, not once. Instead, he spent more of his time with her.
You saw them once, twice, maybe three times, walking through town together, all bundled up for the cold. He wore a stupid bobble hat, a colourful scarf and mittens, holding a takeaway coffee cup in his hand while he carried shopping bags in the other. She wore a long, black puffy coat, mittens, and the same stupid looking wooly bobble hat.
He didn't see you, or he pretended not to. Either way, it felt like a punch to the gut.
New Year's Day passed by without even so much as a flicker of change. It just felt like another day to you, or what just another day had come to feel like for you. Even when the fireworks cracked through the air as midnight struck, it didn't feel any different.
But what did feel different was a certain day, a little less than a week after New Year's. The sixth of January. His birthday. His thirty-ninth birthday.
You remembered it from the moment you opened your eyes on the morning of, and it wilted like a fading bruise in your heart. Soft, sore, tender and inescapable.
You thought about texting him, just a simple happy birthday, maybe accompanied by an emoji, a heart or a smiley face, but you ultimately decided against it. You didn't want to shatter anything else anymore than it already was.
He woke up in a mood that he couldn't shake all day. Tight-chested and short-tempered. It had been building up for the past couple of weeks or so, and he'd tried to blame it on everything except what he knew it was. Chalking it up to the weather, the cold days and sludgy snow, or the pressure of ageing, the aching joints and heightened exhaustion, or the ache in his jaw from how he'd been clenching it all night, every night, due to the pent-up tension and irritation he'd been refusing to let blow off.
But deep down, a part of him knew what it really was. It was you. Or rather, the absence of you.
He hadn't seen you in weeks, not since he'd shouted at you and abandoned you in that hotel room alone. He thought putting distance between you two would fix it, would fix him, mend the breaks and cracks that he knew only you could, even if you didn't do anything physical. Being close to you was his medicine.
That night, his wife booked a meal at a fancy restaurant for dinner, saying she wanted him to feel special. She wore a slim red dress, the hem ending at her mid-thigh, the kind of thing she only wore once in a blue moon, and she curled her hair and coloured her lips in a shimmery crimson lipstick.
He wore a soft white dress shirt that was just a little bit too big for him, and his black tailored suit trousers. He only loosely wrapped a black tie around his neck when she told him he looked too casual.
He barely tasted the food, all of the flavours merging into one as he blocked out her rambling from across the table. The expensive wine tasted so bland to him, it may as well have been water.
Because all he could think about was you.
The meal ended with a bitter tiramisu he barely touched, followed by a quiet drive home, save for her soft humming to some cheesy romantic ballad playing on the radio. She had one hand resting on his thigh, fingers brushing against the linen of his trousers, but the moment she parked the car, he climbed out and stepped inside, letting himself in without waiting for her, without even holding the door open.
When she came in after him, she slipped off her heels quietly and tucked them beneath the entryway table with a soft click as they tapped against the floor once more, and she mumbled some complaint about her feet hurting. It made him scowl.
She made her way into the living room and curled up beneath a soft blanket in the corner of the couch, and when he stepped into the doorframe, she extended her arm towards him. “Come here, birthday boy.”
He pressed his tongue against the side of his inner cheek before sucking his teeth. He opened his mouth again with a pop as he said, “I think I'm gonna go see the lads for a bit now.”
She frowned. “Tonight?”
“Yeah. Haven't seen them for a while.”
“But it's late, Al. And it's your birthday.”
“Exactly,” he replied, pushing himself off of the doorway and moving back to the entry hallway. “I'll be back later.”
He yanked his tie loose from around his neck and hung it on the front door handle before pulling it open, stepping out and closing it behind him, undoing the top few buttons of his shirt as he quickly made his way to his car.
He hardly realised what exactly he was doing until he was halfway across the city, but he knew exactly where he was going, exactly which corners to turn and which roads to follow.
He'd dropped you off more times than he could count, always waiting for you to turn around a final time and give him that small smile and wave before he allowed himself to leave. He'd never been up, never even asked, but he could recognise the street name and the winding of the roads that led up to it from a mile away.
When he parked, he sat there for a moment, the flickering street light reflecting off of his windshield, and it hit him. How much he missed you, how much he needed to see you again.
He stumbled out of his car, shut the door softly and made his way towards the opening of the block of flats. The lights inside were somehow even harsher than the street lights outside, but he climbed the first set of steep stairs, then the second, then the third before he stood in front of your door.
He took a deep breath, his heart weighing heavy in his chest, and he brought his hand up to knock. Just a couple short hits of his knuckles against the white door, the paint peeling off in more places than one.
When the first knock echoed through your flat, you barely blinked. It was far too late for anyone decent to be turning up at your door.
You were lay on your tattered old settee, knees hugged to your chest with an equally tattered blanket, held together by a few strings and hopes and dreams.
You hadn't even bothered to properly get dressed, just in a soft, worn t-shirt with holes and tears scattered around the collar, a pair of shorts you'd owned since you were fifteen, and mismatched socks with rips at the toes.
Your hair was a mess, every single strand going in a different direction. You looked tired.
When the knock came again, firmer, more insistent this time, you sighed and dragged yourself up, half-expecting it to be your landlord coming to evict you over a bill that was three months overdue.
But when you unlocked the door and swung it open with a cool draft, there he was. Alex. In the clothes he must've worn out to dinner, you assumed, and the moment his eyes met yours, he opened his mouth, and what came out was low and hoarse.
“I'm sorry.”
That was it. No excessive speech, no frantic excuses, no dramatic explanation. Just a word that sounded light, but felt like it carried the weight of the world.
You didn't say anything at first, just stepped aside to let him in, your shirt swaying slightly around your torso.
He stepped inside slowly, almost sheepish, tentative, and he glanced around quickly before settling his gaze back on you. His hands fidgeted in front of him as you closed the door with a click, and he bit the inside of his cheek.
“I'm- I shouldn't have-” he started, the words spilling out faster than he could structure them properly. “I was… I was really wrong that night. I know I was. I just… I was just angry. Not at you, not… not really. I just-” he stopped himself. “I'm sorry.”
You nodded, your lips slightly pursed, and you swallowed the lump in your throat, making room for the words to come out. “I'm sorry too,” you whispered. “It wasn't my place to say what I said.”
He looked at you properly, his eyes drifting over every crevice of your face, studying the details in a different light, and he slowly, cautiously took a step forward, and his hand rose to cup your cheek in his palm. His eyes searched yours for any sign of hesitation, any hint of doubt, but when you didn't pull back, when your lips parted just a little and the breath caught in your throat, he leaned in.
He pressed his lips to yours, your mouths fitting together like two puzzle pieces destined to be slotted together.
He gently sucked on your lower lip before tugging on your top one with his teeth, and he cupped the back of your head as you moved together, in perfect harmony.
When he pulled back, it was only by a breath, and he stroked your cheek with his thumb, gazing into your eyes like they were the only thing keeping him sane, and in a way, they were.
Your fingers gripped the front of his open shirt, clinging to him, your fingertips brushing against the soft hairs beneath it. “I missed you,” he murmured. “So fucking much.”
You swallowed, and before you could reply, reciprocate, his lips were on yours again, his tongue licking along your lower lip, tracing it like he was marking out a secret pass code to gain access, and you parted your lips slightly, letting his tongue invade your mouth. He licked along your tongue, along the sides of your teeth and tracing patterns on the insides of your cheeks.
When he pulled back again, his lips were wrapped around the tip of your tongue, and he released it before pressing his forehead to yours, his hands bracing on either side of your face.
“I don't know why I thought it would work. Trying to move on, I mean. You mean so much to me, petal.”
You felt your heart thud, and you were sure it was audible to him. “I missed you too.”
One hand gently travelled down your body, over your ribcage, your waist and your hips, down to your thigh, and he rested it there, thumb gently stroking the soft skin.
You pulled back just enough to look at him properly, but not enough to break contact, the tips of your noses still lightly touching, and you said, “Do you… wanna go to my bedroom?”
The corners of his mouth twitched, not exactly a smile, but far from a frown. He nodded a little, just once. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I do.”
You nodded as well, a gentle smile playing on your lips, and you held his hand as you led him down the short hallway to your bedroom. Your flat was cluttered, a little messy, quite small, but it was yours. It was lived in, it was homey, it was cosy.
You pushed the door open with a squeak of the hinges and he stepped in after you, his hand slipping from your grip as you let go to pull your torn socks off.
The bed wasn't made, there were some clothes strewn across the floor, and there was a candle on the bedside table with a deep tunnel running down the middle from where you'd been too preoccupied with something else to scrape the wax off of the sides.
But none of that mattered to him. He was hyper focused, and only focused, on you. You climbed onto your bed, the mattress dipping beneath you, and you pulled the duvet up over your body, making his heart stutter.
He quickly worked on undoing his linen suit trousers, tugging them down his legs and nearly tripping over them as they pooled around his ankles in the midst of his desperation to get them off.
He burrowed into your bed beside you, faint, light hairs dusting over his thighs and brushing against your skin as he nestled into you, his lips finding your forehead as if you were a magnet.
He propped himself up above you with one hand, the sheets creasing beneath the weight, and he used his other to hook beneath the waistband of his boxers, tugging them down to his knees before lifting them one at a time to yank them down his calves and tossing them off of the bed.
He settled himself between your legs as you lay on your back before him, his cock hot and throbbing, twitching slightly as he rubbed his hands over your thighs, down your legs, and over the soles of your feet, and his length wagged slightly as he shuffled closer.
You let him maneuver and shift your legs however he pleased, and he brought one of your feet to his face and pressed his nose to the ball of your foot, breathing in slowly as his eyes fluttered shut, taking it in completely.
He rubbed his thumb over the arch before he set it back down, his reverent hands returning to your thighs.
He glanced up at you, meeting your gentle eyes, and for a moment, he felt a little embarrassed by what he wanted to ask.
“Will you, um… can you touch me with your feet?”
You smiled. You knew it wouldn't be long before he asked you for something as full on as that. You nodded, and murmured, “Of course.”
He took a deep breath, his face flushing as he tried to hide how much it turned him on behind a bitten lip and half-lidded eyes.
He guided your feet towards his aching cock, and he moaned, half-cry, half-whine, as soon as your toes just barely grazed over the sensitive skin of his shaft. He muttered a half-hearted apology, barely able to keep himself together as you stroked him with your soles, and he closed his eyes, knowing he wouldn't be able to last for more than a few seconds if he caught sight of your feet perched so beautifully around his dick.
He blindly held your ankle for something to ground him, to keep him from completely losing it, while you moved with ease, with grace, your arches cradling him like his shaft was something to be worshipped.
You smeared the precum that had beaded at the tip down over and along his cock, all the way down to the base where his wiry pubes lightly scratched and tickled your toes.
He exhaled sharply, a slight quiver underlying beneath the breath, and he forced his gaze downward, down to where your feet were wrapped around him, and his whole body jolted.
His thighs stiffened and his hips jerked forwards. You could have almost felt the surge of desperation shot through him.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his hands sliding up your legs, up to your knees and gripping tightly. “Stop, baby, stop…”
You stilled instantly, your eyes flickering up to look at him with a slight hint of confusion. “You okay?”
He breathed heavily, his chest that peeked through the open front of his shirt flushed, and his cock twitched and pulsed helplessly against your ankles. “Yeah…” he panted, peeling his eyes away from your feet. “Just… I don't want it to be over so soon.”
You nodded once, moving your feet away from his throbbing, dribbling shaft, and his fingers trailed along the soft backs of your thighs, before he hooked his fingers beneath the waistband of both your pyjama shorts and your panties, sliding them both down your legs at the same time with knew fluid motion. The air of your bedroom was cool against your newly exposed parts, but they were quickly heated up again by his fiery gaze.
You lifted your head up slightly, turning it towards your bedside table, and you reached over, tugging the drawer open before reaching in and grabbing a loose condom, still in the wrapper, that had fallen out of the small but battered little cardboard box they'd come in.
He took it with a gentle smile, before tearing the packet open and rolling it down his sensitive length with a small sigh.
He then leaned forward and pushed your shirt up until your chest was bare, your nipple tightened into small points, and the fabric bunched beneath your arms. He gently traced down your sides with his hands, loving and soft, before he gently pushed your legs up, one, then the other, placing them over his shoulders, the intimate shift bringing your bodies impossibly close.
His nose nudged yours, his face hovering just above yours while his cock brushed against your inner thighs, ghosting just over the spot where you craved him the most.
His hands came up to cradle your face, thumbs gently stroking your cheekbones, his palms warm against your skin.
“You're so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, thought his voice was gravelly and thick with the sheet weight of his desire.
You swallowed, barely breathing, your chest rising and falling against his, and he slowly rocked his hips as he adjusted his position, getting ready to slide in.
His grip on your face slightly faltered for a moment as he lined himself up, trying not to groan at just the thought of being inside of you.
He pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth and whispered, “Breathe in for me, petal…”
You did as he said, slow and steady, filling your lungs with the air that had likely already made its way around his body, just from how close your mouths were.
Then, with another subtle twitch of his hips, he slid inside slowly, carefully feeding every inch into your warm, welcoming cunt as it took him in, dousing him in slickness.
He moaned, the sound like a drug to your ears, and he continued his gradual, measured thrust inwards, stretching you with every inch that your pussy gratefully took in until your thighs trembled on his shoulders.
“There we go…” he cooed reassuringly as he finally reached the hilt, his thick cock nestled inside you like it belonged there. “There's my good girl…”
His hands didn't leave your face once, making sure you kept his gaze the entire time while he filled you, his thumbs brushing your temples.
“Being so good for me… fuck…” he crooned, his low hum faltering slightly as your walls squeezed him, pulling him deeper and holding him in. “Just like that.”
You whimpered something unintelligible, your voice quivering as he rocked his hips gently, filling you even more, helping you take even more of him.
“You feel so good… so warm and wet… I could stay in here forever,” he murmured, brushing a few of your stray hairs back with his knuckles.
His hips began to move, a slow, gentle roll as he eased you into it despite how many times you'd taken him by now. Each thrust was deliberate, careful, purposeful, and deep, and he held back the slight tremble in his thighs as he plunged further in.
His face scrunched up a little bit above yours, and he whispered, his tone bordering on a whine, “So fucking good…”
You whimpered in response, your walls fluttering around his girth, and you reached up, clutching at his shoulders, his neck, the collar of his shirt, just anything you could hold onto to anchor yourself.
“I know, sweetheart…” he murmured, his words sifting into your ears like sugar. “I know it's a lot. But you feel so good… taking me so deep…”
He was already close, you could feel it from the tenseness in his shoulders and the twitch of his shaft inside of you as his latex-covered tip kissed your cervix with each thrust.
“Squeezin’ me so tight…” he drawled, his tone dripping with sweetness like syrup. He nuzzled his nose against yours, fighting the urge to squeeze his eyes tightly shut and completely lose control over his body. “You're gonna make me cum…”
You kept your eyes on his, your gaze devastatingly heart-aching as you nodded, and he whispered encouragingly, “Yeah? You gonna cum too, baby?”
You nodded, your nose brushing against his as you moved your head, and he kissed your cheek, your forehead, your chin and your mouth, his hips still rolling into yours.
“You can let go, sweetheart. I'll be right there with you…” he cooed, coaxing. “Right there…”
And just like that, with your legs shaking over his shoulders and a daddy catching in your throat and spilling out somewhere between a gasp and a sob, you did.
You felt the muscles of your pussy spasm and contract around his length as you climaxed, your lower lip quivering from the intensity while you let out a long string of unintelligible curses.
He followed seconds later, his chest pressed tightly against yours as he spilled into the condom with a low, shuddering groan in your ear followed by a seemingly endless murmur of praises as he ground his hips into yours, riding out his high while prolonging yours.
He pressed his forehead against yours, squeezing his eyes shut tightly, and for a few moments, you both reveled in the comforting silence, punctuated by panting and the occasional whimper as he softened inside of you.
He pulled out slowly, his wide tip dragging along the sensitive ridges of your inner walls. He pulled the condom off, making an attempt to tie it once, then twice, before finally succeeding on the third attempt, and he lazily reached over and set it on your night stand.
He gathered you into his arms without another thought, your body still humming with the aftershocks of your gentle orgasm, and he peppered a few soft, loving kisses across your face, his stubble lightly scraping your soft skin.
For a long, tender while, neither of you spoke, letting the warmth of the silence envelop the two of you like an all-consuming cuddle, the only audible sound being the slow rise and fall of your chests as your breathing grew softer and slower as you came down.
You tilted your head up towards him, studying his face where time and age had left their marks, and your voice came, soft, barely breathless, and just above a whisper, “Happy birthday.”
He exhaled, his lips quirking up at your words before he looked down at you, his eyes reflecting a flicker of gratitude. “Thank you.”
He tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear before kissing the top of your head, his lips firm as he pressed them down, before the quiet took over again, holding you both in its calming embrace.
｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽
can i post my art on here some time? im only asking because they wont be alex or am related, i havent even drawn him in a while but ive been making a few attempts again recently. it's just because drawing has been feeling like a chore recently because i have to do it all the time for work and i miss just doing it for fun. on a different note, thank you @crowpill3d ive used about five different ideas in this that you inspired. love ya x
warnings : sex work, cheating, age gap (19 & 39), he is still very sad, unprotected sex, he pulls out, bath sex, riding, daddy kink, theres actually no feet in this one, hes weird
The steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek gently pulled you from your sleep, your face slightly squished against his warm, mildly sweaty chest that rose and fell in slow, steady movements as he held you tightly against him, one hand cradling the side of your face and holding you close. Your hair felt damp, stuck to both his skin and the cotton of his dress shirt he still hadn't taken off.
You could tell he was already awake before you even opened your eyes. You could feel his gaze burning into you through his heavy eyelids and his soft lashes. His breathing was too formulaic, a little too quick, and not quite as deep as it would be if he was still asleep. His thumb was gently stroking your cheekbone, his fingertips just barely grazing over your hairline as he admired you like a glittering constellation in the night sky.
He swallowed, the soft click of it just barely audible in the quiet of your room as the thick saliva rushed down his throat, like a subtle fracture in a glass, his Adam's apple bobbing with the small motion.
He adjusted his grip on you, one hand remaining firmly splayed across your lower back, his fingers spread wide, possessive, like he needed to be touching as much of you as humanly possible at once. His other hand held your face with deeply reverent care, as if he was scared to break you, like you were precious, fragile porcelain, or a treasured, irreplaceable jewel, and to him, you were.
He wanted to protect you from the cruel world around you, wanted to nurture you the way you deserve, wanted to hold you dearly when everything got too hard.
The feelings he had for you scared him. They festered in his stomach when you weren't next to him, tightly winding their way up his organs and bones like poison ivy, contaminating every inch of him with the way his body yearned for your touch, constricting and suffocating and aching persistently until he got to see you again.
The love he felt for you was like a bruise. A bruise that would form after you hurt yourself doing something you knew you weren't supposed to be doing anyway. A bruise that was so large and so deep, you'd have to hide for weeks after it formed, trying to disguise the forbidden way that it had bloomed. A bruise that came back again and again and again as you kept trying, really trying, to make what you knew you couldn't have work.
He sighed, brushing his thumb along your eyebrow gently, and you kept your eyes closed. His hand that had been holding your cheek slowly drifted down the soft skin of your neck, over your shoulders, across the bunched up fabric of your shirt that was still pulled up beneath your armpits from the night before, and his hesitant fingers sought out the flesh of your chest.
He cupped one of your tits in his palm, your other one pressed against his ribcage, and he squeezed it gently, not for pleasure, not to get himself horny, but just giving him something to hold onto, something physical to focus on to help prevent his mind from descending .
Your skin was warm against his hand, sending a gentle heat rippling through the veins in his wrist, up his arm, to his chest, and wrapping around his heart like a ribbon.
His lips jutted out a little as he pursed them slightly, and he brushed his thumb over the soft skin of your breast before freeing it from his grip, and he slipped his fingers beneath the fabric of your shirt, gently tugging it down over your chest to cover you up.
You kept your breathing slow, even, steady, keeping your eyes closed, and he tilted his chin down just slightly, pressing his dry lips to the top of your head. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the soothing scent of your hair and letting it fill his lungs like an internal cuddle. He couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, maybe honey, maybe berries, or maybe it was marshmallow, but it comforted him in a way he couldn't put into words.
You shifted on his chest with a small, bleary sigh, your skin that had been stuck to his from sweat peeling apart just slightly, and his hand came up to cradle your cheek again, his thumb brushing over your soft, plush lower lip as you flickered your eyes open.
A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he saw your lashes flutter, the slight movement mirroring a moth wing, and his fingertips gently ghosted your face, followed your jawline, brushed over your nose, and traced the soft lines of your neck.
His voice was rough with sleep as he spoke, deep and gruff, but his words were as sweet as caramel, the warmth drizzling over you like a blanket. “Good morning, beautiful girl…” he took a breath before continuing, his voice quieter, dropping to almost a whisper, but with no less sugar. “Are you awake, petal?”
You grunted softly in response, pulling your body taut on top of him as you stretched after sleep had tightened your muscles, the tension releasing from your body like sand through a sift. You'd been awake for a while, of course, just with your eyes closed, but you'd wanted to feel how he cared for you, loved you, cradled you, even when he thought you were asleep, even when he didn't know you could feel it.
“Big stretch, baby…” he murmured, almost like a coo, one hand rubbing slow, soothing circles over your back as he coaxed you awake. “You sleep well?”
You nodded, just a slight movement of your neck as you nestled further into him, and he welcomed it, holding you closer and tighter. “Mhm,” the soft hum barely made it past your lips, almost lost between you as you buried your face in his chest.
“Did you dream about anything?” he asked, his hand on your back settling between your shoulder blades, his palm warm against your skin as he sprawled his fingers out.
You tried to recall your dream, broken fragments and wisps of strange but vague memories from your sleep coming back to you in a jumbled, incomplete order, blurring anything that you might've remembered.
You shook your head the best you could, your cheek still squished against his sternum, and you heard him let out a small laugh, just a huff of air through his nose.
You could hear the smile in his voice as he said, “Do you remember if it was a good dream at least?”
His fingers traced small, spiralling patterns across your shoulders, like winding rivers, or a maze that he'd pay to get lost in if it meant being close to you.
“It was good,” you murmured, your voice still raspy, tainted by your drowsiness, and his hand came up to cup the back of your head as he pressed his lips to your hair once more, like he was unable to go more than a minute without contact.
You felt him smile against your scalp, just a slight tug of his lips, before he let his head fall back onto the pillow with a dull, cushioned thud, the soft fabric of the pillowcase crinkling where his head dented the cotton.
“You're beautiful, baby…” he said after a moment of quiet, his voice slightly airy, his heartbeat beneath your cheek speeding up slightly with each word he breathed. “Really. I look at you, petal, and it's like…” he sighed. “I don't know. It's selfish, really. Keeping you all to myself. You should be with someone your age.”
You swallowed hard at that, your fingers gently brushing over the crook of his neck. You knew the difference in your ages frightened him, that it was something that made him insecure, so you muttered, “Don't say that…”
“But it's true,” he replied insistently with his gruff voice, placing his hand over yours and holding it in his palm, his skin warm against yours. He brought it up to his lips, his eyes fluttering shut as he kissed it, rough and chapped against your gentle skin, before he released it with a muffled click, threading his fingers with yours.
You could feel his cock against your thigh, soft, but with a gentle pulse rippling through the length like a heartbeat. You lifted your head off of his chest, just by a little bit, your cheek damp, trying to ease the ache in your neck from being in the same position all night, and you looked down over him, over the moist, wiry hairs sprinkled across his chest, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his skin.
His shirt from the night before was still on, white, creased beyond belief, untucked, and half-unbuttoned, exposing most of his abdomen, one cuff still clasped and the other pushed up past his elbow.
The mattress creaked and groaned softly beneath you as you rolled off of him, the springs old and reluctant, and he looped his arms around your waist, keeping you tucked against him.
His hip was warm under your hand, his skin soft, veined, the way men's skin gets when they're ageing. Thinner, in a way, and papery in places. You didn't mind, you liked the feel of him. The years etched into the lines beside his eyes, the fine crease just above the bridge of his nose, the salt and pepper in his stubble that scratched lightly at your skin whenever he nestled his face against you.
He turned on his side with you, facing you, and he brushed a few strands of your hair behind your ear before he kissed your forehead, your thin, pilled duvet long abandoned and kicked down out of the way.
His fingertips brushed along the side of your neck, and his eyes flickered down to your lips for a moment, soft and plump, before he opened his mouth.
“I couldn't…” he began before pausing, his tongue poking out and swiping over his lower lip, wetting it. “I couldn't have a bath here, could I?”
You blinked, a little surprised, before you smiled, and you watched as it infected him, the corners of his lips pulling up just slightly. “I didn't think you were a bath person.”
“I'm not,” he said, a small huff of laughter leaving his lips as he tried to reword it. “I meant, I want one with you, petal. You like baths, don't you?”
His thumb stroked your cheekbone as he scanned over your face, and you met his eyes. His eyes had that look in them. That gloomy, solemn whisper floating somewhere deep in his iris, prominent for just a moment before dissipating like smoke, a warning sign, telling you that feelings were imminent.
He seemed to have an internal bullet point list of things about you, constantly adding, constantly updating, even the tiniest things you hadn't realised you'd said, he remembered.
“I do,” you murmured, and he pinched your cheek between his index finger and thumb like a baby, a grin breaking out onto his face as he saw your smile. He pressed a kiss to your skin as it flushed from the pressure, his eyelashes fluttering against your temple like butterfly wings.
Your smile was the most important thing to him. He'd do anything to squeeze one out of you, to see your eyes squint, to see your cheeks crease, to hear that little huff through your nose that acted as a laugh when you were too tired to give a proper one. Your happiness was everything to him.
You gently untangled yourself from his damp limbs and sat up, straightening the crinkled fabric of your shirt and pushing your hair out of your face. Your shirt felt cold, and slightly damp with last night's sweat, clinging to your spine. Your thighs ached a little from the way he had you the night before, practically folded in half, and you glanced back at him lay on your bed. He looked so out of place there. Bare, long-limbed, still in half a dress shirt in your dingy little bed, the springs squeaking beneath him every time he moved. It was a miracle it hadn't collapsed already.
You left him on his back in your bed as you padded barefoot to the bathroom, his cock lay limply between his legs and the hem of his creased shirt resting on the tops of his thighs. He tucked one hand behind his head while he draped the other over his belly, his fingers idly playing with the small patch of hair there as he stared up at your ceiling, the plaster slightly cracked, and a damp spot in the corner invading like the moon darkening the daylight.
The bathroom floor tiles were cool against your feet as you stood beside the bath, the grouting beside the tub still stained slightly pinkish from when you tried dyeing your hair red a year ago. You leaned over the porcelain edge, and you gripped the slightly rusted hot tap, twisting it with all of the strength you could muster up before the stiff handle finally gave way, the water sputtering once, twice, before gushing out and steaming instantly, the temperature near scorching, flooding the room with the harsh crack of the stream thundering against the tub.
You pulled your hand from the tap, the strangely shaped red indent on your hand giving a slight ache as you clenched your fist around it, trying to ease the pain, and the sound of the water echoed in the small, dingy space, louder than it should've been, bouncing off of the cracked tiles and fogging up the mirror above the sink. That mirror, smeared with impossible to remove fingerprints and specks of old toothpaste dotted around like freckles, caught your reflection in slanted slices. You looked tired, flushed, fucked-out. You almost flinched.
You watched the water rise, the steam climbing quickly, the air growing thick and humid, sweetened as you poured in a peach-scented soap, the pink liquid ribboning through the water like syrup, spreading in lazy clouds before the harsh flow of the tap swallowed it. Thin, white foam gathered at the surface like a frothy blanket, clinging to the sides of the porcelain and rising with the waterline, as the sweet peach scent merged into the steam that rose from the bath.
You leaned down and let your fingers skim the top layer of the water. It was just hot enough to sting, to redden your skin for a few moments after, to boil away any tension that resided deep inside of your bones.
You watched the sheet of bubbles part and twirl beneath your touch, a few of them popping and disintegrating, the delicate skin of them rupturing silently, and you slowly swirled your hand through the sweltering water, watching as it lapped up the sides of the porcelain, greedily climbing higher as the tap continued to gush noisily.
The scent of artificial peaches continued to fill the air in the small room, acidic, sweet, and sickly familiar, comforting, in a way. A scent you'd come to associate with your down time, relaxation, when you can let yourself simmer in the quiet as the water washed away even your most secluded troubles.
The fog made the room feel smaller, like it was folding in on you, the walls closing in as the steam thickened.
You heard the springs of your mattress creak, just barely audible over the loud crack of the water, as Alex moved, maybe sitting up, maybe getting out, maybe just shifting in the sheets you hadn't washed for a week. You stayed still, your feet rooted to the peeling linoleum floor, watching the water continue to rise and swirl.
You waited until the water reached just below the rim, just by a few inches, the foam thick and inviting, bubbling gently across the surface like clouds. A few small clusters of suds clung to the sides, sliding down slow and lazy, dissipating into the heat. The scent of peach hung heavier now, warm as it travelled through your nose, but almost burning from the intensity of it as it hit the back of your throat, making it itch.
You leaned over and gripped the tap, interlocking your fingers with the rusty metal, and you tugged and twisted it off with a stiff squeak of reluctance from the handle before it coughed and sputtering, the stream finally coming to a stop. The last few dregs of water in the pipe continued to leak through the tap, dripping rhythmically onto the surface with tiny, muted sounds, disturbing the stillness of the water and the otherwise quietness of the room.
You stepped out through the doorway, the hinges creaking quietly as you pulled it open, and you padded back to the bedroom, the artificial sweetness of the soap oozing through the crack in the bathroom door and following you through the hallway.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed now, the mattress dipped beneath his weight, his elbows resting on his thighs and his hands hanging loose between his knees. His white dress shirt was gone, crumpled and discarded beside him on the sheets, leaving him completely bare, his skin flushed in places and still carrying the glow of last night's sweat, slightly dappled from where your hands had held him, gripped him, marked him.
His chest rose, slow and heavy, the muscles there slightly soft with age, dusted with fine, dark hairs that shadowed across the centre of his chest. His cock hung between his thighs, thick and unbothered, already half-hard.
He looked up when he heard you, and his eyes softened instantly. That raw, tired tenderness that he only ever showed you in mornings like these, early and quiet, before the day ruined him again.
“Bath's ready,” you said softly, a small smile flickering over your lips as you looked over him, over his tousled brown hair, his big, deep eyes, the subtle hue of pink to his dry lips.
He didn't say anything at first, just reached for you, slow, and when you stepped between his knees, his hands came up to your hips, warm and certain, before drifting up your sides, caressing slowly, letting them rest on your waist. He pulled you in gently, the outer sides of your thighs brushing against the insides of his, and he tilted his head upwards to kiss your sternum, just once, but his lips lingered, keeping them pressed to your skin as he closed his eyes like it was the only place he'd ever want to be.
Then again, slightly lower, on your ribcage, just beneath your boobs, pressing his face against you as he kissed that soft spot. He moved again, lower once more, to just above your navel, his forehead pressed to your abdomen as he succumbed to the kiss.
You brought your hands to the back of his head, lightly tugging on the strands of his hair as you threaded your fingers through it, and you held him close, his hands lightly squeezing your waist as he pulled back, his lips parted.
You looked down at him, holding his head in your hands, and you scanned his eyes as he gazed right back up at you, trying to see if you could see anything floating in his eyes, worry, distress, or something that would gloss over his eyes in the way that always made your heart ache when you saw him like that.
“Come on,” you whispered as his hands ran across your lower back slowly. “It'll get cold.”
He gave a faint hum, but didn't argue, instead pressing one more kisses to your belly before standing, his body brushing right up against yours, warm and bare, and he let you guide him to the bathroom, trailing after you like a shadow.
He stepped in after you, his hand finding the small of your back once more like gravity, and you turned to face him, only catching a glimpse of him for a second before his mouth was on yours, slow and deliberate. Not rushed, not urgent, not frantic, just a tender pressing of lips, as if he hadn't had enough of you yet. His thumb brushed your cheekbone as he deepened it, and when he finally pulled back, he kissed the corner of your mouth too, then the dip in your chin, like he was unable to go even a few seconds without it.
