I’m here for a request, but not a typical one. I want to request that you finish something you’ve been working on but maybe are nervous that people won’t want it. Something YOU have always wanted to write.
Okay that’s it love you bye 🖤
𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲
Summary: You tried to love Joel Miller the way he was. But eventually, the silence, the walls, the way he kept you at arm’s length… it broke something in you. So you let him go.
|| angst! fluff! smut! we got it all! MDNI 18+, Jackson!Joel, break up, joel is bad at feelings, makeup sex (eventually), pinv, love makin', lots of kissing cause I wanna kiss him, fingering, f!receiving oral, and yeah its a little corny idc, tiny mention of an age gap||
Inspired by Kacey Musgrave's song Space Cowboy
a/n: taylorrrrrrr my angel girl I could cry ilysm.
I’ve always had this thought that Joel Miller, at least at first, would be emotionally unavailable and like...not willing to really date. In p1, he’s constantly shutting Ellie down when she brings up Tess or Sam and Henry, Tommy when he offers him that photo of Sarah. Sure, by the end he’s more open, because Ellie made him feel something again. But I think being romantically involved would be hard for him at first. I've always wanted to explore that, and this been collecting dust in my wips since I wasn't sure how everyone would feel. so all this to say....here you go :')
For once, Joel Miller stayed the night.
Not by accident, not because he was drunk off his ass and you made him crash on your couch. No, you’d seen that version of him more times than you could count. But last night, after fucking you hard enough to leave dents in your drywall from sheer force of the headboard, he’d collapsed beside you, pulled you against his chest, and… stayed.
Almost like he meant to.
So god forbid you woke up the next morning with your cheek against his bare chest, your thigh slung over his hip, still foggy brained in the haze of sleep, and asked if he wanted to go grab breakfast at the dining hall.
You might as well have asked What are we?
Or worse: Will you be my boyfriend forever and ever, Joel?
Now he was out in your living room, shoving his boots on by the front door as sun poured in dusty light across the floorboards. You leaned against the archway in his flannel, bare legs out, nothing but the socks on your feet and silence in the air.
You watched him with narrowed eyes. To say you didn’t know what this was would be like saying the sky wasn’t blue. And you weren’t a liar.
Because you saw it, saw the same pieces being shunted between you. He was building it up again. Brick by brick. That impenetrable wall was back high and tight.
“I don’t get it,” you said finally.
He didn’t answer, only grunted.
Of course.
“You come here a few nights a week, we hookup and then…what? I don’t exist once your pants are back on? The one night you actually stay with me and I ask you to eat breakfast, I’ve suddenly crossed a line?”
“That’s enough,” Joel muttered, jaw clenched tight.
The way he said made your stomach twist something ugly.
“Yeah,” you said, letting out a long breath as your voice flattened into something stale, “You’re right. That’s enough.”
You stepped in front of where he was sitting, his chin tilting up to meet your eyes for once. His brows furrowed, but he didn’t back down. He just looked at you like he didn’t understand why you were standing in the way of his exit.
“What do you want, Joel?”
He shook his head and leaned down to finish tying his boots. “Don’t want nothin’ from you.”
That stung more than it should have. “Trust me,” you said scoffing. “I got that message a long time ago.”
He stood, slow but abrupt, towering over you as if it was easier to loom than feel anything at all. “What is it you want from me, girl?”
“I want you to admit there’s something here!” you finally snapped, your blood beginning to boil, “I want you to act like all these nights mean something! Like I’m not just a warm body you crawl to when you’re lonely.”
His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“I want you to talk to me. I want something real. But you don’t even try.”
“I am tryin’,” he said, eyes squeezing shut once before looking at you under heavy brows.
“No, you’re not,” you said, and your voice cracked, not quite out of sadness, but rage. “You’re just—” your hand cut the air, motioning to all of him. “You’re existing, Joel. Going through the motions like you’re waiting for it all to be ripped away. You’re so damn scared of letting anything good happen that you’re choking the life out of it before it can even start.”
His jaw twitched, shoulders stiffening. That look in his eye—rage, grief, guilt—you weren’t sure which it was, but it burned cold and hard beneath the surface.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” he said quietly, but there was venom behind the words. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”
“Then tell me.” You stepped closer, letting your voice drop to something soft and gentle as you lifted your hands to his chest. You looked up into his eyes, now dark as storm clouds above a forest as you whispered, “Let me in.”
He didn’t answer, only stood there, breathing slow through his nose, his body rigid like he was waiting to be hit.
You shook your head, your hands falling back down to your sides in fists, “You always talk about space,” you murmured. “Needing time.”
You turned on your heel and stomped toward the door, yanking it open with a loud creak. Cold autumn air rushed in, hitting your bare skin and stinging your eyes.
“Well,” you said, voice low and bitter. “Your prayers have been answered.”
You swung your arm out toward the open doorway.
“You can have your space, cowboy.”
Joel paused for a long moment. Because maybe for once he realized you meant it. Like maybe he’d expected you to cave, to give him the same grace you always did. But you were tired.
Tired of not knowing what this was.
Tired of not knowing what you were to him.
Tired of the way he’d shut down and pull away when you could feel the good in him, the gold buried under all that iron.
You knew he was a good man.
He just wouldn’t show it to you.
Slowly, he started toward the door. Time dragged as he approached you, whether that was because every step looked like it cost him something or you were cataloging every movement he made to store in your memory.
He reached the threshold and stopped, the morning light catching the edge of his face, soft and golden. He looked back at you, but you didn’t lift your eyes.
Then softly, just a whisper, he said your name. As if he knew it was the last time.
Finally, you looked up at him, biting your lip to keep back the tears.
“I’ll see you around, Joel,” you said. “I know my place. And maybe it’s just not with you.”
You couldn’t quite make yourself regret being with Joel.
Not even for a second.
You told yourself a hundred times in the days that followed that what happened between you and him had been real. Maybe not enough, maybe not lasting, but real. And sometimes that was all you got.
Roads were made to go down. Some just didn’t have a way back.
And if you’d been smarter, you would’ve remembered what the movies always tried to teach: the good guys don’t run away.
But the broken ones sure as hell do.
And Joel Miller had always been a runner. Even if he showed signs of want, of connection only through the nights with your name on his lips like prayer and he took your body like it was his salvation.
But when a horse wants to run, there’s no sense closing the gate.
In the weeks after you’d broken things off, you saw him everywhere. Yes, in the little things like the butcher’s stall that had a sign he’d made and the wooden figurines in your neighbor’s windowsill, but more than that, you actually saw him.
From across the market gathering whatever it was he needed one week, or the back of his head on horseback heading out with a patrol group, or his flannel at the edge of the community garden, nodding to someone like he was fine. Like nothing ever happened. He never looked your way, not once. But you looked at him.
And the days you didn’t see him were somehow worse.
You'd catch yourself worrying. Wondering if something went wrong on patrol, or…if he was holed up with another woman in a house that wasn’t yours, if he’d finally decided to try with someone easier.
Someone who didn’t ask him to talk.
Someone who didn’t wear his t-shirts and expect breakfast the next morning.
Two months passed like that— slow and strange, like you were trudging through water. You kept to yourself, did your work, smiled at friends when they asked if you were okay. You told them you were tired, that you were busy. That you were fine.
But there was something about Joel that clung to you like smoke.
It didn’t matter how many days you went without seeing him. He was still everywhere. Whether it was in the smell of pine when it rained, the creak of your porch steps when you’d hoped it was him, or the ache of your thighs the first time you tried to be with someone else and couldn’t go through with it.
Because try you had. Over and over, you’d tried.
And on one stormy night, three sharp knocks slammed against your front door like warning shots.
You were curled up on the couch beside someone who was… fine. He was nice, respectful, said “please” and “thank you” and laughed at your lame jokes with his hand resting on your knee. You were trying, honest, to feel something. To find that spark again, to forget about the one you’d known all too well.
But you couldn’t force yourself to, could you? So when the knocks slammed into the wood of your front door, you were almost grateful, because the man on your couch had just been leaning in for what you were pretty sure was a kiss.
Eric? Aaron? Whatever his name was blinked, glancing toward the door. “You expecting someone?”
You shook your head slowly. “No.”
Another knock. More like a demand now.
“Let me just see who it is,” you said quietly as you crossed the room, your bare feet silent on the hardwood, and opened the door.
Joel nearly fell through it.
Rain clung to him, dripping from the hem of his jacket, pooling beneath his boots. Mud streaked up the sides of his jeans. His hair was soaked to his scalp, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy. There was something feral about them.
He didn’t even say a word as he stepped forward, grabbed your face with both hands, and kissed you.
It was messy and sudden and rough, tasting hot with whiskey, his stubble scraping your skin as he tilted your chin up, as if he had the right. As if you were still his. You froze for a heartbeat, maybe two. Because you had missed him. Missed him in ways you hadn’t even let yourself feel yet. But this…this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. And the second that sick, hot twist of anger rose up in your gut, you shoved him.
“Joel—what the fuck—get off,” you snapped, trying to twist out of his cold, wet grip.
But he kept coming. Hands sliding to your hips, dragging you into him again, his mouth crashing against yours, slurring against your lips, “Missed you. I miss’d ya so fuckin’ bad, baby, I—”
You pushed harder this time, shoving at his chest until he stumbled back a step. He swayed, visibly disoriented, breath catching as he reached for the doorframe to steady himself. His eyes blinked slowly like the room was spinning. When he looked back at you, he looked confused. Like he didn’t understand why you were pushing him away.
Behind you, you heard the floor creak.
“Uh, what the hell is going on?”
Joel’s head jerked up at the voice.
The man stood from the couch, slow and cautious. His brows pulled tight, clearly trying to make sense of what he just walked into. Joel stared for a long moment. Then his whole body stiffened.
“What the fuck is this?” he asked, his voice lower now, that mean, Southern bite curling around the words.
You stepped into his eyeline immediately. “Joel—don’t.”
But he moved around you like you weren’t even there, sodden boots heavy on the floor as he stalked forward.
“Get the fuck out,” he said to the man.
The guy blinked, baffled. “Excuse me?”
“I said get the fuck outta her house.”
“She invited me—”
Joel began to move, an angry glower pinching his brows as he moved to get in his face, but you stepped between him, hands on his chest.
“Jesus, Joel,” you said, shoving him back again, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Joel’s breathing was ragged, chest rising and falling fast. He turned toward you, eyes wild and heartbroken and far too open, “Can I talk to you?” his eyes glowered briefly at the man behind you, “Alone?”
“Man, you need to leave,” your guest said, annoyed.
You held up a hand. “It’s fine. I’m sorry. Just… please go.”
He looked at you for a long second, then scoffed, shooting one last glare toward Joel as he stepped out the door.
The second it closed behind him, the silence in the room was deafening.
Joel stood there in the middle of your living room like something unholy. Soaked to the bone and chest heaving. His eyes were red and full of everything he refused to say for the last two months.
The silence stretched, long and heavy.
“Baby, I–” he began, but you shook your head.
“I don’t want to hear it, Joel.” you squeezed your eyes shut, bringing your hands up to rub your temples, “Whatever it is you want to say, I need to hear it when you’re sober.”
You should’ve screamed, should’ve been angry. Hell, you should’ve thrown him back out into the rain and locked the door behind him.
But you didn’t. Instead, you stepped forward, carefully, slowly, wondering if he was just going to bolt again.
“Let’s just…get this off,” you murmured. Your fingers found the collar of his jacket, trembling a little from the adrenaline coursing through you as you tugged it down his shoulders. The fabric clung to his arms, soaked and heavy, but he didn’t fight you. And you didn’t realize til after you’d gotten it off of him that his eyes never left your face. Not once.
You hung his jacket up by your door, the fabric freezing and soggy. Then your hands moved to his flannel. The buttons were half-undone already. You didn’t ask, you just kept going.
And still, he didn’t stop you.
You pushed the fabric apart, palms brushing down the front of his chest, and God—he was so cold. But he was still him, even if the cold had gotten to him, had sunken into his skin.
You sank to your knees.
Not for him, and not like that. You just crouched down in front of him and tugged at the laces of his boots. The knot was sloppy and rushed like he had rushed in a fury to put them on. You undid it anyway, peeling each boot off one at a time, your fingers clumsy from the cold and the tension.
