Your best friend calls, voice raw, and you realize he’s jerking off to you. The call spirals into a dirty, tense back-and-forth—him confessing all the nasty things he wants to do to you, you teasing between sweet and cruel, letting him see just enough to break him. He cums hard for you, then you make him listen while you play with yourself and orgasm. At the very end, you drop the sweetest bomb—and hang up, leaving him ruined, obsessed, and wanting more.
★2,827 words, old story, smut/explicit sexual content(18+), lots of dirty talk, masturbation, praise & a tiny bit of degradation, pet name/name calling (e.g, ma/mama, baby, sweetheart, honey¹, and slut¹), you're a little mean but he likes it, etc★
★18+ 𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝑫𝒐 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕★
"Hello?" you call, picking up on the third ring. The room is quiet, the only light the coming from your amber lamp and the blue glow from your screen reflecting off your freshly done nails.
"H-hey," his voice scrapes out on the other end. It’s a wrecked sound—ragged, breathless, and vibrating with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.
Your brows pull tight, a slow worry already beginning to tug at your lips. "Are you okay? You sound... off."
You picture him for a second. Maybe he’s sweaty from a run, his chest heaving under a thin t-shirt. Or maybe he’s been lugging another Amazon dresser for that old lady down the block—always the good guy, always helping somebody. But as you listen to the heavy, rhythmic hitch in his breathing, you realize you’re wrong.
Right now, your best friend is laid out on his bed, the sheets a mess beneath him. His sweatpants and boxers are shoved down to his mid-thighs, his brown skin damp and glowing in the dim light of his room. His stomach is corded, muscles tightening and rippling with every long, desperate drag of his fist. His dick is a dark, heavy weight in his hand—slick, flushed, and dripping through his fingers.
He’s slowly but firmly stroking himself to the thought—and now the sweet, taunting sound—of your voice. Precum is already smeared over his knuckles, his thumb rolling lazy over his slit before pressing harder, coaxing a deep, guttural grunt from his throat.
"Mgh—nothing. Just... talk to me," he rasps, the friction of his hand audible through the speaker.
Your frown deepens, your heart is starting to race. "Why? What’s wrong, baby?"
The pet name slips out easy, unthinking. But the effect is immediate—he moans low, a broken, helpless sound, like you’d reached through the line and wrapped your hand around him yourself. He lives for when your voice turns soft like this, when you stop clowning him and get sweet. His fist moves quicker now, his hips pushing up into his palm, seeking the friction he can’t get enough of.
"I'm fine, I promise. Just keep talking. Please."
You fall quiet for a beat, leaning back against your headboard. You listen harder. You hear the wet, squelching sounds of his grip. The sharp little hitches of breath. The low, animalistic sound he makes when his fist squeezes tighter at the base.
And it clicks.
"...You’re jerking off."
Silence. Just the heavy, frantic sound of his breathing. Then a broken, self-deprecating laugh. "Yeah. M'sorry. Can’t stop. Not when it’s you."
Your breath stutters, a prickle of heat blooming low in your belly. "You’re getting off to me? On the damn phone?"
"Every time," he admits, his voice rough and needy, but with a sudden edge of raw honesty. He wants you to know. He wants you to feel the weight of it. "Think about you all the time. That mouth. Those tits. The way your ass looks in those shorts." His pace picks up, the slick, lewd sounds of his hand working his dick filling the line. "Fuck, I’d do anything to see you ride me, just once. Just to see what that look on your face is like when I’m deep inside you."
You bite your lip, your pulse kicking against your throat. "That’s disgusting. Using my voice to get your nut. You’re nasty."
He groans like you’ve just blessed him with a touch. "Yeah, I know. But you're all I think about... you’re the only thing that gets me this hard."
"That's nice, honey. But you really shouldn't think of me like that... you know we're just friends," you murmur, your own hand sliding down to rest heavy on your thigh, the silk of your shorts cool against your palm.
"Don’t say that." His tone cuts sharp now, all the nice playfulness you've come to love is gone. "I’m not your fucking friend. You call me every day. You tell me you love me. I told you from the start—I’m not your friend." His breath hitches, the wet sounds of his fist speeding up, becoming more frantic. "You let me talk to you like this. And you let me—You let me be in your life knowing how I feel about you."
Your acrylic nail drags slow across your bottom lip. "Maybe. But I can't give you what you want, and I do love you, but don't throw it in my face," you drawl, a cruel, satisfied smirk pulling at your mouth.
"It’s kinda sad. Stroking your dick to a girl you’ll never have. We'll never be together. I’ll never let you fuck me. All you get is your hand."
He chokes out a moan, his hips snapping up into his fist with a raw, mechanical rhythm. "Yeah? Then give me something else. Show me. Facetime me, ma. Please."
You hesitate, the heat pooling heavy and agonizing between your thighs. Then, you click over.
The screen flickers to life. His camera is shaking, his breath filling the dark room. Sweat beads at his temples, his face flushed a deep, beautiful bronze, his lips parted. You know that tremor in the camera—it’s the force of his fist moving fast.
"Thank you," he exhales, the word almost reverent as he takes in your appearance.
"Hi, baby. Let me see your face," you don't ask it like a question. You order it.
He obeys instantly. His face fills the screen, his jaw tight and corded, his sharp fade a bit messy from the heat and the friction.
"You look good," you compliment, but the little laugh that follows makes it sting.
"Keep talking." He’s close, you can hear the strain in his voice. "Don't stop."
"I want to see."
He blinks, his eyes glazed and dark. "What?"
"I'm not repeating myself."
He lets out a breathless, desperate laugh, knowing your patience is thin. "Take your shirt off then. Let me see what I'm working for."
You narrow your eyes at the audacity, but you reach down and tug the pajama top off anyway. Your lace bra catches the light, the fabric straining against the fullness of your breasts. You don’t cover yourself; he’s seen you in less, and you want him to see exactly what he’s missing.
"Fuck," he groans, a sound of pure, unadulterated pain. He flips the camera.
Your breath catches. Your mouth goes dry. His dick is a complete mess—his fist is working tight and fast, the dark, veined length of him glistening with pre-cum. White streaks of cum are already dried tacky over his thighs from previous rounds, and his stomach is flexing with every pull. His abs are glistening, his skin slick with sweat. His thumb smears a fresh bead of precum over the flushed, velvet head until it gleams, dripping onto his knuckles.
You bite your lip hard, heat twisting through your belly, your shorts already sticking damp between your thighs.
His moan rips through the line, a guttural, animal sound.
You whisper his name, your voice low, trembling, and possessive. "... I really want you in my mouth."
His head snaps back against the pillow, a broken curse ripped from his lungs. "If I had you here? I’d fuck that throat till you cried. Till you gagged around me and begged for air. I’d hold your head and make you take every fucking inch."
You hum, a low, taunting vibration. "You’re not tough enough for that."
That pulls a dark, dangerous laugh from him. His hand works faster, the veins straining down his forearm. "Say that shit again. I’d hold your face down and shove my dick so deep you’ll feel me in your chest. I’ll make you swallow every drop."
Your thighs squeeze together, wetness soaking through the crotch of your shorts. "All talk. You’d fold the second it touched my tongue."
He groans, deep and pained. "God, you drive me fucking insane." His breath stutters, then—"Take your bra off for me. Now."
You tilt your head, slow and teasing. "You want a show?"
"Take it off." His voice is rough, a plea threaded with a hard command.
You hook your fingers into the lace, slipping it down your shoulders, letting it fall. Your breasts sit full and heavy in the camera’s glow, your nipples tight and peaked in the cool air.
He chokes on his own breath. "God, look at you. Perfect. Fucking perfect."
Your fingers lift, tugging lightly at one nipple, rolling it between your fingers. "Like this, baby?"
His hand drags hard down his dick, the slick sound of it filling your ears. "Yeah—play with them for me. Pinch ‘em. Roll ‘em." His eyes roll back for a second, his mouth slack. "Fuck—I wanna cum all over those tits. Paint you, watch it drip down your stomach. You’d look so good messy with my cum."
You coo, your voice dirty and soft. "Yeah, baby? You wanna ruin me like that? Wanna cover me ‘cause I’m yours?" You pinch harder, moaning low. "Mmh, I’d let you do it however you want."
His hips jerk up into his fist, his cock flushed dark, thick, and veined. The head is shiny with slick, and your eyes stay locked on it, transfixed by the weight of him in his palm.
You whisper, almost reverent. "I can’t stop watching your hands. They're so big and veiny. So strong. You're twitching in your grip—look at you, baby. All that for me."
He groans raggedly, his fist slapping wetly down the length of his shaft. "All for you. Always for you." His voice cracks, desperate. "Squeeze 'em, touch your tits harder. Let me see you play with those pretty nipples."
You squeeze your breast, pinch your nipple harder, tugging it until you gasp, your eyes locked on his fist pumping. The sound of it—wet, obscene, skin slapping skin—is the only thing in the world.
"Fuck," he grits out, his voice frayed. "I’d drag you down and smear every drop over you. I wanna fill you up."
You laugh softly, mean but sweet. "Yeah? You’d mark me up? Cover me so everybody knows this pussy’s yours? Even though you’ll never get to fuck it?"
He groans, almost breaking under the weight of the tease. "Stop—don’t say that. I’d fuck you stupid, ma. I’d split you open. Make you cry for me."
You hum, stroking your breast with slow, deliberate circles. "I bet you would. But right now? All you’ve got is your hand. And me watching."
His grip tightens, his strokes becoming rough and fast. His stomach flexes, his breath tearing ragged from his chest. You lean close to the screen, your voice low and syrup-thick.
"Cum for me, baby."
He moans, a high, guttural sound.
"Yeah," you coax, squeeze your breast, shifting them again, "make a mess for me. Let me see you shoot it all over yourself. Come on. Show me how much you want me."
"Fuck—" His hips stutter up into his fist. Precum spills slick down his shaft, his knuckles shiny and wet.
"Begging you, sweetheart," you whisper, cruel and filthy. "Paint yourself for me. Cover that stomach, those big hands—show me what I do to you."
He chokes, his eyes squeezing shut, his jaw locked tight as his body begins to coil for the release. "M’close—oh fuck, I’m gonna—"
"Do it," you purr, sharp and commanding. "Cum for me, baby. Now."
His whole body jerks. A shout rips from his throat, raw and primal, as thick, hot ropes of cum spill over his hand, his chest, dripping down his stomach in heavy white streaks. He pumps through the release, groaning brokenly, the cum splattering messy and hot across his skin.
You sigh, watching the way it looks against his skin, your voice turning sweet again. "That’s it. Good boy. Look at that dick, dripping for me. You made such a mess."
He’s panting, ruined, his hand still twitching around his softening length. "Fuck... fuck, I love you."
You tilt the camera, watching him still sprawled—sweat dripping, stomach streaked with cum, hand twitching.
"Mmh," you hum, soft and wicked, "look what you did, baby. Got me all wet."
His head snaps up, eyes heavy but blazing. "Show me."
You smirk, slipping your hand under the waistband of your shorts, dragging the damp fabric aside. Glossy, honey-thick strings pull as you spread yourself open, the phone angled just enough to flash him a glimpse of your soaking wet center. "See that? All for you."
He groans, his chest heaving. "Touch it for me. Play with yourself—please, ma."
Your laugh is low and cruel. "Not a chance. You already got your show."
His jaw tightens, his voice rough. "Don't play with me. You don't let me watch, I'll make you beg next time. I'll make you sorry."
You lean close to the screen, your smirk sharp and triumphant. "Try me. You don't scare me, baby. I said no."
His fist curls against his stomach, frustration pouring through the camera. "Then... at least—fuck—at least let me listen. Please. Let me hear it."
You bite your lip, dragging your fingers slow through your slickness, making yourself whimper. "You’re nasty."
"Yeah," he rasps, desperate. "For you. Only for you."
You sigh, soft and sweet, pressing two fingers against your clit until your hips twitch. "Fine. You can listen. But that’s it. Just your ears."
Your moans slip out, low and syrupy, filling the line. His breath shudders at the sound, ruined but hungry again. Your fingers circle your clit, the wet, squelching sounds of your own pleasure bleeding into the line. You bite your lip, letting a whimper slip, knowing he’s eating every sound alive.
"That’s it," he rasps, his voice still raw from cumming. "Rub that pretty pussy for me. God, I wanna be there so bad—wanna hold your thighs open and eat you till you’re crying."
Your head tips back, your breath shaky. "Mghn—You talk so nasty, baby."
"You don’t even know," he grits out. "I’d spread you out and pound that pussy till you scream. I’d fuck you till you smell like me. I'd never let you leave the bed."
A moan rips out of you, high and breathless. Your fingers circle faster, your hips rolling up off the bed as the tension coils.
"You like that?" he groans. "Knowing how bad I want you? Tell me you’ll give it up one day. Tell me I’ll get to fuck you for real."
Your laugh cuts sharp and shaky. "N-No, baby. You’ll never have me like that."
He curses, a guttural sound of frustration. "Fuck. You’re killing me, ma."
Your moans rise, sharper now, your body coiling tight. "Keep talking. Don't stop."
He obeys, his voice a low, gravelly anchor. "I’d hold your hips down. Spit in your mouth while I fuck you raw. Fill you up and make you go for hours."
That does it—your back arches, your thighs clenching tight as your orgasm rips through you. A sharp cry tears from your throat, your fingers working frantically over your clit as waves of pleasure slam through your body. You gasp his name, shuddering and trembling, your juices dripping messy against your hand.
He groans raggedly, listening to the sound of your break like it’s gospel. "That’s it—fuck, that’s it. Cum for me. Good girl. Good fucking girl."
You collapse back, chest heaving, sweat dampening your skin. You let out a low, satisfied hum. "Oh, shit... see what you did? You made me cum, handsome."
His breath hitches on the other end, broken and reverent. "...I’d do anything to see that."
Your breathing slows, your chest still rising and falling heavy. Your fingers slip from your soaked folds, leaving a wet sheen on your thighs. The line is quiet except for the sound of you both catching your breath.
He’s the first to break it, his voice ragged. "Man... I swear, one day—"
You cut him off with a sweet, dismissive little laugh, curling back into your pillow and pulling the covers up. "Shh. Don’t start again."
The silence stretches, thick and heavy with the things he wants to say. You can feel the ache in his voice, how close he is to spilling confessions you aren't ready to hear. So you give him something else. Something cruel, but honest.
"Thank you," you murmur, soft and sweet. Almost tender. "I love you so much, baby."
The phone goes quiet. You can picture him—eyes wide, lips parted, his heart clenching around those words. You know exactly what you’ve done to him.
You smile to yourself, curling the blanket over your bare chest. "Good night."
And you hang up before he can even find his voice to answer.
Synopsis: Stack absolutely hates when you post on social media.
Warnings: Heavy Smut, degrading, overstimulation, Stack is insatiable, pregnant sex, cursing, use of N word, overstimulation, squirting, Stack talks you through it.
Part 1
Part 2
MINORS DNI
-
You were the perfect picture of innocence. A rare beauty that stopped anyone dead in their tracks, with a smile so warm they could practically melt. A southern belle with an accent thick enough to make anyone swoon. You had always been the center of attention and yet remained humble enough to ignore it.
You also ignored all the boys that tried to tie you down, not interested in the cookie cutter, goodie two shoes that were convinced they’d be perfect for you.
Your mother begged you to settle down with a good man like Johnny, who goes to church every Sunday, or Thomas, who was the pastors son. But you didn’t care for them, they bored you out of your mind. Too soft to handle you like how you truly wanted.
You were convinced that Mississippi didn’t have the version of the man you craved and that at some point you’d have to settle for one those men your mom kept trying to put you on to.
That was until the twins moved back. You hadn’t heard of them, too busy wrapped inside your own little world to worry about what others had going on but once they came back, the word spread like wildfire. The flames were big enough to knock the walls down of your domaine and the whispers echoed loudly in your ears.
“Heard they just came back from Chicago.”
“I heard they was over there stealing and killing people.”
“I’m surprised they ain’t locked up. Somebody should do something.”
You minded your business though, tended to your horses, dogs and your bakery business.
Cookies, pies, cakes, brownies and just about anything sweet that you could name, was your specialty. You started getting called Peaches for your obsession with making peach cobbler and handing it out to your neighbors. You had learned to cook and bake from a very early age, your mother making sure you knew how to throw down in the kitchen so that you could impress your potential husband.
But you didn’t care for that, you learned because you liked it, loved it actually, and eventually you took your talents elsewhere.
To Tik Tok.
Pink kitchen and utensils caught the attention of millions of people who liked to watch you do what you do best. You hadn’t expected the surge of attention, the videos only being posted in hopes to your reach your friends and family, but the algorithm had other plans. And so that’s how you spent your days, tending to your animals and baking sweets for your millions of fans and to share with your neighbors. Eventually you became the talk of the town, everybody wanted to try a piece of your desserts and before you knew it, you had people showing up at your doorstep asking for anything, a crumb even.
One night, while you were preparing sugar cookies, you heard a knock at your door that wasn’t frantic like it usually was. It was slow and loud. Just two knocks.
You wiped your hands on your pink apron, long curly light brown hair cascading down your back as you walk towards the entrance, the shorts you wore barely covered your ass and the cropped tank top hugged your upper body tight. You weren’t expecting anyone this late, no one usually showed up at this time.
The clock ticked to 11PM just as your hand reached the handle. A man, who you hadn’t seen before, stood there in a all black suit. His face was expressionless but his eyes stayed on the way your cheeks reddened before they traveled down your body, zeroing in on the deep brown moisturized skin that glowed against the moonlight.
Something about his demeanor made your stomach turn, nerves clawing at your body, but there was something else, a heat hidden behind the fear.
“Oh. Hi! H-How may I help you?” Your voice was soft and something about it caused Stack’s jaw to tick slightly, that and the way you smelled of fresh vanilla and peaches.
“Evenin ma’am. Names’ Stack. My apologizes for disturbing you so late. I’m here on behalf of Mrs. Delphine, says her husband sick and in the hospital again, been craving sum of them lemon cookies you be making.”
His voice was deep and rough in a way that would send anybody else running. Accent slow like molasses and thick just like yours. Your thighs clenched before you could stop yourself.
“Oh um. Y-yeah. I have some. I just gotta pack them up for him. Um—” You hesitated, teeth sinking into your plush lip before mentally telling yourself ‘Fuck it’.
“Um— Do you want to come in and wait while I get everything together?”
Stack nodded, a small smirk appeared on his lips before he stepped inside your little world that you had carefully crafted for yourself.
And the rest was history.
Your viewers started to notice the change, the way you recorded videos with a smile so wide you’d think the measuring cups had told you a joke. They noticed how softer you were, the dreamy look on your face and the way you just glowed.
Assumptions about a man being in the picture were in almost every single video you posted. You didn’t bother confirming nor denying anything. Just let them keep guessing.
Until you popped out with a ring on your finger. You weren’t even bothering on being discreet, your perfectly manicured hand was all in the camera as you recorded how you baked a cheesecake. The boulder on your finger catching the light and making its presence known.
You tried to remove the ring, your audience too distracted by it to pay attention to what you were making but Stack wasn’t having that. Not one bit.
“Stop fucking playin with me. Put that shit back on.”
He groaned as he watched the video you had posted without it. Stack didn’t even have a tik tok account before you, didn’t even care about anything pertaining to social media. But once the two of you got together, he made sure to watch anything you posted.
‘User3829928’ liked your video.
He didn’t even bother making a name for himself, didn’t care to post or even watch anything else. His only purpose was to watch you. Sometimes you’d post things to get under his skin. A picture with a miniskirt that was wayyyy too short. A dress that hugged your curves too tight for a video on how to make homemade ice cream. Or starting a ‘get ready with me’ video in a silk robe that showed a little too much for him. Each time ended with you on your knees, attempting to apologize to him as he fucked your throat. You promised you wouldn’t do it again through tears that seeped through the pillow case while he fucked you silly.
But you never kept your promises.
-
You shouldn’t have done it, but you were frustrated beyond belief. Stack had left early that morning with the lie stuck on his lips that he’d return in time to make cupcakes with you. It was a cute little tradition the two of you had started since you first got together.
Every Friday, the two of you would spend the day baking or cooking something. Anything.
Last Friday, Stack wanted tomato soup and grilled cheese. So the two of you spent the day making that, even had more than enough to send over to Smoke and Annie.
This Friday though, you and the small little bean growing inside of your belly were craving cupcakes and Stack had given you his word. Said he just had a few errands to run with Smoke and that he’d be back early enough to bake the cupcakes so that they’d be ready by dinner time.
By 5PM you were still waiting for him, the pout on your face deepened as you texted him for the 8th time in the past 10 minutes.
By 5:30 you have had enough. You changed into a red halter top, mini dress that Stack had specifically bought just for you to wear for him, fluffed out your curls and touched up your makeup. You grabbed your phone, set it up on the tripod in the kitchen and started the live.
Comments flooded in seconds, compliments being thrown left and right. Some from the ladies but most from men.
“Hi guys!” You waved to the camera, the stack of bracelets dancing loudly on your wrist. “It’s a bit late but I was planning on making cupcakes so I figured you guys would like to join me.” Your smile was sweet, as it always was. No one suspected your ulterior motives.
No more than 5 minutes of you starting, your iPad started ringing. Your phone, which was placed on DND, recorded as you watched your iPad ring before shutting it off.
It only took Stack 20 minutes to drive home. You were distracted, too deep into explaining your recipe to notice him walk into the kitchen. His heavily tatted arms were crossed across his chest, his body stiff behind your phone. White T shirt clung to his muscles, black jeans handing low on his hips, some Jordan’s and chains sitting heavy on his pretty neck.
“Okay so make sure that you’re adding enough vanilla extract or it’s going to taste like—” You jumped once you noticed him, heart racing loudly in your chest. The viewers noticed, half concerned, half excited to maybe get a glimpse of your man.
“Is that him?”
“Omg don’t tell me we’re about to meet Mr.Peaches himself.”
“Guys have you noticed that she looks a bit pregnant here?”
Stack eyed you. Fully. From the top of your head, down to the French tip pedicure on your toes. He clenched his jaw as he looked at the dress you wore.
“End the live fa me, baby.” You bit the side of your bottom lip, eyes wide and staring up at him. Somewhat embarrassed that this was happening on live, somewhat turned on from the intensity of his stare.
“I—I’m not done, papa.”
“I know you ain’t done but we gotta talk, so end the live.”
“Ooop not my good sis done fucked up”
“Shiiiitttt girl he sound like he not playing, ga head and end the live.”
“Why do I feel like I’m the one getting in trouble?”
You nodded. “Okay guys, I’ll see yall in a bit.” The screen went dark as soon as the live ended. You locked your phone and placed it on the counter. You could feel the weight of his eyes on you but pretended not to.
“You like playing with me?” Stack slowly walked up to you.
“Stack—”
“Nah, answer me. You like pissing me off?” He stood right in front of you, arms on either side, holding on to the counter behind you. He leaned down and it took everything in you not to throw yourself into his warmth. He smelled of cologne and weed, scent strong enough to make you dizzy with desire.
“No…” your lips formed a pout, eyes wide in the way you knew could get you anything you wanted. His lips twitched, trying hard not to smirk at how cute you looked. “Get ya ass upstairs. Now.”
“But-”
“Now, baby.”
You nodded, and headed up the stairs with him trailing behind you. He didn’t like being mean to you, you were too sweet for that, but he was never afraid to put you in your place.
You sat at the edge of the bed and waited for him to walk in, your nerves were through the roof but you also lived for the thrill and he knew that. Stack’s steps were heavy, you expected him to walk right to you, to grab you up and choke you like how he always does but instead he walks to the vanity that sat across from the bed. You watched the muscles on his back move, his big frame blocking what he was doing.
After a few seconds of messing around, he turned and walked to you. His hand gently gripped your jaw, thumb smoothing circles onto your skin. “You wanted my attention, mama? Huh? That’s why you did that?”
You nod, face formed into a pout. This wasn’t usual for him, the gentleness after you piss him off.
“Nah speak up. Tell me what the problem is.” Your breath stutters and eyebrows furrow in confusion. His voice was soft, the complete opposite of what you were expecting. “Speak, mama. I’m here now. Tell me what’s up.”
Your mouth opens, getting ready to spill your truth, to admit that your hormones and emotions were completely out of wack and all you wanted was your man.
Stack lowers down to his knees, his hands pull your dress up in one quick motion. A small gasp escapes your mouth when he presses a kiss to your knee, trailing his lips further up your thigh. “I don’t hear you.” He looks up at you, waiting for you to say something, anything.
“I—It’s just that I-” Stack spreads your legs further, prompting you to lean back on to your elbows. He digs his nose onto the damp spot of your panties, groaning at your scent. Your breathing picks up, hands already gripping onto the sheets and body slightly trembling.
“Mm, so fucking sensitive.” He places a kiss to your covered mound before gripping the sides of your underwear and pulling them down your legs. “I don’t hear you talking.”
You whimpered at the heat of his face so close to where you needed him the most. “Elias” You softly begged.
“Nah, none of that. I ain’t moving till you speak.”
You groan, laying your body down fully as your eyes stare up at the ceiling. “I just… I really wanted cupcakes and you promised me you’d make them with me—” Stack dug his face in your drenched pussy, tongue flattening on your clit before pulling back. A moan stops you mid sentence, eyes drifting down to him as you watch him spit. His fingers mix it with your essence before slowly pushing into your tight hole.
“Eliiiasssss” Your back arches, small belly bump covering the way he leans in and wraps his lips around your aching clit.
“I ain’t tell you to stop, did I?” His fingers curl inside of you, moving faster as his tongue continuously laps up your juices. “Talk to me. I’m listening.”
“F-Fuck!” Your moans mixed into whimpers, already feeling the coil forming in your stomach. “Don’t stop.” You gasped, eyes rolled to back of your head while Stack feasted on you.
He smacked the inside of your thigh with his free hand. “Keep talking or ima stop.” You felt him slow down, face slowly pulling back just as you were about to cum.
“Fuuuuckk, okay okayyy. I just, I needed you here—” Stack hummed in satisfaction, fingers continuing to slowly pump in and out of you while he watched you try not to fall apart. “A—And you were gone for a long time—” You couldn’t stop whimpering, pregnancy making you extra sensitive to his touch.
“Mhm and what else, mama?”
You squirmed, full body trembling from the feel of his fingers reaching deep inside of you as he slightly picked up his pace. “Eliasss fuucckkkk.”
“Keep going, you doing good, baby.” He placed kisses to your clit, holding you right at the edge of that breaking point.
“Fuccckkkk, I just needed you here. I needed your attention— I just wanted you, daddy.” You sounded so sultry, voice high and full of moans.
“Yeah? That’s all it was?” Stack puckered his lips around your clit again and let his tongue play with it. You cried out, hands reaching out to grab his head while your hips frantically moved up and down his face.
“Yes! Yes! That was all, daddy. I swear!” It didn’t take much for the restraint to snap, your juices decorated Stacks face and your body twisted and turned as if trying to find a place to store the pleasure you were feeling.
“You so fucking wet, my god.” Stack moaned as he sucked and licked every drop from you. He stood to his full height, hands immediately reaching for his shirt and removing it. Next was his pants, thrown to the side along with his boxers. You moaned at the sight of him, tattoos tracing his front and back, including your name right along the side of his neck.
Stack grabbed your body and turned you to the side, then laid right behind you. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you to his chest while the other one gripped your leg, lifting it high enough for your knee to reach his shoulder. “This what you wanted, right?” You felt the head of his dick nudge your folds, drenching it in your essence. The sound was obscene. There was no denying how badly you needed him.
“Yessssss.” You arched back onto him.
“Ga head, take it. Take what you want.”
Your trembling hand reached down and grabbed his dick, slowly pushing it inside of you. Stack groaned, burying his face in your neck as he slowly moved his hips.
Moans escaped your open mouth as you felt the stretch from the pure girth he carried. “Oh my god.” You cried out as he bottomed out, his full length deep inside of you while you clawed at his arm and the sheets. “Fuck!”
“Mhmm, take it, take that shit baby.” He sped up his pace. Thrusting in and out of you while you cried out every time he kissed your cervix.
“S—so big, papa!” You whined, already feeling the way your stomach was tightening again.
“I know baby, I know. But you can take it right? Look how good you’re doing. Taking all this big dick.” He grabbed your face and turned it to his. Your lips met in a slow dance that contrasted with the way he was fucking you. You couldn’t stop moaning into his mouth, your face forming a small pout.
“Don’t look at me like that. You wanted this right? Take it. Just like that.” His voice was like silk against your ears. Your hand weakly grabbed onto his arm as you squirted with every thrust.
“Eliaaaassssss!”
“Mhmmm, give it to me. Give me all that shit. Nut all on your dick, baby.”
Your body shook and bent against him but he wouldn’t dare stop. You were nothing but gasps and whimpers, trying your best to come down from the intense high you just experienced.
Stack pressed your lips together again, tongue sneaking its way into your mouth. “Open.” He spit into your mouth the second you followed his order. Hips still digging into you.
He slowed down and shifted so that he’d be able to deepen his strokes. You sobbed into his neck, your French tips pressing crescent moons on his thigh. His other hand rubbed your small but plump belly. “Cum for me again. Do it. Let me see you break.”
Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as your juices sprayed out of you, another orgasm ripping through your body without permission.
“Drown me just like that. Keep going, don’t fucking stop.” His lips were right by your ear, you heard every small groan, every breath and whisper that he tried to hide.
“Okaaayyyy.” You whined, feeling completely out of your own body.
You couldn’t stop squirting, all you could was sob and try your hardest to gain some type of control of the situation but your body was overstimulated and done for. Stack didn’t care though, he kept going. Dick sliding in and out of you with a wet splat each time he went all the way in.
“Good girl, mama. You gon let me ruin you like this, huh?” His strokes slowed down, you felt each inch of his thick cock trying to tear you apart.
“I— I can’t.” Your tears fell in waterfalls, short breaths turned into gasps as he continued to abuse your already swollen folds.
“Yes you can. Come on, give me one more. You can do that for me, right?”
“I caaaannnt. Elias, I can’t, fuck. I can’t.” Your toes curled and your body hadn’t stopped trembling since he started. You cried out over and over again as you reached a state of what felt like hysteria. He felt so good but you could barely breathe and were practically drooling. Your eyes kept rolling to the back of your head and your juices drenched the mattress beneath you.
Stack reached his hand down and pressed a two fingers to your clit. Your jaw dropped, hand reaching back to lightly slap his chest over and over again, as he rubbed your nub in circles. Screams echoed throughout the room as your body practically convulsed.
“There she go. That’s exactly where I want you. Just like that, baby. Stay just like that while I ruin you.” Your walls fluttered around his length, another orgasm threatening to destroy you. “Breathe. Let me hear you.”
You took a deep breath, eyes squeezing shut while you sobbed. “I love your dick, daddy. I love it so much!” You cried out loud.
“Yea? This why yo ass pregnant now. Nasty ass girl.”
“Keep fucking me, please! You feel so good inside my pussy. Don’t stop. Don’t stop!”
He moaned against your ear, hips stuttering from trying to hold himself back. “Look at you. Dumb off of dick. They don’t even know how you get. Tryna act all innocent for them people—If only they fucking knew.” He sped up, hand lifting your leg higher to reach parts of you, you didn’t even know could be touched. “You love me, hm? Tell me you love me. Tell me I’m the only nigga that could ruin you like this.”
“I love you! I love you! I’m gonna cum. Fuck, I’m gonna fucking cum, Elias. Oh my god!” The hand on your clit sped up to match his thrusts.
“Say it. Tell me this mine. Tell me I own you.” His strokes were brutal, all that was heard was the slapping of his skin against yours and the mess you were currently making. “This my pussy, my body, my nut. All of it. Mine. You hear me? I own you, baby. All of you.”