You smiled against his mouth, the feeling of his kisses combined with the overwhelmingly sweet peach scent in the air making you dizzy.
His fingers found the hem of your shirt, still rumpled, and he peeled it up over your shoulders, slow and careful, like he didn't want to stop touching you for even a second. You lifted your arms without a word, letting him undress you, and he pulled it over your head before letting the fabric drop to the floor, leaving you both bare in the steam, flushed from the heat and the weight of each other's gaze.
He looked at you properly then, no attempted pretence, just that sad, quiet awe he always wore when he thought you weren't watching, like you were something he didn't deserve but couldn't bring himself to walk away from.
You folded your arms over your belly as you watched him lean over the bath, one hand gripping the edge, and he dipped two fingers into the water, but the moment his skin touched the surface, he hissed and yanked his hand back with a startled laugh, shaking the droplets off with a flick of his wrist.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered, his eyes flickering up to you once more. “You trying to boil me alive, petal?”
You let out a soft laugh, glancing down over the water. “You'll get used to it. It's meant to be that hot. It's how I like it.”
You watched as he tutted before he hesitantly stepped over the rim of the bath, careful and slow, his foot cautiously dipping into the water like he expected it to bite, and in a way, it did, just not with teeth. The moment it sank beneath the surface, he winced, pressing his lips together tightly as his face scrunched up, his whole body tensing as if he'd just been electrocuted.
“Christ alive,” he murmured through gritted teeth, one of his hands braced on the wall while the other dangled at his side. “You should've told me you liked them this hot before. I would've done them for you.”
You smiled. “You don't seem too keen on it now.”
“I'd've been happy to watch you.”
You ran your hands along your sides as he grumbled something about human soup before slowly lowering himself into the bath, slow and stiff, until the water swallowed his thighs, then his hips, then his belly, his face twisting into an exaggerated grimace as he sank down, his back meeting the porcelain with a sigh that was half pain and half surrender.
He pursed his lips, his lower one jutting out as he blinked slowly, his fringe already damp against his forehead from the humidity. His forearms rested on either side of the tub, his fingertips idly brushing over and smearing the bubbles that clung to the sides as his breathing slowed, relaxing despite the scalding temperature.
He looked up at you expectantly, just to see you gazing down at him submerged in the water. “You getting in, love?”
You smiled as you stepped forward, turning away from him as you lifted one leg over, easing your foot in, and you felt one of his hands slide up the back of your thigh before resting just above your ass cheek to steady you. His other hand came up to your waist, holding you as your second foot followed, and you settled yourself between his legs, the water climbing over your limbs and wetting your skin in glistening sheets. He looped his arms around your waist, just beneath your tits, his forearms pressed to your stomach as he pulled you closer to him, your back flush against his chest.
It was quiet for a while, the kind of quiet that always came with the bath, muffled and womb-like. Just the soft sound of water against skin, the faint fizz of the last stubborn bubbles giving up, and the occasional groan of an old pipe behind the wall.
You let your head fall back onto his shoulder, the back of your skull cradled against the hollow of his throat, and he turned his face slightly, nuzzling his cheek against your temple. You could feel his stubble, coarse and damp, scraping gently against your skin, and he kissed your hair, just once, without a sound as his lips met your scalp.
He tightened his arms around you, not crushing, just close, like he needed to feel all of you, every inch, to remind himself that the world wasn't all bad. He sighed in the way you'd grown painfully familiar to. It had become a sort of warning sign for your nerves, to brace themselves for the tsunami of emotions that were to follow.
“Sometimes I think she's waiting for me to end it,” he said after a pause, his voice just audible over the soft sound of damp skin against damp skin as he rubbed his hand along your torso. “Like she wants me to be the villain. Like she wants an excuse. But neither of us want to be the one to actually do it.”
He closed his lips, and you could hear the quiet, slick sound of his tongue wetting them as he prepared his mouth to shape his next words, breathing softly against your hair.
The heat of the water now settled into something bearable for him, almost comforting, like being wrapped in a blanket after being outside in the cold, the way the warmth seeped into your skin, through your veins, down to your bones, melting away the chill.
His voice came again as your legs brushed against each other beneath the water, making the surface ripple slightly.
“I lie awake at night sometimes, when I'm with her,” he said, his voice rough as if he needed to cough. “I just stare up at the ceiling, and she'll just be lying beside me asleep. If she's even in bed with me, that is. She doesn't care.”
You didn't move, couldn't move, his grip holding you like a vice.
“When I wasn't seeing you, after that argument…” he swallowed, his voice going brittle with regret as he thought about it. “I'm sorry, baby…”
He pressed his forehead to the top of your hair, his eyes squeezing shut as he let out a shaky breath.
Your heart ached, your stomach clenching at the sound of his guilt. You placed your hand over his beneath the water, giving it a small squeeze, and he sniffled before he continued.
“When I wasn't seeing you, I was really trying to make it work with her. I really fucking tried,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “I bought her flowers, I cooked for her, I cancelled work shit just to spend time with her, took her out to the stupid fucking restaurants that she likes.”
You felt his chest rise a little sharper, a little harsher, his breath catching half way through his throat.
“I can't even remember the last time we laughed together. Like, properly laughed. One that makes your stomach hurt. We used to all the time, even when things were rough, before… this. Now she barely looks at me. I don't know if I want her to.”
He paused, his lips brushing your hair again, absentminded, or maybe just to keep himself from falling apart completely. He let out a soft but bitter laugh.
“I took her shopping, all those fuckin' Christmas markets. She didn't even thank me. And when we got home, she just went straight upstairs. Not even a fuckin' goodnight.”
Your fingers squeezed his hand beneath the water, but he didn't squeeze back, he just breathed, heavy and tired.
“She used to kiss my neck in the mornings,” he continued, his voice tight. “When she thought I was still asleep. Just… I don't know. And then she'd put the kettle on, and I'd lie there with my eyes shut pretending I didn't notice.”
He paused again, trying to dissect his own words.
“I miss that version of her,” he whispered. “Even if she was faking it. If she was, then I miss the part of me that believed it was real.”
His voice broke on the last part, but he didn't cry. Not physically, anyway. But something inside of him gave way. You felt it ripple through his body like a wave. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, and you let him, his eyes scrunched against your skin as he tried to keep anything that might spill out in. You reached up and tangled your fingers in the back of his hair, holding him there, reminding him that you were there.
Neither of you spoke for a while, the water cooling slightly around you, still warm, but not as sharp, not as biting. You watched as the steam kissed the mirror, and as the little droplets slid down the glass in crooked trails, leaving behind a shiny line in their wake before disappearing into the mist.
He shifted behind you, as best as he could in the small space, and you felt the water lap at your limbs from his movements as he pressed his lips to your nape, featherlight.
You felt his mouth shape each word against your skin as he spoke. “I don't know what's wrong with me.”
“There's nothing wrong with you,” you whispered, the feeling of him behind you sending a trail of goosebumps rippling across your skin.
He didn't reply, but you could tell he didn't believe you. He just let his hands continue to drift across your abdomen, slow, absent but reverent.
“I just really feel like I'm wasting my life,” he said after a moment. “Wasting it with someone who's already gone. But if I leave, completely, officially, physically, it'll mean I failed. And I don't know if I can handle any more.”
You turned your head slightly, not enough to look at him properly, but just enough to catch a glimpse of him in your peripheral vision. You could tell that his eyes were half-lidded, his lashes clumped and heavy. He looked so tired, like every last dreg of life had been wrung out of him.
“I don't care about her anymore,” he added, and the way he said it made your heart tighten in your chest. “Not in the way I should. But I still feel like I'm cheating when I'm with you.”
Your breath caught, not out of hurt, but out of surprise. You were shocked that he was so willing to admit it, to say it out loud, something you knew he was afraid to do if he knew the words he uttered would try and bite back.
He hadn't said it before, but you'd felt it. Of course you did. In the way he always looked around when he was out with you, constantly checking, constantly anxious. In the way he'd always hesitate, just for half a second, before kissing you like he meant it. You didn't blame him, but it still ached.
He kissed your shoulder, his fringe lightly tickling your skin, and he whispered, tender, quiet, “But this…” his hands splayed across your stomach again, his fingers spreading out like spiders. “You. This is the only part of my life that I look forward to anymore.”
You swallowed, and you felt his breath against your back now, even warmer than the bath water you were both submerged in.
“The shitty little hotel rooms I see you in,” he murmured, almost to himself, his voice tight like a piece of elastic being pulled taut, nearing the breaking point. “The way you look at me like I'm not completely gone. The way you listen to me when I'm like this. The way you let me fuck you when I'm hurting.”
His voice cracked towards the end, like he was embarrassed, but he moved his head, slightly lower this time, his lips brushing against the soft skin just behind your ear.
“I don't want to go back tonight,” he breathed, his voice brittle. “Please don't make me go back.”
Your eyes trailed over the chipped enamel of the bath, before you leaned your head back against his shoulder, and one of his hands came up to the base of your throat, his fingers spread out slightly, and he held you there as his lips found the side of your neck, dragging his dry lips along the soft, damp skin.
His lips were warm, slow, tender, and he pressed them just below your ear and you sighed, tilting your head further to one side to give him better access.
“You can stay here again tonight,” you whispered softly, and you felt the muscles in his stomach that were pressed against your lower back tighten, twitch, in the way they always did just before his blood rushed, and his cock gave a low pulse behind you like punctuation.
He let out a soft sigh against your neck, his hand on your throat drifting down to your chest as he cupped one of your tits in his hand, his thumb lightly brushing over your nipple as it tightened into a hard peak against his touch.
He moaned softly as he squeezed your breast, the sound muffled by your skin, and you felt him stir against you, slowly hardening, the pressure nudging against the small of your back, and you reached behind you to lightly touch the side of his upper thigh underneath the water, your fingers gentle and reassuring.
He peeled his mouth from your neck as he felt the heat simmering in his belly, pressing up against his organs, and he licked his lips before saying softly, hesitantly, “Is it, um… is it okay without one today, baby?”
You tilted your head to the side slightly, just barely meeting his eyes, and there was a slight crease in his brow, and his gaze was a little too full. Not just of lust, but with exhaustion, sadness, longing for something to feel good. You nodded once. “Yeah.”
A flicker of something flashed through his iris, maybe gratitude, maybe pure, unadulterated joy, and his lips twitched. “Are you sure, petal?”
He looked over your face, scanning deeply for any ounce of uncertainty, trying to see if you were just agreeing to make him happy or if you truly wanted it, but he found none.
You nodded again, his fingers squeezing your tits and trying to pull you impossibly closer as he pressed his lips to your skin once more.
“Thank you, baby…” he whispered, his voice slightly strained, and his other hand travelled down to your thighs before he flattened it against your soft flesh beneath the water, his cock continuing to stiffen as he touched you.
His hands finally found your hips, and he gripped them as his cock pressed against his belly, wedged between his stomach and your lower back, throbbing and twitching with anticipation as he slowly lifted your hips as much as he could.
You bent your knees, your feet now planted on the porcelain floor of the tub beside the inner sides of his calves, and you leaned further back against him as his fingers found your heat, dragging his fingers over your folds and feeling the slickness, even in the water.
You gripped the edge of the bath with one hand as he looped his fist around his cock, and he exhaled shakily. He was so sensitive, so needy, that even his own fingers made him twitch.
The stretch when you sank down onto him was slow, almost torturously so, and he let out a long, shaky moan, the warmth constricting him in a way that made his toes curl.
You could feel every inch of him in ways you hadn't been able to before. Now with no barrier, no latex, absolutely nothing between you dulling the sensation. Just heat, just skin, just the tight pulse of your body adjusting around him.
His head fell back against the edge of the tub with a moan, his eyes fluttering shut. “Fucking hell…” he whined.
He held your hips tightly as you took him all in, his tip pressing against your cervix with a pressure that made your muscles tighten, and you both stilled for a moment, adjusting, your knees still bent in front of you, poking above the surface of the water, the air cool against your skin, contrasting the tepid water the enveloped the rest of your body.
He was deep inside of you, thick and hot, every slow throb making you clench gently around him, holding his cock in.
“It feels so different,” you breathed, your tone airy and laced with a soft whimper.
“It's too good,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “You're so warm, baby… you're holding daddy in so well…”
His lips gently traced along your jawline while one of his hands slipped between your legs, lightly running along the inside of your thigh, teasing you, barely ghosting over where he knew you ached, where you itched for him to touch.
You shifted slightly in his grip, easing your weight while the water rippled quietly, lapping against the sides of the tub, but you were careful, your movements measured and slow. The last thing either of you needed was a flood in your tiny little bathroom. The bath was barely deep enough for both your bodies, and even the smallest shift sent warm waves licking over the porcelain lip.
His thumbs stroked soft, continuous circles on your hips like he was trying to soothe you, or himself. “You alright, petal?” he asked quietly, his voice low and hoarse.
You nodded, gripping the rim of the tub for balance, the cold enamel biting into your palm a sharp contrast to the storm of heat swelling inside of your lower belly.
You rose slowly, gradually lifting your hips inch by inch until just the leaking, scorching hot tip of him remained inside you. The water followed your movement, lapping gently around your thighs and your waist as he held onto you, your hips, your ass, your lower back.
You sank back down onto him, letting him fill you again, the head dragging along the most sensitive parts inside of you, leaving a trail of salty precum along your walls in its wake. His cock pressed against your insides, hot and bare, and you could feel every tiny detail of him. The thickness, the curve, the ridges, the veins, the stretch as your body swallowed him down.
His breath hitched behind you, and you felt his fingers tighten on your flesh, just a little, not urging you, not rushing you, just holding you there, like he needed something to hold on to to guide him through the sensations as you made him take it.
“Fuck, baby…” he murmured, pressing his forehead against the back of your shoulder.
You stayed there for a moment, your thighs trembling slightly as you adjusted, and just as the water had gone still once more, you moved again, slow, so slow, so slow it barely counted as movement at all. Just the smallest roll of your hips, easing up and down in a rhythm that matched the lazy swish of water around your bodies. The friction was deeper this way. Slower, hotter, more intimate. With no barrier between you, it felt like his cock was nudging against your soul.
You tightened around him instinctively, and he let out a low sound in response, something that was caught between a groan and a gasp and a whine. His grip slid lower, his fingers digging into the soft flesh at the tops of your thighs, like he couldn't control himself.
“Shit…” he whispered through clenched teeth. “You feel so good like this, love…”
You didn't answer, you just kept moving, gentle, steady, up and down, your pace almost torturous, in a way. You weren't trying to chase anything yet, just the feeling of him inside of you, the slow, liquid stretch, the way your body opened for him so willingly, was enough for now.
Your head dropped forward slightly, your chin brushing against your chest and your lips parting slightly, and the scent of sickly sweet artificial peaches harshly invaded your nostrils once more, tugging you from the haze of pleasure with the intensity.
You lifted your head, the water sliding over your skin with each movement, catching the morning light from the bathroom window in soft glints.
His chest was warm behind your back, his hot breath fanning over your shoulders as he panted. One of his hands drifted up your damp body, over your stomach, across your ribcage, settling just beneath your breast, his palm flat. He wasn't groping, wasn't squeezing, just resting it there, like he needed to feel you breathing.
You reached for his hand, your fingers sliding up the wet skin of his arm to get to it, and you covered it with your own as you rode him, your hips rising and falling in that slow, careful rhythm, the water kissing the edge of the tub but nothing spilling over. Yet.
The rhythm had began to dribble into something deeper, something smoother, your hips moved in slow, fluid rolls, and your thighs trembling just slightly as you worked yourself over him. The water sloshed around your bodies with each motion, licking at the edge of the tub like a warning.
He was so deep inside of you, every movement making your body tighten around him in slow waves, and you could feel him throbbing, heavy, warm, helpless, with every grind of your hips.
His hand squeezed yours while the other slid back to your hip, his fingers gripping a little firmer now. “Go faster,” he murmured, voice rough and needy against your shoulder as his cock twitched helplessly against your inner walls.
You hesitated, just for a second, before you nodded, and you shifted your knees to find a little more leverage, and you began to move again, this time a touch quicker, still careful, still measured, but increasing the pace the best you could. A bit more sound rose from the water, the tiniest splash, but you managed to keep it under control.
“Mhm…” he breathed, his lips parting around a soft moan. “That's it, petal… that's better.”
But he didn't even let a full minute pass before his grip tightened again, and you felt his greedy cock twitch inside of you, his body trying to thrust up slightly beneath yours even as he tried to hold himself back.
He pressed his lips together, trying to seal them to keep the words from spilling out, but he couldn't hold them in. “Faster, baby. Please. Just a little bit more for daddy.”
You bit your lip and braced your palms harder against the edge of the bath, and you tried, you really tried, to pick up the pace again. It wasn’t easy, not in the slippery porcelain tub doused in that peach soap, not with the water threatening to surge every time your thighs dropped harder onto his, but you gave him more. Shaky, careful bounces, the slap of your skin barely muted by the shallow water.
It still wasn’t enough for him.
He whined, a proper, needy, desperate whine, his forehead pressing into your spine as his fingers dug deeper into your hips, bound to leave persistent marks in their wake. “Fuck, come on. Faster, love. I need it, baby, I need you.”
His voice was at the edges, breaking with every other word, his palpable desperation bleeding through every syllable. You felt his cock pulse inside you like a second heartbeat, so thick and twitchy now, like he was barely holding back.
You winced a little as your heel slipped slightly on the enamel beneath your feet which was slick with a thin sheen of soap that had settled there. The bathwater sloshed hard against the side, a sharp wave that nearly spilled over, and you stilled, panting, your pussy aching with the desire to go faster, to take him deeper, but the physical consequences threw you off.
“I can't,” you said, looking down at the trembling water, distorting and warping your body parts beneath it, making things appear rippled and larger than they actually were. “If I go any faster, the water will spill over.”
He let out a shaky laugh, half pained and half apologetic, his head falling back against the edge of the tub again, his Adam's apple on full display, and his eyes fluttered shut, his chest rising and falling against your back.
“Sorry, baby,” he breathed. “You just… you feel so good, petal.”
You looked over your shoulder at him as he opened his eyes slowly. They were dark with need, heavy-lidded like his eyelashes weighed a tonne, and his pupils were blown out wide, almost bigger than his deep brown iris.
You leaned back against him again, rolling your hips just once, slow and deep, squeezing around him to pull a reaction from him. His breath hitched, and he gripped your waist again, this time just to hold you there, steady and still, and you said softly, “I'll go as fast as I can.”
You managed to find a rhythm, the fastest you were able to go without the water tipping over the sides. It wasn’t frantic, it wasn't rough, but it was steady, intentional, purposeful, and it made him claw at your sides.
Your thighs burned with the effort, your knees slightly wobbling as your feet pressed harder into the slick floor of the tub, but you didn’t stop. You moved for him, your hips rocking back and forth, up and down, your back arching gently against his chest, water lapping quietly with each motion. It was everything but silent between you, though. His soft groans, your stuttered breaths, the muted, barely audible sound of him sliding in and out of you beneath the water.
His hands were everywhere, one tight on your waist to steady you while the other trailed forward across your belly. His touch was slow at first, almost hesitant, in a way, but then his fingers slipped between your legs, finding the slick ache of you above where you took him in.
You jerked slightly, your hips faltering in their rhythm as his fingers brushed your clit, sweet and reverent, putting all of his care into the tiny movement. He did it again, more deliberately this time, in soft, slow, continuous circles, like he was matching your pace, and it made your moan catch in your throat, tumbling out of your mouth in a gentle but broken crescendo.
You gasped when he pressed a little firmer, his fingers moving in tighter, quicker circles, and his cock pulsed inside of you as your walls fluttered around him, around his thickness. Every sensation felt heightened, saturated, the heat of the water, the slick slide of your bodies, the weight of his cock inside. He was whispering things now, half-formed thoughts, a stream of babbled consciousness that sounded like both a praise and a prayer, and still, you continued to move.
You rolled your hips a little harder, a little faster, the water sloshing dangerously close to the rim, but you didn’t care anymore. Not really. You needed it. You needed him. All of him.
“Gonna cum,” you panted frantically, brokenly, your hand desperately clinging to the side of the bath to keep you tethered.
“Yeah, petal?” he coaxed, his voice tinged with a whine, his neediness seeming to bleeding into his hand as his fingers quickened on your clit in small, fast circles. “Come on, baby, cum for daddy. I've got you.”
His other arm curled around your waist, pulling you closer as his cock twitched again inside of you, thick and aching, and you could feel him holding back, just barely, just enough to hold on until you came.
And that was it, with a few more flicks of his wrist and a few more bounces of your hips, that tether inside of you snapped, your body tensing and your breath catching in your throat as the wave broke through you. You came with a quiet, shuddering cry, your muscles clenching hard around him, desperately holding him in, your thighs trembling as you fell forward slightly. The heat, the closeness, the intensity, it all drowned you.
He clutched your waist, his hand on your clit cramping with the franticness as he desperately tried to hold back until he'd fucked you through it completely, his balls drawing up tight beneath you.
His face scrunched up like he'd just sucked on a lemon, chewing on his lower lip as his thighs tensed, rock solid under the pressure of trying to hold back.
“Baby, I'm gonna-” he whined, his voice strained beyond belief.
You nodded, barely able to speak, and you lifted yourself up off of him just in time for him to slip free.
He wrapped his hand around himself with a sharp breath, his cock slick and flushed pink beneath the water, and he only pumped it once, twice, before he came with a low, broken groan, thick spurts painting and splattering across your lower back and the surface of the water, his forehead dropping to the back of your neck as his entire body trembled behind you, panting, spent, the tension finally melting away from his limbs.
Silence settled in the bathroom, broken only by the faint ripple of water and your breathing, shallow, matching his, and he pressed a soft kiss to your spine, his breath hot against your skin as he leaned in.
You leaned back against him, your heart still racing, and you closed your eyes, letting yourself bask in the afterglow of your orgasm as his hands gently caressed your hips, his grip looser now, but still holding on, still connected.
“I never feel like this with her,” he murmured, his words hanging between you for a moment in the quiet as he racked his mind for more words. “I don't think she cares whether I cum or not.”
You said nothing, as always, just letting him speak, and you felt the pulse in his wrist against your belly, slow, steady, human.
“She used to touch me afterwards. And hug me. And kiss me,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “Now she just… leaves me. Rolls back onto her side of the bed and takes the duvet with her.”
Your tongue swiped out over your lower lip, dampening it, and you felt the small patch of now damp hair on his chest scrape lightly against the centre of your back, his skin warm.
He sighed again, deeper this time, and you felt it in your bones. “I don't know what I'd do without this. Without you.”
His words landed heavy, like an anchor, and you didn't know what to say, but you didn't need to. He interrupted you before you even got the chance to open your mouth.
He nudged you gently with his chin. “Come on, petal. We're gonna go pruney if we stay in here any longer.”
You smiled as you slowly shifted off of him, wincing slightly at the cool air hitting the rest of your body as it broke the surface of the water. He helped you up, his hands lightly squeezing your hips as you stepped over the edge, small droplets of water raining off of your body down onto the shower mat beneath your feet.
He groaned softly as he moved too, holding onto the rim of the tub as he got up, supporting himself and his stiff muscles, and his face scrunched up as he finally stood, one of his hands going to his lower back as he grunted.
You grabbed a towel from the radiator, the thin, scratchy fabric torn in places, and you dragged it over your limbs as he climbed out of the bath.
You felt his hands on your shoulders, dampening your skin again where you'd only just tried it, and he turned you around to face him. He took the towel from your hands, and he wrapped it around your torso, gently rubbing, padding away all of the water that clung to you.
He didn’t look away from you, not once, even as water beaded on his collarbones, slid down his stomach, glistened at the sharp lines of his hips, his gaze stayed fixed on your face like glue.
“Beautiful,” he murmured quietly, one of his fingers trailing along your jawline.
You felt your heart tug in your chest, not just because of the compliment, but instead because of the way he said it, like it hurt him, like the sight of you was both a relief and a tragedy, a contrasting collision in his mind that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make sense of.
He towelled you off carefully, his movements slow and meditated, gentle strokes down your arms, soft glides across your thighs, and he left your hair mostly wet, dangling in thick, damp strands around your face and sticking to your back and collarbones in wavy clumps like snakes.
He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a few moments longer than necessary, and he pulled the towel from your bare body, now dry, but covered in small goosebumps. He wrapped the fabric around himself, dragging it over his chest, his arms, his thighs, the rough towel absorbing the dampness, and he still, he kept his eyes on you the entire time, like he was hypnotised, unable to peel his gaze away no matter how hard he tried. Not that he wanted to.
He shook his head, sending water flinging from his fringe before he tossed the towel aside, landing in a loose, damp heap on the floor near the radiator.
You padded barefoot back to your bedroom first, leaving a small trail of water droplets from your hair behind you, your footsteps soft on the carpet, and you pushed open the door with a quiet creak, the sound mirrored just a second after like an echo as he pulled the bathroom door open as well.
The air in your flat was cooler now, likely from a window that you'd cracked open just a tiny bit and forgot to close, or maybe it was the draft that leaked in from beneath your front door.
You reached for one of your shirts that had fallen off of the broken coat hanger in your wardrobe, left in a heap on the floor amongst whatever else had been carelessly tossed into your closet. You pulled it over your head, the soft fabric clinging to your skin in places where it was still slightly damp, your hair forming wet patches around the neckline of the shirt that stuck to your skin uncomfortably. The hem brushed over the tops of your thighs, just barely covering your underwear which you'd stepped into with a lazy ease.
You caught a glimpse of him in the corner of your eye as you adjusted the waistband of your panties, the elastic digging into your skin, and you turned your head to meet his gaze. The corners of his lips quirked up into a small, almost guilty smile as you caught him staring at you.
You glanced around your cluttered, messy room for his boxers, and you spotted the black fabric in a rumpled puddle beside your bed, wrinkled and inside out, and you nodded towards them vaguely.
He bent down to grab them, a soft grunt escaping his lips at the angle, and he flipped them the right way before stepping into them and tugging them up his legs, the dark grey waistband settling at his hips.
He scanned his eyes around your small room for the rest of his clothes, but he made no move to grab them. His shirt was crumpled across your floor like a ghost that had passed out, the buttons completely undone, and his dark linen trousers were kicked half way under your bed, the legs sticking out like a body at a crime scene. He didn't bother with either of them.
You moved past him through the doorway, making your way to the kitchen, and you heard the soft, faint drag of his footsteps behind you, following you, unhurried, almost hesitant, in a way. There was something tender about the way he always trailed after you, like he couldn't bare the thought of being apart from you, like it physically pained him, and to him, it did.
Your kitchen wasn't much. It was narrow, a bit dim, and the walls were painted an off-white colour that had yellowed over the years, but it was yours, and despite it being dingy, he loved anything that was yours. Even a tiny, cramped, strangely arranged kitchen.
You went straight to the kettle, which was tucked between a tall, leaning tower of unopened letters, some dating back years, and a chipped ceramic mug rack that had definitely seen better days, and you flicked it on with a soft click. Behind you, he made his way to the table, dragging the worn wooden chair back with an awful scrape against the floor before settling into it with a quiet grunt. He didn’t bother adjusting his boxers, just spread his thighs a little, comfortable, his elbows resting on the table.
The stack of newspapers was impossible to miss. Piled high towards the edge of the table, some spilled off onto the floor from the sheer amount all stacked on top of each other, haphazard and threatening to completely topple over at any given moment. The edges were curled, the paper looked old, and most were untouched, the ink still crisp. Your old neighbour insisted on dropping them round to your doorstep every morning, thinking she was doing you a favour. You never read them, but you never said no to her either.
He thumbed through the top few, flipping half-heartedly between the thin pages, and you heard the dry crinkle of the newsprint as he skimmed, his brows drawing faintly together now and then, confused as to why and how they built up.
“Do you ever actually read these?” he asked, turning his head to glance at you, his brow furrowed.
You turned to look at him, your lips slightly pursed, and you shook your head. “My neighbour brings them around most mornings. I guess it's sweet, but I don't know how to tell her I don't want them.”
He gave a faint smile before turning away again, then he flipped to the middle of one of the papers and let it fall open onto the crossword page. His fingers lightly tapped against the wood of your table, and you didn't have to look to identify the sound. It was something you'd grown used to after seeing him so many times, one of his many ways of finding something to occupy his mind when it got too loud.
He squinted down at the clues for a moment, rubbing his thumb across the corner of the page, before he asked, not looking up, “Have you got a pen, love?”
“Um…” you hummed, turning from the counter and tugging open one of the drawers beneath the countertop with a rattle from the jumbled contents inside. “Yeah, I think so.”
You started rummaging through the drawer which was filled with all sorts. Pens, blunt pencils, dead batteries, hair bands, a stray pair of earrings that hadn't seen daylight in a year. After a moment of searching, you found one that you thought might still work, hopefully, a cheap black biro with the rubber grip peeling off.
You handed it to him, and he took it without a word, your fingers brushing briefly, and he glanced down at it, then up at you, a smile playing on his lips. “This one of those pens that pretends it's got ink until you commit to writing something?”
“Probably.”
He smirked faintly and he turned back around before he leaned forward, testing it in the corner of the page, earning him a shaky, faded line. He tried again, which gave him a better one. Satisfied, he turned his attention back to the crossword, his brows furrowed in concentration, one hand loosely curled near his mouth as he read the clues aloud under his breath, unable to read them in his mind without losing them in the tsunami inside of his brain.
You returned to the kettle as it clicked off with a puff of steam, and you poured out two mugs of tea, watching as the tea leaves bled into the boiled water, staining it. You crossed the room towards your mechanically humming fridge as the tea bags marinated, and you pulled the half-empty bottle of milk out of your fridge, the thin plastic cool against your palm as you brought it back to the counter.
You fished out the tea bags before lazily discarded them in your sink, and you poured a splash of milk into each mug, and stirred two sugars into his.
You gently set his mug in front of him with a dull clink against the table, being careful not to disturb the half-folded newspaper or the dodgy pen resting between his fingers.
“Ta,” he murmured quietly, distracted, focusing intently on the crossword in front of him.
You sat down across from him at the small table, your own mug nestled between your palms, the warmth bleeding through the ceramic against your fingers. The steam curled up toward your face and smelled faintly of the slightly-too-old tea bags you always forgot to replace.
He leaned forward a little now, his posture curved into a bend that was bound to make his spine ache later. His face was hardened in concentration while one of his feet bounced rhythmically beneath the table, helping to keep him focused. His hair was still damp, curling slightly at his nape and clinging to his skin. The pen tapped once against the paper, then twice, his tongue poking out slightly, before he scribbled something into the boxes with a quiet satisfaction.
“You doing good on it?” you asked, your voice low but light, not wanting to interrupt his focus. You liked watching him think, liked watching his tiny mannerisms that you'd come to adore that you weren't even sure he was aware of doing.
He looked up at you for a moment with a small smile before he said, looking back down at the paper, “Don't think I'm doing too bad. Some are a bit tricky, though, but I think I'm doing alright.”
He held up the folded newspaper with one hand, proudly showing you his progress, the grid half-filled with careful but slightly wonky capital letters. Some clues were scratched out then rewritten after he'd made a mistake and crossed it out before realising, and the lines in the corner where he'd tested the pen were smudged from where he’d been resting his other hand.
You scanned over the words, pretending to be more interested than you actually were, and you gave a small nod. “Looks good.”
He scoffed under his breath before returning to his puzzle, his eyes scanning over the next clue while you sipped your tea, the liquid still too hot and making you wince as it swilled over your tongue.
A few minutes passed like that, peaceful, comforting, familiar, the soft sound of the pen against the paper filling the quiet, occasionally accompanied by a quiet grunt of irritation followed by a few aggressive swipes of the ball point against the paper as the ink ceased every now and then.
Then suddenly, just as you were taking another sip of your tea, he sat up slightly, his expression changing, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile.
“Look,” he said, turning the paper towards you and tapping his finger on the grid. “It's you, baby.”
You leaned forward slightly, your eyes following his finger until your eyes landed on it. Written in a row of wobbly letters, P-E-T-A-L was etched into the grid, and your lips curved into a soft smile, your heart fluttering delicately, and when you looked up at him, he was already watching you, a warm, proud grin on his face.