Neither of you spoke.
Not until you stood again, eyes meeting his. Something passed between you in that moment, raw and wordless. Maybe a kind of truce. Not forgiveness, just a single thread of mercy, offered in silence just for tonight.
Joel swayed again, catching himself with a heavy hand against the wall. His voice came out low and ragged, like it hurt to speak.
“I… I fucked up, okay?”
You could’ve screamed at him. Could’ve thrown every angry word you’d swallowed these past few months in his face. But instead, you just reached for the hem of his shirt.
“Lift your arms.”
He blinked, confused, but obeyed, sluggish and slow.
You pulled the soaked fabric up and over his head, dropping it to the floor with a wet slap.
“I’m tryin’ t’talk to ya,” he slurred, more firmly this time. “Yer not… listenin’.”
You poked him hard in the chest, “Because I don’t,” you poked again, “want,” a third poke, “to hear it, Joel.”
You poked him one last, hard time, his face turning into a grimace as his fingers wrapped around your wrist, but you kept going.
“So here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna take a shower, and I’m gonna make sure you don’t bust your head open on the tub. Then you’re drinking some damn water and sleeping it off on the couch.”
He opened his mouth, but you cut him off with a sharp look.
“If you still wanna talk after that? When you’re sober and not dripping all over my floor? Then maybe I’ll listen.”
He stared at you for a long moment, rainwater still clinging to his skin, chest rising and falling. Then he nodded. Just once, his face falling, his eyes wide.
“Alright,” he said quietly. “Okay.”
You draped the blanket over him, tucking it gently around his shoulders. He was half-asleep already, sunk deep into the couch cushions, still damp around the edges but warm now, finally. Clean shirt and a pair of sweatpants he left behind many nights ago, water by his side, the softest throw you owned wrapped snug to his chest.
Joel blinked up at you slowly, lids heavy and uneven. His hair was still a little wet, curling at his temples. That same whiskey glow lingered in his eyes, glassy and soft.
“Yer so pretty,” he mumbled, words slurred as he watched you tuck him in, “Really miss’d ya.”
“Okay, Joel,” you said halfheartedly, not believing a word of it.
He blinked again, slower this time. “Even when I was t’dumb to say it… I always wanted t’come back ‘ere. To you.”
You froze.
Your throat tightened, but you forced a smile anyway. Brushed a dark hair from his forehead with careful fingers.
“Okay, cowboy,” you said gently. “Drink your water and rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”
He hummed, the sound low and content. “M’kay.”
And as you turned to leave, his hand found the edge of the blanket again, clutching it close.
You were up before him the next morning, the sky still a pale and silvery grey through the kitchen window when you set the kettle on.
You’d saved the last of the good coffee grounds for this, maybe because some part of you hoped he’d come back. Maybe because opening the jar, running your fingers through the coarse grinds, breathing in the bitter scent… it helped when you missed him.
The rich smell filled the room as it brewed, creeping into the corners of the house like a memory. You heard the low groan from the couch before you saw him. The rustling of blankets and the sound of his hand rubbing against his beard.
You poured a mug and walked over slowly.
He was hunched over, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Bleary and still half-fogged. When he finally lifted his face, eyes squinting against the light, you held the mug out to him.
He blinked at it. Then at you.
“Thanks,” he said, voice rough with sleep and whatever was still left from the whiskey. He took it gingerly, careful to avoid your fingers.
You sat down in the corner of the couch, legs tucked under you, keeping a decent distance with your hands wrapped around your tea to ground you.
Joel took a sip from his mug, closing his eyes and exhaled a sigh, long and slow.
“Needed that,” he murmured, setting the mug on the table.
You nodded, watching him out of the corner of your eye. His beard was scruffier than usual, curling at the edges. Eyes rimmed in red, lashes still clumped from sleep. His face was carved in exhaustion, but even now, something about him still softened when he looked at you.
“I’m, uh…” he started, then shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m real sorry about last night. Feel awful.”
You gave a crooked smile. “Yeah, I figured the hangover’d be brutal.”
He shot you a look. “Not like that, smartass.”
Your smile deepened in spite of yourself. The silence between you hummed a little, something warm and bitter like old whiskey. You broke the gaze first, sighed, and stared down into your tea.
“So,” you said.
“So…” he echoed, rubbing at the corner of his jaw. His fingers rasped against the unshaven stubble. “I, uh… I ain’t so good at this.”
You nodded. That much, at least, didn’t need explaining.
“But I meant what I said,” he added quietly. “I’ve… ya know. Missed you.”
You lifted your mug again, stalling with a sip. You didn’t answer right away, and you didn’t plan to. The old version of you might’ve melted on the spot with so few words. Not this time. You needed more. Real words. The truth of it.
Joel watched you, waiting. Then waited some more.
The longer the silence stretched, the more agitated he looked. His mouth twitched, like he was finally coming to terms with the fact he was gonna have to work for your forgiveness.
He leaned back finally, one arm slung along the back of the couch, his eyes still fixed on you.
“Not gonna give me anythin’, huh?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said, setting your mug down with a quiet clink on the coffee table, “I thought you came here with somethin’ to say.”
“I was drunk.”
“Drunk words, sober thoughts,” you said simply. “So let’s hear ’em.”
Joel let out a low groan, dragging his hand over his face again. “Okay,” he muttered into his palm before reaching for the coffee again.
He took another sip, holding the mug like it might shield him from what came next.
“I dunno all the shit I’m supposed to say,” he muttered finally. “It’s not…easy for me.”
You stayed quiet, letting him talk, even if the words came slow and uneven.
“I’m used to... keepin’ things in. Just dealin’ with whatever shit came my way. I never…never really had this before, someone who wanted to know what was goin’ on in here.” He glanced your way, tappin’ his temple.
“So when I started comin’ around here… and it felt good… felt, I dunno, safe… I think I got scared I’d fuck it up. Or that maybe I already had.”
You blinked slowly, processing the mess of it. His voice, low and gravelly, kept catching like it was tripping over things he didn’t know how to say. Like there were words he wanted to find but had never really practiced out loud.
“Joel,” you sighed, fingers fidgeting around your knees, “I just want to know…what it is you want. Because it seems like we want different things.”
His eyes found yours across the couch, setting his coffee down as he shook his head, and sat forward, leaning closer to you, “No, no. That ain’t it. I want this, I just…” he trailed off, rubbing his face into his hands. You almost felt bad, how hard this was for him.
Then, his eyes looked up, and he sat back. “Can you come here?”
You weren’t sure if you were ready for this part. Because part of you knew how fast you’d give in if you touched him. Knew how easy it would be to fall back into his arms and forget everything you’d been hurting over. But your chest ached for it. And the way he was looking at you, so raw and cracked open, it made you move against your better judgement.
Slowly, you crawled over. He shifted to make room and when you tucked yourself beneath his chin, his arm came around you like he’d been waiting. Both hands found your arm, rubbing gently like he could feel the chill under your skin.
It was odd, almost. Most of the times he’d pulled you in like this were when you were both naked, the post coitus hormones running high, limbs tangled up and skin flushed.
“Missed this,” he murmured, his voice warm against your hair.
You swallowed. You missed it too, missed him, even when he made it impossible.
He shifted just enough to tilt your chin up, fingers brushing along your jaw. His eyes searched yours, darker now but softer. You saw something there you hadn’t seen in the light before. Not when he wasn’t trying to hide it.
Then his gaze dropped to your mouth, and he leaned in.
The kiss was soft and careful, the kind that said he was still learning how not to ruin things.
You kissed him back, breathing him in, your hand fisting in his shirt gently.
But then you caught yourself and pulled away, your hand untangling from the fabric to rub your eyes, “Joel–”
“What do you need me to say?” he asked quietly. There was no bite, no sharpness in his tone. “What is it you want to hear?”
“I can’t just…tell you. I want to know what you want, not just…feeding me what I want to hear.”
His fingers stayed at your jaw, steady. He looked at you like he was searching for the right words, like he wanted to get them right this time.
“I want this,” he said. “I want you.”
His voice cracked slightly. He held your gaze, his hand still gentle on your face.
“I’m sorry I was an asshole before. I didn’t get it.”
You watched him closely as his brow pulled in. This time it wasn’t stubbornness, but something closer to pain.
“Let me try again.”
He must’ve taken your silence as hesitation, because he kept going, voice picking up like he was trying to get ahead of the panic building in his chest.
“I know how it looks, I know I’ve been—Jesus, I’ve been a fuckin’ wreck about this, and I didn’t know how to deal with it. With you. With what I feel when I’m around you. It’s not just… It’s not just wantin’ you in my bed, it’s everything.”
You didn’t move, didn’t blink. You just sat there listening, because holy shit, you’d never heard this man talk so damn much. Never heard him unravel like this, like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. And it was pouring out of him now, fast and messy, as if trying to outrun the fear of messing it all up again.
“I wake up thinkin’ about you. I walk around Jackson wonderin’ what you’re doin’, what you’re thinkin’ about. I’d hear someone say your name and feel like an idiot ‘cause it’d make me smile. And then I’d remember I fucked it all up. That you were done with me. That you should be.”
His gaze dropped along with his hand from your face.
“But then I’d remember...what the hell do I think I’m doin’, bein’ with someone like you? You’ve got this whole life to live. You’ve still got time. Options. People your own age who can give you things I can’t.”
He looked at you again, and this time his eyes were pained and earnest.
“What happens in a few years when I hit sixty, and you still got your life ahead of you? What happens when I’m gone and you’re—”
You cut him off with a kiss.
You surged forward and grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, pulling him into you, kissing him hard again, and again, like you could stop his words with your mouth. Like maybe if you kissed him enough, it would undo the ache in his voice.
“I was tryin’ to talk to you, you know,” he murmured against your lips, breath warm, a hint of a smile breaking through.
You nodded, laughing through the tears you didn’t remember letting fall. Your face was wet, your throat tight.
He pulled back just a little, his hand back to cradling your cheek. His eyes searched yours.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay,” you smiled, “It’s just…I’m happy is all.”
And then he grinned back, and he was kissing you again and it was like something broke open in him. A dam cracked, all that restraint, all that aching hesitation he’d carried for months poured out in the way his hands slid into your hair, the way his mouth deepened against yours.
You barely had time to gasp before he was pressing into you, kissing you harder now, like he needed to make up for every second he’d spent staying away.
And he pushed you gently down onto the couch cushions, his palm cradling the back of your head as he guided you flat and braced himself above you. His body laid flush against yours, that familiar warmth of him enveloping you.
You felt the heat of him, the weight of him, every line of him sinking into you like he’d finally allowed himself to kiss you in the daylight.
You moaned softly against his lips, your thighs parting instinctively beneath him as he settled in the cradle of your hips. He dragged his mouth down your jaw, across your cheek, leaving heat in his wake, murmuring something low against your skin that you couldn’t quite catch—something desperate and grateful.
You arched into him, your hands sliding up his chest, and he caught one of them, threading his fingers between yours. He pulled back just enough to kiss your fingertips, slow and reverent, then your knuckles, one by one, all while holding your gaze.
"You’re so beautiful," he whispered, almost to himself, kissing the inside of your wrist this time, right over the spot where your pulse jumped.
Your skin burned under his gaze. You cupped his face with your free hand, thumb brushing his bottom lip slowly as your thighs lifted higher around his waist. You ground up against him, dragging friction against the hard outline of him beneath his sweatpants.
His eyes fluttered shut, breath catching. He exhaled like it had been held in his lungs for weeks.
“If you keep doin’ that,” he rasped, “I’m not gonna be able to take the time I wanna take with you.”
You smiled, warm and crooked. “Don’t want you to take your time,” you whispered, pulling him back down to your mouth.
His lips met yours again, deeper now, more urgent. One hand threaded through your hair, the other roaming your side as your tongue met his, soft and slick and hungry. He groaned into your mouth, kissing you deeper and deeper.
“Jesus,” he muttered against your skin, trailing kisses to your throat, “you feel so fuckin’ good beneath me, baby.”
“Missed you so much, Joel,” you breathed, eyes shutting as his teeth scraped your neck, the sting of it blooming hot under his tongue.
He was already fumbling with your shirt, pushing it up until you were bare to him, braless, chest rising and falling. His mouth latched onto your nipple without hesitation, all heat and need and reverence. You moaned, back arching, one hand gripping his hair.
