hello loves, welcome to my kinktober 2025 masterlist, all fics will have their own warnings and will not be published in order, please heed the tags before reading. if you'd like to be added to my taglist, comment down below! see you soon.
🂡 ONE // BREATHPLAY - 𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑲𝒆𝒏𝒕
🂡 TWO // FACE-FUCKING - 𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑲𝒆𝒏𝒕
🂡 THREE // SOMNOPHILIA - 𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑲𝒆𝒏𝒕
🂡 FOUR // INNOCENCE LOSS - 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒋𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕
🂡 FIVE // TIT-FUCKING - 𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑲𝒆𝒏𝒕
🂡 SIX // THREESOME - 𝑩𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒙 𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑲𝒆𝒏𝒕
🂡 SEVEN // UNIFORM - 𝑹𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝑩𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒍𝒆𝒚
🂡 EIGHT // OBJECT INSERTION - 𝑩𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝑩𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔
🂡 NINE // PRIEST - 𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒆 𝑴𝒂𝒚𝒉𝒆𝒘
🂡 TEN // PREDATOR X PREY - 𝑴𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒆𝒍 𝑶'𝑯𝒂𝒓𝒂
🂡 ELEVEN // VOYEURISM - 𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑲𝒆𝒏𝒕
🂡 TWELVE // POWER IMBALANCE - 𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑲𝒆𝒏𝒕
🂡 THIRTEEN // HANDCUFFS - 𝑫𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒅 𝑴𝒄𝑫𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒂𝒍𝒍
🂡 FOURTEEN // INFIDELITY - 𝑼𝒍𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒂𝒏
🂡 FIFTEEN // GUN/KNIFE PLAY - 𝑺𝒊𝒎𝒐𝒏 '𝑮𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒕' 𝑹𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒚
🂡 SIXTEEN // MASK - 𝑴𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒆𝒍 𝑶'𝑯𝒂𝒓𝒂
🂡 SEVENTEEN // BODY-SWITCH - 𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑲𝒆𝒏𝒕
🂡 EIGHTEEN // LACTATION - 𝑴𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒆𝒍 𝑶'𝑯𝒂𝒓𝒂
🂡 NINETEEN // OUTDOORS - 𝑱𝒐𝒆𝒍 𝑴𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒓
🂡 TWENTY // HUMILIATION - 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌!𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑲𝒆𝒏𝒕
🂡 TWENTY-ONE // BREEDING - 𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑲𝒆𝒏𝒕
🂡 TWENTY-TWO // SHAVING - 𝑱𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝑨𝒃𝒃𝒐𝒕
🂡 TWENTY-THREE // SEXTING - 𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑲𝒆𝒏𝒕
🂡 TWENTY-FOUR // SPANKING - 𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑲𝒆𝒏𝒕
🂡 TWENTY-FIVE // FREE-USE - 𝑴𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒆𝒍 𝑶'𝑯𝒂𝒓𝒂
🂡 TWENTY-SIX // AUDITORY - 𝑺𝒊𝒎𝒐𝒏 '𝑮𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒕' 𝑹𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒚
🂡 TWENTY-SEVEN // SPITTING - 𝑺𝒄𝒐𝒕𝒕 𝑴𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒓
🂡 TWENTY-EIGHT // BODY MODIFICATION - 𝑰𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒄 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒙 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈
synopsis : after your family moves to a dusty texas town in the early 1920s, you find yourself drawn to a quiet little theater and the projectionist who works there. he offers you free entry, a slow hand, and eventually—his whole cock. (wc : 4k)
a/n : yk what… i rewatched ‘pearl’ the other night after an ‘x’ rewatch with a friend, and i just had to write something for him 😩 there wasn’t a section on the masterlist for him, so i’m gonna make one bc i def plan on writing more of him
warnings 18+ mdni : virginity loss, slight age-gap, praise (usage of good girl), size kink / difference, fingering, crying during sex, messy pussy eating, reader is very loud, unprotected p in v sex (cum inside), deep penetration, light power imbalance / soft dominance, oral fixation
𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄.
it’s not something anyone’s said out loud, not yet—but you feel it in the way people look at you when you pass by, like your shoes are too clean for the dust on the road. like your eyes stay open too wide, too long. too curious.
your family moved to town in late summer, when the air still clung sticky to your neck and cicadas cried like something was ending. your daddy said it was a chance to start over, said it’d be good for you all to get away from the noise of the city.
