Mama's Boy, 18+
slasher Joel masterlist | problematic playlist | AO3
PAIRING: Slasher!Joel x f!reader LENGTH: 7.2k words and none wasted tbh SUMMARY: Dinner at his mom's house, mostly. WARNINGS: 18+ dark, unsafe PinV, gunplay, degradation, a bit of angst, a whiff of incest, choking-adjacent, dark!reader, major revelations (!), feelings maybe? (god help us), mommy and daddy issues, slasher Joel needs a hug. NOTES: Today is not only mother's day, but also the 2nd anniversary of his first fic. This is packed. @flawssy-227 ty for your activism. And @thesummerpetrichor, I thought of you 🖤. Joel can carry reader.
It's Sunday. He lets himself in.
“Still in bed? Must’ve been ass up face down pretty late last night, huh? Told ya i'd pick ya up… ”
You squint at him as your eyes adjust. “What are you talking about?” He has something draped over his shoulder.
Too much talking. Not enough fucking.
He scoffs, “Really? Sunday dinner, slut.” He marches over to your nightstand with a snarl, picks up a folded piece of paper, and tosses it at you like a frisbee.
Oh yeah.
You unfold it as if it's the first time you've read it: “pick u up sunday.” There's a sketch of his fat cock and a thinner outline of what's presumably a dong next to it. “p.s. u need a real toy.”
Well, here he is. Picking you up on Sunday, and he's even kinda cleaned himself up. A plaid shirt and jeans tighter than his work uniform. Looks like a normal guy you could pass in the supermarket, none the wiser that he’d shove a huge tool up your cunt.
He stands by your bed holding up one dress in each hand. Neither of them yours.
“Now put on somethin’ decent.”
He throws them onto the bed, then pulls a gun out of the back of his pants. “What do you think? ” He gestures between them with the gun.
One of the dresses is simple, clean lines, not far off from something you might normally wear. But it has a brown stain and a frayed edge. It doesn't feel right.
The other dress is a strawberry plant pattern with short sleeves that puff out. It's faded and outdated, but clean and in decent shape–from what you can tell, at least.
“Got my own clothes,” you tell him.
But he insists, “This ain't the street corner, sugar. You're gonna pick one of these.”
“I'm too tired for this,” you complain, then add, “I dunno what makes you think I wanna go to your mom's house.”
“Come on, baby…” He looks at the gun. “I don't wanna use this… unless I'm stuffin’ your muff with it later ”
After looking at both the dresses, you can't bear to put on the stained one and choose the strawberry print. You feel unexpectedly cute in what could have been plucked from a mid century catalogue for housewives, although it’s probably from modcloth circa 2015.
Turning around in the mirror, it’s actually really flattering, and there’s something kinda sexy about dressing up like this degenerate's pretty little wife…Yep, you're really doing this.
Maybe it’s partly out of morbid curiosity, wanting to know where he came from.
How he…. happened.
He brings you a pair of your own shoes and puts them down for you to step into.
“Yeah, that's my girl,” looking over your right shoulder at the bathroom mirror, he grabs your ass, then sticks his hand between your legs from behind, hooking his hand under you to reach your clit. Your feet spread reflexively, giving him more room. Still holding the gun in his right hand, the hand between your legs tents the dress as he strokes you, and your gut begins to swell with need. He spreads his feet and angles himself slightly toward you, getting close enough to press himself against you, letting you feel the warm log in those tight jeans, gun held against his meaty thigh. Your chest heats up and you adjust your tits in the dress, copping a feel of yourself while you’re at it.
“Good girl ” he mutters. With a glint of affection in his eyes, he says, “You were born to wear this dress, kitten.” Now that he’s got you dripping, his fingers slip into the crotch of your panties and he shoves one, then two, inside. “Mm,” he grinds against you as he stuffs you with his fingers. Then he pulls them out and squats down. He lifts the skirt of the dress and yanks the panties down to your ankles. You lean forward and brace yourself on the sink. He stands up, slides the gun between your legs and the smooth, cool metal of the top of the barrel rubs through your slippery seam. Your hips tilt and he slides it forward one last time, before taking it away.
He pats your ass, and says, “Now c’mon, let's go.”
Not even the decency to fuck you first. Not even with the gun.
You scowl at him in the mirror.
He asks, “Am I gonna have to drag you, kickin’ and screamin’?”
“Yeah, actually,” you reply.
“Alright,” he agrees, all too happy to oblige. He puts the sticky gun in the back of his pants, bends his knees. and lifts you over his shoulder with a grunt.
He steps through your open back door and slams it behind him with one hand, his other arm braced over the bare backs of your knees.