Your heart tugged in your chest at how sweet it was, how strangely touched you were, and you watched as he flipped the paper over again, his eyes going back to scanning the clues over and over again, like if he stared at them long enough, the answers might reveal themselves to him.
He stayed like that for a while, hunched over, his posture mimicking a question mark, and he curled one hand loosely around the rim of his mug, the heat warming his fingertips, and his lips parted, the tip of his tongue ever so slightly poking out to run along them.
Every now and then, he'd pause, bringing the mug up to his lips for a small mouthful, swilling it around his mouth for a second before swallowing it and placing the mug back down onto the table. A few droplets sometimes spilled from his lips as he took a sip, the drops dribbling down the side of the mug before meeting the table, creating a small circle where his mug sat.
You didn't say anything, you didn't really need to. You just watched him with a quiet fondness, the light from the kitchen window slanting across the table in dusty lines, catching the edge of his hair and the side of his face.
You let your own tea go tepid between your hands. You preferred it that way. You continued to watch him in silence, the crossword hogging all of his attention, but at least it gave him a place to put his mind that wasn't loud, broken, or hard. Well, at least not too hard.
He exhaled slowly before scribbling in a word and smiling to himself, and then, without looking up, as if one of the clues had reminded him, he asked, “Is it still alright if I stay the night again, petal?”
You blinked, his voice startling you slightly. “Yeah, of course,” you said gently. “You can stay as long as you want.”
He looked up at you with a small, grateful smile, and there was something in that face, quiet, aching, something he always tried to bury, tried to disguise.
Then, without another word, he turned his head back to the crossword, the kettle ticking softly as it cooled down. You sipped the last cold dregs of your tea, and in that moment, nothing else in the world outside seemed to matter quite so much as the comforting quiet between the two of you.
｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽
the next part is not going to be for a long while, my guess would probably be august/september, so im really sorry guys. i know theres quite a few people who really like him. theres loads of different ideas that i have that i really want to and am really looking forward to writing, so i hope you guys will enjoy those pieces too. kisses all round x
warnings : sex work (but it's not really mentioned in this one), cheating (he's still married), age gap (19 & 38), pussy eating, small tiny miniscule IMPLICATIONS of a feet kink, daddy kink, he's miserable
One night turned into another.
Then another.
Then another.
At first, it was once a week, like clockwork. You'd see him somewhere while you were out working, outside a bar, on a street corner, lingering outside a hotel lobby, trying to pretend he wasn't just there with the sole purpose of waiting for you. He'd approach you quietly, like he hadn't spent the past few days constantly thinking about this, even though you could tell he had.
Then it was twice a week. He'd stopped booking you for just an hour completely by that point. It wasn't enough. He only wanted whole nights with you. Those nights, though, he didn't always fuck you more than once. Majority of the time, he just wanted to talk afterwards, like he needed the company more than anything. To lie there with you, his fingers tracing idle patterns across your bare skin as he let his thoughts spill out.
His wife came up in those thoughts more than you'd expected, especially since you'd thought he bought all these hours with you to get away from her.
Some nights, he said he loved her, how good of a woman she was to him, how they used to plan having a family together.
Other nights, he said he barely recognised her anymore, barely recognised himself, that they aren't the same people who got married to each other.
And you listened. You always listened.
And maybe that's what kept him coming back as much as anything else. Maybe it wasn't just the sex, the way you let him take what he wanted, the way you moaned daddy for him just the way he asked. Maybe it was the way you never judged, never asked him to be anyone other than who he was in the moment.
And then it became three times a week. He usually took you to a bar first, whether it had a hotel attached or not, just to spend a bit more time with you in a way that felt “normal.” He didn't want you to think he was just after the sex.
At first, it was just hotels. Different ones each time, never the same place twice in a row.
You didn't even think about it anymore. About the fact that you were sleeping with the same man over and over, even though that had never been the plan. That wasn’t how this was supposed to work. You were meant to be a fleeting thing, a temporary indulgence. Not a habit, but that’s what you had become to him. A routine.
Then he asked you to come to his house.
It was late when he brought it up, in yet another hotel room, the dim glow of the bedside lamp casting a soft, golden shadow across the crinkled, once pristine, white sheets. He was lying beside you, one arm folded behind his head, the other idly tracing patterns against your inner thigh, the two of you still naked. He'd been quiet for a while, and you thought maybe he'd fallen asleep, but then, in that same low, thoughtful voice he always had when he was about to say something he probably shouldn't, he asked, “Do you want to come to mine?”
You turned your head towards him slightly as he said that, meeting his eyes in the near-dark.
“My wife's away for a few days. Visiting her sister,” he added, as if that made it any better.
You should've said no, that you didn't trust him enough for that.
No matter how much time he spent with you, how nice he was to you, how good he fucked you, he was still just a client.
You never went to clients' houses. Hotel rooms, alley ways, even the backseats of cars occasionally when you used to be more in demand, but never their home.
Hotel rooms were sterile and temporary, just as your time with your clients was. Houses were personal and long-term.
But you didn't say no.
Maybe you should've, but you couldn't. Not to him.
Whether it was curiosity or stupidity that led you to it, you just nodded a little, looked away from him again, and murmured a quiet, “Sure.”
It was the next night when you ended up at his home, but as you stepped through the front door, the reality of it settled into your bones.
“You found it alright, then?” he asked as he stepped aside to let you in.
“Looks like it,” you replied, walking into the hallway and pulling off your boots.
His house was nice. Clean but lived-in, the faint smell of aftershave, fresh linen, and something vaguely floral.
He shut the door behind you with a soft click, then asked, already walking towards the kitchen, “Drink?”
You followed him into the kitchen, taking in the space as you walked. It looked expensive, but not overly modern. The furniture was tasteful, but not new, the kind of pieces that had been chosen years ago and left unchanged because they still served their purpose.
He poured you both a whiskey, the spirit sloshing into the short glasses, and handed you yours when you came into the kitchen. You took a slow sip as you let your eyes scan over the room, the warmth of the alcohol spreading through your chest.
There was a bowl of fresh fruit on the counter, as well as a vase of flowers that had just started to wilt, and a shopping list pinned to the fridge with a small, pink, heart-shaped magnet. Little details that reminded you that this was someone's home. Someone's life.
“She'll be back early next week,” he said, breaking the silence as he swallowed his mouthful, swirling the liquid in his glass.
You weren't too sure what to say to that, so you just nodded once before setting your glass on the countertop next to you.
“You've got a nice house,” you mentioned, turning your head to look around the kitchen once more.
He tilted his head back and swallowed the remainder of the whiskey in his glass before placing it down on the counter next to yours, his voice rough as he replied, “Thank you. I didn't pick much of the furniture though.”
“Wife?”
He nodded and laughed a little, but it was dry, humourless. “She's always had better taste in all that stuff than me.”
Your lips quirked up in a small smile, and he watched you as you picked up your glass again and took a sip.
His eyes scanned over your face, taking in every inch of your fair skin, until his eyes drifted down to your lips, pressed against the rim of the glass.
He hadn't kissed you there before. He'd kissed you just about everywhere else, your back, your neck, your pussy, your feet, but never your lips.
A kiss was too intimate. A kiss would break the barrier. He could fuck you, talk to you, spend countless nights with you tucked into his arms, but kissing? That was reserved for his wife. Even if he didn't know if he loved her anymore, even if he told you that he didn't think he could say those words with conviction, even if he whispered to you in the dark, saying things he could never say to her.
Still, he wouldn't kiss you.
But his eyes still lingered.
Maybe he wanted to, but he couldn't bring himself to do it, to cross that final line, to solidify his disloyalty to his wife completely. As if he hadn't already.
He watched as you swallowed down the last dregs of your whiskey before he pushed himself away from the counter, turning towards the doorway leading to the hallway with a quiet, “Come on.”
You set your glass down on the countertop next to his, accidentally knocking it against his with a quiet clink, and you followed him out of the room.
As you walked with him, your eyes were drawn to the wall, and you saw them.
Framed wedding photos hung proudly on the walls, lining the hallway with what should've been admiration, but instead left a bitter taste on your tongue.
He looked younger in the photos, but not by much. His hair was a little longer, his suit smart and perfectly tailored, and a wide smile spread across his face. He looked free, untouched by the things that now weighed down on him.
You tried not to stare, but your eyes flickered from one frame to the next as you walked. They looked so happy, so carefree, his hands lovingly touching her face, her waist, her neck. The same hands that had now been all over you.
It was one thing to know he was married, of course you knew that, but seeing it like this, laid out before you in frames, made it feel real in a way it hadn't before.
He must've noticed your eyes on them, as when you turned back to him, he had stopped and was looking at you with a soft face, the tiniest hint of awkwardness lingering beneath his features, before he moved again and turned the corner to walk up the stairs.
When you stepped into his bedroom, there was another framed photo of him and his wife perched on the bedside table. It looked to be taken in another country, maybe Italy or France, either on their honeymoon or just on holiday.
The soft bedsheets had a floral pattern, a nice, more homely change from the usual plain white sheets in hotel rooms. There was an indent on one of the pillows while the other one was plump and smooth, indicating which side he slept on, that he'd probably been sleeping in the bed alone recently.
He shut the door behind you with a quiet creak of the hinges swinging and a soft click of it closing, and you turned to face him, arms folded loosely over your stomach as you watched him start to unfasten his jeans, a motion you'd watched him do countless times now.
As he shoved them down his hips, letting them crumple and pool at his feet before kicking them off, you asked him, “What do you want?”
Without hesitation, as he pulled his top over his head before perching on the edge of the bed, he said, “I want to eat your pussy.”
It wasn't a request, wasn't phrased as a question or an uncertain suggestion. It was direct and confident, and it sent a slow warmth curling through you, simmering deep in your lower stomach.
He'd eaten you out before, of course he had. He was the kind of guy who got off on making his partner cum, but still, each time he asked for it, it sent those same shivers through your body.
A slow smile pulled at your lips. “Yeah?”
He nodded, his gaze heavy. “Yeah.”
There was a quiet pause after, and just as you began to pull off your own clothes, sliding your skirt down your legs, he spoke up again. “You are staying the whole night, aren't you? I'll give you the money later.”
You nodded, lifting your shirt over your head, but then he asked, “Can you stay tomorrow too?”
Something flickered in his expression as he spoke, something almost hesitant. Vulnerable. Maybe a bit embarrassed, thinking he was coming off as desperate.
Staying one night was expected and had become the norm for you two, but staying two blurred the lines. Made it something else, as if it wasn't already something else.
“Yeah,” you agreed with a soft voice, reaching behind you to undo the clasps of your bra, letting the straps fall loose over your shoulders before tossing it in the same direction you'd flung your shirt in just moments before.
His eyes flickered down to your tits for a moment as he swallowed hard, admiring your soft skin and perked up nipples, his thick, hard cock outlined and straining against the soft fabric of his grey boxer shorts.
You climbed onto the bed, settling yourself against the pillows as he made quick work of kissing along the side of your neck, his rough, chapped lips leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.
His lashes gently ghosted over your skin as he closed his eyes to gently suck on your neck for a moment before unlatching his lips to continue kissing down your chest.
He lavished both of your boobs with kisses, licks and sucks, massaging and squeezing one of them with his hand as he focused his mouth on the other one. His teeth grazed over your nipples as he sucked each of them into his mouth just enough, making you moan softly for him.
“Daddy…” you breathed out as he gingerly bit down on your right nipple, leaning your head back against the pillows as one of your hands came up to gently stroke his hair.
He moaned softly himself at that, at both your soft voice and the feeling of your hand on the back of his head, gently threading your fingers through his dark brown strands.
He made sure both of your tits were equally reddened by his desire before continuing his descent, kissing and licking stripes down your stomach until he reached your hips where he pulled away for a moment.
He settled himself on his front between your legs, leaning in and pressing a kiss right in the centre of your pussy, still covered by your panties.
He hooked his thumbs under the waistband, slowly pulling them down your legs, taking his precious time.
Just as they were almost off, your black panties now loose around your ankles, he held your feet in a way that he tried to make seem casual, like he wasn't thinking about it, like he was just doing it to help get them off, but you could tell there was more to it, something you could tell he'd rather not voice right now.
Once they were off, he set them aside on the bed before lowering himself down again, your thighs draped over his shoulders and his arms hooked under your hips, his wedding ring cool against your skin. He never took it off, even when he was inside you.
His breath was warm against your inner thigh, lips brushing your skin before his tongue followed, teasing, slow, just enough to make you shiver but not enough to satisfy. He always took his time with this. If there was one thing about him, it was that he loved this. He adored the way you reacted, the way you tensed and relaxed beneath him, the way you exhaled sharply when he finally dragged his tongue over your cunt.
His hands gently gripped your thighs as he dipped his head, licking a firm, deliberate stripe from your hole, all the way up to the hood of your clit before sucking it into his mouth for a moment, his lips sealed around it as he sucked gently.
You sighed softly, your back arching off the sheets ever so slightly as he circled your clit with the tip of his tongue before wrapping his lips around it again, suckling with just the right amount of pressure. He didn't rush, wasn't sloppy or desperate, instead he savoured it, tasting you like he had all the time in the world.
His stubble scratched lightly against your skin, rough in contrast to the heat of his tongue, but you loved it. And so did he, by the sounds he was making.
He groaned against you as he covered you with his mouth again, the sound muffled but sending a deep, aching pulse straight through your core nonetheless as his hips slightly bucked against the mattress. You could tell he was enjoying this, almost as much as you, if not more.
He ground his hips down into the mattress, trying to get some friction, to ease the painful ache in his cock, purely from pleasing you.
You rolled your hips up against his face with a moan as his tongue delved inside your slit, flicking it rapidly as he pulled another daddy from your lips, making him hum against your cunt while his nose nudged against your clit.
His hands started to massage your thighs as he got more into it, his tongue tracing all over every inch of your middle, until he unhooked his left arm from underneath your thigh.
He gently dipped his middle and index finger inside while he sucked on your clit, glancing up for a moment to meet your gaze. Your face was flushed, lips parted and eyes hazy, your chest still red from his previous affection and rising and falling quickly with your breath.
He smiled a little before his eyes fluttered shut and he slid his two fingers inside you all the way, his knuckles bending and curling in all the right places as he sucked harder on your clit.
You reached down, your fingers tangling in your hair for something to hold onto as he drove you closer and closer to the edge, the constant suction combined with his long fingers massaging that spongy spot nestled inside you was too much, sending you hurtling towards the edge faster than your mind could keep up with.
You moaned loudly, constantly, one of your hands making a futile attempt at gripping the sheets while the other tugged at his hair, the word daddy spilling from your lips with each cry.
With a final bend of his knuckles, a final flick of his tongue on your clit, you came. Your back arched high off the bed, your thighs quivering around his head, and you tugged so hard on his hair you thought it was going to rip out.
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as your orgasm tore through you, and you whined a broken, “Fuck, daddy..!”
He coaxed you through your high, circling your g-spot with the pads of his fingers while he sucked on your clit until you gently nudged his head away.
He gently released your clit from his swollen red lips before slowly dragging his fingers out of you, teasing your oversensitive walls on the way out.
He pressed one last kiss to your clit, then another one to your lower belly before pulling away. He unhooked his other arm from underneath your thigh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before sitting up.
He moved up the bed slowly, his hands gliding over your thighs, your waist, your chest on the way up.
He settled beside you, one arm draped lazily across your stomach while the other slipped underneath you, holding you close to him as the remnants of your orgasm ebbed away.
His fingers traced soft patterns along your side, his touch absentminded and slow. You could still feel the final dregs of your orgasm pulsing through you in lazy waves, your body still humming from the way he'd made you fall apart with his mouth.
Your breathing matched his; deep, slow and steady, and for a long while, neither of you spoke. His hand stayed on you, slowly and gently stroking your skin, until he moved slightly beside you, his hand still resting on your stomach.
He exhaled, shifting his head to glance down at you. “Do you want me to run you a bath?
You blinked up at him, surprised for a moment. You'd never been offered something like that by a client before. Once they'd finished, they either left or let you leave, or, if they'd paid for the night, they let sleep take over without much thought about anything else. But then again, was he just a client anymore?
You smiled a little, tilting your head against his shoulder. “Sure.”
A small smile pulled at his lips as well, before he slid his arm out from underneath you, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
You watched him for a moment while he ran a hand through his hair, and how he hesitated for half a second before standing up properly.
He pulled open the door of his bedroom and walked out, down the hallway to the bathroom. A few moments later, you heard a click as he switched the light on, followed by a soft creak as he leaned against the bath to turn the taps on. The rush of the water filled the air, a soothing sound, before you got up yourself, your legs still a little weak, and you followed him into the bathroom.
It was small but tidy and clean, the white tiles cool beneath your bare feet as you waited inside by the doorway.
He reached for a bath soap from the row of bottles in the cluttered shower shelves and crouched beside the tub before unscrewing the top and pouring some of the pale pink liquid into the warm water, filling the air with its soft, floral scent.
It wasn't his soap, it couldn't have been. It was too delicate, too “feminine.” It was hers. But you didn't say anything, didn't ask, didn't press. You just watched as he adjusted the temperature and swirled the water with his hand as the bubbles started to form, clouding the water in a soft layer of white foam.
The scent of the soap clung to the steam, making the whole room smell like her, like the woman whose wedding photos were hanging in the hallway, the woman who was supposed to be the only one in his bed.
When the bath was full and he was content with the temperature, he turned the taps off and straightened up before looking over at you.
His gaze flickered down over your body, still completely bare, before he just stepped aside, gesturing a little awkwardly to the bath.
You pushed yourself off the doorway and let him help you settle into the water. You winced slightly at the heat before he slowly lowered you down, letting the warmth envelop you completely, soothing your skin. You let your head rest against the edge of the tub, exhaling as the bubbles clung to your arms and chest, and he watched you with soft eyes for a second before he slid down to the floor beside the bath, his knees clicking quietly as they bent, his back resting against the tub. He stretched his legs out in front of him, his fingers tapping idly on one knee for the moment as he listened to the gentle lapping of the water as you shifted slightly.
He draped his right arm over the edge of the bath, his fingers absentmindedly trailing through the bubbles.
For a while, he didn't say anything. He just sat there, exhaling softly through his nose while his fingertips skimmed the water's surface.
You kept your head rested against the edge of the bath, watching the steam curl upwards, feeling the warmth of the water seep into your muscles. It would've been comfortable, would've been peaceful, if not for the fact that the air smelled like her.
You heard him take a quiet, slow deep breath in before his voice cut through the silence.
“I don't know why I asked you to stay tomorrow.”
His voice was soft and low, like he wasn't quite sure if he was talking to you or just thinking out loud.
“I just… I don't want you to leave.”
You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, but he wasn't looking at you. His head was leaned back against the outer edge of the tub, his gaze fixed somewhere on the ceiling.
You didn't respond, didn't know how to. You just let him talk, something you'd grown used to and fond of over the weeks you'd been seeing him.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before he spoke again. “I think about you a lot,” he admitted, his voice barely a murmur. “Even when I'm not supposed to.”
You let your eyes slip closed for a second, breathing in the warm, scented air. You wondered if he realised what he was saying, what he was admitting to. You wondered if he knew that once words like that were spoken, they couldn't be taken back.
“I don't know what I'm doing,” he continued after a moment, his fingers still idly stirring the water, the foam and bubbles twirling under his movements. “I don't even know why I keep coming back to you. I just… I do.”
You turned your head towards him, resting your cheek against the porcelain tub, looking at the back of his head.
You could tell his jaw was tight, like he was frustrated with himself, trying to make sense of something that refused to be understood.
You watched the way his fingers played with the bubbles like he was trying to calm himself down, the way his knuckles tensed and relaxed, the way his gold wedding ring caught the soft glow of the overhead bathroom light. He still hadn't taken it off, not once, not even when he was talking about how much he didn't love her anymore.
“I think… I think I'm certain now. That I don't love her.”
His voice was quiet beneath the gentle sloshing of water, and a lump formed in your throat.
“I think I've known that for certain for a while now, but I just didn't want to admit it to myself. But at least that's the hard part done now, isn't it?” he let out a small sigh, something that would've been a laugh if it wasn't so bitter.
You should've told him to stop, that this was his marriage, these were his feelings, and that it had nothing to do with you, but you didn't, because deep down, you wanted to hear it.
So you let him talk. Let him confess everything in the dim glow of the bathroom, with your naked body submerged in his wife's bath soap and his hand tracing lazy patterns through the water. You let him unravel, piece by piece, right there on the cold tile floor beside the bath.
He let out a breath through his nose as if trying to clear his head, and you stretched your legs out beneath the water. There was another few moments of silence that filled the small space between you two, until you spoke for the first time since stepping into the bathroom
“Do you ask her to call you daddy?” you asked, your voice smooth and curious.
He didn't answer you right away, just kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling above, his jaw tense. A flicker of something passed over his face, something that resembled shame, before he shook his head.
“No.”
You hummed, letting his response hang in the air for a moment before you replied. “Why not?”
He exhaled sharply and ran a hand over his face, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. “Because she's not you. It's not like that with her.”
He turned his head towards his hand in the water, and you caught a glimpse of his face. Guilt. It was written all over him.
“You don't tell her a lot of things, do you?” you murmured with a gentle voice.
He shook his head slowly, and you asked, “What don't you tell her?”
His shoulders tensed a tiny bit, but just enough for you to notice. His fingers stilled in the water, and for a moment, you thought he wasn't going to answer, that he'd shake his head and change the subject, telling you it didn't matter. But then, he spoke again.
“Everything.”
His voice was quiet, almost lost under the drip of the tap.
You bit the inside of your cheek, your lips pursing slightly. “Everything?”
He let out a short, dry, humourless laugh, tilting his head back up towards the ceiling. “Yeah. Everything.”
He paused, his tongue slipping out and gliding over his dry lower lip like he was trying to find the right words before he continued. “I don't tell her that I don't think about her when I fuck her anymore. I don't tell her that I have to try to want her now. I don't tell her that I don't even want her to touch me.”
He swallowed before adding, “I don't tell her that I think about you more than I think about her.”
You felt a shiver crawl up your spine despite the heat of the water, and he let out a long sigh.
“I don't tell her that I'm not happy, that I haven't been happy for a long time,” he admitted, his voice tight like the words were painful to force out. “And that I wonder what my life would be like if I never even married her at all.”
You didn't say anything, but your sat up slightly, your fingers curling against the edge of the bath as you shifted, the water sloshing against the sides of the bath as you moved. He lowered his hand further into the water as you moved, tentatively finding your knee before resting his hand there under the water.
“I don't tell her how much I think about leaving,” he continued, voice lower now, ashamed of the confession. “I don't tell her how often I wonder if we're just wasting time. If we're just staying because it's easier than leaving.” He sighed. “I don't tell her that I've already left in my head.”
“I don't tell her where I go at night, or that I drive around for hours just to be anywhere but home.”
He let out a shaky breath and swallowed hard, his voice sounding brittle as he added, “I don't tell her that I don't want to go home anymore.”
He gave your knee a slight, gentle squeeze, his fingertips tracing small, absentminded circles and patterns against your skin under the water. A fleeting motion, something to ground himself with.
His breathing changed, quieter, slower, but with a slight unevenness that betrayed him. His jaw was clenched, his Adam's apple bobbing with each thick swallow, and it was clear he was holding something back.
His chest rose and fell too deliberately, like he was focusing on it, trying to regulate it.
He kept his head tilted back against the outer rim of the tub, blinking hard up at the ceiling, like if he just kept looking up, the tears wouldn't fall.
He was trying not to cry.
“Fuck,” he muttered as he dragged his left hand down his face, as if he could physically wipe away whatever it was that was threatening to spill over. “This is pathetic.”
He sniffled and shook his head as if the war that was waging inside his mind would fall out of his ear, before he spoke again, his left hand clenched into a fist.
“I don't kiss you on the lips,” he said with a strained voice, like the words were choking him on the way out, “Because if I do, I won't be able to pretend that this doesn't mean something.”
You watched him carefully, his words hitting you a little harder than you'd expected.
He let out a breath, his fingers easing open again as he rubbed at the side of his face. “I can fuck you,” he continued, his voice quieter, trying to gain some semblance of control over his emotions again. “I can touch you, and I can say things to you that I definitely shouldn't be saying, but kissing is…” He sighed sharply. “It's different.”
You remained quiet, letting him work through his own thoughts and words.
“It's just…” he trailed off, turning his head back towards his arm half-submerged in the bath water. “It's too much.”
He gently rubbed your knee with his thumb while he spoke. “I used to love kissing her,” he admitted, his voice softer now, like he was talking to himself. “More than anything. Before bed, when we woke up, even when we fought, I'd kiss her just to remind her that I still-”
He cut himself off as his voice broke slightly, followed by a humourless breath of laughter. “I don't even remember the last time I kissed her like that.”
You swallowed, watching him as he kept his head turned towards his arm in the water. The way his lips parted as he took another deep breath in, his gaze fixed the remnants of the bubbles floating on top of the water, as if he was afraid that if he moved his eyes too much, he wouldn't be able to stop the tears.
“I can't kiss you,” he murmured again, the faintest quiver audible in his voice. “Because then this wouldn't just be sex. Then it's something else.”
His breath hitched, just a little bit, barely noticeable, but you caught it. His face had flushed, just slightly, his jaw tight, and his mouth had drawn into a thin line. He wasn't going to cry, he refused to, but he was close. He was so close.
“If I kiss you, then I won't be able to lie to myself about what this is.”
You inhaled slowly, letting his words settle in your chest.
He was already blurring the lines, whether he wanted to admit it or not. Maybe because he was still clinging to the remnants of his marriage, still holding onto the illusion that there was something left to salvage. Or maybe because he knew, deep down, that kissing you, really kissing you, would make everything that much harder to walk away from.
He ran his left hand through his hair before letting it rest limply on his bare knee again and he looked down at his lap, still in just his grey boxers from earlier.
“I have to remind myself sometimes,” he said quietly, his other hand shifting against your knee, making the water ripple gently under his movements. “That you're nineteen.”
He said the number like it burned his throat, like he could barely stomach the bitter taste of it on his tongue.
“I don't know. It's easy to forget,” he continued. “I feel bad, keeping you to myself. You shouldn't have to look after some old man.”
“You're not old,” you say softly, a half-hearted attempt at reassurance.
“I'm thirty-eight. That's double your age.”
Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist.
“I shouldn't be doing this, I know that,” he said quietly, his fingers on your knee under the water resuming their absentminded patterns. “I can't stop. I don't want to stop.”
You stayed quiet, letting him say whatever else he needed to say.
His voice was even quieter when he spoke again. “I keep telling myself that this is just a phase, and that it's just something I need to get out of my system,” he looked down at his hand. “But every time I see you, it just… it gets worse.”
His throat bobbed as he continued.
“I think about you,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper now. “When I'm at work, and when I'm at home, and when I'm lying in bed next to her,” his jaw clenched, his breath coming a little shakier now. “I think about you when I shouldn't.”
“And I can't fucking stop,” his voice cracked on the last word, and he turned his head slightly, his left hand lifting and pressing his knuckles against his lips like he could physically stop himself from saying more.
After a few moments, he let out a long, shaky sigh. He lifted his hand up from the water and shook it as a half-hearted attempt to dry it, his fingertips wrinkled, and he stood up from his spot on the floor next to the tub, his knees creaking as he stretched.
He turned around and he reached for you, his grip firm and steady against your warm, wet skin as he helped you rise from the water. He placed his hand under your arms at first, lifting you up out of the bath gently before sliding down to hold your elbows, then down to your hands. The steam curled around you both, rising from the water in soft, ghostly tendrils, wrapping around your limbs before dissipating into the cool air.
He helped you step over the side of the porcelain tub, then he let go of your hands to grab the towel from the heated rail while you stood, water sliding down your skin in thin rivulets.
“Come here,” he said, his voice softer than it had been all night.
He held the towel open before wrapping it around you, his hands smoothing over your shoulders and your arms before drawing it snug around your frame.
The slightly scratchy fabric was warm against your damp skin, and he pulled you closer. He held you there for a moment, your bodies barely touching, his breath warm against your temple. Then, he started to dry you off, his hands dragging the towel over your arms, down your back, and across your thighs, the fabric absorbing all the water droplets.
Then, without much of a warning, he gently pressed his lips to your bare shoulder, then another kiss, on the curve of your collarbone.
He brushed the damp strands of your hair that still clung to your skin back before trailing his lips to the base of your throat, the movement slow and indulgent.
The towel moved with his hands, tracing the outline of your body with a soft friction against your skin.
He slowly dropped to his knees in front of you, his fingers gently gripping your thighs as he pressed a lingering kiss against the slight dip of your navel. Then he travelled lower, the scrape of his unshaven jaw dragging against your damp skin, pressing one to the swell of your hip, then the inside of your thigh, his breath warm as it fanned across your sensitive skin.
He leaned his head forward and gently rested his forehead against your lower belly for a few moments, his eyes closing, before lifting himself up again.
By the time he was done, by the time your skin was dry and his kisses had mapped out a path across your body, your heartbeat was unsteady, and you could feel the weight of his gaze on you, heavier than a tonne of bricks.
He wrapped the towel around you again, tucking it under your arms and folding it over your chest. He didn't say anything as he took your hand, leading you out of the bathroom, down the hall, back to the bedroom.
The bedroom he usually shared with his wife.
It felt different stepping inside now. Before, you hadn't really had time to think about it. It had been new, unfamiliar, but the weight of it had been lost in the heat of his mouth between your legs, but now, with your bare, damp feet sinking into the plush carpet, with the slightly unmade bed in front of you, with the dim glow of the bedside lamp he'd just turned on again casting soft shadows across the walls, it felt heavier.
He leaned over the bed, picking up your black underwear from where he'd put them after taking them off earlier, then turning around to pick up your shirt you'd discarded on the floor.
His fingers skimmed the towel where it was still loosely wrapped around you, then slowly pulled it away, letting it fall open before dropping to the floor. You stood there, naked in the soft lamplight, and for a moment, he just looked at you, down over your body, just taking you in for a moment.
He helped you back into your shirt, small damp spots forming on the fabric from where your wet hair still stuck to your back as the neckline settled atop your shoulders, before pushing your arms through the sleeves.
He held your underwear in his hands, glancing down at your feet for a moment before kneeling down, letting you step into them. His fingertips grazed over the tops of your feet, just ghosting over your toes, before pulling the soft fabric up to your hips.
The bed dipped as you lay down together, and he pulled the covers over you both. He wrapped his arms around you, pressing your back against his chest, his fingers sprawled, as if trying to touch as much of you as he physically could at once.
His warmth surrounded you and seeped deep down into your bones, but there was still something cold about the way he held you. Not physically. Physically, he was solid, secure, grounding, but emotionally, there was a heavy weight in his embrace.
You felt the tension in him, his chest rising and falling against your back with each breath, that small patch of hair on the middle of his chest gently scratching your shoulder.
He pressed a gentle kiss to the back of your head, holding his face there in your hair for a moment, before pressing another soft, lingering peck to your temple.
His lips lingered just a fraction too long with each press of his mouth against your skin, then after what felt like a century of silence, he spoke.
“I do want to kiss you,” he whispered, that faint rasp threatening to creep in as his throat tightened just slightly, but he was still determined to not cry. “Properly.”
He let his head drop back onto the pillow, his eyes vacant as he stared at the back of your head. “She wouldn't even know,” he breathed, slowly swiping his tongue over his bottom lip. “But if I did it, I feel like it would be worse than everything I've done already.”
His arms tightened around you, pulling you just a little bit closer, and you could feel his heartbeat thrumming against your spine.
His hands, which had moved and touched with such certainty and deliberation while he was deep in the heated moment, now cradled you tentatively.
His breath was hot against the back of your neck, long and slow exhales flowing past his lips, and he gently stroked your side with his thumb.
“I want to have children, too,” he admitted quietly, a subtle tremor in his words, “I've always wanted a family.”
His arms curled around you tightened once more, his body seeking, needing, the comfort of someone to anchor him.
“I think I've left it too late for all of that,” he continued, and you heard him swallow as he tried to come to terms with the fact that he might not get to have the life he always wanted. “I don't know. If I split up with her, I don't think I'll be able to find someone else who'd want children. With me, I mean. Someone my age.”