but the moment the train pulled away and left you stranded on that blistered platform with a single suitcase and a mouthful of silence, you knew this place would be the kind of quiet that gets inside you. the kind that doesn’t let up.
days stretch long here. you spend most of them drifting between chores and errands, pretending to read on the porch while the neighbor boys watch from the fence line.
your mama tells you to keep your legs shut and your mouth shut tighter—but she doesn’t say what you’re supposed to do with your thoughts.
you find the theater by accident.
a week or two in, wandering alone through the town square, you spot it between the hardware store and the pharmacy: a squat little building with black-and-white posters curling at the corners and a marquee that always seems half-lit.
a movie’s about to start. you’ve never been to one alone before, but you go in anyway.
it’s dark and cool inside. smells like sawdust and sugar and popcorn.
the screen flickers to life, and you lose yourself for a while. you don’t even remember what it was about—just remember the hush of it. the hush that covered everything else.
when it ends, you take a wrong turn trying to find the exit. wander past a thick curtain and down a narrow hallway until you’re behind the screen, where the hum of machinery grows louder.
that’s when you meet him.
he doesn’t startle. just looks up from the projector with a slow, crooked grin and says,
“don’t reckon you’re supposed to be back here.”
you stammer something dumb about getting lost, and he waves it off, walking closer.
“happens all the time,” he says. “new in town?”
you nod.
he’s older—early-thirties—but not unkind. his shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbow, fingers stained with grease and tobacco. he introduces himself as the projectionist, like it’s a title more than a job.
there’s something easy about the way he leans against the wall, like he’s got nowhere else to be and all the time in the world to waste talking to a girl like you.
he tells you if you ever get bored again, you should come back. says he’s got keys, says he can let you in for free.
“i’ve got special privileges,” he murmurs, like it’s a secret.
you do come back. the next day, and the next. always around the same time, always sitting alone in the back row. and sometimes—when no one else is there, and someone’s taking his shift—he’ll slip in beside you and whisper things about the reel, the actress, how they got the shot just so. you don’t understand half of it, but the sound of his voice so close to your ear makes your stomach flip.
you don’t tell your parents where you’ve been.
tonight, it’s later than usual. you stayed for a second showing, lingered too long in the lobby after. he finds you hovering by the concession counter, clutching your shawl.
“you walk here?” he asks.
you nod again, like you always do. he frowns.
“too late for that. c’mon—i’ll take you home.”
you hesitate for half a second, then follow.
the truck—if you can even call it that—is parked around back. it’s polished to a shine that barely hides how old it really is. open-air with no real doors, the kind of vehicle that rattles and chatters like it’s held together by breath and wire. the headlamps flicker like they’re running out of oil, and the long leather bench seat squeaks when you sit.
“she’s a little temperamental,” he says as he climbs in beside you, hands gripping the brass-rimmed wheel. “but she gets the job done.”
he cranks the engine and it stutters alive with a puff of smoke and a low groan. the whole thing trembles like a nervous horse before it lurches forward, wheels crunching over gravel.
the wind’s soft tonight, warm and thick like syrup. it sweeps in through the open sides and flutters the hem of your skirt, your shawl, the wisps of hair at your temple. you hold your bag tight in your lap and pretend you’re not hyper-aware of how close his thigh is to yours.
he shifts gears with a hand-brake so stiff it makes him grunt, and when his arm brushes your chest in the motion—just for a moment—it feels more intimate than it should.
“you always walk this far on your own?” he asks after a stretch of silence, eyes flicking from the road to you.
you nod. “it’s not that far.”
he hums, noncommittal. “not safe either. lotta things out after dark. foxes, drunks, worse.”
you can’t tell if he’s teasing.
the truck hits a dip in the road and jolts. you gasp—not loudly, but loudly enough—and his eyes flick to your legs, bare from the knee down, skirt riding a little high from the bump.
“you alright?” he murmurs.
your fingers curl around the hem of your dress. “yes.”
“good.”
he shifts in his seat, like he’s settling himself. then that loose, tapping hand of his starts to move—slowly, absentmindedly—toward you. or maybe not absentminded at all.
one stays on the wheel, but the other drops to the bench between you. rests there like it has every right to, a few inches from your hip. long fingers, stained at the tips from cigarettes and ink and grease.
first, it just grazes the bench between you, then an inch closer, then another.
your heart climbs into your throat.
he pretends to look at the road when the tips of his fingers brush your knee.
a soft touch—barely anything, but your breath hitches anyway.
he hears it. you know he does, because a small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.