You yoink the gun from the back of his pants and he says, “God damnit, be careful with that,” without putting you down.
“You seem pretty sure I won't shoot you,” you observe.
“Course ya won't. Be like a … like a drug addict shootin’ their dealer… nah, shootin’ the drug cooker. Yeah. And he's the only cooker.”
He's getting slightly out of breath as he walks. Or maybe it’s the effort of all that thinking.
“What the hell are you talking about?” You ask.
“Cock hungry whore ain't gonna kill off the biggest cock she's got.”
You press the edge of the barrel against the small of his back and nudge it into his jeans, then demand, “Put me down.”
He groans in exasperation, stops, and sets you down in the side yard.
You almost forget to point the firearm at him. Almost. With the gun raised, you ask, “What’s with the gun anyway? Thought knives were your thing.”
He shrugs. “Special occasion?”
“Why do you want me to come to dinner so bad?”
“Cause I told her we were comin’, okay? Told her ya liked the casserole.”
For the first time, you notice his hair is a little bit combed. You ask, “What'd you tell her about me?”
“Uh,” He scratches the back of his neck. “She knows we met when I was workin’. Knows I gave ya a ride….knows ya ain't like other girls.”
“What’s that mean?” You ask, adjusting your grip.
“I dunno… ” He shrugs, then gets frustrated. “I ain't brought home a girl home in a long time, okay? And she's gettin’ older, and…”
When you've lowered the gun, he lunges forward, muttering, “Gimme that,” as he disarms you with ease that makes your heart skip a beat. He grabs you by the arm and marches you to the Volvo. He opens the passenger door and manhandles you into the seat.
When he gets in the car, he leans over and buckles your seatbelt for you. He smells clean and minty.
As he puts the car in drive, you ask, “What else did you tell her?”
“Uh…. She knows we ain't been on many dates.”
“Not many?” You ask with a laugh. “You mean none?”
He glances at you twice, suppressing a flattered smile at the implication he perceives. He wets his bottom lip. “That mean ya want to?”
He holds the gun against his thigh and steers with one hand.
-
-
When you get to his Mom's house, he warns, “Just don't talk about all your whorin’ around, okay? She won't like it.” He checks his hair in the rear view mirror.
You laugh, “What whoring around?”
“All those skinny dicks in your phone,” he mutters, getting out of the car.
“Excuse me?” You ask, still sitting.
“Just tell her about your day job instead,” he says, as if you genuinely don't think or talk about anything other than cock without prompting.
Wait--skinny dicks in your phone? Your train of thought dies when he puts the gun in the back of his pants, and in doing so exposes a few inches of skin, and the tail end of a scar. After he shuts the driver side door, you open yours while he hurries around to help you out.
“Come on,” His big hand wraps around your inner elbow again. “We're gonna be late.” He's slightly in front of you
“Bringing a gun into your mother's house?” you ask as he pulls you along.
He freezes, then mumbles, “You're right. Don't want her to think you're a bad influence. Even if ya are.”
What a gentleman.
He goes and puts it in the glovebox, then jogs to catch up with you again.
-
-
When she opens the door, Joel's mother beams at the sight of her son. She steps outside, frail and slow moving. She's pretty, with silky white hair that looks older than her face. The storm door creaks to a stuttering close behind her.
At first, it's like you're invisible. He lets go of you, and they embrace. She reaches for the back of his neck and says, “C'mere, baby,” pulling his face to hers. He kisses her on the cheek, then she kisses him, and then, as they separate, Joel gestures toward you. Her eyes are curious when they meet yours, then her face comes to life as her gaze falls down your body. She puts a hand on her hip as she checks you out, her other hand rising to her mouth for a moment, then resting on her chest, fingers centered in the hollow of her collar bone.
“Joel,” she half-laughs in flirtatious accusation, then narrates, “Well, there she is…”
“Don't she look nice? ” Joel asks with a subtle smile and blush.
His mom admires you with an air of disbelief, then goes in for a hug. Her fragrance isn't entirely new to your nostrils, and the sensory recall brings an unsettling tingle to your loins: The night Joel brought the leftovers.
She holds you close, pressing her body all the way against yours without fully relaxing. Firm and in control, and yet , she feels softer than she looks. Her bosom is like a warm pillow. Like a relic of young motherhood, reaching through time, tickling your inner child awake.
As the hug ends, she gently pinches the puffed sleeves of your dress and says to Joel without looking at him, “Yes, baby. She looks real pretty.” Then, glancing up from your dress, she tells you with a smile, “Can't promise strawberries, but I do have cherry pie. Come on in.”
“Thank you, ma’am” you nod.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she chuckles, “You can just call me Mama.”