“Yes! It’s yours. All yours! Fuck!” Your body snapped, shaking profusely as your cum flowed out of you. Stack whimpered, his thighs trembling as he filled you with his seed.
“Oh fucckkkk” he moaned against your shoulder, pressing kisses to your damp skin, trying his best to calm down. He slowed his movements, letting the both of you ride out the orgasm.
You twitched against him, slumped over in a state of absolute bliss. Stack kissed you all over, hands rubbing your sides to calm you down.
Your eyes opened slowly, looking around as if you couldn’t believe that just happened. It felt like you had an out of body experience.
The vanity that sat right in front you, had your phone propped up and facing the both of you. Your eyes widen as you gasp.
Stack followed your eyesight, he chuckled slightly before getting up. Grabbing your phone, he pointed it right at your exhausted figure.
“Thought I’d keep this for memory as a reminder of what happens when you try to play with me.” You bit your lip, stomach turning in a way that it shouldn’t have been after all that. But the thought of having a video of the two of you having sex, saved into your phone where you could watch whenever, caused a fire to burn deep within you.
“Come on, baby. Show the camera the mess we made.” A smirk played on your lips as you turn over. Back arched and chest pressed onto the bed, you reach back and open your folds with two fingers. Stack groans, moving the camera closer to catch the way his nut slides out of you.
“Perfect.” He moaned before turning it off and lightly spanked your ass.
“Let’s get you cleaned up before you get me started again.” You giggle as he picks you up bridal style and heads to the bathroom.
Since I’ll be in the hospital for a while, I figured I’d post some my drafts for entertainment :)!
Summary: You and a troublesome man you like more than you let on…in the end it’s easy.
Contains: smut, a dash of degradation, established enough relationship, fat d!ck Stack because LOOK at him, country accents, rough s€x, manhandling, multiple ørgasms, overstimulation, he puts it zowwwwnnnn, gives you some of that “move yo hand”, mating press dirty talk, petnames, fucking filthy kissing, cuddles, and as per usual- this is for the ✋🏽 strictly for the ✊🏽
Stack purrs out against the bare leg that’s currently hiked over his broad shoulder, voice dripping with condescension that’s a lot sweeter than the way he’s fucking into you.
The question is mean but it has its intended effect.
Goosebumps break over the surface of your flushed skin, choking on a whiny moan, cunt pulsating so tightly around him that he can feel you in his bones. A flurry of hiccuping sobs pour from your mouth cause you’re close. Again. Ordinarily, you’d try to defend your good name since you really were in fact not easy…or at least not until you’d met Stack. You’d heard of him before but never had the pleasure of making his acquaintance until he came strolling through your moms shop one day and found you instead.
At first you were stunned just making eye contact with him. Lidded brown eyes, dimples, plump lips- the gold on his teeth glinting at you and damn he was tall. Strutting up to introduce himself to you, accent thick with charm. However, you’d already heard of him and his way of giving women the roundabout and you’d decided right then and there that you’d be damned 11 ways to Sunday before you ever caught yourself on your back or knees for him.
Unfortunately, he was as relentless as he was gorgeous. Steadily pursuing you with the devil in his eyes and a grin on those full lips. Always hanging around- then, he’d disappear. As indifferent as you tried to be, dancing around his advances with light giggles and playful hands, when he’d vanish, you’d find yourself missing his face- or rather- his way of being, more like. See, Stack had this carefree almost cavalier demeanor but he was firm too. To you, that was his most attractive quality.
And he’d picked up on it. That you liked when he was a little firm with you.
From there all it took was a kiss.
Just barely brushing your lips when he leaned down, whispering teasingly against your lips, finger underneath your chin and you couldn’t keep the want from dripping out your eyes if you tried.
“Stop playing with me.”
To your surprise but not his- you listened.
Funny how you were so determined not to fall into his gravity and now look at you; sweat out hairstyle, sheer stockings ripped to hell along with your bra and underwear, being manhandled every which way, stretched out and creaming around the fattest cock you’ve ever had in your life as you moan in bliss- loving it.
Stack’s thrusts are deliciously brutal, hips snapping into yours while your legs hang over his shoulders like some harlot and sounding just like one, mouth dropped open while you cry and whine real pretty for him. Hissing through his teeth at the sight you make, Stack wedges his hands underneath the arch at the base of your back and grips tight- using your body as leverage to fuck into you even deeper. If the heat of the room wasn’t making you delirious then the way the fat head of his was smushing rough kisses into that soft patch of nerves would definitely do the trick. If this is what playing hard to get gets you then you’re seriously considering becoming a professional.
It gets to the point where your pussy is almost as loud as you are, prompting Stack to look down. A loud whistle barely makes it through the fog in your head and you try to bring your vision to focus. Your heart is going at least 100 miles per minute and you squeak as your legs are pushed so far back that your knees are touching your ears, Stack moving directly on top of you. Where the sudden flexibility came from you had no clue- but your awe is almost immediately overtaken by how full the new position has you feeling.
“O-oooh!”
Stack bites his lip as he watches your pretty face melt in pleasure, your normally sleepy eyes pop wide open, brows drawn together like you’re about to cry, lips forming that sexy ‘o’ as he slows down his strokes- letting you feel every inch of him. You were so gorgeous. Naked curves and soft skin crashing and rolling back into him then wrapping around even though you initially wanted damn near nothing to do with him. The thought makes him smirk in satisfaction until he’s brought out of his thoughts by the feel of your trembling hand just above where your bodies are connected. He pulls out halfway nice n slow, looking down to see what the fuss is and his heart almost pounds out of his chest.
Slathered all over his dick, is milky white. It streams out generously from your hole around where he’s stuffed in and Stack feels himself start to lose his mind a little bit as he moans out,
“Yeahhh mamas, she’s real easy f’me…”
He doesn’t take his eyes off your cunt as he slams back in with a wet ‘plap’- throwing his head back with a deep groan. The sound is so primal it sends nasty shivers up your spine but you don’t move your hand and he’s folding you even deeper, lowering his upper body almost completely against yours, pelvis grinding against your clit and you gasp wetly. Stack is wild, sucking bruising kisses into your neck, tongue trailing hotly up to your mouth to claim it in a deep kiss. It’s consuming. His big tongue flattening against yours in maddening swipes, sucking the muscle sloppily into his own mouth making you lightheaded- blood rushing through your ears as he starts his hips up again, grinding away at that spot inside you but not quite as deep and he pulls away.
He watches you gasp desperately, moving not even an inch away from your face as he nips at your bottom lip, soothing the sting with his tongue before whispering inside your mouth- eyes glazed,
“Move that hand, baby.”
Your name might as well be Sunday morning cause that’s exactly how easy you are, body obeying him before you even tell it to. As soon as you do, he doesn’t waste a second, big hands hook underneath your knees- railing you stupid. He’s not even trying to think straight, caught up in in not just the heat but how tight- how creamy- you are. Letting out a string of swears, he captures your mouth in another overwhelming kiss, cock aching while he swallows your wails as you twitch and shake around him.
You can’t take anymore. Stack gives another harsh, slick roll of his pelvis into your swollen nub while battering that tender spot inside you and you’re coming. And Jesus Christ on a bike- you’re coming hard. Clawing at Stack’s beefy muscles, a swarm of stars completely eclipse your vision while you’re shocked with wave after wave of vicious pleasure. You’re so loud you struggle recognize your own voice but Stack’s is clear as the ecstasy pumping through your body. Filthy words of praise and encouragement directly in your ear, prolonging your orgasm.
“Thaaat’s it, dollface.. aalll over me…”
Tears spill from your eyes and you’re close to tapping out when Stack buries his head into your chest, taking one of your puffy nipples into his mouth, thrusts slowing as he shoots deep inside your heat with a muffled groan, stuffing your hole to the brim until he pops off your tit with a satisfied sigh.
You’re tired, your back is killing you, and your shaking like a baby deer but a grin makes its way onto your lips regardless as Stack kisses all over you, pulling out slowly, warm eyes checking over your form for any sign of discomfort while you bask in the coziness after, closing your eyes to enjoy a much needed break until he interrupts it. Kissing your cheek in that tender way he does when he’s fixing to look after you.
“You okay? Ain’t hurtin’ none?”
You shake you head, eyes closed even as he pats you dry gently with his shirt, tossing on the floor when he’s done. Less sweaty, it’s easier for you to nap but something was missing. Reaching up, your hand swipes though the air as you blindly reach for him, eventually catching his chain as you yank him down next to you with a soft pleased little hum. Yes, you’d sleep just fine now.
And when you wake up?
You’re face to face with a big rock on your finger.
Being Smoke’s sugar baby doesn't feel like a hustle, it feels like breathing easy for the first time in your life.
Smoke ain’t the type to brag on what he does. He doesn’t move out loud, doesn’t make big scenes about “taking care of his girl.” He just handles it. Quiet. Precise. Like clockwork. You don’t even notice half the things he fixes until you stop one day and realizedamn, I don’t worry about nothing any more.
Your phone bill? Paid automatically. Your fridge? Stocked with exactly what you like, the brand of snacks you mentioned one time, the wine you said you liked after a long day. Your hair stylist? Already got the deposit sitting in her account, courtesy of Smoke. The only thing you gotta do is show up pretty.
And the money it ain’t small. Smoke doesn’t slide you a couple twenties for gas. He moves in stacks. Thick envelopes left on the nightstand, rubber bands holding ‘em tight. Cash folded into your jacket pocket when you’re not looking, so you find it later when you’re out and need it. He’ll drop a designer bag on the couch like it’s nothing, the kind you’d never buy for yourself, and shrug when you ask why. “Felt like you should have it.” That’s Smoke.
But more than money, he gives you peace. That heavy kind of protection money can’t buy. You walk in a room with him and nobody even thinks about stepping wrong. They see who you with and suddenly the world treats you differently like you’re untouchable, like you float above the petty problems everybody else got. Even when Smoke’s not in the room, his name is. Folks keep their mouths shut and their eyes down when it comes to you.
At home, though, it’s different. Smoke drops the armor for you. He’s not a man of a million words, but his actions are loud. You’ll be curled up on the couch and he’ll pull you into his lap, one hand on your thigh, the other scrolling through his phone while he handles business. He doesn’t need to say “you’re mine.” The weight of his hand says it for him.
He notices everything, too. The way you twist your ankle in those heels? Don’t even try to hide it. A week later there’s a new pair of sneakers at your door, limited release, your size. You say you’re tired from work, and suddenly he’s telling you to quit. “I got you,” he’ll mutter, like it’s not even up for debate.
Being Smoke’s sugar baby means you never feel neglected. He’s quiet, but his attention is constant. A quick text in the middle of the day: You good? A call when you’re out late: Where you at? Not controlling, just making sure his girl’s straight. It’s care, disguised in that rough voice and blunt way of speaking.
But don’t play yourself thinking his softness means he’s soft. Smoke can check you in an instant. All it takes is one look, that sharp cut of his eyes, and you remember who you’re dealing with. He lets you pout, lets you be bratty sometimes he even smirks at it but step too far out of line and he’ll shut it down quick. That balance spoiled rotten but kept in check makes the whole thing addictive.
Life with Smoke means waking up knowing you don’t have to fight for survival anymore. You don’t have to chase, don’t have to beg, don’t have to scrape together coins. You just get to live dressed nice, smelling sweet, nails fresh, bills paid, head clear.
All because Smoke decided you were his.
𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐞
Being Stack’s sugar baby is… loud.
He’s not the type to quietly slide you money like Smoke. Nah, Stack gon’ make a whole production out of it. He’ll shove a roll of hundreds in your hand like, “Count it out loud so I know you ain’t tryna short me.” He’ll clown you for taking too long, then laugh when you side-eye him. He likes seeing you flustered. That’s his version of spoiling keeping you laughing, annoyed, and dripping in cash at the same time.
Stack’s sugar baby don’t get treated small. He puts you front and center, shows you off. If you’re with him, everybody gon’ know who you belong to. He’ll throw his arm around your shoulder, big grin on his face, telling folks, “Yup, she mine. Don’t look too hard unless you want problems.” He’s playful with it, but the threat underneath? Real. Ain’t nobody dumb enough to test him.
He buys wild gifts just to see your reaction. He’ll bring you three pairs of the same sneakers in different colors and laugh when you ask why. “Cause you indecisive, baby. Now you ain’t gotta think.” Or he’ll drop a shopping bag in your lap, wait for you to open it, and then talk over your excitement like, “Don’t start cryin’ now. I don’t do tears, just run me a lil’ kiss or somethin’.”
He’s goofy, but he watches you sharp. You try to act slick, he’s on it. He’ll let you think you’re getting away with something just to call you out later, smirking, “You really thought I ain’t see that? Cute.” That playful edge flips dangerous quick. He can go from joking to dead serious in a blink, voice dropping, smile gone, reminding you why nobody plays with Stack Moore.
But when he spoils you, he makes it fun. He’ll drag you through a mall, carrying all the bags, cracking jokes about how expensive your taste is. “You lucky you fine, girl. Got me out here lookin’ like a damn bellhop.” Then he’ll wink and throw another card swipe just because he can.
Being his sugar baby means you don’t just get taken care of you get entertained. Every day is wild with him. One minute he’s teasing you, the next he’s pressing cash into your hand, the next he’s telling somebody off for looking at you too long. Stack keeps life loud, messy, sweet, and secure.
And the protection? Same as Smoke, but his way. He’s not quiet about it. If somebody even breathes wrong near you, he’s calling them out, laughing in their face while making it real clear they just risked their life. That goofy, playful energy don’t soften how dangerous he is it makes it scarier, because you never know how quick he’ll switch.
With Stack, being his sugar baby means being spoiled rotten, but never bored. He keeps you laughing, keeps you guessing, and keeps you covered in every way.
Warnings: +18 | Modern AU | Stack x Reader | Dom!Stack | Bratty Sub!Reader | Cheating | Degradation kink | Light BDSM | Vibrator | Spanking/Punishment (if you squint) | Creampie | Overstimulation | Voyeurism (kind of) | Toxic Relationship | Stack is a complete asshole with a big ole schlong 🤷🏾♀️
It had only been two months. An entire eight weeks. Sixty goddamn days since Stack tore through your world and left you in pieces so jagged not even time could sand down the edges. You weren’t counting, not out loud anyway, but your body knew. It kept track of time in the most humiliating ways: in the ache between your thighs that never really went away, in the way your skin felt too tight for your bones at night, and in how nothing you touched yourself with ever came close to what he used to do with a single look and a few cruel words.
The apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the soft, wet whir of the rose toy buzzing uselessly against your clit. Your sheets were twisted beneath you and drenched in the kind of frustration that didn’t ease with heat or friction. You had been at it for almost half an hour now, rolling onto your back, then your side, then your stomach, switching up the pressure, the angles and even the pace hoping something would click… but it didn’t. Your body refused to cooperate, even as your toes curled and your thighs trembled while your fingers pressed harder against the rose’s buttons like maybe it was your fault the thing wasn’t working right… Like maybe you weren’t trying hard enough to replace him.
But the truth was, you had tried and failed. You tried so damn hard to pretend like other men could take his place. One of them was a trainer with big arms and perfect teeth. He was the kind of man who liked to call you “ma” and rub on your leg during brunch. Another was a quiet, artistic type who smoked clove cigarettes and read you poetry right before bed. The last one you entertained was rough with his hands but soft with his mouth, always asking if you were okay and checking in. You thought he would be a safe choice, but just like the others he didn’t fix the itch you needed to scratch.
Your free hand reached for your phone without thinking, the motion muscle memory by now. You rolled over onto your side and dragged the screen to life as the artificial glow casted shadows against your face. Your thumb moved in idle circles, tapping through names, numbers, grainy selfies, and old flings you couldn’t even remember fucking. You paused on a few and thought about what it might feel like to call one of them, just to get a little taste, but every memory came back warped and lacking. Their touches had all faded from your skin like chalk in the rain, unlike the ones from the asshole that branded himself on your heart.
A flashback ran through your mind and that’s when your fingers stopped scrolling.
Stack.
His name stared up at you, still saved under that stupid contact name you gave him: ‘Mr. Big Dick Headache.’ You swiped up without meaning to, pulled open the message thread and stared at the last thing he ever sent you—‘Lose my fucking number.’ It still made your stomach twist in knots, because deep down you knew he didn’t mean it. You were well aware that this was how Stack operated. He got off on cutting deep before you could slice him first. But this time around you were tired of pretending like you were the only one bleeding out.
Your thumb hovered over the call button, heart drumming a steady rhythm that went nowhere. You didn’t bother pressing it and instead let out an annoyed sigh when you remembered Stack blocked you two months ago, right after that last argument when you finally told him the truth. Told him you did fuck someone else but it was a one time situation to prove a point. The only reason you did it was because you wanted him to feel, even for a second, the kind of sick betrayal you felt every time he came home late smelling like another woman’s perfume. You didn’t cry when he cussed you out and called you everything but a child of God. Instead you just stood there, naked under his T-shirt, arms crossed, and waiting for him to finish expressing his anger so you guys could have makeup sex like you always did.
But this time, it didn’t happen. When he was done, he stormed out of your apartment and slammed the door shut. And you hated how that still bothered you.
You hated how Stack got to be angry. How he got to act like you were the problem. Like you had broken the sacred code when he never even gave you a title. No “girlfriend,” no “baby,” not even a damn 24 hour instagram story. But oh, his raggedy ass knew how to claim you when it was convenient. Knew how to hold your face still when he slid inside you and said, “This mine. You hear me? Mine.” Knew how to threaten every man that so much as looked your way and leave marks deep enough to last until the next weekend he decided to come back around.
Even though your relationship with Stack was extremely toxic, you weren’t stupid. You knew what it was. You were the one woman who could take what he dished out. The only one who gave him the fight he craved and the submission he needed. And he was the only man who could tear you down, fuck you back together, and make you feel safe while calling you every disrespectful name in the book.
Still holding your phone, you let the rose toy fall limp between your thighs. You weren’t going to cum from silicone and batteries. Not tonight and probably not tomorrow either. Not until you got what you really needed.
Another sigh slipped past your lips. It was drawn out and bitten at the end like it tasted bitter coming out. You glanced at the time and groaned at it being 12:46 AM. If you left now, traffic would be nonexistent and you could be at his door in less than twenty-five minutes. Your heart was still dragging its feet like a disobedient child being told to go inside after playing too long in the rain. Logic was banging its fists against the locked door of your mind, shouting things about pride, dignity, knowing your worth, blah blah blah. But your body was already making decisions your brain didn’t agree to.
You padded barefoot across the cold floor, stepping over the discarded tank top you tried to wear for comfort. Your legs felt heavy, weighed down by equal parts sexual frustration and adrenaline. You flipped the bathroom light on and caught sight of yourself in the mirror. Your face wore a needy expression that made you whine internally and your chest rose and fell in shallow swells that made your nipples pebble from the draft. You looked used but not in the way you wanted. Not in the way he used to leave you.
You opened the cabinet, brushing past your night cream and sleeping mask as you reached for the little container of body shimmer you hadn’t touched since your last night with him. Stack always liked when your skin glittered, he said it looked like sin pretending to be sugar. You twisted the cap off, dipped two fingers in, and rubbed a little along your collarbones and down the center of your chest. Then more between your thighs.
You took your time dressing up. Half of you did it because you wanted to remind him of what he lost and the other half of you did it because you wanted him to notice you again. To see what he had been missing and hate himself for letting it go so easily. You drenched yourself in his favorite lotion, the one he used to lick off your shoulders with that grin that made you forget every lie he ever told. And when it was time to pick what to wear, you went for the nuclear option. Red lace.
This particular lace bra left nothing to the imagination and put your hardened nipples on display. It came with a matching thong and a garter belt, that hugged your waist and did absolutely nothing to hide the curve of your ass. You pulled it on and smoothed the material over your hips before stepping into a pair of cherry red stilettos you hated but knew he loved. They were tall and dangerous, the kind of shoes that made you walk with your back arched and your thighs pressed tight together just to keep balance. Every step in them reminded you of how sore he used to leave you. How shaky your knees would get when he forced you to hold yourself open while he watched, arms folded and voice like poison wrapped in domination as he told you how you better not finish without his say-so.
You threw on a black trench coat over everything, buttoned only once at the waist, just enough to protect your false sense of control. The hem flared like a threat every time you moved, brushing the tops of your thighs. You grabbed your keys and didn’t think twice about your reckless decision. You didn’t bother calling a friend to talk through your emotions, you just walked out the door like a woman with no shame left to lose.
The drive to Stack’s home was quiet. Streetlights blurred past in long golden lines, smearing your reflection in the windshield. Your phone sat facedown in the passenger seat, untouched. Right now you didn’t need music or any outside distractions. You just needed to see him. Feel him. Erase the last two months in one filthy, hate-laced night.
You parked across the street like you used to, tires crunching over the gravel. His porch light was off, just like always. Stack was a man of routine. Lights off, cameras on and doors locked. You crept up the path in your heels, trench coat catching in the wind as you breathed hard enough to fog the air while your nerves screamed beneath your skin. Your fingers reached for the potted plant beside the steps, the one that always hid the spare key he swore he would never take back. Except… It wasn’t there anymore.
A frown creased on your forehead as your fingers scraped dirt, then mulch, and finally the hollow space where the key used to be. He actually got rid of it. That trifling son of a—
“The fuck you doin’ out here dressed like that?”
The sound of his voice made you freeze and caused every nerve in your body to flicker. You turned slowly, heartbeat hammering. There he was, the bane of your existence looking annoyingly handsome and sweating through a gray tank top so damp it clung to every carved inch of his torso like a second skin. A black gym bag was slung over one shoulder, the strap dragging across the round curve of his delts. His shorts were loose but not loose enough, there was a very distinct eight inch bulge pressing forward, barely restrained, and you knew he was already more than halfway hard.
He wasn’t even trying to hide it as his eyes roamed and his tongue pressed against his cheek like he was already chewing on the storm you dragged with you. “I said…” He walked up the steps, each footfall heavy. “What in the entire fuck is this?”
You straightened your back, fists curled in the pockets of your coat. “I came to talk.”
“To talk?” he repeated, voice dropping to an octave that wasn’t soft or friendly, just low like fire burning underneath your skin. “You tryin’ my patience, woman. Look at you. Out here in the middle of the night dressed like a five dolla’ whore. You really this desperate?”
You squinted your eyes and clenched your fist tighter inside of your pockets. “You got rid of my key.”
“Damn right I did.”
“So that’s it, huh? All that time we spent together and you treat me like I was just… disposable?”
He narrowed his eyes. “You fucked on another nigga, then you wanna stand on my porch talkin’ ‘bout what I did?”
“You cheated on me first, Elias! You didn’t even claim me and I still let that shit slide! The one time I gave you a taste of your own medicine, you ghosted me like I was a side chick and took away my key like I ain’t never meant shit to you!”
His stare didn’t falter. It was as if what you were saying to him went in one ear and out the other. He didn’t bother engaging in an argument with you or meeting your tantrum with one of his own. Instead he looked at you and the wheels in his head began to turn. A breath slid through his teeth, low and crooked, like he couldn’t believe he was wasting time hearing you speak when your coat was flaring just wide enough to expose a hint of candy red lace underneath.
His eyes sharpened like broken glass and then the smirk came. One side of his mouth pulled back lazily like a lion watching a rabbit try to make demands. “So that’s why you here.” He dragged his eyes back up, voice curling around every syllable. “Lil’ nasty.”
You didn’t even blink when he stepped right up in your space, towering over you, his body hot and damp and stinking of exertion. He still smelled like whatever cologne he wore to the gym. It was expensive, dark, and spicy, but beneath that was him. Pure Stack. Sweat, testosterone, disrespect, and everything your body was already begging to wrap itself around.
He adjusted the strap of the gym bag and pushed past you like you were nothing more than an object in the way. You caught the heat of his bicep as it brushed your shoulder. He stopped at his front door and pulled out his key before turning the knob and opening it. To your surprise he didn’t step inside first. Instead he held the door open with one hand and looked over his shoulder at you. His eyes were darker now… full of mischief and hunger.
His voice dropped lower, forcing his Mississippi accent to hang heavy in the air. “Go ‘head, baby. Crawl.”
You blinked, heart punching your ribs. “What?”
Stack leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, cocked his head, and licked his bottom lip like he was savoring the sight of your confusion. “Since you wanna act like a bitch in heat, tryna hump whoever’ll take you…” He nodded toward the entrance. “Get on ya hands ‘n knees. Crawl inside. Show Daddy you know what you came here for.”
For a split second you didn’t move as your thighs squeezed together and the wetness you thought dried during the drive came back in full force. You swallowed down whatever pride you had left and let it rot where it stood.
The porch light stayed off. The street stayed quiet. The night wrapped around the two of you like it was complicit. For a long moment you just stood there, trench coat fluttering slightly around your legs, heels biting into the concrete, your mind screaming while your body leaned forward a fraction of an inch without permission.
Stack didn’t rush you as he stayed rooted in his spot like this wasn’t the most unholy sight he had seen all week. His eyes stayed locked on you, patient in the most infuriating way, like he already knew exactly how this was going to end and was enjoying watching you fight it.
“Clock tickin’, baby,” he drawled quietly, accent thick and lazy around the edges without softness. “Ain’t got all night. Legs already tired from the gym. Don’t make me wait.”
A lump bobbed in your throat and you hated that your knees trembled. Hated that your stomach flipped in that familiar way that always happened right before he stripped you of control. You peeled your hands out of your coat pockets slowly, fingers curling once at your sides as if bracing for impact. Then you bent.
The concrete was cold when your palms touched it. Rough and unforgiving material scraped faintly against your skin as you lowered yourself all the way down. Your trench coat fell open immediately, exposing lace and bare thigh to the night air. The stilettos made the position awkward and forced your back to arch instinctively just to keep balance while your ass lifted without you meaning to present it.
A sound left Stack’s throat, like a king satisfied with his subject. “Look at you,” he muttered, voice thick with that Delta drag that always made your insides melt and twist at the same time. “Ain’t shit changed. Still real pretty when you remember where you belong.”
Heat flooded your face and humiliation burned sharp and bright, chased immediately by lust so strong it made your fingers curl against the concrete. You crawled forward like he told you to, each movement obedient but shaky, heels wobbling, thighs brushing together, lace stretching tight across your body with every shift.
You crossed the threshold on your hands and knees, palms pressing into cool hardwood now instead of cement. The smell inside his house hit you instantly. Clean laundry, leather, his soap, and the faint metallic tang of bullets and blood that followed him everywhere. It wrapped around you like a memory you couldn’t escape.
Stack shut the door behind you and locked it. You barely had time to process it before his foot nudged your thigh, firm but not violent, just enough pressure to remind you who was setting the pace tonight. The toe of his sneaker tapped just beneath the curve of your plump ass like he was testing how obedient you were really going to be and if you were going to follow through with the filth you came here begging for. Like he wanted to see if the woman who stepped on his heart two months ago with venom in her eyes was really about to crawl back into it with no shame left to burn.
“Don’t stop,” he said behind you, voice thick and quiet, laced with something sticky and mean. “I ain’t tell you to pause.”
Your knees scooted forward across the hardwood, muscles shaking as you forced your hands to move again. You had made it halfway down the hallway, the heels on your feet doing more damage than good as they forced your hips higher and your back deeper into that humiliating arch he liked so much. Your palms were starting to sting and the material between your legs had turned from cute to torturous, soaked and clinging, as it stuck to your folds with every little motion.
Stack didn’t follow right away, you could hear him behind you, the quiet shifting of his weight as he leaned a shoulder against the frame and watched. You didn’t have to look back to know the expression on his face. It was the same one he always wore when he was winning. That infuriating calm, like none of this mattered to him.
Your fingers curled into the floor beneath you and you dragged yourself forward another foot. Then another. The silence pressed in on you and it was ironic how it was so loud it made your ears ring. The only sound was the faint creak of your heels and your own shaky breathing, each exhale catching as the air from the vents skimmed over your exposed skin.
By the time you made it past the hallway and into the wide mouth of the living room, your arms were aching and your pride was somewhere back on the porch. The soft lamp glow from the kitchen spilled across the floor in broken amber lines, casting your body in fractured shadows. You dropped your forehead against the hardwood, not from exhaustion, but to breathe through the heat blooming low in your stomach. It was unbearable now. This was the kind of ache that turned your thoughts into soup, made your jaw tighten and your mouth press shut to keep from saying something you couldn’t take back.
He let you stay there for a long minute. Just kneeling and waiting, trying not to fall apart before he even touched you again. Then the sound of footsteps filled your ears.Each one dragged with intent across the floor, cutting through the silence like the blade he kept hidden under his mattress.
He stepped into the living room behind you and stood there, long enough for the heat of his body to lick across your skin in a wave. You stayed exactly where you were, heart hammering against the floorboards, fingers trembling slightly against the wood.
“Look at you,” he said. “Actin’ like you ain’t just spend two months tryna replace me.”
You didn’t respond but you felt his presence shift behind you as he got closer and lowered himself down. His voice cut through the space between your shoulder blades like a brand being pressed to your spine.
“Raise it up.”
You knew what he meant. Your elbows bent immediately and you lifted your head from the floor before arching even deeper and spreading your knees. You pushed your ass back until your cheeks tilted up toward him, the lace cutting into your hips and barely covering anything now. The coat spilled open completely, bunching beneath your stomach like discarded evidence.
Stack exhaled hard through his nose. “That’s better,” he said, voice darker now, simmering under his accent like a storm behind his teeth. “Don’t come to my house beggin’ unless you prepared to earn it.”
His hand skimmed up the inside of your thigh, fingers tracing the stickiness smeared there, dragging unbothered circles into your skin like he had all night to figure out exactly how wet you were. He paused at the edge of your panties, thumb dipping beneath the elastic, pulling it to the side with a snap that made you gasp.
He stared silently for a moment and you could feel his eyes on your skin. That heavy intense stare he did whenever he was pretending not to be impressed. Pretending you didn’t still mean something to him.
“Damn,” he hummed. “You came here drippin’, huh?”
Your voice was barely a whisper. “I tried… I tried everything else...”
That made him laugh, like full on belly laugh. “You think I give a fuck ‘bout what you tried?” His fingers slid down the crease of your folds without warning, dragging through your sticky honey like it was something that belonged to him. “You think I care you been ridin’ other dicks that ain’t make you cum?”
You gasped as his fingers brushed your clit, just once, before pulling back.
“I ain’t no substitute,” he said. “I’m the fuckin’ standard.”
You whimpered and your toes curled so hard inside your heels you thought they might snap off. His words landed heavy, settling deep in your chest and lower, right where your desires lived. You swallowed but your throat was dry and your skin buzzed like it was stretched too tight over your bones. He stayed pressed behind you for a heartbeat longer, letting the truth of it sink in and letting you feel how solid he was.
Just when you thought he was going to give you what you wanted, he pulled away. The loss of his heat was brutal. It left you empty and aching, forcing your hips to rock back instinctively like your body hadn’t gotten the memo yet. You sucked in a sharp breath through your nose, fingers curling against the floor as you tried to steady yourself once more.
Stack stepped around you and dropped onto the couch with a careless sprawl, like none of this cost him anything. The cushions dipped under his weight. He leaned back, elbows spread wide, gym clothes still clinging dark and damp to his chest and thighs. Sweat traced slow paths down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his tank. His shorts sat low on his hips, the outline was still there and unmistakable. His third leg was so thick and heavy even without him touching himself.
He looked at you like you were an unfinished task. “You got two minutes,” he said, checking an invisible watch on his wrist, voice flat and merciless. “Convince me I should fuck you ‘fore I kick you out my house, take me a shower, an take my black ass to bed.”
