Zayne blinks at your words, clearly recalibrating. It's not as if he's going to oppose the idea, quite the opposite, but he takes a split second to adjust before humming softly.
"Of course. Did you have a long day?" Of course, Zayne can read you like a book. He presses gentle kisses along your jaw as you sigh, running your fingers through his soft hair.
"Yeah, it was just...exhausting." His fingers slip past the band of your underwear, finding that you're already wet from the rather intense makeout.
The two of you take your time undressing each other, though it takes longer than usual due to the breaks you keep taking to languidly kiss.
"You're so beautiful." Zayne murmurs, lining up his hard cock with your entrance. His whole body presses against yours, keeping you nice and close. He slides in slowly, distracting you from the stretch by pressing his lips against yours.
"Zayne..." You whisper quietly, brows knit in pleasure. Like clockwork, you feel him sigh in pleasure at the sound of his name.
"Again." He nearly pleads, hips slowly increasing their pace as the air grows more charged.
"Zayne...oh fuck Zayne!" You gasp when his thumb circles your clit in steady circles. Your back arches off the bed, his arm coming around to pull you even closer to him.
"I love you. So much." He murmurs against your lips, grinding his hips against yours as you whimper, right on the precipice of your orgasm. When he repeats it again, the pure love in his eyes is what tips you over, crying out his name once more.
Caleb would love cleaning your period panties (18+)
Okay, Okay hear me out: we all acknowledge that he has a massive scent kink, right?
Now let's make it more...depraved.
He loves doing the laundry for you, he loves washing it with the detergent he likes and softener that he loves so you smell just as he wants. But most of all he loves washing your clothes stained with accidental leakage of your period blood.
It is not only the feeling he gets of caring and making your life easier when you are fighting crippling cramps, but also he loves the blood- the scent, the texture, the feel of it. He’d literally mix your period blood in his spaghetti and eat it but knows that you’ll have his head if he tried.
Younger him would have been slightly disgusted sure, but that was before the first time he had spotted and washed your stained underwear after you had accidentally forgotten to wash it yourself, thanks to the stupid cramps again:
He unfolds one of the the cotton panties and stares at the blood stains for a beat too long.
Then goodness knows what possesses him, he lifts the fabric to his nose and takes a sniff.
Oh fuck… even your blood smelled delicious, he thinks.
And unable to control himself, he licks a filthy stripe across it, watching his spit darken the bloody spot.
His pupils dilate and before he can reign himself, he’s already wrapping the fabric around his erection and jerking off, slumped against the tiles of the laundry room trying to not moan out loud.
"Nghh...sorry...so sorry..." he whimpers softly as he spills his release on to it, not sure to who or for what because he definitely isn't apologetic.
He brings the flimsy cotton to his eye level again and watches his milky cum stain the fabric, turning a bit red as it soaks the fabric and mixes with your blood.
Oh, he was done for.
He drags the cum-soaked panties up to his mouth, inhaling deeply through his nostrils before closing his lips around the damp fabric. "Mmmph, goddamn..." Caleb slurps and sucks noisily, savouring the salty essence of his own semen and the coppery undertones of your blood.
"Fuck, I'm going to hell for this..." Yet even as he speaks, he keeps licking and suckling at the combined fluids until they're clean enough to bring to his nose once more. "But damn if it isn't worth it."
Since then, he has always taken initiative to wash your clothes, specially during your time of the month.
you hadn’t meant to fuck rafayel, honest! well.. you hadn’t exactly meant to fuck him the first time, either… or the dozen other times you did- he was just so infuriating!
“i hate you.” you grit out, nails digging into the back of rafayels arm where you hold onto him for support with one arm, the other pressed against the wall he has you smushed against.
rafayel huffed out a mix between a laugh and a scoff, his hand sliding across your waist to your front, splaying across your covered stomach and pulling your back against his front. “ah, you wound me, how many times are you going torture me with your hatred?”
you clear your throat to cover a moan, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of hearing what he’s doing to you. “i told you months ago to stop painting me- mmh- and selling them. you’re profiting off of my beauty- hhmmmmhh?!”
rafayel’s hand covers your mouth, silencing the same spiel he’s heard countless times. “shhhh, you’re so noisy.. listen.”
he continues thrusting, his hips smacking against yours dully and bringing out wet phwap phwap sounds. you can still hear the noises that normally accompany art auctions going on outside of whatever tiny room rafayel drug you into- glasses clinking, people laughing a bit too loudly at jokes that really aren’t all that funny, and the crackle of the auctioneer's microphone.
“it doesn’t sound like you hate me… you can say you hate me, but your sweet pussy betrays you.” rafayel murmurs in your ear, lips tracing the shell of it.
as if in response, your pussy clenches and flutters around him- traitor. rafayel laughs in response, knowing you can’t lie your way out of this.
his hand slowly left your mouth, running down your throat and twirling your pearl necklace between his fingertips. “i’ve never seen you in this before… i’ll be sure to paint this outfit in time for our next event, yeah? wouldn’t want you to avoid me.”
you grit your teeth and stomp a heeled foot in annoyance, opening your mouth to protest but moaning instead when rafayel shifts positions juuust slightly, hitting that sweet spot deep inside of you. “hhaaaah-!”
rafayel moans quietly, hands tightening on your waist and necklace as he fucks into you harder, chasing his release.
“so beautiful, you’re so gorgeous.. my perfect muse.” he rambles into your ear, drowning out the loud speakers outside.
much like your spotty memory of how you always end up fucking rafayel, you don’t remember much of your orgasm- he had a habit of doing that to you.
when you come down from your haze, rafayel is pulling your dress down and smoothing it out, eyes caressing every feature and committing it to memory, likely so he can paint it. you didn’t doubt the sincerity of his earlier statement.
your cheeks flush despite your protests, fixing your hair and pushing past him to the door. “if you sell that painting tonight, you’d better donate all the earnings to something charitable.”
rafayel tilts his head and watches you pause in front of the door- he’d noticed you’d been having a harder time recently leaving him. that was good. he must he growing on you at least a little.
“i always do.”
a/n: he is crazy ooc, whatever, pls stay off of my dick about it
The most surprising thing about Sylus is not his obscene wealth, not his secret soft spot for stray cats, not even the fact that he likes to walk his mechanical bird in the middle of the night.
No, it's his sex drive. Or rather, lack thereof.