He pressed his forehead to the back of your head, and you closed your eyes as you listened to him. “I won't be able to find someone who’d want to build a life with me. Again. But if I do, if we get to the point where we'd be stable enough to have children, I'll be too old. Far too old to be a good father. Or be a good partner. Be a good anything.”
He let a few moments of silence drag by as he collected his thoughts to pull together another jumbled sentence.
“I want to be able to give my children everything,” he murmured, now talking more to himself than you, just to get the feelings out of his system. “The love, stability, the… time. But I don't think it's going to happen. I'm running out of time.”
You heard him sniffle before he added with a fragile voice, “I don't think I'll be able to have it.”
You didn't respond, you didn't think that was what he wanted. He wanted to be vulnerable, to just spew his feelings and thoughts with no consequences, no repercussions.
He exhaled slowly but shakily, like a heavy weight had just been lifted off his shoulders, but now he was just left with the persistent ache it left behind.
His body tensed, his muscles locking up as he fought to keep the weight of everything that had been building up inside him, all the unresolved emotions, the fears and regrets he'd tried to suppress, starting to slip through the cracks he had tried and failed so hard to keep sealed.
The first few tears that he'd accidentally let spill were subtle, just a faint tremor in his jaw, the briefest rivulets dripping down his cheeks that he quickly wiped away, embarrassed by simply letting go. He took a few deep breaths to try and steady himself, his emotions, but it wasn't enough.
The dam inside him that he'd so carefully built and fortified, began to crumble and break under the weight of everything he thought he could handle.
The tears came slowly, one after the other, and his breath hitched in his chest, the act of crying catching him off guard. His shoulders trembled as he made one last feeble attempt at trying to stop the tears, but it was futile.
He turned his head into your shoulder, hiding his face as much as he could in the crook of your neck, but his sobs were soft and muffled against your skin. Each deep breath in and shaky exhale out was laboured, the overwhelming grief forcing its way through him.
He didn't speak; there were no words left that could explain the turmoil inside of him. The suffocating guilt, the fear of his future, the loss of something he didn't know he had.
His tears dampened your skin that he'd only just dried, endless at first, each sob carrying the weight of a thousand forgotten promises and unspoken regrets.
You felt the warmth of his tears against your shoulder and you flickered your eyes open again, placing one of your hands over his. You didn't have answers for him, maybe fabricated ones that he wanted, but not the ones he needed.
For a while, he just let himself cry, the sounds soft but heavy, like releasing a pressure that had been building for years.
The tears didn't come all at once, but rather in waves. He'd be quiet for a moment, breathing deeply and shakily as if trying to compose himself, to stop being weak, but he didn't get far before another sob would escape him, wracking through his chest, raw and unrefined.
Even as he unraveled, as his petals wilted and fluttered off, he held you close and tight, and you let him.
Eventually, his sobs began to slow, the shaking of his body gradually becoming less forceful, less pronounced. The tears continued to flow, but the intensity had dimmed, though his breath remained shaky and brittle.
He pulled his face away from your shoulder, your skin damp from where he'd cried, and you turned over yourself, now lay on your back with his arm underneath you while he lies on his side beside you. He looked down at you, his eyes red, wet and swollen, his cheeks streaked and his lips slightly parted. His eyes were clouded with a mix of vulnerability and exhaustion, and he whispered, “I'm sorry.”
His voice was hoarse, almost unrecognisable. “I didn't mean to cry. I didn't mean for any of… anything to happen.”
He pulled one arm from under you to wipe his eyes and nose with before rolling over, lying flat on his back. Maybe an attempt to stop more tears flowing.
He stared up at the blank ceiling, his deep breaths quiet, barely breaking the silence as he tried to control himself, before he closed his eyes.
His fingers traced gentle patterns and lines across your skin, a small, unconscious motion you'd noticed him doing. Usually when he's talked a bit too much, or he's just feeling the weight of his life pressing down on him. It seemed to calm him down, bring him some comfort.
“I don't want to keep hurting people,” he said with a small voice. “Especially if they don't know they're being hurt. Or don't know the extent.”
He swallowed and opened his mouth before promptly closing it, then quietly adding, “I don't want to hurt you.”
His fingers gentle patterns continued as they drifted across your skin, and he turned his head towards you, opening his eyes once more, meeting your gaze.
He gave you a small, sad smile, or at least what he could muster up of one, and he sighed softly, a breath of relief almost too deep for someone so burdened, before he whispered, “Thank you.”
You nodded once, just a small movement to show your acknowledgement, and you gave him a slight smile back. The moment faded into the stillness of the room, letting the quiet envelop you both.
｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽
am i overdoing it with the mentions of the wedding ring? probably. i don't know what id put in any subsequent parts nor do i know how id end it as a whole so 💔 idk what to do with him
warnings : sex work, cheating (he's married), blowjob, backshots, piv, age gap mentioned and referenced throughout (19 & 38), bit of a daddy kink (towards the end), the slightest bit of thigh fucking, 1 spank, he gets attached easily
You were too young for this line of work, or at least that's what most people said when they found out how old you were. Nineteen, navigating a world reserved for people much older, particularly the men who frequented your services. Men double, sometimes triple your age, with failing marriages or no marriage at all, seeking something that had long since faded in their own lives. Your clients saw you as merely a service, a product, a body that could satisfy the desires that they couldn't voice to anyone else. They rarely saw you for anything more than the fantasy they craved.
While being seen as simply a sex object with no one making an attempt to scratch beneath the surface wasn't the greatest feeling in the world, you didn't treat the men asking for your services much better. To you, they were just a wallet. Walking, talking sources of money, worth no more than the cash they offered. Some of them tried to act like they cared, like they wanted to get to know you beyond the persona you put on, to try and make it seem like this wasn't what it was, but you knew better. You'd seen it before; how they'd ask your name, pretend to be interested in the smallest details about your life, only to turn around and reduce you to nothing but a means to an end.
So you learned not to care. It wasn't like you did this to build long-lasting relationships with these people, or even form some loose acquaintances. You didn't even expect respect. It was just for money. You were realistic about what it entailed, about what men were like, about what they wanted from you. And you were good at it, too. At least, you used to be.
You weren't sure what had happened, what had changed. It wasn't like you were old or used up or had downgraded in skills. But recently, things had been slow. Too slow. The kind of slow that made you worry about rent, about groceries, about whether you’d be able to pay off the debt you owed to people you really didn’t want to owe anything to. You had another job, sure, a “proper” job at a nearby petrol station, but they barely paid you minimum wage. You relied on your clients, or lack thereof these days, to get by, but why had they slowed down?
Maybe you were losing your appeal. Or you already had, and those last few clients had taken pity on you. You were young, of course you were, but that was the cruelest part of it all. A few years from now, would men even want you anymore?
You'd obviously known men were strange with what they wanted and desired beforehand, especially the age demographic that often came to you, but in the time you'd spent being a sex worker, you'd seen it first hand.
These men only want something when it feels fresh, for it to be untouched enough for it to feel exciting, but experienced enough to know how to give them exactly what they want. And once they got bored, they moved on, finding something new to chase after. Something more naive, at least on the outside. Maybe there was some eighteen-year-old girl on the other block, dressing in tube tops, fishnets, tiny skirts and pigtails, fit to fulfill those disgusting desires these men crave, telling themselves it's fine, she's legal. Nevermind the morals.
Maybe that's who all your clients had ran to. You'd previously thought about going to a different town in the city where you could lie, tell them all you'd just turned eighteen, that you were a virgin, change the way you dress and tie your hair in braids and ponytails, but with what money? What car?
The lack of work made you feel uneasy. You could handle a slow week, maybe even two, but this dry spell had been going on for too long, longer than you'd ever be comfortable with. It was starting to make you desperate, and desperation was dangerous in your line of work. It made you lower your standards significantly, far more likely to say yes when you should be saying no. You had started spending time in places you thought potential clients might be. Bars, hotel lobbies, certain street corners where men with too much money and too little self-control often found themselves after a night of drinking.
You exhaled sharply, your breath visible in the cold air, adjusting the hem of your short dress as you leaned back against the cold brick wall of dimly lit bar you'd started frequenting in hopes of finding new business. It wasn't the most glamorous place in town, but it was reliable. Or at least, it used to be. The men here often had money, and they were always looking for someone to spend it on. It used to be you they went to, now they barely even looked at you.
Maybe they were starting to recognise you, not as some thrilling, mysterious experience, but rather just like the rest of the girls around there, just trying to make ends meet. Or maybe someone you hadn't given the greatest service to, or someone you'd declined, had started a rumour you had some STD. You'd tried to not let your mind feed into it too much, to be reasonable, but what was reasonable?
You sighed, long and slow, leaning your head back against the wall as you fished the last cigarette from your pack. The thin paper crinkled between your fingers, slightly bent out of shape from being shoved into your pocket earlier. You straightened it out the best you could before bringing it to your mouth, holding the filter between your lips while you rummaged for your lighter. When you finally pulled it out, the cheap plastic felt light, too light. You already knew before you flicked the wheel that it was nearly empty.
The first couple of futile attempts gave you nothing but a weak spark, the metal grinding under your thumb without catching, undoubtedly leaving an imprint on your skin for the next half an hour or so. You gritted your teeth, flicking it again and again, shaking it between tries as if it would magically refill it, until, finally, a tiny, flickering flame emerged. You cupped your hand around it, shielding it from the cool breeze as you touched it to the end of the cigarette, inhaling deeply to coax the ember to life.
The first drag filled your lungs with the stale, bitter smoke, the familiar and comforting burn settling in your chest, warming you from the inside out. You held it in for a moment before exhaling through your mouth, watching the thin tendrils of smoke curl and intertwine as they floated upwards, dissipating into the dark. The earthy taste of tobacco lingered on your tongue and the walls of your mouth, sticking to the backs of your teeth and clinging your throat, but it gave you something to focus on. Something to do with your hands, something to think about other than the bills you had to pay, a landlord who didn't care about how slow work had been, and a stomach that still growled when you hadn't eaten.
This part of the city was usually quieter at night, the daytime chaos dwindling to nothing more than faint footsteps, the occasional hum of passing cars, and the distant murmurs of late-night conversations coming from inside the bar behind you. It wasn't the best spot you'd hung around by, not the safest either, but far from the worst. You'd been coming here for a few weeks now, hoping to pick up work, for something to change, but it never did.
Another slow inhale, another drag, another puff of smoke curling past your lips, and that was when you saw him again.
You saw him often, enough times that his face was vaguely familiar, but you never paid him too much mind. He was attractive, you'd noticed that, though often dressed in clothes that looked like they'd seen better days, but you weren't one to talk. You'd been wearing the same old, thin, ripped up tights you'd had since high school for about a week straight. The way he moved: calm, self-assured, not quite looking like he was in a hurry but with purpose. He always seemed to stand out just enough to be noticeable, but not enough to seem out of place.
He wasn't usually alone, often accompanied by a woman who you had always assumed was his wife, or at least his girlfriend, from the times you'd seen them together, usually in the afternoon or early evening. You'd never given him, or them, much thought beyond that. He wasn't a regular here, especially not at this hour. He wasn't like the men you usually watched, the ones whose patterns you could predict down to the hour.
Men like him weren't your clientele. You were used to men who were lonelier, needier. The ones who looked at you with hunger barely concealed beneath thin veils of politeness. The ones who couldn't help themselves.
But this man had never looked at you like that. You weren't sure if he'd ever even looked at you at all. You assumed he hadn't, most men like him didn't. They didn't have a reason to.
So why was he here now?
Alone, at night.
You took another slow drag from your cigaratte, inhaling the smoke deep into your lungs, then blowing it out through your nose as you watched him.
His posture was relaxed, hands tucked into the pockets of his worn, deep, navy blue blazer, his eyes drifting over the street as if it were his first time seeing it.
But then, for the briefest moment, his eyes flicked in your direction. It was brief, no more than a second, but it was enough, because you knew that look. You had seen it before, in other men, in different settings, but their intention was always the same each time.
He was looking at you. Not through you, not past you. At you.
You looked down at the cigarette between your fingers for a moment, nearly burned all the way down to the filter, but you didn't put it out. Not yet, anyway. You let it rest between your middle and index finger, an idle comfort as you tried to keep your breathing steady and your expression neutral.
Then he moved, deliberate and slow.
The steady rhythm of his footsteps grew nearer, sending a strange pulse through your chest. Not quite nerves, not quite anticipation, but something else. Something you couldn't quite register. Maybe it was because you'd gone without a client for so long you'd forgotten how to react to being approached. You switch your cigarette from between your middle and index finger to your thumb and index finger, before pressing it into the bricks on the outside wall of the bar behind you, grinding the ember into the rough surface.
By the time you straightened, he was there.
He was closer, close enough that you could see the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the faint noticeable creases near his mouth, the way the dim glow of the bar's purposefully enticing lights flickered against the deep brown of his eyes.
He didn't say anything for a moment, just looked at you, but different from the way most men leered at you. Not like you were a product they were trying to assess, a service they were weighing up in their minds, deciding whether or not you were worth the price. He looked at you like he already knew, as if his mind had already been made up.
You shifted slightly, the silence stretching, thick, awkward and expectant. It wasn't often that men like him approached you. Not men who carried or presented themselves the way he did.
You had dealt with plenty of men who thought they were above this. The ones who couldn’t look you in the eye and the ones who spoke in stammering hesitations and awkward euphemisms, as if it would somehow distract themselves from what they were actually there for, not wanting to admit to themselves that they'd stooped this low.
He wasn't like that.
“I was, uh…” he began, his voice low and smooth. “I was wondering if you were still working.”
You glanced up at him properly then, lifting your gaze just enough to meet his. He was a bit taller than you had realised, but not overwhelmingly so, just a few centimetres higher than you.
That was it. That was the moment.
The hesitation, the carefully chosen words, the way he said it like he wasn’t entirely sure if he was saying it right, while still maintaining a level of confidence.
You had seen this before. You had heard it before.
Some men were blunt, shameless in their asking. They treated it like any other purchase, like ordering a drink at a bar. “How much?” “How long?” “Can we go somewhere else?”
Others tried to be more discreet, more careful, afraid of being overheard or judged or caught in something they weren't supposed to be doing.
“What were you looking for?” you asked in response, your eyes wandering down his body, particularly down his left arm, before he answers.
“Well, do you charge for time or… activity?” his voice maintained that limbo between confident, calculated and measured, and unsure, discreet and almost afraid, making him difficult to read.
“Time.”
“How much for an hour?”
“£200 for an hour,” you told him. Before your work had gotten slower, you'd sometimes charged upwards of £500 for an hour, but with the lack of clients, you'd began charging less in hopes of more work.
He nodded slowly, looking over his shoulder for a moment, then down at the ground, then back at you. He didn't argue, didn't try to haggle, just nodded. His hand fished into the pocket of his blazer, pulling out a tattered black leather wallet, the material peeling away in places, and that was when you noticed it. The ring.
It was a simple wedding band, gold, nestled tightly on the ring finger on his left hand, catching the dim glow of the streetlights as he flipped open his wallet.
Married.
You should've guessed.
Most of them were.
But somehow, you hadn't expected it from him. He didn't have that same guilty air that most men had carried when they sought you out; no hesitation, no second-guessing, none of the quiet shame that usually accompanied their requests.
You kept your gaze steady, pretending you hadn't noticed. It wasn't your business. It never was. You needed the money more than anything, even if the money came from a married man.
He held his wallet open for a moment, counting the notes inside before pulling out the £200, flipping it shut again and shoving it back into his pocket before handing you the notes.
You tucked them into your jacket pocket, and he looked at you, waiting.
“There's that hotel down the road,” he said, his voice smooth and unwavering. “I'll get us a room.”
You nodded once, and just like that, it was settled.
He turned, slipping his hands back into his blazer pockets as he began walking, his pace unhurried, like this was just any other night, any other walk. You walked beside him, your worn-out boots clicking softly against the pavement, the only real sound between you, but aside from that, it was silent. Uncomfortably so.
You'd walked with clients before, obviously back when you had more. Usually, they would filled the space with words. Nervous small talk, strained attempts at casual conversation. Some of them treated it like a date, asking about your night, your plans, pretending that this was anything but a transaction. Others made crude comments, testing boundaries, seeing how far they could push before you pushed back.
But he didn't say anything, and neither did you.
You kept your gaze forward, watching the city stretch out around you. The glow of the bar signs, the distant hum of traffic, the occasional burst of laughter from some drunken group staggering down the street. The city kept moving, oblivious to the two of you walking side by side: the married man who had just paid to cheat on his wife, and the girl he had chosen to do it with.
You weren't sure what you'd expected from him. Hesitation? Guilt? Regret, maybe? But there was none of that. He didn't fidget. Didn't glance around like he was worried about being seen. If anything, he looked calm, like this wasn't his first time, and that thought twisted something in your stomach. You didn't ask, though. It wasn't your place to care.
You focused on the hotel coming into view, its sign glowing dull yellow against the dark sky. It wasn't the worst place; mid-range, decent enough to not feel cheap but not extravagant enough to feel too detached.
He reached the door first, pulling it open and stepping aside to let you enter first. You hesitated for half a second. It was the smallest thing, just a flicker of surprise. Not many men bothered with things like that. The whole situation was already an unbalanced exchange, so most of them didn't waste time on little courtesies.
The lobby was quiet when you stepped inside, the drone of a TV playing on the wall the only real noise aside from the soft buzz of the overhead lights. A few armchairs and a coffee table with magazines stacked on top were tucked into a corner, likely placed there just for the visuals rather than actual use.
He stepped ahead of you, moving towards the front desk without hesitation while you lingered back slightly, letting him handle the transaction.
“Just one night, please.”
The receptionist, a woman who appeared to be in her late thirties with dark, slightly greying brunette hair pulled back into a low ponytail and thick-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, barely acknowledged him beyond a nod, her fingers already moving hastily across the keyboard in front of her with practiced efficiency.
He reached into his blazer pocket, pulling out his worn leather wallet once more, the edges softened from years of use, while the quiet click of keys filled the space between them.
“What name will it be under?” she asked, still focused on the screen in front of her.
“Alex Turner.”
She gave a small nod, her gaze never lifting. “Any form of ID?”
Without a word, he slid his driver's licence across the counter. She barely glanced at it, just registered the name and the photo before pushing it back towards him with an indifferent motion.
“Queen or a double?”
“Queen,” he answered without hesitation.
“And how many guests?”
“Two.”
More tapping, more quiet clicks of the keyboard. A few moments passed before she finally spoke again.
“That'll be £71 for the night.”
He didn't hesitate, just pulled his debit card out from his wallet and slid it across the counter, and she slid it back along with a key card a few moments later.
“Room 314. Checkout is at 11. Lifts are just down the hall to your right.”
“Thanks,” he said simply before turning his head to meet your gaze properly for the first time since you'd stepped inside. “Come on.”
Without waiting for a response, he started trailing towards the lifts. The card to the room rested between his fingers as he walked, his footsteps steady as he led the way.
You walked beside him, though your steps were instinctively slower than his, just enough to keep a small distance between the two of you. Not slow enough to seem reluctant or uninterested, but just enough to maintain a space that made you feel the slightest bit safer. It was a very small thing, but one thing you'd learned while being a sex worker is that there's no such thing as being “too safe.”
The thick carpet on the floor of the hallway muffled your footsteps, making the silence between the two of you in the quiet hotel feel even more daunting.
He pressed the button for the lift, using his left hand, and you wondered if he was doing it on purpose. To make sure you saw the ring, make sure you were aware of what you were about to do with a married man.
The light above the lift blinked, signalling its descent, and you stayed stood beside him. The wait was short, just a few seconds, but the silence that stretched between you seemed to elongate it.
When the doors finally slid open, he stepped in first, and you followed, once again keeping a little bit of distance between you two. The mechanical doors glided shut with a soft hum, sealing you both in.
He reached for the panel, once again with his left hand, and he pressed the button for the third floor, and you leaned against the mirrored wall, shifting your weight slightly. You didn't look at him, and he didn't look at you.
Aside from the soft whirring of the lift ascending, it was silent. The kind of silence that flooded a space quickly, swelling, thickening.
Your eyes flicked to the mirror on the wall that you were leaning on, and you watched him for a moment. His posture was relaxed but upright, with his hands in his blazer pockets and his gaze fixed forwards. He wasn't fidgeting or shifting his weight like most men you'd been in this scenario with.
When the doors slid open with a soft chime, the cool air of the corridor filtered in for a moment before he stepped out into the hallway, and you followed. The lighting here was dimmer, not as fluorescent as the ones that had illuminated the lobby. These were softer, warmer, rows of sconces mounted on the walls, casting a soft golden glow onto the otherwise beige hallway.
Each door was identical to the next; dark wood with a golden plated number. His eyes scanned the doors as he walked, until he stopped in front of one. Room 314.
He slid the key card into the reader, once again with his left hand, then there was a small pause before a soft beep accompanied by a green light and a quiet click of the lock releasing, indicating the door had unlocked, and he pushed it open, stepping inside without a word, and you followed.
You shut the door behind you, the sound muffled by the thick carpet, and you flicked on the light switch by the doorframe, though you weren't sure how long it would stay on for.
He shrugged off his blazer, hanging it on the coat rack by the door, barely paying you any mind at all, before slipping off his shoes and setting them neatly on the floor next to the rack. You look at him for a moment before sliding off your jacket as well, hanging it on the opposite side of the coat rack, and pulling off your boots and setting them beside his dress shoes.
It was a standard hotel room. Not overly luxurious, but not too basic either. A queen-sized bed, a TV on top of a chest of drawers on the far side of the room, accompanied by a small coffee table and a single armchair.
The silence stretched between you, thick and unspoken.
You tilted your head slightly, watching him as he took a few steps inside, pausing near the foot of the bed, then exhaled through your nose before breaking the silence.
“So,” you said, your voice even. “What do you want?”
It was a simple question, obviously. One you'd asked a hundred different times to a hundred different men.
He looked at you then, properly, his dark eyes studying you with quiet intent, and you could tell he knew exactly what he wanted.
It was in the way his lips parted slightly, in the way his breath slowed just a fraction, but instead of answering immediately, he let a moment pass, like he was considering it, like he was deciding how to say it. Maybe even pretending to hesitate, as if he didn’t want to seem too eager.
“A blowjob.”
You nodded, unsurprised. Most of your clients started with that, when you used to get them.
“You've got an hour,” you reminded him, and he nodded once.
“Just a blowjob,” he repeated, his voice firm but not demanding. He didn't seem to care about the hour, how much he could get in that time, no attempt to push for more or less.
He had no interest in stretching this out, no expectation of anything more.
Fine by you.
He moved without hesitation; no awkward fumbling, no nervous second-guessing. Just quiet, assured movements as his hands went to his belt, the soft clink of metal as he unfastened the buckle, pulling the leather to one side until it came loose from his belt loops, dropping it onto the floor, before his hands moved to the waistband of his jeans. His fingers pressed lightly against the denim before they found the button, pushing it through the hole effortlessly, before tugging the zip down, the quick whir as the metal teeth seperated.
The waistband of his jeans hung open for a moment before he pulled them down just enough to let them fall down his legs, pooling around his ankles. You stayed still as you watched him slide his thumbs underneath the soft, dark grey waistband of his boxers before tugging them down much swifter, letting them join his jeans around his ankles before stepping out of them both, leaving them crumpled on the floor, but he left his shirt on.
He was already hard. Very hard. You wouldn't of been able to tell how aroused he was from the outside. He'd seemed calm, steady, just generally at ease, completely contrasting the impatience and restlessness your previous clients exhibited in the moments leading up to the sex.
He wasn't in a rush, wasn't trying to shove you onto his dick as fast as possible. He didn't seem eager to push you into anything faster than you were willing to go.
He just climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, settling back against the pillows and spreading his legs slightly as he got comfortable.
It'd obviously been a while since your last client, that long dry spell you'd endured for the past couple of months or so, but none of that mattered now, because even after all that time, you still knew exactly what to do.
You climbed onto the mattress yourself, settling between his legs on your knees at first, putting one hand on his thigh for a moment for balance, to position yourself just right.
You reached for the neckline of your dress, your fingers sliding beneath the fabric, and you slowly pulled it down, letting the straps slip loose down your shoulders. It falls down your arms until your chest is exposed, the cool air of the hotel room making your nipples stiffen.
His eyes followed your movements, lingering on your tits, and he reaches up to grab one, massaging and squeezing it gently before moving his hand to give the same attention to the other one.
You let the fabric of your dress bunch around your waist, not bothering to pull the rest of it off. While he pinches your nipple, you wrap your right hand around his cock. He was thick, your middle finger unable to meet your thumb around his girth as you pumped your fist up and down one, two, three times before murmuring, “You're fucking big…”
He didn't respond with words, but instead with a twitch of his cock and a squeeze of your boobs. From his response, or lack thereof, you could tell he knew one of two things. One, that he knew how huge his dick was, or two, that he knew you said that to all of your clients, regardless of whether they were two inches or twelve inches.
You glanced up at him for a moment, his prominent nose scrunched up ever so slightly as your thumb glides over his wide tip, smearing the bead of pre-cum that had formed over the sensitive skin.
You adjusted your position, lying on your stomach between his legs, your bare shoulders brushing against the insides of his thighs, and you licked a stripe along the underside of his thick cock. Your tongue travelled the long distance from the base, all up his shaft to the tip, tracing every ridge and vein with the tip of your tongue.
His left hand rested on your shoulder blade, the cool metal of his wedding band contrasting the heat of the moment, while you flicked your tongue against his frenulum. You pulled his foreskin back and pressed a kiss to that sensitive spot before wrapping your lips around the scorching hot tip, sucking gently for a moment before you took him in your mouth properly.
The weight of him on your tongue was familiar, yet distinct, his size stretching the soft heat of your mouth almost immediately. You kept your pace measured and slow as you bobbed your head up and down, adjusting to him, your lips sealing tightly around him as you took him deeper.
You wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, the thick patch of coarse pubes coiled over his groin lightly scratching your soft skin, and you kept up the gentle suction, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked.
You gave the base of his dick a gentle squeeze before starting to stroke him in time with the movements of your mouth, your tongue teasing the velvety underside of him, hoping to pull a noise from him.
You looked up at him, meeting his eyes with your mouth still full of him, and that's when you heard the first sound. It was barely audible, a slow, steady exhale with the undertones of a soft, breathy moan, accompanied by his head falling back against the white pillows.
It spurred you on, wanting to coax him deeper into the pleasure, for him to let go, to draw more of those soft, barely-there sounds from him.
Your moved your other hand to rest on his lower belly as you took him deeper, feeling the soft fabric of his t-shirt he still hadn't taken off beneath your palm, your lips stretching around his thick length.
The slick, wet, obscene sound of your mouth gliding up and down his cock filled the quiet space, along with a soft grunt tumbling from his lips. You pulled back all the way to the head, just suckling on the tip for a moment before taking him in again, deeper this time, the tip of your nose brushing against the thatch of dark, wirey hair around the base of his cock.
You glanced up at him again, meeting his eyes as you continued to pleasure him. His cheeks were flushed ever so slightly, his lips parted, and his eyes hooded, watching you as you worked your mouth over him. His breathing had gotten heavier, his chest rising and falling deeply, but still, he didn't moan too much.
You held his gaze as you took him deeper again, his tip kissing the back of your throat before you pulled your mouth off of him for a moment, stroking his cock with your hand while you caught your breath. His hand moved from your shoulder to your hair, gathering it behind your head in a messy makeshift ponytail before you wrapped your lips around him again, pulling his foreskin back again to access that sweet spot right where his shaft meets the head, gently sucking and flicking the tip of your tongue against it, pulling yet another noise from him.
“God…” he sighed, tugging on your hair lightly before releasing his grip from your hair all together, using that hand to prop himself up slightly while his right hand slips underneath you, gently tracing your collarbone before finding your tits once more.
His head fell back, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he swallowed hard, letting out another noise somewhere between a whine and a breathless moan as you sucked hard on the head, before pulling off again.
“That feel good, baby?” you murmured, your lips brushing against the head of his cock, your hot breath ghosting over the ridge. He lifted his head back up at that, making the simple movement look laboured, and his right hand once again moved from your boobs to your face, brushing the stray strands from your forehead, his fingers tracing your jawline.
You smiled up at him, lowering your head to lick and kiss along his shaft before taking him in your mouth properly again, slowly, letting the heat of your mouth wrap around him completely. You hummed softly and contentedly around his girth as you felt him pulse against your tongue, the gentle sensation comforting and familiar despite him being a complete stranger. You swallowed around him, hollowing your cheeks to create that perfect pressure that usually had your clients moaning within seconds.
You took him all the way down again, relaxing your throat to let him fill your mouth completely, letting out a few soft, muffled moans yourself. His body shuddered beneath you before his hips lifted off the mattress slightly, pressing his cock deeper into your mouth. He moaned again, louder this time, breathless and whiney as his cock twitched in your throat, his thighs lightly trembling.
In a moment of desperation, he cupped the back of your head with an unexpected force, contrasting how he'd gently caressed your face just before, pressing your face right up into his groin as he moaned.
You kept sucking hard, your face buried in his pubes and your lips flush against the base of his cock as his he ground his hips against your mouth. He was unshaved. Not just a little, but very. Dark, coarse curls covering his groin and lower stomach and running thick down between his legs. You weren't surprised though. He was married, after all. A man with a wife probably didn't see much of a need to stay trimmed. Not with someone who presumably loved him unconditionally, pubic hair and all.
The noise that tore from his throat was deep, raw, the groan vibrating through his chest and rolling past his lips, his thighs taut on either side of you as he came. It was the kind of noise men made when their last bit of resistance had shattered, and all that was left was pure, unadulterated sensation.
You felt the hot pulse of him against your tongue, the way his cock twitched with each spurt, the way his grip tightened on the back of your head just enough to keep you in place, making you take it all. His stomach was tense beneath your hand, and you instinctively swallowed everything he gave you. Your throat tightened and relaxed around him, taking in every last drop without hesitation.
When his grip finally loosened, it was with a long, deep exhale, his chest rising and falling slowly as you gently pulled back. Your lips dragged along his sensitive skin before letting him slip from your mouth, his cock dropping onto his stomach, a little wet patch forming on the bottom of his t-shirt from the saliva.
You pressed a final kiss to the underside of his softening shaft before sitting up properly on your knees, wiping your lips with the back of your hand. You looked up at him, meeting his gaze. His eyes were half-lidded, dark, but his expression unreadable.
He leaned himself back against the pillows, draping one of his arms over his stomach while he tucked the other behind his head. The room fell quiet. Not just quiet in the way that followed something like this, where heavy breaths evened out, and the raw edge of pleasure dulled into something slower, lazier, but quiet in a way that almost felt unnatural. Stretched out, hanging in the air between you, heavy and lingering. The only sounds were the faint hum of the hotel air conditioning and the distant, muffled noises of the city outside, the occasional horn blaring or the low murmur of voices from people walking past on the street below, but between the four walls of this rented space, there was nothing.
You remained kneeled between his legs for a few moments, the top, folded over half of your dress still bunched around your waist, but you didn't bother to fix it yet. Your eyes drifted over him for a moment, studying the lines of his face, the way his tousled, slightly sweaty hair fell over his forehead, the way his chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm beneath the fabric of his soft, worn top.
He hadn't said a word since he came, and you weren't sure if he was lost in thought or just waiting for you to speak first.
After another long moment, you shifted from between his legs, sitting beside him and leaning back against the headboard. You looked down at him again before breaking the silence.
“You've still got about forty minutes left,” you said softly, your fingers idly smoothing out the crumpled white bedsheets beneath you. It was just a reminder, just a nudge, just an acknowledgment that the time was his to do with as he pleased. “If you wanted anything else.”
His eyes flicked up to meet yours for a brief moment before looking away again. “No,” he said simply but certain, as if he knew what you were going to say before you said it and had premeditated his response. “Just the blowjob.”
You raised your eyebrows ever so slightly, your eyes lingering on him for a moment longer with, not surprise, but mild curiosity.
You'd seen both ends of the spectrum before in your clients. Men booking an hour and only using a fraction of it, while most others tried to get the absolute most out of an hour, squeezing every last drop of pleasure out of the time they'd paid for.