Your heart slammed hard against your ribs.
“Two minutes,” he repeated. “That’s it.”
You didn’t argue or stall, the second the words left his mouth your body moved like it had been waiting for permission. You pushed up off the floor, heels wobbling and knees screaming as you staggered toward the bathroom. The light flicked on and you grabbed a washcloth from the rack before running it under warm water, and wringing it out fast while your hands shook with urgency and panic and need all tangled together.
You came back into the living room just as fast, cloth in hand, eyes already tracking him like a magnet. You dropped down in front of him, knees hitting the rug, trench coat falling open completely now as you reached for his thigh.
His hand shot out and caught your wrist mid-motion. “Nuh-uh,” he said quietly. “I ain’t tell you to touch me like that.”
Your breath came shallow. “I just wanna—”
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, face close enough now that you could see the glint in his eyes. He was testing how far he could push you tonight since he was still pissed. “Don’t come at me with no damn rag. You know better than that.”
Your stomach flipped. “Stack—”
“Uh-uh.” His thumb pressed into the inside of your wrist. “Use ya mouth. Same way I taught you... If you still remember.”
Heat flooded your face and your thighs squeezed together. Shame and want twisted up so tight it made your head spin. You dropped the washcloth to the floor without another word and settled back onto your knees, posture straightening automatically, shoulders back, and chin lifting just enough to show him you were listening.
He leaned back again, spreading his legs wider this time, gaze never leaving your face. “Clock still tickin’, baby,” he said. “You wastin’ time.”
You scooted forward on your knees, hands resting on his thighs, thumbs brushing over damp fabric. You bowed your head and pressed your lips to his knee first, then higher, kissing the sweat-slick skin through the thin cotton of his shorts. Your mouth worked slow with devotion, tongue tracing the outline of his quad, teeth grazing lightly where you knew he liked it.
A quiet sound slipped out of him before he could stop it. You smiled to yourself and leaned in further, mouth open now, dragging kisses up his thigh and your hands tightening as your confidence crept back in. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his shorts and paused, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Please,” you said softly. “Let me.”
He stared down at you for a long moment. Then he nodded once. “Go on,” he said. “But don’t rush it. You rush, you done.”
You tugged his shorts down just enough to free him, the weight of him heavy in your hand, hot and already throbbing. You leaned in and dragged your tongue along the underside, slow and thorough, tasting sweat and salt and him. Your mouth closed around the head, lips stretching and tongue pressing flat as you took him in inch by inch, just like he liked.
His hand came up and tangled in your hair immediately, not pulling, just reminding you who’s in charge. “There you go,” he groaned, voice low and thick. “That’s it... Show me you ain’t forgot.”
You worked him with your mouth, steady and eager, hollowing your cheeks, tongue tracing familiar paths. Your jaw ached but you welcomed it. You wanted to hurt. Wanted to prove something. Your hands slid up his thighs, nails digging in, grounding yourself as you took him deeper.
“Time still runnin’,” he reminded you. “Why shouldn’t I throw you back outside when I finish?”
You pulled back just enough for air, saliva shining on your mouth, your chin damp and eyes sharp when you looked up at him. “Because you like me right here,” you said confidently. “Because this is the only thing that gets you to shut you up.”
His mouth twisted with annoyance and he pushed your head back with two fingers under your chin, not rough, forcing you to look at him. “Nah,” he said. “You know what I think, sweetheart? I think you should go call that nigga you fucked. Bet he’d love to see you on ya knees like this. Go on. Call him.”
The words hit like a splash of cold water and gasoline all at once.
Your eyes flashed with anger. “Fuck you.”
He smiled wider, taunting you. “There it is.”
“You really sittin’ there actin’ brand new,” you shot back, voice rising and heat pouring out of you now that the dam was cracked. “Like you ain’t been runnin’ through bitches since the day I met you. Like I ain’t swallowed your lies and your dick with the same damn mouth.”
His brows lifted slightly amused at your audacity.
“I mirrored you,” you continued, getting to your feet, anger stiffening your spine, heels planting hard against the rug beneath you. “That’s all I did. I mirrored you. And suddenly it’s a problem when it’s not just you doing the dirt.”
He leaned back against the couch, arms stretched out against the cushions. “Difference is,” he said calmly, “I ain’t never pretended I was loyal. You knew the type of man I was ‘fore you got with me.”
“And I ain’t never pretended I was yours,” you fired back. “You don’t get to cheat on me and then act like I committed some unforgivable sin.”
His gaze dragged over you like a blade, not even bothering to hide the contempt crawling up the corners of his mouth. “You never was mine,” he said, voice dipped in venom now. “Just some decent pussy to fuck when I ain’t have nothin’ else to do.”
A breath left your chest like he had punched it out of you. You blinked twice and then your throat worked around the lump swelling up like fury and heartbreak at once. You knew Stack fought dirty. You knew it. And still, every single time somehow, he found new ways to dig beneath the skin and pull the ugliest parts of you right out in the open.
“Wow,” you whispered, voice raw. “That’s how you really feel?”
He tilted his head and smiled like someone who knew they were hurting you and liked how quiet it made you. “If I wanted somethin’ real, I would’ve picked a bitch that didn’t need to fuck somebody else to feel seen.”
You lost your mind for a second as you moved and your palm cracked across his face. Your fingers stung instantly from the hit and his head jerked a little from the impact, but his expression didn’t change. That same crooked grin stayed there, blooming wider now, like you had just handed him a gift.
“Damn,” he breathed, blinking slow. “There she go.”
“Fuck you, Elias,” you hissed.
He didn’t bother answering you with words. One second you were standing in front of him, chest heaving, eyes burning, and the next his hand shot out and yanked you down onto his lap. You let out a sharp gasp, palms flying to his shoulders, and before you could push off, he twisted his body and pinned you underneath him on the couch. Your back collided with the cushion, coat open wide and legs spread by the force of his hips between yours. The position was too familiar. Too natural. Your body molded to it like it had been waiting.
His hands were on either side of your head, arms caging you in, tank top still sticking to his chest as sweat clung to both of you now. His eyes locked on yours, and his voice dropped to that lethal hush that always came before you lost all control. “I’mma tell you this one time an one time only,” he said, inches from your mouth. “Don’t put ya fuckin’ hands on me.”
You glared up at him, refusing to shrink beneath the weight of him. “You act like I’m supposed to forget all the shit you did and let you talk to me crazy just ‘cause your dick big,” you spat.
He leaned in closer, nose nearly brushing yours. “It ain’t just my dick that got you showin’ up in the middle of the night dressed like a whore.”
Your hand flew up to slap him again, but he caught it mid-air, fingers tightening around your wrist before pushing it back into the cushion above your head.
“You think I ain’t peep that lil’ lingerie set?” he sneered. “That coat. Them heels. Walkin’ up to my door like a treat I ain’t earned. Baby, I own this pussy. Don’t matter what I say or do, you’ll always come back to me.”
“You don’t own shit!” you shouted, twisting beneath him. “I let you fuck me, that doesn’t mean you get to treat me like this—”
“You begged me,” he growled. “Ain’t no lettin’ me. You need me!”
“You need me!” you screamed back. “You're just too scared to say it!”
That cracked something open as Stack dropped his weight against you in one hard push, hips pressing into yours, and kissed you so fiercely it felt like a car crash. This kiss was lip bruising and tongue invading. The kind of kiss that destroyed logic and rebuilt it in his name. Your free hand clawed at his back. His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging your head back so he could bite your bottom lip, breath mixing with yours, teeth scraping, mouths cussing between kisses.
“Stupid-ass bitch,” he gasped against your throat.
“Piece of shit motherfucker,” you panted, grinding up against him through your soaked panties.
His hips jerked at the friction, letting out a ragged breath that vibrated against the side of your neck. His teeth grazed the skin just below your jaw, not biting yet, just dragging slow like he was thinking about it. Like he wanted to leave a trail of bruises so deep even your next lifetime would know who you belonged to.
Your back arched off the couch, legs spreading wider without permission and heels digging into the cushions for leverage. The trench coat had bunched beneath you, and the lingerie clung to your body like second skin, sheer and stretched and soaked straight through.
Stack pressed his forehead to yours, eyes burning, breaths coming through his nose like he was holding back something ugly and hungry. “You think anybody else could handle this mouth?” he hissed. “You think that nigga you cheated with could deal wit’ you screamin’ an scratchin’ like this?”
“I wasn’t screamin’ for him,” you shot back, voice wrecked. “Wasn’t scratchin’ neither.”
He grinned with cocky triumph. “‘Course you wasn’t,” he said, tongue flicking the corner of his mouth. “Cause ain’t nobody ever fucked you like me.”
You rolled your eyes and scoffed at his arrogance. “Unfortunately.”
His hand shot down between your legs and pressed against the damp fabric of your panties, cupping you so hard your words turned into a stuttering breath.
“Still talkin’ crazy when this pussy cryin’ for me,” he growled. “You lucky I ain’t make you beg out loud in front of my neighbors.”
“Fuck you,” you gasped, hips grinding against his palm now, unable to stop.
He pulled the fabric to the side roughly, letting the elastic snap once before sliding two fingers along your drenched lips. He didn’t push his fingers in, just dragged the tips over your clit in tight, taunting circles.
Your head dropped back, mouth falling open in a silent cry.
“Yeah,” he breathed, watching you fall apart beneath him. “That’s what I thought. Same mouth that said I wasn’t shit… now you beggin’ me to fuck it full.”
You frowned and bit down on his shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, to leave evidence and remind him that you weren’t just going to take this lying down… except that’s exactly what you were doing. Laid out under him, back pressing deep into the cushions, thighs spread, coat falling off your shoulders, heels still on. He smelled like gym sweat and pride and the type of anger that didn’t go away with time, only with friction.
He laughed quietly in your ear, voice sticky and dangerous. “A temper tantrum ain’t gon’ save you,” he said. “You came here to get used. So I’ma use you.”
“You keep acting like I didn’t let you,” you bit back, legs twitching around his waist. “Like you ever had control without me giving it to you.”
He pulled back just far enough to look at you and stare down at you like he was re-reading a sentence that pissed him off. His lips twitched and he spoke. “You really sittin’ under me talkin’ like you special,” he said, voice drenched in disbelief. “You not. You convenient pussy. Easy an familiar.”
You blinked once, and the sting in your chest made your hands curl into fists. “Right,” you scoffed. “That must be why you nutted inside me four times last time and said you felt like crying when you had to pull out of me.”
His jaw ticked, the muscles underneath his skin showing his visible frustration.
You smirked. “Oops. Forgot I wasn’t supposed to remember shit like that, huh?”
“Bitch.”
“Asshole.”
“You know what?” he said, shaking his head, the smile on his face as ugly as it was honest. “I don’t even like you.”
“I don’t like you either,” you shot back, dragging your nails up his sides just to feel him twitch. “You think that dick of yours makes up for that trash personality.”
“Maybe it do,” he said, and shoved his hips forward once, hard enough to make the breath leave your lungs in a gasp as your eyes rolled back for a moment. “Cause it got you showin’ up like a damn junkie beggin’ for another hit.”
You sucked in air through your teeth, hands gripping the cushions beneath you, anger and want tangling together until they both combined into needy desire. Your chest rose and fell hard, sweat slicking your skin, hair sticking to your temples.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Elias,” you shot back, voice strained but biting. “You ain’t special either. You are nothing but a placeholder until I find someone better.”
Way to go, that was the straw that finally broke the camels back.
Something in Stack’s expression shifted. It was quieter and dangerous as the amusement drained from his eyes, and replaced itself with something focused and tired of the back-and-forth. He straightened over you, hands braced on either side of your head, studying your face like he was deciding how best to break you without touching you at all.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I’m done arguin’.”
Before you could respond, his hands went to your shoulders and dragged the trench coat down your arms, fabric sliding rough against your heated skin. You barely had time to register the cool air hitting your chest before he yanked the coat free completely and tossed it aside like trash. His attention dropped to the lace beneath, cherry red and vibrant against your skin.
His mouth curled. “Real cute,” he muttered. “Shame you think you get to keep this.” He hooked his fingers into the straps at your shoulders and pulled hard. The lace protested before it stretched and tore with a sharp rip that echoed too loud in the room.
Your breath caught. “Stack—”
“Oops,” he said flatly, not sorry in the slightest. He tore the rest away in quick, ruthless motions, fabric shredding under his hands until there was nothing left but scraps clinging uselessly to your hips. “Ain’t nobody else need to see you in this.”
Heat flared through you, equal parts fury and arousal. “You don’t get to decide that!”
He leaned down, face close enough that his nose brushed yours, eyes dark and unblinking. “Just did. Don’t like it, then leave.”
Then he pushed your knees apart wider and slid down the couch, grip firm on your thighs as he repositioned you exactly how he wanted. Your back arched instinctively, skin buzzing and legs trembling as he settled between them. The sight of him there, his broad shoulders filling the space, hands steady, and jaw set made your stomach twist tight.
He looked up at you once more. “Don’t make a fuckin’ sound,” he said quietly, accent thickening, voice sharp with warning. “Tired of hearin’ that mouth.”
You let out a breathless laugh. “You know that I can’t—”
His mouth met you without mercy. You didn’t even get to finish the sentence before his tongue pressed flat against you, licking up the mess you had made just by thinking about him. The laughter on your tongue died instantly, strangled into silence as your back twisted off the couch, hands scrambling to grip anything that would hold you down.
He didn’t ease into eating you out. There was no building or softness, just Stack’s reckless mouth moving like he had been waiting two months to remind you who the fuck you belonged to. Every lick felt personal and every swirl of his tongue was laced with malice and memory.
And then a sound that was small, high and involuntary broke loose from your throat. His head lifted and one eyebrow arched. You barely had time to blink before his palm came down hard on the inside of your thigh. The slap echoed like a gunshot in the room, heat blossoming where his hand struck.
You cried out in surprise, but quickly slapped your own hand over your mouth.
“Thought I said quiet,” he said without lifting his voice. “You act like you don’t remember how to fuckin’ listen.”
Then he dove back in, tongue flicking fast against your clit, lips sealing around it, sucking once more and just when you felt another moan building, another slap landed on the other thigh. This one was harder and stinged with correction.
You jerked under him and whined. “Stack—”
Smack.
“You don’t follow my rules, you get punished,” he said against your flesh. “Ain’t nothin’ changed.”
You tried again and bit down on your knuckle. You squeezed your eyes shut and dug your heels into the couch cushion before lifting your hips as if that might help, as if meeting his mouth halfway would take the edge off. But Stack wasn’t letting up. His tongue flicked with devastating accuracy, and just when you thought he might give you a break—smack. Another hit. This time lower, right under the curve of your ass.
You whimpered, unable to hold it in.
“Every time you make a sound, sweetheart,” he said without pausing, “I’mma hit you harder.”
Another moan, this one sharper.
Smack.
Your thighs were shaking now, red and stinging, your body caught somewhere between unbearable pleasure and brutal discipline. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you open wider, mouth locked in place like he had nowhere else to be but right there, destroying you slowly, thoroughly, deliberately.
This went on for three minutes and then he just abruptly stopped. The sudden absence hit harder than any slap. Your hips jerked, chasing what disappeared, a broken sound spilling out before you could trap it.
Stack lifted his head and stared at you, mouth slick, eyes flat. “Still loud,” he said. Not angry. Just done. “Guess I gotta give you somethin’ worth all that noise.”
He rose to his feet without another word and left the living room.
You laid on his couch exposed, legs trembling, chest heaving, and skin still burning from where he had hit you. The quiet was unbearable and every second that passed amplified how you could feel your body screaming for contact while your mind spun in frantic circles, wondering what he was about to do.
You barely had time to gather yourself before he came back. Stack re-entered the room already stripping his soaked shirt over his head, fabric peeling off his skin and tossed aside carelessly. Sweat glistened across his chest and shoulders, muscles flexing as he rolled his neck once, twice, like he was resetting himself. Like he was preparing for work.
In his hand was a small black bullet vibrator. Your breath stuttered and he didn’t look at you right away. Instead, he bent down and picked up your phone from where it had slid onto the floor earlier. His thumb flicked the screen awake. One glance at the contact list. One name.
He smirked.
“Damn,” he muttered. “You really do keep trophies.”
“Stack,” you warned weakly.
He ignored you as he tapped the screen. The FaceTime ring tone filled the room, sharp and intrusive, bouncing off the walls. Your stomach dropped and the screen lit up with Calling…
He set the phone on the coffee table, angled just right so you could see it, so you could hear it. Then he crouched between your legs again, calm as an undisturbed river.
“Relax,” he said quietly. “The nigga ain’t answer yet.”
The ringing continued and your heart pounded so hard it made you feel light headed.
“Hang it up before he answers,” you snapped. “What the fuck are you doing?”
He leaned in close, voice low and even. “Teachin’ you how to shut up.”
Your skin crawled in anticipation, heat crawled up your neck, and your chest rose unevenly as you tried to keep still beneath the weight of that voice… That intent. One more ring came through the speaker of your phone before that dreaded FaceTime Connected sound blasted loudly. You gulped as the screen went to a live, front-facing video of the man you cheated on Stack with.
His room was half-lit and he was sitting shirtless on a couch, blinking in confusion as he stared into the camera. “Hello…?” he said, rubbing his face. “Yo—who the fuck—?”
Stack didn’t even look up from between your thighs. “Bitch-ass nigga,” he said dryly, thumb still resting on the power button of the vibrator but not moving it yet. “What’s good?”
The man’s face twisted instantly. “Huh? Who the fuck is this? Where my girl at?”
You tried to sit up, panic flooding your body in waves, but Stack’s hand landed on your stomach, pushing you back into the couch like your body belonged to the furniture.
“She busy,” Stack said casually. “But I figured since you was so damn memorable, I’d let you watch how it’s really done.”
“Stack,” you hissed through gritted teeth, trying to grab the phone. “Turn that shit off—”
Stack pressed the vibrator directly onto your clit and your whole body bucked. The sound that flew from your mouth wasn’t human.
“That’s my woman!” your ex shouted, his jaw tightening on the screen. “You really went back to that fuck nigga? After everything he did? Have you lost your mind?”
Stack’s laugh rang through his living room like an angelic melody. “Nah,” he said, keeping pressure on the toy with his palm as he looked directly into your pleading eyes. “You must’ve lost yours thinkin’ she actually belonged to you.”
You weakly slapped him on the chest. “E-Elias! H-Hang up!”
He shoved your thigh wider, eyes narrowing, tone turning darker. “Nah,” he growled. “You wanted to be mouthy tonight. This the price.”
“Aye, fuck you, bruh,” the ex barked, voice rising now. “You outta pocket. Who the fuck even are you?”
“I’m the nigga that you’ll never be,” Stack fired back. “I’m the reason she won’t be answering ya texts anymore. I’m the reason she drippin’ all over my couch right now.”
“You sound real comfortable behind a screen, bitch,” the man snapped.
Stack finally looked up, sweat glistening across his chest, muscles flexing as he tightened his hold on the toy that was now pulsing rhythmically against your most sensitive spot. “I am comfortable,” he said into the screen, his voice calm and cruel, Southern syllables slithering out like a threat made of silk and blood. “I’m sittin’ on my own couch, shirt off, dick hard, while my bitch squirmin’ under me.”
You let out a strangled moan, hips bucking against the toy, one hand grasping at the armrest above your head while the other curled uselessly at your side. The vibrator buzzed in relentless, brutal circles against your clit, sending fresh waves of heat crashing down your spine like tidal water laced with shame.
Stack didn’t spare you another glance. His eyes were locked on the screen. The tight smirk on his lips made it clear, he wasn’t just speaking to your ex. He was performing. Declaring. Marking his territory with his chest out and his toy buried between your trembling thighs.
“You ever see her like this?” Stack asked, brows raised, tone sharp and casual like he was talking over a card game. “Nah. You ain’t never earned this.”
“Stack—fuck—I can’t—” your voice cracked, high and shuddering.
He looked down at you then and he saw everything. The tremble in your lip, the glassiness in your eyes, the way your thighs jerked with every pass of the toy, and how your back lifted off the couch like your body was seconds from coming completely undone. You were close, too close. Closer than he wanted anyone else to see you.
Stack’s jaw ticked once, then he reached forward and ended the call.
Click.
The screen went black and he tossed the phone behind him like it wasn’t worth another second of his attention before looking back down at you. His woman. Spread out beneath him completely ruined and needy without him fucking you yet. On the edge of something too raw for pride to interrupt.
“Ion’ share,” he said simply, voice low, dragging and thick with possession. “Not even that part.”
Your hips jerked again, thighs trembling as you choked on another moan, but he didn’t let up. He pressed the toy harder on your clit, the rhythm brutal, your orgasm so close it felt like static in your veins.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
You tried but you couldn’t stop your eyelids from fluttering. The pleasure was pulling you under too fast, forcing your mouth to hang open on a sound you couldn’t hold back.
“Look. At. Me.”
Finally your eyes met his and your body shattered as your climax hit like a car crash. Your legs clamped around his wrist, hips bucking, every muscle locking and twitching as the orgasm tore through you. You screamed without sound, hands digging into the cushions like you were trying not to disappear through the floor. Your whole body convulsed under his hand, thighs shaking violently, tears slipping down your cheeks as you rode it out in full view of the only man who could ever drag something like this out of you.
Stack just watched silently. His lips twitched into a smirk as you finally collapsed with your chest heaving like you had just run a mile. “That’s what the fuck I thought,” he said, pulling the toy back and tossing it to the floor like he was done with his appetizer and finally ready for the main meal.
You blinked up at him, dazed with your mascara streaked and body wrecked. But still there was that look in your eye. A bratty little spark that never died.
Stack saw it and his smirk deepened. He hovered over you, his breath heavy and hot as it poured down across your flushed face. His bare chest gleamed in the dim light, the scent of sweat and satisfaction clinging to his skin like warpaint. His forearms caged your head back in place, and he was far from finished.
You could feel his desire for you pressing right against your inner thigh. His dick jumped with excitement as his swollen tip left streaks of precum across your skin. Every inch of him hovered above you, commanding and still, like a beast watching his prey blink back into focus after the first strike.
“You look like you seen a ghost,” he said quietly, one brow raising. “That lil’ nut took it outta you?”
You swallowed. “You act like you didn’t just try to kill me.”
He leaned down, mouth brushing your ear, and dragged his words across your skin like teeth. “That nigga still breathin’. I was bein’ nice.”
Your eyes shut closed, breath catching as his hips pressed lower, the weight of him grinding against your bare center.
“But since you still wanna act like a mouthy lil’ bitch,” he continued, voice calm and sharp, “we can do this the other way.” Your thighs squeezed reflexively. He chuckled, deep and full of filth. “Ahh… there she go. Actin’ like she don’t love when I talk to her like this.”
You wanted to tell him to shut up. You wanted to say something mean and nasty, just to keep up the tension, just to keep the game going. But your mouth wouldn’t cooperate. Your brain was still recovering from the overload he gave you. All you could do was lie there, stripped bare of pride, heart hammering, and thighs still shaking in that aftershock rhythm.
He bit down on his bottom lip as his hands tugged your ruined panties down the rest of the way and off your ankles. His fingers trailed down the curves of your thighs with a sick kind of admiration, like he was preparing a meal he had waited too long to devour. His gaze dipped down between your legs, and he let out a low breath.
“Still twitchin’,” he groaned. “You that fucked up already? Two months without Daddy got you this sensitive?”
You managed a weak, bratty laugh. “Please. I’m just getting warmed up.”
He looked at you then and that trademark Stack expression spread across his lips like a storm: proud, annoyed, aroused, and possessive.
“Cute,” he said. “You still talkin’ like you in control.”
He spit into his hand before palming his dick and giving it a few tugs. Veins wrapping down his brown shaft like he was built to destroy and nothing else. He had the kind of dick that made your mouth water and your eyes widen. The kind of dick that made your thighs instinctively shift apart to make room even when your body was already shaking from everything he had just done.
“Turn over,” he ordered. “Face in the cushion. Ass up.”
You unintentionally hesitated and Stack was on you in an instant, flipping your body like you weighed nothing. He grabbed your hips and dragged them up until your knees sank into the couch and your ass arched high, back bowed, face buried in the cushion like a punishment.
“Yeah,” he praised, voice thick now, tone changing. “This how I like it. This how I missed it.”
His hands roamed down your back like they were retracing territory that had been stolen from him. His palms dragged along the curve of your spine, heat radiating through his fingers like fire looking for somewhere to catch. He gripped your waist again tighter this time before his thumbs pressed into the dips just above your ass as if molding you into the position he wanted, not what you thought you could give.
You were open and vulnerable in a way that should’ve made you ashamed, but all it did was make your walls flutter around nothing, already begging for him. Stack’s length slid between your swollen lips, heavy and dragging through the mess he just made, tip nudging your entrance without going in. And he just held it there as he let his possessiveness fester.
You could feel it before he said anything. How it boiled in his skin, pulsing behind his grip. That jealousy he never liked to admit. That quiet rage tucked beneath the bravado. It was all there, swelling under the surface, waiting for an excuse to come out and you were the perfect excuse.
His voice dropped lower and rougher. “You gave him this?” he asked, hips pressing forward just enough for the head to breach, then pull back again.
You opened your mouth to speak and swallowed the words back down.
“You let him touch what I broke in?”
You swallowed hard, face still buried in the cushion. “It wasn’t like that—”
“Don’t lie to me.” His hand came down hard on your tender ass, palm stinging against your skin, the sound loud and final. You jolted beneath him, a gasp falling out of your mouth before you could catch it.
Stack’s hand stayed there, firm and heavy like a silent warning. “You got me fucked up thinkin’ I’m just another nigga in rotation,” he said, grinding the tip against your entrance. “This mine. You don’t get to hand this shit out like clearance candy.”
Your hips jerked back on instinct, chasing the contact, the friction lighting you up in a way that made your thoughts scatter. The denial sat sharp in your chest, equal parts anger and need, and it made your voice come out reckless. “You don’t get to say that,” you shot back, breath uneven and fingers bunching the cushion beneath your cheek. “You don’t get to claim shit when you disappear whenever it suits you.”
His grip tightened, it was hard enough to make your body register it as a command. He leaned in, chest pressing along your spine and heat seeping through you like a warning flare. “I get to say and do whatever I want,” he replied, accent thickening, words cruel and dangerous. “You still spreadin’ yourself open for me.”
You sucked in a sharp breath as he rolled his hips again, the head of him dragging through you with maddening patience. It felt like he was tracing your outline, memorizing every reaction and cataloging every twitch like proof.
“See that?” he continued, voice low near your ear. “That little shake. That’s you rememberin’.”
“I remember you lying,” you snapped, still bratting, still biting even as your knees trembled. “I remember you saying you’d be back and not showing up.”
His hand slid from your ass to your hip, fingers digging in, holding you steady. “An I remember you answerin’ texts you shouldn’t have,” he countered. “I remember you lettin’ another nigga think he had access.”
The tip pressed in a fraction, then retreated. Again. Again. Each time closer, each time crueler.
“You still wanna argue?” he asked softly. “We can argue like this all night, baby.”
Stack nudged forward just enough to make you gasp, not enough to satisfy, then pulled back again, leaving you empty and aching. Your thighs shook. A sound threatened to escape, and you bit it back, teeth sinking into the cushion. A quiet sound slid out of his chest as his hand left your hip and slipped beneath your thighs, fingers spreading you wider, lifting just enough to change the angle and steal what little balance you had left. The shift sent a sharp jolt through you, heat pooling fast and heavy. His thumb brushed your bundle of nerves once, feather‑light, like an accident he planned from the start.
“There it is,” he said, voice calm, almost patient. “That little twitch. You still wanna talk?”
You didn’t want to give Stack the satisfaction of giving up so easily as your mouth opened with something sharp lined up, something mean and clever, something that would keep the fight alive. Instead, another broken sound slipped out, thin and helpless, and you hated yourself for it.
He smiled without looking at your face. His thumb circled your clit again, firmer now, tracing slow, taunting paths that made your toes curl and your back bow deeper. You could feel him pressing into you at the same time, the head of him thick and insistent, slicker now. The heat of it pulsed against your inner walls, and you felt the telltale warmth spread where he leaked into you, sticky and undeniable.
“I know you feel that,” he taunted, almost conversational. “That’s from me bein’ backed up an irritated.”
Your breath came uneven, chest dragging air like it wasn’t enough. “You always gotta make everything a fight.”
He laughed quietly. “You the one who won’t shut up.”
His thumb pressed harder, just enough pressure to make you see stars. You tried to pull away, more reflex than plan, and his grip tightened instantly, fingers locking you in place.
“Uh‑uh,” he warned. “Stay.”
Your hips betrayed you, rocking back into his hand, chasing the contact even as your pride burned hot. He felt that too as he leaned in closer, chest brushing your back, voice dropping lower and heavier.
“Finish sayin’ whatever bullshit you had ready so I can finally fuck you proper,” he said. “Go on. Get it out.”
“I hate how you do this,” you managed, words breaking apart. “You act like you don’t care and then—then you—”
His thumb swept just right, and the sentence died in your throat. “An then I what? Huh? What does Daddy do to you?” he prompted, pressing into you again, letting more of that heat spill inside. You felt it this time, unmistakable, his need leaking into you as much as yours was pulling him in.
“And then you make me forget why I’m mad,” you admitted, breathless and angry at yourself for it.
“That’s what I thought,” he said.
His hand moved with more purpose now, thumb working steady, fingers lifting your thighs higher to keep you open, exposed. He didn’t rush you. He didn’t let you drift. He kept you right there, suspended, arguing with him in half‑sentences and broken sounds while your body told the truth for you. The truth was, despite everything, you were his. You hated him. You wanted him. You were brattier than he could stand, and he was meaner than you could handle, and yet, here you were, strung out on his touch.
Stack kept his hand between your thighs until your legs trembled, until your head dropped forward, until the only sound leaving your lips was a strangled whimper. Then when you were back on the edge of no return, he pulled his hand away, and slammed himself into you with no warning.
You sobbed with delight from the sudden fullness, your hands clawing for anything to steady you as he bottomed out inside you, all that leaked frustration now buried deep in your walls, throbbing with each brutal inch.
His breath left him in a grunt. “Fuck.” All the anger, all the months of silence, the imagined visions of you with someone else, the ache of missing you but being too damn prideful to admit it… it all hit at once.
Stack gripped your hips like they were handles and dragged you back onto his dick with vicious, hungry strokes. His rhythm was punishing, each thrust landing like he was carving his name into you from the inside.
“You don’t get to leave me like that,” he growled, sweat rolling down his spine, skin slapping yours in loud, wet echoes that filled the room. “You don’t get to walk out, give this shit to somebody else, then come back actin’ like I owe you a soft welcome.”
You cried out beneath him, head dropping, arms collapsing beneath you.
“Couldn’t even breathe without thinkin’ about this pussy,” he spat, pace never slowing, dick punching into you with a rhythm that forced your body to comply. “Had me losin’ sleep. Dreamin’ ‘bout you. Wakin’ up hard, mad as hell I ain’t hate you enough to let it go.”
Your only answer was a cry that was raw and desperate and torn from your chest as his grip tightened and his body crowded yours. The couch groaned beneath you both, cushions dipping with every drive of his hips, the room filling with the sound of skin meeting skin and the rough drag of breath you couldn’t steady. Your thoughts scattered. Every time you tried to form a word, he stole it back with another thrust, deeper, firmer, and claiming space inside you like he was filling the silence he had carried for months.
He leaned in, chest pressed to your back, sweat slicking you together. His forearm slid beneath your thighs again, lifting, changing the angle, making everything feel sharper and closer all at once. The pressure bloomed, hot and demanding, and you felt how wet you were around him, how you took him without hesitation despite every argument you had thrown like knives.