At first, you chalked it up to him being respectful. Surely he just didn't want to seem too eager and overwhelm you. After all, he looks like that. He's practically walking sex on a stick. You're sure he knows it, just like you're sure he wants more.
But as months of you being the only initiator drags on, worry starts to find its' way in your mind. Did he not want to have sex with you at all? Was he only going along with it because you wanted to?
Maybe you just weren't good enough for him.
"Are you okay?" Sylus nudges you with his shoulder, the movie paused. You pull yourself from your racing mind, pressing your lips together. A part of you wants to lie and pretend nothing's the matter, but you're tired of feeling like this.
"I've just been wondering...you never seem to initiate sex. Am I not..." He cuts you off quickly.
"It's nothing to do with you. I suppose...sex is only one form of physical intimacy. I feel the same type of pleasure from your mere presence as I do when we have sex." He says it almost casually, while you stare at him in shock.
"So like...right now. You're as happy as you would be if I was naked on top of you?"
"Yes." He answers easily, while your jaw drops.
"Are you sure you're a human male?" Your question makes him smirk, leaning in until his nose nearly brushes yours.
…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
You slap Sylus across the face, hand stinging from the impact as he is motionless in front of you, face turned and eyes wide. You both are still, processing what has just occurred. Sylus starts to tongue his cheek, the bulge moving around the skin of his cheek.
"Are you going to do that again?" he asks as those glowering red eyes stare at you. He's menacing, the leader of Onychinus coming out in full force.
You wrench your arm away, the Evol linkage pulling his body only slightly.
"I will if you give me a reason to." You're not nearly as confident as you feel. You refuse to back down.
"Do it again." he's looking down on you now, voice low and deadly.
"What?" You're confused, unsure of what's happening.
"You heard me, Kitten. Do it again. I don't want to ask again."
You hand raises, fear and exciting mixing into one. You have no idea which feeling is dominating the other. You slap him again, less force and anger behind it.
"Oh, Kitten, you can do better than that. Where did that hate go?"
"I love you, kitten" the words left him so suddenly that he couldn't even stop them if he tried to.
It caught both of you offguard.
It wasn't like you were doing anything spectacular. You were simply watching a movie while cuddling when he suddenly turned his head and whispered those words into your hair. It was so natural.
But it wasn't something either of you said before, so it made you freeze and look into his beautiful crimson eyes.
Then, in a simple second, his eyes changed. His usual confident self came right back.
"You won't say it back, kitten?"
The sound caught in your throat.
Zayne
He tought you were sleeping. But you were wide awake.
"I love you." his voice was such a soft noise, you almost believed you were imagining it.
But you weren't.
He did just confess his love to you.
And he doesn't even know that you heard him.
But he felt your body become tense.
Zayne is a smart man, didn't take him long to realise that you heard what he said.
"I love you." he said it again, louder this time.
He needed to make sure you knew, even if you were not ready to say it back just yet.
Xavier
He was asleep.
You did notice in the past that he would often talk in his sleep.
"I love you, y/n." he murmured.
You were reading a book when you heard him. You looked at him, he was snoring softly, eyes closed, breathing slow.
You didn't want to believe it at first.
But you definitely heard him.
Rafayel
It wouldn't be an accident.
He knows exactly what he is doing. And he was doing it to tease you.
"But, I love you." he is pouting, and you knew exactly what he was doing.
He was trying to prove a point.
What was his point?
You weren't sure. He just admited that he loved you for the first time. You were shocked.
"So? Aren't you going to say it back?" he continued, still pouting.
Caleb
"I love you, pip."
You were in the middle of a game. The way he said it made you freeze.
"Did you just say that so you would win?" you asked as you heard the TV make the unmistakable noise of a winner.
"What?" he turned to you with confusion in his eyes.
Took him a moment to realise that he said it out loud.
. . . he's definitely the type of guy to fuck you deep and hard, making sure that you feel all inches of his dick inside of you
. . . as much as he hates being away from you, he just can't help but love how clingy and needy you get for him when he returns
. . . you just won't tell him what he wants to hear so he has no choice but to break you:( making use of military grade cuffs he just so happened to have laying around
. . . you're just so greedy! you already have the real thing but still keep the fake one with you... since you can't seem to be satisfied, why not fill both holes?
. . . why not make good use of your toys by stretching you good and open before he actually fucks you with his dick? just have to stand there and take it
. . . you put so much effort for his birthday that he can't help but just take you on the couch! too horny and rilled up from all the waiting he'd done
. . . one of the gifts caleb specifically requested from you was to make a compilation of you fucking so he can have something to jerk off to will he's away! the website just isn't doing it anymore for him after he's had you
. . . he sounds so pretty and lovely <3 all tied up and helpless, at the mercy of your mere hands just as always, letting you have your way knowing he can just break free whenever he wants to
. . . something about seeing you all shaky underneath him as he continues to fuck you slowly knowing damn well how overstimulated you are
. . . sometimes all he needs is a good riding to calm his mind from all the stress he gets, being a colonel isn't easy after all
. . . his favourite food above anything and everything, he needs your weight above him while he indulges your yummy pussy
. . . it's not too bad if it doesn't go in right? maybe if he just takes his dick out.. and maybe if you just put your panties to the side..
. . . all leaky and creamy on him, oh you're like a broken sink, too horny to even fully take your panties off that he just rips it in half
. . . oh he loooovesssss taking you from behind, pinning your waist down so you can take him as deep as possible!
. . . kissing his cheek on his graduation in front of hundreds of people? and getting away with it? absolutely not
[ A/N : feel free to imagine as the other lads boys ;) ]
You stare at your laptop screen, the cursor blinking mockingly at the bottom of your email draft. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you reread what you've written—no, what you sent—to Professor Zayne.
The essay. Or rather, a smut story.
It's titled "Electrophysiology of Desire".
You'd thought it was clever, a play on words that would show your understanding of cardiac rhythms and sex. Something to post on your blog for fun.
The ML is named Zander—a cardiac surgeon with green eyes and cold hands who knows exactly how to make a patient's heartbeat quicken. The story describes, in excruciating detail, how he examines his patient, his fingers trailing across her skin, his breath cold against her neck as he teaches her about accelerated heart rates and the body's natural responses to stimulation.
You'd written it late one night, frustrated with your lack of sex and projecting your fantasies onto the one person you shouldn't have—a man who could actually diagnose the "tachycardia" you were having right now.