But he was unwavering, adamant in his decision, and you couldn't help but find it a bit odd.
You let the silence settle between you again, feeling the cool air against your exposed skin, and stark contrast to the lingering warmth of his touch, the ghost of his fingertips imprinted on your tits, his wedding ring leaving behind the faintest memory of its presence.
Your eyes trailed down to his left arm draped over his torse, his hand sprawled across his stomach, and you caught sight of it yet again. The golden band wrapped around his ring finger. You never said anything about it when you'd noticed them on clients' fingers before. It wasn't your business, but it was always impossible to ignore.
To think that there was someone else out there, an unsuspecting, trusting woman who thought she knew who his heart belonged to, someone who had made vows with him, shared a life with him, likely even slept beside him in their own bed just last night.
To think you knew who that woman was. Well, you'd seen her with him before.
But yet, here he was. Lying in a cheap hotel room, half-naked, spent, having just paid for the kind of intimacy he should've been getting from his wife, but still, it wasn't your business. It never was.
You tried not to think about it much more. Instead, you asked him, running a hand through your hair, “Do you have any cigarettes?”
You weren't desperate for one, but the craving was there, creeping up the back of your throat slowly. You also just wanted something to do with your hands. You hadn't had the chance to buy yourself a new pack after smoking your last one earlier, before he had appeared.
He glanced up at you before looking away again. He didn't seem to be able to hold your gaze for more than a few seconds. He said, his voice low and steady, “In my blazer,” he paused for a moment. “Pocket.”
Your eyes flickered over to the coat rack by the door where he'd hung up his blazer when he entered, and you pushed yourself up off of the bed. You crossed the room to the rack, your fingers slipping into the pocket and feeling the familiar shape of a cigarette pack. Thin cardboard, scuffed at the edges, and the foil inside crinkled. You pulled it out and flipped open the loose top, seeing that there were a couple left inside. Not exactly fresh, but not stale either.
You plucked one from the box, bringing the filter to your mouth and holding it between your lips as you turned your head back towards him. He was watching you now, his dark eyes following your movements, but there was no lust in his gaze now.
“You mind?” you asked, though it felt rhetorical. He shook is head, a small, barely noticeable movement, and you nodded, more to yourself than him.
You fished your own almost empty lighter out of your jacket pocket, also hung on the coat rack, and you shook it before flicking the wheel a few times until a small flame sparked. You inhaled, the familiar, comforting burn of the smoke floating in your lungs before exhaling.
You made your way across the room once more, the cigarette dangling from between your fingers, leaving a trail of delicate wisps of smoke behind you. You perched on the windowsill, one knee bent, the other leg stretched out slightly, nudging the window open ajar so the smoke can flow out.
The air outside was cool, enough to raise goosebumps across your skin, seeping into the room in lazy drafts. You didn't bother fixing your dress, pulling the straps back over your shoulders and attempting to make yourself decent. The cool breeze drifting in from the window made your nipples perk up once again. You left it down, the fabric still bunched uselessly around your waist, your tits exposed to the open air, to the room, to anyone who might have been looking up from the street below.
You took a slow drag, inhaling deep, letting the smoke settle before exhaling through your nostrils. The view wasn't much; mainly just rooftops, blinking streetlights, and the occasional set of fluorescent headlights as cars passed below. But it was more interesting than staring at blank hotel walls, whatever he was doing.
He hadn't moved much, still on the bed, his legs stretched and sprawled out, one arm resting on his stomach, still naked from the waist down. He was watching you. You could feel his gaze on you, a quiet presence between the two of you. You let the silence stretch out, letting him sit with whatever thoughts were running through his head.
Maybe he was thinking about his wife. About the woman who's finger their golden wedding band still sat snug around. Maybe he was thinking about everything you two had just done. Maybe he wasn't thinking at all.
Your cigarette burned slowly between your fingers, the orange of the ember glowing each time you took a drag. The cool night air kissed your bare skin, but still, you didn't pull your dress up.
His voice broke through the silence, low and steady, just like it had been all night. “Are you staying here tonight?”
You turned your head slightly, not fully looking at him, but just enough to acknowledge that you had heard him.
It wasn't the kind of question you'd heard clients usually ask. Some might assume you'd just leave once the hour was up, others didn’t care enough to ask, and some would pathetically offer to pay for extra time just to have company a little longer. But he didn't sound like he was offering, didn’t sound hopeful or pleading. It was just a question, simple and even, like he genuinely wanted to know.
You took another drag, letting his question hang in the air for a while as the smoke filled your lungs, exhaling towards the open window before you replied, “Do you want me to?”
You heard him shift slightly, the bedsheets creasing and the mattress creaking with his movement. He didn't answer right away, but when he did, his voice wasn't in the unreadable, measured tone it had been all night. There was a hint of something else; maybe a tinge of vulnerability, or hesitation.
“I don't know,” he admitted after a moment, his voice softer. “Maybe.”
That made you turn your head a little more. You met his gaze, and he was still sat where you'd left him.
Maybe. It wasn't a yes, but it wasn't a no either.
You tapped the ash from your cigarette, watching as it fluttered down out of the window in all different directions, dissipating into the night. You reply, “I normally charge for that.”
When you glanced back at him, his expression made you pause.
It wasn't irritation or frustration at your response, nothing like that. It was something quieter, something more knowing. A look that told you he already had you figured out, at least in one way.
Because he knew.
He'd been observing you long before he approached you earlier that night. He had noticed you before, maybe not in a way you had caught onto at the time, but he had been looking. Studying. And he knew something most men wouldn’t have figured out so easily; that it had been weeks since your last client. That the dry spell had dragged on longer than you had ever anticipated. That you needed the money. That you didn’t have the luxury of saying no.
You held his gaze for a moment longer, the cigarette burning low between your fingers. Then, without a word, you turned back toward the window, taking another slow drag, letting the embers glow bright before fading again.
You didn’t say yes, but you didn’t say no, either.
“I'll pay you, if that's what you want. Or need.”
That hint of vulnerability you'd heard in his voice just moments before was more prominent now, the unbothered confidence he'd exuded during your time together filtering out.
“Just stay.”
It wasn't a demand, not a command from a man used to getting his way. It wasn't even a transaction, not really. It was something else. Something closer to a request, maybe even a plea.
You leaned your head back against the wall of the windowsill, closing your eyes for a second. If you said no, you knew he wouldn't argue. He wouldn't push. He'd probably just watch you get dressed, maybe offer you a lift somewhere, then let you go, but he'd noticed things about you that others hadn't. He knew you hadn't been working, and he knew you needed to be working.
And maybe he needed something too.
You sighed slowly before you spoke.
“Okay,” you said, looking over at him again. “I'll stay.”
You ground the cigarette against the windowsill, putting it out completely before tossing it out the window, leaving it ajar. You stepped out of the windowsill before slipping your hands under the waistband of your tights, pulling them down and off your legs. They were ripped and thin from years of wearing, clinging to your skin like cobwebs whenever you wore them. You pulled them off of your feet before tossing them to the side, not bothering to look or care where they landed.
You then finally pulled the straps of your dress back up over your shoulders, smoothing out the fabric. It wasn't the most comfortable dress in the world, but you didn't really have another option to sleep in.
You got into the bed beside him, slipping underneath the thick duvet while he stayed lay on top of it. As you made yourself comfortable, you expected him to say something, anything. Small talk, a question, some comment about the night, or even just a joke to break the silence.
But, nothing.
The air conditioner hummed softly in the corner, filling the room with a low, mechanical drone. You could hear the faint sound of cars outside, the distant murmur of life still moving beyond the walls of this hotel room, but between you and him, there was nothing.
You lay on your side, your cheek pressed against the pillow as you watched him in the dim light, your gaze falling down to his ring again.
You couldn't help but wonder where his wife thought he was. You knew all the basic, typical excuses. On a work trip, out with friends, visiting family. But you wondered what he had told her.
But once again, it's not your business. You just let the silence sit between you, until he moves, snapping you out of it and stopping your mind from getting too deep in that rabbit hole. He pulled the duvet up over him, joining you under it. He exhaled deeply, settling on his back once again, staring up at the ceiling.
You stayed on your side, facing him, but you closed your eyes. You heard him shift again, just slightly, only his head turning in your direction. He must've seen your eyes closed, as he murmured, “…Goodnight.”
You hesitated, just for a moment, before you replied, your eyes still closed, “Goodnight.”
You weren't sure how long it took for you to drift off, but when you woke up, it was early. Far too early, judging by the pale light filtering through the curtains and the cold dawn air seeping in through the window you'd left ajar. It was morning, but just barely. The cool air had been slowly invading the room while you two slept, a contrast to the warmth beneath the duvet, and for a moment, you just lay there, still and quiet.
You rubbed the sleep from the corners of your eyes before looking over at him, still asleep. His breathing was deep and steady, his lips slightly parted. His dark hair was tousled against the pillow, a few strands falling over his forehead. The t-shirt he'd slept in had ridden up slightly as well as his side of the duvet being pushed down, exposing just a sliver of skin above his hip.
As for leaving, you weren't sure what the right move was. Leaving now would spare you both the awkwardness of waking up next to each other, of the inevitable moment when he'd have to remember what he'd done and how he got here. You could slip out quietly now, gather your things, and disappear before he even stirred.
But then what?
You'd have to walk out of the hotel alone, past the receptionist who had already seen you last night, past the other guests making their way to breakfast or checkout, all while in ripped tights and a mini dress. And even though you'd walked away from plenty of clients without a second thought before, something about this one made you hesitate.
So you stayed.
The minutes felt like hours, slow and heavy, the room still dim with early morning light. You lay there, listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing, the occasional shuffle of footsteps down the corridor outside the door to your room.
You shifted slightly, careful not to disturb him, staring up at the ceiling. You didn't know what him waking up would bring; whether he’d be distant, polite, or regretful. Maybe he'd pretend last night never happened. Maybe he'd slip back into the confidence he'd had when he first approached you.
Either way, you decided you'd ride it out.
Eventually, he'd wake up, and you'd leave together. No lingering, no drawn-out goodbyes. Just two people going their separate ways, back to their separate lives.
And then, like always, you'd move on.
You noticed his breathing change before anything else, the deep, slow rhythm of sleep turning into something lighter and more conscious. When he stirred, it was with a slow stretch, a small grunt and a rustle of the sheets as he rolled onto his side. His hand came up to drag over his face, but you didn't turn to look at him yet.
When he did finally move again, it wasn't with hesitation. He sat up, exhaling quietly, running a hand through his messy hair. You turned your head slightly, watching as he blinked against the morning light, but the awkwardness you'd been expecting never quite settled in. At least, not entirely.
He seemed preoccupied, maybe even in a bit of a hurry. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for his trousers and boxer shorts on the floor. His movements were purposeful. Not rushed exactly, but definitely not slow. Like he had somewhere to be. Work, maybe. Probably.
You sat up, letting the duvet fall from your shoulders as you leaned back against the headboard. He didn't say anything to you at first, but neither did you.
When he buttoned and zipped his jeans, he turned to glance at you, giving you a half-hearted nod of acknowledgement. You pushed yourself up out of bed a few moments after, not bothering to even make an attempt to put your tights back on. You pick them up from where you'd discarded them on the floor the night before, then walking over to the door of the room to slide on your boots and jacket, stuffing your tights into your pocket.
He grabbed his blazer off of the rack before sliding his shoes on, and with that, you followed him out of the door.
The silence between you wasn't overly heavy, but it just existed. You two made your way down the corridors, past doors identical to the one you'd just left.
The lift ride down to the lobby was quiet, the soft, mechanical hum of descending floors the only sound that filled the space between you. The same uncomfortable lighting, the same mirrored walls reflecting the both of you back at yourselves. You didn't glance at him, and he didn’t look at you either, both of you caught in the unspoken understanding of the morning after.
When the doors slid open, the lobby was as sterile and impersonal as it had been the night before. The receptionist barely looked up as he stepped forward to check out, giving his key card back with a nod and a murmured, “Checking out of 314.”
The process was quick, efficient. No questions asked, no lingering looks, just a receipt printed and handed over and a polite, almost automatic, “Have a good day.”
The air was cool and crisp as you stepped outside. The city was already awake, cars moving sluggishly through the streets, people heading to work, to school, to whatever lives they led. You both stopped just outside the entrance, a brief moment before going your separate ways.
He turned to you, hands in his pockets, and he asked, his voice smooth but with remnants of sleep, “How much do you want for staying the night?”
You glanced up at him before replying “£100.”
He nodded, no argument, no negotiation. He pulled out his wallet once more, just as he'd done the night before, and he pulled out five £20 notes for you.
“Thanks,” you gave a half-hearted smile as you took the notes, slipping them in your pocket along with your hand.
“Thank you,” he replied, taking a slow deep breath in, glancing around before looking back at you and saying, “See you later.”
You didn't watch him walk away, or try to figure out which direction he was going, whether he was heading towards a cab, a parked car, or just blending in with the sluggish morning foot traffic. Maybe he was going to work, or home, or to a coffee shop or a bar, somewhere that served as a liminal space before he had to return to whatever life existed beyond the anonymity of last night. It didn't matter to you.
You turned in the opposite direction, your worn boots scuffing against the pavement, hands stuffed in the pockets of your jacket. Your eyes scanned over the city as you walked, watching as cars idled at red lights, cyclists weaved between them, people shuffled along with tired eyes and takeaway cups warming their hands.
Your flat was as unremarkable as ever, a small, cheap place that barely fit the definition of home. It was the kind of place that didn't ask for much, and didn't expect much. A sink that dripped no matter how hard you turned the handle, a radiator that barely worked and rattled ominously whenever you tried to switch it on, and a window that didn't close all the way.
You'd told your landlord about these problems many months ago, but just like everything else in this building, it was just a problem left unresolved.
You kicked off your boots by the front door as you entered and shrugged off your jacket, draping it over the back of your tattered couch. You fished the money out of the pocket of your jacket, making sure you had it all. It was mostly twenty-pound-notes, a few tens, but you checked that it added up to £300 before tucking them into an old jar in the kitchen where you kept most of the money made by clients. When you used to get them more often, that was.
It was enough to pay for groceries, maybe even enough to pay off a few of your overdue bills.
Hopefully enough to get you through the next few weeks until your next client came along, if they ever did.
The next two weeks crawled by, thick and slow, dragging their weight behind them like something half-dead. Nothing. Again. Just like before that man. Alex, you thought his name was, or at least that was what you remembered from when he had checked into the hotel.
Names never mattered much to you, not with what you did. It made it too personal. Unless they'd asked you to moan their name, you never bothered.
But now, even he was gone, fading into the same absence that had filled your nights before him.
You tried. You went out, made the rounds, hung around by the places that used to get you flooded with work, but now, nothing. You dressed the part; skimpy dresses, short skirts, low necklines that left little to the imagination, heels that clicked against the pavement like an invitation.
But still, nothing.
You were invisible in the way that only people like you could be, standing in plain sight yet unseen. The men who used to look at you, who used to slow their steps and cast glances from the corners of their eyes, no longer lingered.
Maybe it was just bad luck, or maybe it was just the economy. The way indulgences like this had become harder to justify. Maybe it was just a slow season. Excluding that last man you had, it'd been over two months since your last client now.
The last of the money he had gave you was nearly gone. You'd stretched it out as much as you could, buying the cheapest groceries, skipping meals when you could, rationing what little warmth your radiator could provide, but £300 didn't last long.
Nights became longer. You walked more, stayed out later, hoping that maybe someone would stop. You tried different spots, changed up your routine, even considered lowering your rates again just to get something, but nothing worked. The men who did glance your way never stopped, never approached, never reached for their wallets with that familiar mix of guilt and desire.
The silence of your empty flat became unbearable. The dripping tap, the cold air seeping in through the cracked window, the faint smell of dust and cigarette smoke that clung to the fabric of your furniture; it all felt heavier now. Every night, you came home with the same empty pockets, the same unshakable weight settling in your chest. You would sit on the couch, scrolling through your laptop mindlessly, looking at nothing in particular, just trying to distract yourself from the growing anxiety curling inside you.
And sometimes your mind slipped back to him, Alex. It wasn't like he was anything too special, anyway. Older and married with a big dick, you'd had plenty of those. He was just the first in a long time, the only in a long time, and that made you wonder what he saw in you that nobody else seemed to anymore.
You hadn't thought much about him in the days right after, too caught up in the relief of finally having made some money, but now, with nothing else filling the void, his face lingered in the back of your mind. The way he had been so sure of himself when he had approached you, the quiet confidence in his voice as he made his request. The way he had watched you, not just in the hotel room but before, before he had even come to you. He had known you hadn't had clients in weeks. He had seen it.
You wondered if he was thinking about you now. Probably not, but you'd seen him around few times after your night together, with her, his wife. Walking hand in hand or with his arm around her shoulder, sharing a small kiss or a few whispered words. You should've felt guilty, should've felt sorry for her, completely oblivious to the fact her husband had cheated on her just days before, but you didn't.
Men like him didn't think about women like you, not after the fact. You had been a moment, an indulgence, something he had sought out and paid for and left behind without a second thought. He had a wife, a life, maybe even a child, a world beyond what happened with you. If he was thinking about anything now, it was probably work, or his morning coffee, or whatever mundane responsibilities filled the lives of men who had the luxury of stability.
But still, your mind circled back to him more often than you wanted to admit, because at least with him, for one night, the dry spell had ended. Now, it stretched on again, endless and unforgiving.
The night had started just like the others. You had been lingering near one of your usual spots, the cool night air pressing against your bare skin, the city moving around you in its usual detached way. The pavement was damp from an earlier rain, the lights from nearby bars reflecting in puddles, casting a distorted, artificial glow over everything.
You weren't expecting much. You weren't expecting anything, really. Just another night of waiting, another night of trying.
And then, you saw him.
At first, you thought it was just some other man, some stranger who just happened to look familiar in the dim light, but then he moved closer, and recognition settled in.
It was Alex.
The man from the hotel two weeks ago. The man who had given you your last job, or rather you'd given your last 'job to, before the dry spell stretched on unbearably. The man who had watched you, observed you, knew you hadn’t had any clients for a while before him. And now, here he was again, standing in front of you, looking at you in the same way he had that previous night; like he had already made up his mind before he had even approached.
“Hi,” he said, his voice quieter than you remembered, like he was hesitant, or maybe just unsure of what to say. “I want to see you again.”
He slipped his hands into his pockets, glancing around for a moment as if to check if anyone saw him talking to you. Maybe the guilt was heavier this time, maybe two weeks had given him time to think about what he had done that night, but if he had regrets, they weren't strong enough to keep him from coming back.
You met his eyes, and before you could respond, he continued. “There's a bar down the road, it's got a few rooms. We could go there.”
You didn't say anything yet, watching him shift slightly.
“I'll buy you a drink first,” he added, as if he felt the need to justify it, like that somehow would differ it from last time, but it made you smile. Just a small quirk of your lips, but enough for him to notice. It wasn't something clients usually did. They wanted to get to the point, get what they paid for and be on their way, but he wasn't rushing, wasn't pushing for anything. Maybe it was guilt, maybe it was something else, but either way, you weren't about to turn down a free drink.
“Alright,” you finally said, your voice soft and smooth. “For how long tonight?”
His gaze trails off from yours, down to the puddles of rain on the pavement from the earlier showers, and he said, a little quieter, “The whole night. Please.”
You nodded and told him, “£400.”
He didn't argue, again, didn't try to haggle or get you to lower the price, just another confirmation that he'd already made up his mind before soughting you out again. He just agreed and fished out his wallet, pulling the notes out carefully.
After he handed you the notes and you put them in your pocket, you two walked to the bar together, side by side, but not quite touching. The sound of drunken laughter spilling out of pubs, the faint, distant sound of music, and cars with blaring headlights driving past, the light reflecting off of every puddle.
Inside, the bar was small, warm, dimly lit, the kind of place where people came to drink quietly as opposed to getting completely drunk. A few tables were occupied, some older men nursing their pints alone, a couple in the corner speaking in hushed voices. The bartender gave you both a smile as you walked in before going back to wiping down the surfaces.
He ordered a whiskey for himself and a vodka cranberry for you before quietly asking the bartender about the room availability upstairs. The worker asked him a few questions before handing over a key, a much more laid-back than the check-in process at the last hotel you'd been to.
You watched as he handed over the cash, your eyes lingering on his hands. They were nice. Large, veiny, strong-looking. When the bartender handed over your drinks, he took a slow sip of his whiskey, his wedding ring clinking gently against the side of the glass, before leading you over to a small table in the corner.
“You been doing alright?” he asked after sitting down, his voice a bit rougher than before. The question caught you off guard. It wasn't something clients usually asked. In fact, they rarely saw you as a person, no more than a set of holes to be rented for a few hours, to be very honest, but there was something in his voice, something just slightly softer, like maybe he actually cared to hear the response.
You swirled your drink in your glass, the ice tinking against each other as they shifted. “Been quiet,” you admitted, setting your glass down on the sticky, dark brown wooden table.
He nodded as if he had already known the answer. There was another pause, another sip of whiskey, before he spoke again.
“When we go upstairs…” he started, his voice quieter and his gaze low, trying not to meet your eyes. “Can you- um… would you call me daddy?”
It wasn't an unusual request. You'd been asked for worse. Much worse. But what caught your attention wasn't the request itself, but rather the way he said it. Not smug, not demanding, not trying to put on some kind of dominant act like so many others did. No, there was something else there. The slightest hint of embarrassment, a flicker of vulnerability that he couldn’t quite hide.
You didn't say yes immediately, didn't give him what he wanted right away. Instead, you just tilted your head slightly, watching him, letting the moment stretch just long enough to make him wonder.
"You like that?" you asked, voice slow, smooth. His eyes flicked back to you for just a second before answering, almost shyly.
“…Yeah.”
You smiled, letting his words hang in the air between you for a few more moments before replying softly, “I can do that for you.”
You noticed a flicker of relief flash across his features as he nodded, exhaling a small, quiet breath through his nose.
The conversation, if you could even call it that, was slow. Hesitant.
He sat with his drink, fingers wrapped loosely around the glass, rolling it slightly in his palm, watching the liquid shift. His wedding ring caught the low light every now and then, a fleeting glint of gold before it was swallowed back into the shadows of the dim bar. He didn't fidget much, but you could tell he was thinking, maybe too much, maybe about things he shouldn't be thinking about right now.
“You been busy?” you asked after a moment, your voice casual.
His gaze flicked up to meet yours then, just for a second, before he looked back down at his drink. "Same as always.”
Same as always. You wondered what that meant for a man like him. You wondered if he went back to his wife after the first night you'd spent together. If he kissed her when he came in through the door, if she made him coffee, if she noticed anything different about him.
But that wasn't something you were going to ask. That wasn't something you wanted to ask, and you were sure that wasn't something he wanted to answer.
"Thought about coming back sooner?" you asked instead, tilting your head slightly, watching him, studying the way his expression remained carefully neutral.
For the first time, he actually smirked, just a little, just the faintest curve of his lips as he exhaled through his nose. "Maybe."
You hummed, dragging your finger around the rim of your glass, a faint red lipstick mark pressed onto the glass from where you'd been sipping it. "What stopped you?”
He took a sip of his drink, his throat shifting slightly as he swallowed, before he finally said, "Didn't know if I should."
"And what changed your mind?" you pressed, curiosity getting the better of you now.
His fingers tapped absently against his glass, a small, repetitive sound. He didn't answer right away, but when he did, his voice was quieter than before.
"Didn't want to stay away any longer."
The way he said it, the weight behind it, made your stomach dip just slightly. It wasn't love, it wasn't devotion, it wasn't even attachment, not entirely, but it was something. Some little thing that had tugged at him enough to bring him back to you.
“Should we do something about it?” you murmured, your lips curling at the corners into the faintest smile.
His eyes met yours again, and without a word, he downed the rest of his drink and set his empty glass beside yours on the table before standing up, and gestured towards the stairs leading up to the rooms above.
You followed him up the steep, narrow, rickety wooden stairs, creaking loudly with each step you took. He unlocked the door with the key he'd been given and pushed the door open, and you followed after him.
It wasn't at all like the last hotel you'd been in. It was smaller, only a three or four rooms available in total. It seemed older, the few decorations looking like they'd been plucked from an old vintage second-hand shop. The same dark wood from the bar downstairs climbed up the walls and framed the old furniture, polished but worn in places where time and use had left their marks. The wallpaper was dark, patterned in a way that might've been stylish once, decades ago, but now just felt old. Even the lighting was dimmer, warmer, the sconces on the walls casting a low, flickering glow
It was the kind that sat above places like this; a bar with cheap drinks and patrons who didn’t ask too many questions.
The room itself smelled like old wood and something faintly floral, like an air freshener that had been plugged in as a half-assed attempt to cover up the underlying musty scent.
The room was simple. A double bed with faded burgundy sheets, a small dresser, a mirror hanging slightly crooked on the wall, a tatty sofa with mismatched cushions, and a TV that probably didn't work. The kind of place built for one-night stays like this.
You slipped off your heels and draped your jacket over the back of the couch before turning back to him, letting your gaze drop slightly.
“What do you want this time?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.
He exhaled through his nose, a soft, amused sound before shrugging off that same blazer he'd worn last time, draping it over the couch next to your jacket. “Want you from behind,” he said simply.
There was no hesitation this time, no feigned uncertainty. He knew exactly what he wanted.
His fingers worked at his belt, the soft clink of the metal buckle tainting the quiet of the room as he undid it, pulling it to one side to free it from his belt loops before starting on his button and zip.
“On all fours,” he clarified while pushing the button of his jeans through the hole, followed by the soft, metallic whir of his zip being pulled down.
You smiled a little at his instruction, hooking your thumbs under waistband of your short skirt, sliding it down your hips and letting it pool at your feet before stepping out of it, draping it over the back of the couch on top of your jacket.
The room's dim, golden lighting from the lamp cast delicate shadows across your bare thighs as you turned to move towards the bed. You had no intention of taking your shirt off. Not that you were shy, far from it, but you liked the contrast of keeping something on.
You were stopped by his hands, firmly gripping your waist before finding the hem of your shirt, tugging it upwards. You let out a small breath of surprise, but you didn't stop him, letting him pull it up over your head and off your arms, bunching it up in his hand before tossing it in the general direction of the couch, but he didn't care too much where it landed.
The cool air of the room made your nipples tighten in response and he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, pressing his chest against your back, and you felt that he'd taken his shirt off this time. His arms snaked around your waist, one of his hands trailing up to squeeze your boobs as he kissed the side of your neck.
He pulled you closer to him, his arm tightening around your waist and his hand squeezing your tits harder, feeling your hard nipples against his palm.
He pressed a final kiss just below your ear before slipping his hands underneath the waistband of your panties, sliding them down as he kneeled down behind you, pressing a few kisses to the backs of your thighs, his eyes closing as he pressed a paticularly long kiss just below your ass cheek.
When he stood back up, he pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades before tugging down his own underwear down his legs while you stepped out of yours. Once they were down, he grabbed them off the floor by the waistband and tossing them in whatever direction his wrist flicked in first, not wanting to waste a single second.
His lips landed on your neck again, the opposite side this time, and you could feel his cock, long, hard, hot and pulsing, against your thigh as his arms wrapped around you from behind again, holding you close to him. Almost unintentionally, from shifting his hips in an attempt to get some friction, his searing hot cock slid between your thighs, and he moaned, his lips still latched to you neck.
He started to rock his hips gently, tentatively, adjusting the position of his feet to get more leverage as he thrusted his cock in and out of between your thighs.
After a few more thrusts, his hips stilled, his hips pressed right up against your ass before he murmured, an underlying hint of humour in his tone, “Should we get on the bed?”
Your lips curled into a small smile, turning your head just enough to look up at him. You half-expected him to kiss you, after all that neck kissing, but he didn't. You weren't sure if he was ready for anything mouth-on-mouth yet, and you weren't going to force him into anything.
His hands drifted down to your hips, his grip firm but not forceful, guiding you onto the bed and positioning you just how he wanted you. The mattress dipped beneath your weight as your crawled forward just enough to give him some space to kneel behind you, and you settled on all fours, arching your back just enough to give him a good view as well as easy access while he quickly padded across the room back to where he'd left his jeans, pulling a condom out of the back pocket.
The bed creaked as he got on the bed behind you, then you felt his hand on your ass, giving it a quick squeeze before it slid up your back, steadying himself as you heard him tear open the wrapped before he rolled it on himself.
His fingertips traced down your spine, just barely ghosting over the fair skin before he leaned down, pressing soft and warm, slow and deliberate kisses along your back, his lips moving along your shoulder blades, all the way down to the dip of your lower back.
His lips pressed against every vertebrae, his teeth grazing your skin, the contrast between his soft lips and the the sharp drag of his teeth sending a shiver through you. When he pressed the final kiss to your skin, the lowest point of your back, he straightened up again. He wrapped one hand around his latex-wrapped cock, rubbing the tip along your soaked pussy lips before lining himself up.
The head of his cock nudged at your entrance before he gently pushed his hips forward. He slid in slowly, his thick shaft stretching you just enough for that subtle burn you adored, but not enough for it to hurt.
You gasped softly, your breath melting into a gentle moan as you murmured, “Daddy…”
He liked that. A lot. You felt him twitch inside you as he continued to push forward, letting out a deep groan himself once he reached the hilt.
You felt his pubes gently scratch against your thighs as he held himself there for a moment, giving you a few seconds to adjust to the fullness before placing one of his hands on your lower back, his fingers sprawling out, and he pulled back before pushing back in again.
You let out another moan, slightly higher-pitched this time, whinier, your pussy fluttering and tightening around him as you adjusted to the sheer size of him. He was big, you knew that from the first time, but having him like this, feeling how deep he could get, how much he could stretch you, it was indescribable.
He exhaled deeply, his hands settling on your ass cheeks as he began to thrust properly, building a steady rhythm. You felt it again, the cool metal of his wedding ring pressing against the hot skin on your left cheek as his thumb rubbed over your skin absentmindedly, but the grip he had on you made it clear that he wasn't going to be gentle for long.
You could feel the tension in his body, like he had to physically restrain himself from pulling all the way out and slamming right back in again.
As he kept up those steady thrusts, you continued moaning softly for him each time he pushed in, but you could tell he wanted to get rougher, so to urge him on, you whimpered, breathy and laced with submission, “Fuck, harder, daddy…”
The effect was immediate. His grip on your ass tightened as he groaned, a low rumble from deep in his chest as he moved faster, thrusting into you with a newfound hunger, getting harder, deeper, and rougher with each snap of his hips.
The bed creaked beneath you, the rickety wooden frame protesting under the force of his movements. His hands roamed over your body. Up your back, underneath to your stomach, up to your tits and giving each of them a squeeze before settling between your legs, his rough fingers finding your clit and circling it in time with his thrusts, and then it happened.
A sudden pop, a sharp crack from his knee as he drove forward, and he instantly faltered. He slowed down, just for a moment, a quiet, barely audible huff of irritation leaving his lips. His rhythm stuttered, and you felt his hands momentarily tense before he eased his movements, shifting his weight slightly as if to lessen the strain.
You could tell he was embarrassed. He didn't say anything, but you felt the way his fingers twitched against your waist, the slight hesitation in his next thrust. Maybe he thought you'd say something, acknowledge it, but you didn't. Instead, you just pushed back against him, rolling your hips, coaxing him to keep going, and he did.
With a low grunt, he picked up his pace again, slower at first, regaining his bearings before he found his rhythm once more, but this time, it was different. Still rough, still deep, still relentless, but there was something else too. A slight urgency, like he needed to reclaim control, to push past that brief, unwanted reminder of his own age.
His breathing was rough, laboured, and every time you moaned for him, letting that daddy slip from your lips, you felt him twitch inside your warmth, heard the way his breath hitched ever so slightly. It was the only confirmation you needed; he fucking loved it.
The headboard knocked against the wall in rhythm with his movements, a steady, ceaseless rhythm, punctuated only by the occasional grunt from low his throat. His grip tightened on your ass, raising his hand up just enough before bringing it back down in a harsh slap, watching the flesh bounce slightly.