It sounds like you should know better. Like ‘Mama’ is the most obvious option. You glance at Joel, and he nods with a little smile of permission, as if that's what you’re looking for, and he's glad to give it.
Might as well rip the bandaid off: “Okay… Mama… well, it's nice of you to have me over.” In the back of your mind, you hope Joel doesn't think this is any special effort on your part. It's more like, your job requires manners, and this is your default setting with older folks.
She holds the door open with her body and you have to graze past her. “Smells delicious,” you observe with genuine hunger, having slept through the first two meals of the day.
She straightens her frilled apron with a smile and suggests, “Joel, why don't you give your girl a tour while I finish up?”
This is a relief - you hadn't been consciously dreading it, but worst case scenario, she would've asked you to help in the kitchen. She seems like that type.
–
It’s a humble brick ranch. Dimly lit. Everything is out of style, but tidy. There are a few bedroom doors, but he doesn’t open any of them, and you don’t pry. The paint in the hall is disrupted over a poorly repaired dent in the wall. You try not to look at the stains on the ceiling.
One of the living room walls has a fireplace, and one wall is lined with pictures. There's a bare corner with nothing but a crochet rug – a rounded rectangle, with raised crosses. The paint is newer over there. Bubbling and wanting to peel as the wall approaches the perpendicular wall, the one with the fireplace.
Before you can get a good look at anything, Joel steers you outside. In the small backyard, a wooden garden bed has overgrown with weeds. The lawn is nice and trim. “You help out with the yard?” You ask.
“Uh, sometimes,” he answers. “ She's got somebody else too .”
He rocks forward on his feet, arms crossed.
“So... you gonna fuck me in your boyhood bedroom?” You ask, and he clears his throat with a forced smile, brows knitted.
“What?” you ask. “Why the hell else would you take my panties?”
“Sorry,” he mumbles, allowing himself only a brief glance at you, until he does a double take and admits, “Fuck, you look good.” He seems more distressed by it than anything.
No such luck, you guess, raising your eyebrows at the visible outline against his thigh. Never would've pictured him in jeans.
He runs his hand through his hair, puffs out his cheeks with an exhale, and adjusts himself with effort before leading you back inside. His boot grazes the side of a metal bowl, sloshing water into dark spots on the cement.
-
-
She pours Joel a glass of milk with dinner, and when you politely decline, Joel says, “One glass won't hurt ya, baby .” Mama seems pleased to bring over the old fashioned bottle of milk. She rests her free arm on the back of your chair, with the fine lines of her cleavage near your eyes as she fills your glass.
The meatloaf is delicious, with sauce that reminds you of barbecue. The mashed potatoes are over-buttered, but they hit the spot. She smiles to herself, satisfied to watch you eat.
“So tell me about yourself,” she says. “Do you work?”
You swallow your food, nod, and tell her which clinic you work at.
“Oh,” she recognizes the name. “The one over on Main Street?”
“Yes, that's right.”
“That's nice,” she says. “Joel's going to own his own business one day. Do you ever want to own your own practice?”
“Oh, no, I don't think so,” you answer, then ask Joel, “What kind of business?”
“Joel, I'm surprised you haven't told her,” his Mom says, then lowers her voice to a conspiratorial volume to tell you, “He’s too modest.”
“Ya know, I guess a tow and repair one-stop shop,” Joel says. “Not a lot of guys do both, but I can really take care of ya. Same night, even. Late hours, too.”
His mom nods. “I always knew he'd be successful,” she says. “Even in the darker days.”
Joel tenses and begins to tap his heel. “ How about you, Mama? ” he asks, “ What have you been up to? ”
“Oh, you know, this and that,” she says. “Crossword was a doozie today!” she laughs. “What are you two gonna do this week? Anything special?”
You shrug and look at Joel.
He starts, “Uh… ”
His Mom bails him out, “You oughta take her to the drive-in like I said, baby,” then she asks you, "Would you like that, honey? You like the drive-in? We used to go, it was so nice.”
“Sure, I like movies,” you answer.
“See, Joel? She likes movies.”
-
Joel finishes his meatloaf relatively quickly, and his mother puts another generous slice on his plate.
“I don't need any more, Ma,” he says, but she doesn't listen, and he digs into it anyway. By his third slice, he’s pushed back in his chair, adjusting his belt. He pats his tummy and says, “There's nothin’ she makes that ain't good.”
“Only the best for my boy,” she agrees, then asks you, “Ain’t that right?”
“Of course,” you agree.
“Oh! I saw Randall Junior earlier,” she says. “He came by and did the lawn.”
“Randy,” Joel corrects her.