“Missed you,” he echoed, voice rough, “Missed this.”
You looked down at him, gasping. He was so pretty like this—lashes low, mouth full, lips slick. Always so careful, making sure you felt good, that you were ready. That you wanted him.
He looked up at you, eyes dark with something that could only be described as devotion. “Wanna show you how much I missed it,” he said, kissing you hard on the lips before trailing back down your body. His tongue flicked out, slow, teasing, licking every inch he could get his mouth on until he reached the waistband of your pants.
Clothes disappeared fast, a blur of limbs and fabric. He hiked your legs up over his shoulders, settling between them like he belonged there. Because he did, after all.
“And don’t even get me started on her,” he said, voice playful now, pressing a kiss just above where you needed him most. “Missed her too.”
“Joeeel…” you mewled, already dizzy with how close he was.
He kissed the left side of your center, then the right, slow and careful. “Thought about her every night,” he murmured, mouth hot and close, “dreamed about how she tastes.”
And then he kissed your clit, and you jolted.
He moaned softly, like this was what he’d been starving for. His tongue flattened, dragging slow, wet strokes from your weeping entrance up to your clit, then back down again. When he pressed the tip inside you just a little, your hips rolled instinctively, your moan coming out sharp and breathless.
He let you move and grind against his mouth, his tongue, let you tangle your fingers in his hair and chase that growing pressure in your belly.
The sleep was gone now. Whatever haze he’d been in had burned off completely.
Joel moaned softly against your skin, tongue dragging another long stroke through your folds, savoring the taste of you like he’d been craving it since the second he left your bed two months ago. He kept going until your thighs trembled against his shoulders, your fingers twisting in his hair, breath stuttering out of your lungs in broken little gasps.
Then his mouth slowed. He pulled back just slightly, his lips brushing against your swollen center as he spoke, the tickle of his beard making you twitch.
“Goddamn,” he murmured, almost reverent. “She’s even sweeter than I remember.”
And then you felt his hand sliding up your leg, rough and broad, fingertips stroking the crease where your thigh met your heat. He watched you as he moved, mouth parted, eyes dark and focused, completely dialed in on the way your body writhed beneath him.
He pushed one finger in, nice and slow, and it felt like heaven and hell at once. That thick, slow pressure opening you, curling into that soft spot inside you with practiced ease. Like memory.
Your back arched off the couch. You whimpered, head rolling back. He’d always had the thickest fingers, one was all you needed to feel that tight stretch of him.
“Shit,” he groaned, watching your face as he moved it. “You feel that? How tight she still is for me?”
You could barely answer. You only moaned louder when he added a second finger, working you open, his knuckles brushing where your body fluttered around him. His fingers were so big and broad, callused, perfectly angled. They filled you so good it made your thighs shake.
He set a deep, unhurried rhythm that had the sounds of your wetness filling the room, obscene and beautiful as he brought his mouth back to your clit. He could feel the pulsing of your velvet walls around him as he continued pushing his fingers into you.
“There she is,” he said, pausing the flicking of his tongue, “Look at you, takin’ it so good, like always, baby,”
His lips pursed around your clit and sucked hard, making your breath stutter and stomach tense. Within seconds, you were arching and clamping down on his fingers, your nails digging into his scalp as he moaned against you.
Suddenly your whole body was locking up, thighs clamping around his head as you cried out, your release washing over you in a shudder that left you boneless and gasping. Joel kept moving through it, easing you down, letting you ride every last wave while he whispered against your skin.
“There you go. That’s my girl. Just like that.”
When your breath finally evened out, your eyes fluttered open and he was already moving up your body, slow and sure, kissing your skin as he went.
He pressed a kiss to your stomach, your ribs. Then up curve of your breast, all the way to your collarbone. Your throat.
And finally, your mouth.
Kissing you deep and full, he let you taste yourself on his lips. It was like honey and tang and the lingering taste of coffee on his tongue. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, like there was no place else he'd rather be than between your thighs, tasting your breath and holding your face like it was something fragile, something his. His mouth moved slowly over yours, tongues sliding together, hands still trembling faintly with how badly he wanted you.
“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, voice frayed. “I missed you. Missed you so goddamn much.”
Your fingers trailed down his chest, down to his waistband, dragging the pair of sweatpants down over his hips, not caring how clumsy it was. You needed him. You needed him now. He helped, kicking them off without hardly breaking the kiss. Your hand wrapped around him, hard and flushed and aching against your thigh.
“Jesus—” he groaned, his hips jolting forward into your palm, his forehead pressing into yours as his breath came hot and shaky, “Been a minute, take it easy,”
Your own body was on fire, soaked, aching for him. His voice, his hands, the weight of him over you was too much and yet not enough.
“Joel,” you whispered, “please.”
“Tell me you want it,” he said, and it didn’t sound like teasing. It sounded like pleading. His voice broke like it physically hurt him to ask. “Tell me you still want me.”
You nearly sobbed with need, “I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”
He reached between you to line himself up, the thick head of him dragging through your folds. You were so wet it made both of you groan, the slick sound obscene in the quiet room. He rocked his hips forward, just the tip pressing against your entrance.
“You’re so wet for me,” he whispered, his voice thick, breathless. “So warm.”
You writhed under him, thighs spreading wider, needing more. You could barely think.
“Joel– Jesus– please, just fuck me already.”
He smiled at that and sank into you in one long, devastating thrust, burying himself deep. You cried out, hands clutching at the nape of his neck as your body stretched to take him. Thick, hot, perfect. He filled you like he never left. Like he’d been made to fit.
“Shit,” he breathed, eyes squeezing shut as he bottomed out. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven. Always have.”
He stayed there for a second, shaking with the effort to hold back, “I’m not gonna last,” he admitted, voice strained, “Christ, been a while, huh?”
“You didn’t–?” you blinked up at him, catching your breath.
He shook his head, jaw clenched, a shiver running through him as he twitched inside you. “No. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to.”
He paused, looked down at you, eyes searching. “Did you?”
You cupped his face in your hands like he was delicate beneath your touch.
“No,” you said softly. “No one’s like you, Joel.”
Something shifted behind his eyes, something aching and raw and beautiful. His mouth fell to yours, kissing you deep, as your hips lifted to meet his.
And then he started to move.
He was slow at first, deep and dragging, every stroke deliberate, like he was trying to memorize how you felt all over again. You moaned into his mouth, your nails digging into his hair, your breath catching with every roll of his hips.
He dropped his head into the crook of your neck, his breath hot on your skin.
And then you heard it—gasping, raw, like it ripped itself from his chest.
“I love you,” he groaned. “Fuck—I fucking love you.”
Everything felt like it slowed down.
Your bodies didn’t stop moving, not yet, but something inside your chest pulled tight. Like your heart was trying to brace for impact. Like you hadn’t realized how badly you needed to hear it until it was right there, spilling out of his mouth in that low, broken voice, rough with disbelief and months of silence.
Something woke up under your skin, hot and bleary eyed, the kind of heat that lives dormant, that fills your throat and makes your pulse race. It had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with how this man was looking at you.
He was still inside you, still moving with that same steady rhythm, but his eyes were locked on yours now. Wide and dark and raw. His mouth hung open slightly like he was waiting for you to say something, anything, to tell him whether he’d just changed everything or ruined it.
Your hands came up slowly, almost in disbelief, and you touched his face, one palm to his cheek, the other curling into the back of his neck like you needed to feel he was real. Your voice caught in your throat before you could even speak, but somehow it pushed out.
“You love me?” you whispered, and the sound of your own voice didn’t even sound like yours.
“Yes,” he breathed.
Something cracked open inside you, something deep and hidden and too tired to be cautious anymore. You kissed him, harder than you meant to, your mouth catching his in a collision that felt like everything snapping. He groaned against you and kissed you back like it was instinct, like he’d been waiting for your permission to give in completely.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, your lips brushing his, your body still pulsing around him, still stretched wide and full, still needing more. “Say it again,” you whispered, not because you doubted him, but because you needed to hear it again. Needed to feel him give it to you without fear.
His hand slid to your jaw, holding you there, and his voice came softer now, steadier. “I love you.”
The words landed different this time. Less like an accident, more like a promise.
Your chest ached. You felt it rise up and out of you, that thing you’d been holding back for so long. “I love you too,” you said, and you didn’t have to think about it, didn’t need to second guess. It had always been there.
His head dipped and he kissed you again, deeper this time, not frantic like before but slow and thorough, like he wanted to feel every part of your mouth. His thrusts never stopped. They grew more purposeful now, more measured, like he wasn’t afraid anymore of where this was going, only desperate to take you with him.
He shifted slightly, reaching down to pull your leg higher around his waist, and the new angle made your whole body tense. He sank even deeper, drawing a low sound from your throat you hadn’t meant to make. You felt the build starting again, that tightening low in your stomach, that ache rising in time with every thrust, your body greedy for it, your hands clawing at him like you needed to hold on to something solid while everything else inside you fell apart.
You buried your face against his shoulder, your mouth open, your breath catching, your body clenching tight around him. He groaned your name into your skin, over and over, like it was the only word left in the world.
And then you came. Hard. Full-body, all-consuming, a wave that knocked the breath from your lungs and made your vision white around the edges. Your whole body trembled, and he held you through it, never breaking rhythm, never letting go.
He followed a second later, with a sound that sounded something close to a sob. He thrust deep and stayed there, grinding into you as he spilled inside, his whole body shuddering with the release.
You felt him lift his head to press his forehead to yours, felt the weight of his breath, the warmth of his skin, the thudding of his heart trying to slow against your chest.
Neither of you spoke for a long moment. There was nothing to say. Just the feel of him still inside you, the heat of him wrapped around you, the echo of those three words still settling into the space between your bodies.
Hello! For your requests, can I suggest: (older) Jackson Joel x sweet/sunshine Reader (younger) where Joel notices Reader during something mundane like handling horses after patrol, cleaning after Ellie's mess or doing dishes, etc and he thinks it's the hottest most, attractive thing he's ever seen? He's hiding his affection for her for so long but can't resist her anymore? Thanks!! ✨
With some touches of soft dom, breeding, domestic love and babygirl used for Reader?
𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐣𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫
This piece contains 18+ content
pairing joel miller x sunshine reader [friends → lovers]
summary joel’s old enough to know what he wants, and man enough to finally admit it’s you [fluff, yearning, smut (p in v, teasy, soft, dash of overstim as well as the specifics requested above), wc 5.4k]
a/n thank you so much for this amazing request and your patience, anon! i really enjoyed writing this one cause it scratched an itch i didn’t know i had. i love these two so much!
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The breezes have grown surer of themselves. Unabashed in their chill, though they make the trees sway all the same.
Swashes of vibrant colors now stretch amidst the evergreens. Leaves of red, orange, and yellow that don’t take much convincing to surrender from their branches. While out on afternoon patrol, Joel had appreciated the quiet beauty of it all.
After returning Bandit to his stall, he spots you near the entrance of the stables feeding Dakota. When he first rode in, he’d seen other volunteers milling around but none of them were you.
Much like the trees, your skirt catches the wind to reveal the boots you wear beneath. Joel’s cowboy hat shadows his eyes, but you feel the heavy weight of his gaze even before you cast your glance his way. You pass Dakota her last carrot as the gentle thunk of his footsteps quiets several feet away. He tips the brim of his hat when you look up.
“Howdy,” he rumbles. “Figured you’d gone home early or somethin’.”
“So you were looking for me, huh?” Your smile is teasing.
You stroke Dakota’s neck when she presses towards you, though your attention remains on Joel. He clings to the grace of your movements. “How was it out there today?”
Your interest makes him straighten. “Good.” You nod for him to continue when he stops himself. “Looks real nice this time of year with the trees and all. Those forest routes are somethin’ else.”
“Oh, I bet.” There’s a wistfulness to your tone.
You weren’t a part of the patrol team, so it’d been two months since you ventured beyond the wall. Joel had been the one to take you, but the Clickers you encountered dissuaded your eagerness thereafter. He shot each one before they posed any real threat to your lives, but the prospect of what could’ve been was a blemish that lingered in the back of your mind. Only now, as Jackson creeps towards dormancy, had the desire to leave begun to bud anew.