The feeling of his long, thick cock filling you up over and over again, combined with the pads of his fingers continuously rubbing your clit in tight circles almost too much. You lowered your head to rest on your elbows, your back arching as you moaned and whined for him, and you could tell he was getting close too.
His pace was getting less controlled, both in his thrusts and his fingers on your clit, his breathing getting shallower, and when he leaned forward, his chest pressing to your back, you could feel the thin sheen of sweat coating him, his small patch of twiddly chest hair slightly dampened.
“Fuck, you feel good…” he groaned into your ear, and you clenched around him at that, rocking your hips back against him, meeting his thrusts half way. His grip on your ass tightened almost painfully and his rhythm faltered again, this time not from embarrassment, but because he was right there, teetering on the edge.
You squeezed your eyes shut and whimpered, “Daddy, I'm gonna cum…”
A strangled moan rose from his lips as he buried himself in you one last time. His body went rigid, his face scrunching up and his cock twitching uncontrollably as he spilled into the condom, letting out a long, low moan of pure satisfaction.
The sensation of him filling up the condom inside you was enough to send you over the edge as well, your pussy muscles spasming around him as you came, murmuring a soft, “Daddy…”
For a moment, he just stayed still, his sweat-drenched forehead pressed against your shoulder as he caught his breath. The only sound in the room was the distant murmur of the bar downstairs, and the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing as he finally started to come back down from his high.
As he finally withdrew, you felt the slow drag of him against your sensitive walls as he slipped out, leaving behind a dull, empty ache in his absence. He took his time pulling the condom off, his fingers deft and practiced as he tied it off and set it aside on the bedside table for now.
The dim, warm glow from the bedside lamp cast soft shadows across his skin, accentuating the sweat still shiny on his skin, while you took a deep, steady breath before straightening yourself up, your thighs aching from the way he'd gripped you.
You sat up, rolling your shoulders for a brief moment before shuffling to lay beside him on the bed, mirroring his position. You stretched your legs out next to his, the sheets slightly cool against your warm skin. You didn't bother slipping underneath the duvet. Not yet, anyway. Instead, you let your body sink into the mattress, staring up at the ceiling, still feeling the remnants of his touch.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable, but it wasn't exactly peaceful either. It was something in between, something neither of you seemed willing to break just yet.
Your gaze drifted to him, studying the side of his face. The soft line of his jaw, the faint creases at the corners of his eyes, the texture of his skin. His dark hair was a little messier now, strands sticking up slightly from where his fingers had run through it earlier.
You turned your head slightly, watching him as he lay there, his eyes half-lidded, his fingers idly tracing patterns against his stomach like he was lost in thought.
He shifted slightly, rolling onto his side to face you, one arm propped under his head, making eye contact with you.
He took a deep breath before saying simply, “My wife doesn't know.”
You turned as he spoke, lying on your side, facing him properly now. “I'd hope not.”
He let out a dry, humourless chuckle. “Yeah,” he sighed. “She's… she's a good woman, but… I don't know what happened.”
You didn't respond, wanting to see if he had anything else to say. You didn't want to admit it to yourself, but you had been curious about her. But when he spoke again, it wasn't about her. It was about you.
“How old are you?” he asked suddenly.
You hesitated for a moment, just long enough for him to notice, but you told him anyway. “I'm nineteen.”
Something changed in his expression. Just slightly, but enough for you to catch it. A brief flicker of something that looked like hesitation or disbelief before it smoothed out again.
“…Christ,” he finally muttered under his breath. “I'm thirty-eight.”
You watched him for a moment, reading the shift in his expression, the way his mouth pressed into a thin line. He wasn't stupid, he'd known you were young, but knowing you were young and knowing you were nineteen were two different things.
“Regretting it now?” you asked, voice laced with dry amusement and a hint of teasing.
His eyes flicked back to you. “No,” he paused before adding, a little quieter, “Should I be?”
You didn't say anything in response, just looking at him, watching, your eyes staying locked on each other's, until he started to speak again.
“My wife's younger than me too. Not as young as you, just about 6 years. I met her when I was thirty. She was twenty-four.”
You watched him closely as he spoke, listening carefully, and he added, “That felt wrong, back then. Six years felt like too big of a gap,” his eyes trailed off from yours, down to small gap between you on the bed. “God knows what the fuck I'm doing with a nineteen-year-old now.”
His morals, if he even had any left, had clearly stopped mattering to him a long time ago. Because he was here, wasn't he? Paying for a nineteen-year-old to keep him company, and to let him fuck her in dingy hotel rooms.
The conversation drifted back to his wife, as if now that he'd finally mentioned her, he couldn’t stop.
“It's not working, obviously,” he admitted, rolling onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. His voice was quieter now, less guarded. “Hasn't been for a long time.”
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling heavily. “I don't think she knows. Or she does, and she just doesn't care enough to ask.”
He looked different now. Less composed, less put together. Your eyes scanned over him, still naked, now both physically and emotionally.
“I do love her,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Or... I did. I don’t know.” His fingers flexed slightly against the sheets, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. “I think I still love who she is, but I don't think I love us anymore.”
You didn't say anything, just listened.
“She's a good woman,” he continued, exhaling slowly. “Always has been. Stuck with me through a lot of shit. We did everything we were supposed to.”
He shifted slightly, his eyes flickering over to you for a moment before he turned his gaze back up to the ceiling. “I don't think she's too happy either. She'd never say it though. She doesn't say when things bother her.”
He stopped. His lips parted slightly, like he was going to finish the thought, but he didn't. He just breathed out, shook his head slightly. “We still do all the normal things. I take her out for dates and buy her flowers and whatever, we have sex when she wants, but that's about all we do nowadays.”
Silence settled between you again, heavier this time. He turned over onto his side again, facing you properly once more, and his hand reached for you, gently resting on your waist.
“I don't know if I can say I love her anymore,” he murmured. “Not after what I've done with you.”
You held his gaze for a long moment, searching for something in his eyes. You weren't sure if you found it, but you nodded anyway.
You weren't here to try and fix his marriage or tell him where to go from here. It wasn't your place. You were just here because he paid you to be.
But as he pulled you against him, as his fingers traced patterns along the skin of your waist as he held you close to him, as he settled into the quiet beside you, it felt like just for tonight, the money wasn't the only reason you stayed.
｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽
i don't know why the age in these sorts of fics are always nineteen. but im not writing about an eighteen year old 😭 for some reason eighteen feels weird but nineteen feels fine. that probably doesn't make sense but whatever. also the part where his knee cracks was inspired by this junedenim one where his knee also cracks. it's been plaguing me ever since i read it
warnings : sex work (not really mentioned much again in this one but i don't want to not put it), cheating (why is the c so small), age gap (19 & 38), handjob, masturbation (him), riding, he's still a bit sad, he's a bit weird at times, feet kink, daddy kink
The mornings after were never easy, but after spending so many with him, they had become less grueling. The silences that would've been filled with croaky coughs, bed sheets rustling and awkward small talk were instead filled with gentle forehead kisses, steady, synced breathing, and an unspoken agreement to let the comfortable silence stretch on for as long as time allowed. This one was no different.
The soft, grey, early morning light seeped in through the half-drawn curtains, the pale light creeping further up the walls as the sun rose carefully, tip-toeing in as if to not wake the world too soon. It made the room look colder than it was.
He woke up first, his hand that wasn't lodged under you coming up to wipe away the sleep that had gathered in the corners of his eyes while he was asleep. He took a deep breath in through his nose, his face scrunching up slightly before finally flickering his eyes open, adjusting to the soft morning light filtering in.
He turned his head to look down at you, his brows furrowed and his lips pursed as his body continued to slowly wake up.
You were still asleep, lay on your back on his right side with his arm tucked beneath you from where he'd kept you locked in his grasp overnight. You looked peaceful in sleep, a simple, taken-for-granted feeling that used to come to him with ease, that he never had to think twice about, but now was all he yearned for.
He studied your gentle face, reading every subtle crease in your soft skin for what felt like the thousandth time, but it was something he could never get bored or tired of. He barely blinked, he didn't want to. Didn't want to deprive himself of the sight of you, even if just for a fraction of a second.
He stretched his legs beneath the thick duvet like a cat, a few quiet clicks from his knees and ankles interrupting the silence before he let out a noise that was somewhere between a sigh and a sleepy groan as his muscles loosened up.
He shifted slightly on the mattress, one arm still under you, and he rolled onto his back, staring blankly up at the ceiling. He felt the fatigue in his bones, his body aching in that strangely hollow way that followed after too much emotion.
He dragged a hand across his face, rubbing at his forehead then down over his mouth, to his chin and jaw, and he swallowed hard. It was like he was trying to figure out, to remember who he was. What he was.
His fingers found his bottom lip and he tugged at it to try and stop himself from entertaining his thoughts, absentmindedly picking at the dry, chapped skin as he tried to regulate his breathing, to sync it with yours beside him.
The urge gnawed at him. The urge to press his lips to yours and finally put that constant, simmering, guilt-riddled feeling to rest. The urge wasn't out of lust, need or desperation, but rather something gentler, something that could maybe even be considered “romantic”, but his mind didn't let him think that far.
His head tilted back down towards you sleeping beside him as you shifted in his grip during sleep. He could do it now. Lean down and cup your resting face with his dead arm from being slept on by you all night, close his eyes and kiss your soft lips with his dry ones. You wouldn't know, and maybe that was what he wanted.
He let out a long, slow sigh, pouting his lips slightly as he turned his head back up towards the ceiling, letting his eyes drift shut for just a moment.
He didn't even realise he'd briefly fallen asleep again until a few minutes later when your quiet stirring next to him gently woke him up from his light sleep, like a subtle nudge on the shoulder from someone trying to get you to pay attention after you'd zoned out.
Your hand had slid onto his belly in those short minutes, fingertips idly twirling the little trail of hairs from his belly button to his crotch and absentmindedly slipping just underneath the waistband of his boxer shorts, his still-tired, half-asleep brain not registering much else other than your hand gradually getting nearer to his cock.
With a rush of blood to his groin came an aching pulse, tinged with a small sense of shame, ebbing through his body directly after, the sensations blurring together as they collided inside of him and merged into one. He let out a quiet, hoarse little hum as he felt his dick slowly stir to life, stiffening beneath the soft cotton of his boxers.
In sleep, your fingers, idle and featherlight, brushed through the fine trail of hair beneath his navel. Maybe it brought you comfort, similar to the patterns his fingers liked to trace on your skin, to give his mind something to focus on.
His gaze dropped to you once more as you stirred quietly, the subtle change in your breathing as your body shifts slightly. He watched as your brow creased the slightest bit, your lips pressed together, and as your eyelashes fluttered gently against your cheeks like moth wings.
The dull light that had paled the room in its cold embrace began to register behind your closed eyes, pulling you from your sleep. Your body moved before your mind did, a small shift of your leg against his under the duvet, the subtle twitch of your fingers on his lower abdomen.
Your eyes didn't open straight away, and you breathed in deeply through your nose, inhaling the familiar, warm scent of him next to you, spiced with a faint trace of sweat. Your nose nudged against the side of his chest and your palm flexed slightly on the firm plane of his stomach, the subtle tension in his muscles telling you he was already awake.
You yawned softly, your other hand coming up to cover your mouth while your hand on his belly gently swept through his happy trail.
Your mind began to catch up with your body in fragments as you felt the rise of his chest against your head as he yawned as well, and you slowly opened your eyes, your vision slightly fogged as you came to.
Not wanting to disturb you too much, he shifted himself, propping himself up on his left elbow, his right arm still beneath you, and shifting his hips as to not make his erection too obvious, but your hand remained on his lower stomach, still lingering near the waistband of his boxers without any real intention.
You blinked away the blur, then you heard his soft voice, slightly deeper than usual. “Morning.”
You didn't say anything, still too tired to make the effort, but a small smile pulled at your lips in return before your hand slid up to his ribs, not particularly out of want, more just because he was warm, and he was there.
A deep breath expanded his chest beneath your palm and you felt his arm that had been underneath you all night shift, so you propped yourself up to let him pull his arm from beneath you.
Just as you lay yourself back down on your back, head on the pillow, he sat himself up, his back against the headboard and the edge of the duvet resting on his thighs.
You could see he was hard, that he wasn't doing much to hide it, that he probably wanted you to notice and do something about it. You tended to forget how big he was until it was in your face like this, the thick length pressing against his thigh underneath the soft cotton, the subtle ridges and veins visible even through the fabric.
His hand found your hip, his fingers tracing small spirals on your soft skin before he spoke again, his voice still slightly hoarse from sleep. “Sorry about last night. Again.”
You smiled. “It's okay.”
“No, really. I should control myself more. But thank you for listening, anyway.”
You looked up to meet his eyes, but his gaze was fixed forwards, locked on the dresser against the wall opposite the bed, and you watched his tongue poke out to wet his lips. “You don't need to apologise.”
He sighed, peeling his eyes away from the dresser and looking down at his crotch, almost pitiful. He bit the inside of his cheek, his lips pursing slightly, and he looked down at you, and in that one glance, you could tell he wanted you to take care of him.
“What do you want me to do?” you asked quietly, sitting yourself up on your knees beside him ready.
He swallowed and licked his lips again, looking away from you again as he thought about his options, then after a few moments, he slid his thumbs beneath the waistband of his boxer shorts, shuffling them down to his knees. His cock sprung up, the head hitting him just above his navel, and he rubbed his hand over his inner thigh as he said, “A handjob, please, love.”
“That's it?”
He settled back against the pillows, his length twitching against his belly. “Yeah.”
You gave him a small smile before you shuffled a bit closer to him, your knees touching the side of his thigh.
He looked up at you with those eyes, hollow but needy, his chapped lips slightly parted and red, and shiny with saliva from how he's been licking his lips. He rested one hand on his ribs, his other arm resting limply on the mattress beside him.
You wrapped your hand around his hot, pulsing length, the weight of it heavy against your palm as you gave him a few slow tugs at first, your fist dragging up and down his soft, velvety skin before releasing him from your grip for a moment.
You spat in your hand, a thin string of saliva connecting it to your lower lip before it snapped as you brought your hand back to his aching cock, smearing it along his shaft to make it easier for your hand to glide along him.
The groan he let out at the warm, wet saliva on his sensitive skin flickered a small flame to life in your stomach, his nose scrunching up as he kept his glazed-over eyes locked on your hand working his dick, the hot sensation sending a pulse through his cock. A drop of precum formed on the tip, only to be wiped away and mixed with your saliva just as quick as it had beaded, your hand brushing against the thick, coarse thatch of pubes coiled around the base.
His breathing was heavy, a small groan escaping his lips every few moments, but you could tell he was struggling to lose himself in it like he usually did. You tightened your grip, hoping to pull him deeper into the pleasure, but he spoke.
"Looser, please, love," he murmured with his northern drawl, his eyes half-lidded. "Your grip."
You glanced up at him, your tongue licking along the backs of your bottom teeth before you adjusted your grip around him, not holding him quite so tight anymore, and you resumed your previous movements, altering them just slightly to appease him. You rested your other hand on his thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze while you jerked him off, and you looked up at his face again.
His breathing was heavier, his pupils wide and his cheeks flushed a faint red, but still, you could just tell he wasn't that into it. Not as much as he usually was.
The dim, pale light from the gap in the curtains of the grey, morning sun accentuated his furrowed brow, the creases of concentration rather than pleasure denting his face as your hand glided up and down his hardness, your thumb swiping over the head every so often to collect and smear any precum that had pooled on his tip.
The slick sound of your hand on him filled the air and he pressed his lips together, forming a tight line, before propping himself up on his elbows and speaking again. "Slower," he said next, his teeth grazing his bottom lip. "Start at the base... yeah... now twist your wrist just a little bit when you get to the top. I do it like that."
You follow his instructions, and hear his breathing pick up slightly, his nostrils flaring when you brush your thumb against the ridge just underneath the head. You felt him pulse against your palm faintly, and he felt something settle and simmer in his lower stomach. Not exactly heat, but not nothing either. Pleasure. This felt good, it was a handjob. But it didn't feel like the kind of pleasure that would heighten to an unbearable level and make him cum.
"Tighter, now..." he whispered, low and patient. "Not as tight as before, just... more pressure."
You obeyed once again, tightening your grip to what you thought was just enough, and resuming your rhythm with your eyes trained on his face.
He hissed softly through his teeth with a particularly upstroke, letting himself lay down properly again. "Use your thumb more."
You adjusted, teasing his frenulum and his tip with the pad of your thumb with every pump, and his thighs tensed before his right hand came up to grip your wrist to help position your hand just right for him, trying to get that burning feeling to begin to coil in his belly.
You continued to stroke him with his mild assistance, slowly and deliberately, and he sighed. It was deep and long, a small whimper seeping into it towards the end of his breath, his head falling back against the pillows as his abdomen muscles tightened.
You thought he was getting there, that you'd managed to figure out the way he does it to himself, but with another sigh from him, less out of pleasure this time and more out of frustration, whether it was with you or himself.
"Just..." he muttered, half under his breath. "It's alright. Just let me."
He gently took your wrist and slid your hand off of him, his eyes closing for a moment as he exhaled sharply through his nose.
You sat back, your knees curled under you as you watched him. He wrapped his fingers around himself with familiarity, like muscle memory, and he stroked himself slowly. He gave himself what he knew he liked, just the right amount of pressure to use, the exact rhythm to make his breath hitch on its way out of his throat, his fingers familiar with every nerve-ending and pulse point.
You watched the way his stomach flinched and the way his thighs shifted restlessly beneath him, his hips rolling upwards slightly in time with his strokes. He was gorgeous like that. Flushed and focused, his lips parted around quick, shallow breaths, his hair a mess atop his head.
His free hand came up to gently rub his left nipple with the pads of his fingers, a shaky moan passing through his lips at the dual sensations.
He let out a string of curses under his breath, his palm sopping wet with saliva as he stroked himself all the way from the base each time, his wrist twisting as he stroked upwards just the way he liked it, letting out soft moans when his palm brushed over that spot just under the head.
His wrist flicked in a practiced motion, dragging along the sensitive underside just right, his shaft twitching and spasming against his palm as he jerked himself.
His hand stayed locked around his cock as his other hand continued to play with his nipples, the hard points tingling with desire as his abs clenched and his hips bucked upwards into his hand.
“God, I'm gonna-” he cut his gravelly voice off with a moan as he let the pleasure overwhelm him, his head tipping back, throat exposed, and his eyes flickering shut.
Every part of his body except for his twitching cock and his blurred fist were taut, his body locking up on him for a moment before the first splash of cum spurted from his tip, landing on his chest.
His shaft twitched in his palm with each spurt, his hand sinking down to lock his fingers around the base, squeezing gently. Streaks of his release decorated his chest and stomach, dripping down his skin and pooling in his navel.
He slowly dragged his hand up his dick a few more times, milking himself of every last drop, his foreskin rolling over the top with each upstroke. He squeezed out the last few dregs of his cum, dripping over the tip, down the shaft, and down over his hand.
He let out a long, deep sigh, his hand lingering lazy around himself for a moment, even after the last remnants of his orgasm had faded, before sliding his hand off, now slick with saliva and cum.
The flush in his cock slowly faded, twitching half-heartedly as it deflated until it lay limply against his stomach, sticky, spent, and no longer the centre of attention.
You managed to tear your gaze away from his crotch, letting your pupils follow the trace of cum up his torso, admiring him. The thin sheen of sweat that clung to his collarbones, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the subtle flush of his cheeks.
You met his eyes to find him already looking at you, and his mouth opened to say something. “Sorry.”
He didn’t let you reply before he spoke again. “It's not that you're bad at it, it's just… I just needed it my way.”
Your eyes flicked down to his lips for a moment before meeting his eyes once more. “You need to stop apologising.”
“I only apologise when I need to apologise.”
“But you don't need to apologise for something like that.”
He sighed, not replying anymore than that. “Come clean your hand off.”
He pushed himself up off the mattress with his clean hand, slipping out of the room to the bathroom, and you followed him.
His soft cock dangled loosely between his legs, forgotten as he stood at the sink.
He didn't speak as he scrubbed his hands under the stream, letting the water run the slickness from his fingers.
You stood just behind him, meeting his eyes in the stained mirror for a moment before looking down over his belly and chest, the streaks glistening slightly.
You reached for a towel from the rack and dampened it under the tap next to him, wringing it out in the sink before pressing it to his chest, wiping away his release.
You followed the dips of his collarbones before sweeping the cloth down, cleaning the mess from around his navel.
When you were done, you rinsed the cloth and set it aside, then moved to the sink to wash your own hands. He stepped aside, giving you space, and watching you in the mirror, before drying his hands with a fresh towel.
He handed it to you once he was done, leaving the bathroom to presumably make an attempt to get himself at least half decent while you finished drying off your hands.
You followed him out of the bathroom after draping the towel back over the rack, and you leaned against the doorway of the bedroom as you watched him bend down to grab a pair of fresh boxer shorts from the drawer, his limbs loose with post-orgasm calm.
Your eyes dipped lower to the curve of his hip and ass as he bent down, the way his muscles shifted subtly beneath his skin, still faintly blushed.
He found a clean pair of black boxers and stepped into them, tugging them up to his hips with a quiet little sigh before pulling a soft, worn grey t-shirt over his head, the fabric clinging to his still slightly damp chest for a moment before falling loose around his torso.
He wandered past you, downstairs, his bare feet padding quietly against the floor as he made his way to the kitchen. You listened to the quiet creak of the floorboards, followed by the click of the kettle and the dull flick of the toaster before you followed his path downstairs to his kitchen, still just in your underwear and a shirt of your own from the night before.
You lingered near the doorway as you watched him put two pieces of bread into the toaster while the kettle rumbled to life, steam curling upwards. He pulled out two mismatched mugs from the overhead cupboards as well as two teabags, one of them already split open at the corner, dusting the counter with flecks of brown shrapnel.
He hadn't done this for a while, not for someone else. It wasn't cooking, obviously, but it was enough to remind him how long it had been since he'd done anything for anyone else aside from himself.
The toaster popped up too early, the bread still too pale, and he shoved it back down with a quiet sigh, not quite frustration, but something on that spectrum.
The kettle reached its climax, the boiling beginning to settle as it calmed down, before the toaster popped up again. This time, the bread was a little too burnt, a little too crisp and blackened around the edges.
He stared at it for a moment, wondering if it was some kind of metaphor for his life, before he grabbed two plates and dropped a slice onto each of them with a clink.
He poured the water from the kettle into the two mugs, not asking how you take it, not particularly trusting himself to speak without fumbling at the moment. He fished the teabags out before pouring a splash of milk into each mug.
He glanced your way before making two trips to the small table in the kitchen, one with the plates, then one with the mugs. He nodded wordlessly towards the chair opposite him as he sat, and you took the seat across from him.
“I haven't cooked for anyone in a while,” he murmured as he took a bite of his dry toast, chewing slowly, mechanically. His appetite wasn't there, evidently. “Not that this is really cooking, but…”
You shook your head with a quiet smile, swallowing your sip of tea. “This is fine.”
He watched you carefully as you took a few small bites of the toast in front of you, not bothering with his own anymore aside from pushing his piece around the plate with the tip of his finger.
He glanced towards the windowsill above the opposite counter, the neatly lined up row of about half a dozen colourful nail polish bottles, with chipped caps and uneven sizes, catching the muted, grey morning light.
They were his wife's, obviously, one a bright red, another an electric blue, and another a sunshine yellow.
He looked at them for a second too long before dropping his gaze back to you, to your hands wrapped around the mug of tea, and he noticed that your nails were bare. He'd seen you wearing polish before, usually a deep red, or a glossy black, but not as often recently.
“You not been painting your nails?” he asked, nodding slightly towards your hands.
You glanced down at your fingers at that, your nails short and plain. Painting your nails hadn't been at the top of your priority list recently, but you were surprised he'd noticed. “Not as often now.”
He hesitated, his thumbs fidgeting with each other. “Would you mind if I painted them?”
The question caught you off guard for a moment, and something in you softened. It was sweet, the thought of him hunched over the table, being ever so careful to not get any polish on your skin, and blowing gently on your nails to help them dry.
“You paint nails now?” you asked, your lips tugging upwards slightly at the corners.
He let out a small breath of laughter. “I used to. My wife's. She liked it when I did. She said I was better than her.”
Your heartbeat became a bit more pronounced in your chest at that, that familiar feeling that arose in your chest every time he mentioned her that you couldn't quite name. “You can paint mine.”
He smiled, almost shyly, before he stood and crossed the room to the windowsill. His eyes scanned over them, his fingers hovering before he picked up a deep, gloomy, faintly shimmery purple, and he held it up, offering you the choice, but you just nodded.
He moved back to the table, the small bottle in hand, and he shuffled his chair closer to yours. He pushed the plates and mugs aside before setting the polish on the table. “Give us your hand.”
You slid your hand towards him, palm down, and he took it gently, like it was fragile.
His hands were big, slightly calloused, veiny, their actions softer than their appearance.
He held the bottle between his fingers and tried to twist the cap off, but it stuck. Old polish crusted just beneath the rim, dried and stubborn. He furrowed his brow and gave it another turn, still holding your hand in his, not wanting to let go. You felt his thumb shift against your wrist as he adjusted his grip, his jaw tightening just a little as he fumbled.
After another failed, futile attempt with his fingers, he brought the bottle up to his mouth, caught the cap between his teeth and bit down, twisting it with a quick flick of his wrist. You heard the faint crack of the dried varnish giving way as it tore, and his teeth released the cap with a quiet click, leaving just the small indents of his molars.
He set the bottle down carefully on the table, then lifted the little brush and gently dragged it along the inside rim of the bottle to wipe off the excess.
He looked very focused, careful, precise, like it really mattered to him to do it right.
The first stroke was slow and deliberate, the shadowy purple gliding onto your index finger's nail cool and smooth. He made sure not to go over the edges or to put too much polish on, really taking his time.
He paused to dip the brush again, wiped it on the lip of the bottle once more, before moving to the next nail, your middle finger's nail.
You sat still for him, admiring his face while he worked, the way his brows knitted together in concentration, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth.
When he dipped the brush into the bottle once more, wiping the excess off on the rim, he spoke with a fond smile. “I always thought this is what having a daughter would be like.”
He began to paint your ring finger, one slow stripe down the middle, followed by two on the sides, coating your nail in that dark, bruised purple. “What I thought fatherhood would be like,” he said, his voice soft, almost paternal, tainted with something aching. “I used to picture something like this. Tiny hands, bright pink, glittery polish…”
He sighed, realising he'd let his words get ahead of him again, and he swallowed before dipping the brush again. “Sorry,” he started under his breath as he swiped the polish onto your pinkie nail. “That was daft.”
You didn't say anything, didn't try to fill the moment, no reassurance, pity, anything he hadn't asked for.
He didn't speak again after that, just focused on your nails, painting a coat onto your thumbnail before moving onto your other hand, quiet and a little withdrawn, maybe embarrassed that he'd said too much again.
He was no less careful as he continued, maybe even more so than before, biting his tongue to stop himself from saying anything else.
Once he was finished, he reached for a tissue to tidy up the edge of one nail where the moody purple had smudged onto your skin. He let go of your hand slowly, almost reluctantly, and he placed them both flat on the table. “Let them dry a bit. Don't want 'em smudgin'.”
You nodded, dropping your gaze to your freshly painted nails, the subtle shimmer glinting through the deep, almost aubergine-coloured shades of purple.
He picked up the bottle, screwed the cap back on before standing up and setting it back in the windowsill, slotting it back between the two bottles it had previously resided beside.
He didn't say anything else before wandering off into the living room, and you heard the soft creak of the floorboards beneath his feet, followed by the long, low whine of the couch cushions as he sank down onto them.
You remained sat at the kitchen table, your hands splayed in front of you. The air still smelled faintly of burnt toast and tea, but the strong, chemically, strangely nostalgic scent of the varnish overrode them.
You watched the shimmer in the purple as the light shifted, how the colour changed when you tilted your hand one way or another.
You waited longer than you needed to. Letting the polish dry properly, letting him have his space, letting you have a moment of quiet to yourself. Then, once you were fairly sure your nails wouldn't smudge, you stood.
You padded quietly out of the kitchen and to the living room, the floor of the kitchen cool beneath your feet. You paused in the doorway, letting your eyes scan over the room before settling on him on the couch. He was curled up on the corner of the sofa, one leg tucked beneath him and the other stretched out along the cushions.
He had a book open in his hands, The Fall by Albert Camus, his eyes fixed on the page in his lap, seemingly near the end.
Eventually, his gaze flickered up to you in the doorway, and he smiled softly, though hesitantly. “Alright?”
You nodded, letting go of the door frame and stepping in. “Yeah. Nails've dried.”
He glanced down at your hands briefly, catching the purple on your fingertips, before looking back up at you. “They suit you.”
You weren't sure what to say to that. You looked over the living room again, your eyes settling on the shelf with his records in, all neatly slotted side-by-side.
He must've noticed your admiring them, as he said, “Put one on, if you like. You choose.”
You looked over your shoulder at him before stepping over to his shelf and crouching down. Amidst all the Bowie, The Strokes, and The Beatles, you pulled out Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds' The Boatman's Call.
You slid out the record and set it atop his turntable, adjusting the needle into the outer groove. As it began its slow spin, you turned towards the couch and sat beside him, tucking yourself under his arm.
As the first notes of Into My Arms began, you felt something in him shift. His body tensed slightly, turning his head for confirmation of the record you'd chosen. He sighed, and you looked up at him, slightly confused. “Are you okay?”
He hesitated, his mouth opening and closing, meeting your eyes for a moment before looking away. “This was our wedding song. Our first dance.”
Your lips parted, a sense of guilt creeping up the back of your throat. “I'm sorry… I can change it-”
“Don't worry. It's fine. It's a good one, at least,” he said with a small laugh that you couldn't bring yourself to reciprocate.
He tightened his arm around you, his other hand holding his book open on the correct page, pressing a small, gentle kiss to the top of your head before asking softly, “Want me to read to you?”
You tilted your chin up to look at him, and nodded once. “Yeah.”
A faint smile pulled at his lips before he looked back down at his page, the paper worn at the edges, and he shifted to make sure you were comfortable before he began.
His voice was low and steady as he read, the warmth of his accent blending with the slow, gentle piano in the background of Into My Arms.
He read the way one would read to themselves when no one was listening, but sweeter somehow because it was just for you.
The cadence in his words draped over you like a blanket, some of the sentences barely registering in your mind, but that didn't matter to you. What mattered to you was the gentle rumble of his chest beneath your cheek each time he breathed into another line, the weight of his arm curled around you, just the sound of his voice as he faltered on one or two of the heavier lines, even if you weren't taking the words in properly.
You closed your eyes, his thumb moving in idle circles on your upper arm as he read out the remainder of the chapter.
When he finished reading the final sentence, he exhaled slowly, shutting the book quietly and setting it aside on the coffee table in front of the couch.
As the final moments of (Are You) the One That I've Been Waiting For? faded out, he leaned his head back against the couch, his fingertips absentmindedly twisting the ends of your hair. He slowly stood up, his knees popping quietly as he stretched, and he crossed the room towards the record player.
He flipped the record carefully, then lowered the needle back onto the vinyl, a soft static crackle of the music coming to life once more as it nestled into the groove.
He came back to the couch, a bit slower than he'd left, and he settled in the corner again, tucking you back under his arm.
As the crooning beginning of Where Do We Go Now But Nowhere? creeped in beneath the faint vinyl crackle, he inhaled slowly, and you felt the shift in him. Something low and cautious.
“I'm scared,” he started. The way his vents usually went, no preamble, no easing into it.
You breathed in deeply, preparing yourself.
“I'm scared of growing older,” he clarified. “Not just the old age itself. The creaking joints and grey hair, that's already started.”
He let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “I can live with all that. Just the thought of waking up to someone I don't love for the next thirty, forty odd years. Knowing I don't love them.”
He adjusted his grip around you, holding you a bit tighter to him. “And I keep thinking… what if this is it? I've already made the choice that'll define me for the rest of my life, and now I can't change it?”
The record shifted tracks in the background, but it all merged into one as he continued. “I don't know if I'll be able to live with it.”