“Yeah, Randall’s son.”
“Randy,” Joel repeats. “He ain’t even a Junior, Ma. He’s the third.”
“Well, it was nice to see him,” she reminisces, fiddling with the corner of her placemat. She catches herself, smooths it down, then brings her hands together, fiddling with her left ring finger. “I swear, that boy’s an inch taller every time I see him.”
“He’s in his thirties,” Joel tells you, drawing a genuine smile to your lips. One that brings a sparkle to his eyes.
“Well, anyway,” she goes on, “A face like that belongs in the movies,” she chuckles to herself. “Of course, he’s nowhere near as handsome as my Joel,” she looks at you reassuringly as she says it. Lest you pine after Randy the third .
A silence stretches on until you say, “Well, this was delicious. I’d love the recipe…” You dab the corners of your mouth and put down your napkin.
“Oh, it’s not a recipe, honey,” she boasts, “It’s somethin’ ya do from the heart.” After a moment, she adds, “But I can write down the ingredients! Now, how about some cherry pie?”
She stands up, puts her apron back on, and you help her clear the table. “Go on Joel, we’ve got it,” Mama tells him, and he goes to sit in the living room.
“Okay,” Mama whispers to herself as she plates the first slice, a generous one. “This one’s for him.” You take it to Joel and he sits up from the couch to accept it with a thank you, reading your face for signs of how things are going. You flash him a small, unrevealing smile.
“Gonna take a piss,” he mumbles, and his eyes ask if that’s okay. “Sure,” you say with a little curtsy, trying not to smirk as you turn and head back to the kitchen.
Mama’s about to plate the other slices of pie when she lifts a finger in the air and says, “Oh, let me write this down before I forget,” then retrieves a notecard and pencil from a drawer. She puts on a pair of glasses and smiles to herself as she jots down the ingredients. You dwell in the threshold of the living room.
She looks up like she’s trying to remember something, then looks down and keeps writing on the notecard.
You begin to look at the pictures on the wall. Some are of Joel, and he’s straight-faced. Some are of cats. Charmingly, a blurry photo of a black cat has been deemed frame-worthy. It sits within a bigger rectangle, the shadow of where a different frame used to be. There are a few spots like this. There are a few relatively recent photos of Joel and his Mom. None with his father, as far as you can tell. None now, and none then. But when you look closer at the older ones, it’s clear some of them have been trimmed.
“He hates having his picture made,” Mama startles you from less than a foot away.
“You two seem really close,” you offer. “Just the two of you?”
She raises her eyebrows in amusement and lowers her volume. “Oh, Joel made sure of that .”
A chill in her voice hardens your nipples and dries your mouth. You search her face for more, but her eyes have wandered, and her face has fallen. “Been about thirty years, just the two of us—well, just me for a while…” You follow her eyes to the corner with the crochet rug, and she squeezes your arm.
“Are you okay?” you ask.
She eases her grip and manages a little smile. “Yes, dear.” She hands you the notecard.
Her handwriting is beautiful. Captivating.
You stay there, eyes scanning the photo wall, while she finishes plating your pie and hers.
One of the frames catches your eye. It’s the first one you’ve really zeroed in on, looking at the faces and not just the context. The picture is faded and yellowed.
Joel is young and smiling, with a pin-up looking woman hanging all over him.
A rush of begruding jealousy begs the question, who is that?
And then, your stomach turns before the realization sets in.
It’s a much younger Mama, with dark, loose curls befitting of a centerfold. All dolled up and glowing, with her arm around his middle. And god damn, her tits are swelling up out of her neckline. She looks…. Hot. Your lungs go hollow, then your chest expands with a deep breath. Something's stirring in your gut. Arousal? Attraction?
Your eyes pan down to her Mary Jane heels, but the swell of her breasts, those bouncy curls… your eyes are pulled back up her body. The dress is cute, and proper. Innocent, even. But the way she wears it… Sweetheart neckline, puffed sleeves… You squint for a closer look, and your breath hitches. Heat rises to your face, to the tips of your ears. Your heart races. You pull your eyes away, chest burning, and pretend you don't notice anything.
Something soft brushes your calf and you gasp and jump as you look down to see a black cat thread between your legs.
“Oh, it’s Daniel!” Mama says. “He must’ve come in behind you. Not allergic, are you? Here’s your pie, honey.” She sets down your plate on the coffee table.
“You good, baby?” Joel asks.
-
Taking your place on the sofa next to Joel, you sit like a lady, one foot tucked behind the other ankle, minding your lack of panties. The dress is just long enough to cover your knees.