“I can take you.” Joel’s eyes flick across your features. “Whenever you’re ready to get back out there.”
“I’d like that.”
Silence settles in the space between you as he nods. Laughter carries from the near distance. Horses shuffle through hay in their stalls, puff breaths from their noses. Joel lingers as you grant Dakota your undivided attention, petting her while cooing the whole while. He doesn’t realize he’s begun to smile until the pull in his cheeks has grown too great to ignore.
“You’re such a sweet girl, aren’t you?” you ask her. “My best girl.”
The way you pitch your voice to be airy and saccharine stirs warmth in Joel’s stomach. He could stand around and watch you for hours, which is how he knows it’s time to go on about his way. If it wasn’t so easy to be around you, he’d be a more disciplined man.
“Did Ellie mention I’m helping her out this evening?” you ask.
Joel sets his hands on his hips. “With paint night for the kids?” He thinks a few extra seconds to ensure he doesn’t make a liar out of her. “No.” If she’d told him, he would’ve already planned to be in attendance as opposed to making the decision ten seconds ago.
“That one hardly tells me anything these days.”
You hum in amusement, studying him. There’s a faint rosiness to his cheeks, flecks of gray in his beard. His hair is long enough to peek from beneath his cowboy hat like Tommy’s. He’s rugged. Handsome. Joel studies you in turn. There’s endless life in your eyes along with that discrete sparkle of mischief.
“Guess I’ll see you this evening,” he says.
“You’re coming? Yeah, no, great. Guess I will then,” you ramble. “Should be a lot of fun.”
A smile tugs at his lips. “Should be.”
With a parting tip of his hat, he turns to leave. He figures he’s said all that’s left for him to say. If you two weren’t in different stages in your life and it wasn’t the end of the world, he likes to believe he would’ve been braver a long time ago.
There’s a buzz beneath your skin as you dare to call out to him again, “Wanna see something cool before you go?”
Once upon a time, you wished you knew Joel well enough to call him back to you. To enjoy more of his steady presence. To watch the way his lips moved when he spoke. To see those matured quirks of his up close. Time has granted you access you once dreamed of. Yet, every night when you go home to your uncle’s house and fall asleep alone, it still isn’t enough. These days you cling to every second with him.
Joel starts back your way with that slow, easy stride you’d always rather see coming than going. Curiosity lifts the corners of his lips in a smile you never have to work hard to earn.
When he’s close enough, you pluck his cowboy hat off his head and place it on your own, backpedaling a few paces away with a grin.
Joel pokes his tongue into the inside of his cheek to tamp down his instantaneous smile. There’s magic etched into the crinkles by your eyes, the glint of your teeth. He takes a few steps in your direction before he’s decided whether or not he wants his hat back or wants to be closer to you. A squeal as giddy as they come breaks into the air. He stops then, not because he wants to, but because he can feel the curious eyes that have settled on the two of you. If he were a few decades younger, he wouldn’t mind an audience.
“Ain’t gonna chase ya.”
“What if that’s the whole point?”
When Joel starts your way again, you become all the more aware of how broad he is. How much longer his legs are. How many years he’s had to be torn down and strengthened by the world. There’s no chance you’re making it far, but the spark within you dares you to try.
It’s snuffed seconds after it ignites.
A misstep over an uneven plank sends you backwards. Air punches out of your lungs the moment your butt hits the ground.
Joel’s above you in seconds.
“Jesus,” he breathes, gaze filled with concern. “You okay?”
He extends a helping hand, but all you can think to do is hold his hat secure to your head so he can’t snatch it back.
“Ain’t thinkin’ about that,” he says. “Here, c’mon.” He wiggles his fingers.
Joel pulls you to your feet like you’re light as the air. Embarrassment rises to your cheeks with the warmth of a summer’s day.
“Gotta be careful.” Then, softer, “Didn’t hurt anything, did you?”
“Yes.” Joel frowns at that. “My pride.”
A gruff chuckle sneaks up on him. Even then, he looks you over for any signs of discomfort. You still aren’t convinced he can’t see straight down to your marrow. It’d be easier to feel less seen if his gaze wasn’t always so tender.
Like everyone else in Jackson, there was a period when you only ever saw the intensity. Something had changed towards the end of last year, and you haven’t had the courage to acknowledge what.
“If that’s the only thing, I reckon you’ll be okay,” he says.
“I’ll take your word for it.” You place his hat back on his head, pushing it down to cover his eyes, “Cowboy.”
“Good.” Joel readjusts his hat. “Cause I’m gonna need you to be okay.”
He doesn’t backtrack or spin the sincerity of his statement into the fabric of a joke. Both of you are forced to stand there as it lingers in the air and cements into an invisible truth bound to endure. He eventually clears his throat and pushes his hands into his pockets.
“Is that what you wanted to show me?”
All there is to do is offer a shy nod that somehow remains unashamed.
•••
The memory of the night lives in him after it passes. Joel can still hear the chatter, the laughter, paint being squeezed out of tubes, and brushes swirling in water. He can feel your thigh against his, and the sensation of your finger smearing a cool dab of white paint onto the tip of his nose.
A little boy named Thane had dared you, and Joel would never shy away from your touch. Not when you were as delighted as the kids to mess with him without consequence. That’s what happens when you make people feel safe.
Three knocks sound at his front door as he reaches the bottom of the staircase.
It’s you.
“Hi.” Your voice is small like you hadn’t just spent the evening by his side. “You left this masterpiece behind after clean up.”
You hold up a small canvas that features the landscape painting you’d convinced him to do. It teeters towards abstraction, but nonetheless features the Teton Mountains and the colorful trees at their feet.
“Ain’t nothing special.” He opens the door wider, closing it after you step inside.
“It’s not bad.”
“Ain’t good either.”
“I don’t think any of us gave da Vinci a run for his money,” you amend. “I like it, though.” Your sincerity isn’t lost on Joel. “The kiddos loved it.”
“Alright, alright.” Joel chuckles and scratches the back of his neck.
You pass the canvas to him. “Gotta find a good place for it.”
He walks it to the entryway table for now. The hardwood creaks beneath his feet. He’s already changed into his pajamas, plaid bottoms and a gray t-shirt. You’re in jeans and a cable-knit sweater. The stillness of his house washes over you. The refrigerator hums in the kitchen.
As his back is turned, you say, “I’m really glad you came.”
There’s a weight to his gaze when he faces you again. You had a habit of saying things that forced him away from the easy out of neutrality.
Instead of overthinking, he opts for honesty. “Me too,” he decides. “Probably wouldn’t have if you weren’t gonna be there.”
“Guess a little incentive never hurt anybody.” Sparkles dance in your eyes.
“No,” Joel agrees, glancing down to his feet. “Were you, uh, plannin’ on staying over a while?”
You lift a shoulder. “If you’ll have me.”
“You’re always welcome.” It’s the most earnest he’s sounded all evening. “Could use the company.” He can’t read the look that flickers across your face.
“Drink?”
“Water’s fine.” Your small smile eases his nerves.
Joel pours two glasses and joins you on the couch. Pictures of the great American West adorn the living room walls—Yellowstone, Yosemite, the Grand Canyon. A few faded Polaroid photos are also peppered around the space.
“When was that one taken?” You point to a picture of him on the fireplace mantel.
Joel wets his lips and squints because his vision isn’t the same these days. However, the sway of your hips is crystal clear as you spring up to retrieve it.
You sit closer to him than before upon your return. He drapes an arm across the cushion behind you as you assess the photo in silence together. He looks tired and a bit disheveled in the light of the flash, but wears that signature closed-lipped smile packed with fondness. From what you can make of the background, he’s indoors. The dark walnut cabinets suggest a kitchen.
“That was before Jackson. Before all of this.” Reminiscence is thick in his voice. “Had bought Sarah a camera for her thirteenth birthday.” He starts to smile. “Don’t think I’d ever heard her scream that loud.” You smile too.
“She was so over the moon, I thought I’d never be able to outdo myself again.”
Drawn in by the warmth of Joel’s voice, you begin to trace absentminded shapes on his thigh.
“Never did like bein’ in front of the lens, but those puppy eyes got me every time.” A host of other memories ride palpably on his words.
You share a hushed laugh that wanes into a comfortable silence. Joel’s focus drifts to your hand when your palm stills on his thigh to deliver a soft squeeze. He can feel you everywhere. In his head, beneath his skin, consuming him whole. On New Years Day, you’d hugged him for the first time—properly—and there was only ever after that moment. It’d been a freefall since then.
“You still look the same,” you murmur after a while.
Time has etched its passing in some of his features, but it hadn’t completely erased the man he used to be.
“Think so?”
Joel holds his breath when you reach out to run a gentle finger along his hairline, then venture down to follow the curve of his jawline. Your touch is so featherlight, it tickles. His lashes flutter when you trace a finger down the bridge of his nose. When it slides off the tip and lands in the divot of his Cupid’s bow, you proceed to line his lips. Then you pull away.
“A little different,” you amend. “But the same.”
His cheeks are flushed now.
“Think I might’ve been a bit braver back then.” His voice comes out thick.
“I’m sure a few gray hairs haven’t changed much.”
“Think it’s a bit more than a few.”
You shrug. “I don’t mind.”
Months worth of tension expels out of him in the only way his body knows how. A laugh. Even though you join in, he’s convinced he’s the only one who feels laid bare and wanting. He was done for the moment he asked if you intended to stay. You, with all your heart, warmth, and charm. Another hush falls over the room.
For the first time in his life, he can no longer hold your gaze.
“Y’should probably head back home before it gets too late.” Joel’s posture doesn’t match his words. Nor does the warmth in his gut or the pressure in his pants. He forces himself to look at you. “Can walk you, if you’d like.”
“Did I say something wrong?—”
“Listen, sweetheart.” Joel looks sorry for interrupting, but his dark eyes are nevertheless imploring. Even after he has your attention, he takes a few extra seconds to gather himself.
“I’ve taken a liking towards you.”
Time stills. You blink at him.
“I keep tellin’ myself it’ll pass.” He continues when the ghost of a furrow forms between your brows, “But I can’t shake you.”
Your voice comes out quiet but sure, “I feel the same way.”
Joel doesn’t let himself accept your words quite yet.
“You’ve got your whole life ahead of you,” he says. “I promise you don’t wanna get wrapped up in whatever the hell I’ve got going on.”
“Is that your decision to make?” It’s a soft question with a hard punch.
“‘Course not, s’just,” he straightens up and runs a heavy hand down his beard. “You being here like this, touchin’ me… it’s makin’ it difficult for me to keep minding my manners.”
“And that’s my fault?”
That stumps Joel long enough for the corners of your lips to lift just so. Maybe it is a bit funny, all this dancing between the lines when the whole ballroom lies open. He gives you a helpless look that makes him appear years younger, less like a man with all the answers.
“Jus’ don’t wanna ruin a good thing,” he finally says.
You stand to your feet.
“Is me walking out that door the solution?”
His heart sinks like it’s attached to a millstone. Fear, longing, regret, and hope flicker across his face like changing seasons.
“Don’t want it to be,” he murmurs hoarsely.
He peers up at you when you move to stand between his legs. As you run your fingers through his graying curls, his brows furrow and his eyes close like it pains him. It’d been too many moons since someone paid him this much mind. He stops himself from reaching for your hips.
“You can touch me.”
Joel tells himself it’s your permission that drives him to place his heavy hands on your waist. That makes him guide you down to straddle his lap. That makes him press a steady palm to your back so you’re forced to lean forward into his kiss. The permission. Surely not the undercurrent of need in your voice that made him realize he couldn’t let you go without. Surely not his own reservations being thrown to the wayside.
All that exists is his lips, the brush of his beard against your skin, his grip on your waist that you’re certain is the only thing holding you together. Not God or science, just a man. There’s nothing hurried about the way your lips tease and taste, heavy breaths passing between you. Joel kisses with the same steadiness he’s known for everywhere else in his life.
His body is solid beneath you like he’s a new creation who’d never known doubt a day in his life. You’re soft, and warm, and still smell of the fresh mountain air. A small groan catches in the back of his throat when you roll your hips.
Joel hasn’t run this hot in a long time.