“Say somethin’,” he urged, voice rough at your ear. “Say you hear me.”
“I hear you,” you managed, words breaking apart as your hips betrayed you, pushing back to meet him. “I hear all of it.”
He answered by setting a pace that made your legs tremble. His hand slid from your hip to your stomach, fingers spreading, holding you still when your body tried to run ahead of him. Then everything shifted as he hauled you up and over in one fluid motion, strength effortless, like he had been waiting for this angle the whole damn time. Your back hit the couch cushions again, breath spilling out of you as he folded you in on yourself, thighs pressed tight to your chest, knees hooked over his shoulders. Your body bent and open, nowhere to hide, nowhere to look but straight at him.
“Eyes on me,” he said, already there, already lined up.
His legs planted wide on either side of the couch, muscles locked, stance solid as he drove back into you. The change left you breathless and getting fucked like this felt different. Every thrust felt deeper and louder in your body. Every stroke pushed something loose inside you. Every pullback made your toes curl as he came right back in again, hammering with intent and with all that pent‑up frustration he had been carrying since you guys broke up.
You grabbed at his forearms, fingers digging in, nails leaving marks you would see tomorrow and pretend not to remember.
“Look at you,” he said, breath heavy now, eyes dark and fixed on your face. “Tryna argue with me when this how you fold.”
“I hate you,” you said, but it came out thin, breathless, wrecked by the way he filled you.
He smiled and let out a chuckle. “Say it with your eyes,” he told you, thrusting harder, hips snapping forward until the couch thudded against the wall. “Say you ain’t been thinkin’ ‘bout this every night.”
Your gaze locked with his, pupils blown, jaw tight as another wave rolled through you. You nodded once, sharp and helpless.
“Good,” he said. “Don’t lie to me now.”
His grip shifted, hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you higher, folding you tighter until the stretch made your muscles burn. His legs braced, powerful, keeping him steady as he drove into you again and again, each stroke landing right where you were weakest.
The couch creaked under both of you, the rhythm harsh and unforgiving. You couldn’t catch your breath and your body was coiled so tight it felt like you were unraveling one nerve at a time. Stack didn’t let up. He didn’t blink. Didn’t soften. His eyes tracked every tremor, every twitch, like he was reading a code only your body could write. But then a wave of tightness squeezed his dick and he paused for just a second as his brows lifted.
“You tryna cum again?” he asked, words like smoke curling off a live wire. “Hmm? This dick got you feelin’ good?”
You whined and nodded as your thighs shook and clit throbbed in time with your heartbeat. He smirked and then spit. Thick and hot, the trail of it landing right between where you were joined. It dripped down, sticky and warm, and made your whole body jolt.
“Ight,” he said, the edge in his voice cutting deep. “I been doin’ all the work. Rub it out. Right now. Make a mess of that pussy.”
Your hand trembled as you reached down, fingers slipping between your folds, circling that swollen bundle like it owed you something. It was too much to handle with his dick buried inside of you, the way he held you there, stuffed full and stretched wide, and the filthy slick sound of everything between you amplified by spit and slick and need.
Your other hand reached out on instinct, bracing against the only thing that felt real, Stack’s lower stomach, firm and warm, rippling under your palm.
“Uh uh,” he warned, eyes narrowing with something darker. “Move that hand.”
You froze.
“Get that hand off my stomach an keep rubbin’ that clit.”
“I—I just needed—”
“You need to follow directions,” he cut in, voice sharp enough to leave marks. “Wanna cum so bad, but can’t even keep ya hands to yourself.”
You whimpered again, dragging your hand back to your side, focus breaking from the ache to the heat in his tone. But you didn’t stop touching yourself. You couldn’t. The pressure was too much.
“Daddy,” you whispered, desperate now, hoping the nickname might soften something, anything. “Please, Daddy—”
His face didn’t move. He didn’t show not even a flicker of sympathy. His jaw stayed tight, eyes fixed on your face like he saw through the plea and down into the part of you that was trying to manipulate him. “Oh now I’m Daddy again?” he asked, not amused. “You only call me that when you want somethin’.”
Stack held you there, folded and full, letting the words hang heavy while your body kept betraying you. You could feel it happening anyway, the way you clenched around him, the way your clit twitched beneath your fingers like it had a mind of its own. Heat spread and pooled, slick gathering faster than you could control. It leaked down, warm and shameless, making a soft sound every time he pressed deeper.
“There it is,” he said, voice cutting, eyes tracking the way your body responded. “Be a perfect lil’ slut an make a mess on me.”
You bit down hard on your bottom lip, breath coming apart. “I—I—I—”
“Don’t tell me you can’t,” he cut in, rolling his hips just enough to make you gasp. “I can feel you. You grippin’ me like you scared I’m gon’ leave.”
He leaned in closer, one hand braced by your shoulder, the other steadying your thigh so you couldn’t close. His gaze never left your face as he spoke, like he wanted you to hear every word right as it landed. “Go on,” he taunted softly. “Rub it just like that. Small circles. Squeeze that pussy an cum for me.”
Your fingers obeyed, trembling, slick sounds filling the space between your bodies. The sensation climbed sharp and bright, making your toes curl and your back bow tighter. You could feel yourself leaking more now, heat spilling as the pressure built.
“That’s it,” he said. “See how wet you get when you stop arguin’?”
Your mouth opened on a sound you couldn’t stop, eyes squeezing shut as your hips jerked.
“Eyes open,” he ordered, tightening his grip. “I wanna see it.”
You forced them open, meeting his stare just as your body tipped closer to the edge. The look in his eyes was dark and intent, not cruel now, just focused, like he was guiding you through something inevitable.
“You right there,” he continued, voice steady, almost instructional. “That shake in your legs? That’s it comin’ on. Don’t fight it.”
“Let it happen,” he said. “You leakin’ like that ‘cause you want it. ‘Cause ya body know where it belong.”
Stack watched you the whole time. He watched the way your brows knit, the way your mouth tried to hold back sound and failed, the way your thighs quivered against his forearms as he kept you folded and open.
“Mmmhmm,” he murmured, eyes narrowing as another shudder rolled through you. “There it is...”
You tried to speak again and couldn’t. Your fingers slick and shining kept moving just like he told you, small circles that tightened the pressure until it felt like your body was winding itself into a knot. The couch creaked as he drove in again, not harder, just deeper, making the fullness bloom and hold.
“Good,” he said, catching the hitch in your breath before it broke. “Stay with it. Don’t pull away now.”
Your head fell back against the cushion, eyes glassy as the heat climbed and hovered, bright and unbearable. The leaking turned into a steady spill, warmth spreading as your muscles constricted and grabbed without permission.
“That’s it,” he coached, tone unwavering. “You right on top of it. You ain’t gotta say nothin’. Just cum for me.”
The last sentence tipped you over. Your body seized and shook, legs drawing tight as the release tore through you in long, rolling waves. A sound finally escaped, broken and honest, as you rode it out, breath stuttering while he held you exactly where you were, steady and present through every tremor.
Stack stayed buried deep, letting you finish on him, letting your body milk every last aftershock without interruption. He watched your face as it happened, watched the way your jaw slackened and your eyes glazed, watched the way your fingers curled uselessly at his forearms like you needed something solid to keep from floating away.
When the shaking eased and your breath finally found a rhythm again, he shifted and the change pulled a startled sound from you, oversensitive and spent, and that’s when he finally let himself react. A low groan rolled out of his chest, rough and dragged straight from his gut as hips started to move again with intent that had nothing left to prove to you and everything to prove to himself.
“Ight,” he said, voice strained now, edges fraying. “My turn.”
He adjusted his stance, legs planting wider, muscles tightening as he set a pace meant for him. Each thrust was full and claiming, the kind that dragged sensation from your spine down to your toes even though you were already wrung out. You felt how hard he was, how slick he had made you both, how his control shifted from instruction to hunger.
His hand slid to your hip, fingers digging in possessively. “Look at you,” he taunted. “Two times an you still takin’ me like you ain’t tired.”
You tried to answer and couldn’t. Your body answered for you, soft and open and still welcoming every drive.
“That’s what get me,” he went on, breath uneven, jaw tight. “You talk all that shit but ain’t nobody else gettin’ this. Ain’t nobody else see you like this an live to tell it.”
His rhythm grew heavier, more insistent, the couch rocking beneath you both. He leaned in, forehead brushing yours, eyes locked on your face like he needed to see exactly who he was finishing with.
“You mine tonight,” he said, ego flaring as the pressure built. “Say it.”
You could barely form a thought, let alone a word, but that didn’t stop your lips from parting, voice raw and sweet from overuse. “I’m yours.”
That was all Stack needed to hear before a growl tore from his throat like it had been caged too long. His grip shifted, possessive hands dragging your hips down to meet every bruising thrust. The sound of your skin meeting and the sloshing of your wetness filled the room but he didn’t let up. He fucked you like it was the last time. Like someone might steal you if he didn’t leave his mark in every damn place they could reach. Like he had been starving for months and your body was the only meal worth waiting for.
“That’s right,” he gritted out, voice rough and strangled now. “Say it again. Say who this pussy belong to.”
You tried to speak again but all you managed was a broken moan and his name on a breath that sounded more like worship than surrender. Stack leaned over you, sweat dripping down the angle of his neck. His chest heaved, body strung tight with all that possessive rage simmering just beneath his skin.
He spat on his fingers before sliding them on your overworked clit again while he kept pounding into you, each stroke hitting deeper than the last, chasing his own high now with no regard for mercy.
“Say it.”
“Y-you—E-Elias, it’s yours—it’s always been—”
“Damn right,” he snapped, body trembling now. “Ain’t no other motherfucker ever gonna touch what’s mine. Not ever again!”
And then you felt it, that slight hitch in his movement, that drop in control, and that telltale sign that he was seconds away from losing every ounce of composure he had left.
Your legs gave out as you had finally reached your own limit for the third time tonight and were done fighting it. “D-DADDY—”
“I know,” he breathed, voice breaking. “I know, baby.”
He slammed into you one last time and stayed there, everything in him going rigid as he spilled inside you, warmth flooding your insides in waves. His jaw tensed, teeth bared, and his breathing became heavy as he heaved through flared nostrils while his orgasm tore through him. And he stayed buried in your pussy like it was his second home. Arms braced around your trembling thighs, eyes locked to yours even as they narrowed from the intensity.
Stack stayed buried deep, twitching inside you, body refusing to move even after the worst of it had passed. His breath came ragged now, chest rising like bellows, nostrils wide, jaw still locked like he didn’t trust what might come out if he opened his mouth too soon. Sweat beaded at his temples, rolled down the line of his neck, dripping onto your collarbone like proof that he had left every drop of himself inside you.
He moved, barely, but just enough to lean forward and press a kiss to your forehead, and even that felt like a threat wrapped in tenderness. His weight dipped, elbows framing your head as his palms flattened beside your shoulders. His hips jerked once, deep and involuntary, and it pulled a gasp from both of you. Yours was softer, stunned; his like he was mad sex with you still felt this good even after the fight, even after the mess.
Your fingers moved instinctively, trying to remold his damp waves back into place, trying to soften him, but he didn’t want soft from you. Not yet.
“Uh-uh,” he warned, grabbing your wrist and pinning it down to the cushion beside your head. “You don’t get to touch me all sweet and pretend like you ain’t start this shit.”
You squinted your eyes ready to rebuttal his claims, but he tilted his head, eyes sharp, daring you to test him again. “I said you mine,” he breathed. “You’ve been claimed. Ain’t no goin’ back. Not after this.”
He pulled back just enough to look between your bodies and see the creamy mess already starting to spill from where you were stretched around him, at the obscene mix of arousal and release that soaked both your thighs and glistened in the low light. He groaned under his breath, rough and pained.
Then without warning, he rolled his hips again, slow but deep, grinding his softening dick inside you like he wanted to push everything back in.
“Still fuckin’ twitchin’,” he said, eyes narrowing again. “Greedy ass pussy… We got two more rounds left before I forgive you. Turn over again, baby.”
.
.
.
.
.
Author's Note: Let's just pretend I haven't been withholding these updates again *cough* I'll be back 🤸🏾♀️🤸🏾♀️🏃🏾♀️🏃🏾♀️
He pull you back by the waist, chuckling at how you whined from the fill he gave you. Stack had you bent over in a deep arch, screaming his name into the sheets of your bed.
"Oh c'mon now, ain't you the one that said–shit– you can take it?"
He groaned, slowing down his thrusts to get a better view of him dissapearing inside you, the thick ring of your juices rimmed around his base, some of it running down your shaking thighs.
"Mmm-fuck! Stack–waitt.!"
You tried grabbing at his hand to slow him down, only for him to grip at your wrist and use it as an anchor, pulling you slightly back to get a deeper arch and deeper range inside you.
"Allat' talk, look where that big mouth got you!"
He hissed out, grinding his hips oh so painfully against yours, managing to wrap his other hand right under you and rub at your clit, drunk on the way you clenched around him.
"Mnghf–fuuck! I'm gon' cum, Stack pleaseee!"
You cried out, body pushing right back against his in pursuit of your orgasm, the man above you only pressing his fingers down as he drew faster circles while drilling himself into you.
"I ain't stack 'round here baby, you know my name pretty."
It's cruel the way he had you right on edge, holding back from letting you burst–oh but you loved it, drooling into the pillow beneath your head from this.
"Mm..Elias—please, Elias!"
He groaned out, satisfied with the way his name was sung from your swollen lips, eyes rolling back as he gave a few weak thrusts. Your breathe caught in your throat before you broke out in curses and moans.
He had pulled out and layed next to your numb body, thumb rubbing at your shoulder after he presses delicate kisses.
Savoring the moment of his skin on yours and the intimacy of his embrace.
Summary: When the preacher’s wife starts protesting outside The Blackline, Stack Moore mocks her from the shadows—until her holy fire turns to something hotter. Plain and pious, Sister Marigold Baptiste hides a body made for sin, and Stack makes it his mission to break her righteousness down to the bone. Their hate burns into obsession, and soon she’s sneaking out in her Sunday whites to be devoured in the dark. He fucks the holy out of her and sends her home to her husband full of his cum, knowing she can’t bear children—but she can carry the weight of his sin.
I was holy once. But holiness never touched me the way he did…
The hallway pulsed like a drumline made of perfume and heat. Laughter spilled from behind the thick velvet curtain, mingling with the sound of Lucille Bogan’s last growl echoing through The Blackline like she left her spirit behind to fuck in her place.
Stack had his arm wrapped around Marigold’s waist, fingers splayed low and intentional across her hip. He walked slow, lazy, like a man drunk on good music and bad behavior, tugging her along like she was his prize and his possession all at once.
His lips were on her neck again, wet and hot, dragging up to the spot just under her jaw where she’d moaned his real name less than an hour ago.
“Lucille always did like a low room,” he whispered against her skin, “Say the air feel heavier, make her voice sit deeper in the cooch. Told me that once…after I poured her a drink in the back room, summer of ’28.” He grinned, nosing into her skin, “Kissed me soon as I brought her that drink. Slid her tongue in like she’d been waitin’ all night to spend it.”
Marigold’s heart pinched.
The hallway narrowed. Her robe clung damp to her thighs. She could still feel his tongue between her legs—the ache of it, the sweet bruised soreness he’d left inside her. But now he was talking about other mouths. Other women. Other nights.
His palm slid down. Grabbed a handful of her ass.
She gasped.
“I ain’t ever liked that woman in a dress, but damn she can sing,” he muttered low, right in her ear, “She sing like she fuck—loud, raw, full of teeth.”
Marigold’s stomach flipped. There was a tightness in her chest she didn’t recognize—sharp, hot, bitter at the edges. It sat just beneath her ribs, coiled like a belt pulled too tight.
Jealousy.
It wasn’t holy, but it was alive.
They entered the private lounge through a beaded curtain so thick it rattled like bones in a bag. The heat hit first—soft and thick, touched with sweat and rose oil. The room was velvet dark, lined in oxblood and plum. Satin couches curved around low tables stacked with half-melted candles, fruit trays, ashtrays, and bottles that dripped sweat down their necks. Lucille Bogan sat in the center like a queen who’d fucked her way to the throne. Her thighs were spread in a satin halter gown, glitter still clinging to her chest. She was drinking whiskey straight from the bottle and wearing a crooked grin that had broken a hundred men and at least two women that very week.
“Look who the dog done dragged up from between some thighs,” she crooned when she saw Stack. Her voice was smoke and dirty promise, dipped in molasses, “You still talkin’ sweet to ‘em, Mr. Magic Stick?”
Marigold stiffened.
Stack smirked.
Behind Lucille sprawled her girls—Trixie, Faye, and Ramona. All three were thick in the hips, tits spilling, eyes lined with kohl and lips painted dark like devils at a revival. Faye had one shoe off. Trixie was barefoot and flashing her pasties. Ramona had her leg slung over the arm of a velvet chair, her cleavage deep enough to drown in.
“Ooooh weee,” Ramona purred when she laid eyes on Stack. “Look at them lips. Got the kind of mouth make a girl see stars and the Lord.”
“I bet they soft too,” Trixie said, leaning forward, “Soft like silk on a sore tit.”
Faye laughed, drunk and delighted, “He got the kind of mouth make you forget what day it is. I wanna sit on it just to find out how deep it go.”
Lucille howled, “Y’all leave that boy alone! He just got done eatin’. Can’t you tell by the glow on his skin?”
Marigold froze.
Her glow.
Her cheeks burned. Her hands tightened around the wine glass that Peaches had handed her when they stepped in —unasked, unexpected, just thrust into her hand like she needed something to hold other than shame. She stood toward the back of the room, wrapped in Stack’s robe, her curls pinned up messily, damp with sweat and post-orgasm glow. Her lips were bare. Her feet were bare. She didn’t belong here, and everyone could feel it. She watched as Ramona straddled Stack’s thigh for a second, just being nasty, rolling her hips slow while Faye hooted and Trixie clapped.
Stack grinned. Didn’t stop her right away. That tightness in Marigold’s chest twisted again. He finally tapped Ramona’s thigh and leaned back, laughing.
“Y’all wild tonight,” he muttered, reaching for the bottle on the table.
“Wild?” Ramona licked her lips, “Baby, we just gettin’ started. You tryna start church or confession?”
That’s when Faye clocked Marigold.
“Who’s that?” she slurred, nodding toward the shadows, “You brought a lamb to the slaughter, Stack?”
Stack glanced back—spotted Marigold still hovering, stiff and quiet in her robe. He stood and said it calm. Straight.
“That’s Goldie.”
A pause.
Then Lula’s voice slid out from one of the corners like mischief in silk, “Y’all ain’t ready.” She grinned, tipping her wine glass, “That’s the preacher’s wife.”
Gasps. Whoops. Cackles.
Ramona’s mouth fell open.
Faye clutched her chest. Trixie screamed with laughter, “Well damn! Baby got saved and backslid in the same night!” Lucille sipped her drink and said, “Mmm. Praise be.” Marigold’s ears rang. The robe felt tighter. Her skin buzzed with humiliation. Stack moved back to her side. Slipped a hand around her waist. Spoke just to her now.
“They don’t mean no harm, baby.”
Marigold didn’t answer. She sipped her wine, jaw set, heat crawling up her neck like shame wrapped in silk.
Stack spoke low and hot against her jaw, “Mm. You jealous, church girl?”
She don’t answer—eyes cut away like she tryna pretend she ain’t, but that little pout say otherwise.
He chuckles, darker now, “Don’t do that…Don’t act like I ain’t just had you moanin’ through that pillow like it was gospel. Had you callin’ my name like it saved you.” He leans in, lips ghostin’ her ear, voice rich and mean-smooth, “Ain’t a damn thing Ramona could do for me. That lil’ loose beaver? That thing so stretched it don’t even blink no more.”
He grins when she stifles a gasp—embarrassed, maybe turned on. Both.
Stack whispers filthier, slow, “But you?” He hums, low and sinful, “You got that fat, tight coochie with the kind of grip that make a man rethink his whole lifestyle. Sweet… soft…messy.”
He licks his lips like he can still taste her, “Still got your scent on my mustache. Smell like sugar.” His hand brushed the hem of his robe on her thigh, “Could’ve stayed in that room all night, tongue deep in your pussy, suckin’ you ‘til you begged me to stop—then beggin’ me not to.”
He lets the words drip down her neck like honey, “Don’t stand here tryna act shy now. You ain’t just fucked me, baby. You fed me.” His tongue clicks, “Ain’t no bird in here ever gone do me like you did.”
Cordelia watched from a chaise—didn’t smile, didn’t laugh. Peaches clocked the whole thing, slow sippin’ her drink, quiet and knowing. And in the center of it all, Lucille raised her glass and purred.
“To the preacher’s wife.”
The girls howled.
Marigold didn’t raise her glass. Too shaky to hold it steady.
But Stack?
He kissed her temple, right there in front of everyone.
“To Goldie.”
The girls didn’t stop after the toast. If anything, Lucille’s declaration lit a new fire under their asses. Faye was already making a lap of the room with the whiskey bottle, pouring straight into mouths like communion. Ramona threw one leg over the arm of Stack’s chair again, this time leaning so close he could smell the peach liquor on her breath.
“So you really Mr. Magic Stick, huh?” she purred, eyes sliding down his frame, “That mean what I think it mean?”
Lucille barked out a laugh from her corner, “It mean that boy carryin’ a whole slab in them pants.” She looked Marigold dead in the eye, grinning crooked and filthy, “You felt it yet, baby? That beef?”
Marigold nearly choked on her wine. Her hand jerked slightly.
Lucille didn’t miss a beat.
“Or you still tight like a communion cup?”
Cackles. More laughing. Ramona practically doubled over.
Marigold’s face burned. Her thighs clamped together instinctively, but the ache between them betrayed her. Because she could still feel it. Stack’s thick fingers stretching her, curling up and stroking until she screamed his name like a psalm rewritten. She tried to look away. But Stack…he didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. He reached for her again, real calm and pulled her back into his side.
“Chill out on Goldie,” he said, low and smooth, looking at Lucille, not angry, but serious enough that the air shifted.
The girls backed off just a little, not with guilt, but with the satisfaction of knowing they’d hit a nerve. But Stack…Stack turned back to Marigold like the room didn’t even exist.
His lips brushed her ear, “You okay?”
She nodded, stiff.
He stroked her waist with his thumb—slow, warm, grounding—then dipped his head to speak low, close, the rum in his breath licking her jaw.
“They don’t matter.” Another stroke, “Ain’t none of ‘em tasted you tonight.”
She shivered.
He chuckled under his breath. His hand moved lower. She felt it first at her hip. Then her thigh. Then…higher. His fingers crept beneath the hem of her robe, slow as sin. He watched her body while he did it. Watched the way she froze, the way her lips parted, the way her lashes trembled. His hand slipped between her legs. She gasped, soft and helpless. He found her still wet. Still open. Still aching.
“Mmm,” he whispered, tongue grazing her earlobe, “You feel that? That’s how good you taste. Still leakin’ for me.”
She pressed her thighs together, breath hitched, eyes flicking up to the room—terrified someone saw. But they hadn’t. Faye was now leaning against the piano, trying to light a cigarette upside down. Ramona had moved on to flirting with Cordelia, licking her lips and tracing a finger down her arm. Cordelia smirked slow, seductive, her lashes low, clearly entertained. But not untouched. Not untouched at all.
Peaches stood across the room, watching with a stillness too heavy for the wine in her hand. Her eyes lingered on Cordelia a second too long. And when Ramona whispered something in Cordelia’s ear and Cordelia laughed, tilting her head just enough to flirt back. Peaches looked down into her glass like it said something she didn’t want to read. And meanwhile, back in the chair, Marigold sat perched on the edge of sin and secrecy. Stack’s fingers were slow. Teasing. Just sliding along her slit, not pushing in, just petting. His voice was a dark lullaby in her ear.
“I could make you cum in this room, right now,” he whispered, “Wouldn’t even have to move my hand. Just let you ride my fingers till you soak this seat. Make you whimper all holy and hushlike, and they wouldn’t know whether to praise you or punish you.”
She trembled.
Her hand gripped his thigh hard and she felt it then.
His bulge.
Thick. Hard. Pressed against the inside of his slacks. She could feel it throbbing beneath her hand, begging for release.
And the best part?
She wanted it.
Even with Lucille laughing. Even with Faye drunk. Even with Ramona trying to seduce Cordelia and Peaches staring like she wanted to throw a drink. Marigold wanted him to pull her onto his lap and feed it to her like communion. She closed her eyes and prayed to a God to stop the pulse between her legs. Stack pulled her down without asking. One firm tug and Marigold was planted full in his lap, thighs parted around his, her robe still barely hiding anything from the rising temperature in the room. She let out the softest gasp, wine sloshing in her glass as her ass settled directly on top of his bulge.
Lord have mercy…
She could feel every inch of him. Hot. Heavy. Hard as a damn pipe beneath her. Her thighs instinctively clenched, but that only made it worse. Stack leaned back in the plush velvet chair, one arm draped low on her waist, the other nursing his drink—some deep brown rum with heat like woodsmoke. His breath smelled sweet and dangerous.
And he was drunk now.
Not slurring. Not stumbling. Just loose-limbed, voice thick, lips glossy, eyes heavy-lidded and full of sin. He pressed his mouth to her shoulder and hummed low, the sound vibrating against her collarbone.
“Mmm. That ass feel like a prayer answered, Goldie.” Another sip, “So damn soft…I swear I could die right here between your cheeks and not even ask why.”
She squirmed.
The fabric between them soaked with heat. His dick throbbed against her, and she gripped her glass tighter, trying to stay calm, to stay present, to not melt in front of all these people. Lucille’s girls—Trixie, Faye, and Ramona—had taken to the center of the room now, hips swaying, tipsy and barefoot, performing a slow, sensual dance to a new track Lucille had put on. The record crackled with low horns and thick bass—something slow and sticky that made folks clap and laugh and yell encouragement as they moved. The room had filled out more. High rollers now. A tall, dark-skinned man with diamond cufflinks and a silk scarf strolled in through the back curtain. He was flanked by two women—one of them none other than Odessa in a cream lace gown, lips painted like sin, cigarette in hand. She tossed her curls and smiled when she spotted Stack.
“You done turned this lounge into a juke brothel,” she teased.
The man behind her? That was Langston Duvall, one of the most infamous Black Stag film directors in the South. Folks said he could make anybody a star…if you were bold enough. But Marigold was too caught up in the man behind her. Stack nuzzled into her neck again, his voice dropping into a filthy hush only she could hear.
“You feel that?” He rocked his hips slow. Up. Just enough, “That’s all you. Got my dick hard and heavy and beggin’. You sittin’ on a problem, baby.”
She bit her lip, “Stop,” she whispered, heat flushing up her throat.
He chuckled, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, “You don’t want me to stop.”
His hand slid back down to her hip, strong fingers stroking slow circles into her side.
“How you think it’s gon feel once I slide up in you, Miss Goldie?”
Her breath hitched. He kissed her neck again, voice thick with liquor and filth.
“You think that sweet lil’ pussy can take all this dick?”
A pause.
“Or you think I’ma have to stuff it in slow…make you cry a lil’ bit…break you in proper?”
Marigold whimpered.
“Elias—” she whispered, scandalized.
He groaned softly at the sound of his real name coming from her mouth again.
“Say it again,” he rasped, grinding up once more.
She shook her head, curls falling loose from the combs. Her thighs trembled. Her robe loosened just slightly. Across the room, Ramona had slithered up next to Cordelia, whispering in her ear while tracing the line of her arm with a painted fingernail. Cordelia didn’t move—just tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowed, mouth twitching in a smirk that wasn’t quite rejection. But it wasn’t acceptance either. From across the room, Peaches watched. She didn’t say a word. She just sipped slow from her wine and looked at Cordelia like maybe, just maybe…
Marigold was trembling. Not from cold. Not from nerves. But from the weight of him pressed beneath her, from the slow, steady, merciless filth pouring from his mouth like it was scripture. Stack had her in his lap like she was built for it. His hand gripped her waist, guiding every subtle grind, every twitch of his hips, every bounce that made his hard length throb right against her bare center.
“You feel so fuckin’ good sittin’ on me like this,” he whispered, voice hoarse now, drunk and raw, lips dragging across her throat, “Soft ass…warm lil’ pussy. I swear I can feel the steam comin’ off you.”
Marigold bit her lip hard.
Her leg started bouncing—slow at first, then harder— as if her body was begging for a release her mind was too shy to name.
Stack noticed. Of course he did. He grinned against her skin.
“That leg don’t lie, baby.” He slid his palm down her thigh, then back up again, gripping the meat of it with one big hand, “That mean you ready for somethin’. Ready for me to lift this robe, spit on that lil’ clit, and eat you all over again.”
She whimpered.
Hands gripped the arms of the velvet chair like they were the only thing tethering her to Earth. And then—He adjusted himself. Slow. Deliberate. Tilted his hips up, ground his bulge against her with a soft hiss through his teeth.
“Fuck,” he groaned, “I’m so hard it hurt.” He rocked again, “You doin’ that. All that tight lil’ heat rubbin’ against me. Can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how you tasted.” He brought his hand to her jaw. Turned her face slightly, “Sweet and messy. Like rum and God’s mistake.”
Marigold couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t move.
Her breath came in shaky little pulls. Her lips were slick. Her skin was dewy. Her thighs were trembling so bad it felt like her bones might rattle.
Stack leaned in again, right against her ear now, “I can still taste you,” he growled, “On my tongue. In the rum. In the back of my throat. Pussy that good don’t disappear.”
She gasps. Bites her lip again. Shakes her head, mouthing stop even though she doesn’t want him to.
He laughs, low and lazy, “Mmm. You pretty when you beggin’ without beggin’.”
His hands slid lower again, and she could feel it—the way his dick twitched beneath her like it was ready to break out, demand entry, claim the rest of what he hadn’t already conquered. And then—He shifted again. His voice changed. Lower. More urgent.
“C’mon,” he said into her ear, like he was asking her to run off to war, “I need you in my mouth again.”
He stood up with her in his arms before she could answer. Cradled her like something soft and sinful. Walked straight past Lucille and her girls, past Cordelia, past Peaches, past the high rollers, past the eyes.
Didn’t explain.
Didn’t ask.
Just carried his preacher’s wife out the velvet lounge like a man who’d already been to heaven and wanted another bite.
They moved like smoke through silk.
Stack didn’t put her down—not once. His arms wrapped firm around Marigold’s waist, her thighs draped over his forearm, her robe hanging loose now, one comb slipping free from her curls with each step. The hallway behind the lounge narrowed into darkness and hush. No more music. No more laughter. Just the faint creak of wood beneath his boots and the way her breath caught every time he squeezed her tighter.
The walls changed here. No longer velvet red. Now black, with gold-painted edges and soft sconces that flickered like candlelight. It smelled like tobacco and perfume and pine floors. A hidden hallway inside the beating heart of The Blackline—one only certain girls and certain men had seen. And at the end of it, a single lacquered door.
Stack kicked it open.
Inside, it was warm, dim, private. A small room with no windows. A low couch. A velvet chaise. Hooks on the wall for hanging clothes and ropes. And at the center, a tall, wide chair—almost like a throne—carved from dark wood, plush and deep with an ottoman in front.
He called it the initiation room.
Because this is where he trained them. Broke them in. Showed them how to be touched right. How to be wanted. How to open without apology. He set her down slow, eyes already dark with liquor and lust, his slacks heavy at the groin, the outline of his dick thick, long, straining against the fabric. Marigold adjusted her robe on instinct, tugging it tighter across her chest. Stack watched her. Silent. Heat pouring from him in waves. Then—lazy, slouched—he took the center chair, legs wide, dick heavy between his thighs. His hand reached to stroke the thick length through his pants, slow.