The three of you finish dessert in silence aside from forks scraping good china and Daniel purring from that rug in the corner. Joel finishes first, and stretches his arm behind you on the sofa. When you finish, you sit back with him, knee brushing his. You will yourself to relax. You will yourself not to ogle his mother in trying to reconcile her fragile frame of today with those curves of yesteryear.
She looks back and forth at the two of you sitting side by side and smiles. She puts down her plate, crosses her legs toward you, and clasps her hands. A smile rises through her pretty cheekbones as she looks directly at you.
“Ya know, Joel was top of his class.”
You raise your eyebrows.
Joel takes his hand off the back of the sofa and leans forward, forearms on his knees, full belly filling out the plaid against his lap as he wrings his hands. “Mama.” Joel’s tone is cautionary, but his face is more pleading. He shakes his head ever so slightly.
Ignoring him, she smiles proudly at you.
You try not to sound as skeptical as you are when you ask, “Really?”
She nods.
“Mama,” he whispers.
“Mm-hmm,” she smiles.
He sits up straight, wipes his hand down his whole face and sits back in defeat. His arm doesn't return behind you.
She continues, “There were a couple other boys, went in ‘round the same time – took’em three tries to get their GED. Three tries, at least. Not my Joel. He got his on the first try,” she beams. “The warden shook his hand.”
“Okay,” Joel mutters.
The Warden. Your heart skips a beat and your face goes cold, but you pray it doesn't show.
You turn and congratulate him, “That’s great, Joel.”
He doesn't meet your eyes. He’s looking at the carpet with a defeated scowl, jaw flexing, chest heaving, arms crossed limply over his stomach. He tries to manage a smile of acknowledgement. You can see the effort, but humiliation prevails.
You feel for him and add, “Really, babe.”
His face softens, but his posture doesn't change. After a moment, without looking up, he mumbles, “Long time ago.”
“Yeah,” his mother nods. “He's always been a smart boy.” She starts talking about his favorite subjects, and how he could have gotten his bachelor's too, three times over, if the program was worth a damn, and state funding, and blah blah blah, riots, and understaffing, and shanks hidden in law library books, and a few bad apples spoil it for everyone…
Your eyes are on him, tuning her out, best you can, despite your curiosity. You rest your hand on his knee, and he relaxes a little. And then, once your face turns toward his mom again, Joel looks at your face, assessing the damage.
You want to hear it all– how long he was locked up, how he ended up in juvie. You're afraid you already know that part.
Daniel purrs loudly from the crochet rug, and you will yourself not to look in that direction.
Joel's Mom looks at Daniel and gets quiet as her eyes wander up that wall that must've been painted over, God how many times in the past thirty years? She idly caresses her ring finger.
You squeeze Joel's knee, slide your hand up his jeans a couple inches, and squeeze again. You tap your thumb, and his hand joins yours.
“We oughta get goin’, Ma,” he announces.
“Oh,” she frowns, slumping in defeat.
“I'm workin’ tonight, and she's gotta work early.”
“Okay,” she whispers to herself, stands up, and smooths her dress.
—---
“It's nice to know there's a good woman looking after my son,” she says as she bids you goodbye with another hug.
Your heart swells at the praise, you can't help it. Her apparent sincerity weakens your eyes, makes you shake away your own memories and steel yourself as she says goodbye to Joel.
“Chin up, baby.” She holds Joel's face, makes him look at her. “Give your mama some sugar.” She gives him a smack on the lips. He doesn't kiss back, but he does accept her hug.
He pulls up his jeans on the way to the car. Almost forgets to open the door for you.
He doesn't look at you, even when he buckles you in, which you would have done yourself if you hadn’t froze.
He swallows more thickly. His posture is less proud.
For the first few minutes of the drive, you ride in silence. Then you ask, “Are you okay?”
“Why wouldn't I be?” He grumbles.
“Do you want to talk about it?” You ask, tummy tickling with a pang of sympathy for the man.
“No,” he answers flatly with no hesitation.
“You don't have to,” you reassure him.
“I know I don't have to,” He snaps. “God, it's all anybody ever wants to talk about.”
You watch him scowl at the road, clenching his strong jaw. His gaze is so dark. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. As if noticing this himself, he stretches one hand out, spreading his fingers before assuming a more relaxed grip.
You wonder… was he born a killer?
He's got this tough, violent shell about him, and now you know there's something else under there. Is he sorry he brought you to dinner, you wonder? You don't want him to be.
“Well, it was nice meeting your mom,” you remark. “Meatloaf was fantastic…. The pie, too.” You cradle the Tupperware stacked in your lap. “You wanna hang out for awhile?” you ask.
“Gotta work,” he answers flatly and swallows with his eyes still on the road.