The email you sent an hour ago still haunts you:
"Professor Zayne, attached is my essay on Electrophysiology. Please review and provide feedback."
Then, twenty minutes ago, you sent the correction:
"Please disregard my previous email. The attached file is the correct essay on Electrophysiology. I apologize for the confusion."
Now you wait. The hours crawl by like molasses. You imagine him opening it, his expression shifting from professional curiosity to shock. Maybe disgust. Maybe he's already contacted the Dean. Maybe he's laughing. Maybe he's forwarding it to the entire faculty.
That last thought has you panicking. Sweaty palms. Fast breathing. That sick feeling in your stomach like you're on a rollercoaster that won't stop.
"What the hell was I thinking?"
Your phone buzzes and you nearly jump out of your skin.
It's an email notification from Zayne.
You click it open with trembling fingers.
The email subject reads: "Re: Electrophysiology Essay"
Your stomach drops.
The body is short. Professional. Cold.
Y/N,
I have reviewed your submission. It is... certainly creative. However, it does not meet the academic standards required for this course. You will need to submit a proper essay on the physiological mechanisms of cardiac conduction systems by the end of the week.
I suggest you take some time to reconsider the appropriateness of your work. This class is not a venue for personal fiction, no matter how... imaginative... the subject matter may be.
Professor Zayne
The email ends. There's no attachment. No further comments. Just those few sentences that somehow manage to convey everything without saying a word about how your protagonist's name sounds like his, or how you'd described fingers trailing across skin in excruciating detail.
You sit there, staring at the screen. Your face burns with shame so intense you can barely breathe. He didn't report you. He didn't call you into his office. He just... sent you this.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
"You're such an idiot."
The story is still saved on your laptop. You could delete it. Burn it. Pretend this never happened. But your finger hovers over the delete button and you can't quite bring yourself to do it.
Instead, you press your face into your hands, wondering how you're going to walk into his classroom on Monday.
...walk into his classroom on Monday.
The thought makes you want to laugh—or cry. Probably both.
Outside, you can hear other students laughing, living their normal lives, completely unaware that you've just sent your professor an erotic story disguised as an academic essay.
Your phone buzzes again. Another email notification.
This time it's from Zayne's personal email address, not the university one. Your heart stops.
You open the email, hands shaking so badly you almost drop your phone.
The subject line is simple : "Reviewing 2nd Essay Now"
The body is brief:
I've just seen your correction. I'll review the proper essay when I have time.
However, I did want to address the first submission you sent. I've attached it with some notes. While your writing shows... creativity... there are some anatomical and physiological inaccuracies I think you should be aware of.
Professor Zayne
Below the text, there's an attachment. Your story.
Except now it's covered in comments. Zayne's comments.
You click to open it, and your stomach drops even further.
The notes are clinical. Detached. But they make you burn with shame anyway.
[Note 1: The description of ventricular fibrillation is technically accurate, though the context is inappropriate for an academic essay.]
[Note 2: Your understanding of sympathetic nervous system activation is correct. The physiological response you've described does occur during arousal.]
[Note 3: The term 'tachycardia' is used correctly. However, the scenario in which it occurs is not clinically appropriate for this assignment.]
[Note 4: Your description of afterdeath cardiac changes is remarkably detailed. You appear to have done significant research. Though again, the application is... unconventional.]
[Note 5: The protagonist's skill set—knowledge of anatomy, understanding of physiological responses, ability to calm distressed patients—is actually quite accurate for a cardiac surgeon. Though his bedside manner in your story is not clinically recommended.]
[Note 6: The psychological aspect of parasympathetic activation post-climax is well-researched. Your understanding of heart rate variability is impressive.]
[Note 7: The ice-breath technique described is not a recognized medical procedure. While you've attempted to connect it to Evol abilities, this is fictional and should not be presented as medical advice.]
[Note 8: Your understanding of endorphin release and oxytocin's role in mood elevation is great. However, the romanticized presentation is not appropriate for academic work.]
Overall assessment: Creativity: High.
Academic appropriateness: Questionable.
Research depth: Impressive.
Recommended for: Personal enjoyment only.
Not recommended for: Submitting to this course.
Professor Zayne
The notes end there.
You sit frozen, staring at the screen. Your face feels like it's on fire now. Every single paragraph of your story—every intimate detail, every fantasy you'd written late at night when you thought no one you know would ever see it—has been read and analyzed by him. By Professor Zayne. The man who actually knows about tachycardia and sympathetic nervous systems and heart rate variability.
You scroll through the notes again, each one making you feel more exposed than the last. He didn't just read your story. He corrected it. Pointed out what you got right and wrong, the same way he would grade an actual essay. Except this wasn't an essay. This was you. Your private thoughts. Your secret fantasies.
And he'd dissected them with the same clinical precision he'd use on a difficult case.
Your phone buzzes again. Another email from his personal address.
This one is shorter:
I understand you may not want to attend class on Monday. That's acceptable. I'll email you the lecture notes and any assignments. Focus on the new essay due at the end of next week.
No need to respond unless you have questions about the feedback.
Professor Zayne
He's giving you an out. Letting you skip Monday. Probably because he knows you'd be too mortified to show your face after this.
You should feel relieved.
Instead, you feel... something else. Something you can't quite name.
You look at the attached story again, covered in his clinical annotations. Every note is professional, detached—yet somehow that makes it worse. He didn't get embarrassed reading it. Didn't get angry. He just... analyzed it. Like a specimen under a microscope.
You press your face into your hands again, wondering how you're ever going to recover from this.
5,915 words * ˛ ✦ ･ She'd given him permission eight months ago when she'd shown up on his doorstep with a duffel bag and tears in her eyes, when she'd asked if the offer still stood, if he still wanted to take care of her. "God," she whimpers, her hips bucking back, seeking more. "No." He works his fingers deep, scissoring them, finding that spot that makes her legs shake and her vocabulary reduce to single syllables. "There's no God here, baby. It's just me, just daddy."
WARNINGS: third person pov (fem!reader), alternate universe – modern, age gap, size difference, power imbalance — sugar daddy dynamics, pseudo-incest, brat taming, porn with no plot, overstimulation / edging, copious usage of "baby", hair-pulling + face-slapping + pussy slapping + spanking, marking, creampie / breeding kink, daddy kink, threat of asphyxiation.
Caleb's fingers tighten around the glass of Macallan, the ice clinking against the crystal as he watches her from across the penthouse living room.