“You know what this is, right?” he asked, voice low, smoky, “This where new girls get broken in.”
Marigold blinked at him, “What?”
“You a new girl tonight, ain’t you?” he said, grinning now, “Ain’t that how you actin’? All shy and sweet. All tight and unclaimed. That robe don’t fool me. That pussy still mine.”
She shifted in place, heart racing, thighs pressed together, “I—don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean…” he said, leaning forward, “tonight you just a little thing walkin’ in off the street. Lookin’ to be initiated. We don’t fuck on first meetin’. We just… introduce your pussy to my mouth.”
Marigold flushed hard.
She shook her head, took a step back, “Stack—”
He groaned loud, frustrated, hand still stroking his dick through the fabric.
“Lord, you still shy?” His hand gripped the arm of the chair. His jaw clenched, “You sittin’ on my face less than an hour ago, squirtin’ on my tongue and cryin’ my name like and now you actin’ brand new?”
Her eyes dropped to his lap—and froze.
The bulge in his pants was obscene. Long. Wide. So hard it curved slightly to the left beneath the fabric, pushing against the zipper like it wanted out. His thighs were spread just wide enough to make it worse,
Stack saw where she was lookin’. Smirked.
“Yeah. You lookin’ at it now.”
She flinched.
He stood up.
The room felt smaller suddenly. His height, his weight, the pressure of him. He curled two fingers, beckoning.
“C’mere.”
Marigold didn’t move.
He stepped forward.
“C’mere, Goldie.”
Still nothing. Then, in a flash, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her over his lap. She gasped, caught off guard, and suddenly she was bent over his knee, robe hiked, thighs bare, her ass warm in the low light.
“You wanna act like you ain’t hear me? Like you some brat?” he muttered, hand grazing her ass, “Then I’ma treat you like one.”
POP.
The first slap landed firm.
She yelped.
POP.
The second—harder.
“You don’t talk back.”
POP.
“You don’t tell me to stop talkin’ nasty when you like it.”
POP.
“You know how I know?” He slid his hand between her thighs, pressed two fingers to the mess between her legs, “’Cause this pussy still wet, still leakin’, still beggin’.”
She sobbed into her arm. Not from pain. But from overwhelm.
“Stack—please—”
He rubbed her clit once, slow, right over the hood. Then smacked her ass again.
“You wanna act like a hireling? Then obey.”
Her body arched. Her thighs trembled. She moaned, soft, high, like something sacred had come loose in her throat. He leaned down close, lips to her ear.
“You gon’ be a good girl for me now?”
She nodded, breathless.
He rubbed her again, slower this time. Warm circles. Fingers slick.
“Say it.”
“I’ll be good,” she whispered.
“Say you’ll obey.”
She swallowed. Gasped. Let out a shaky breath.
“I’ll obey.”
He kissed her spine. Smirked against her skin.
“That’s more like it.”
Marigold stood motionless, spine straight, heart slamming in her chest like it was trying to break free. Her robe clung to her skin, warm and damp from nerves and arousal, her lips parted in a soft pant. Behind her, Stack lit a match with one hand, cigar between his lips, watching her in silence through the flare of flame. The smoke curled slow.
“You nervous?” he asked low, voice rough like crushed velvet dragged over gravel.
Marigold nodded, throat tight.
Stack exhaled, slow and hot, “Good.”
He stepped closer, and the smell of him wrapped around her—rum, sweat, and whatever spell she was under that made her knees feel like sugar. His voice dropped again, almost tender, almost cruel, “Strip for me, baby.”
Her fingers trembled. But she obeyed.
The robe slid down her shoulders like a sigh. Stack watched her every move like he was starving. When she stood trembling and bare beneath the low light, he stepped forward again.
“Turn around,” he said, “Let me see what I came for.”
She turned, slow. Back to him. Bent over, shy. The curves of her ass framed the shadows like a painting. Thick. Plush. The kind of softness that promised comfort and ruin. The little thatch of hair between her thighs peeked out from behind, soft and natural, untouched. Even her ass had a dusting of hair—Stack’s eyes glazed, lips parted, dimples deepening with a twitch of awe.
“Goddamn…” he whispered, “That’s beautiful.”
She whimpered.
“Spread it.”
Her breath caught. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t bark. Just…asked. Smooth. Confident. Heavy. Her hand reached back, slow. Nervous. She spread one cheek. And Stack groaned. Low and filthy, one hand gripping the edge of the nearby vanity like he needed to brace himself.
“Look at that sweet little fuckin’ hole,” he said, voice thick, eyes glued to the split, “So soft…so warm…like it pulsin’ for me already.” He chuckled, “Look at you shakin’. You like that?”
She nodded.
“You need to hear how nasty I get when I’m in love with a pussy like yours?” His laugh was gravel, “Down,” he commanded gently. “On all fours. Spread wide.”
She moved—like a puppet string pulled her hips down. Elbows on the rug. Hips cocked. She arched. Obeyed. Her thighs shook as she parted them, wide and low, dripping and glistening. Stack dropped to his knees behind her with awe, cigar tossed aside, hands gripping her thighs just to feel how warm and soft her skin was. His head tilted, admiring the creamy slick gathering at the center of her pussy like dew. Her lips were puffy. Dark with blood flow. And wet—soaked.
“Look at this sweet fuckin’ thing. Leakin’ already, baby,” he whispered, almost like prayer, “She twitchin’. Can’t even wait her turn.”
He dragged one thumb through the slick, watching it glisten in the low light. Marigold whimpered. Her head dropped forward, face hot. She couldn’t meet his gaze if she tried—too undone already.
Stack leaned close, lips brushing her inner thigh, “You wet for me, pretty girl?”
She nodded. Weak.
“You creamy?” he asked, licking the crease slowly, “Mmm. You are.” He sucked on her inner thigh, hands spreading her wide, eyes locked on her dripping pussy like it held scripture. His voice rasped like sandpaper coated in syrup, “She openin’ up for me, sayin’ Stack come taste. Stack come break me off. Stack come ruin me slow.”
Marigold moaned. He didn’t touch her with his mouth yet. Just hovered. Breathed on her. Talked to it.
“Look at them lips. Soft little folds. All that pink under all that brown…fuck. That’s art. That’s heaven. I could tongue kiss you ‘til the sun burn out.”
He finally looked at her, eyes half-lidded, pupils dark, jaw flexing. His mouth glistened from the slick he’d smeared with his thumb across her skin. His hair was a little messy, that left side part falling forward now. His gold tooth flashed when he smirked.
“Don’t be scared,” he whispered, “You gon’ do just fine. I got you, girl.”
She trembled. He lowered again, hands gripping her ass like they belonged there, like he paid for them. He leaned in, lips parting, breath hot.
And when he finally licked—she nearly screamed.
He kissed her once. Just above the slit. Lips soft. Reverent. Then—One long lick. Thick tongue dragging slow and heavy up her folds like he was trying to taste her whole life. From her weeping entrance to the shy rise of her clit, Stack lapped like he was licking honey off his knuckles. Marigold gasped, full-body shiver rippling from her spine to her toes.
“Mmm.” Stack hummed.
Low. Deep. The sound vibrated right against her pussy like a second tongue.
He licked again, “Mmm.”
The hum came slower this time. A breath through his nose, an exhale through his throat, like he was worshipping. Like her pussy was something divine and he was singing to it.
Lick.
“Mmm.”
Every single stroke of his tongue left her wetter. Creamier. Shakier.
“Keep still,” he murmured against her folds, voice sticky and ruined, “You don’t run from what’s holy.”
Another lick. This one messier. Longer. His nose dragged through her curls, and his tongue stayed flat, savoring the way she leaked for him. Her thighs trembled.
“Mmm.”
Marigold moaned into the crook of her elbow, eyes glassy, face flushed. Her whole body was vibrating—hunger and fear and fire wrapped up in one trembling package of please don’t stop. She was slick down her thighs now. Her nipples stiffened so hard they ached. Her pussy pulsed and throbbed, twitching with each lick, each breath, each hum.
And then—he pulled back.
Stack sat up slow, like he was high off it. Eyes heavy-lidded. Lips glossy. Breath uneven. His big hand slid over his mouth but didn’t wipe anything away—he pressed that wet tongue to the corner of his mouth like he was tasting what lingered. He licked his lips, slow and wide, the kind of lick that started from the corner and dragged across—glossy, syrup-thick, leaving his lower lip shining. His tongue was big. Wide and full, pink and strong like it had been built to taste only pussy. It hung in the corner of his mouth for a moment, heavy with saliva, damn near dripping.
He looked wrecked.
“Fffuck, baby…” he breathed, sitting back on his heels, “Look at this. Just look.”
His hands slid to her ass, spreading her again. Tilting his head. His lip curled when he saw the fresh drip stringing from her slit to her inner thigh.
“She twitchin’. Look at that pretty lil hole flexin’ like she beggin’ me to come back.” He popped her ass once with a soft thud, “You missin’ me already?”
Another thump. Then a grip. Hard.
“Don’t run. You hear me?” His voice dropped to a ragged whisper. “You fuckin’ beautiful. Look at you. Back dimples, sweet fat lips, lil brown ring peekin’ out like a kiss. You made for this.”
She couldn’t answer. She was panting. Shaking. Her pussy so wet it squelched when she shifted slightly. Her elbows were trembling from holding herself up. Her chest was flushed, nipples taut, her mouth slack. She felt like she was outside herself—somewhere hovering, waiting to fall apart under his voice alone.
Stack stared like he was painting her in his mind.
His lip curled. He bit it. Grinned. Spanked her again just to watch the jiggle. His handprint bloomed hot and red across her ass. Then—He thumped her once more and sighed, eyes rolling back like a man on the edge.
“Go on,” he said, voice deep as thunder but velvet smooth, “Bend over the chaise.”
His tone changed.
Roleplay resumed.
Like he was the man in charge of breaking her in.
“Put them hands flat. Arch that back. Spread them legs. Don’t make me say it twice.”
She moved like a whisper. Silken, shy. The chaise groaned as she leaned over it, hands braced. Her thighs parted. Her pussy still slick. Still open. And Stack just stood behind her for a moment, rubbing his hand down his beard, that thick tongue peeking out again.
He wasn’t ready to stop admiring her. He smirked. Reached down. Spanked her again.
“Uh uh…” Stack rumbled, “Turn. I need them eyes.”
She started to move slow, hesitant, and that just made it sweeter. Hair wild again—those combs had long hit the floor—and her face, lawd…her face. Flushed and needy, trembling lip tucked between her teeth, lashes flutterin’ like she was scared to look too long or she’d come undone just off the eye contact.
Good.
He wanted her wrecked.
Marigold turned her head, just like he said. Cheek pressed to the chaise cushion, mouth parted, eyes locked on him like she ain’t even realize how desperate she looked. That moan-stuck expression. Pupils wide. Breath catching. Like he’d done laid her soul bare and she couldn’t gather it back fast enough.
Stack licked his lips again and sank down.
“I said legs wide,” he muttered, voice already thick, eyes dragging down her backside slow.
She parted them a little more.
He smirked.
“There she go.”
That fat little pussy was still leaking for him. All puffy and glistening, twitchin’ like it was waiting on him to come back and make it feel right. He leaned in. Didn’t rush it. Didn’t even breathe. Just let his nose brush her inner thigh first, lips ghosting the heat of her. She gasped. Tilted her head more. Neck long, soft and trembling.
And then—he dove in.
Thick tongue, open mouth, slurp first. Not no gentle lick. No soft taste. Stack feasted. Sucked the whole center of her into his mouth like he was tryna pull the moans straight from the source. His lips sealed around her like a man starvin’—chin buried in the crease, nose pressed firm against that brown ring while his tongue slid in deep, messy, wet.
“Mmmf,” he groaned, grinding his mouth into her, “Goddamn, baby…look at what you feedin’ me.”
He didn’t stop to let her speak. He wasn’t interested in words right now. Not hers. Just her moans. He dragged his tongue up again, wide and slow, then sucked her clit with a filthy, open-mouthed pop. She jerked. Thighs twitched.
“Ahn—Stack…” she whimpered, breath breaking.
“There she go,” he whispered, tongue flicking that button again, slow and heavy, lips swollen from how he’d been devouring, You hear yourself? That’s what this pussy need. Ain’t no prayer gon’ hush that.”
He kissed it. Like it was holy. Then licked it again. Long. Loud. Sloppy. Each lick came with sound—his moans, her gasps, the wet suction of his tongue against that creamy little hole. She was fuckin’ drippin’. Fat drops slid from her down to his beard and he let it coat him. Didn’t wipe a single drop.
He was talkin’ to it now. Real low. Filthy.
“You talk all that shit about sin,” he spoke against her folds, “and here you go…feedin’ a pimpin’ pussy so sweet. You should be ashamed, baby. That’s the Devil’s nectar, ain’t it?”
He kissed it again. Tongue swirling. He licked her open and watched the mess stick to his mouth like syrup.
“You moanin’ now instead of preachin’. Pussy preachin’ louder than you ever could.”
Marigold gasped. Her voice cracked—high, soft.
“Oh my goodness…ohhhh… Stack—please—”
He slurped.
Loud. Dirty. Intentional.
“Say it again,” he mumbled, licking right over her again and again, “Say my name like that. Don’t hold it in now. You already made the offering.”
Her face was a vision—eyes all glossy, lips glistening, jaw slack like her words got tangled up in sensation. She could barely keep her head up. Her body was trembling, her nipples stiff against the chaise, legs shaking from how wide he had her. She peeked at him through lashes, mouth still open, lower lip trembling like it didn’t know how to act.
He chuckled low.
“Look at you,” he whispered, “Look at me.”
She tried.
And what she saw?
His face drenched in her. Tongue peeking out again. Beard glistening. Eyes low and wild like a man mid-revival.
“I got you quiet now,” he said, licking her slow one more time, “That’s what you needed, huh? All that hollerin’ you was doin’? All that carryin’ on ‘bout righteousness?”
Spank.
“Let it go.”
Grip.
“Gon’ let Daddy rectify that shit.”
She whimpered. Her moans turned into pleas, head tilted like she ain’t had the strength no more to resist. Stack leaned in again. Mouth open, lips wrapped tight. He sucked. Sucked that clit until she squealed, until her hips tried to run, until her toes curled and she slapped the damn cushion.
“Stay still,” he growled.
Slap.
“Keep them legs open.”
Grip.
“Let me finish breakin’ you in.”
And then—he licked her again. Deeper. Sloppier. He groaned into it like her taste was a drug and he’d just hit the high.
And this time?
He didn’t stop.
She ain’t know what to do with herself. Still bent like a sinner in the pew when he grabbed her by the waist and flipped her over. Slow. Easy. The move made her tits bounce, her breath hitch, and that sweet lil’ gasp spill off her lips like a song she wasn’t ready to sing.
Now she was laid out.
Back on the chaise. Hair wild. Thighs open. That trembling, messy, perfect pussy glistening under the lamplight like a fresh anointing.
And Stack? He got low. Didn’t ask. Didn’t wait. Just hooked his hands behind her knees and pushed them up, spread her thighs wide until her heels balanced on the edge of the cushion. Pussy parted. Pouting. Still soaked from the last go.
He stared.
Smirked.
Then—
He feasted.
Tongue first. Flat. Firm. The first lick made her whole body jerk.
“Ahn—!”
Yeah. That’s what he wanted. He kissed it again, tongue deeper this time. Then again. Then again. Then he got mean with it—slurping, open-mouthed, noisy like he had no shame. Chin coated, lips soaked. He didn’t stop.
Not even when she tried to squirm.
Because now?
He could see her face.
And fuck, that face. Eyes wide and glassy, lips wet, parted in disbelief. Like she ain’t know whether to cry or cum. Every sound she made hit different now. No hiding in the crook of her elbow. No more pressed cheeks or shy gasps.
She had to feel it.
Had to watch it.
And that made her all the more wrecked. Her chest rose fast, her nipples hard, round tits bouncing slightly every time he sucked on that soft lil’ clit. His beard was slick with it now. Chin shining like he’d been baptized in her. Stack groaned low, tongue dipping again, mouth locking around her entrance with filthy precision.
And then—
He felt it.
That sweet little hand reaching out. Her fingers clawed into his scalp, tangled in the slick waves of his hair like she needed something to hold while she lost her mind.
That grip?
Whew.
That grip made his cock throb.
She was moaning now. Whimpering, whispering nonsense like she couldn’t even figure out what was happening to her body. Stack just kept working, tongue relentless, beard rubbing up against her like he was tryna rub the good girl off her skin.
And then he pulled back just a bit. Just enough to talk to it. He licked his lips slow and wide, left that bottom one shining again. Then leaned in so close her clit twitched from the heat of his breath.
“Say it,” he whispered, tongue flicking once, twice, licking the words into her. “Repeat after me, baby.”
She blinked. Lips trembled. Stack lifted his head just enough to look her dead in the eyes, still holding her thighs open wide.
“Say—Daddy eat this pussy up.”
She hesitated. Gasped.
Bit her lip.
“I—I…” Her voice was soft. Barely breath. “Daddy eat this…pussy up…”
That shy little whisper?
That did him in. He growled and went right back in. Lips locking tight. Tongue moving like he had something to prove now. Every flick, every slurp, every suck was rougher. Deeper. Slower. Purposeful.
She screamed.
“Stack! Oh my—Stack!”
Her hand fisted tighter in his hair and he let her pull. Let her grind. Let her moan till she sobbed, pussy squelching and shining with each new suck.
He came up for air once—just once—to whisper.
“Yeah you do. You need this. This what that sweet pussy been waitin’ on.”
And then he dove back in like he was tryna take her whole soul with his mouth.
She was done. Wrecked. Ruined. Beautiful.
And he wasn’t fuckin’ stopping.
She said it.
Whispered it like a secret.
Like a confession.
“Daddy eat this pussy up…”
He damn near came just hearing that come out her mouth.
Sweet. Shy. Sin-drunk.
“Yeah…” he growled against her folds, tongue sliding low, slow, deep, “You got damn right.”
Stack buried his face in her pussy like he planned to never come up again. Hands firm under her thighs, holding her wide, beard soaked, tongue moving like scripture on a Sunday mornin’.
But this?
This was filthy.
“Talkin’ to me now, huh?” he muttered right against her entrance, licking in slow, pulsing circles, “Mouth was runnin’ all that righteous shit and now look at you—slobberin’ all on my fuckin’ tongue.”
Marigold whimpered. Full-body shiver. Hips arched up like her pussy was trying to meet his mouth halfway.
“Nah, baby,” Stack chuckled, licking long and firm up her crease, “Lay back. I got you.”
Then he leaned in real close and did it—
He started talkin’ to the pussy. Low. Wet. Groaned like he was talkin’ to a woman he was tryna tame.
“There she go…lil twitchin’ thing. You like Daddy talkin’ to you, huh?” He slurped her clit like he was sucking mango juice from a split fruit, “That lil’ thump I feel? That heartbeat in this pussy? Mmm. She close.”
Stack flattened his tongue and dragged it up again. Her thighs shook. He licked her hard and slow, then sucked her clit deep between his lips with a pop that made her whole body spasm.
“Oh—oh my God—Stack—yesss—uhnnnnnn—”Her voice broke. One leg kicked. She was there.
He didn’t stop.
He locked on and kept goin’. Slurping. Sucking.
Worshipping.
He growled into her folds.
“C’mon then. Let it out. Don’t fight it. Let Daddy taste it.”
He licked in tighter circles now. Deep, rhythmic, slow-fast-slow again. Tongue drawing patterns like he was writing his fuckin’ name.
Her breath caught. Hips bucked. Hand still fisted in his hair, dragging, holding on like she was falling through the damn earth.
And then—
He spoke again.
“You gon’ cum for me, ain’t you? That lil’ pussy need it bad, huh? C’mon, mama. Let Daddy make her cry. Let me hear her talk back.”
Body curling, legs trembling, her pussy gushing against his mouth. That creamy release rushed out warm, thick, sweet, and he caught every fuckin’ drop. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t let go.
He groaned like it fed him.
“Nnnhh…there she is,” he moaned into it, “That’s my good girl.”
He kissed her through it. Licked her clean. Sucked her clit until her thighs twitched again. Until she sobbed his name, broken and beautiful, body limp with relief and ruin.
And when he finally pulled back? His face was drenched. Beard glistening. Lips shining. Eyes dark. He licked his bottom lip slow, savoring it like honey.
“Taste like redemption,” he muttered, grinning crooked, “Told you I’d get that pussy.”
And she was still spread. Still trembling. Still breathless.
Half-lidded. Fucked-out. Blessed.
Stack wasn’t finished. Not even close. He stood. And the moment he did, her breath hitched.
Stack loomed above her, thick muscle and confidence wrapped in dark wool and sinful intent. And there it was—pressing against the front of his slacks like it had a pulse of its own. A thick, twitching outline that made her mouth go dry. She couldn’t stop staring. Her knees pressed together on reflex, thighs clenching tight like they could hush the throb blooming between them.
Then came his voice—low, teasing, so deep it seemed to vibrate inside her.
“You wanna free it, baby?”
Her eyes snapped up, wide and nervous. She didn’t answer at first. Just blinked. Like she didn’t know if he was serious. Like she didn’t trust herself to touch what was clearly dangerous.
“Hesitatin’?” he goaded, cocking a brow, “That don’t sound like a woman ready to get her guts rearranged.”
She bit her bottom lip. Hard.
And then…she nodded. Barely. But he caught it. He reached down, unfastening the top of his slacks, unzipping slow, and then stepped closer. He didn’t pull himself out—not yet.
“Do it,” he said, “You brought all this shy heat in here… now act like you want me.”
Her hand trembled as she lifted it, fingers brushing against the warm fabric of his briefs beneath. The heat coming off him was obscene. She could already feel the throb through the cotton. Her hand paused there—just resting—until he spoke again.
“Mmh… go ‘head. Bring me out.”
Swallowing hard, she slipped her fingers beneath the waistband and eased it down. It sprung out.
God.
Her whole face flushed hot. It was so much. Long and heavy and thick, the color deep and rich and angry-looking. Veins snaked the shaft like roots, pulsing just beneath the skin. It twitched in the air like it had a heartbeat—like it knew it was being looked at. Already slick at the tip, glistening.
She gasped. Actually gasped.
Stack just stood there biting his lip, watching her watch him like it was a damn show. His chest rose slow. Eyes hooded. Lips parted.
“Well?” he drawled, “You gon’ hold it or just stare like it’s the second coming?”
She reached for it.
Her fingers wrapped around him, and even that felt shocking. Heavy in her hand. Warm. Smooth but ridged. He hissed through his teeth the moment she gripped it, and her thighs squeezed tighter at the sound.
“Mmm,” he moaned, “Thaaaat’s it…How that feel, baby?”
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her mouth was parted, her breath uneven. She was too busy staring at how her hand barely wrapped around it. He reached for her other hand and slid it beneath. Brought it to his balls.
“Both hands,” he whispered, “Yeah…warm lil’ hands. You feel how heavy them nuts is? That’s full, baby. That’s a whole baptism waitin’ to happen.”
She whimpered. Actually whimpered.
Because the weight of it in her palms—the twitch of his length, the scent of skin and musk and heat—was too much. She started stroking, slow and unsure. He made a sound deep in his throat, head tipping back, hips shifting just enough to push into her grasp.
“You see how big it is?” he grunted, “You really think you ready for this in them holy holes of yours?”
She couldn’t speak. She just nodded again, helplessly. He took over then—guiding her stroke. Fisting himself with her hands still wrapped there. Making it glide slick and smooth between her palms. She watched as he played with his own tip, thumbing the slick bead leaking out. He brought it to her lips without a word. She opened her mouth without thinking. He smeared it across her tongue. Let her taste it. She blinked up at him—ashamed, stunned, starving. Stack smirked. His dimple carved deep like it knew what kind of devil he was.
Then he swung his length in her face.
Not playfully.
Like a warning.
Like a threat.
It slapped her cheek with a soft, wet smack, the weight of it making her shiver. She gasped again, frozen, lips parted.
“Stroke it,” he ordered, “Nice and slow.”
She did. She obeyed. And he just watched her, biting his lip again, his chest rising, his hand guiding hers, until his hips started to roll with it—gently at first, then a little deeper.
“You see what you do to me?” he asked, voice rasped, “Look how hard I get for you. You gon’ keep playin’ with it or you gon’ put it where it belong?”
Her breath hitched, “It’s…warm.”
He laughed. Quiet and rough, “Course it is. It’s waitin’ on you.”
She swallowed again. Her eyes trailed down. She already knew where it belonged. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she continued stroking him, his tip gliding in her hand, slick and messy. Her thighs wouldn’t stop clenching. She could feel her own slick now, sticky, heat pooling in her belly like something unholy.
And still—he kept watching.
Waiting.
Ready to ruin her.
“Nah,” he muttered, shaking his head slowly, eyes trailing down to her lips, “You ain’t ready for this in your mouth.”
The words hit her like a palm to the chest. She blinked up at him, wide-eyed. Ashamed. Aching. Her lips were parted, trembling a little. She didn’t even realize she’d started leaning forward, mouth open like she was gonna beg. But Stack saw it. Saw all of it.
“Look at you,” he spoke, voice low, amused, wrecked. “So hungry, and still ain’t earned your supper.”
She swallowed thickly, face burning. His dick bobbed in her hand—heavy, twitching, leaking like it was aware of every sinful thing passing between them. Her palm was slick from stroking him, fingers wet with that glossy mess from his tip.
“You still got work to do, baby. But I’ma show you.”
He slid a hand along his own length while she held it, guiding the pressure. He gripped the base and slapped the tip across her cheek again—wet, slow, a soft pap that made her flinch and whimper. It swayed afterward like it was alive, twitching with every beat of his heart. He stepped back, breathing heavy, and dropped into the nearby chaise like a man needing to sit. His thighs parted, one arm thrown over the back lazily while the other gestured for her to follow.
“C’mere. On your knees, right there.”
She crawled forward, still holding him. She felt delirious—like she’d been drugged by desire. Her whole body flushed, nipples tight, core pulsing, her pussy sticky from how worked up she was just from looking at it and the way he ate her up. He leaned back, eyes dark, and his lips gleamed with pussy juice and spit. Half-lidded now. Ravished.
“Pump it slow, baby. Like I showed you.”
She wrapped her hand back around him, and he hissed loud through his teeth.
“Thaaaat’s it. Mmm. Just like that…”
Her hand moved, gentle but firm, up and down. She watched how his length looked in her hand—too big, too thick, veiny and proud and angry-looking. The tip had a deep flush, and it kept drooling like it couldn’t hold back. His skin was satin-warm, but there was a steel weight underneath. Her hand trembled as she stroked—her thumb catching the sensitive underside every time she came up.
“Good girl. That’s how you stroke me.”
Then he started talking filthy.
“Mmm, you feel that weight? That’s a whole Sunday’s worth of sin sittin’ in your hand right now. You strokein’ it like a good little convert…You tryna be saved by the stick, huh?”
Her throat tightened. Her breath came faster.
“Mmph—ahhh…fuuuuck…” His moan broke loose like it slipped past his teeth on accident. Long. Raw. Guttural,“Hhhahhhh—shhhhit…” He bit his bottom lip hard, nostrils flaring. His hips flexed once. His abs tightened. He growled something deep and Southern under his breath, voice low and rough, “Just like that, baby… fuuuuck, yeah…”
She could hear how wet the sounds were now—her hand moving through all that slickness. The mess was obscene. His tip kept swelling, his balls drawn tight now in her other hand. He pulsed so violently in her grip it made her tremble.
“Faster now. That’s it—tighten that grip. Lemme fuck your fist for a second—mmmghh—fuck.” He threw his head back, “Nnnngh—shit. That’s it. That’s it. Keep goin’. Don’t stop now, girl—fuck—”
The sound of her name half-escaped his mouth but died on a moan so raw it made her thighs clench again. His voice cracked with it. Her name had turned into just a sound:
“Mmm—Marigo—fuck—gold—uhhhhhh…”
She’d never heard a man sound like this. Like he was unraveling at the seams. He started breathing through his teeth, fast and sharp. His thighs tensed, the muscles twitching. His chest lifted and fell with every stroke of her hand. Sweat gathered at his collarbone. His lips parted, and he looked down at her like he was ruined.
“You gon’ make me cum, baby…You gon’ make me spill all this in them pretty hands…You gon’ keep pumpin’ like a good girl, or you gon’ stop now and disobey?”
Her hands didn’t stop. Her mouth opened in a shaky gasp. She wanted it. Wanted to see what he looked like when he let go for her.
And she was about to find out.
It happened fast.
One moment, she was stroking him like he taught her—watching the way his body tensed, listening to the filthy praises falling from his lips like gospel—and the next, his whole frame snapped.
He gripped the back of the chaise like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth, his arms stretching wide, every muscle flexing like a cord drawn taut. His back arched. Hips jolted. His thighs trembled as he spilled with a broken, desperate groan.
“UHHHH—shhhhit—Marigold—fuck, baby girl—”
She gasped.
Her hand flew to her mouth in pure, wide-eyed shock. It was spurting. Thick and hot. Rope after rope spilling over her fist and wrist. Her skin was painted in it. The first shot startled her—it hit her thumb, thick and sticky. The next slid down between her fingers, warm like molten honey. The way it pulsed out of him, kept pulsing…it was unreal. Her hand never stopped moving, instinctively now, as if guided by his need.
He was twitching. Moaning through it. Loud.
Not quiet grunts, not polite sounds.
“Ahhh—ahhhnn—fuckfuckfuck—mmmghhh—look what you do to me…you see this mess you made?”
His head tipped back. Then it dropped forward again as if the weight of release was too much. His eyes squeezed shut. His brow wrinkled in the middle, lips falling open in a moan so raw it sounded like prayer. He was panting. Rattled. Ripped apart.
She had never seen a man come before.
Not like this.
She’d heard whispered things from the church wives, veiled confessions in kitchens and back pews. But nothing prepared her for this. The way his body moved…the tremble of his thighs, the way his abs clenched, the way his dick jerked in her slick palm, spurting more than she thought possible. The veins down his shaft bulged. His tip flushed nearly purple. It just…kept coming.
She was soaked in him.
His moans…
They weren’t just noises.
They were unholy.
“Uhhhhhh—mmmhh, shit—so warm—that’s it, that’s it—you made me bust like that…like a nasty fuckin’ addict. You feel that mess? That’s from you, girl. Thinkin’ ‘bout that sweet lil’ mouth. That tight lil’ hole. You did that to me…”
She was shaking.
Knees pressing together, breath ragged. Her heart thumped like a drum in a revival tent. Her thighs were soaked now—not with him, but with herself. She was leaking, pulsing around nothing. Vibrating from the inside out.
She kept staring at her hand.
It was coated.
Sticky, messy, oozing down her palm and wrist in strands. Creamy and warm. Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t dare move.
Stack opened his eyes.
They were wrecked. Heavy-lidded. Glazed over like he was still coming down. His voice was hoarse but deep when he spoke again.
“You wanna taste?”
Her eyes jerked up to his. She froze.
She didn’t answer.
“Go on. Just a lil’ taste. You earned it.”
She looked back down. Swallowed hard. The heat between her legs pulsed again. Her face was burning. But her hand lifted.
Slow.
Uncertain.
She brought two fingers to her mouth, lips trembling. Her tongue darted out… just a flick. Just enough to sample what was still slick and warm on her skin.
The taste was…startling.
Raw. Salty. Heavy. Not sweet, not bitter—just masculine. Musky. Like the scent of his skin, but deeper. Something earthy and thick. Her eyes fluttered closed for a split second as she took it in.