“Well, that's too bad.” It really is. 'Cause you're not any less horny than he got you in your bathroom two hours ago. Wetter, if anything, you realize, and warmth blooms in your cheeks. Now the sun is going down. You reach back and put the Tupperware on the back seat, then shamelessly turn toward him. You lean your temple against the headrest and watch him drive.
He’s hard-working. Complicated. Private. And his mom’s right, he is successful, all things considered.
You wonder where his dad is buried. Whether he was handsome, like Joel. Maybe . But with or without him, Joel got those looks from Mama.
Joel glances over and shoots you a dark look. A warning.
“You don't gotta play nice,” he says.
“I'm not playing anything,” you protest.
He lets out a dismissive chuckle.
“Pull over,” you tell him.
“For what?” He asks.
His meaty thighs are spread, swelling in those tight jeans. He follows your eyes and squints at you, then slides his hand under his belly and adjusts his belt, annoyed.
“Just pull over Joel,” you repeat.
“Ain't in the mood for your games, sweetheart,” he says.
You open the glove box, then close it with the gun in your hand. You point it at him. “Pull over, god damn it,” you tell him.
He squints and looks at you up and down before dismissing you with a silent, condescending laugh.
Keeping the gun trained on him, your free hand unbuckles your seatbelt, then slides between your legs. You pull the skirt of the dress all the way up to expose your cunt.
“You serious?” He asks.
“Serious as a heart attack,” you confirm.
And that's not what killed his dad, you think.
It must've been messy.
He must've deserved it, by the looks of Joel's back. The way the moonlight skidded over his scars, that night in your bedroom.
Joel shakes his head, keeps driving, and you lift the gun to his temple. “Pull over right now,” you repeat, quieter.
“Jesus, FUCK,” he relents, neck vein bulging as he veers toward the shoulder.
It's close to dusk now, on a suburban road, and you're half way out of the seat before the car's in park.
Stretching your leg over the center console, you help yourself into his lap, straddling him, still holding the gun. With your free hand, you begin to unbutton his shirt.
For a moment, all he does is stare at you and breathe heavier. “You're fuckin’ with me,” he tells himself out loud, not wanting to fall for a joke. He has his elbows back and out of the way, one arm on the door, one on the center console, but he’s itching to have you. You can see it in the way his biceps twitch. His stomach rises and falls with heavier breaths under his white tee.
“I’m not,” you assure him.
He lets you pick up his hand, and you guide it between your legs so he can feel how wet you are.
His face darkens, and his hand reflexively grabs your cunt.
“Somethin’ wrong with you?” he asks.
“That’d make two of us,” you answer.
You glance at the gun to make sure the safety's still on, then point the barrel at his chest and reach down to grab the massive bulge in his jeans. The largest you could imagine, for a cock that’s not quite hard. And he chubs up quick under the lustful pressure of your palm.
“You're into this shit,” he says. “ Like some kinda kink.”
Ya think?, you manage not to say out loud.
But you get the subtext: He’s a real person... With a real big cock that swells harder in your palm as you massage him slow with your breasts heaving. He cups your bare ass cheeks. You slide your hand up the front of his jeans, and his hips lift under you, chasing your palm. The heel of your palm presses into his gut as you unbuckle his belt. You rest your wrist on the seat, gun pointed toward the back of the car as your hand continues its work between your bodies.
With his belt buckle out of the way, you grope at his cock through the denim again, then unzip his jeans and rest your hand on the curve of his belly, splaying your fingers out before sliding your hand down into his jeans. As your hand engulfs the mushroom shape of his cockhead, then his swollen shaft, you moan at the girth. “Yeah,” you breathe, “You gonna fuck me in your mother’s dress?” You end the question with a firm grab of his package, and he grunts, nearly breathless, then sighs as you palm his cock hungrily through the cotton of his boxer briefs.
“Looks really fuckin’ good on you,” he answers with a nod.
Blood’s still rushing to his cock, responding to its need to stiffen up and plug whatever gaping hole appears in front of it.
“Looks good on her too,” you note.
“Fuck,” he breathes under your slow but aggressive massage. His eyes pour over your chest and he says, “Looks better on you.” If he’s not lying–and it feels like he’s not–-it’s quite a fucking compliment. His shaft plumps with as much as blood as it can hold, stiff as a rod, fat and juicy, hard as hell, spilling precum in his boxers.
“Ohh, fuck,” he moans. His hips lift and his abs tense and his belly swells against your forearm.
You slide your hand up again, and under his waistband. You brace your wrist on his shoulder, pointing the gun toward his neck as your hand slides into his warm boxer briefs to feel the smooth skin of his aching manhood.