“you’re jumpy,” he says low, not unkind. “don’t gotta be.”
his hand doesn’t leave. doesn’t retreat. instead, his thumb strokes the very edge of your knee—one slow pass. then another. each time, pushing a little higher.
you stare straight ahead, eyes wide, pulse fluttering like a trapped bird.
the truck hums. the sky outside is deep and black, no moon tonight, no one else on the road to see what’s happening.
“tell me to stop,” he murmurs.
you don’t, and his hand slides higher.
your thighs part just a little—not enough to be obvious, but enough.
he notices that too.
his fingers press into the soft fat on the inside of your thigh, the heat of his palm seeping through your skirt. he squeezes gently, testing. feeling.
your breath stutters. your eyes fall shut for half a second. his hand stays right there, firm and warm and unmistakably claiming.
“that alright?” he asks quietly.
you swallow. “yes.”
his thumb circles once, slow and deliberate. not touching anywhere indecent. just high enough to make your entire body tense in the sweetest, most dangerous way.
he exhales a low sound—almost a hum, almost a groan—and leans back in his seat, satisfied. like he’s been waiting days for this exact moment.
“good girl,” he murmurs.
your stomach twists.
the truck keeps rolling down the dark texas road, his hand never leaving your thigh. his thumb keeps tracing small circles that burn straight through the fabric.
he doesn’t push for more, doesn’t rush.
just holds you like this all the way home—like he wants you to feel every inch of what he could take, if you asked.
you don’t go back the next day. you tell yourself it’s because you’re busy—your mama wants help with the washing, your daddy wants the porch swept, the pantry needs organizing—but none of it’s true.
the real reason is that you can still feel the shape of his hand on your thigh, hot and sure and impossible to forget. it lingers in your mind every time you pass a mirror, every time your legs brush together under your skirt. it’s shameful the way you ache to feel it again.
you last three days before the restlessness starts to choke you.
by the fourth afternoon, you’re walking into town before you even know what excuse you’ll give.
when you reach the theater, the sun’s already low, spilling golden light through the dusty windows. you slip in the side door like always, back to your usual spot in the back row, heart fluttering like it knows something’s coming.
you don’t see him right away. the theater is almost empty—just a couple whispering in the middle row and an old man dozing off near the aisle. the film is already halfway through and you try to focus on it, but your eyes keep drifting toward the booth, waiting for a flicker of movement, a shadow. then you hear him behind you.
“thought you got tired of me.”
his voice is low and familiar and warmer than the projector’s hum.
you jump a little, turning toward the end of the row where he leans against the seat, arms folded and sleeves rolled up, watching you with that same unreadable smirk.
you say no, of course not, i was just busy.
his brow arches but he doesn’t push. he walks down to your row, standing close enough that you feel the heat of him in the narrow space. he doesn’t sit, just looks at you with that same steady patience.
“been busy thinking, then?” he asks, like he can see right through you. you don’t answer, not properly. he doesn’t expect you to.
he holds out his hand.
“come on.”
you hesitate. “where?”
“you hungry?”
you blink. “a little.”
“me too,” he says, then gestures again. “come with me.”
you follow. not because you’re told, but because you want to.
he leads you behind the curtain again, past the projector hum and down the tight hallway you remember. he unlatches the back door and the evening air brushes across your face.
his truck is parked right where it was before. he opens your side first, steadying you with a hand on your lower back as you climb in.
you both sit in silence for a moment before he cranks the engine. the car sputters to life with a soft growl and rolls forward, tires crackling over the road.
the open air pulls at your hair, your shawl. you’re suddenly aware of how exposed you are beside him, nothing between you and the dark fields stretching out on either side.
his hands stay on the wheel this time, steady and firm, knuckles pale under the leather straps. he doesn’t touch you—but you catch the way he glances at you out the corner of his eye, like he’s watching for something.
you don’t say anything until the town fades behind you and the road narrows into dirt.