Stack was watching her.
His mouth twitched into a slow, sinful smirk.
“Mmm…taste good? That’s that stuff that fill your lil’ hole up like a cream fillin’. That’s what you make me do when I think ‘bout you. When I picture you sittin’ on that church bench all high and mighty. That tight dress. That mouth runnin’. You know what I wanna do?” He leaned forward now, breathing still uneven, “I wanna stuff that mouth full so you hum when you pray. Wanna bust again in that sweet lil’ pussy. Feel it spill deep inside. Warm you up from the inside out. Don’t worry… you gon’ feel it soon. In your mouth. In that holy lil’ puss.”
She whimpered. Her thighs squeezed together again. Her stomach turned in knots. She was damn near vibrating—with shock, with shame, with overwhelming desire.
She wanted it.
Wanted him.
All of it.
Even the parts that made her feel like she’d never be clean again. She licked her fingers again—slower this time.
And Stack groaned.
Low. Long. Possessive.
The robe slid soft over her shoulders.
Stack’s fingers tucked it closed with care. One hand lingered at her waist while the other rose to cradle her cheek, his thumb stroking just beneath her eye. Marigold was still trembling a little—body flushed and spent, lips kiss-worn, thighs sticky with arousal and ache.
“You did good f’me tonight,” Stack spoke softly, voice low and warm against the curve of her jaw, “Better than good. You was beautiful.”
She swallowed hard. Couldn’t quite look him in the eye yet.
Stack’s lips brushed her temple, “I know that was a lot. Intense. But you made it through. And you gon’ keep makin’ it through.”
A beat.
“Long as you listen.”
Marigold nodded, shy. Her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Stack kissed her there—soft and slow—before pulling back and adjusting the robe again like she was something precious. Then he ran a hand down her back, giving her a little pat on the behind.
“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He opened the door.
And there she was.
Mirabel.
Perched near the end of the hallway, leaning casual against the wall like she’d been waiting to catch him. The lighting cast her face in partial shadow, but not enough to hide the spark of jealousy in her eyes. Her gaze dropped to Marigold—robe-wrapped, cheeks flushed, collarbone still damp with sweat—and then it snapped back to Stack.
She smiled. Tight. Slow.
“Evenin’, Stack,” she said cool, but her eyes were daggers.
“Evenin’,” Stack tossed back just as calm, guiding Marigold past with his hand firm at her waist. He didn’t stop walking. Marigold’s heart pounded harder as they passed, but Stack just leaned down toward her ear once they were beyond reach.
“She mad,” he whispered with a smirk, “Let her be.”
The bathroom was one the girls used—a big space with soft yellow light, lace curtains, and a clawfoot tub full of steaming water already drawn and waiting. Someone must’ve prepared it during the performance. Maybe Cordelia. Maybe Peaches. Stack guided her to the edge of the tub and helped untie her robe, laying it across the bench before helping her in like she was something breakable. The warm water hit her skin, and she gasped softly. Stack knelt beside the tub, sleeves rolled, one hand lazily skimming the water near her knee.
“I’m gon’ keep takin’ care of you,” he said softly, “Long as you let me.”
Marigold blinked at him, still trying to find footing in her own body. He picked up the soap and a washcloth, worked up a gentle lather, and began to clean her—slow and thorough. Between her breasts. Under her arms. Between her thighs. He never rushed. His hands were skilled, but his touch was almost devotional. And then, just as he was wringing out the cloth, he spoke again.
“You goin’ to church tomorrow?”
She nodded.
Stack leaned in closer. His voice dropped like honey over fire, “Then go with your collar loose.”
Her brows knit.
“No gloves, neither.”
“But—”
“Uh-uh,” he cut in softly, “You wanna wear them stockings, fine. But leave that stiff little jacket off. Let ‘em see you. Let ‘em see that skin glowin’.”
She looked down into the water, heat creeping up her throat. Stack grinned, brushing a kiss to her shoulder.
“Let it be known you ain’t hidin’ no more. Not from me. Not from them. Not from yourself.”
A pause.
“Wear somethin’ with some movement,” he added, “Somethin’ that feel good on your skin. Not just somethin’ to be good in.”
Marigold stared into the rippling water, the heat curling between her ribs and down between her legs all over again.
Stack stood and wiped his hands, “I’ll see you in a couple days. Finish soakin’”
He left her with that—wet, warm, soaking in his scent and his commandments, her fingers brushing the steam off her thighs and her heart pounding like a hymn.
The bathwater had gone lukewarm.
Marigold sat still in it, her knees tucked close now, the steam gone but the heat still lingering—beneath her skin, between her legs, in the deep places where Stack’s voice still echoed like a pulse. She didn’t even realize he’d returned to the doorway until she heard the gentle click of the door shutting again. He carried a fresh towel, big, soft, still warm from the line, and he knelt beside the tub without a word.
“Come on, sugar,” he said gently, “Let me get you out this water.”
She stood, legs wobbly, heart even worse. The air felt too cool against her flushed skin. Stack didn’t leer. Didn’t smirk. He just wrapped her up and held her there for a moment, hands rubbing slow over her back, the towel soaking in the water beading off her thighs.
“Still tremblin’,” he murmured, “You somethin’ else.”
He dried her in silence—slow, sure strokes. No rush. No shame. He was still half-drunk, but his hands were steady now. Every time she flinched or tried to cover herself, he just shook his head and pulled her hands away.
“You got no reason to hide from me, Miss Goldie.”
Once she was dry, he crossed the room and returned with the same church clothes she’d arrived in—folded neat, the little pearl buttons glinting in the bathroom light.
“Put your arms up,” he said.
She did. Stack dressed her like she was a doll—patient, careful, brushing her curls back from her face once he was done, fastening the buttons she was too dazed to handle herself. He stepped back to look at her once it was all done, nodding slow with his arms crossed like he was admiring something he built with his own two hands.
“You came in lookin’ like the preacher’s wife.” His smile deepened, “Now you look like mine.”
She didn’t know what to say. So she didn’t say anything.
He held out his hand. She took it.
The walk to the kitchen was quiet. The Blackline had quieted some, the pulse of the music fading into background laughter and the clink of glasses being washed. Late-night was creeping in now. But there was still that magic in the air, that slow drag of honeyed sin and soft perfume. Aunt Pearl stood at the big wooden counter, wiping down mugs. Stack kissed her on the cheek.
“Need a favor, Auntie.”
Pearl glanced between them—between Marigold’s glassy eyes and Stack’s possessive hand at the small of her back—and smiled slow.
“Let me guess. She need a ride?”
“If you don’t mind takin’ her home the long way, quiet-like. Don’t want no preacher poppin’ up with holy water at the back door.”
Pearl smirked, “Ain’t no problem, baby.”
Stack turned to Marigold and took her face in both hands. His thumb stroked just under her lip.
“I got some things comin’ up later in the week,” he spoke, close enough that she felt the rum still warm on his breath, “My lil cousin Sammie comin’ in town from Clarksdale. Throwin’ a lil event here for him. Lot to plan.”
She nodded, trying not to show the disappointment that fluttered through her chest.
“But I can’t wait to see you again.”
He kissed her. Tongue slow, soft, just enough to make her knees buckle again. Just enough to make her whimper and press closer.
He broke it with a soft growl and a smile.
“I’ll have Auntie come get you next time. Make it easy. Safe. That alright?”
She nodded again, more grateful than she could say, “Yes, thank you.”
“Good girl.” He kissed her one more time. Slower this time. Possessive. Sweet, “Get home safe.”
She was still floating when Pearl led her out the back. Still tasting him on her lips. Still flushed beneath her clothes. The robe, the bathwater, the whisper of his mouth between her thighs—every part of it clung to her like perfume. She stepped out into the cool night air with a full moon overhead and a feeling she couldn’t name blooming wild behind her ribs.
She had just been claimed. And she didn’t know what would come next…but she knew she wanted more.
The road was quiet at that hour. Streetlamps cast long amber streaks across the windshield of Aunt Pearl’s old Ford, the soft rattle of the engine humming beneath them like a low lullaby. Marigold sat in the passenger seat wrapped in her robe and freshly buttoned-up clothes, thighs still tingling beneath the hem of her skirt, fingers nervously fidgeting in her lap. The scent of cinnamon oil and sweet tobacco clung to the air—Aunt Pearl’s scent. It felt like a balm. For a while, neither of them spoke. The tires hummed beneath them. Houses passed like slow-moving ghosts.
Then Pearl said softly, without even looking, “You alright, baby?”
Marigold blinked. “I…I think so.”
A pause.
Pearl’s hands stayed steady on the wheel, knuckles catching the orange glow of the dashboard, “First time a man look at you like you ain’t never been seen before… whew. That’ll rock your world.”
Marigold’s face flushed, but she smiled. She turned to the window, a quiet laugh caught behind her hand. Pearl gave her a look from the corner of her eye.
“Don’t be shy with me. I know that look. Your lips all bitten, eyes got that glossy glaze to ‘em, cheeks hot as the back of a cast iron stove.”
Marigold let out a bashful giggle.
Pearl softened.
“Let me tell you somethin’, baby girl. I was married once. Long time ago. Thought I had it all. A husband who wore a suit to church and shined his shoes every Sunday. But you know what else he did?”
Marigold glanced over, brows lifting.
“He made me feel small. Like I was too much and not enough all at the same time. Said my laugh was too loud. My hips too wide. My needs…‘unholy.’”
Pearl gave a scoff that turned into a hum.
“Let that man convince me I was a sin for wantin’ to be touched soft. For wantin’ more. Took me years to shake that lie off.” She looked over now, her eyes steady on Marigold’s, “So let me be clear with you, sugar. You a woman. You got blood in your veins and fire in your belly. Don’t you ever let anybody—preacher or not—make you feel bad for wantin’ to be seen, touched, loved. That don’t make you sinful. That makes you alive.”
Marigold’s eyes stung, her throat catching with something deeper than gratitude. She reached across the seat and took Pearl’s hand, squeezing it tight.
Pearl gave her a wink.
“And while you at it…get that head, let him spoil you, and have yourself a time, baby!”
Marigold burst into laughter, covering her face, shoulders shaking, her heart suddenly light. The car slowed at the curb outside her home. The laughter faded. The quiet crept back in. Marigold stepped out of the car slowly. The night air was still warm, but it carried a different weight now. A solemn hush. The kind that curled around old houses and old habits.
She leaned in the window before Pearl could drive off and whispered, “Thank you.”
Pearl nodded, “Go on, Sister Goldie. Be soft with yourself.”
With one final squeeze of her hand, Pearl drove off into the dark, her red taillights disappearing like slow-dragging fireflies into the quiet night.
Marigold turned to face her house.
The porch was dark. The windows stared back like judgmental eyes. She stepped onto the walkway, every footfall heavy. Each one peeling a layer off. The robe felt tighter now. Her dress stiff. As the front door opened and she stepped inside, the warmth of The Blackline seemed to slip right off her skin. Her church clothes became a yoke again. The buttons became a seal.
Goldie slipped away…and Sister Marigold Baptiste took her place once more. The silence inside her home wasn’t gentle. It was cold and holy and hollow. She walked past the mirror in the hall without looking. Somewhere in the quiet, in the hush between then and now, a line was typed on paper—faint, soft, but resolute.
He didn’t save me. He saw me. And that was enough…
Thursday Morning—Loosened
Marigold stood barefoot on the worn floorboards of her bedroom, toes curling against the rug, a slip clinging to her skin like a hush. The morning sun spilled through the lace curtains in fractured gold, catching dust and memory in its beams. The house was still. Too still. She stood in front of her wardrobe, staring. Her usual church uniforms hung in a neat row—high collars, long sleeves, skirts that swept to the ankle, gloves folded into little nests in their matching hats. Obadiah liked her polished. Liked her dressed like the wife of a man of God should be.
Stiff. Lacquered in piety. Unreachable.
Her fingers drifted toward her usual dress—the navy one with the pearl buttons. But they stopped.
Go to church tomorrow with your collar loose.
Don’t wear gloves.
Stack’s voice, still hoarse with liquor and lust, wrapped around her spine like a binding spell.
She exhaled. Slowly. Deeply.
Her thighs still trembled with aftershocks. Her hips ached faintly from how wide he’d spread her. Her pussy twitched at the memory of his mouth—hot, open, devouring. The sound he made when he came. That growl. That filthy, guttural praise as he spilled thick and heavy into her hand. She stared at her palm like it had been marked. It wasn’t just the touch. It was the way he made her feel—worshipped and ruined at the same time. Her lips parted, breath catching. She squeezed her legs together. She still couldn’t believe she had let that man—that gangster—do all that to her. That she had gasped, moaned, begged for more. She, Sister Marigold Baptiste, had opened her legs for Elias Moore and nearly drowned in her own pleasure.
What am I becoming?
The robe slipped off her shoulders. She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror.
Skin flushed. Nipples still taut.
She never thought about sex. Never allowed herself to. Not like this. Obadiah had never undressed her slowly. Never kissed her thighs. Never praised her wetness. Never even called her pretty during the act. Sex was a duty. A quiet, rushed thing. A groan in the dark. He barely removed his shirt. She had seen his penis—briefly. Small, and already soft when he rolled off of her. She had never felt a man hard in her hands. Had never stroked one.
And then Stack…
Lord.
The weight of it. The way it twitched, leaked, pulsed. Veiny. Warm. So long she couldn’t close her fingers around it fully. So thick she had no idea how it would fit inside her. She could still feel it against her stomach, taste the salt of it on her lip from when she brought her fingers to her tongue to taste.
She trembled.
Her heart beat between her legs.
She reached for a blouse. One without the stiff high collar. She left the top few buttons undone. Her neckline open just enough for a breeze. Just enough to feel free.
No gloves.
Her hands were bare. Feminine. Exposed. She pinned her hair up soft instead of slicked back tight. Let a few curls hang. Her lips looked fuller today. Her cheeks glowed. When she looked in the mirror this time…
She saw her.
Goldie.
Not fully, but there. Blooming beneath the layers of shame and satin. Marigold touched the edge of her blouse, breathing deep.
Was it wrong? To feel this good?
Was it unholy to want?
She didn’t have the answer. But her body had already made the choice. She closed her eyes for a moment and whispered a quiet prayer—half apology, half thanks.Then she stepped into her shoes and walked toward the door.
One button looser than she used to.
No gloves.
The church was near-empty. Sunlight filtered through the high windows in dusty shafts, slanting across wooden pews and catching on the glint of polished brass. It was the middle of the week—too quiet for comfort, too sacred for secrets. Marigold stepped inside, her gloves absent, collar loose at the throat. She hadn’t dared to add rouge, but her skin still held that post-bath glow, a hush of warmth left behind by hands that had no business touching her. The heels of her shoes clicked against the worn tile floor as she made her way past the vestibule.
“Sister Baptiste,” came a voice—crisp, sweet, and dipped in Southern varnish. She turned to see Sister Bernadine rising from a side pew, wiping her palms down the front of her skirt, “You just missed Reverend Obadiah. He arrived early this morning, before sun-up. Said he wanted to have a word with you after his meeting.” Bernadine gave her a curious glance, “Said to tell you personally.”
Marigold’s heart stuttered. A small, polite smile curled on her lips, “Of course. Thank you, Sister.”
She turned toward his office, trying to still her breath.
He knows.
He had to.
The door was slightly ajar, just enough for sound to bleed through.
“…it’s already begun,” a deep male voice was saying.
Another voice: “The signs are here, same as the others.”
Marigold’s hand paused on the door. Her stomach turned, bile rising to her tongue. She knocked once, just hard enough to interrupt.
Obadiah called, “Come.”
She entered. The room smelled of sandalwood, ink, and something like musty linen. Four men were present— Deacon Braith, Deacon Ellison, Deacon Ross, and Deacon Wells. Their eyes flicked toward her without warmth. On Obadiah’s desk lay an aged black book with a cracked leather spine. Its pages were stained in sepia and shadow, the title embossed faintly in gold. The Book of Pruning. The deacons excused themselves with short nods, brushing past her like a chilling fog. Obadiah did not move. He watched her with his chin propped on one hand, fingers tapping at his mouth.
When the door clicked shut behind the last man, he rose.
“Marigold.” His voice was smooth, but cool, “Come sit.”
She obeyed.
“You’ve had a busy week, I assume?”
She nodded gently, folding her hands in her lap, “Yes, Reverend. I’ve made sure the Wednesday scripture pamphlets were printed and the children’s corner in the chapel was dusted—”
He cut her off, “I wasn’t asking about pamphlets.”
She stiffened.
“I’ve been made aware of a few matters during my absence,” he continued, walking slowly around the desk, eyes never leaving her, “Namely, Evangeline. Her mother and father came to me concerned. Said she’s been slipping in her study, missing youth devotion. Said she’s…distracted.”
Marigold’s throat dried.
“You were entrusted to oversee the young women’s ministry,” he said, now standing just beside her, “It is your duty, as First Lady, to guard their gates. Their minds. Their bodies.”
“Yes, Reverend,” she murmured.
“Tell me, why wasn’t your focus where it should’ve been?”
She opened her mouth—to lie, maybe. To give some excuse. But nothing came out. Just the sound of her own guilt, ticking like a metronome inside her skull. Obadiah turned his back briefly, adjusted the placement of a hymn book on the shelf. Then, as if it were an afterthought, said:
“You won’t be attending the leadership banquet tomorrow.”
Marigold blinked. “But Obadi—Reverend…the event was reserved for First Ladies—”
“It is,” he said, without turning.
Her voice dropped. “Then why—?”
“I’ve extended the invitation to Sister Lillian instead.”
The name cut like glass.
Obadiah turned slowly now, walking back toward her, gaze sharp, “Because your attention is better spent here, at this church. On the youth. On prayer. On watching.” He leaned closer, voice almost tender, “You do believe in purity…don’t you?”
Marigold nodded, but her throat burned. Her blouse collar felt suddenly too loose, like a noose hanging slack. Obadiah’s fingers reached forward, too soft, and buttoned the top of her blouse himself. His thumb brushed the hollow of her throat. She flinched.
“You rushed from your bed, I imagine?” he asked quietly, “You’re exposed. Immodest.”
She dropped her gaze.
He let out a slow breath, “I’ll let it pass. You’re tired. But we must be careful with tiredness, Marigold. The devil moves fastest through women who are weary.”
His words hung heavy.
And yet, underneath his cold poise, she could see something twitching beneath the surface. A restlessness in the way he adjusted his cuffs. A fire behind his eyes. He was looking at her too long. His nostrils flared slightly, as though searching for scent. She felt like an open book. One he was preparing to underline in red.
“I’ll pray for your clarity,” he said.
Marigold stood heart racing, “Yes, Reverend.”
She left the office with her head down, but her fists clenched. Something inside her was beginning to burn. And far behind her, unseen, Obadiah reached back and laid a hand on The Book of Pruning. His fingers tightened.
The porch creaked beneath Marigold’s heels.
Afternoon light lay heavy across the crooked planks, and the rusted screen door swayed just slightly with the breeze. Paint peeled from the siding in long, flaking strips, and a row of flower pots sat cracked and bone-dry along the railing. The yard hadn’t been trimmed in weeks. She adjusted her gloves, hesitated, then knocked. It was Ruth Monroe who answered—thin-lipped and graying, her face drawn tight like the line of her apron. A streak of flour dusted her cheek, and her hands were stiff with age and labor. She blinked once, slowly, before recognition set in.
“First Lady Baptiste,” she said, voice clipped, “Didn’t expect no company.”
“I was hopin’ to speak with Evangeline, if she’s home.”
Ruth’s eyes flicked down the road before settling back on Marigold. A pause. Then a stiff nod, “She in her room. Supposed to be readin’ scripture. I won’t stop you.”
The house was dim and quiet. The smell of old starch and yesterday’s cooking clung to the air. Crosses lined the hallway—some metal, some wood, one with a cracked porcelain Jesus. Marigold’s shoes made soft taps on the floor as she passed.
Ruth didn’t follow.
Evangeline’s door was cracked just enough to let the breeze curl in from the open window. Lace curtains danced slow, and somewhere beyond, a mockingbird sang. The scent of faint smoke lingered, tucked behind the sweetness of youth and dust. Marigold knocked gently before pushing the door open. Evangeline sat on the floor, cross-legged, in a faded cotton slip. Her Bible was open in her lap—but a carved-out hollow in the center held a pouch of weed. Her eyes were sharp as glass when she looked up, wide-set and dark like stormwater.
She didn’t rise.
“Didn’t know we had surprise inspections now,” she said dryly.
Marigold stepped inside, softening her voice, “Ain’t here to scold. Just checkin’ on you.”
Evangeline leaned back against the wall, “Sure you are.”
Marigold’s gaze drifted to the bruise on the girl’s arm. Faint, blooming purple beneath warm brown skin. It looked like a grip. Marigold said nothing, but the chill moved through her.
“You’ve been missed,” she offered, “The studies ain’t the same.”
“They never were,” Evangeline said, “Naomi knew that. That’s why she left.”
Marigold stiffened, “You’ve spoken to her?”
Evangeline tilted her head, “Maybe I have. Maybe I ain’t. What difference it make?”
There was something older than eighteen in her tone. A tiredness that hadn’t been earned fairly.
“You should come back,” Marigold said, “Even if it’s just to talk.”
Evangeline smiled bitter, “Talk to who? The sisters who whisper about my skirt length? Or the elders who think weed’s worse than bein’ touched up by your own blood?”
Marigold’s stomach twisted, “That bruise—”
“Don’t worry yourself.”
“I am worried.”
Evangeline held her gaze a second longer, then looked out the window.
“I don’t need pity,” she said, “You ain’t gotta pretend.”
“I’m not pretending. I just…I want to help.”
The silence between them crackled.
Finally, Marigold said, quieter, “If you ever need to talk—my door’s open. You know where I stay.”
She turned to go.
“Hey,” Evangeline called out.
Marigold paused.
“Tell the church ladies I’m doin’ just fine,” she said with a crooked smile, “Tell Obadiah too.”
Marigold nodded, but her heart felt like glass cracking. She stepped back into the hallway, past the stiff furniture and the quiet disapproval in Ruth’s eyes.
Door on the knob, Ruth’s voice cut through.
“Tea?”
The teacups trembled slightly in their saucers as Ruth returned with the tray. She set it down on the table with care, though her hands betrayed her—fingers stiff, nerves frayed at the edges.
“Chamomile,” she said quietly, “Calms the heart.”
Marigold nodded, her hands folded politely in her lap. “Thank you, Sister Ruth.”
They sat across from each other, the tea untouched at first. Ruth stared into her cup as if it held answers she didn’t want to name.
“I worry ‘bout my baby,” she said finally, voice catching in her throat.
Marigold glanced toward the hall, “She’s still young. Young women…they test boundaries.”
Ruth’s hand came to her mouth, “Last week, I caught her with a boy. In her room. Pants down. The devil in both their eyes. I—I ain’t never seen her like that.” Her voice broke, “I raised her better.”
Marigold’s expression softened. She reached into her purse and pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief, embroidered with a tiny cross in the corner. She placed it gently in Ruth’s hand.
Ruth took it with a whispered thank-you, dabbing her eyes, “I told her daddy. He ain’t say nothin’. Just got quiet. That quiet he get when he ready to act.”
Marigold’s brows lifted, concern blooming, “He put his hands on her?”
Ruth didn’t answer directly. She looked away, swallowing hard, “He say he takin’ it to Obadiah. That’s what he said. Said the church gon’ fix her.”
The words sank into the room like wet cement. Marigold kept her posture composed, but her knuckles were white around the teacup.
“I’ve tried, Sister Marigold. God knows I have. I’ve prayed. Fasted. Tried to bring her back to the Word. She used to be so close with Naomi. I don’t know what changed.”
The shift in Ruth’s voice was subtle, but sharp. A buried grudge resurfacing.
Marigold straightened, “Naomi was a good girl. Spirited, yes. But kind. And smart.”
Ruth’s mouth tightened, “Spirited is one word for it. Wild’s another.”
Marigold blinked, the sting immediate.
Ruth sipped her tea, then sighed, “I’m sorry, but…Naomi was already walkin’ a dangerous path when she left. And your sister—Esther—Lord knows she had her own darkness to wrestle with. That blood runs hot, Sister Marigold. Always has. And now my child’s caught up in it.”
Marigold rose from her chair slowly, “That blood is my blood, Sister Ruth.”
Ruth flinched, but didn’t apologize.
Marigold’s voice was quiet but firm, “Esther may be in a home now, but she is still my sister. And Naomi is still my niece. She stayed with me after everything. When no one else would take her in.”
“She ran off again, didn’t she?” Ruth asked, “Left you, too.”
“That’s between me and God,” Marigold said.
A beat passed. Ruth’s expression faltered.
“I–I’m sorry,” she stuttered. “I—I’m just scared, is all.”
Marigold nodded, brushing invisible dust from her gloves, “We all are.” She reached for her purse and paused before leaving, “If Evangeline ever wants to talk…she can come to my home. No judgments. No rules.”
Ruth looked up, eyes shining, “Thank you.”
With a polite nod, Marigold turned to go, her shoes tapping lightly against the wood floor. But something about her posture had changed—shoulders set a little firmer, gaze a little deeper. She was beginning to see it now. The cracks. The blame. The way righteousness could be twisted into something cruel.
The hallway is dim, lit only by the last stretch of sunlight clawing its way through the lace curtains. Shadows stretch across the walls like reaching fingers. A faint tick-tick of the old clock chimes from the mantel in the front parlor, counting down a moment she’s already decided on. Evangeline moves quietly, barefoot on the worn wood floors. Her room door closes behind her with a soundless pull. She’s changed out of her at-home dress into something a little looser, a little freer—soft cotton skirt, button-up shirt tied at the waist, and a pair of borrowed saddle shoes. Lips glossed. Hair fluffed. Her eyes flicker like they’ve been holding back a storm.
She steps carefully past the kitchen doorway.
Inside, Ruth Monroe, hunched at the table, her back to her daughter, a teacup forgotten in her hand. She’s holding something in her other hand—a photograph. The edges are curled from years of drawer dust and sunlight. The image: a toddler in frilly white socks with a wide, gummy smile. Baby Evangeline. Ruth stares at it, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. Evangeline stops in the hallway—just for a breath. Her eyes soften, guilt threatening to root her feet in place. But she doesn’t speak. Doesn’t step in.
She moves on.
Out the back and into night fall.
The screen door creaks, the sound swallowed by the rising hum of crickets and distant dogs barking in the dark. The porch light flickers once, then steadies. Down the gravel driveway, headlights flash twice.
A car waits at the corner.
Behind the wheel is a broad-shouldered boy with slicked-back hair and a look that says he knows how to lie for fun. In the passenger seat is a girl, maybe twenty, sharp-lined eyeliner and bubblegum lips, smacking gum with the window half-down. She waves Evangeline over like she owns the night. Evangeline grins—crooked, excited, a little scared—and runs. She climbs into the back seat, sliding in with practiced ease, the leather hot against her thighs.
The girl up front twists in her seat, “Took you long enough.”
“Had a visitor,” Evangeline says, breathless.
“You good?”
“Always.”
The car rolls forward slow at first, wheels crunching gravel as it pulls away from the Monroe house. In the rearview mirror, Evangeline sees the porch light still on. Her mother still inside. Her past still burning quietly behind her. Then the car turns the corner. The house disappears. The road stretches on. The music comes up low and dirty—something bluesy and grown. And Evangeline leans back, wind slipping through the open window, eyes wide and wild with the freedom of a girl who knows the night belongs to her.
The back office of The Blackline was dim-lit, heavy with cigar smoke and the faint sound of Ella Fitzgerald humming low from the gramophone in the corner. Stack stood by the mirror, brushing the dust from his shoulders, a half-buttoned shirt hanging open over his chest. His gold toothpick glinted as he adjusted the tilt of his fedora. Behind him, Smoke sat in the old leather chair, one leg draped over the other, wrist resting on his knee. He looked tired. The kind of tired that clung behind the eyes even when the body sat still. His undershirt was damp with the heat of the day and he was nursing the stub of a cigar that had long gone out.
Stack caught his twin’s reflection.
“You look like you been rode hard and put up crooked,” he muttered with a grin.
Smoke smirked, slow, “Ain’t slept much.”
Stack glanced over, “Everything straight?”
Smoke nodded once, eyes sharp even in fatigue, “Goods came in this morning. Delia counted it out. Runners are loading the dry cellar now. I’ll handle the rest ‘fore sundown.”
A beat passed.
Then Smoke added, like an afterthought, “Thank God for Aunt Pearl and Minnie. They been holdin’ it down.”
Stack caught that—the weight in his voice. But he didn’t press. Not yet. Instead, he moved to the small liquor cart and poured himself a splash of bourbon.
Stack chuckled, “Feels like yesterday he was cryin’ ‘cause we wouldn’t let him hold the shotgun.”
Smoke’s mouth twitched. Then, like a shift in the wind, he asked, “You been seein’ her lately, huh?”
Stack’s hand stilled on the glass, “Who?”
“Don’t play dumb wit’ me.” Smoke tilted his head, “That preacher’s wife.”
Stack leaned back on the desk, licking the bourbon from his bottom lip. His face didn’t give much away—but his voice softened, “Names Marigold.”
Smoke raised a brow, “You helpin’ her or huntin’ her?”
Stack gave a long pause. Then said, “She don’t even know what she is, man.”
Smoke narrowed his eyes slightly, waiting.
“All her life she been told she was a lamb. Quiet. Meek. Somethin’ to protect. Somethin’ to keep holy. But she ain’t just that.” Stack swirled the liquor in his glass, “She a woman. And ain’t nothin’ shameful about that.”
Smoke let the words hang, chewing on them like tobacco, “You like her.”
Stack didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile either.
“Ain’t got a name for it yet.” He looked toward the half-cracked window where the sunlight broke in like gold ribbon, “But when she talk, I listen. When she cry, I feel it. When she’s quiet…I still hear her.”
Smoke whistled low. “Damn. That’s deep for you.”
“She different.”
A silence settled between them.
Smoke leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose. The tension in his shoulders never left, “You sure you know what you doin’? Messin’ wit’ a church woman. You don’t think she’ll break the moment she sees all this?” He gestured around to the room, to the whole world they’d built.
Stack shook his head slowly, “She already cracked, Smoke. I’m just showin’ her what’s on the other side of it.”
Smoke blew out a breath, finally standing. He grabbed his coat from the hook and tossed it over one shoulder.
“Just don’t fall too hard, Stack. Been through enough trouble.”
“Too late.”
Smoke stopped in the doorway and looked back, lips parting like he might say something more—something truer. But instead, he clapped his brother on the back once and said, “Go get the boy. I’ll have the drinks cold and the girls ready.”
Stack grinned.
“You better. He ain’t never had his dick wet or his soul stirred.”
Smoke chuckled, shaking his head as he walked off, “Lord help him.”
And just like that, the office went quiet again except for the soft scratch of Ella on the record player, and the faint echo of two lives breaking in ways neither of them could name yet.
Stack stepped out of his office like a sermon in silk.
Midnight-blue three-piece suit hugging him just right, pocket square crisp, gold rings glinting with every flick of his fingers. His toothpick shifted as he adjusted the collar of his shirt—an ivory number with subtle embroidery so fine you’d have to squint to catch it. His shoes? Black leather gators. He walked like they knew how much they cost. On his way out, he caught sight of Violet at the end of the hall—pressed sweet against Smoke, who was acting downright boyish for a man with a .38 tucked beneath his waistband. Smoke had her giggling in a soft dress, hands roaming her hips, his voice low and teasing in her ear. He cupped her ass like it was his second home.
Stack paused with a smirk.