“You wanna put that down?” he asks.
“No,” You reply, unable to connect your thumb fingers around his girth.
“Man, when ya need it ya need it, huh?,” he murmurs, eyelids heavy. “Need this cock real bad, don’t ya? ”
“Yeah,” you answer.
“Need to pack that droolin’ gash,” he says. “ Pack it full. ”
“Yeah,” you nod and raise yourself a few inches. You get his tip at your entrance, then slide it through your dripping pussy.
"Oh, fuck,” he moans, “God damn sex kitten.. . FUCK, youre hot”
He breathes audibly, watching you with forced patience as you notch his broad tip at your hole. You start to sink down on him with some difficulty, face scrunching, biting your lip in frustration, eyes watering with need.
“What's the matter, sweetheart? Forget how to take a cock all the sudden?”
You lift yourself up and sink down a little more, swallowing the tip.
“Oh fuck,” he moans. He puts his hands on your hips and pulls you down with an upward thrust, spearing you on his monster girth.
“Yeah…oh, fuck,” he breathes, not quite bottomed out. “Ugghh,” he groans, pulling you down more with an upward thrust to the hilt, fully seated in you at last.
“God, you're filthy.” He wets his bottom lip, admiring what a mess you’ve become in his lap. “Hot little slut like you…. Oh, you're trouble,” he says.
You begin to lift yourself, letting most of his meat out of you, tip dragging thick and tight through your walls, your slick beading under the crown and sliding down his shaft. Then you sink back down, splitting yourself open on his girth with a sigh.
The sky has erupted into shades of pink and purple as it begins to sink past the horizon.
Electricity runs through your blood. Your skin hums. His neck glistens with goosebumps and the hues of his shirt look brighter in the almost-dark.
He grabs your hips as you ride him, then moves his big hands to your waist. Each time you slide up his cock, it’s easier to sink back down. Your body’s hungry for more each time. You can feel it pulsing wider around him, welcoming his girth, hungry for more.
“Yeah,” he encourages you as you find a rhythm. “Like that.”
You seize one of his wrists to move his hand to your neck.
“You're a real freak, baby,” he taunts you, brushing his thumb against the delicate skin of your neck before carefully positioning it and raising his eyebrows at you. He closes his eyes as you sink down on him again and his girth slides easily through your soft walls. When he opens his eyes, his massive hand gives your neck a little squeeze, and you moan in appreciation.
“Guess it takes a freak to fuck a guy like you,” you spit back.
He scowls, and his nose twitches.
You go on, “Mighta picked the only freak in town who’d fuck you by choice,” you tell him. “Lucky call,” you say. “Lucky you have such a fat fucking cock,” you taunt him and study his face, hopeful for a sign that he could snap. “What else do you have?” You ask, and it feels almost too cruel. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a lot to have… fuck,” you breathe. “Mmm,” fully stuffed by his girth.
“Quit runnin’ your damn mouth,” he snaps and grabs the gun by both ends at once, smoothly disarming you with an effortless twist of his hands. He places the barrel against the hollow of your neck and asks, Is “That what ya want, ya dumb slut? Tryna get yourself killed?”
You freeze, half-way on his cock, getting lost in his eyes.
“Well God damn, if you're gonna ride it, ride it. I'm gonna lose my goddamn patience” he warns.
When you don’t sink down fast enough, he gets rougher, putting you in a bruising grip, one arm wrapped around you, tightening like an anaconda.
He fucks up into you from the bottom, both arms behind you, with the gun held vaguely to your neck.
“Yeah,” you moan.
He growls, pushes his back against the seat, and his stomach pushes against your front, pushes and rubs as he fucks you harder, rocking the car.
The windows fog up.
He unzips the back of the dress and tears it down to reveal your breasts.
He watches them move as you’re bounced on his thick manhood. He snarls and grunts like an animal possessing his prey.
“I see you,” you whisper, intoxicated by the rhythmic stroke of him up in your guts.
“Fuck you,” he rasps.
“Fuck me ,” you retort, “Fuck me,” you repeat, “Fuck me, killer,” your cunt spasms with the word.
“Knew what I was, don’t act fuckin’ surprised.”
"Fuck," you moan, swallowing up his cock. “I'm -mmm- m’not,” you say. “I'm turned on.”
“You’re sick,” he says, burying his cock in you fully, once again.
Your nipples harden, you moan, and he looks at you skeptically, even as he feels your walls twitch around his absurd girth.
“Know that pussy's hungry for something bigger,” he says.
“Like what?” you ask and feel the gun leave your neck.
“Get up.” He checks the safety.