He takes the opportunity to catch his breath when you pull away to press kisses along his jawline. Then down his neck where his pulse point flutters with life. He feels like an exposed wire. Left to do nothing but spark and crackle as you scoot to the floor between his legs.
When the smoke clears, the sight before him robs him of his breath again: you on your knees, lips curled upwards in the coyest smile. Him with his legs spread wide, desire proving itself in the bulge at the juncture of his thighs.
To reclaim a semblance of modesty, he adjusts himself and rests a hand over his crotch as a shield. You don’t let him get away with it, grasping his hand to kiss over his scarred knuckles. Joel huffs a flustered sound, caught.
“Lemme take you upstairs,” he insists.
You nuzzle the inside of his knee in feigned objection.
“Upstairs, babygirl,” he says again. “I’ll take real good care of ya.” Then he grows even more forthcoming, “Won’t last if you get those hands or that pretty mouth on me.”
“You won’t?” You palm him and he shudders.
You clench around nothing when he cups your cheek. There’s hopefulness in his big, brown eyes. You turn your head to lazily kiss the meat of his thumb. It feels like an act of mercy when you stand, extending your hand to him so he can get up and lead the way.
•••
Dim lamplight fills the bedroom. Moonlight peeks through the curtains. Joel’s lips are even gentler when they find yours after stripping you bare and bracing himself overtop of you on the matress. One calloused palm slides up your ribcage to gently cup your breasts, thumbing over your pebbled nipples. You keen into the warmth of his bare chest because there’s nowhere else to go. Joel strains into the confines of his briefs.
At your whimper, he parts from your lips with a final peck before he begins his descent. Your chest rises and falls with deep breaths as he kisses down your throat. Across your collarbones. Down the valley of your breasts, and to your midsection. Arousal pools between your legs as he bypasses where you need him most.
It’s him who now lowers himself to the floor. He grunts as his knees pop, but he gets there in the end. The muscles of your inner thigh twitch at the plushness of kiss paired with the scratch of his beard. His breath fans over your core and, for a brief moment, that’s enough. Patience is a virtue. Then he stops. On weak arms, you push yourself to sit upright, peering down at him with fawn eyes.
“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he rumbles.
Your cheeks grow warm. “I feel that way when you look at me.”
“You are.” He tugs you closer to the edge of the bed. “Every part of you.”
More hot kisses are dotted along your inner thighs. Closer and closer to where you need him until he parts you open with a careful finger. For a moment, he observes. You’re already a mess.
“Mind if I have a taste?” His question leaves him bashful. It’s been a while. For all his confidence, you still knock him off his feet and he wants to make you feel good.
“You can have whatever you want,” you lilt.
A shaky exhale escapes you when he leans forward to run his tongue alongside either side of your seam. Then straight up the middle as you clench. Each time, his tongue stops shy of your clit.
“Joel,” you whine.
Your fingers don’t know what to do when you place your hands on his head.
He kisses and licks through your slick with a languid, exploratory sort of ease, aquiline nose just barely bumping the swollen bud that aches for his attention. That whisper of contact makes you writhe. Joel soothes his hands over your thighs. You tug his hair.
His mouth and chin are wet with you when he lifts his head to meet your pleading gaze.
“What’s wrong?” The tenderness of his voice makes your stomach flip. “You needin’ me somewhere, is that it?”
At last, he presses a light kiss to your clit. Then another, suckling it between his lips on the tail end. It’s enough to make your walls contract. As he begins to lap through your folds again, he nurses that swollen part of you after every few drags of his tongue.
You don’t realize he’s suspended you on the edge until you notice how heavily you’ve begun to breathe, how much you’ve begun to squirm, how quivery your thighs have grown. It’s enthralling, the helplessness and desperation he’s invoked in a matter of minutes. And he hasn’t uttered a single word, just hummed along to your pretty sounds.
“I-I’m close.”
“You close, sweetheart?” he echoes.
You hum a frantic sound of agreement.
Devastation strikes when he stands. Your dazed eyes sweep over his bare chest, the pudge of his belly, down his strong legs. His body is a canvas, bearing scars, and moles, and the lot. You swallow when Joel tucks his fingers into the waistband of his underwear and pushes them down. His flushed cock bobs upwards as it’s set free.
The air of the room is cool where it meets the pearly bead along his slit. Veins ribbon along his shaft. The line of hair beneath his navel leads to the wiry curls surrounding the base. Just below, his balls hang with a heavy fullness.
He has the nerve to blush, but doesn’t subject himself to your gaze for long. “Scoot back.”
You shakily scramble up the bed. The mattress dips as Joel joins you. Broad-shouldered and longing, he crowds into your space to prop himself overtop of you with care. Electricity buzzes through you as he reaches between your legs to gather your arousal, using the moisture to stroke himself a few relaxed times.
You’re so turned on, a breath of laughter escapes you. Joel’s cock twitches at the sweet sound, the way it makes your chest shake.
“What?” He smiles.
“I really need you,” you murmur.
Joel runs himself through your folds. Each methodical pass taps your puffy clit. Already, he’s worked you back up to the cliff he left you on.
To your dismay, he trades his cock with his fingers. They slip through your slick with ease. There’s no resistance when he pushes one into your warmth, humming when your mouth falls open. After a few steady pumps, he adds another, both curling into you with skillful reverence.
“Feeling good?” he asks, eyes warm.
“I still—” your breath catches he rubs firm, steady circles over your bundle of nerves. “Still need you.”
Joel’s stomach flutters. “M’right here.”
Your face prickles with the beginnings of frustration. “Please?”
He eases his fingers out of you. “Said I was gonna take care of you, right?”
“Yes,” you croak.
“So let me.”
Joel grabs his base and returns to your folds. Tears prick in your eyes. You’re frayed around the edges, every nerve at alert.
“Know you’re aching,” he purrs. “I’m achin’ too.”
With a steady push, he eases into the warmth of your cunt.
“Thank you,” you sigh in relief.
The ridge of his plump mushroom tip is as far as he gets before your climax catches you by surprise. Joel groans as you whimper, fluttering around the head of his cock.
“You’re welcome,” he manages, pressing in further.
There’s hardly any distinction between the pleasure of your release and the pleasure of him filling you. It’s a continuous swell that you tremble through. You close your eyes to find solace in the dark.
“That’s it.”
“Almost there.”
“There you go, babygirl.”
Joel’s reassurances sound unreal and far away. When your eyes reopen, he’s fully sheathed. He swipes your tears away as you adjust.
“You’re okay,” he whispers.
You nod.
“You trust me?”
You shake your head, but a wobbly smile pulls at your lips.
Joel’s chest shakes with a low chuckle. “Yes you do.” He slips a hand between your bodies to rub a few chastising circles where you’re most sensitive.
Your gasp is cut off with a slow kiss. When you shift your hips to encourage him to move, Joel stills you with a strong hand and sets his own rhythm. It’s better than whatever you were attempting to spur. There’s no helping the way your back arches, how your hands grip along his arms like they’re your tether to Earth.
One of your hands strays to his chest, fingertips brushing through the sparse hair. Then your palm flattens against it like you’re debating pushing him away.
“You can take it,” Joel assures. Then his voice softens, “Know it feels good.”
There’s so much of him. Everything about him is so much, you knew that before tonight. Heads turn towards him in every room he enters. When he speaks, people listen and things change.
“So good,” you sigh.
The squelch of your bodies fills the room. Joel makes the mistake of looking to the place where you’re joined, and curses himself a million times over. He glimmers in you. Even though you’re tender and swollen, there’s a greed to the way you continue to suck him in. Stars shine in your eyes when he meets your gaze. Sweet, and gone, and bright.
Maybe this is what the stories of old warned of when they spoke of flying too close to the sun. Here he was in the midst of the flames, enveloped in your warmth so wholly that the two of you were one. After tonight, everyone in Jackson would see the mark you left behind. It was haughty to think he ever stood a chance.
“M’close,” he groans.
You look directly into his eyes and say, “Fill me up.”
Your voice sounds too caught up in the clouds for you to have realized the gravity of your request. Yet, with his hand to God, he can’t deny the surge of eagerness that courses through him.
He gives you a second chance, “Where do you want me?”
You hold his gaze because you’ve already supplied your answer. Dizziness strikes him. It starts in his head and works its way down to his gut. Joel makes to pull out before he does something unwise, but you hook your legs around the backs of his thighs to keep him near.
Sweat dots his hairline, glistens in the divot of his sternum. “Can’t say stuff like that, babygirl.”
A lopsided smile stretches across your face. “I hope it’s a girl.”
Every rational inclination in Joel’s body dilutes to a whisper. Then he sees it. Rogue flashes. His hands cradling your rounded belly. A baby girl with your eyes, your smile, your joy. A family. More laughter within these lonely four walls. He loses himself to the fantasy.
“Goddammit.” He touches his forehead to yours. “Me too—shit. Me too.”
Joel’s thrusts deepen like he’s taken your words to heart. An unashamed moan falls past your lips. You guide him in for a clumsy, loving kiss. His thumb works clit until you arch beneath him, falling into the thralls of another release. One clamp after another, you pulse around him as he sees you through the relentless waves of pleasure.
“Christ, I’m comin’.”
The fantasy begins to fade.
Your legs have fallen from around him, lax with pleasure, so there’s no resistance as he slips from your warmth like he was never really there.
All that’s left to attest that he was is your swollen folds, the shine of his cock. He strokes himself with a firm fist until his stomach tenses. Until his balls draw upwards, and he surrenders to the inexplicable tug of outward-rushing pleasure. A restrained grunt accompanies each strong rope of his release onto your skin. Low on your tummy, the top of your mound. You admire the scrunch of his face as he shudders through the aftershocks.
The soreness in his biceps registers as he comes down. He kisses your forehead, your cheek, then rolls to collapse alongside you. Trembling when you reach over to take him in your hand, stroking him a few knowing times before you move to massage his balls.
“I’m all done, sweetheart,” he rasps, tucking his nose into your shoulder, kissing you there.
You pull away, but not without letting a lone finger sneakily grace along his shaft one last time.
“Wanted you to come inside,” you murmur after a few quiet moments.
And you truly did, a two minutes ago when having his baby didn’t seem like as big of a deal. You repeat it now as a temperature check more than anything.
“You think you did,” he corrects.
“I did.”
He believes you a little more this time.
“‘Member what I said about not wanting to ruin a good thing?”
“A baby wouldn’t—”
“That ain’t what I’m suggestin’.” Joel props himself on his forearm and tenderly traces along the underside of your breast. The furrow between his brows lets you know he’s deep in thought.
“Let’s get to know each other. Truly.” His fingers move to the other side of your chest. “No more of this dancing between the lines.”
He pauses to make sure you’re still with him. “Lemme take you to dinner—hell, all the things. Start over and do this right.”
Joel’s fingertips brush down to your tummy, avoiding where his spend is gathered. “Then I’ll come wherever you want me to.”
A shiver runs down your spine at his touch, his words.
He finally lets his fingers pass through his sticky spend, running them down between your thighs. Your legs startle closed as they bump over the swell of your clit and brush through your folds.
“Joel.” Your hips shift, oversensitive but his touch still feels good. “Okay, okay, okay.”
He pulls away and kisses your temple. “That was just payback,” he murmurs, a smile in his voice. “You alright?” The question is much kinder.
You nod, entirely too satisfied. Entirely spent.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.” You watch as he stands on shaky legs to head to the bathroom.
“Joel?”
He stops, faces the bed again.
“Everything you said,” you start, taking all his nakedness in. “I’d like that too.”
To begin again; what a lovely gift to come about in the night.