She's sprawled on his leather sofa, legs kicked up, phone in hand, looking entirely too comfortable in the silk robe he'd bought her last week. The robe that costs more than most people's monthly rent. She hasn't even tied it properly, and the fabric slips open to reveal the curve of her thigh, the lace edge of panties his card had also paid for.
His jaw tightens.
The view from the seventy-third floor stretches out behind her, lights glittering with the skyscrapers and the nearby river's black mirror surface, but Caleb barely registers it.
His attention—his entire focus—narrows to the girl on his furniture, the girl who's become the centre of his gravity over the past eight months. Forty-three years old, a self-made aviation mogul who built his empire from one rickety cargo plane and sheer stubbornness, and he's reduced to this: hard and aching at the sight of small bare feet with painted toes, at the casual disrespect in the tilt of her head and her disregard of his presence.
He should be reviewing the quarterly reports for Skyhaven.
He should be on a conference call with the board about the new hangar in Minneapolis.
He should be anywhere but here, tethered by a chain of want that he personally forged link by link, starting with a promise to a dying woman and ending with this—this arrangement that makes him feel simultaneously powerful and utterly powerless.
"You missed our dinner reservation," Caleb says, his voice deceptively calm. He'd spent forty-five minutes in traffic, another twenty waiting at the restaurant before the maître d' had finally taken the hint and stopped asking if he'd like another whisky while he waited. "Again." The restaurant—EVER—had taken months to secure. He'd pulled strings, called in favours, made donations to charitable foundations he didn't give a shit about, all for the slightly breathless noise she'd made when he'd told her where they were going. All for the way her eyes had lit up, the way she'd said "Really?" in that soft voice that cut through every defence he had.
She doesn't look up from her phone. "Yeah, well, I got busy."
"Busy." The word lands like a stone in the quiet space. The city's glare spills through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the interior with its LED lights. Caleb sets his glass down on the marble bar with a deliberate click. "Busy doing what, exactly?"
"Just shit." She finally glances at him, and there's that spark in her eyes—the one that makes his blood pressure spike and his cock stir simultaneously. Defiance wrapped in innocence, brattiness disguised as nonchalance. "Chill out, old man. It's just a stupid restaurant."
His vision narrows.
Old man.
The curse word doesn't bother him. He's heard worse flying cargo planes through storm systems, listening to rookie pilots panic and snarl over comms. But the disrespect—the deliberate, calculated nature of it—while wearing his gifts, living in his penthouse, spending his money … that makes something dark and possessive rear its head.
It makes him remember that he's twenty-two years older, that he watched her graduate high school, that he held her hand at Josephine's funeral while she sobbed into his shoulder, and somehow, impossibly, she'd ended up here.
Under his control.
"Come here." The command is quiet, but she hears it. She always hears it, even when she pretends not to. Even when she pushes every boundary just to see if he'll still enforce them.
"Make me," she says, and her lips curl into that smirk that drives him fucking insane. That smirk that says she knows exactly what she's doing, that she's calculated every move in this chess game they're playing where the prize is his self-control and her submission.
Caleb moves before he's consciously decided to, crossing the space between them in three long strides. He towers over her—he's always towered over her, this girl half his age who somehow consumes every thought he has. She tips her head back to look at him, and even now, even when he's ready to put her over his knee, she's beautiful.
Not that he'll tell her that. Not yet. Not until she's begging, not until the brat has been tamed into something soft and pliant and his.
"Get up."
"Or what?" She stretches, deliberately, the robe falling open further. He catches a glimpse of bare stomach, and his control frays another inch. "You'll ground me? Take away my allowance? Oh, wait—"
He grabs her wrist, yanking her to her feet. Her phone clatters to the floor. She stumbles against him, all soft weight and sharp attitude, and his free hand finds her jaw. Not a caress, but a grip that reminds her that for all her bluster, for all her youth and fire, he's the one with the power here. The money. The experience. The control.
"Watch your mouth," he growls.
"Fuck you," she whispers, and he sees it, the way her pupils dilate.
She wants this. She's been pushing for it all evening, maybe all week. Missed dinners, sarcastic texts, that little jab about his age last night that had him jerking off in the shower like a teenager, fist tight around his cock while he imagined all the ways he'd make her pay for it.
"That's it." His voice drops lower, taking on the timber that makes his pilots snap to attention. "You've been asking for this."
He drags her to the bedroom—not roughly, but without giving her a choice. She could fight him; she's small but she's fierce when she wants to be. But she doesn't. Her feet move where he directs, her body pliant under his hands even as her mouth keeps running. Even as she maintains the fiction that she's still in control of this situation.
"Caleb, seriously, I was just—"
"Quiet." He pushes her through the doorway, then kicks it shut behind them. The sound echoes in the master suite, a sharp punctuation to the evening's transgressions. "Take off the robe."
She crosses her arms. "Make me."
He almost smiles. There it is, that challenge that makes his dick ache. He owns three private charter companies, has more money than he could spend in three lifetimes, and this twenty-one-year-old brat has him harder than he's been in years just from a few sharp words.
Just from the way she tilts her chin up, the way her eyes dare him to cross lines he drew himself, boundaries he established and then watched her dance across with a smirk.
"Fine." Caleb closes the distance between them, crowding her back against the wall. His hands find the belt of the robe, yanking it open with a sharp tug that leaves her gasping. The silk slides off her shoulders, pooling at her feet, and then she's just in the lingerie he'd selected. Black lace bra, matching panties, garter belt holding up sheer stockings. All his. All bought with his money, worn for his pleasure—even when she's being a goddamn menace. Even when she's testing every limit he'd carefully constructed to keep this thing between them from consuming them both.
"Better?" she asks, her voice breathless now, the bravado edged with something else. Something that sounds like anticipation. Like surrender waiting to happen.
"Not even close." His fingers trace the strap of her bra, down the cup, watching goosebumps rise on her skin. "You think you can disrespect me all week and there won't be consequences? You think you can throw my gifts in my face, miss reservations I spent months securing, call me 'old man' while wearing hundreds of fucking dollars of silk I put on your back, and I'll just ... what? Forgive you?"
"I think you're all talk." She lifts her chin, but he can see the pulse hammering in her throat. "I think you'll just lecture me and then fuck me vanilla missionary like you always do when you're 'disappointed.'"