He shook his head, his hand dragging up and down along your back. “I try and picture what it'll be like ten years from now,” he murmured. “Sitting across from her at the table, wondering what the fuck I'm still doing there.”
He looked down at you, his hand coming up to your head and carding his fingers through your hair. “Then there's you.”
His words hung in the air for a moment, suspended low, before he continued.
“You make me feel something I thought I'd lost. Ever since the first time. And it really scares me. I'm not supposed to feel like this. I'm not supposed to want you.”
His voice cracked a little, but he didn't try to hide it. “And I don't know what that says about me. I don't know if it means I'm selfish, or a coward, or just a fucking idiot. But I know why I keep coming back. You make me forget how tired I am, how much of an awful person I know I am.”
His gaze drifted away after those last words, his eyes wet. His other hand rubbed at his throat, as if trying to figure out where these words are coming from, how to make them stop.
“I'm so fucking scared,” he said quietly, his voice brittle with worry. “Of getting old and realised I'd wasted it all. That I played it safe and stayed with someone because it was easier than leaving. It keeps me awake at night.”
His voice cracked once again and he tried to swallow it back.
“And then I see you,” he let out a shaky breath. “And you're so young, and I know it's fucked up. I know it's not right, but it feels right. Like I haven't lost everything.”
You tilted your head up towards him, and he turned his head down, meeting your eyes. His eyes searched your face, scanning over every minute detail. His finger gently brushed over your cheek, his eyes dropping to your lips. His tongue poked out, swiping over his lower lip, leaving a soft, thin, glistening sheen of saliva in its wake. He took a deep breath, his hand moving to cradle the back of your head, and he leaned in just slightly, pausing for a moment before he went all the way.
His lips touched yours, his chapped against your soft ones. It was soft, hesitant, a whisper of contact like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to. He certainly didn't feel like he was allowed to.
He shut his eyes, but he kept his mouth pressed to yours, his larger nose brushing against yours.
When he separated himself from you, he let out a shaky breath, pressing his forehead to yours.
“I told myself I wouldn't,” he murmured.
But he had, and it was too late now.
He pulled away from you slowly, his eyes still half-lidded. The kiss had dragged something out of him that he clearly wasn't ready to face.
He cleared his throat and stood up to his feet, rubbing his thighs with his hands before walking across the room to retrieve his wallet from the TV stand.
“How much do you want? For yesterday. And today.”
You blinked, pushing yourself up off the couch slightly. “You don't have to-”
“I do,” he cut in quickly, too quickly, fishing into a pocket of his wallet and pulling out whatever notes had been tucked into there. “You're not… you're not just here for the sake of being here. You're here because I pay you to be.”
You opened your mouth to speak but promptly shut it as he continued to speak, like if he kept talking fast enough, he could outrun the truth swelling in his chest.
“You wouldn't've come if I wasn't going to be paying you. Right? That's the deal, that's how it's always been. You're here for the money. That's how it works.”
His voice betrayed him towards the end as it cracked. He didn't believe the words he was saying, like he was saying them as an attempt to trick himself into believing them. And maybe a part of him was hoping you'd contradict him.
“Just tell me a number,” he said, not meeting your eyes again, trying to remind himself of the rules.
You sighed, realising you can't talk him out of it, and you said, “£400.”
His eyes flicked up to you, his fingers paused mid-motion, and he asked, “Shouldn't it be more? You've stayed longer than you normally do.”
You just kept looking up at him, and he added quietly. “I'll give you £500.”
He sorted through the notes in his wallet, counting them in his head, and he let out a small sigh of annoyance as he only counted £210. “Hang on.”
He sauntered back into the kitchen, and you heard a few draws open and close before he walked back in, twenties and tens tucked between his fingers as he made sure there were enough.
He handed them to you, and when you hesitated to take them, he said, “Just take them. I should be giving you more, anyway. Double. For the therapy.”
He let out a small but dry chuckle at his own words, extending his hand further until you reluctantly took the notes. You set them in front of you neatly on the coffee table for now, and you watched him disappear into the other room again for a moment.
He stood in the kitchen with both of his palms pressed flat to the edges of the counter, his head bowed slightly, eyes on his feet. The hushed sound of the final notes of the record played out from the other room, but it felt distant.
That kiss. The way your mouth softened against his, the way your fingers curled loosely into his shirt, the way you made no attempt to stop it. It played over and over and over again in his mind, how natural it felt to lean into you like that.
He dragged a hand down over his face and over his mouth, frustrated with himself.
He tried to push the thoughts aside, shake it out of his system, get his mind to focus on something, anything else other than the growing tightness in his boxers.
His cock stirred back to life with a low but prominent ache, thickening slowly, ignoring and betraying every pleading attempt he made to try and calm it, to will it back down.
Just thinking about the kiss got him like this. The warmth of your lips against his still clung to him like a red wine stain on white satin, it was enough to leave him pulsing like this beneath his waistband, growing harder and more impossible to ignore by the millisecond.
He shifted his weight between his feet and made an attempt to adjust himself, but a boner of his size proved difficult to conceal beneath just a pair of soft boxer shorts.
It was stupid. Nothing. Teenager-y, almost. Getting a stiffy because of a kiss. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting both the shame and the warmth of the recent memory wash over him once more.
He was hard, and trying hard not to be. Trying to breathe and talk himself down, but the blood rushed too quick. The thought of your mouth, of your body, made his stomach twist and his cock twitch with desire.
He lingered in the kitchen for a little longer, steadying his breath, his hands still braced on the counter. His cock throbbed against the now-tight fabric of his boxers, tenting them obviously now, but he decided not to make an attempt to hide it.
Why would he?
That's why you're here, he told himself. Another reminder.
He pushed himself away from the counter and made his way back into the living room, his footsteps slow and quiet. You were right where he'd left you, bank notes splayed on the coffee table, your plum nails resting delicately on your knee.
You looked up at him as he entered, before your eyes expectedly flickered down to the unmistakable bulge pressing against his boxers, its thick outline pronounced and demanding attention.
A small, almost smug smile tugged at your lips, like you weren't surprised in the slightest.
You looked back up, your eyes locking with his, and you asked softly, casually, the same thing you ask every time, “What d'you want?”
He held your gaze for a moment, his eyes briefly dropping to your lips before they flicked back up again. “Ride me.”
His voice was low, rough andcertain, but simple and direct as he made his way back over the settee.
He sat to the left of you this time, his thumbs gliding under his black waistband as he slid them down to his ankles, the fabric pooling at his feet.
He grabbed a condom from the box on the small table tucked beside the armrest, tearing the wrapper open and rolling the latex down onto his shaft.
He turned his attention to you once more, grabbing you, pulling you to him, hooking his thumbs under the waistband of your underwear as he tugged them down.
He helped you onto him, your soft thighs brushing against the fair hair on his as you straddled him backwards, facing away from him.
He ran his hands up along your back, underneath your shirt, then slipping back out to hold your hips. You gave his scorching hot length a few strokes, pulsing and throbbing in time with his heartbeat, twitching with anticipation.
He ran his hands along the smooth backs of your thighs, up along your sides, then down your arms, groaning softly as he felt your folds brush against his sensitive tip.
He shifted you on top of him slightly, sinking himself further back into the couch cushions to give himself a better view and to give you more leverage. He ran his hands down from your hips, along your thighs, down your calves to your feet, gently running his fingers along the soft arches, and his cock visibly twitched.
He maneuvered your feet to sit just on his lower belly, leaning back as much as he could, rubbing his hand over your left foot before you began to slowly sink down onto him, enveloping his aching cock in your wet, inviting warmth, taking him all in, inch by inch.
“Good girl…” he whispered, his lips parting into a small ‘o’ as his breath caught in his throat, watching his thick cock disappear inside of you.
You rolled your hips as you adjusted yourself to get more comfortable, keeping your feet on his lower belly and holding onto his knees for stability. He hissed through his teeth, holding both of your feet to his skin with his hands.
You leaned forward slightly to take him deeper as you began to move, his cock managing to slip impossibly deeper with each slow, deliberate grind of your hips. He filled you up completely from this angle, the stretch, the curve of him nudging against every sweet, aching spot inside you.
The visual stimulation would've been enough to make him cum. The delicate arches of your feet perched on his belly, the curl of your toes, the bounce of your ass with each roll of your hips, he could hardly take it.
He practically salivated at the sight of your feet, your soles begging for his lips to touch them, for his tongue to drag along your heel all the way up to your toes.
“Oh, fuckin' hell,” he whined, tipping his head back against the couch, his eyes rolling back beneath his eyelids. He grabbed your ankle with one hand and your waist with the other, blindly searching for anything to hold onto to guide him through the pleasure.
His thumb pressed into your flesh hard enough to bruise, and he forced his eyes open to drink in the way you looked above him. Your back arched, toes curled and hair bouncing, it could've driven him mental.
“God, daddy…” you moaned for him, and his cock twitched like mad inside you the second it passed your lips. That word did something to him.
“Say that again,” he groaned, breathless and wrecked. “Call me that again for me, baby, please…”
You ground your hips down harder on him, letting out another long, breathy whimper as he filled you so intensely, the sensation sending your mind reeling. “Daddy…”
A low growl rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest, packed with pure filth and unadulterated need. He looked down between you again, his eyes settling on your feet, watching as they flexed with each bounce, and his mouth parted like he was dying to taste them.
“You're gonna drive me fuckin' mad, aren't ya?” he muttered, his voice so desperate it was almost laughable.
You kept riding him just like that, letting him watch, letting him want, yearn, desire, teasing him with every curl of your toes and every daddy you let fall from your lips, and he took it beneath you, wide-eyed, pupils blown, and mouth open.
You moved faster, more determined, the wet, obscene sound of his wide cock sliding in and out of your pussy getting louder, dirtier.
His breathing grew ragged behind you, and you could feel his abdominal muscles flexing and tightening beneath your feet. The tension in him was tangible, unbearable, his muscles taut and his shaft twitching deep inside you as he tried to hold back for as long as possible, to prolong this feeling.
“Look at you…” he rasped, letting out a long, whiney breath. “Fuckin', god…”
You moaned for him in response, your head bowed forward as you dragged him closer to climax, chasing your own release as well.
The friction was perfect. The angle had your clit brushing against his tight balls just right, pressure igniting in your belly, the fuse burning down quicker than you could comprehend.
You circled your hips once, twice, taking him slow and deep before your voice broke into that perfect moan.
“Daddy-”
And that was it for him.
He let out a loud, guttural, broken cry as he spilled into the condom, his cock pulsing deep inside your cunt, throbbing against your walls as he panted beneath you, every muscle in his body rhythmically tensing and releasing.
The raw pleasure, the burning heat of him, the way his broken breath hitched as you rode him through his high, literally.
“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, his voice higher-pitched and breathless, “Don't fuckin', don't fuckin' stop-”
You didn't. You kept rolling your hips as you chased after your own high, the overstimulating making him shudder beneath you. One of your hands slipped between your legs, rubbing fast, tight circles on your clit as he made a half-hearted attempt to thrust up into you with what little energy he had left over.
Your orgasm hit you seconds later, rolling through you in strong waves, making you cry out for him as your body shook and clenched tightly around him. Every muscle trembled with the sheer force of it, your toes curling against his belly as your vision went dark around the edges.
He reached up, pulling you back against him, your feet sliding off of his belly to the couch cushions on either side of him instead. He held you tight against his chest, his arms curled around you almost protectively, still nestled deeply inside you.
He sat up slowly, ignoring the pop of his lower back, protesting from being cramped into a position like that for so long. His hand splayed almost protectively over your stomach before he slowly helped you lift your hips up off of his gradually softening cock, the thin latex coated in a sheen of wetness.
He helped you shift off of him, pressing a gentle kiss to your neck before letting you slip back into your knickers, and he carefully rolled the condom off before tying it off, standing up, and pulling his boxers up to his hips.
He gave you a small smile before walking off into the kitchen, presumably to toss the condom into the bin, maybe to get a glass of water too.
He stepped into the kitchen, barely sparing the abandoned plates of half-eaten pieces of toast and half-drunk mugs of tea before dropping the condom into the bin and fetching two glasses from one of the overhead cupboards.
You sauntered in a few moments later, just as he'd filled the second glass to the brim, and he handed one to you, taking a long, slow sip of his before setting it back down on the countertop beside him.
He watched your lips press against the rim of the glass, taking a slow sip yourself. You set your glass beside his, and he held his hand out to you.
You put your palm in his, a smile pulling at your lips, and before you could register what he was doing, he spun you into his arms, laughing at his attempt to dip you.
You laughed, half shy and half delighted, as he started to sway you side to side, his eyes locked on yours with some degree of admiration, a stupid smile plastered across his lips.
Seeing him like that made you smile yourself, and he pressed his lips to yours once more, holding his face against yours until he grinned against your mouth.
He spun you again, making you laugh out loud, that proper from-the-gut laugh, before he held you close to him again, his hands splayed across your lower back and your shoulder as he swayed you with him.
His stubble brushed against your skin as he tucked his face into your shoulder, pressing a few fleeting kisses along the side of your neck before pulling back and gazing down into your eyes.
His face was still faintly red, his hair damp with sweat, but he looked happy. Genuinely happy.
Barefoot, half-naked and moderately sweaty, but happy.
｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽
i don't think the next fic i post will be a part four but i definitely will do one. im still just a bit stuck on what to do with him. also please ignore the very convenient nearby placement of the condom at the end 😭 i forgot about it until id already written about his dick inside and just slotted it in
The faint whisper of the gentle breeze and the distant sound of the occasional car driving past were muffled as Alex shut your bedroom windows for the night. He crawled into the cool bedsheets next to you, the duvet draped lazily over your tangled bodies, the warmth and intimacy all-encompassing as he settled behind you, his chest pressed firmly against your back. The short, twiddly hairs on his chest always gave you a sense of comfort; the subtle scrape of them against your soft skin whenever he shifted slightly, reminding you that he's right there. He looped his strong arms around your waist tightly, the slightly raised inked skin from his Yorkshire Rose tattoo on his forearm pressing against your stomach as he held you.
Your body curved into his in a way that felt effortless, as if you were made to be held by him. He pressed a kiss to the back of your head, holding his face there for a moment as he breathed in the sweet smell of your honey-scented shampoo, before dipping his head into the crook of your neck, burying his face there. His lips brushed a few lazy kisses over your nape and jawline, another silent promise of deep love and comfort.
His right hand slowly moved down your torso as he continued with his languid kisses, gently slotting his fingers between your thighs and parting them just enough for him. The soft trail of kisses on the side of your neck stopped just as his fingers began rubbing lazy circles on your clit through your underwear, a small smile playing on his lips as he felt the slight damp spot in the centre. You let out a small exhale through your nose, somewhere between a laugh and a moan. “What're you doing?” you hummed, shifting slightly to give him better access.
Alex let out a low, content hum, not answering your question and instead murmuring, “Want to keep me warm, babe?”
“Mhm, please…” you drawled, your voice a soft mutter as he slowly slid your cotton knickers down your long legs before shuffling out of his own grey boxer shorts, tossing both the pieces of fabric aside onto the floor, quickly forgotten as he lifted your leg just enough to slip his half-hard cock inside your slick, inviting pussy. You sighed softly at the familiar feeling, the way the stretch was always so delicious no matter how many times you'd done this before, while he groaned as your muscles instinctively clenched around his thick length in welcome.
It wasn't about the sex; it never was when you did this. It was more about the intimacy, the closeness, the comfort that it brought you both from being connected in that way as you slept.
Even though it was usually just about the connection, it didn't stop the occasional teasing. You let out a little snicker as you clenched around him a few more times, and he huffed a laugh against your neck. “Behave, you,” he muttered, though his tone lacked any real bite. He gave your hip a light squeeze, pulling you back a bit closer against him before pressing one last kiss to your neck.
You fell into a comfortable silence, your breathing slowly syncing up as your bodies settled together, his right arm draped over your waist, fingers tracing absent patterns over your ribcage. “Goodnight, Al,” you whispered, your voice soft and warm as the sound of his gentle breathing and the slow pulse of his cock inside you lulling you to sleep.
“Goodnight, love,” he replied, his voice low and steady as he slowly drifted off. With that, you both let sleep claim you, tangled up together.
The room was still, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the blinds, painting pale lines across the opposite wall. Your breathing was steady as sleep held you both locked tightly in its quiet embrace. You lay snugly against him, your body a perfect fit against his as his arms stayed looped around your waist, holding you close as his soft exhales brushed against the back of your neck as his forehead stayed pressed against the back of your hair.
As the night deepened, Alex's mind began to wander, slipping into a vivid dream. You were straddling his hips, your movements tantalisingly slow as you rocked back and forth against his length. His tip pressed against the soft skin just above his belly button as your wet folds glided up and down the velvety underside of his cock, your teasing grin combined with your torturous movements melting him into a puddle of need. You were perched over him like a goddess, your hands resting on his strong chest, giving his nipple an occasional pinch or twist as you ground your hips back and forth slowly and deliberately.
“Is this what you wanted?” you asked in the dream, your voice like a soft melody. It was like hearing your voice through a veil, so close to how he remembered it. The words had the same warmth, same rhythm, but it felt strangely hollow. Like it wasn't fully real.
Alex could only nod, his dream-self captivated and all-encompassed. You weren't letting him inside you, just sliding your slick heat up and down along his dick, your teasing driving him closer to the edge. His hands itched to grab your hips, to push you down onto his aching cock the way he so desperately needed, but every time he tried to give in to his urges and reach up to your hips, you batted his hands away with a mocking laugh. “Not yet,” you teased, giving his left nipple a twist. “You'll take what I give you, Al.”
In the real world, in your bed, his body responded unconsciously. His cock was still nestled deep inside you from behind, and his arms tightened slightly around your waist as his hips instinctively began to shift, lazily grinding against your ass. A quiet, soft whimper escaped his lips, almost inaudible in the stillness of your bedroom.
In his dream, you leaned down, threading your hands through his messy hair, sweat-drenched hair as you kissed him hungrily. Your grinding picked up pace, your clit drawing lines up and down his thick cock, the friction pushing him closer and closer to a release he didn't know if he'd be able to reach. His desperation grew, the need to be inside you getting stronger and all-consuming.
Back in bed, his movements became more pronounced. His hips rolled against you in slow, rhythmic, shallow thrusts, his cock twitching and pulsing inside you with each sleepy thrust. His breathing quickened, short puffs brushing against the crook of your neck, but still, neither of you stirred.
Dream-you was relentless, keeping him right on the brink of the release he so deeply craved. “You're such a good boy for me, Al,” you cooed, your voice laced with teasing. “But not yet, baby. You can hold on for me. I know you can.”
His frustration in the dream translated into his even deeper urgency in real life. His thrusts grew firmer, his hips pressing more insistently against you as he humped you subconsciously, chasing the pleasure that his mind conjured in sleep. The warmth of your body against his, both in the dream and in real life, only amplified his need, his sleepy groans muffled against the soft skin your neck.
Finally, in the dream, you gave in. You sank down onto his aching, throbbing cock with a smirk, and the overwhelming sensation of your warm, wet pussy enveloping him shattered every ounce, though there was very little, of restraint he had left. His dream blurred into the real-life sensations, the vividness fading and bleeding into reality as his orgasm tore through him like a freight train.
In bed, his body tensed, and his movements stuttered, his arms loosening before tightening around you again as he came deep inside you, his cock pulsing with each spurt of his release. His breathing slowly evened out as he came down from his wet dream-induced orgasm, his face pressed into the crook of your neck as he drifts back deeper into sleep, both of you completely unaware of what had just happened.
You remained undisturbed, still sound asleep, your body warm and pliant against his as his softening cock kept his cum inside your pussy. The room returned to its previous stillness, the only sounds being your steady breathing and the occasional gentle rustle of the sheets as you both adjusted your positions in slumber.
The warm sun began filtering through the blinds, replacing the glow of the moonlight from the night before, the morning light casting rays across your cream-coloured bedroom wall. You stirred first, stretching slightly but careful not to disturb the warm, comforting weight of Alex's arm draped over your waist. You first felt him shift behind you, his chest pressed against your back, and as your consciousness started to seep in, you became aware of the sticky warmth between your thighs, and the unmistakable sensation of wetness inside of you.
You propped yourself up on your side, looking over your shoulder behind you at where you were still joined. “Alex,” you murmured, your voice thick with sleep. His eyes fluttered open lazily, his eyebrows knitting together as he squinted, the bright morning light briefly stinging his eyes.
“Morning,” He mumbled, his voice gravelly with sleep. The grogginess soon faded away as he noticed the faint smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. “What?”
Your smirk widened and you shifted again, subtly clenching your muscles around him. He was still inside you, and his cock gave a sleepy twitch in response. “Alex…” you said, dragging out his name teasingly, “did you…?”
His brain started to slowly catch up, and that's when he felt the warm stickiness inside her. His face flushed immediately. “No,” he denied it quickly, but the redness creeping up his neck to his cheeks said otherwise. And so did the cum inside you.
You laugh, shifting your hips and making his cock slip out of you, a small stream of his cum dripping onto your thigh. “You did!” you teased, turning onto your other side to face him, your fingers tracing patterns on his chest. “You had a wet dream.”
“I didn't,” he protested weakly, though the evidence was right there. He quickly averted his gaze, suddenly very focused on the pattern of the duvet cover.
“You so did!” you let out a laugh, your tone playful rather than accusatory. “You actually had a wet dream.”
Alex groaned, burying his face in his hands. He sat up slightly, his back resting against the wooden headboard. “God, stop saying it like that.”
“What was it about?” You asked, rolling onto your stomach and resting your chin in your hands. “Was I in it?”
He pulled his hands from his face, resting them in his lap as he looked down at you. “Of course you were,” he said, the redness fading from his cheeks. “You were grinding on me, that's pretty much all it was.”
You raised your eyebrows a little bit. “Just grinding on you? That's it?”
He ran a hand through his messy, tousled hair, leaning his head back against the vertical wooden slats of the headboard as he looked up at the off-white coloured ceiling. “Yeah, but you weren't letting me put it in.”
She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she gazed at him. “I can't believe you still have wet dreams,” she teased, her voice soft but filled with amusement.
“Yeah, well…” he rested his hands behind his head, crossing his legs lazily at his ankles. “You make it bloody hard not to.”
｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽
ive been wanting to write fics for so long but ive rarely been able to find the time to write any (which is why it's so short😭) but ive been working on this (thinking about it but not actually writing it) for a while. i also know this probably isn't great, just close your eyes and pretend it isn't there x
warnings : reader is a camgirl, alex is a bit of an incel, masturbation (both), feet kink (sorry), video calls, live streams, sex toys (on reader, vibrator, dildo & butt plug), would anyone kill me if i said he's a bit sad again, quite a lot of implications that he's got some degree of depression, he's very parasocial
Steam curled around your wet limbs like ghostly ribbons as you stood under the shower head, fogging up the corners of the mirror like a hazy breath and dampening the air like a mist. Hot water cascaded down your body as you leaned back against the moist tiled walls, hair sticking to your shoulders and face. The air was thick with lavender after you'd lathered your body with it, rubbing it into your legs, arms and torso with gentle, languid circles, the floral, slightly herbal scent emanating off of you as it sunk into your skin.
You ran your hand through your hair while the spray of the hot water hissed above you, rinsing out the last remnants of your conditioner before turning to face away from the water, letting it run smoothly down your back as you exhaled through parted lips. You let your hands wander over your body, from the back of your neck to your shoulders, to your boobs and then down your torso and your arms before letting them rest crossed loosely over your belly. It was intimate, in a way. Just feeling free in your body. You weren't aroused, at least, not yet, just alive in your skin, comfortable and secure in the quiet.
You idly rolled your shoulder back and stretched your neck from side to side, letting yourself revel in the quiet, indulgent space before you had to become her. Become the girl your viewers paid for, the girl who whispered filth into the camera and gave up any ounce of dignity in exchange for bigger tips.
Eventually, you reached for the dial and twisted it off before stepping out over the edge of the ceramic tub onto the soft mat on the floor, the soft fabric dampening beneath your feet as the water from your hair dripped down your shoulders, small rivulets traveling over the curves of your body until they soaked into the towel under you.
You leaned your head over the rim of the bath and curled your fingers tightly around the length of your hair before squeezing, wringing the water out as it splashed down into the tub with a sharp, wet sound that resembled a crack.
You straightened yourself up, running your hands through your hair one more time before reaching for the towel you'd hung on the rack before getting in, your damp strands clinging to your shoulders and back like glue. You patted the towel along your arms, absorbing the moisture as the fabric travelled down your body. You'd learned ages ago that patting was better than rubbing, at least for you. Dragging the scratchy fabric along your skin made it turn an angry red.
You gently dried off your legs and lifted one foot at a time, brushing off the little pieces of fluffy towel that had stuck to your soles, before wrapping the towel around you and drawing it tight at your chest before reaching for a second, smaller towel to dry your hair with.
You squeezed the towel around the lengths of your hair, getting just enough of the excess moisture out of the strands so it wouldn't drip, before padding out of the fog-filled bathroom and crossing the hallway to your bedroom.
The door creaked open as you stepped in, draping both of the towels, from your hair and from your torso, over the foot of your bed.
The room was warmly lit, illuminated softly by the glowing fairy lights twirled and interlaced around your bed frame and the subtle orange gleam from your Himalayan salt lamp perched to the side of your desk. Your curtains were drawn, blocking out the early evening light, leaving you to relax and bask in the dim, comforting light of your room.
You stood in front of your full-length mirror, your reflection staring back at you with your hair hanging in damp tendrils, framing your face like it was a renaissance painting, and your skin flushed a subtle pink from being kissed by the heat of the shower, a fuchsia blush dusted over your body like pollen.
You tilted your head slightly, assessing the curves and the angles in your mind, your figure like a blank canvas waiting to be decorated, whether it be with a dark, midnight blue or a light, rosy pink, silky satin and lace or tough leather.
You looked over yourself with a critical eye, less out of insecurity but more out of habit. You knew how to look at yourself the way others would, what your viewers liked and didn't like, how best to present yourself to appeal to the men curled up at desk chairs in dark rooms, fucking their fists into oblivion. You knew which colours got you the most tips, which hairstyle, which fabric, which toys, you'd worked it all out not long after you'd started your page.
You turned on your heel towards your chest of drawers before kneeling down and tugging open the bottom drawer, which was stuffed full of countless different sets of lingerie you'd long given up on trying to sort out. They always ended up back like this anyway; a tangled, overflowing and disorganised jumbled rainbow of silk, lace and velvet.
You dug your hand into the drawer with a manor that resembled dipping one's hand into a tank with a ferocious shark. You had something purple in mind, a change to the usual captivating, crimson red or enchanting, ebony black you often dolled yourself up in, but still a sultry enough piece that you knew would have your devoted viewers excited.
You considered something with velvet, a plush, fuzzy set draped over your skin like a kitten's fur, inviting, intriguing, but just when you thought your fingers had sought out a piece, a dreary lilac night dress with a small slit on the thigh and a low-cut front, your fingernail caught on the fabric, a tiny little chip in your polish that you hadn't even noticed had come off. Your tongue licked over the backs of your top teeth, your lips pursing outwards a little, before you decided to drop it back into the drawer, not wanting to have to worry about your nail catching on it.
You continued to rifle through the colourful, scratchy jungle of lace underwear, mesh stockings, sparkly bodysuits and strappy bras, before finding the first piece of the matching set you initially had your mind set on, a dark, brooding purple sheer babydoll dress trimmed with an even darker shade of lace, with sequins and gems sewn into the intricate patterns.
You folded it gently, the soft fabric swaying loosely beneath your movements like a ghost before you set it aside and delved back in, searching for the matching underwear, bra and stockings.
You fished out one thigh-high sock at a time as you found them, each embellished with a subtle glitter on the see-through mesh length, and the same embroidered trim on the dress stitched around the hem.
Next came the deep plum panties, with four thin silk straps attached to the front and back, two on each side, with a small clip on the end of them to allow them to hold up the stockings. The pattern of the lace was floral and labyrinthine in the way the rows of the design wound in and out of each other, twirling and spiraling into complex flowery arrangements.
Lastly, you then pulled out the matching bra, the gentle silk of the straps soft against your fingers and the identical lace slightly scratchy as you set it aside with the little growing pile beside you, each piece the colour of a bleeding blueberry.
You pushed yourself up off of the floor, pushing the drawer shut and picking up the short stack of soft materials before perching on the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping slightly beneath you, and you rolled one of the stockings slowly up your leg, smoothing it over your calf and up to your thigh, the elastic band hugging your flesh tight. The fabric shimmered subtly in the soft light as you adjusted the seam, before repeating it with the other leg.
It felt like stepping into someone else's skin. Into hers. She was your alter ego, almost. Exuding more confidence, power and sex appeal than you ever did in your day-to-day life.
You stepped into the underwear next, sliding them up your legs with a slow roll of your hips, the fabric clinging to your skin and the lace framing your ass just right, the floral pattern replicating the look of dried flowers pressed on your skin. The silk suspenders hung off of your panties dangled loosely in front of and behind your thighs before you clipped them onto the lace tops of your socks, holding them up in place.
You fed your arms through the straps of the bra before reaching behind you to fasten it, the soft padding whispering over your nipples as you adjusted the cups, lifting and shaping them just right until your cleavage was framed like a luxury art piece. The swell of your tits threatened to spill over the top, but they didn't, at least, not yet.
You pulled the twists out of your bra straps before reaching for the babydoll, slipping it over your head with one quick, weightless pull, the sheer mesh outlined by the darker, opaque lace dancing around your torso like a ghostly mist. The gauzy material left your midriff completely visible, the hem brushing over the tops of your thighs and your bra peeking through, waiting to be unveiled like a gift on Christmas morning.
You wandered back over to your mirror, admiring your reflection, doused in bruised violets and a quiet shimmer, adjusting the collar of your barely-there dress once more and letting it fall back into place with a delicate flutter.
You dusted over your eyes with a dark black shadow using your old but reliable little brush, the bristles stained dark from how often you used it, and you danced it over your lids, corners, and crease to create the smokey effect you usually went for. You combed through your lashes with mascara and added a swipe of gloss over your lips before you tossed each product back down into your jumbled makeup box with a dull, plasticky clatter, already having to resist the urge to itch your eye.
You then knelt before your dresser again, sliding open the middle drawer this time, and inside was in a similar state to your lingerie drawer, but instead, it was a mess of plastic, stainless steel and wires instead.
You liked to match the toys to the colour of your lingerie, it was part of the fun to you. You liked consistency. Your fingertips skimmed over the layers of cool metal and smooth silicone before selecting a plug first, slim and gleaming with a deep purple gem at the base.
You then pulled out a long, sleek wand, more magenta in hue but in line with your colour scheme nonetheless. The rounded head's vibrations could fluctuate between constant and strong, mild and slow, and a choreographed pulse meticulously designed to drive you mad.
You next picked a dildo, one that could be attached to your machine, and you settled on a pale lilac one. It was thick with long, winding artificial veins running through it, and a length that made you gasp like it was the first time, every single time.
After a final quick skim through, you pushed the drawer shut with a bit more force than intended, hearing the rattle and clatter of protest from the toys inside, before setting your sights on the machine tucked beside your chest of drawers. It wasn't bulky, not that bulky, anyway, but it wasn't exactly sleek either.
You picked it up, maneuvering it over to your bed before bringing the three toys over as well, your babydoll dress swaying like smoke around your thighs as you glided, before planting your laptop in front of you as you lay on your mattress, the soft sheets rustling gently beneath you.
The screen sleepily blinked to life before it casted a soft light on your skin as you logged into your streaming site. You double-checked the lighting, the angles, the position of the machine and the toys on the bed, making sure everything was how you wanted it, that it would be visible but left enticing in the dim light of your bedroom.
Alex sat hunched at his desk in his dark, messy bedroom, his back curved into a position that he knew would ache once he uncurled himself, but he didn't care enough to straighten up.
His chair creaked underneath him as he shifted, the old faux leather stuck to the backs of his thighs from sweat. One hand rested over the top of his computer mouse on the desk while the other lay limply across his bare lap, his trousers and boxers crumpled around his ankles before he decided to kick them off completely, scrunching his face as he heard the sharp, metallic clatter beneath his table as they collided with some old beer cans down there.