-
Thanks so much for reading! All likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I promise I see them all!
sneaky link explicit 18+ joel snuck you in late in his full house for a quickie
imagine joel can’t sleep his dick is so fucking hard thinking about you, so he texts you to come over with a photo of his long bricked up dick print. you’ve been his sneaky link for a while and you always take his dick so good. but his house is full, tommy and sarah and family alike staying in rooms not far from his. so when you’re over, stripping your panties to get right down to business and scratch the itch you both have been needing so fucking bad, he puts a finger to his lips and a palm over your mouth. and you mount him, rubbing your clit and your lips to drench the entirety of that needy dick of his, your mouth still muffled and covered. little sighs here and there while you’re sighing. but joel goes fucking bananas hearing how you’re already wetting his dick up the way only you could. something his hand and some porn identical to you just can’t accomplish. he sighs louder than you do, raising his thick hairy hips up to meet your pussy in the middle of that dirty grind, keeping it slower for the inevitable creak of the bed.
joel feels he’s in heat. maybe it’s because there’s a full house that could very well hear the unsavory things he wants to tell you while he’s getting drooled and slid on by that pussy, also could just be the danger of knowing he shouldn’t making him want to even more.
you tease him, tell him to shush when you line up that girthy head. slide it in and fill yourself ever so slowly. joel hisses and knows it’s gonna be a wet fuck, it always is, that pussy clenching and swirling around on him. skilled and obscene like a stripper on a pole. his tummy is tense, already in holding-back-the-cum mode, groaning low and sweet while you gyrate those hips and pull him out, spitting down on his dick, then slipping him right back in. the creaks of the bed aren’t noticeable yet. could pass for him just tossing and turning in his sleep. not getting cream dripping all the way down to his balls.
he paws at your tits above him, leaning up and suckling on a nipple to cover a particular moan while your pussy keeps gyrating. feels so fucking naughty, so dirty to fuck like this, desperate like virgins touching each other for the first time. but this might be the hundredth time, and he’s lost all composure all the same. feels the milky drips of your fluids combined getting his sheets so messy, making wet noises audible to anyone near his room now as it goes in and out. joel sighs to catch his breath like he’s running a marathon, sweating everywhere while your pussy does delicious delicious rounds on him. he never needs lube, never needs condoms with your birth control. gets to fuck you good and whisper in your ear about breeding every damn time, to the point where he’s sure any sex he’s ever had won’t ever top this.
the bed knocks against the wall a bit more obvious now. joel is breathing hard, smothered in your tits. thrusting up so hard his balls smack right up against you so goddamn good. the slick sounds of his entering and exiting your body repeatedly are embarrassing now. slippery sounds of wonderful friction he was dying for while he was jerking off earlier. his eyes roll back comically exaggerated, lost and drunk on that pussy while you ride him just barely quiet, barely suspicious enough. if no one was home he’d be talking filthy, praising your stroke game, praising your pussy. the home he wants to be buried in to stay warm and whole forever.
just when your pending orgasms feel like they’re coming closer and closer, that ridiculous pattern of his bed knocking oh so subtly against the wall with every fulfilling hump, you and joel hear footsteps. see a hallway light turn out, causing both of you to freeze while you’re sat down on his dick. joel tries to steady his breathing, shaky finger coming back up this time to your lips, biting the back of his own palm while your pussy does teasing little squeezes that make him want to lose it.
the footsteps thankfully head to the bathroom, closing the door and filling up a glass of water from the tap. joel has his ears open to hear the whereabouts as those little footsteps make their way back out to the hall after the flush of a toilet. joel wants to scream. wants to turn you over and pin you down so your fucking ass is bent up in the air, spank it while he fucks you so deep and so quick you can’t do anything but keep bending those little hips for him and scream. but he can’t. he’s throbbing inside you while you practically cockwarm him, your own pussy walls thumping around him like you couldn’t wait to keep bouncing too. joel is petrified it’ll be tommy, knocking on his bedroom door to investigate the filthy noise. or sarah, maybe coming to his bedroom for an emergency. joel thinks of the worst scenarios in his head, as much as he can use his head, while he’s nuzzled inside the heaven he can’t wait to fuck. to grip and bust his nut deep down inside. have you leaking his cum on his sheets….
next thing you both know the footsteps were heading downstairs, opening a cabinet or two for a late snack it sounds like, before they’re heading back up and shutting their door to their room closed. and joel exhales hard, bumping his hips back up immediately to keep the slipping and sliding going, heaving while your juices have multiplied during the wait. dripping so nasty down the veins on him. joel bites down on your shoulder when you resume your bouncing, clenching and wringing him so good, little gentle whispers in his ear of couldn’t wait for a fuck tonight huh, needed this pussy extra bad, baby?
joel nods and nods, again and again humping and meeting you in the middle for maximum friction. the bed is still a little noisy, but joel knows he’s fucking finished by now, and after you’re both done it won’t fucking matter.
he hums in your ear, pressing your hips down to take him as close as you could possibly be, feeling every hot pulse and every drip of arousal falling between you two.
m’cummin, m’cummin inside. mmmm, needed this so bad. needed you tonight.
you pet the bed head of hair that’s become a disaster on his head, squeezing your muscles to drag his impending finish out, ultimately shoving your palm over his mouth before a loud curse could escape, and you feel it begin to run between your legs. streams so thick he’s closing his eyes and shooting you full of what felt like pints of warm cum. you stroke the light hairs on his chest and ride him through it before you’re tightening on him yourself. feeling his pubic bone brushing so good right up against your clit, and feeling so good and full of that big ass dick. the bed squeaks makes a little more noise but he just coos you through it, says it’s okay baby, enjoy that dick, cum all over me, mmmhm. not caught this time.
you push his cum out in the midst of your clenching, a sticky naughty mess of evidence of your midnight escapades while catching your breath together. the bed no longer bumping up against the wall, wet noises no longer drowning out the beats of filth. he lies his back down exhausted, taking you with him while your mess drools together on your parts.
can’t spend the night. they’ll see me leave in the morning, you whisper to him.
I know. just lay with me a sec.
think they heard?
I’ll find out in the morning. can’t really stay quiet when I’m fucking that pussy, can I, joel hums. tilting his head for a kiss.
you’ll get to have more later, when they’re all gone.
mmmhm. I’ll call you. after I re-wash these damn sheets, he raises a brow with a teasing grin at the soaked pool staining where your laps had met. two of his fingers go down and play with the mess between your thighs, feeling your shared cum still softly oozing out. you dip your hips into his touch, sprawling out for him to play a little longer before the sun comes up. joel takes his invitation and starts to fuck you good with the help of his leftover cum.
next time when we’re all alone you’ll get to scream.
your pervy!neighbour old man joel changed me as a woman and he’s living in my head rent free/ making me lose my marbles a bit 🫠🥵 TYSM for sharing him with all of us!!! 🖤🖤🖤🖤
I do have a question if you feel like answering, no pressure!!! how do you think our pervy old man kept his neighbour falling back into his lap? like did he attempt to keep up the old man bit after railing the daylights out of her or did he evolve into something else??
PervyNeighbor!Joel: the rebound
Joel Masterlist Updates account
You slept with your old neighbor Joel in a moment of weakness, and you’ve regretted it ever since. But now that he’s had a taste, Joel isn’t stopping until he gets more.
First part here
warnings: smut, minors DNI, age gap, joel popping a blue pill, unprotected piv, slight manipulation, blowing his limp dick, pussy licking, joel has trouble getting it up , creampie, manipulation, old!Joel like really fucking old. This work is not intended to be a faithful or canonical representation of Joel Miller from the game/TV show
You woke up feeling the throbbing ache between your legs, it was the kind of pain that made you wince the moment you tried to move. Poor old Mr. Miller had fucked the life out of you last night. You’d been with younger men before, with men who were eager, who were gym-obsessed, but still, none of them had ever fucked you like Joel did. None had his stamina, his focus, that relentless drive, despite his age.
You’d never seen a man fucking someone so furiously, so ferociously. There were moments you swore you could hear his hips snapping, the sound of his joints echoing through the room, but he never stopped, not for a second. He didn’t even falter. How the hell did a man who struggled to carry his groceries from the truck to the kitchen have that kind of energy? You couldn’t wrap your head around it.
And how old was Joel, anyway? Closer to seventy than sixty, you’d bet. Fuck. Holy fuck. You’d slept with a man who could’ve been your grandfather. Hell, maybe he was someone’s grandfather, perhaps he even played cards with your grandpa at the senior center.
You felt the embarrassment crashing over you as you tiptoed through his bedroom, collecting the trail of your shame: your panties from under his bed, the rest of your clothes scattered like confetti across the floor. You slipped out without a sound. The walk from his porch to yours felt endless, llike the longest, slowest, and most humiliating walk of shame of your life. How the hell were you supposed to look him in the eye again? After begging him to fill you up? After hearing him growl about his big, fat cock while he pounded you into his mattress?
You might as well dig yourself a hole in the ground and never crawl out again.
Back at Joel's place, he finally woke up, and the memories flooded him all at once. Holy fucking pussy, he thought, rubbing his face. Ain’t never gonna get enough of that. Most amazing thing I’ve ever felt in my goddamn life.
He reached toward his nightstand, brushing his fingers against the drawer where he kept his little blue pills, already thinking about starting the day strong, about fucking you again, deep and thorough… until he froze.
You were gone. So were your clothes.
He sat up quickly. What the hell? He was sure you’d had a good time. Joel Miller wasn’t the kind of fool to be tricked by fake moans or polite lies of “I came”. No, he knew when a woman actually came. He knew the way a girl tensed her whole body, the way she hitched her breath... and how her pussy gushed. And you had cum, more than once.
He pulled on his jeans and shirt in a rush and marched right across the street. He could almost hear the thrumping of his heart in his chest as he rang your doorbell.
You opened the door, widening your eyes like plates when you saw him standing there.
“Mr—Mr. Miller,” you stammered, darting your gaze down. Every time you looked at his face, you couldn’t stop picturing him above you, the weight of his body, the sound of his breath, the way he’d moaned when he had hit that dizzying spot inside you with his big cock.
“Darlin’,” he said with a lazy drawl, “think we’re a little bit too far gone for you to be callin’ me Mr. Miller now.”
You let out an awkward laugh, feeling the heat crawling up your neck to your cheeks.
“Just wanted to check on you,” he continued. “After last night… since you left without sayin’ goodbye.”
“Y-yeah, everything’s fine,” you rushed out to find an excuse you could use. “Just had… a lot to do.”
“Alright,” he kept his eyes still on you. “Jus’ didn’t want you feelin’ uncomfortable, y’know, after everything.”
“It’s alright, Mr—Joel,” you said quickly. And before he could say another word, you shut the door. “Gottagonow.”
Joel stood there on your porch for a long ten minutes, staring at the closed door. Things were awkward now, hell, more than awkward. He’d fucked you in a moment when you were weak and lonely, and now that daylight had burned away the haze of it, you regretted it.
He sighed, sliding his hands into his pockets. What the hell should be his next move? Should he still pretend to be the fragile old man, the one with bad knees and a hip that always ached when it rained? Sure as hell, you wouldn’t believe it after last night’s performance. Maybe all he had to do was wait. Wait for the perfect moment, the next time you were tired, worn down, and soft enough to let him in again.
He took the next several weeks easy. Joel was careful, never being too much, never doing anything too soon, trying to win you back little by little. He started small, leaving a slice of pumpkin pie he said he’d baked in the morning, wrapped in foil on your porch with a little note that said “Still warm.” Changing a lightbulb on your front steps before you could even ask, “Didn’t want you trippin’ in the dark, sweetheart.”
All those little things, the kind, neighborly gestures, he used to build a bridge back to you. But you noticed, after a while, that he didn’t do any of that for anyone else. Just you..
One afternoon, he’d leaned against your fence, crossing his arms. “Listen, darlin’, we ain’t gotta talk about what happened that night ever again, okay? Don’t wanna make it weird. So let’s just pretend it never happened.”
And somehow, his tender words made you feel better. Joel was calm, he was patient and understanding. He wasn’t pushy. He was willing to forget that stupid mistake.
Days passed, then weeks. One afternoon, he found you outside, fiddling with your mailbox, and you mentioned offhand that you were heading over to your ex’s place to pick up your stuff.
Joel frowned immediately, rubbing the edge of his belt with his thumb. “You shouldn’t go there alone, sweetheart,” his tone was protective. “Hell, God knows I wouldn’t let my daughter around a jackass like that on her own.”
You hesitated, but then nodded, letting him drive you.
And just like that, things began to feel almost normal again. The embarrassment faded, and the same tension that had once burned between you was reduced to just a memory of one reckless night… just one mistake you could almost pretend never happened.
But Joel was getting tired. Fucking his fist every night wasn’t enough anymore, not after having a taste of the real thing, not after knowing how it felt to be buried in your sweet pussy. Every day without your cunt around him felt like agony. He could be patient, yes, but everything had a limit.