“you live out here?” you ask.
he nods. “just far enough to be quiet.”
the car turns down a thinner road lined with scrub grass, bumpier. he reaches out instinctively when you jolt in your seat, his hand catching your hip to steady you. you don’t push it away. you don’t want him to.
the house appears ahead, small and simple and soft-lit by a single oil lamp in the window. he kills the engine and the quiet rushes in, thick and sudden. the only sound is the creak of the car settling and the wind rustling through dry grass.
he turns to look at you fully now, arm stretched along the seat behind your shoulders. you feel his fingers brush your back.
“come inside,” he says, not quite an order, not a question either—just low and certain.
your mouth is dry. you know what he’s asking without him having to say it.
he leans in just enough that you feel his breath on your cheek when he adds, “i won’t touch you unless you want me to.”
your stomach twists, your heart stutters, and slowly, you nod.
he opens his door first, boots crunching the dirt, then walks around to help you down. his hand holds yours steady as you step from the seat, and he keeps it as he leads you up the wooden steps.
the door shuts behind you with a soft thud, and the house settles into a low, warm hush.
it smells like tobacco and old wood and something faintly savory, maybe the remnants of whatever he last cooked. the lamp on the table casts a soft gold glow that barely reaches the corners, leaving most of the room in shadow.
you stand near the doorway, hands clasped loosely in front of you, not sure where to look.
he watches you for a moment, leaning back against the kitchen counter like he’s getting his fill of the sight, his eyes half-lidded, unreadable. then he reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a cigarette, tapping it once against his thumb.
“you smoke?” he asks.
a small shake of your head. “no.”
“that’s alright,” he murmurs, slipping the cigarette between his lips as he steps toward you. “you can still try.”
he lights it, the match flaring bright between you. he brings the flame close, the glow catching the sharp lines of his face, the cut of his jaw.
when he inhales, the end burns red, and he tilts his head, blowing the first stream of smoke just past your cheek.
the smell curls around you, warm and bold, not unpleasant. you feel dizzy from the closeness.
he takes the cigarette from his mouth and offers it to you, holding it loosely between his fingers. you stare at it, then at him. he nods a little, encouraging.
you bring it to your lips. his hand doesn’t move away. you inhale, and it’s too much, heat and flavor and a sting at the back of your throat. you cough softly, eyes watering. he smiles, low and slow.
“too strong?” he asks.
“a little.”
he raises the cigarette back to his own mouth but doesn’t pull away from you. he stands close enough that when he exhales again, the smoke crosses between you both like a secret. his eyes stay on yours.
his free hand lifts and touches your jaw, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where the cigarette had been. you freeze as his fingers slide along your cheek, soft at first, then firmer. he tilts your chin up.
“look at you,” he murmurs.
he leans in slower than you expect, giving you time to pull away if you want to. you don’t. his lips brush yours once—barely anything, just a test—and your stomach flips so hard you grip your skirt to keep steady.
then he kisses you properly.
it’s slow at first, warm and tasting faintly of smoke, his mouth coaxing yours open, his hand sliding from your jaw to the back of your neck. when he deepens it, you make a sound you hardly recognize—soft, breathy, wanting. he answers it with a low hum in his chest that goes straight down your spine.
you feel his other hand slide around your waist, pulling you in until your chest meets his, firm and sure.
the cigarette is set aside somewhere you don’t see because both his hands are on you now, fingers spreading across your lower back, tracing the shape of your hips.
“come here,” he whispers against your lips, though you’re already pressed flush against him.
his mouth drags down to your throat, kissing slow, tasting you, and your head tips back without your permission. your fingers find the front of his shirt, gripping it tight as his hands slip lower, smoothing over the curve of your hip, the edge of your skirt, the soft warmth of your thigh.
your breath shudders, and he hears it.
“you nervous?” he asks quietly, lips brushing the hollow of your neck.
“a little,” you admit.
“good,” he says, voice roughening. “means you’re thinking about it.”
you feel his fingers bunch the hem of your skirt, lifting it inch by inch until cool air licks the backs of your legs. his touch climbs slowly, deliberately—nothing rushed, nothing careless. you feel his knuckles graze the inside of your thigh, then trace higher, testing how far you’ll let him go.
your knees weaken.
“tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs, breath hot on your ear.
you don’t say stop.
you don’t say anything at all.
his fingers slide up, reaching the warm place between your thighs, pressing lightly over your underwear.
you gasp, the sound small and helpless, and he smiles against your skin like he’s been waiting to hear it.
“there you are,” he whispers, rubbing slow circles that make your whole body tighten.
you clutch at his shirt. your thighs tremble as your head spins.
his other hand lifts your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes while his fingers work between your legs, patient and sure.
“you want me?” he asks softly, like a danger.
you nod.
“say it.”
the words catch in your throat, but you manage them anyway, breathy and trembling. “i want you.”
his breath leaves him in a slow, hungry exhale, his thumb pressing firmer.
he kisses you again—deeper, hungrier. he walks you backward toward the bedroom without breaking the kiss, his hands guiding you, his fingers slipping beneath your underwear now, bare against you, finding the soft heat he’s been teasing.
when he presses a finger inside—slow, careful, testing—you gasp into his mouth, and his hand cups your jaw to keep the sound there, to feel it.
“that’s it,” he whispers against your lips, fingertips sinking deeper as your body opens for him. “let me have you a little.”
he lays you back on the bed like you’ll break—hands cradling your hips, mouth still wet from kissing you stupid.
your skirt’s bunched up around your waist now, panties long gone, your cunt bare and shining in the low lamplight. he pulls away just enough to look at you—truly look—eyes dragging down from your flushed face to the way your legs fall open without being told.
“damn, baby,” he whispers, voice gone hoarse. “look at that pretty cunt. all wet for me already.”
you squirm at the way he says it—like he’s marveling, like he’s grateful—but you don’t close your legs. you can’t. not when he kneels down at the edge of the bed and pulls your thighs apart even wider, hooking one over his shoulder. the air hits your slick folds and you gasp, back arching instinctively.
he doesn’t even warn you this time.
his tongue drags from your entrance all the way up to your clit in one slow, wet pass—moaning into you when your hips buck off the bed.
“jesus—” you cry out, fists gripping the sheets.
he groans like he’s starved for it. the warmth of his mouth, the scratch of faint stache, the way his spit mixes with your slick. it’s so messy, and when he slips two thick fingers into you again, curling them deep, your moan rips out of you raw and high.
you’re already dripping—pussy slick and noisy and squeezing down around his fingers, squelching every time he pumps them in and out, knuckles deep.
his tongue doesn’t let up. he sucks your clit just right, messy and open-mouthed, moaning against you until your thighs start to shake.
you whimper, grinding down against his face, words spilling out broken and senseless.
“too much—too much—i-i can’t—oh my god—”
he moans and fucks his fingers harder. “you’re gonna take it, baby. you said you wanted it.”
you sob. “i do—i do—i wanna feel it, i wanna feel you—”
he stands quickly, fingers still buried inside you, eyes wild with hunger as he watches your cunt pulse around them. he pulls his cock out—thick, flushed, leaking—and strokes it once, precum glistening at the tip.
you can’t look away. it’s bigger than you expected. you already feel stretched and he hasn’t even—
“i’ll go slow,” he says through gritted teeth, lining himself up and rubbing the head through your soaked folds, smearing your mess all over himself.
when he pushes in, the stretch makes you cry out—raw and high-pitched, your cunt clenching around the tip like it’s trying to keep him out.
“shhh, baby,” he coos, voice shaking. “relax—i got you—just let me in.”
he presses deeper. inch by inch. your cunt stretches painfully sweet around his cock, wet walls sucking him in with obscene, squelching sounds. you cry into the crook of your arm, tears already pricking at the corners of your eyes.
your legs twitch, your thighs shake. your moans go breathless and cracked as he finally bottoms out, pelvis flush to yours, cock buried deep inside your heat.
he stays there, and doesn’t move for a moment.
“you okay?” he murmurs, brushing your hair back from your sweaty forehead. “talk to me.”
“y-yeah,” you whisper, voice wrecked. “just so full—”
“you’re taking all of me,” he grins against your mouth.
you blink up at him, teary and dazed, as he starts to move.
the first thrust is shallow, testing. the second goes deeper, slick and loud. by the third, you’re crying again—soft whimpers turning into full-throated moans, your pussy drooling around him every time he pulls back, leaving sticky strings of slick clinging between you.
his pace builds, hips slapping against your thighs, the bed creaking hard under the force. his cock drags against every nerve inside you—thick, veiny, curved just enough to make you see stars.