The word drips with sarcasm, and his hand moves before he can stop it—not that Caleb really wants to. The crack of his palm against her cheek rings out, sharp and sudden in the quiet room. Not hard enough to really hurt, but hard enough to sting. Her head snaps to the side, and when she turns back, her eyes are wide, her breath coming fast; her hand flies to her cheek, fingertips tracing the warmth that blooms right there.
"Vanilla?" Caleb's voice is a low rasp that vibrates through his chest.
He grabs a fistful of her hair, not gently, not like he's been doing for months since he first gave in and touched her. He wraps it around his hand, pulls her head back until her throat is exposed, until she's up on her toes and breathing through her mouth, her lips parted in a way that makes him want to shove something between them.
Preferably his dick.
"Aha, you think that's what you're getting tonight, baby?"
"Don't call me—"
Caleb cuts her off with his mouth, kissing her hard and deep, swallowing whatever protest she was about to make. She tastes like the expensive wine he'd stocked the fridge with, like the privilege of youth and rebellion. His tongue sweeps past her lips, taking, claiming, owning every gasp and moan while his hand in her hair keeps her exactly where he wants her. She moans into it, her hands coming up to his chest—not pushing him away, but clutching at his shirt, her small fingers twisting in the expensive cotton.
When he pulls back, they're both breathing hard. "You're going to learn," he murmurs, his thumb tracing her heated cheek. "Right now."
He pulls her away from the wall, steering her toward the bed with his grip in her hair.
She stumbles, off-balance, and he doesn't let her regain it; keeps her teetering on the edge of control, just the way he likes her. When they reach the edge of the king-sized bed, the one they'd picked out together last month, after she'd complained his old one was too firm— after they'd tested three different showrooms and he'd watched her bounce on each mattress like a kid, her laughter echoing through the empty store—he releases her hair only to push her down, facedown, across the mattress.
She lands with a soft oof, her ass presented perfectly in those lace panties. The garter belt frames everything, the stockings still smooth and unwrinkled. His cock throbs against his zipper, demanding release, but he ignores it for now.
"Wait," she starts to protest, but he's already moving.
The first slap lands on her right ass cheek, the sound cracking through the room like a gunshot. She jerks forward with a yelp that morphs into something else when his hand comes down again, left cheek this time. He's not holding back, not like the playful taps he'd given her before when she'd asked, giggling, if he'd ever spanked anyone, if he'd ever wanted to.
This is the reality of what she signed up for when she moved into his penthouse and let him pay her tuition and bought her first designer bag with his black card.
"C-Caleb!" Her voice is high, shocked, but beneath it he can hear the pleasure.
"Quiet." Another slap, then another, his hand falling in a steady rhythm that lands against her ass beneath the lace. The fabric offers no protection; if anything, it makes each blow sharper, the heat trapped against her skin. She squirms, tries to shift away, but he puts a hand on the small of her back, holding her down with ease.
"Fuck, fuck—"
He slaps harder, the sound of flesh on flesh echoing off the high ceilings. "Language."
"O-Oh my—fuck!"
"Language." The repeat of the word is a whip-crack, and he punctuates it with another smack, this one low, catching the crease where her thigh meets her ass. She whimpers, her body going lax against the mattress, the fight leaking out of her like air from a punctured tire. He can see the wet spot spreading on her panties, darkening the lace.
She hates it when he corrects her. She does it anyway. It's a game, a vicious cycle they both thrive on, both need like oxygen.
"You missed dinner," he says, his voice cold and level even as his palm burns. "You disrespected me in my own home. You used that filthy mouth."
"I'll d-do it again," she gasps, and he can hear the tears in her voice now, the pleasure-pain that makes her tremble like a leaf in a hurricane. "I'll fucking do it again—"
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of her panties and yanks them down, tearing the delicate lace without a second thought. She cries out, but it dissolves into a moan when his fingers find her soaked. Hot and slick, pulsing around his touch when he pushes two inside without warning, without permission, because he doesn't need it.
She'd given him permission eight months ago when she'd shown up on his doorstep with a duffel bag and tears in her eyes, when she'd asked if the offer still stood, if he still wanted to take care of her.
"God," she whimpers, her hips bucking back, seeking more.
"No." He works his fingers deep, scissoring them, finding that spot that makes her legs shake and her vocabulary reduce to single syllables. "There's no God here, baby. It's just me, just daddy."
She's tight around his fingers, her inner walls clenching as he pumps them in and out with a rhythm that matches the beat of his own heart. With his other hand, he pulls her ass cheek aside, exposing her fully to his gaze. The sight makes his mouth water, makes his cock ache with a need that's bordering on pain.
But he's not done yet. Not nearly.
"You're soaking," he murmurs, his thumb tracing circles around her clit without giving her the pressure she needs. The pressure she's been silently begging for with every twitch of her hips. "All this because I slapped you? Because I put you in your place?"
"Fuck y-you—"
He pulls his fingers out, and she makes a sound of protest that dies in her throat when he slaps her pussy. Not hard, but enough. Enough to sting, to shock, to make her whole body jolt and fresh wetness coat his fingers.
Her hands fist in the thousand-dollar duvet cover. "Caleb, please—"
"Please what?" He slaps again, watching her lips swell, watching them glisten with her arousal. "Please stop? Please more? Use your words, baby. I know you have them. I know that smart mouth can form complete sentences when it wants to."
She's panting now, her face turned to the side, cheek pressed against the mattress. He can see her eyes squeezed shut, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. The mark on her cheek from earlier is still visible, and he leans down, pressing his mouth to her skin, sucking a bruise against her jawline. She moans, the sound vibrating against his lips, her hips making a small, involuntary circle.
"P-Please," she whispers, and it's the first honest word she's said all night.
"Please what?"
"Please let m-me cum, daddy."
Caleb laughs against her skin, the sound dark and cruel, edged with all the frustration she's caused him. "You think you deserve to come? After the week you've had? After the week you've made me have? After missing dinner, running up the credit card on shoes you don't need, sending me that picture of you at that club with your friends, the one where you're practically falling out of that dress—" His fingers slide back inside her, curling upward unerringly, and her back arches clean off the bed. He's merciless now, fucking her with his hand, his thumb finally pressing against her clit in tight, hard circles that make her writhe.
Her noises get louder, less controlled, more desperate. He's building her up fast, pushing her right to the edge, feeling the way her muscles tense, the way her breathing changes.