“Get the fuck out! Stop knocking!” You screamed through the door.
“Open up! Just wanna talk!” The voice on the other side was frantic. “How many times do I have to say I’m sorry for dumping you? I was in a really dark fucking place! I needed some space!” Your ex’s tone was a mix of desperation and aggression, and the pounding of his fists against the wooden door, as well as the bell’s insistent ringing was matching his frustration.
“Now you have all the space you needed!” You snapped. “Don’t come back. Don’t call me. I don’t wanna see your face ever again.”
“Fucking bitch.” His voice turned cold as the pounding and ringing ceased. “Think you’re the shit but you’re nothing special. Just another fuckin’ whore.” You heard his footsteps retreat across the porch. “Good luck finding a guy to put up with you. Nobody’s gonna love you like I did.”
You hated him. You knew he was an asshole. But even so, his words stung, digging into the edges of your self-worth. And suddenly, all you ever wanted was someone to love you, to see you, to make you feel wanted and appreciated again.
With tears blurring your vision you ended up on the porch of Joel’s house. You knocked once, weakly, and he swuing the door open almost immediately. Maybe it was the sadness, or the exhaustion numbing every thought, but he looked so painfully attractive in that flannel, with that manly the scruff shading his jaw, and fuck… those tired but still gentle eyes of a man who’d been through too much and still somehow carried tenderness for you.
“Darlin’,” he caught the shine of your tears before you could even speak, and in one movement, he pulled you into his arms. “Shh, shhh. S’alright. Easy now.”
He thumped his hand lightly between your shoulder blades, steadying you, while the other slid up to cradle the back of your head, moving his fingers up and down your hair.
“What’s goin’ on, hmm? Why you cryin’?” his voice rumbled against your cheek as he held you tight.
“Joel… he— it was—” the words twisted in your throat, you couldn’t seem to let them out. “He said—”
“Shhh, sweetheart. You’re okay. M’here now. You’re safe.” You had your face buried in his chest, soaking your tears into his flannel, so you didn’t see the small and satisfied curl at the corner of his mouth, and the flicker of something darker behind his soft shushing.
Too easy. You’d walked straight to him, weak, heartbroken, desperate for someone to make you feel worth a damn again… and he welcomed every bit of it.
“C’mon inside. Lemme make you some tea, and you can tell me everythin’.”
He guided you through his doorway with a warm palm at your back. Joel’s house was just how you remembered it: cozy, lived-in, decorated like someone who actually cared about his space. Art on the walls, plants near the window, shelves lined with records and books. Nothing like your ex’s man cave, with a big TV, empty beer bottles, and his PlayStation.
Joel brought you to the couch, only letting go long enough to ease you down onto the cushions.
“Gonna put the water on,” he said as he headed to the kitchen. “Stay right there, sweetheart. Don’t cha move.”
In the kitchen, he pulled a mug from the cabinet, filled it with boiling water and chamomile. But before returning, he opened the second drawer, reached for a small flask, tapped out a blue pill, and swallowed it dry. If things went the way he expected tonight, then he’d be ready.
He returned to sit beside you, slipping an arm around your shoulders as you wrapped your trembling fingers around the mug. You spilled everything about your ex, every cruel word, and Joel listened.
“M’tellin’ you, darlin’. Men like that don’t deserve a sweet thing like you.” He squeezed your arm as a protective gesture.
“I feel terrible botherin’ you so late,” you sniffed. “I just… didn’t know who else to go to.”
“You did right. ’m always here for you.” He cupped your jaw, guiding your gaze up to his. “And if I were him? I’d never make you cry. A sweet girl like you deserves someone who treats you like she’s the most important thing in the damn world.”
A soft smile tugged at your lips, and a single tear slipped free. “I wish there were more men like you, Joel.”
“Why more,” he leaned in, “when the one who counts is sittin’ right here… head over heels f’you.”
His breath brushed your mouth before his lips did, close enough to feel the warmth of him.
“Joel…” you whispered, but you made no effort to move away.
“Shhh,” he stroke your cheek with his thumb as he closed the last inch between you. “Just let it happen, sweetheart. Let me remind you how a pretty thing like you’s meant to be treated.”
And just like that, he crashed his mouth onto yours, with no softness, just heat and hunger. Joel smashed his lips against yours in a bruising kiss, forcing his tongue past your teeth to tangle with yours, devouring you like he’d been starved for months. He slid up his hand to your chest and clamped over your breast through your shirt, kneading you hard enough with his rough fingers to make you gasp into his mouth.
You didn’t resist. You couldn’t. Something in you snapped loose the second his hands were on you, and all you wanted was more, your brain was fogged and molten, and your whole body ached for Joel.
You slid down your hand greedily over the front of his pants, searching for the heavy bulge you expected, only to find nothing but soft lines under the fabric. No girth. No hardness.
You squeezed again, confused, tracing your fingers over the limp outline of him. “Joel…?”
He pulled back with a grunt. “Mmm. ‘M an old bastard, sweetheart. Gotta… give me a little time to get goin’. Body don’t keep up like it used to.”
“Oh…” The sound left you small and startled. You hadn’t even considered it.
He shook his head, looking down at himself with frustration and embarrassment. “Sorry to disappoint you. You’re sittin’ here lookin’ so damn pretty, and looka’me. Old man who can’t even get it up for a doll like you.”
You caught his face with your gaze. “I don’t mind waiting,” you whispered. “Really. It’s alright. I can… help, if you want.”
His eyes lit up with a hungry spark, the kind that told you he’d been hoping you’d say exactly that. “Mmm, keep lookin’ pretty like that and this thing’ll wake up real quick.” He paused, tilting his head like he was thinking it through. “Maybe you can show me your pretty pussy, too. Bet that’d help plenty.”
You nodded and reached for the button of your shorts. Joel was already there, tugging them down from your waist along with your panties in one pull, revealing everything to the warm air of his living room. He let out a needy sound, almost a whimper, as your bare slit came into view, your folds were glistening and swollen.
“Fuck… look at that.” He wrapped his hand around your thighs and spread them wider, exposing you open on his couch. “Seventy-one years alive and I ain’t ever seen a sight like this.”
He flicked a finger quickly over your clit, ripping a moan out of you as he palmed his still-soft cock through his pants with the other hand.
“Mmmhmm… there we go. Can feel it tryin’ to wake up,” he circled his thumb harder at your center. “Gonna be ready real quick.”
But quick wasn’t quick enough. The need inside you was getting stronger until you couldn’t sit still another second. You slid off the couch and onto your knees between his legs.
“And what’s that sweet thing doin’, hmm?” he drawled, amused, gathering your hair into a ponytail with one hand as he spread his legs wider for you.
“Helping you,” you started to undo his belt with steady fingers, tugging his pants down just enough to free him.
You wrapped your hand around his cock, it was soft and warm, maybe four inches at best in its resting state, and brought it up. You spat into your palm, the warm slick sound making his breath hitch as your saliva ran down over him.
You worked him up and down with your hand even though there wasn’t much for your fingers to grip yet. Your fist was slipping over the loose softness of him, urging it to fill your hand.
“Fuuuck… shit, that’s it,” he twitched his hips slightly. “Just a little more, sweetheart. I know m’gettin’ there… I can feel it.”
You leaned in, dragged your tongue from the base to the tip, then peppered his slit with soft kitten licks, making him tighten his hand in your hair.
With a surge of boldness, you swallowed him whole, allowing the soft warmth of his cock to rest heavy on your tongue. Joel snapped his head back as you kept him there, holding him in your mouth, looking up at him through your lashes.
You looked so innocent, so devastatingly sweet with your mouth full of his cock, your cheeks puffy from keeping it inside you, simply waiting for it to respond.
He sucked in a breath, staring down at you. “Good girl,” he stroked your head. “Yeahhh, look’a cha. Doin’ your best to bring this old cock back to life. Fuck, don’t deserve someone so damn carin’.”
And then… a faint throb against your tongue. You felt him flutter, then swell, the first twitch of blood pulsing through him.
“Yeahhh… feel that? S’gettin’ big for you,” he growled. “Gettin’ hard as hell…”
His cock thickened inside your mouth fast, swelling inch by inch until your lips strained around him. When the pressure became too much, you had to pull back with a wet gag. A string of spit clung from your lips to his leaking tip.
He was fully hard now, long, thick, and flushed a dark red colour, heavy enough he had to grip the base. He slapped it lightly against your cheek twice, the smacking sound wet.
“Get up,” he ordered. “Gonna give ya exactly what’cha came here for.”
You don’t remember how you went from the couch to his bedroom, and how you ended up on your hands and knees in his bed again, but there you were.
Joel grabbed your hips hard to pull you flush against him. “God, I missed fuckin’ this pussy,” he dig his fingers into your skin. You whimpered at the sound, and he smirked against your neck. “Bet she missed my cock too.”
“I’ve been thinking about you every damn day,” he slid inside you in one rough thrust, making you cry out and arch your body at the sudden pressure of his thick cock stretching you open, sinking it deep inside your pussy. “Huh? You like that, don’t you? This fat cock stretchin’ you, fillin’ you up? Fuck, you’re made f’me.”
He kept snapping his hips like there was no tomorrow, no build-up, no time to waste. “You can’t leave an old man without this sweet pussy, that’s torture, darlin’,” he spat, and each word felt like a violent promise as he plunged harder.
“Nggggh… Jooooel, hardeeeer,” you begged. The moment the word left your mouth, he lifted one leg, flexing it so he could dive into you even deeper. He hit his blunt cockhead against your g-spot with every pound, making you bite down on his pillow to stifle your screams.
“Looka’me. Looka’me while I fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before!” His filthy grin spread across his face as he grabbed your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. Joel leaned closer, devouring your mouth, tangling your tongues together, swallowing every moan and whimper that tried to escape.
He moved back, focusing on the jiggle of your asscheeks with every slam, on the way his thick shaft was being swallowed by your swollen pussy lips, making his dick slick and glistening, with creamy rings from your arousal around it. You were coating his balls with your juices, so much that it dripped down onto the sheets. He’d never seen a girl so wet.
“Mmm… yyyyeah… Joeljoeljoel, don’t stop!” you begged as you almost give out, you could barely keep yourself up on your arms. But Joel was quick, he took control of your body, moving his big hands from your hips to your shoulders, keeping you up so he could keep hammering inside you.
“You gonna take it, huh? You gonna beg me for it? Tell me you want it bad, tell me you love this old cock.” The words dripped from him, and your answer came in desperate gasps and shaky nods.
“I love it!” you screamed. “I love it! I love this big, old cock!”
“That’s it, my good little fucktoy. Scream my name, feel every inch of me deep inside you. You like it when I talk like this, don’tcha? God, you’re filthy… so fuckin’ perfect.” He smirked, driving harder and faster, making the bedframe creak under his brutal pace.
Joel let go of your shoulders, and you had no control over your body, falling face-first into the sheets, completely helpless. You were like a pliant mess he could shape and use however he wanted. You didn’t know the meaning of being cockdrunk until Joel took you like this.
He lifted your ass until it was high up, adjusting you into prone bone, so he could hammer into you from this new angle. Every time he bottomed out, it felt as if he was battering your cervix, leaving you whimpering.
“You—uh… J-Joel. You’re—ah—too much! Too deep!” Your whines were almost like a complaint, but you weren’t complaining at all. Your cried were a compliment to how each one of his thrusts hit all the right places.
“That’s ‘cause you’ve got a real man deep up in this pussy, darlin’,” he left soft kisses along your spine, and it felt like a sweet contrast to the violent way he was rearranging your guts. “You like havin’ someone who knows how to use his cock, don’tcha?”
“I dooo… uh… So fuckin’ good, mhhh Joel. I think… think I’m gonna cum.” The tingle in your belly screamed as you approached your climax.
“You can do it, sweetheart. Just feel this cock fuckin’ it outta you. On three, you’re gonna cum and soak it real good f’me, okay?” He fisted your hair to yank your head back.
“Nghhh… okay,” you were ready to obey him however he needed.
“One,” he pounded into you with brutal force. “Two.” He grabbed your hips with one hand to pull you flush to him. “Three. Now, baby, cum for me.” He slammed in, burying himself to the hilt.
You clamped your velvet and sticky walls around him, milking him with every spasm, as you orgasmed. The feeling of your tight pussy squeezing him sent him over the edge.