“hear that?” he pants, fucking you harder now. “listen to how wet you are, baby—you’re makin’ a mess all over me.”
he’s right—the room’s filled with it now. your moans, his grunts, the filthy slap of skin on skin, the wet squelch of your cunt sucking him back in. you can feel him everywhere. in your gut. in your ribs. in the ache of your jaw from moaning his name.
your climax hits fast—overwhelming and raw, pulling another sob from your chest as your cunt tightens hard around him, spasming with wet pulses.
“damn, i’m gonna—” he growls, cock jerking deep inside you. “gonna fill you up, baby, take it—”
you cry yes, yes, yes, your voice cracking as he thrusts once, twice, then spills inside you with a broken groan. it’s warm and thick and you feel every wave of it—his cum painting your walls.
he stays on top of you, panting into your neck, cock still twitching deep inside your messy cunt. your thighs tremble around his hips, soaked and sticky and spread wide.
you’re wrecked—ruined. stretched out and stuffed full, moaning softly from the aftershocks.
he kisses your jaw, slow and reverent. “that’s my good girl.”
you just moan softly, not having the breath to answer.
summary: the projectionist shows you the explicit stag film. you watch the movie play through the peephole and he watches you.
word count: 1.2k (1200 words)
warnings: smut, stag film - porn watching, cursing, dirty talking, mentions of a blow job, sexual intercourse, unprotected sex, taking the projectionist from behind
a/n: there are not many fics for the projectionist, so i did take upon myself to make them, more on the way, so stay tuned if you like this one.
The projector whirred behind you, the man who operated it silently moving, having you sense he was up to mischief.
He’d brought you to the back room after the last show, after all the respectable folks had gone home. The room was his workplace, and also where he stayed, notably obvious since his things were all over the place. You didn’t ask what he had planned. Not really. By clicking on the lock of the door, you suspected what it might be. With an exciting jump that swirled in your stomach, you didn't budge at it, more so trying to get yourself at ease while everything was going in a light motion.
Now, you were bent forward, supported by his wooden desk that he cleaned up, peeking through a small, hidden hole, a slit cut into the panel that overlooked a reel no one else was supposed to see. The film sputtered to life, black-and-white shadows jerking on the screen.
He called it a stag film. Said that they were not allowed to be shown in the cinema yet. Said it’s a movie that makes you all excited and wild. Said you would like it.
It was raw, watching it felt illicit, but nonetheless exciting. A woman was on her knees, her hands braced on the man’s thighs. Her face leaning closer to his legs. Such a scene is what the law forbid from being seeing. And yet here you were, leaning forward to drink in every sinful second.
You felt him step up behind you. Close. So close his leg brushed behind you, causing you to bite your lip. You almost looked back, but stopped yourself as he spoke. “Tell me what he’s doin’ to her,” he said, voice low and rough. You swallowed, sharpening your gaze at the film.
“She’s… she’s on her knees,” you murmured, eyes still locked on the flickering shapes in the little window. “He’s… holding her head. Making her take him in her mouth.”
You felt his hand slide up your spine deliberately, until he palmed the back of your neck.
“Just like that?” he asked, closing his grip harder, not hard enough to hurt you, only to make it more present.
“Yes,” you whispered. He pressed your shoulders down gently, your body folding lower, elbows braced on the table in front of the peephole.
“What’s she doing now?” he asked again, voice darker.
“She’s…” you watch the woman get led by the man's lead. “She’s letting him...use her mouth. All the way.”
“Good girl,” he muttered.
He began grinding his hips against you, letting you feel how hard he is through his trousers.
You gasped as he tugged your underthings down, the silk whispering against your thighs. The air was cool on your skin; his hands were not. They were hot, sure, sliding along your bare backside, gripping you like he owned you.
“She’s… oh, she’s taking all of him. Letting him fuck her mouth.” You faltered as his hands slipped around your waist, gathering your skirt up. You grew excited at his movements, thinking of yourself with him in this situation. Suddenly, you imagined seeing yourself as the woman on screen, getting your head pushed into the projectionist's groin, as you saw him as the man in the film. The motion increasing as you sucked him off well.