“Lord, y’all actin’ like I ain’t got places to be.”
Violet laughed, bashful, swatting Smoke’s hand away.
Smoke just grinned, eyes never leaving her.
“And you actin’ like you ain’t jealous.”
Stack strolled closer, leaned in, and pressed a kiss to Violet’s forehead.
“Nah, I’m proud. She finally got him to smile like he ain’t made of brick and bourbon.”
Smoke snorted. Violet blushed deeper.
Stack adjusted his cuffs and headed into the main lounge.
The Blackline—Main Floor
The air was velvet-thick with cigarette haze and the scent of clove oil and red lipstick.
Cordelia, draped in deep plum and dark pearls, stood near the bar snapping orders with a voice that cracked like a whip.
“Move them tables. No, not there—by the stage. Odessa! If that hem ain’t fixed by showtime I swear—”
Stack passed her with a grin and a low whistle.
“Don’t work too hard, Boss Lady.”
“Don’t flirt too loud, Player.”
He blew her a kiss. She caught it midair and slapped it into her bra with a wink. Near the front, Liza June sat cross-legged on the velvet fainting couch, her eyes deep in a tarot spread laid across the lap of Clarissa. The air around them shimmered with mystery and slow jazz.
Stack gave Liza a nod.
She nodded back without looking up.
“You walkin’ into somethin’ new today.”
“Ain’t I always?” Stack replied, slipping on his overcoat.
West Ninth Street—“Little Harlem”
Early evening. Golden hour. A Cadillac LaSalle, black with whitewall tires, glides through the bustle like a crown through a crowd. Stack’s hand rests out the window, rings catching light. Street corners hum with life—boys shining shoes, girls laughing in curls and cotton, a brass band warming up down the block.
West Ninth is pulsing.
Men in brimmed hats gather outside the barbershop, talking baseball and bootleg money. Church mothers step out of bakeries clutching warm pies and giving Stack a knowing side-eye. Teenage boys pause their dice game to admire his car. Stack pulls up outside a Black-owned shoe shop—Thompson & Sons Fine Footwear—where the windows glisten with patent leathers and hand-stitched brogues. A wooden sign out front reads:
EST. 1917 – STYLE THAT SPEAKS
He steps out slow, coat sliding off one shoulder, giving the full view of his suit. The wind catches the edge of his jacket. A girl walking by mutters:
“Mmm, that man look like trouble in cologne.”
Inside, the shop smells like cedar, leather polish, and confidence. Mr. Thompson, an elder with sharp eyes and a sharper press, greets him:
“Moore.”
“Thompson.”
Stack tries on a pair of custom blood-red two-tone lace-ups, alligator trim. He lifts his leg, admires the gleam.
“You makin’ devils dance in these, old man. Only the bold can wear red without bleedin’ in it.”
Stack pays in full. No haggling. He tips extra for the young boy who buffs the heel until it gleams like a moonlit spill. Outside again, he slides into the driver’s seat, lets the door thud shut, and lights a cigar. His reflection smirks at him in the rearview.
The man’s ready. He ain’t just Stack. He’s legacy. Swagger. Lust in linen. Blues in human form.
And tonight?
He’s got Preacher Boy Sammie to pick up.
Union Station—Little Rock, Arkansas—4:16 PM
The train hissed into the station with a long, dusty breath, its steel spine gleaming beneath the fall sun. Smoke curled up from the engine stack like an omen softened by rhythm and routine. A gust of wind kicked through the terminal, lifting loose flyers from the bulletin board and tousling the feather in Stack’s wide-brimmed hat.
Elias “Stack” Moore leaned against his Cadillac LaSalle, black with whitewall tires, immaculate as always. The paint caught the light like obsidian, fresh from a hand-rubbed polish. His shoes—custom-made from stingray leather, jet-black with a silver tip—gleamed as he crossed one ankle over the other. He flicked open his pocket watch, adjusted his cufflinks, and waited with a crooked grin, knowing he looked like sin with credit.
And then he saw him.
Sammie Moore.
Twenty years old and walking like the world had finally called him by name. Fresh off the train in a three-piece tan suit—clean, but not flashy—with a golden pocket square folded just right and a worn leather guitar case slung over his shoulder like a badge of freedom. His hair was brushed back in smooth waves, sides taper-clean. His eyes, wide and alert, took in the city like a hymn he’d only ever heard about.
Sammie Moore was Delta-born, raised in the tight drawl of wooden churches and crooked porch swings, but he carried the sharp edge of something bigger now. A college man. A first-generation miracle.
He stepped down onto the platform, his gold fraternity pin shining on his lapel: Alpha Phi Alpha—the first of its kind, newly founded by Black scholars hungry for more. And Sammie? He was studying Education and Black History, determined to uplift what his people had been taught to forget. His scholarship came from a local Black benevolent society—one his mother petitioned after his father refused to sign the papers.
He spotted Stack instantly.
“Cousin Stack!” Sammie grinned, wide and sunlit.
“Preacher Boy!” Stack stepped forward, his voice slick and gravel-laced. “Look at you, all grown and full of scholar. What they feedin’ y’all in them lecture halls? Confidence?”
They embraced hard and quick, two firm slaps on the back, the kind that say I see you, I’m proud, I got you always.
“You look like Harlem itself,” Sammie said, eyeing Stack’s tailored fit and toothpick grin.
Stack cocked a brow. “And you look like you just graduated from Sunday school for grown men. C’mon, lemme show you what Little Harlem got cookin’.”
They walked toward the Cadillac, Sammie whistling low. “This yours?”
“She purrs when I talk sweet and bite back when I don’t. Just how I like ’em.”
Sammie chuckled as they slid into the car. The doors shut with a deep, luxurious clunk. Windows down, wind in their collars, blues on the radio—somewhere between Bessie Smith and the devil humming in a bottle.
As they eased into traffic, Sammie caught the glint of sunlight off glass across the street. He turned to look.
There she was.
Evangeline Monroe.
Standing just outside a beauty supply shop, laughing with two other girls. Her dress was butter-yellow with white gloves and shiny black oxfords. Hair done in a neat bob, curls perfect. Her profile hit like a note not written down—delicate, sharp, unforgettable.
“Damn,” Sammie whispered, eyes tracking her every movement, “Who that sweet thing?”
Stack didn’t look. Just kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift like a preacher who knew exactly when to pause before the punchline.
“There’s plenty of sweet at the House,” Stack said, “You’ll see.”
Sammie glanced once more, then leaned back into the seat, guitar case pressed against his knee. But the look on his face stayed soft. Curious. Marked.
Stack didn’t say more.
And somewhere behind them, Evangeline turned—as if she’d felt eyes on her—but the car was already gone.
The front doors of The Blackline eased open with a slow, sensual creak—like even the hinges knew how to tease—and the air inside wrapped around Sammie like velvet dipped in molasses and smoke.
He stepped inside behind Stack, and the world bloomed.
The camera didn’t cut. It glided. Swooped. Curved around their shoulders and swept left, past the smoky lamps and satin-draped booths, past the heavy perfume of sin and sugar, and the sound of laughter layered like jazz chords—sharp, low, then rising.
Stack paused in the doorway, Sammie just a step behind him, holding tight to that leather-strapped guitar.
The scene was alive.
🎺 Cue jazz horns and shuffling feet 🎺
Liza June was halfway through a Tarot reading near the fireplace—her golden curls bouncing as she laid a card down with a hiss of silk and whispered, “Ooh baby, Death reversed. That mean change is comin’.” The woman across from her gasped like she’d caught the Holy Ghost. Someone refilled their glasses with blackberry wine.
The camera panned right.
Cordelia, decked in a sheer black robe with nothing underneath but thigh straps and a mouth full of threat, barked orders to a new girl about fixing her eyeliner, then turned, heels clicking, and caught sight of the boys.
“Well well well,” she drawled, one brow cocked, “The Moore boys walkin’ in like Sunday salvation. And who’s the cutie?”
Sammie blushed under the lights. His tie already felt too tight.
Cordelia sauntered up and cupped his face gently with one manicured hand. “Ain’t you handsome. You legal, baby?”
“Just turned,” Sammie mumbled.
“Mm. That’s the best flavor.” She winked and moved on, hips rolling like music.
The camera kept moving. Girls passed by—some half-dressed in beaded bustiers and garter belts, others wrapped in lace robes or chemises that barely skimmed their thighs. A group of them waved from a nearby booth, one licking whipped cream off her finger.
“Happy birthday, sugar!” one called.
“Damn,” Sammie whispered, eyes darting, lips parted, “This place real?”
Stack just grinned, proud and unbothered, an arm slung heavy across his cousin’s shoulders, “You in The Blackline now,” he said, “I built it from sin and good taste. You see liquor, you drink it. You see sugar, you taste it. You see pussy, you praise it.”
They passed a hallway where flickering wall lamps threw long shadows. The camera dipped low as someone dashed past in stockings and laughter. Somewhere deep in the back, the slow clatter of dice and the moan of a piano spilled through a cracked door.
From the kitchen, the smell hit like a memory Sammie hadn’t earned—fried catfish, hot water cornbread, sweet peach glaze, and something that smelled like his mama’s poundcake but naughtier.
He inhaled sharply, “Goddamn.”
Stack chuckled, “That be Aunt Pearl. Don’t let her fool you—she got more spice in that pot than Jesus had disciples.”
And then—
Violet.
A burst of soft curls. A squeal of joy.
“Sammie!” she called out, hurrying over in a warm, wine-colored dress that hugged her soft curves. She wrapped him up in a hug that was all hips and sunshine.
Sammie grinned wide, surprised but clearly overjoyed.
“I ain’t seen you in—”
“Too long,” Violet finished. “Look at you! Little cousin all grown up and dressed better than a Pullman porter.”
“Look at you! You jumped wit’ Ghost and got fine doing it.”
She laughed, and Stack tilted his head, “Don’t give him all your sugar, Vi. Leave some for Smoke.”
She smacked his arm.
Stack turned to Sammie again, clapping a hand on his back, “I brought you here for a reason,” he said, his voice lowering just a touch, like a promise being carved. “We gon’ celebrate your transition. Blues, bourbon, and if you play your cards right…” He smirked, “You gon’ get your tip wet for the first time.”
Sammie blinked. “I—wait, what?”
“Don’t act brand new.” Stack leaned in, voice thick with mischief. “You grown now. I’m givin’ you the keys to the kingdom.”
The camera followed as they crossed through the den, past sultry shadows and swaying silhouettes. Upstairs, Stack showed him a room set aside—modest, but nice. Clean sheets. A basin. A mirror edged in gold. Sammie dropped his duffel on the bed but kept the guitar slung over his shoulder like it was part of his ribs.
“You still playin’?” Stack asked.
Sammie nodded, stroking the neck gently. “Every damn day.”
Stack gave a small nod, respect in his eyes, “You should. That axe got blood on it.”
Sammie looked down at the guitar—the one he and Smoke had passed to him when he was just thirteen. Their father’s.
He swallowed hard.
Stack tapped the doorframe.
“Come on, Preacher Boy. Night’s young. Let’s get you blessed proper.”
And as they stepped out, the camera stayed behind for just a moment, lingering on the guitar’s worn fretboard.
The hallway behind the bar was narrow, lined with old liquor crates and dusty red curtains that swayed for no reason at all. Just past a locked door—key slid from Stack’s boot—was The Secret Room. The one with no windows. The air changed when they stepped inside. It smelled like old velvet, aged whiskey, tobacco, and secrets. Thick crimson drapes hung heavy over the walls. A pull-down screen waited, curled like a tongue. In the corner, the projector sat humming quietly like it had a memory of its own. Stack lit a cigar and let the door click shut behind them. Sammie followed, carrying his guitar case, eyes darting across the room like he’d stumbled into a place grown folks didn’t talk about out loud. He tried to play it cool—but he was twenty. Curious. Alert.
And perched in the far armchair, legs spread and boots dusty, sat Rattlesnake Joe—grinning like a man who knew too much.
“Evenin’, Pretty-Slick,” Joe said with a gold-toothed grin, lifting a brown burlap sack from beside him, “Brought you some heat. And a lil’ moon blessin’ for them tender girls o’ yours.”
Stack took the sack. Set it on the sideboard beside a bottle of Bama bourbon and a stack of steel canisters.
“Let’s see what you got,” he said, voice smooth but watchful.
Joe leaned back, tipping his hat toward Sammie, “You the one he was talkin’ about? Birthday boy?”
Sammie gave a polite nod, “Yessir.”
“Well, well,” Joe chuckled, “You in for one hell of a sanctified education, son.”
Sammie squinted, “What’s a stag film anyway?”
Stack turned slowly, lips twitching around his cigar. He walked over, draped one arm around Sammie’s shoulder, and pulled him in, “It’s like church,” he said low. “Only instead o’ shoutin’, they screamin’ your name.”
Joe hooted.
“Shit, that’s good! Write that down, Pretty-Slick!”
Stack ignored him, lifting a canister off the stack. He showed it to Sammie—Reel #14: Pussy on the Phonograph—smudged label, faint red kiss mark near the edge.
“This here?” he said, handing it to Sammie like it was scripture, “A woman touchin’ herself while her own blues record spins. You ever seen a woman make herself cry with her own voice?”
Sammie flushed. Swallowed, “No sir.”
Stack smiled faintly, then clicked the projector into place.
The machine began to whir.
Joe tossed over a leather pouch of herbs—“that’s for Cordelia’s tea, and the girls’ knees,” he muttered—and poured himself a glass of whiskey. Stack watched the reel come to life, light flickering on the screen as grainy, black-and-white heat filled the room.
The figure on screen moaned. Slowly. With rhythm.
Sammie’s mouth parted. He leaned forward, guitar case still between his legs.
Joe lit up, “See that right there? That ain’t no actress. That’s a real woman. She ain’t performin’. She rememberin’. That’s what make the reel worth a damn.”
Stack nodded, still watching.
“You listen to the breath. That lil’ hitch when her fingers dip lower? That ain’t no script. That’s memory. That’s ache.”
He looked at Sammie.
“You ever had a girl touch herself to you before?”
Sammie blinked. Eyes flicked back to the screen.
Stack laughed soft, low, “Didn’t think so. But you will. Maybe sooner than you think.”
The moaning on screen grew louder. The woman’s thighs trembled. The record player needle skipped.
Joe wiped his eyes with a kerchief, “Goddamn that’s art,” he whispered.
Sammie shifted in his seat, “So…these get shown here?”
“Only for folk who know the password,” Stack said, reaching for another reel, “We call it Midnight Sermon. You sit in one of these velvet chairs, light a cigar, and let truth flicker ‘til it stick to your ribs.”
Joe pulled a flask from his boot. “I ever tell y’all about the cursed reel I found down in Plaquemine? Swear to God, the folk on it kept lookin’ at the camera like they was watchin’ me—”
“Tell it later, Joe,” Stack muttered, “Let the boy finish his first viewing.”
The screen glowed.
The moans got real.
And Sammie, breath caught in his chest, clutched the neck of the old Moore guitar—the one Smoke and Stack had given him years ago, their father’s—like it was the only holy thing left in the room.
West Ninth Street, Little Rock
The sun glared low, syrup-thick and lazy, as Stack’s flashy green and cream roadster rolled smooth down West Ninth. The chrome caught the day just right—gleaming like fresh silver, purring like a panther. Folks on the sidewalk turned to look. They always did when Elias “Stack” Moore pulled up. He parked clean in front of Del’s Shine Parlor, one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. His suit was pressed to perfection, tie knotted sharp at the throat. A gold toothpick rode lazy in the corner of his mouth. He turned his head just enough to speak.
“Stay here, lil cousin. I’m just makin’ a drop. Won’t be long.”
Sammie, sitting passenger, nodded, his fingers absently tracing the neck of the old guitar that lay in the backseat, strapped in like a relic. Stack stepped out and closed the door with the kind of swagger that didn’t need announcing. He moved like he owned the whole block. The gold handle of the Shine Parlor door caught the sun just before it swung closed behind him. Inside, Del’s was dim and cool, smelling of leather polish, cigar smoke, and the faintest trace of musk perfume. Delphina—the owner—sat behind the long, high counter, legs crossed, counting bills in a ruby-red slip and silk robe. Brass spit buckets glinted near old barber chairs. A phonograph spun a scratchy jazz tune in the corner. And in the back, behind a velvet curtain, murmurs from the men laying bets rolled low like thunder.
Stack tipped his hat, “Got somethin’ warm for your drop box.”
Del didn’t look up, “You always do.”
Outside, Sammie cracked the window and leaned back, watching the bustle on West Ninth through dark lashes.
Then he saw her.
Again.
Evangeline Monroe.
Same girl from earlier. Same dress—butter-yellow, soft and spring-sweet, like pound cake cooling on the sill. White gloves tugged tight to the wrist. Shiny black oxfords catching light with every step. Her hair was a flawless bob, curled under like she’d just come from the beauty parlor. She walked with two other girls, laughing about something only they knew—but when she paused to lick at the edge of a vanilla cone, Sammie forgot to breathe.
She hadn’t seen him yet.
He climbed out of the car, smoothing his slacks with one hand and checking his breath with the other. The collar of his dress shirt was popped open, no tie, sleeves rolled. His fraternity pin gleamed at his lapel—Kappa Alpha Psi, recently founded, and he wore it proud. Sammie adjusted his stance, made sure his posture said: charming, not desperate.
“Miss?”
Evangeline turned. Lips still close to that ice cream. Eyes sliding over him, then back down the cone. No smile yet. Just that curious arch in her brow.
“Twice in one day?” she said coolly, “You followin’ me now?”
Sammie chuckled, a low, warm sound, “I think it’s the other way around. You keep appearing like sunshine.”
That got the ghost of a grin. She licked slow, once, eyes on his face, “You a poet or just full of it?”
He stepped closer, “Little bit of both.”
Evangeline didn’t move. Her two friends stood off to the side, whispering, giggling behind cupped hands. One elbowed the other and whispered he’s cute, but Evangeline ignored them.
Sammie glanced down, bashful but still bold, “You from around here?”
“Born and half-raised.”
“You ever heard of The Blackline?”
That name made her eyes flicker. Not wide-eyed, not shocked—just…knowing. Like she’d heard stories behind closed doors. She leaned on one hip.
“Maybe. Depends who’s askin’.”
“I’m Sammie Moore.” He held out a hand, “Stack’s blood. Smoke’s too. I just got in.”
Evangeline didn’t take his hand. She licked the ice cream again, then said, “You a Moore? That explains the mouth.”
He laughed, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s a dangerous thing,” she said, one brow lifted.
“Well…maybe you like a little danger.”
“You maybe ain’t as smooth as you think.”
He leaned close enough for her to catch a breath of his cologne—citrus, vanilla, something boyish and clean. A college man’s scent.
Then he whispered, low like temptation, like something you weren’t supposed to repeat unless you meant it, “Three slow. Two fast. Then say: Velvet Devotion.”
That made her pause. The corner of her lip twitched, “Velvet Devotion, huh?”
Sammie nodded once, “Gets you through the front. Tomorrow. What happens after…depends on how bold you feel.”
Evangeline’s lips curved slow, “You got the tongue for a preacher.”
Sammie grinned, “Maybe I just been sinnin’ better.”
Her friends hooted behind her. One of them asked, “You gon’ invite us too, Vangie?”
Evangeline glanced back at them, then looked Sammie up and down.
“If I come…I bringin’ company.”
Sammie nodded, “Long as y’all come lookin’ this good, I ain’t got no complaints.”
She tilted her head, “What if we don’t come lookin’ good? What if we come lookin’ dangerous?”
He smirked, “Then you’ll fit right in.”
From the parlor door, Stack stepped out just in time to see the last of that smile exchanged. He raised a brow but said nothing—just tapped the side of his pocket where his cigar case sat and headed back to the car.
“C’mon, Romeo. Time to get you ready for your rites.”
Sammie nodded at Evangeline, tipped an imaginary hat, “I’ll see you soon.”
She turned without answering, hips swaying like she knew she had him.
Because she did.
THE BLACKLINE – NIGHT – WEST NINTH STREET
The night air hung low, sweet with magnolia and sin.
Stack Moore leaned against his coupe, slow-smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. He looked sharp as a straight razor—slacks pressed, suspenders hugging his shoulders, white tank gleaming under the streetlight. His hat sat tilted just enough to show off the glint in his eye. A quiet smirk curled the corner of his mouth like he was always halfway to trouble. Behind him, The Blackline was alive, low brass and blues seeping through the walls, laughter floating past velvet curtains. A shadow moved across the stained-glass window just as Sammie disappeared inside, guitar case in hand, wide-eyed and grinning.
Stack took a drag.
Then he heard it.
Polished footsteps.
Church leather.
Turning his head just slightly, Stack watched as a black Studebaker slid to a clean stop across the street, engine purring like judgment withheld.
The driver’s door creaked open.
Out stepped Reverend Obadiah Baptiste, tall and rigid in his navy wool suit. Crisp. Sanctified. A silver pocket watch chain glinted against his vest. He adjusted his cufflinks, smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle, then shut the door like it had sinned. Sister Lillian exited next, already halfway up the church steps, her Bible pressed tight to her chest. She didn’t look back. Obadiah paused to speak with an older Deacon Josiah at the gate—just murmured blessings and leadership pleasantries—but his eyes…his eyes were locked on Stack.
Stack didn’t move.
Just blew a stream of smoke toward the stars.
Then, with a cocky flick of his chin and a smile that could skin a preacher alive, he spoke, “Evenin’, Rev.”
Obadiah’s jaw twitched.
He offered a tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach his eyes, nodding once like a man humoring a snake.
“Mr. Moore. How you be?”
They stood there in silence for half a breath too long. The street hummed. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. The lights from The Blackline pulsed behind Stack like a neon halo of temptation. Stack tilted his head, studying Obadiah like a man sizing up an old rival at a poker table.
“Can’t complain. Got a full house tonight. Blues, bourbon, and bad intentions.”
He grinned, “Gearing up for a weekend of sinnin’, you could say.”
Obadiah’s smile flattened. His hands folded at his waist, the way one might withhold a curse behind a hymn.
“The women in my congregation…they don’t protest no more.” He paused,“Figured there ain’t no use preaching to a hell den.”
A quiet laugh rumbled from Stack’s chest—genuine, easy, but edged like a switchblade.
“That’s real kind of you, Reverend. Makin’ room for the damned.”
Obadiah’s smirk returned, but now it was bitter. He turned as if to leave, but Stack’s voice cut the silence like a crack of gunfire in an old Western.
“How’s your preacher wife doing? What’s her name…uhh…” He tapped a finger to his temple, mocking thought, “Slippin’ my mind.”
Obadiah froze. His jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth, “Marigold.”
“Ahh, yeah.” Stack snaps fingers, “Marigold. First Lady.” Stack leaned off the car now, real casual. Took another puff. Let the smoke drift slow from his nostrils as he stepped closer, boots clicking like spurs on sacred ground. He tilted his head slightly, “That ain’t who you showed up with though.”
Obadiah stiffened.
Stack could see the vein twitch in his temple. Could feel the fury coiling beneath that collar like a serpent under holy linen. But Obadiah’s voice came calm, trained, weaponized.
“My wife is a busy woman. Teaches purity. Leads young girls to righteousness. She’s an example…of what a Lady of God ought to be.”
Stack just smiled.
He didn’t say a word about how Marigold moaned when he tongued her from behind, face buried deep, nose pressed to her crack like he was trying to breathe in her sin. Didn’t mention how she trembled when he bent her over and spread her knees wide, pussy glistening and twitching like it was begging to be fed on. Didn’t speak on how her breath hitched when he whispered “Good girl” against her throat, voice thick and hungry, or how she begged—begged—for him to spank the holy right outta her, crying out every time his palm met her ass, soaking his lap like a filthy little church slut.
Nope.
Stack didn’t say a word.
He just flicked his cigarette to the ground, crushed it beneath a polished heel, and turned back toward The Blackline, “You have a good night now, Reverend.” He paused, smirking over his shoulder, “Oh—and can you keep that bell tolling to a minimum? You spookin’ my girls.”
Obadiah’s jaw clenched so tight it looked like he might bite through scripture. But Stack was already walking away, hands in his pockets, humming a slow Delta tune—something about sin and salvation sitting on the same pew. The saloon doors of The Blackline swung open as he entered—blues wailing from the stage, women laughing in silk and perfume, and the smell of smoke, sex, and fried catfish waiting like the arms of a devil that welcomed you by name.
summary: the smokestack twins left mississippi for bigger and better things, they were big fishes in a small pond, but that doesn't negate the sting you felt when stack, your boyfriend, left town without a uttering a word about it to you. not even call nor a letter to let you know he was safe in the big city of chicago. rumors on the streets about the twins return bubbled over - they were hosting a cookout and the whole neighborhood was invited - including you.
word count: 8k
warnings: smut, oral sex (f!receiving), unprotected sex, slight mentions of cheating, slight toxic dynamics, slight mentions of drugs, set in the 90s, light mary slander (lmaoo)
author's note: ahahaa i had a lot of fun writing this ya'll omg, this one is pretty long i just couldn't help myself!! thanks for reading ya'll much appreciated <3
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The faint sounds of Saturday morning cartoons muffled within the background of your room; it was hot today - unbearably so, and it killed you that the AC in your bedroom was busted. Your grandpa said he'd get it fix, urging you not to waste your money on a new one. One thing about your grandad - he was a staunch penny pincher - always claiming he could fix something. Stating that your generation couldn't keep money in their pockets if their life depended on it. Always splurging on unnecessary 'foolishness'. But it seemed like every time he would tinker with your AC the worse it got.
You were gonna go out and buy one today, preparing for a long winded lecture - but you'd rather hear his complaints than sitting in a hot ass house. Your niece, who was only eight years old, sat on the floor at the foot of your bed. Her brown eyes watched the cartoon in front of her intensely, Tom and Jerry was her favorite - and the only cartoon you'd tolerate watching with her. You just got done doing her hair, the twist were held in place with pink Bobos with white and pink butterfly barrettes at end of the twist.
You were glad to be done with her hair - the girl was tender headed and it felt like you were entering a boxing match every time you attempted to comb and brush through her thick tresses. You hunched over on the bed, painting your toe nails with your favorite red nail polish from your local beauty supply and your head rested on the phone that was between your shoulder and ear - listening to your best friend, Pearline, on the other side of the phone.
She wanted you to go to a kickback with her; she was messing with Sammie aka Preacher Boy who lived around the block from you. She would gush about him saying that he was the sweetest man she'd ever been with - not to mention he had the best head - telling you stories about how good he would eat her out. You would spit out a: "Girl!" every time she would share a little too much, but you were happy for her - maybe a tad bit jealous too.
You didn't want Sammie - he was like a little brother to you; it was his older cousin that made your heart race. You and Stack had a thing in the past, the relationship was heavy, intense, and passionate. You genuinely thought that he could be the one, but out of the blue he left Mississippi - with his twin brother in tow - without uttering a word about it to you. And to makes matters worse the week that he up and ghosted you found out he was fucking another girl on the side.
Mary.
You were heart broken, blowing up his pager in hopes to get some sort of answers from him - but he ignored you like the plague. Which meant you two were done.
"Who all gone be there?" You asked Pearline, careful hands slowly painted your big toe with cherry nail polish.
"Everybody, that's why you should come - it'll be fun!" She replied, you could tell she was hiding something from you.
"Who is everybody?"
A pause lingered onto the conversation, which earned an eye roll from you.
Of course...He'd be there.
News spread like wild fire around the neighborhood about the twins coming back home; you couldn't avoid the whispers about them. You were cool with Smoke - even though he kept to himself and was hard to read, but you knew he was a genuine man that held good morals within his heart.
But Stack?
He was a trifling ass man who only looked out for himself - though you did admire his fierce loyalty he had for his brother and little cousin, Sammie. But you wished that his loyalty extended towards you.
"I'm not goin', sorry sis. You have fun, though." You said cutting through the tension between you and Pearline - which made her sigh in annoyance.
"You not even gonna see him, I doubt he'd be there."
"Isn't the party at Smoke's place? You think his twin brother ain't gonna be there? Please, Stack follows Smoke around like his damn shadow." You shot back in a matter of fact tone. She couldn't argue against you about it - you were right.
If you saw one twin, the other was close by.
"Please, please come with me! I know you're still raw about it--"
"You goddamn right I'm still raw. Pearline, he left me without giving me the courtesy of tellin' me and on top of that, after everything I did for his sorry ass, he went and fucked that bitch Mary!" You shouted, cutting your friend off in the middle of her sentence.
"Swear words." Your baby niece chimed in, ear hustling the conversation you had on the phone, she couldn't understand what you were talking about due to her age, but you gave her a light mean mug - not serious enough to hurt her feelings.
"You stay outta grown folks business, watch the show or Imma kick you out my room." You reprimanded which made the girl turn her attention back onto the cartoon. A chuckle hit your ear again, Pearline's light laughter made you playfully roll your eyes.
"Look, sis. I get it - I do. But I know you don't wanna be sittin' in that hot ass house sad all night. Come out with me! Enjoy some good food, music, 'allat stuff. Fuck him, don't let him ruin your mood," she then paused as and you could tell she was smiling from ear to ear. "And some fine ass men will be there - single. It's about time you broke that dry spell."
You thought about the words she said and you thought about the pros and cons of going to the party. The pros: free booze, free bud, good music, great food, seeing friends, and potentially getting flattered by some fine ass dudes.
Cons: Elias "Stack" Moore.
"If I come you better make sure you keep him away from me." You whispered out, closing the nail polish and placing it on your wooden end table, a high pitch static scream of excitement pierced your ear through the phone - a smile clinging to your face.
"Ah! Of course! I'll come over at three - I need you to fix my hair; this girl I went to fucked me up."
"I told you! You should've just waited for me to do it."
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If it was hot inside - it was scorching outside. Sweat already formed on your body as you and Pearline walked side by side towards Smoke's home - the sound of music blast through the speakers and the smell of barbeque floated within the air made your mouth slightly water. You were ready to dance and eat. Tucking your braids behind your ear, you Pearline towards the backyard were the party resided. Opening the chain linked gate - her eyes lit up as she saw Sammie walking towards her.
"Hey, baby," He said, planting a tender kiss on her lips, holding her close towards his body. His brown irises then landed on you, giving you a warm smile. "Whatssup?" Sammie greeted you and you gave him a quick hello.
"I didn't think you was coming." Sammie chuckled out as his arm wrapped around Pearline's shoulders, lovingly leaning his weight slightly on her smaller frame.
"I wasn't - but your lil' girlfriend forced me." You jested back, which made Pearline dramatically gasp, her hand playfully slapping the warm skin on your arm.
"Sounds like her, c'mon, it's hot out here, I know you ladies could use a cold drink." Sammie tilted his head back towards the crowd that danced in the large backyard, signaling for you to follow him. The thumping of music reverberated through your body as you followed behind the couple, passing the speakers and towards the multiple coolers, 'hellos' rolling off of your lips as you briefly greeted familiar faces you saw around the neighborhood. Pearline was right - everyone was here.
"Water, beer, soda, or juice?" Sammie asked.
"Water, please." Pearline spoke as she rubbed Sammie's back, her giddy smile never fading.
"Ugh, ya'll don't got liquor?" You asked, trying your best to mask your slightly annoyed face - but Sammie could tell you weren't feeling the options he gave. With a chuckle, handing Pearline a water bottle he spoke: "We don't, technically. It's bring your own booze - but since we know you; ask Smoke, he got some stashed away, only for family."
"And I'm guessing that's the same for bud, too?" You asked with crossed arms, and Sammie nodded.
"Yea', but you're a girl, I doubt you have trouble findin' somebody who let you face a blunt or two." Sammie shrugged, which earned a jab to the side from Pearline, he quickly reassured he was only kidding.