When you rise up, he holds the gun near his dick, making the barrel of it look like a twig.
“Best I got here,” he says with your gummy walls clinging to his shaft as you let out all but the tip.
“Think she can take it?” he asks. “Shit, we know she can.”
You lift all the way up onto your knees, letting his cock fall out. It bounces, bringing a string of slick with it, and stands stiff at attention.
He works three fingers into you with ease.
“Gimme your hand,” you ask.
“Hand's fuckin’ busy,” he says, referring to the one holding the gun.
“No, gimme your whole hand,” you demand greedily, and grab his wrist with his fingers still buried in your cunt.
“Attagirl,” he says, then works a fourth finger into you. “Best I can do here, sweetheart,” he winces as he fucks you with four clustered fingers.
“Fuck this,” he decides, unable to stand his throbbing cock growing ever colder outside your cunt.
He positions you over his dick and the gun, uses his fingers to spread your pussy around both, then pulls you down.
“Uh–ughh,” your mouth is agape as you sink down the shaft and barrel, taking them both.
You’re a quivering mess.
He holds the handle steady and says, “Good girl.”
You don't go all the way down. The cool barrel slides against one side of your walls.
“God damn, this hungry pussy,” he pants, cock stiff against the gun. “God damn, i know she can take more,” he says, frustrated without much more to give you.
“How do you know?” you ask
“Cause I've seen ya gapin’ wide open, sweetheart.”
You moan at his words, pussy quivering around his cock and gun.
“Wide fuckin’ open,” he repeats. “Ya take my fist… take two dicks…fuck ,” he twitches inside you. “ Took my goddamn wrench…. greedy fuckin’ cunt,” he goes on.
Then you're seized by a swell in your lower belly…. The pressure that’s been simmering quickly boils over, and you whimper as you come on his cock and the gun.
“Yeah,” he pants as your walls flutter and your thighs quiver.
He lifts you up with one arm, and takes out the gun, putting it aside. Then he slams you all the way down on his cock. “Oh god, yeah,” he pants, “Freak nasty whore ”
You moan and let it ride, clenching around his cock, your walls hugging it tighter each time, with the girth of the gun no longer holding you open.
Your climax wanes and your legs are weak. “Oh fuck,” he pants, “Gonna fill this dirty snatch,” He sweats and grunts. “Gonna stuff her with my load,” he warns, “Bout to fill this gash right up .”
“Fuck,” he breathes heavier and grunts with each thrust up into you, then slams you down, and with an upward jolt of his hips begins to drain his massive balls. “Fuck,” he sighs as he comes inside. “Fuck, you're crazy,” he says with another rope, warm and sticky, hitting your womb.
“Tryna get knocked up by some psycho killer ya picked up on the side of the road,” he says. “ Fuck, you goddamn freak .”
Still milking his cock, something possesses you to cradle his face as he slows down. Another burst of warmth in your core, as your face approaches his. He starts to turn his cheek, but your hands become forceful. “C’mere, asshole,” you demand, grinding into him with his cock pulsing deep inside again. His neck begins to relax, and he sighs with his eyes closed. You hold his face steady and bring your face to his. When your lips meet his are limp and open.
Another warm spurt into your womb, and when you moan against his mouth, he moans back. His lips soften, then cradle yours. Your tongue slips into your mouth, and his pushes into yours. He grabs the back of your head, pulling you into his face as he kisses you, releasing a final burst of hot seed. “Mm,” he grunts into your mouth, hands holding each other’s faces. Glued together, consuming each other in the dark. The passion simmers to something gentler as your loins twitch with aftershocks, becoming over-sensitive.
You break away to breathe, gasping for humid air in the fogged-up car.
He pants, looks up at the ceiling. His neck vein pulses. His skin is clammy looking, dewy with cold sweat,
“Fuck,” sighs, his chest heaving, “Still got your goddamn tits out.” He admires them, then feeds himself one. He tongues your nipple, and when your cunt squeezes him, he winces, letting it out of his mouth.
A tractor trailer whizzes by, shaking the whole car.
“Alright,” he says, and nudges you off his lap. “Now pull yourself together.”
He takes the gun, wet with your juices, puts it on the dashboard near him. He looks over at you skeptically when you've climbed back over the center console into your seat.
“You better stuff that dress between your legs,” he warns. “Don’t want ya leakin’ all over the goddamn place.”
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THANK YOU FOR READING.
Believe it or not, I cut two scenes from this lol so I might put them in a little bonus visit between Joel and his mom soon.
Look, this took me a year and I feel like I've finally done my mental vision justice lol. So, please interact 🧎♀️🥺🖤
anon is fine if you're shy!