His bedroom stunk of stale sweat and something old festering on the pile of stacked up plates on the corner of his desk. His t-shirt clung to the back of his neck from hours of sitting there, doing nothing but wallowing in the hollow humidity of his room. He hadn't eaten anything “proper” since around 11AM that morning, excluding a cereal bar he'd scoffed in a rush just moments before, hadn't shaved in months, couldn't remember the last time he did something other than sit at his table and jerk off.
His curtains were drawn and his windows shut, as always, as if he was scared of someone seeing him like this despite him living on the third floor. His lamp buzzed weakly in the corner behind his computer, throwing pale shadows that bled into the ridges of clutter on his desk. Empty, stained cups, three lighters he kept losing and rediscovering, and a wad of tangled USB cables.
His cock was embarrassingly hard between his legs, just from looking at your profile picture as he waited impatiently for you to go live. It always got him hard within seconds.
He'd been refreshing your page for the past half an hour, his fingers jittery, his chest tight and his hair a greasy mop around his face. He thought about clicking on an old stream on your profile to tide him over until 8PM, but he'd already watched all of them at least ten times each.
He'd bought every special clip you uploaded, purchased custom videos whenever you offered them. He had them all stored in folders on his computer, categorised by outfit colour, and he knew the time stamps off by heart.
He knew your schedule better than he knew the back of his hand. It was his only way of working out what day it was. Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays, 8PM. He got worried if you were even so much as thirty seconds later than the scheduled time. It was a sad situation.
He also knew you sometimes liked to do unscheduled, random streams, sometimes in the morning or afternoon. Those were his favourite. He always had your profile open on his ancient, slow computer anyway, either stroking himself blind to your old videos or just staring longingly and aimlessly at your account.
His dick pulsed heavily against his palm, but he didn't stroke. Not yet, despite how much he ached for it. He wanted to save that for you, even though he was throbbing, leaking and twitching in anticipation.
He looked down at the small clock in the corner of his screen, watching the numbers tick by slowly. Five minutes until you were meant to go live.
He'd already booked a private video call for the next day, Sunday, just to keep him going until the next stream on Tuesday. He never turned his camera on for these video chats, or if he did, he had it faced up at his ceiling, the plaster up there dusty and cobwebbed. He was almost certain that you knew your demographic: sweaty, single and self-destructive, but he never wanted you to actually have the misfortune of seeing him.
His tongue darted out to wet his chapped lips before bringing his hand up to his face, his fingertips finding his mouth before he started to chew on his raw nails, nibbling at them until his nail bed screamed at him to stop, until he tasted blood on his tongue, until they were so sore it hurt to even move his knuckles.
Two minutes until you went live. His throbbing cock twitched helplessly, excitedly, and he wondered what colour you'd be wearing today. His favourite to see you in was deep navy blue, like the colour of the ocean at midnight, whether it was a bra and panties, a tiny night dress or a bodysuit, it always turned him on to no end.
One minute until you went live. He started refreshing the page, clicking the small circular arrow in the corner repeatedly until that glowing button appeared on your profile. Join Live. He clicked it within milliseconds, the loading circle spinning once, twice, before the feed bloomed to life, and there you were.
You lay delicately on your side, resting your face in your hand as you watched the viewers pile in, flooding the chat as more people joined.
Dark purple.
It was the first thing he registered, your body wrapped up in a deep wine colour. Thigh-highs clinging to your legs suspended by taut little silk straps connected to your thin lace panties, your bra barely containing your tits, and that sheer little dress wisped over your frame.
His lips parted slightly and he slid his hand up his cock, rubbing his palm over his flushed tip in slow, continuous circles, leaking precum all over it.
There was the slightest delay in the audio on his computer, the sound coming just half a second later than the video. You smiled to yourself as you pretended to read some of the messages infiltrating the chat like a tsunami, your eyes scanning over the screen, and you murmured a soft, “Hi, babies…”
Alex swallowed hard, forcing himself to take his eyes off of you for a moment to skim over the messages rushing through the little chat box on the side.
He hated the other men watching the stream. He felt his blood boil whenever someone else sent a tip, felt a scowl crease across his face whenever he read the messages from the desperate men in the chat. In fact, he despised the chat so much, he usually opted to hiding it completely.
He hated how they typed, how they demanded things, how they acted like they owned you. You weren't theirs. You were his. His girl. Even if you didn't know it yet, even if you never would.
He always made sure to one-up the tips others gave you, giving five, ten, twenty pounds more than what the other person sent. He couldn't stand others taking your attention away from him, even if you weren't really focused on him in the first place.
He wanted to be the only one watching, the only one sending you money. He wanted to be the only one you saw, wanted you to care about him, crave him, want him the way he wanted you.
He clicked the little ‘x’ in the corner of the chat box, closing it off so he could just focus on you, and his fingers clacked across his keyboard that had definitely seen better days as he sent a £50 tip before you'd even started taking your clothes off. A handful of the keys were missing from the board, while some of them he just had to press down extra hard for them to work. He liked to tip early, before anyone else, so he could win this imaginary battle in his mind between him and all of the other viewers for you.
He brought his hand back to his cock right after sending the money, planting his palm back on his scorching hot tip and rubbing in torturous circles, smearing his precum along his slit.
His back remained curled up taut in his hunch as he played with himself, his dick jumping in his hand as the little notification appeared on screen thanking him for the tip.
His username was just the word ‘user’ followed by a jumble of numbers, something you'd come to remember off by heart like your phone number or your pin on your debit card, just from how often you saw him watching your streams.
He watched as your lips curled up into a sly smile as you purred, “Did you miss me?”
He stared intently as you dragged your fingers lightly over your thighs, toying with the lace trim of your stockings, and he moved his hand down his shaft and wrapped his fingers tightly around the base, trying to stop himself from losing it too soon.
You slowly sat forward on your knees, letting your babydoll dress ride up a little, pulling it up to let it bunch at your waist before peeling it off entirely, slow, teasing, taunting.
Your bra came next, reaching behind you to unfasten it and letting it fall loose over your shoulders, exposing your tits to the camera. He felt a dribble of drool drip out of the corner of his lips as he sat with his jaw slack before wiping it with his spare hand, biting his cheeks and pursing his lips.
He let out the quietest moan as he watched you start to play with them, cupping them in your palms and running your thumbs over your tight nipples as your voice, soft like honey but sticky with seduction, hummed, “You've already got your cocks out, don't you? Mm, bet you couldn't even wait…”
He pressed his lips together as his fingertips creeped up the underside of his shaft, stroking half-heartedly to tease himself, keep himself on the edge, not letting himself jerk off properly yet.
Finally, you unclipped the small suspenders on your panties from your stockings next before hooking your fingers beneath the lace waistband and pulling them down your legs, inch by inch, agonisingly slow, and he bit his dry lower lip, chewing on it to stifle his desperate, humiliating whimpers as his eyes landed on your glistening cunt.
He'd memorised it long ago, the colour and the shape permanently imprinted in his mind from the sheer amount of time he'd spent just staring at it. He'd imagined licking it, touching it, being inside it, worshipping it like gospel.
He let out a quiet little groan as you turned on your knees, the barely audible sound of your bed sheets rustling under your movements sifted through his computer's tinny speakers just a moment later than the video feed.
You leaned forward slightly, your ass now the main focus in the frame, and you reached for the plug you set aside before going live. Cool, smooth metal with a gleaming violet jewel at the end.
You brought it to your mouth first, looking over your shoulder into the camera as you wrapped your lips around it, licking a stripe from the bottom to the top, wetting it, making it easier to slip in, and he let out another whine at the filthy sight.
He spat on his palm, a string of saliva stretching like glue from his lower lip as he wrapped his hand around the base of his cock once more, squeezing tightly as he watched you arch your back before reaching behind you and teasing the tip of the plug around your hole before slowly pushing it in.
He scrunched up his face with concentration as he poured all of his effort into not yanking his wrist into movement and jerking off, wanting to last as long as possible. At least, as long as he can while watching you.
You let out a soft, partially fabricated moan as you eased the plug inside with a soft sound before it settled, rubbing one hand over your ass as you showcased the purple gem nestled between your cheeks and pressed flush against your skin.
Even though he'd come to be familiar with when your moans were fake and performative, they always made him leak nonetheless. He tore his palm away from his cock just for a moment to send another tip, this one slightly less at £30, but still enough to satisfy the craving for him. The craving to give everything up to you, like leaving offerings to a deity.
His hand came back to his sweltering tip like gravity, resuming the slow palming over the throbbing, angry red head of his dick as the notification popped up on the screen, the precum drizzling from his slit making his hand grow slicker with each tormenting movement.
You shifted on his screen once more, reaching behind you and dragging the machine forward into frame, and the camera caught the gentle light reflecting off of the steel rods and the slight glisten on the toy already mounted on the tip. “Mm, I've been waiting for this all day…” you drawled, and he hung onto every word.
You positioned it beside you with a calm, confident ease, and his fingers snaked down his cock and coiled around his shaft, squeezing and constricting it tightly as his hand trembled a little. He poked his tongue against the inside of his cheek as you angled the toy between your legs, lying on your side while holding one leg up.
You ran your hand up and down along the soft, smooth skin of your leg before settling it between them, your fingers sprawling across your inner thigh. “You've all been so patient tonight…” your soft, teasing voice came through his speakers like a siren's call.
You looked into the camera as you brought your hand to your mouth, slipping two fingers between your lips and sucking gently, and he met your eyes on his monitor, pretending you were looking straight at him. Your hand came back down between your legs and his gaze followed it as you rubbed your wettened fingers over your clit.
His breath came in quicker, heavier pants as he rubbed his thumb over his oozing tip in time with your movements, and he moaned as you began to guide the toy in, the silicone head pressing between your folds. His legs were spread wide beneath his desk, his toes curling into the stained carpet, one of his mismatched socks half-peeled from where he'd stepped in something that had since dried and crusted that he never dealt with.
You rocked your hips a little against the bed, nudging the toy against your hole, and he mirrored your movements in his squeaky chair, rutting his hips against his palm.
The machine came to life with a mechanical whir, the sound humming through his speakers, and it started slow with steady, rhythmic thrusts, your body accommodating with a soft, breathy moan spilling from your lips. The plug remained tucked snugly in place, stretching you as the second toy entered your slick warmth.
Alex moaned, high-pitched and desperate as he finally let himself have more than a palm, more than a squeeze, allowing himself to stroke himself properly. His hand moved fast up and down his shaft, the wet, obscene sounds echoing in his dingy bedroom, the only other noise being the hum from his computer.
You groaned, the sound morphing into a gasp as the dildo filled you up. “Oh, fuck… I forgot how big this one was…” you said breathlessly, shifting on your bed sheets to take it deeper and holding your leg up higher. “It's so fucking good…”
His pupils were blown wide as he stared, his hand a blur on his cock and his wrist aching from the rapid pace already. He peeled his palm off of his velvety length for just a moment to spit a wad of saliva into it, trying to replicate what he imagined your pussy would feel like, to try and remember what a real pussy felt like.
His mouth went dry at the sight of the toy pumping in and out of you, the way your cunt greedily sucked it in, how you moaned with every other thrust. Fabricated or not, they never failed to make him twitch, never failed to make his hand move a little faster and his brain to get a little mushier.
He pretended that it was him inside you, him making you moan and writhe and grip the sheets, and he hated that machine for being the one to do that to you instead.
He pumped his dick in time with it nonetheless, his sticky, sweaty thighs tensing and trembling, his chest flushed and nipples hardened into points, and his cock so sensitive he could barely take it. He pulled his foreskin back to tease his frenulum, the sensation making his shaft spasm in his grip.
He licked his lips and his eyes met your smokey gaze on the screen, his knuckles twitching involuntarily as you reached up to play with your tits. The rhythm of the machine was steady, the bounce of your chest with each mechanical thrust hypnotic, but his speed faltered the second he saw that notification pop up.
The little chime and the bold text flashing up in the corner of the screen, it made his stomach churn. Someone had tipped £30. His breath caught in his throat as it tightened, and his face scrunched up in disgust, like it had personally offended him, and in a way, it had.
His nose wrinkled and his jaw clenched, his hand stalling mid-motion on his cock for a moment, that awful, fiery jealousy sparking in his stomach and coiling its way up until it suffocated him.
He angrily smacked his slick fingers over the keys, almost breaking yet another one with the force as he sent a tip, making sure to send more than the other person. £45. Big enough to beat the other man, but little enough so that in case another faceless idiot who deemed themselves worthy of giving you their money came along, he could one-up their tip with no problem.
The soft ding rang through his low-quality speakers, and the text in the corner was replaced with his tip. Just how it should be.
He threw his hand back on his cock, resuming his previous pace, and he watched as your eyes flickered over the screen. Your lips curled up into a slow smile, bringing your hand back down between your legs and rubbing slow circles over your clit. “God, I love when my boys spoil me…” you breathed, shifting your position to angle the dildo deeper as the machine continued its thrusts.
He stared at the corner of his computer screen with still mildly angered eyes and a furrowed brow for a moment longer, daring the other person to even try and match his tip.
You were his. Not theirs. They didn't understand you like he did, nor did they watch you like he did. They didn't know the exact shade of your stockings, or buy the same pair for themselves just to sniff and hold, and pretend that they were the ones you actually wore. They didn't catch the way your voice or breath changed, higher or lower, shallow and quick or heavy and deep, depending on where your fingers were. They didn't watch the replays at 3AM, slowing them down just to see your mouth shape each gasp. They didn't write down their favourite time stamps of each video, just so they could watch them over and over and over again. They probably watched and jerked off to other camgirls in the meantime, in between your streams, but he could never do that to you. They didn't see the real you. Not like he did.
And that kept the rage from spilling over for now.
You moaned softly, high and sweet, humming in pleasure through pressed-together lips as your fingers continued to trace delicate circles over your clit like silk, the heavenly sound rattling through his speakers as he thrusted up into his fist.
He knew he wasn't going to be able to last much longer, but he wanted to do his best to wait, to hold on, at least until you said you said he could cum. He never managed to last the full hour without cumming, though he'd always tried his best.
His pupils were blown wider than his iris, every breath that escaped his throat tinged with a whine, and he gawked as you reached to the side without a word, breathless and panting, and his body tensed and quivered as you picked up the vibrator, that dull magenta wand.
He bit down on his lower lip, forcing his hand on his cock to slow down, wanting to cum to you using that toy. He knew it made your thighs shake, and made the filthiest things stutter out of your mouth in the haze of the pleasure.
You ran the wand along your thigh first, rolling your hips subtly against the dildo before you murmured a soft, “Someone speed this up for me…”
He didn't need to be told twice. His fingers flew across the keyboard, frantically typing a tip to make the machine thrust faster, needing to be the first one. To be the only one.
He could hardly sit still, his hips twitching, bucking and rutting as precum soaked his belly, and he moaned as he heard your voice through his speakers as the speed kicked in, the metallic rods spinning faster. “Ah, fuck-” you whined, your thighs clenching as the machine surged deeper before you flicked the vibrator on with a soft hum. “Shit…”
You pressed the rounded end of the wand to your clit and gasped, and the sound shot straight through his veins like a drug. Your lips parted as you moaned, your free hand coming up to grope your chest again.
He allowed his hand to speed up again, an aching pain constricting his whole forearm from his rapid stroking, and he aggressively shoved his greasy strands out of his face, not wanting anything to obstruct his vision of you.
“You want me to cum, don't you?” you asked sweetly, and he nodded so hard it felt like his head was going to fall off, as if you could see him. “Mmh, you're all such good boys for me… stroking those cocks so fast…”
His brain morphed and twisted your words, tricking his fogged brain into thinking you were just talking to him, only feeding his ears what they yearned to hear.
He groaned, deep and hoarse, jerking his cock even faster while his other hand held onto the edge of his desk for dear life, his knuckles bleaching white from the force of his grip.
Your words were starting to slur from the sensations, breath hitching with each pulse of the vibrator as the machine fucked into you at his command.
He was panting now, shallow, uneven breaths that barely filled his lungs as he watched you writhe, your eyes half-lidded and your body coated with a thin sheen of sweat that faintly glistened in the low light of your bedroom.
His body was crammed full of a jumbled mess of contradictions, tense and slack all at once, and his skin prickling with heat. Everything else in the room faded as he felt his balls tighten with the need to release. The stale coffee by his elbow, the jar of dead flies floating in murky water in his windowsill, and the persistent ache in his back from sitting at his desk all day long. None of it mattered.
Not the fact that he hadn't spoken to another person face to face in weeks, not the way he winced at his own reflection in the black of the monitor when the stream lagged for a heartbeat and he saw himself staring, gawking.
All he saw was you. All he needed was you.
Your parted lips, trembling thighs, that toy inside you and the vibrator against your clit. The slick, wet sound of lust pulsing through his speakers. The flush that blossomed across your chest and neck like fresh roses in the spring. The sticky mess between your legs.
It had been years since he'd touched someone warm, since he'd been touched. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been held, kissed, touched like he mattered.
He remembered the heat, the wet, the pulsing of what it felt like to be inside of a pussy. The way her nails scraped down his back, legs slung around his waist and hands in his hair.
But not like you. You would moan his name, he was sure of it. You'd arch up into him, take him deep, and kiss him until his lips bled.
He swallowed hard, just tightening his fingers around his cock to try and recreate that sensation, as he imagined your cunt taking him in, stretching around him.
He wanted heat. He wanted muscle and tremble and your legs around his hips, locking him in, as if he'd want to be anywhere else. He wanted friction that fought him back, held him in even when he tried to pull out.
He spat down onto his cock and kept pumping, a string of drool landing on his chin as he kept his eyes locked on you on his screen. You'd ruined him for anyone else. No one else would ever compare. No one else even existed to him.
You were moaning louder now, head lolled to one side and hand fisting in the sheets. Your hips stuttered and thighs quivered as the machine drove into you over and over again, your face scrunched up in the same sweet way it always did when you were right on the cusp, and he was right there with you.
His vision was dazed in a similar way to when he was drunk, and he grunted, teeth clenched and grinding tightly as he fumbled blindly for a tissue before yanking a few from the crumpled,, torn box on his desk.
He barely managed to hold them in place over the wide, flushed tip of his cock before his orgasm slammed into him with the force of a ten-tonne truck, making his hips jerk and thighs stiffen.
Hot, thick ribbons spurted into the tissue with sharp pulses as he panted, soaking through the thin paper almost immediately, and he didn't look away from the screen. Not once.
He jerked himself through it, moaning in loud, broken stutters, hissing your name through gritted teeth, his back arching and muscles seizing.
His breath came in slow gasps, his fist remaining wrapped around himself but loosening slowly as the pressure that was packed inside of him drained, but he didn't let go. He just cradled himself, lazily palming over his deflating length before cupping his twitching balls in his palm, not wanting to end the contact yet.
On his monitor, your body was coming down too. The machine had gradually slowed to a stop not long after you'd came, your thighs parted lazily with your hair a mess over your shoulder, a few stray strands glued to your forehead from sweat. You let the vibrator buzz you through it for a few moments longer before clicking it off with a quiet tick.
He lifted his weak, aching arm to his keyboard to type a final tip of £80, a goodbye and a thank you in one, and he sent it, pressing his lips together as he carelessly tossed his cum-filled tissue in the general direction of his overflowing bin in the corner of his room.
You smiled weakly at the camera, and the spent look on your devastatingly beautiful face made his heart stutter. You blew a kiss to the camera before saying, your voice sweet and airy, “Thank you for tonight, my babies… see you soon.”
And with that, the stream ended, his screen going black, and he was stranded again. The static hum of his computer fan filled the void, his chest sticky and thighs damp, his jaw aching and his wrist sore.
The sticky sheen of his precum began to dry on his belly, leaving an itchy discomfort behind, and he shifted in his chair, the cracked leather creaking and squeaking as he slowly dragged himself up.
He had a video call with you tomorrow. Just him and you, alone, like it should be. That thought gave him a flicker of something that resembled hope, gave him motivation to just make it until tomorrow. No tip notifications, no chat cluttered with usernames from the other men he despised so much. In his world, it was peaceful.
He forced himself up like a puppet on frayed strings as his stomach gave a low, hollow growl, nagging him for something more than a stale cheese sandwich that he'd eaten around ten hours ago at that point, and he remembered his dinner that he'd left in the microwave.
It was some pasta dish he'd found in the ‘quick and easy’ meal section at the shop, discounted as it approached its use-by date. He'd tossed it into the microwave at around quarter to eight, figuring he'd have enough time to eat it before you went live, but as the minutes ticked by and 8PM dragged nearer, he'd resorted to scarfing down half of a cereal bar as he rushed from the kitchen back to his room, leaving the pasta in the microwave.
He couldn't miss the stream. He couldn't even be late. He had to be on time, had to be the first.
The overpowering, closing odour of something stale left in his sink invaded his nostrils as he slowly stepped over to it, flicking on the tap and rinsing his slick, sticky hands underneath it.
He didn't bother to reheat the pasta, just opened the door of the microwave and pulled the plastic container out, the edges cold and the centre lukewarm, and he shuffled into the other room to his couch.
He sunk into the stained cushions as the old springs whined in protest beneath him. He chewed like a robot, able to complete the programmed motion, but that was about it. Every mouthful tasted like cardboard, and it didn't help that he didn't even like this kind of pasta. It was cheap, easy, and wouldn't take too much effort out of his drained stamina. It wasn't like he could afford much better, anyway. Any money he had, he spent it on you, whether it was buying you new lingerie, purchasing video calls and custom videos, or just sending tips.
He only managed to eat half of it before his appetite shrunk, the congealed pasta sitting heavy in his gut. He placed the plastic atop the mountain of clutter piled on his coffee table before he stood awkwardly, his bones creaking and clacking under his movements. He padded barefoot back to his bedroom, back to his desk, already half-erect again, like a pavlovian reflex at just the thought of coming back to you.
The dim, darkened glow of his screen on your profile that he hadn't clicked off welcomed him, the screen blinking back to brightness as he nudged his mouse. He sat back in his chair, letting it cradle him like always as his cursor hovered on his screen before he dragged it over to his files with a quiet shuffle of his mouse.
He clicked open his folders, scrolling through the dozens of file names before opening the one titled ‘favourites’.
He scrolled through with a whir of his mouse, before finding what he wanted. The feet. It made him feel weird. Not ashamed, and not entirely embarrassed, just exposed. He didn’t like admitting that he liked it. When he asked for it the first time, he buried it beneath a long paragraph about just being curious and experimenting with different and new kinks, as if it hadn't been the only thing he'd jerked to for the past few weeks.
You hadn't judged him for it, instead, you said he was cute for asking. He hated that word. It had no business being a connotation of him. He'd rewatched that video a dozen times the same night you sent it back to him, his breathing shallow and laboured, one hand gripped desperately around himself while the other stroked up and down the arch of your foot on his screen like it was real.
He clicked on a random video, and there you were. Perched on your bed as gorgeous as ever with your legs stretched and toes pointed, and his eyes fell onto your soles and the soft pads of your toes and how they flexed when you shifted a little. “I know you like this, Al… bet you'd love to suck them, hm?” your voice seeped through like honey.
He'd always asked you to just call him Alex or Al. He didn't like when you called him ‘baby’ too often, he liked when it felt personal.
He felt a slow stirring in his lower belly, like waving a hand through a fog of smoke, but he didn't touch himself again that night, just sat in his chair, silent, staring at the thumbnail long after the clip had come to an end.
He powered down his monitor with a slow sigh, and the room felt hollow, empty, as if it hadn't been the whole time. The slow whir of his computer shutting off filled the silence before he willed himself to get up, joints creaking and popping, his bare thighs peeling from the artificial leather on his seat.
He turned to his bed, which was an old mattress pushed up against the wall, his bedsheets crumpled and discoloured. They were grey, not by design but instead by age. Once white, pristine and soft, now dull, torn and worn thin, with stains and marks he didn't want to identify, and made no effort to.
The duvet was perpetually twisted beneath the cover, and one of the pillows had no case at all, the yellowing fabric on full display.
He was still nude, still sweaty, still greasy, but he crawled into his bed like a mole returning to its burrow. He shuffled into the slight dent in his mattress, formed from sleeping in the same spot every night, and he turned on his side, curling in on himself like a woodlouse.
His sheets were stiff with old sweat, and a faint ring of grease lingered on his pillow where his head had been for far too many nights without washing either it or himself.
He woke up the next morning, groggy and blinking away the sleep that had crusted in the corners of his eyes, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the morning light infiltrating the room from underneath his drawn curtains. He tossed his head to the side, his eyes blurry as he managed to make out what the clock on his “bedside” table read. 11:13AM. His video call was scheduled for 12PM.
He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, his breath tasting sour against his teeth and a layer of sweat clung to his skin, but he was awake and had something to look forward to.
He got up with a long, low groan as his back adjusted to being straightened, his joints aching from how little he'd been moving, and he wandered into his kitchen, making his way over rogue piles of laundry and discarded rubbish.
He opened his fridge, the hinges whining, and he grabbed the milk, twisting the cap open to give it a sniff, and he wrinkled his nose and winced before putting it back.
He assessed his mostly empty fridge before deciding to settle on another cereal bar, tearing the wrapper open and tossing it aside before trudging back to his room, chewing on a mouthful of the stale oats.
He sat on his chair, the peeling cushion huffing beneath him, and he logged onto his computer before opening your page. He glanced down at the corner of his screen to check the time, 11:24AM.
He opened a new tab and began to scroll aimlessly to fill the time. Twitter, PornHub, Reddit, just trying to make the time go by faster. His body didn't yearn for release the way it had the day before, but his nerves buzzed low in his groin, along with his anticipation and hunger.
He checked the time again, 11:43AM, and he stood up with no real aim, wandering around his small room in circles like an animal in a cage. He paused by the window, peeking through a gap in his curtains, and he looked down on the citizens and cars below. They all had places to go, people to see, things to do. They all had a life. He didn't want to think about that.
He turned and crossed his room to the drawers tucked into one side of his desk, and he opened the middle one. It was crammed full of miscellaneous items that he was too embarrassed to have out, even though no one came by anymore. Lube, wet wipes, hand lotion, and a purple t-shirt.
It was yours, or at least, he liked to think so. He liked to pretend. He'd ordered it for himself after seeing you wear it in a custom video months ago.
He closed his eyes and held it up to his face, breathing in deeply. There was a faint scent of lavender interlaced into the fabric from an air freshener he'd bought in a half-hearted attempt at kickstarting sorting his life out. Or at least, that's what he remembered. He had trouble with his memory as of late.
He sat back down, draping the shirt over his bare lap just to imagine, to feel closer to you.
His eyes flicked down to the small clock in the corner again. 11:56AM. His fingers hovered over the mouse once more, watching the seconds tick by, growing into minutes, then at 12PM on the dot, his screen blinked, and a soft chime echoed through his speakers. Words popped up on his screen about an incoming private video call, but he barely registered them before clicking the enticing green button that would let him connect. The loading circle spun slowly, taunting him, until the video feed blossomed to life.
You appeared on his screen, dressed in a deep blue satin mini dress, trimmed with a sheer lace of the same colour, and he let out a quiet, mildly embarrassing gasp. You smiled, just a small curl of the corners of your mouth, and you purred, “Hi, Alex… I've been waiting for this one.”
His camera was off, like always, just a black screen where his camera would be, but you didn't mind. His microphone was on, but he didn't speak, not trusting the sound that would come out of his tight throat. Instead, he typed, the clack of his keyboard audible to you, Hello, followed by, I love that set.
You adjusted your position, leaning forward in a way that accentuated your cleavage deliciously, looking into the camera in a way that made him want to cry. Or cum. Or both. “Mmh, you bought this one for me, didn't you?”
He watched, his body entirely still save for the involuntary twitch of his fingers as he rested one hand on his thigh. “Are you hard for me already, Al?” you asked, your voice like sugar as it filled his ears.
He let out a soft, shaky and shallow breath, his mic just barely picking it up, before he typed, Very, then, I've been thinking about this for days.
You trailed your fingers down your collarbone. “I know, my baby… I love when I see your name on the schedule. It always makes me wet, Alex.”
He exhaled at that, his chest tightening and his skin prickling with a wave of goosebumps ebbing over his body. His fingers idly played with the hem of the shirt draped over his lap, and just as he was about to type another message, you spoke again.
“What do you want today, sweetheart?”
He bit his lower lip. He knew exactly what he wanted, what wound him up and made him cum harder than anything else, but it was always a little humiliating asking for it, despite how many times you'd enabled him by now. You heard his heavy breathing before he typed slowly before sending, Feet pls.
You let out a small breath of laughter, but not to mock or tease him. You curled one leg over the other, angling your body just right before you brought your foot up into frame, and he let out a quiet moan.
He wrapped his fingers around his cock, already leaking, and he stroked slowly but steadily, the soft, wet squelch obscene in his otherwise quiet flat.
You rubbed your hand along the arch of your sole like an art form, moaning something about how he makes you so horny, and he gasped, ugly and breathless, his legs trembling as his hand moved faster.
He typed slowly, one-handedly, They look so soft.
You smiled, pressing your arches together and curling your toes before running your fingertips along the delicate sides. You looked into the camera as you repositioned yourself, murmuring, “Wish I could touch you with these, Al… you want that, baby?”
He whined, bucking his hips up into his fist, and he knew he wasn't going to last nearly as long as he had the day before. He typed a quick, So bad, before pressing his lips together, trying to stifle the moans that just kept pouring out of his mouth.
His chair squeaked beneath his bare skin as he rocked into his palm, and you stretched both of your legs out, both of your feet now in the frame, and he let out a choked whine, unable to control the noises spilling out of his lips.
His shaft twitched and spasmed uncontrollably in his palm, and he whimpered, the sound making him cringe internally, even in his pleasure-oriented haze. He knew he must've sounded revolting, so wheezy and desperate, but he didn't care.
You bit your lower lip, your feet filling his monitor screen, and he babbled, unable to control himself, “Gonna… fuck- gonna cum-”
“Good boy…” you whispered, curling your toes in front of the camera, “Come on, right now… for me, Al.”
He couldn't take it anymore. He came with a broken grunt, splattering all over the shirt he'd draped over his lap, his thighs twitching and stiffening beneath the soft fabric as his orgasm ripped through him like a detonation. He moaned your name as he jerked himself through the waves, and you smiled softly, not cruel, nor mocking or judgemental, just warm. Sweet.
His eyes fluttered shut as he wrung the final droplets of his cum out of his tip, panting heavily as he brought himself down. He didn't want to open his eyes. He knew that when he did, he'd look down at the little clock, see that it's only a few minutes until the end of his session, and he just wanted to save himself the harrowing disappointment.
Your voice cut through his orgasm-induced haze softly, like a hot knife through butter, as you murmured, “You've been such a good boy for me today, Aly…”
He reluctantly peeled his eyes open at the sound of your soft voice, his eyes darting down to the small clock in the corner. 12:19PM. He frowned, his chest tightening, and he peeled his hand off of his cock to type a quick, Love you, in the chat box.
You smiled and blew a kiss to the camera. “See you next time, love.”
And just like that, the window closed, and he was left alone again, staring blankly at his desktop background, a wide, empty field with a bright blue sky.
He looked down at his lap, the fan from his computer filling the dull silence, and he saw the mess he'd made of the t-shirt. He sighed and reached for a tissue from his bashed-up box to wipe up the worst of it with slow, lazy, mechanical movements.
He let the shirt fall from his knees, crumpling on the floor around his feet, and then he just sat there, staring at nothing, letting the loneliness roll in like a tide at dawn.
His chair groaned beneath him like a rusty hinge as he leaned back as far as his achy back allowed him to, his cock soft and deflated against his thigh, and he opened up your page again, scrolling through old streams, and he sighed, a stiff throb settling heavy in his chest, curled up behind his ribs as he held onto your last soft words, that kiss you blew, and he let himself believe that you really wanted him, just as much as he needed you.
｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽
what are your opinions on lemon flavoured/scented things? i absolutely cannot stand them no matter how sweet they're made they're always so sour to me, but i have a friend who absolutely loves it and she's got lemon everything in her house 😭 i can never bring myself to go to hers. and i think people who have lemon on pancakes should be executed. also part four to my other fic will be the next one i post im sorry it's been so long!!!!!!!!