"You're close," he observes, feeling the flutter of her muscles, the way she gets impossibly tighter around his fingers. "I can feel it. You're about to fall apart, aren't you? You're about to make a mess all over my hand."
"Yes, y-yes—"
He stops. Just ... stops. His fingers still inside her, his thumb lifting away, leaving her empty and desperate. She screams into the mattress, a frustrated, animal sound that's music to his ears.
"Fucking hell, Caleb, you can't—"
"I can." He pulls his fingers out slowly, deliberately, brings them to his mouth, and sucks them clean while she watches over her shoulder with glassy, wounded eyes. "I can do whatever I want. That's the arrangement, isn't it? I pay, you obey. I provide, you behave." He says it like a mantra, like reminding himself as much as he does to her.
"Bullshit," she whispers, but there's no heat in it. Just desperate, clawing need. "The arrangement is you pay and I let you fuck me."
He grabs her hips, flipping her over onto her back with an ease that speaks to the difference in their sizes, their strengths. She bounces on the mattress, her legs splaying open involuntarily, her body knowing what it needs even as her mouth continues to defy, to snark, to brat out. Her bra is still on, though it's askew, one nipple peeking over the lace like a secret. Her thighs are trembling. Her pussy is visibly tender and swollen and so fucking wet it's dripping onto his thousand-thread-count sheets, making a mess he'll smile at every time he does laundry.
"The arrangement," he says, his voice low as he crawls onto the bed, settling between her legs like he's coming home, "is that I own you. Every inch. Every hole. Every fucking thought."
He leans down, his breath hot against her ear. "And you're about to remember that."
Caleb doesn't give her warning before he slides down and his mouth is suddenly on her. No teasing laps, no gentle buildup—just his tongue flat against her cunt, licking from her hole to her clit in one long, heavy stroke that has her hands flying to his hair. She pulls, hard enough to sting, but he's had worse from turbulence, from pulling G-forces that made his vision go grey at the edges.
He wraps his arms around her thighs, holding her open, and feasts.
She tastes like sex and sin and everything he's not supposed to want but craves anyway; like the strawberries she'd eaten earlier, like the particular flavour of her own cunt that's become his favourite thing in the world. He sucks her clit between his lips, flicking it with his tongue, feeling her thighs shake against his shoulders. When he pushes two fingers back inside her, she bucks so hard he has to pin her hips down with his forearm, has to use his weight to keep her from launching off the bed.
"N-No, oh! Fuck—"
"Language," he murmurs against her pussy, the warning coming as an afterthought when compared to how the vibration of his voice is making her sob.
Caleb curls his fingers, finding her g-spot again, and sucks harder, adding his teeth just barely, just enough. She's babbling now, incoherent streams of yes and please and fuck mixed with his name, with Daddy, with nonsense syllables that mean the same thing. He could listen to it for hours. He plans to. He brings her to the edge again and again, backing off just before she crashes over.
Each time, her curses get more creative, more breathless, and each time, his cock gets harder, his control thinner. She's soaked his face, his chin, his hand. The sheets are ruined, dark with her wetness. He doesn't care. He'll buy new ones. He'll buy a hundred new sets.
"Daddy, I-I can't," her voice breaks, tears thick in it. "I can't take it, p-please, I'll be good—"
"You can." Caleb kisses her inner thigh, bites down hard enough to leave a mark that'll bloom by morning, that'll have her remembering every time she moves. "You will. Because I said so, and what I say goes."
He adds a third finger, stretching her, fucking her hard and deep while his mouth works her clit relentlessly.
She's so close he can taste it, feel it in the way her muscles lock up, the way she holds her breath like she's drowning. This time, when he feels her start to tip over, he doesn't stop. He pushes harder, faster, his tongue a relentless point of pressure until she screams.
The orgasm rips through her, violent and beautiful. Her back arches clear off the bed, her thighs clamping around his head like a vise, her hands yanking his hair so hard that it makes his eyes water. He doesn't let up, doesn't give her a moment to breathe. He keeps licking, keeps pumping his fingers through the clenching, through the gush of wetness that coats his hand, the aftershocks that make her twitch and whimper. He drags it out until she's crying, actual tears tracking down her face, her words devolved into pure, animal nonsense.
"No, no, no—s'too m-much, daddy, s'too much!" She's pushing at his head now, weak and uncoordinated, her strength already gone.
He finally pulls back, his face smeared with her slick, his fingers still buried deep.
She's a mess. A gorgeous, wrecked mess. Her eyes are glazed, her makeup smudged, her cheeks smeared with too much tears, sweat, and probably a hint of drool. Ah, he wants to mark her everywhere.
"That's one, baby," he coos, and it makes her whimper, already oversensitive, already overwhelmed.
Caleb stands, unbuckling his belt with steady hands. Her eyes track the motion, fixated on his hands as he pulls it free of the loops. The leather slides out with a soft hiss that sounds like a threat. He doubles it over, slaps it against his palm. The crack makes her flinch, makes her thighs press together with an audible squelch.
"You think you're done, hm?" he asks, unbuttoning his slacks, letting them hang from his hips. "You think that little orgasm is enough to make up for the week you've put me through?"
She shakes her head, silent for the first time all night, her mouth is probably too tired to form the sharp words she'd been using as weapons.
"Good." He pushes his pants and boxers down, freeing his cock. It's hard enough to ache, the head wet with precum, the vein along the side throbbing with his heartbeat. He wraps his hand around it, strokes once, twice, watching her watch him, watching her eyes fix on the way his hand moves. "Because I'm not even close to finished with you."
Caleb crawls back onto the bed, kneeling between her legs. He grabs her ankles, pulling her down the mattress until her ass is at the edge, her legs draped over his thighs. He palms her ass, feels the heat radiating from the skin he spanked raw, the skin that will be bruised tomorrow. She hisses but doesn't pull away. Instead, her hips make a small, involuntary roll upward, seeking friction, seeking him.
"P-Please," she whispers, and it's the sound he lives for. The sound of the brat breaking.
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me."
He spanks her again, just once, right on her sore cheek. The sound is sharp, and her yelp is sharper. "Try again."
"Please fuck me, sir."
Better. But not quite. Not enough. Still a brat somehow, even if she already broke earlier.
He leans down, his cock hot against her stomach, his mouth at her ear. "That's not what you call me. You know what you call me. You've known for months, even if you've been too stubborn to say it when you're not cumming, when your pretty brain is still thinking straight."