But you knew there was some truth to within his joke. You're a pretty girl - and most of these men at the party were thirsty just to be in your presence.
"Well I ain't gonna hover over ya'll all night, I'm gonna find Smoke - I need a shot," you said but before you left you took one last gaze at Pearline, her brown eyes gazing back at you knowingly. "Make sure he don't come nowhere near me - let me know if you see him..."
"Mhm, don't worry about it." She replied.
Pushing through the crowd your eyes scanned multiple faces, trying to find the older twin within all the commotion. Couples grind against each other, oldheads getting drunk off of beers, and multiple friend groups huddled up. Some playing cards while others shared neighborhood gossip. The backyard was packed and you were thankful that there were trees around, creating multiple shady spots to cool off when needed. Noticing a familiar face leaning against a tree you slyly walked over towards him, a soft smile clinging onto your plump lips.
"Ah! If it isn't lil' big brother!" You shouted slightly over the blaring music, making Smoke snap his head towards you. Chewing on a toothpick that rested in his mouth he dipped his head towards you in respect. Smoke looked so different than the last time you saw him, he was taller and he had a stronger built. Smoke was never a scrawny man - but you could tell that he's been in the gym as his thick biceps flex with each movements of his arms.
"Whatssup," Smoke said as a sliver of a smile danced on his lips. He gave you a side hug, squeezing your shoulder slightly before letting go of you. "How you been?"
"Been better, hangin' in there, you know how it is. But whatssup with you? The big city got too small for ya'll?" You asked, you were nosy and you were unsuccessfully dry begging some information on Stack - and it seemed like Smoke could tell your intentions. Yes, you didn't want to be around Stack - and yes, you despise that man. But you also still have some love for him, even if it pained you to admit that. He held you down through some of your darkest hours; during those days were you didn't have the strength to get out of bed. Sticking to guy code and loyalty to his little brother, Smoke wouldn't spill anything to you and he shrugged his shoulders.
"Somethin' like that." He muttered as his brown eyes flicked towards the crowd quickly, making sure that people wouldn't get too rowdy in his backyard.
"Mhm, still tightlipped as ever," you sighed, resting your hands on your hips. "Sammie told me to talk to you about getting some liquor - ya'll got tequila?"
"Light or dark?"
"Dark - you already know I don't drink that light shit." You answered. Smoke tilted his head towards his home, pulling the toothpick out of his mouth as he muttered - he didn't want the party patrons getting the idea of raiding his liquor cabinet. Or worse; pestering him to spare a bottle or two.
"Inside, pass the kitchen, turn on your left. Should see a cabinet with what you lookin for." Smoke quickly replied, his deep southern accent cutting through the loud bass of the music playing.
"Thanks, Smoke."
"Don't let nobody know where you got it from and keep them outta my house. Bad enough these folks trashin' my backyard."
You gave Smoke a wide and toothy smile - some of your teeth were covered in gold caps, they weren't permanents like Smoke's or Stack's - but you would always wear them when 'special' occasions happened. And besides Stack gifted them to you on your birthday; one of the gems that adorned your gold teeth was your birthstone.
Weaving through the dancing crowd your shoulders brushing against distant relatives and strangers you would see around the neighborhood. The sweet barbeque smoke curled into the thick summer air - the smell of cooked meat, spices, and vegetables cutting through the scent of sweat, weed smoke, and spilled beer. Passing through a group that huddled around a small folding table the sound of glass bottles clinking against each other and cheers made you smile.
Today was a good day, you loved being around such good vibrations.
Stepping up onto the cracked slab of the concrete patio, your hands yanked open the sticky glass sliding door that separated the backyard chaos and the calm empty house. The air inside of the home was cooler - quieter, and the shadows from the sun setting crept across the wooden floors. With a grunt you slide the door closed and the muffling bass of the music was still heard through the thick walls. Smoke's home smelled like strong incense, lemon scented cleaner, sage, and fresh linen.
Annie had definitely been here prior.
Moving with purpose now, the sound of your sneakers squeaking against the wooden floor revibrated through you and your eyes scanned for the liquor cabinet - following the directions Smoke gave you. Turning the corner your irises were met with a large brown cabinet that was filled to the brim with all sorts of spirits and drinks. Making a brisk track towards it your hand ghosted over the handle, pulling open the glass door and reaching in to grab the bottle of tequila. Reposado - your favorite.
The bottle was full and the glass was slightly cold under your warm hands, with a sigh of victory you turned on your heel to make your way back outside. But then you paused. Standing in the small hallway of the home your eyes lingered on the golden sunrays that pooled onto the floor, the front door of the home was open, only the thin mesh of the screen door was holding back the bugs and summer air from entering. You knew Smoke wouldn't be the type to just let his front door wide open - even if him and half of the men in this party weren't lacking any 'peacekeepers', you're sure it would bother him if someone he didn't know would stumble into his home causing trouble.
Walking towards the open door in an attempt to close it shut, your legs turned into jelly and your heart raced as if you just got done running a marathon. Across the small stretch of dead grass on the front lawn and cracked pavement on the side walk, your irises lingered onto him.
Stack.
He sat lazily in the diver seat of the light brown lowrider, it's rims obnoxiously gaudy, they were gold and it seemed like wheels could barely fit the body of the car. The engine was off but he sat with the car door wide open, surrounded by some guys you met in passing through the neighborhood - his friends. Laughing too loud their words exchanged between each other were sharp and quick witted, yet long and casual like summer itself.
Stack was shining in gold like always, but now you've noticed he adorned more accessories than the last time you saw him. Multiple golden chains rested around his neck, gold glistening from the sunlight as he adjusted his watch that wrapped around his wrist, and the bright red color gem stones shined within the rings that he wore.
Smoke wore some jewelry too. Three chains - one of them was a Jesus piece - a watch and golden teeth just on the side of his mouth. His jewelry wasn't extravagant but anyone with a good eye could tell it was expensive. But Stack? He looked as if he was a pharaoh - the he himself was made out of gold.
A red tee balled up in Stack's lap, revealing his strong biceps and arms, the white tank top clung onto his skin and the soft cotton only accentuated his muscles even more. You remember those long winter nights of running your hands over his hard chest, feeling each and ever dip and valley of the muscles on his body. How your lips would kiss his abs, trailing down lower and lower...
He looked good.
All you could do was just watch and stare, the tequila bottle hanging loosely in your hands, dangerously close to dropping the glass bottle. Your reservations about seeing him melted away, you wanted to open the door and call out his name - to see if he still felt the same way about you. But then the memories of him ghosting you, ignoring any and all attempts of you reaching out to him; and the fact that he had another girl on the side made the butterflies in your stomach turn sickening.
With a bitter chuckle to yourself, you turned on your heel and made your way back towards the party.
This night will interesting to say the least.
──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──
A few hours passed and the sky melted into a deep burnt orange color as the sun dipped behind the multiple rooftops, disappearing from the sky in due time. The orange and scorching glow washed over the multiple brown bodies that danced on the makeshift dancefloor, red plastic cups and sweat-slicked skin shined brightly within the summer afternoon.
The party didn't slow though - it only grew louder, brighter, more alive as more people showed up. You were feeling good - no, you were feeling great. The multiple shots of tequila you shared with Pearline pushed away all the negative emotions you felt hours prior, not to mention the sun that nipped at your skin made you a little bit sun-drunk. The burn of the liquor grounded you - and you were laughing again - joking with Pearline as you both swatting away dudes who couldn't get the hint that ya'll weren't interested.
You told Pearline that you saw Stack earlier and she asked if you wanted to leave - she reassured that she'd leave with you without complaints - but you told her it was fine, as long as Stack kept his distance you'd gladly stay.
"He's not gonna mess with you, sis. I got you" Pearline whispered in your ear with a supportive smile dancing on her lips. You nodded your head as you reached for the juice - using it as a chaser to kill the bite from the tequila shots. Both of you sat side by side on cheap plastic chairs, your knees touching against hers. Sammie who was once standing besides Pearline now stood in front of the patio, he was DJing now and your eyes would flick between Pearline and Sammie as she shouted cheers.
They were cute together, like lovesick school kids.
Sammie was in the zone, his head nodding with the thunderous beat and skillful fingers glide across the board, and the bass from the chopped and screwed beat rippled through the joyous crowd. Your smile widen now, showing of the golden grills that adorn your teeth, and your body relaxed into the rhythm and for a moment you almost forgot about Stack.
Almost.
Your eyes noticed the backdoor sliding open and there he was in all of his glory.
Stack.
He was wearing that same balled up red Nike shirt from earlier, shielding the white cotton tank, but you could see the soft fabric peaking through the collar and under the chains around his neck. He moved with purpose as he stepped down the concrete slab; making his way towards the party. That same easy going smile that you use to worship danced across his handsome face, gold teeth catching the light of the ember sunset. He dapped up Sammie, whispering something in the younger cousin's ear, which made him shake his head with a small laughter escaping his lips. And his focus was placed on the DJ board again.
Stack dapped up the people who were brave enough to say hello, he was like a magnet that pulled people's attention towards him without even trying. And even though the sun heat rays beat down on you - an oppressive chill ran cold through your body as he went deeper into the party - towards you.
The tequila and juice twisted within your stomach and your breathing became rapid - you weren't the type of get sick off of liquor - you can handle your drink. But seeing Stack, the heat, and the unfortunate decision of taking a few shots without eating first made you dizzy. Pearline noticed your once mellow mood turning sour and without a word she placed a calming touch on your thigh. Your eyes met with hers briefly and she whispered affirmations in your ear - telling you to take a deep breath and that you both could leave now.
You told her it was okay between long breathes, but your jaw was clenched tight and your hands gripped onto the plastic arm rest of the chair, your leg bouncing with rapid successions. Her hand didn't leave your skin as she handed you a cold bottle of water - and you chugged the bottle as if you've haven't drank anything in days.
Brown familiar irises flicked towards you and your eyes widen like saucers, as if you saw a ghost. Stack noticed you; of course he did. He could pick you out any crowd like it was nothing - like it was second nature to him. His smile curled up in a mischievous grin, but that smile wasn't full of an apology nor regret of hurting you so bad - but instead his golden grin was laced with nothing but cockiness that use to send butterflies to your core, making your heart race with desire and need.
It still did.
With a tilt of his head, Stack signaled you to come over to him, as if nothing problematic happened between the two of you - as if he never left you high and dry. You didn't move, you barely even flinched and you broke eye contact with him, your gaze lingering on the card game that was happening behind you. Slim was chattering away about how folks just don't know how to play the game. The biting warmth of the tequila was now replaced with a cold sting in your heart, you hope that Stack would cut his losses and leave you alone.
But that wasn't him, he never gave up.
Leaning off of the wooden fence he casual shuffled through the dancing crowd, people stepped out of his way without him even uttering a single word while his eyes were still trained on you. He reached you and Pearline within seconds.
She stood up from the chair, her hands resting on her hips as she spoke: "Uh, uh. Not tonight, boy."
But Stack was barely moved by her warning as his smirk only grew. Raising his hands up in a playful display of innocence his dark eyes flicked between you and Pearline who shielded you from his sultry gaze.
"Relax," Stack casually said as he placed his hands to sides, his head lulling back to see your expressions at hearing his voice. "I ain't here to start no drama. This a party, I just wanted to know if ya'll enjoyin' it, that's all."
But he was only met with silence from you and Pearline. You were still sitting in the plastic chair, your arms crossed over your chest as Stack's intense gaze never left your body. You wore a baby blue color tube top with dark acid washed shorts that stopped just above the curve of your ass, and your white Nike cortez with blue accents kicked at the small patch of dirt.
Your eyes refuse to even look at him.
"Damn, baby. You still mad at me?" Stack chuckled out with a knowing glint in his eyes - he was loving the tension between the two of you, even as toxic as it sounded - he liked when you were pissed off, it made him feel wanted and desired. It also didn't hurt that the make up sex would be more tender the angrier he made you.
You replied with a short irritated grunt and leered at him, giving off the vibe of 'don't test me', and your body stayed stock still in the chair. A small laugh escaped Stack's plump lips, he knew he was getting under your skin - and he soaked up each and every annoyed sigh you sent his way.
Stack's intense gaze pulled away from you and landed on Slim who slammed down a playing card on the plastic table. The older man was complaining about the new age music that was popular today.
"Slim, whatssup with you, unc?" Stack called out, which made Slim's face lit up. They both dapped each other up as the older man reclaimed his seat.
"Nothin' much, just tellin' these cats about some real music. None of that 'bitches and hoes' nonsense ya'll be listing to," Slim then took a sip from his flask, his face twisting at the bitter taste of liquor hitting his lips. "What happen to lovin' a woman, cherishin' her - takin' her out and bein' tender on her. Nowadays I wonder if ya'll actually love these queens."
"Look man; I ain't got love for these hoes, the only thing I love is pussy and money - ain't nobody tryna hear all that mushy shit tonight." Stack laughed, which earn a roar of chuckles from the men that were playing cards with Slim - some of them even dapped up Stack at his statement. Slim shook his head and waved his hand towards Stack, as if shooing him away.
But his harsh words stung at your heart and the burning sensations of tears nipped at your eyes, Pearline noticed this but before she could comfort you - you pushed yourself out of the chair, the legs of it scrapped against the concrete, silencing the laughter between the men. You raced towards the crowd as you made your way to Smoke's house. Multiple eyes followed you pushing through the dancefloor. Pearline glared at Stack and something within the man tinged with remorse.
He finally realized that you were hurt and that this wasn't a game anymore.
──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──
The house was empty and the tequila in your veins burned with heartbreak and rage. Your legs rushed down the hallway and with hasty movements you flung open the bathroom door, slamming it loudly behind you. Cold tile met the burning skin of your back as your hands shielded your face, your breath hitching within your throat until it finally snapped like a rubber band.
Tears spilled freely from your eyes, slipping pass the cracks between your fingers as your body shook with each wail. With trembling lips your mind raced. You thought that you could handle it, that seeing him wouldn't wound you. But hearing Stack talk as if nothing mattered, as if he wasn't even affected by your presence made you feel hollow inside. He didn't just leave - he thrown you away. And that shit cuts deep, it felt like a knife hit your gut from his casual actions towards you.
A knock cut through your cries as your head throb with an ache, inhaling the sharp cold bathroom air your fingers wiped away the smeared makeup on your face due to the tears.
"Yea', you can come in." You whispered out, you assumed that Pearline was on the other side of the door - it made sense because only close friends of the twins were allowed to enter the vacant house. The sound of the door creaking open sent a wave of embarrassment through you.
But it wasn't Pearline your eyes were meet with.
It was Stack.
Stepping inside of the small bathroom he quietly closed the door behind him. His expression was different from the charming smile he wore prior to making you cry, all the jokes and cocky aura melted away like ice under the heat of the Mississippi sun. Guilt tugged Stack's face as he looked over your tear stained cheeks, your mascara running and your cherry red lipgloss slightly smeared from your hands pressing closely to your face.
"I-I didn't know you were cryin'." Stack muttered softly, his body leaning on the door and his brown eyes refusing to leave your shaking form. You didn't reply to him and you bit your lip, the gold teeth in your mouth slightly jabbing against the plump skin on your bottom lip. Glaring at Stack through glossy eyes you shook your head - you were growing tired of his antics.
"Hey, I didn't come in here to hurt you I just--"
"But you did hurt me, Stack! You did!" You shouted, cutting him off from his rambling. Your arms were crossed around yourself in an attempt to self soothe the anxiety that was threatening to spill over. Silence fell over the two of you and his eyes soften at your words.
"You left me like I wasn't shit. No goodbyes, not even a fuckin' breakup call! A-And then I find out you cheated on me with some bitch who lives in the suburbs," you shook your head as a pained smile danced across your lips, and with teary eyes you continued. "And now you show up and act like nothin' happened between us - you're such a joke, Stack."
Stack looked down as his hands rested in the pockets of his pants, guilt crashing into him like waves in a tsunami. He felt like shit hearing those words escape from your mouth - but those words were the truth - the bitter truth. He wasn't a good boyfriend to you; yes he took care of you, he praised you, and he adored you - but good to you? That wasn't the case. He treated you like a random fling even though the feelings he felt about you were so much more intense.
"I'm a coward," Stack mumbled. "I-I just didn't know how to be with you and still become the man I wanted to be."
"Oh, boo-hoo! You ain't even try!" You snapped as your voice cracked with each word you cried out, you hated how hurt you sounded and how raw you felt. Stack didn't flinch at your words and with a roll of his shoulders he spoke again, his southern accent curling around your ears like music.
"I was scared, I thought if I left without tellin', you'd realize that I'm no good - that you'll move on to someone better," he stepped closer towards you and the feeling of his shirt lightly grazing the exposed skin of your crossed arms. "But when I came back in town; I asked about you, and I was happy to know that you were still here - that maybe I could start over and fix this shit."
The air between you two were thicker now, more intense, and you couldn't take your eyes off of Stack.
You didn't want to.
"I never stopped thinkin' about you," he whispered low. "Even when I tried to, you were always on my mind when I left, I damn near felt lost without you."
"Then why you actin' like I never meant anything to you?"
Stack's lips twitched and his expression looked like he was scanning his scattered thoughts, as if trying to find the right words to say. His large and calloused hand reached out slowly, hovering over your arms, unsure if he could touch you without you swatting his hand away.
"Because if I admit to myself just how much you mean to me; then I woulda had to realize that I ruined the best thing that ever happened to me too..."
A tight lump formed in your throat at his words, you wanted to scream in his face, to push him out the bathroom and tell him to leave you alone - forever.
But you didn't.
You just stared at him as your chest heaved with shallow breaths. You hated him, you loved him, you missed him, and you never wanted to see him again. Your hands moved as if they had a mind of their own and you rested them on his broad shoulders, the feeling of the soft fabric under your fingers sent shockwaves and aching desire towards your core. Stack was the man that ruined you - but he was also the same one who built you up when no one would have.
Stack shuttered out a sigh of relief under your touch, as if feeling your hand press against his tense muscles was all he needed. His strong arms wrapped around your waist tightly, pulling your frame towards his, and his forehead rested on your bare shoulder. The party that was just outside of the door was muffled by the heavy breathing that escaped both of your lungs.
Leaving his head from the crook of your neck - both of your eyes clashed with each other - neither one of you breaking the intense gaze. And with a passing second your lips met his, the kiss was soft as if your bodies were trying to get reacquainted with each other, and his strong hands raced over your backside - clinging onto you as if you'd disappear from his touch.
The once soft kiss grew deeper - more hungry. And your fingers interlocked behind his head, the cold feeling of the multiple chains he wore grazed your knuckles. Tears still clung onto your long lashes as Stack cupped your face in his hand, both of your tongues fighting and dancing against each other. The taste of weed and alcohol filled your mouth as his bit your lip, begging you if he could go further pass just kissing.
You knew that you shouldn't do this; he hadn't earn to touch you like this again, he hadn't fix the broken heart that he shattered brutally, and he hadn't changed enough to re-enter your life as if he never left. But your heart, so tender and pure, still remembered those nights were he held you close. Making love to you and touching you places where only he knew that made you shiver in ecstasy.
"This doesn't mean I forgive you, Stack."
"I know, baby. But lemme show you how much I missed you."
──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──
You and Stack slipped through the dark and quiet home like ghosts, his strong hands held your waist flush against his body as he guided you through the dark hallways of his older brother's house. The wooden floorboards creaked and groan beneath your feet with each step you both took. Stack's lips brushed the soft skin of your shoulder, placing tender kisses up your neck - just stopping below your ear.
You could feel his growing bulge pressing against your ass as his steady and firm hands grasp at your waist, a shiver of delight rushed through your body as memories of him fucking you made the ache between your thighs grow in anticipation. You grinded your self onto Stack which only made him quicken the pace through the house.
Your pulsed quicken under his open mouth and you could feel him smiling against your skin, cutting through the neat living room, you and Stack reached the guest bedroom. With careful hands he slowly turned the knob and his head lulling back to make sure no one saw the two of you sneaking inside of the bedroom. When the coast was clear - you both shuffled into the room. His arm still wrapped around your waist and quiet click was heard, he locked the door making sure no one would interrupt the two of you.
The once burnt orange of the evening sunset had faded away; now the blue shadows of nighttime crept into the dark room, the silver moonlight pooling across the empty bed and you turned on your heel, crashing your lips against his and his hands squeezing your ass. You gasp at the feeling of his ring slightly scraping against the skin of your ass, which made him deepen the kiss again. Your hands tightly gripped his shirt within your fist, pulling him closer until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed.
Stack adjusted his body weight as he hovered over you, making sure that he wouldn't crush you underneath him, and the sound of his jewelry clinking against each other made your head spin. You bit his lip as he pulled away from the kiss, which earned a low hiss from him. You smiled lazily as his knowing hands traced over the hem of your shorts, his fingers tracing small shapes over the denim pockets until they landed on the button.
You began to kick your shoes off as Stack unbutton your shorts, your lip tugged between your teeth as you watched his movements. The sound of the zipper becoming undone made a wave of arousal clung at your already soaking pussy and your hips slightly bucked forward as Stack slowly pulled your shorts off, leaning on your forearms you raised your hips - helping him slip off the denim on your body.
All you wore now was your tube top, cotton panties with a small bow at the waistband, and white cotton socks. He reached for your shirt but you swatted his hands away from the thin fabric.
"If I take a piece of clothing off it's only fair that you do too." You whispered, showing off the golden grills that Stack gifted you years ago. Seeing your already beautiful smile made his heart flutter - but the sight of you with golden capped teeth made his already stiffening member grow even harder - the man was straining against his pants.
With nimble fingers Stack pulled off his shirt along with the tight beater that clung onto his hard muscles, he was shirtless now and his multiple chains glistened under the moonlight - the diamonds danced against his brown skin and it looked as if he himself was glowing. Laying on his back you straddled him and your hands steered his towards your top, his chestnut colored irises lit up when he felt your breast through your shirt.
"When you get your titties pierced?" He asked as he pinched the sensitive buds on your chest, making you grind your soaking core against his jeans, you could feel his dick twitch within his pants as you continue to rock your hips.
"A couple of weeks after you left; I wanted somethin' different."
"Fuck, baby. Lemme see 'em." Stack requested as both of your hands slipped off the blue top over your head. A small giggle escaped your lips at the sight of his face; his mouth went slack and his eyes were glued to your half nude body. His calloused hands raced across your skin and the sound of him kicking off his sneakers made you look back and with strong arms he pulled himself towards the headboard of the bed with you still sitting on his lap.
Once situated his hands cupped your breast and his thumbs slowly rolled over the pierced buds, slightly pressing down on the silver jewelry that adorn your chest, a shiver ran up your spine as you moaned out his name. You nipples were already sensitive, but after getting them pierced that sensitivity doubled, and you were practically shaking within Stack's arms.
With one hand he pinched your nipple, the sharp yet pleasurable sensation zapped through your body and straight to your aching pussy, his free hand held onto your hip as he lowered his head and latched his mouth onto your breast. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked your nipple, his teeth slightly pulling at the jewelry. Your nails dug into his strong shoulders as you threw your head back, encouraging words fell from your lips as you begged him to keep going and how good you were already feeling.
Stack hummed against your chest and your hand lovely stroked his hair carefully as to not mess up his waves. His tongue swirled your nipple as he helped you grind yourself on his hard dick, he still had his pants on as his hips bucked into you. With a wet pop, he release your breast from his mouth, biting his lip when your eyes connected again.
"You're too damn sexy, baby. I need to taste her. It's been too long and I know she misses me..." Stack whispered against your chest. He would always refer to your pussy as 'she' or 'her' when he got in this mood.
And you loved it.
"Feel how much she missed you, baby." You said into his open mouth as your hand guided his towards your wet sex, you still wore your panties but that didn't stop Stack from rubbing small circles on your clothed clit while his ring finger pressed against your entrance through the thin fabric. You humped against his hand which made a chuckle fall from his hips, his eyes trained on the movements of your hips against hand.
"Take these off, they gettin' in the way." He stated, which you gladly did, listening to his demand without a second thought. Leaning on his back against the soft blanket of the bed your breast pressed firmly onto his hard and well trained muscles on his chest. Your hips rising off of his body as you slide your panties off, kicking the soaked fabric off of your legs.
With a quick peck on the lips, Stack guided you to climb higher, your exposed pussy now in view as your hands rested on the headboard. Stack rested his head on the many pillows within the bed and his warm breath against your thigh made you tremble in anticipation. Lowering your hips with his hands, you were now sitting on his face, and his tongue flatten against your clit. Rolling your hips you began to ride his face, his tongue lazily yet full of expertise swiped across your aching entrance.
The tip of his tongue circled your clit and the rough feeling of his grills rubbing against the sensitive bud as he raced his tongue across your sex made you shiver. Stack's strong hands held onto your hips as he guided them against the movements of his tongue, with a vice grip you held onto the wooden headboard, and your eyes gazed down at the man. His brown eyes looked up at you, soaking up all of the curves on your body and the sweet taste of your pussy that danced on his tongue made him roll his eyes back in pleasure.
"Ugh, fuck!" You groaned out as your hips bucked against his face. Stack's lips wrapped around your clit, sucking on the sensitive bud and the overbearing sensation made you lean forward; resting your cheek on the headboard. You chanted out Stack's name - his actual name - as if it was a holy hymn. Hearing his name roll sweetly off of your tongue made Stack's head spin, and with strong arms he held onto your waist, leaning himself over.
You let out a small yelp in surprise as your once steady grip on the headboard disappeared - now replaced with soft bedsheets. Your body weight rested on your shoulders and your legs were up in the air, Stack's arms were wrapped around your torso, pulling you close to his muscular chest. Working over your core Stack slowly slipped his middle finger inside you and the feeling of his rings grazing your clit earned a giggle of pleasure from you.
With precise movements Stack moved his hand, pressing his finger in and out of your pussy as his lips kissed your inner thigh, and the feeling of his mustache tickled at your skin. Your hands rested on the bedsheets, gripping the fabric within your fist. Stack added another finger in, the wet sounds of your pussy echoed through the room, and the slick sounds only made him speed up his movements.
Stack's fingers were now fully inside of you, his ring and middle finger filling you up as they skillfully worked over your core. High pitched moans fell from your lips as your feet fluttered from the pleasure, and the familiar intense feeling swarmed towards your core. Stack pulled his mouth away from your pussy as his fingers began fucking into you. He whispered promises to you that you know he'd never keep, but in this moment you believed every word he spoke - lapping up those lies as if they were dipped in honey.
Within an instant a wave of euphoria crashed into you and a loud cry of pleasure escaped your lungs. Your body trembled within his vice grip, trying it's best to regulate itself from experiencing coming so hard on his thick fingers.
"Mhm, just like that, baby." Stack praised with a cocky smile plastered on his handsome face, his fingers continued to thrust into your sensitive core, which earned a cry from overstimulation from you. Your hands clung onto his forearms in an attempt to slow the pace of his fingers, taking the hint he slowly pulled them out of you, and with a playful slap against your pussy - he released you from his tight grasp - your body laying limp on the bed as he stood up.
Catching your breath your eyes danced over Stack's toned body, his hands unbuckling his belt, slipping off his jeans and boxers in one swift movement freeing himself. Stack was big, and each time he would fuck you after a fight, you'd walk with a limp the next day. His thick and heavy member twitched with anticipation of fucking you again after all these years. Stack's mind would wonder towards your body when he would touch himself or decided to fuck some random woman he would entertain during those grueling years in Chicago.
But his hands weren't yours and those women weren't you.
Pumping himself with his hand Stack flipped you over onto your stomach, pulling you close to him so your lower half dangled off the edge of the bed. You looked over your shoulder as you watched Stack's face twist with pleasure as he slowly entered you.
"Fuck..." He groaned out as his hands held onto your hips. The feeling of your pussy squeezing around him almost made him come right then and there, he was convinced that you both were made for each other - you were the only woman who could have that kind of effect on his body by just entering. Pushing himself all the way in, he paused his hips, savoring the feeling of you, and also helping you adjust yourself to him. You were so tight and so wet, he could stay in your pussy for hours if you let him.
"C'mon, Elias..." You begged as you began rocking your hips, urging the man to fuck you, which he gladly did. High pitched grunts fell from your lips with each thrust he made and the arch in your back became to much to support by yourself, his strong arms pushed you flush against the bed while holding your waist to keep your back arched against his powerful thrust of his hips. Your legs turned into jelly as they shook underneath you and your feet barely touched the ground - you were practically standing on the tips of your toes.
"Keep fucking me, keep fucking me!" You begged out between moans, Stack was rendered to only grunts and groans, but that didn't stop him from replying to you - in his own way of course. With a swift smack he landed a sharp slap against the plush skin of your ass, making you hiss out in a mixture of pleasure and pain. He continued fucking into you, smacking your ass, and holding your waist in a vice grip.
You sure you'll have bruises later.
Leaning upwards you turned your head with your mouth open, signaling to him that you wanted a kiss. Stack's needy lips crashed into yours as your tongue danced across his, you could taste how sweet you truly were on his lips and mustache. Your golden grills bumped into his in the passionate make-out session and his heavy body was leaning flush against your sweaty back. His chest heaved shallow breaths as his hips sporadically bucked into you - feeling his hard cock inside of you twitch you knew he was close.
And so you were.
Pulling away from the sloppy kiss, the string of saliva that connected between both of your bottom lips snapped, and Stack rested his head onto your shoulder. The same familiar feeling of overbearing pleasure that needed to be alleviated came back within your abdomen, and with a loud cry you came on Stack's dick. Your eyes rolled back as your fist gripped the bedsheets below you.
"Damn, baby. W-Where you want it?"
"Inside me, baby."
And without missing a beat Stack came too, a guttural groan reverberated through his body and crashed into you. The feeling of his hard jewelry pressing into your back grounded you as you catch your breathe, and the warm feeling of his come filling you up made you smile in relief. You both paused your movements and Stack was still inside of you, rolling his shoulders he slowly pulled out of you - which made you groan from the sensation. You rested your sore body onto the bed and your cheek rested on a soft pillow. Stack smiled as he playfully patted your ass.
"Good shit, baby." He smiled which made you roll your eyes, turning your head to look away from him, trying your best to kind the lopsided smile that clung onto your lips.
"You're so annoy--" but before you could finish your statement a sharp knock was heard on the door, the handle violently jiggling between each knock.
"Stack? I know ya'll ain't in there doin' what I think ya'll doin'!" The voice of Smoke shouted behind the lock door. Stack spat out a 'shit' and quickly sat up from the bed, putting on his boxers as he wiped his face with the back of his hand that was covered in your juices. You sat up and your eyes widen in alarm as you reached for your clothes, but Stacked waved at you to stop your movements.
Unlocking the door Stack's body stood in front of the small crack, hiding your naked form. Hushed whispers were shared between the twins and you assumed that Stack was getting cursed out by his older brother and with a sharp: "Clean that fuckin' room before ya'll leave." Smoke slipped away from the door, which made Stack shout back in his usual playful tone.
"I was already gon' do that!" And he closed the door behind him, sucking his teeth as he threw himself onto the bed next to you, making you bounce a bit from his added weight on the mattress. Brown eyes stared into each other as silence now fell over the two of you. Leaning in to close the space between each other Stack ran his fingers through your hair, tucking the braid behind your ear, and the sound of his chains clinking against each other made you ease under his touch.
"I'm so tender on you, girl...I promise I'll do right by you; just give me another chance." Stack whispered, his eyes training on your features as you bit your lip. You were terrified of being hurt by him again, but you were also scared living the rest of your days without feeling his touch too. Reaching for his shoulder you pulled him closer towards you - your lips ghosting over his and you finally gave him your answer.