You were still bent forward, lips parted, watching the shadow of a woman on her knees. But now you felt exactly what she must’ve felt, the heat of the moment. And you were desperate to have him do just about anything.
"Keep watching." The clear sound of him undoing his belt behind had you unconsciously arching your back, the sharp click of it sending a thrill straight through your core. Now a different scene was taking place. The woman was on all fours as the man, animalistically, took her from behind.
"What is he doing now?" he rasped.
"He's grabbing her ass." You opened your mouth even wider. "...slamming into her." He groaned as you said it, lining himself at your hole and then, with no remorse, slid into you.
You choked on your breath, nails digging into the table as he filled you deliciously, stretching you wide. He gave you a moment, both of you silent except for the projector’s endless hum, then pulled back and thrust again, harder this time.
“Keep watching.”
Your eyes fluttered but stayed open. The woman in the reel had her mouth parted in pleasure, face flushed. You could barely breathe. Could barely stay upright. Now you were in the same position, experiencing just what the woman was in the film. Except that it was becoming a burden to keep watching the scenes, as your eyes wanted to roll back or close to soak in the feeling that he pumped into you.
He gripped your hips and fucked into you steadily, each thrust pushing you forward just enough to make the wooden frame creak. The projector flickered faster now, reel speeding up.
“Keep talkin'.” he asked again, voice ragged.
“She’s—moaning—she’s taking all of it—” you gasped, your vision clouding, shutting your eyes.
“Just like you are,” he growled, tangling his hand in your hair, pulling your head back. Your mouth fell open, and your moan echoed low and helpless in the cramped room.
He was ruthless now, fucking you hard, hips snapping against yours, the film forgotten as the real performance happened right there, with you and him as the leading actors. Your skin burned against the table. Your knees shook. You knew you were going to come dangerously loud. He leaned in, lips hot against your ear.
“Come for me. Right here. Just like the dirty little thing you are.”
That was all it took. You came with a broken cry, hands clawing the table, body convulsing around him. He groaned your name, his own control slipping as he followed you seconds later, buried deep, spilling inside you with a low, filthy curse.
When it was over, you opened your eyes, seeing the film has stopped play, probably sometime ago. You wouldn't know, nor do you care. Your only thought being the projectionist, and this wild sex you just had.
You were panting, still bent over the table, skirt wrinkled around your waist, legs trembling. He stood behind you, catching his breath, kissing your lower back gently.
"How you feelin'?" you murmur a breath, the projectionist kisses up your spine, sucking lightly on your neck. "Alright?" you nodded, turning your head where you had a little glimpse of his blue eyes.
"So you wouldn't mind rewatching the movie?" you saw a proud smirk forming on his face, having your cheeks heated up at the thought of "rewatching the movie".
The projectionist was a strange man but he had a way of making you feel like the world stopped when he looked at you. Maybe that’s why you stayed so long in the booth that first day, letting the dust settle around you while reels of flickering bodies danced across the screen. He talked while they played — not just about the lewd films, but about what they meant. “They’re not smut,” he said, “they’re honest. Realer than anything out there.” You nodded, even though your stomach twisted. You didn’t want him to think you didn’t get it.
He told you the camera loved your face, that you had something raw, something real. Then he told you he wanted to make something new, just for him.
One reel turned into three. Three turned into ten. Each time, you told yourself you could say no — but it never felt like that. Not when he smiled so proud.
The first time you stood awkwardly under the hot glare of the camera lights, your skin prickled. Not from the chill, but from the weight of his stare behind the lens. He said nothing at first. Just focused, adjusted, watched.
“Let me see those eyes. Good. Don’t look away.”
You felt exposed, but not in the way that made you want to cover up. It made you feel alive. Like every inch of you was being seen. Memorized. Devoured.
And then he started stepping into the frame.
It happened like it always did — gradual, like everything with him. A hand on your shoulder. Then his voice, coaxing you to react. Then his body, close behind yours. “It makes the picture better,” he whispered. “You need a partner. You can’t keep pretending you’re alone in these.”
You didn’t want to disappoint him. Not when he’d already spent the film, the light, the time. He called you his star.
Somewhere in the reels, you stopped being able to tell what was performance and what wasn’t. You were embarrassed, humiliated, even — but there was a sick heat blooming in your chest every time he pressed record.