Caleb has never asked for it outright, until now. But he's paid for this apartment, her tuition, her wardrobe. He's paid for her fucking manicures, for the appointments at the salon he schedules for her, for the cars she doesn't even appreciate. He's earned it. He's earned every goddamn thing.
She's silent for a long moment, her breathing ragged. Then, so quietly he almost misses it, a whisper that sounds earnest, almost genuine now that she's thinking clearly, saying it with all her little heart, "p-please fuck me, daddy."
The word hits him like a drug injected straight into his bloodstream. His cock jerks against her skin, and he has to close his eyes, has to count backwards from ten to keep from coming just from hearing it..
"Again." The command is steel.
"Please, d-daddy." Louder now. Her hips lift, rubbing against him, the wetness of her soaking his shaft. "Please, I'm so empty, I need—"
He slams into her.
No warning, no slow slide, no gentle preparation—just one brutal thrust that buries him to the hilt in one smooth, hard motion. She screams, her body bowing, her nails clawing at his chest hard enough to leave red tracks. She's so fucking tight after that orgasm, squeezing him like a fist, like she's trying to force him out and keep him inside at the same time, and it's all he can do not to lose it right there.
Caleb holds still, buried deep, feeling her flutter around him, adjusting to his size, to the intrusion, to the claiming. "Fuck," he grits out, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth hurt. "Fuck, baby, you're so tight."
She's babbling again, his name mixed with please and daddy and yes and a stream of nonsense that makes no sense and perfect sense at the same time. He pulls back, almost all the way out, the wetness making the slide obscene, then drives back in. The rhythm he sets is punishing, hard deep strokes that rock the frame against the wall with a steady thump-thump-thump that echoes through the penthouse. Each thrust forces a sound from her, rough and raw. He grabs her hair, wrapping it around his fist again, pulling her head back so he can see her face, so he can watch the way she goes brainless happen in real time.
Her eyes are barely focused, her mouth slack and open, drooling a little, tears and spit mixing on her cheeks. There she is—he's fucked her stupid, fucked the brat right out of her, and the sight of it makes him thrust harder, makes him want to fuck her even dumber, until there's nothing left but this mess.
"Look at you," Caleb murmurs, his voice a mocking coo. "Look at this mess. My pretty little girl, all used up. You can't even think, can you? Can't even form a sentence. What's your name, baby? Can you remember?"
She moans, her hands falling limp to her sides, giving up even the pretence of participation, the feigned protests. She's just taking him now, just existing for his pleasure, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
He slaps her face—not hard, just a tap to bring her focus back, to make those eyes find his even if they're dazed to hell and back. "Who owns you?"
"Y-You," she whispers, and it's the truth, raw and unvarnished.
"Who?"
"Daddy's." The word is automatic now, programmed into her by his hands and his cock and his will.
"Uh huh, that's right." Caleb releases her hair, grabs her legs, pushes them back until her knees are near her shoulders, folding her in half. The new angle has him hitting deeper, rubbing against her front wall with every stroke, and she makes a choked sound, her eyes rolling back, her mouth opening in a silent scream.
"This is mine. This pussy is mine. This ass is mine." He punctuates each claim with a sharp thrust that drives the words home. "You're mine. Every part of you. Every thought you have when you're alone, every time you touch yourself, you're thinking of me. Aren't you?"
He can feel his orgasm building, that familiar tightness in his spine, the way his balls draw up and get heavy. He doesn't want to stop, wants to fuck her like this for hours, keep her in this space where she's just his, no attitude, no curse words, just need and obedience and the sweet sound of his name. But his body has other plans. She's too tight, too hot, too fucking perfect, gripping him like she was made for this, like she's been made for him alone.
"Come on," he growls, his hand finding her throat. Not squeezing, just resting there, feeling her pulse hammer against his palm, feeling her life under his hand. "Come on, baby, one more. Give me one more. Milk my cock like a good girl."
"Daddy, I-I can't," her voice is reduced to a whimper, exhausted, wrecked.
"You can." He thumbs her clit with his other hand, rubbing in tight circles that match his thrusts, that build her back up from nothing. "You will. Because I said so, and daddy gets what daddy wants."
She breaks on command, exactly as he knew she would. Her pussy clamps down so hard it hurts, rippling around him in waves that drag him over the edge with her, that pull his orgasm from him whether he's ready or not. He slams deep and stays there, grinding against her as he comes, painting her insides with pulse after pulse of hot cum. The breeding kink he hasn't admitted to, the one that makes him groan as he imagines filling her up, making her swell with his kid, making her truly his in a way no piece of paper nor transaction ever could—it's front and centre now, and he can't stop the words from spilling.
"Take it," Caleb grunts, his hips jerking involuntarily with each spurt. "Take every fucking drop. Going to fill you up, make you so full, going to keep you pregnant and pliant and fucking mine—"
She wails, another orgasm ripping through her at his words, at the fantasy, milking him dry, her body greedy for everything he has to give. He collapses forward, catching himself on his elbows so he doesn't crush her, but stays buried deep, stays connected. He's still hard, still twitching, still leaking, and he can feel his cum leaking out around his shaft, mixing with her wetness, making an even bigger mess of his sheets.
They lie like that for a long moment, their panting breaths the only sound in the room. He can feel her heartbeat against his chest, can feel the aftershocks that make her twitch around him like little fluttering kisses.
His face is buried in her neck, and he opens his mouth, biting down on the tender skin there, marking her again, adding to the collection. She whimpers but doesn't push him away. Her arms come up, wrap around his back, hold him close. When he finally pulls out, it's with a slick, obscene sound that makes him want to shove back in, to start all over again.
Caleb doesn't. He rolls onto his back, pulling her with him so she's sprawled across his chest, her legs tangled with his, her face tucked under his chin. Her legs are still shaking. He can feel them trembling against his own, little aftershocks of pleasure and exhaustion.
"Fuck," she whispers into his skin, her breath hot and humid. "Fuck."
He smacks her ass, though it's half-hearted now, exhausted. "Language."
She laughs, the sound breathless and hoarse and so fucking perfect. "Can't. Can't think. You fucked all the words out of me."
"Good." Caleb kisses her forehead, his hand stroking up and down her back, feeling the bumps of her spine, the softness of her skin. "That's how I want you."
They're quiet for a while, the city continuing its endless hum outside, indifferent to what happens in this penthouse, in this bed. His hand finds hers, lifts it to his mouth. He kisses her bruised knuckles—she must have scraped them on the sheets when she was clawing for purchase. His other hand rests on her ass, feeling the heat radiating from the skin he'd marked.
"Are we still fighting?" she mumbles, her voice thick with exhaustion, with the kind of deep weariness that comes from being taken apart and put back together.
"Were we ever?" He feels her smile against his chest, feels the way she relaxes into him.
"You were mad."
"I'm still mad." He squeezes her ass, making her wince and squirm. "You missed dinner. That reservation took months to get. I had to donate to three different charities."
"Sorry, daddy." The word is sleepy now, sated, automatic. It still makes his chest tighten, still makes him feel like he's won something he didn't deserve.
"You're not sorry." He shifts, reaching for the nightstand where he keeps a bottle of water. He cracks it open, helps her sit up enough to drink. She gulps greedily, water dripping down her chin, her throat working. He wipes it away with his thumb, tender now where he was brutal before. "But you will be tomorrow when you can't sit comfortably. When you feel me with every step."
She shivers, her eyes fluttering closed. "Worth it. So fucking worth it."
Caleb watches her drift off, her body going limp and heavy against him, her breathing evening out into the soft rhythm of sleep. In sleep, she looks younger than twenty-one, vulnerable and small, all the sharp edges sanded away. He pulls the duvet up over them both, tucking it around her shoulders, cocooning them in warmth. His hand finds her hair, stroking through the tangled, sweaty mess he'd made of it, smoothing it back from her face.
The bruises are already forming. He should feel guilty—he's old enough to be her father, technically. He'd promised Josephine he'd look out for her, protect her, not fuck her senseless and mark her up like a territory map.
But Josephine was gone, and the girl in his arms was very much here. Very much his. Even if she drove him insane, even if she made him feel every one of his years with her attitude and her recklessness.
She was his, and he'd bought her fair and square—with tuition payments, with designer clothes, with a penthouse and a car and a credit card that never got declined.
Caleb kisses her temple, breathing in the scent of sex and sweat and his shampoo from her shower earlier, the smell of her coconut conditioner underneath. His hand drifts down to her stomach, splaying open there possessively, covering the space that in his fantasies might one day swell. She shifts in her sleep, pressing closer, making a soft noise of contentment. Her hand finds his chest, curls over his heart like she's claiming it right back.
He covers it with his own, his larger fingers dwarfing hers, and holds it there.
The phone buzzes on the nightstand—probably a text about tomorrow's charter flight, a pilot calling in sick, a client demanding something unreasonable at an unreasonable hour. He ignores it. Let them wait. Let them all wait. His empire can run itself for one night.
He has everything that he needs right here.
SAINT'S NOTES ! scheduled on queue, i'm busy studying — my board exam is next month so i have to lock in; this is put into queue along with a few others to be posted throughout february to march (maybe) considering that there's a lot going on. like. there really is something wrong with my brain to think about going to medschool after the whole shitshow four years of my undergrad, but anyway, it might be fun. who knows (i don't).
ok, so I'm really thirsty about the new quadbanner like everyone else, and I really don't know how to request this, but can you write something about Zayne's how he pulling down his zipper, telling us how it would be enough.. tysmm 😔
I think we've all been thirsty since the quad banner came out. I'm like what am I doing with my life, can it just be the 31st already 😩😩😩
Just The Tip
You're struggling. You loved being called a good girl but Zayne made it so hard to be worthy of receiving that praise. Even now. His instructions were simple. Lay naked on the bed and do nothing. No restraints, no punishments. He was trying to make it easy for you. But at the moment it felt like even the simplest things he was doing were making you dangerously close to snapping.
You'd lain there as he'd teased your nipples, working the little buds into aching peaks, and you'd gasped and tried not move as he'd gathered slick from your dripping core and stroked it onto your delicate, swollen, clit, his smoldering eyes darkening as you'd tried to control the building need rising within you. The promise of an orgasm hung in the air but you became careless; one tiny miscalculated action of bucking your hips, and Zayne had stopped, leaving you tingling and bereft.
You'd watched with desperate eyes as he circled around the bed, coming to a halt near your head, wearing a sexy smirk that sent a rush of arousal into your core. "Tch. You make it so hard to praise you, you know? I gave you the most basic of instructions. It appears lying still and doing nothing is too much to ask of you."
Devastated by his lack of approval, you give him your most rueful look, trying to appear apologetic, then whimper as he forcefully grasps your chin, his mouth covering yours as his tongue sensually enters. The wet slip of it against your tongue has you melting, becoming heady from the taste of him as your pussy throbs almost painfully from the lack of stimulation.
Withdrawing, he pushes away hair from your face, cupping your cheek almost tenderly. "Well since it appears you're doing the bare minimum, unfortunately, that's all I can give back to you."
You watch with wide eyes as Zayne opens the zipper of his slacks, and tugs them down along with his underwear, letting his cock spring free, thick and already swollen with arousal, a bead of precum visible in the slit. You almost groan at the sight, imagining how good it would feel to have him fuck you into the mattress, his hot meat stroking your slippery inner walls. You almost forgot that Zayne was not rewarding you at this moment.
He huffs, then positions himself between your spread legs. "Did you really think I was going to let you have all of this?" You let out a small gasp as you feel his tip breach your entrance, pushing in slowly, each minor inch moved making you feel like you might lose your sanity. You try to stay still, letting him do as he pleases, then let out a noise of disappointment as he withdraws. He repeats the process over and over until your arousal has dribbled onto the sheets, making an absolute mess, your mind in a sexual fog.
Zayne's tip is covered with your fluids that have leaked over his velvety column, and he prepares himself to enter again, and the pathetic look of helplessness on your face almost makes him laugh.
"What're you looking at me like that for hmm? Did you think you'd get more with your poor behavior?" He rests his tip halfway inside your canal and stops, feeling the hopeless little clenches of your walls on his cock, as though it eas trying to suck him in further.
"I think that's enough for now." Zayne pulls out completely and you give up, crying out in protest. He chuckles as your reaction before tucking himself back neatly into his pants, fixing his shirt and running his fingers thorough his barely disheveled hair. He offers his hand to you, and you take it, perplexed, and let him help you sit up.
"Get your clothes back on. Yvonne will help you make another appointment. Use that time to work on your discipline and maybe I'll reward that behavior."
theartofmadeline
ellievsbear
tangentwithtanner
dededos
titsay
origamiaround
gummygunk