“I’m gonna fill you up. Tell me you want it,” he was using all his efforts to hold back his release. “Tell me you want my load.”
“I want it! I want it so fucking much, Joel! Please!” The scream that left your throat echoed through the walls of his room.
“Gonna take all my cum in your tight little pussy until it drips out!” With one final plunge, he emptied himself, shooting thick ropes of cum deep inside you that coated your womb and walls in sticky white streaks.
“Fuuuck yeah… gonna take it ‘til there ain’t a drop left.” he was still pounding, making sure every last drop found its home inside you, leaving you sopping, spent, and utterly his.
Then he shifted you onto your back, spreading your legs wide, gripping your thighs. “Fuck, darlin’, look at this cunt… soakin’ wet, drippin’ with my cum. You took it all, don’t ya?”
“Yes… you... you filled me so much,” you shivered as he lowered his head to lap at your glistening folds, teasing them, sucking, and dragging his tongue over your clit until you bucked your hips uncontrollably. Every flick and swirl of his mouth made you tremble.
“Ngggg—enough. Too much, Joel, please please please…” Your voice cracked with the plea. You could still feel his thrusts in you, and the ache inside where he’d been buried to the hilt over and over until your body stopped obeying you.
Joel lifted his face from between your thighs, and you looked at his beard, glistening with a mix of his cum and your arousal. “Too much?” he had an almost amused tone. “Baby, I thought I was the old, tired man here.” He chuckled as he slid his hand down to wrap it around the thick base of his cock. “Fucked your pussy good once, and now you’re tellin’ me you had enough?”
You shivered at the sigh, at the way he lazily moved his hand, giving himself a long stroke, making the veins along his shaft bulge like he was about to explode.
“Fine, fine,” he said after a beat, “I’ll let ya rest f’now.”
He leaned back on the bed with a sigh. That cock of his was still heavy against his stomach, like a stubborn reminder of the little blue pill he’d popped before.
He grabbed you by the waist, dragging your limp body up until you were pressing your chest against his. When he moved his hand up and down your back in lazy strokes, it felt so tender. He made you feel safe, protected… worshiped in a way no other man had ever made you feel.
“Jus’ promise this old man you won’t run away in the mornin’,” there was something in his voice, like a flicker of loneliness that made you feel sorry for him.
“Promise,” your brain was still too fucked to think straight. You didn’t even know if you meant it, your thoughts were too fogged.
“Darlin’,” he traced lazy circles on your arm, “ain’t tryna mess with your head. But jus’ think how good this could be. You an’ me.” Joel tilted your chin up, just enough so you could see his face. “We have a lot o’ fun, don’t we? What other man’s ever fucked ya like I do?”
You didn’t answer because you both already knew the truth. No one fucked you like Joel. No one took you apart piece by piece, left you trembling and dazed, then held you after like you were something precious.
“It just breaks my heart,” he went on quietly, “seein’ you cryin’ over some asshole when I could make ya so damn happy if you let me.” He rubbed his thumb up and down your spine in hypnotic circles.
And fuck… maybe old man Miller was right.
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A/N: Ahhh, thank you so much for reading!! I’m so glad you enjoyed the first part. I’d originally written something really short about how I think things went down for these two, but it was such a good opportunity that I couldn’t waste it by not expanding, so here it is.
Thank you sm to everyone for your support, it's so important and it means a lot for us writers.
losing my mind over your old man!joel... i need him and his broken dick so bad... drools.
anyways, thinking about running out of viagra but you're both insatiable- you just need joel to fuck you, it's real bad. and ofc joel is hung like a horse, so you get the idea for him to fuck you with his limp dick. it's not perfect but it works well enough for the both of you and joel ends up cumming, completely soft, inside you :3
lowkey would be hot as hell if that's the time the ends up getting you pregnant
OH MY FUCKING GOD GOOB, this made my pussy throb what the ffffffffffffffffuck 🫠 this is so fucking hot i honestly am gnawing at the walls of my enclosure. everyone knows that old man!joel miller has a big ass breeding kink, his only purpose in life, his dying wish if you will, is to have your belly round with his kid... fuck fuck fuck fuck
so i reckon it would be something like this...... if people would like to see this as a fleshed out idea, let me know 🫡
a very quick oldman!jackson!joel miller x f!reader drabble, where you both deal with a limp dick situation... 18+ mdni
“Honey, I don't think it's working...” Joel mouthed, sweat gathering on his prominent brows.
You were laying on his bed, fully naked and with your legs parted. Joel was kneeling between your thighs, his flaccid dick stuffed in your panties, rubbing your throbbing clit with his cockhead under the garment.
“No luck?” you asked breathlessly, propping yourself up on your elbows to glance up at him. “Let me suck you then, I'm hungry.”
“Nuh-uh,” he tutted with a heavy huff, dragging his limp dick along your slick folds.
You whimpered, eyes focused on how the outline of his gifted cock moved below your underwear. You couldn't see how he was humping your drenched slit, but you could feel his girth snugly slotted between your swollen pussy lips.
“We can make it work, baby,” you promised, eyes fluttering shut when his mushroom head brushed your writhing clit again. “Just stuff me full, there's more than enough of you for the both of us.”
Joel's pinched brow suddenly relaxed, his darkened eyes searching for yours. He looked at you in disbelief, as if his old man's hearing was betraying him.
“What? With... with my limp dick?” Joel husked out shakily.
“Mhm, yeah... Trust me, I'll be gentle, it won't hurt. I promise,” you mumbled reassuringly, your warm hands lovingly caressing his forearms.
Joel warred with himself. He didn't think you'd hurt him at all, you never could. But this was humiliating enough as it was. What if he didn't get hard once inside your pussy? What if he could never get it up again without the blue pill?
“I... I dunno, sweetheart. Don't wanna disappoint you anymore than what I already have,” he admitted in a hush, embarrassed, guilt eating him up from the inside out.
Joel sat back on his heels, his cock sliding out of your damp panties. His dick was as soft as twenty minutes ago, not even an incipient erection in sight.
You quickly sat up, getting closer to him. You lifted your legs over his thighs, wrapping them around his waist, so your pussy was flush with his cock.
“Hey, I am not disappointed at all, alright?” You pecked his lips, a soft smile curling the corners of your mouth. “I am horny as fuck right now. Look,” you grabbed his right hand and slithered it down your belly, dipping it below your panties. You guided his fingers to your slick seam and gasped when you forced his ring finger to flick your clit. “Feel how wet I am? It's all for you, because of you. I love you. Please, I will make it good for both of us, I swear.”
Joel's balls grew heavier and warmer, the feel of your tacky arousal slipping through his fingers making him feel lightheaded. He didn't deserve you, your patience. Your love. But he was damn grateful for whatever put you in his way. He would spend the rest of his life proving to you that he was worth it, worth the effort.
Joel gave you a soft nod.
“Okay,” he conceded, kissing the tip of your nose.
You squealed in excitement, but your little giggle mutated into a muted sob when he pressed a tight, lazy circle on your nub.
Eager to have your pussy swallowing his limp cock, you pushed your panties aside for him, while Joel lead the tip of his cock to your gushing entrance with his free hand, the other still stimulating your clit.
He pushed in ever so slightly, and your soft, velvety cunt engulfing his mushroom head.
Joel groaned, feeling how you squeezed your inner walls tightly to then release the hold, making room for him.
“You good? No pain?” you checked in on him. Joel shook his head no. “If it hurts let me know, we can stop whenever you want.”
Joel's heart contracted in his chest, your love like a blanket around his old loving muscle. Slowly he kept on going, pushing in as your legs hugged him tighter, your abundant slick the best lube. There was no painful friction—despite how soft he was, his cock was furrowing it's way down your cunt smoothly, with ease. Until he was fully seated inside your sweet pussy, feeling warm and cozy.
You gasped, your expression so blissful it tugged at his heart, and teased him a little with a soft squeeze.
“Oh, fuck... I am so full right now...” you mewled, leaning forward to kiss him, his fingertips still working your clit raw. “You're so big, even if you're limp, baby... Is it... is it okay if I clench?”
“Yes, please,” he mumbled, mind fuzzy with pleasure.
You gradually clutched around him, compressing his flaccid cock until you were extremely tight around him. Then you relaxed your walls fully before you slowly squashed him again, gently pumping him, cockwarming him.
“There's no rush, baby. Even if you don't get hard, it's okay. This is... fuck, this is more than enough,” you mewled, draping one arm around his neck to kiss him gently.
“Love you, sweetheart. You're so good to me, for me,” Joel muttered, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth while his fingers lovingly stroked your soft, palpitating bundle of nerves.
Warnings: 18+. This fic is for LIMP DICK LOVERS ONLY. If y’all can’t rock with Joel’s flaccid cock, click AWAY 😫 Unprotected p-in-v / intercrural sex. Oral (m!receiving). Age gap unspecified but just know he’s AARP-eligible.
Word count: 3.0k
This wasn’t a problem he’d planned on having.
At twenty-five, he could’ve put you through the mattress four times over in one night and barely broken a sweat. At thirty-five, he could’ve bent you like a pretzel and fucked you eight ways to Wednesday twice a week.
Today, at the age he was, Joel Miller couldn’t stand from the sofa without feeling like bones were about to snap.
He wrote grocery lists and had to stop halfway to flex his hand. He pulled up his pants and damn near always felt a strain in his back. He kept a heating pad as a sidekick at work, and sometimes his baby brother teased him for it, then Joel would wag one liver-spotted finger Tommy’s way and say, ‘You’ll be like this, too, just wait.’ The Golden Years had a habit of sneaking up on people. Nobody warned him that one day he’d be waking up feeling fine and the next not able to wiggle his toes without a herculean effort. In short, old age sucked.
The only one who didn’t seem to mind as much was you.
And how could you? Joel always thought of it with some amusement. You hadn’t been alive long enough to know a single wrinkle, much less as many as he had, and your knees never cracked when you kneeled. He’d noticed that when you greeted him first thing that morning.
Mouth wide and eyes wider, you made for the perfect sight to his sleepy gaze when he lifted the comforter at 6 AM. Your tongue withdrew from the tip of his leaky cock.
“Your shift starts at seven, right?” you whispered.
Shit, he’d quit his whole job for one blowjob from you.
Joel nodded instead. He took a fistful of your hair and nodded again—keep lickin’ the tip just like you had it, honey, that’s it. His lids lowered. They nearly shut. Fifteen more seconds of this wet friction from your mouth and he’d be erect in no time. He knew he would.
These days, while his ‘morning wood’ was never quite what it used to be, and on some occasions like these he woke up completely limp, he was almost always able to coax his cock into it. Just took a little extra time and spit.
It wasn’t until your lips had slid up and down his soft shaft at least two dozen times and nothing stirred that Joel started to worry. He peeled the old coverlet back.
From where you lay between his legs, chin poised over his lap, you didn’t seem bothered. In fact, you were smiling. You’d just taken his flushed, bulbous head between your lips, and your tongue laved over the slit. Joel almost tore a hole in his throat at how good that felt—his groan was loud. The soft suckling noises of your mouth were slight in comparison, but they were purposeful and timed exactly right. His balls twitched.
He should’ve been rock-hard by now.
“‘M’sorry, sweetheart,” Joel grunted, watching you swallow down the soft flesh of him over and over again. “Damn thing just don’t wanna…cooperate this mornin’.”
“I don’t mind.”
You’d pulled off just long enough to say it. Then you were back to bobbing your head, eyes locked on his as you did
He didn’t deserve you.
That much was clear from the way you were sucking him dutifully—fucking cheerfully—like his flaccid dick was a three-star Michelin meal and you hadn’t eaten all day.
It was beyond the pale in the best way possible, and Joel felt guiltier and guiltier with every brush of your lips and tongue that followed. You shouldn’t have had to do this.
“Let me eat you out,” he said then. Abruptly. “Flip over.”
And he slid back on the bed, hearing the delicate, wet pop of his still-soft cock out of your mouth. You frowned.
“What the hell, Joel? I was just having fun,” you huffed.
You were what?
Was that not the most humiliating thing you’d ever seen?
“I can’t even keep a semi,” Joel retorted, almost as low. “Ain’t no use wastin’ our time on me ‘fore I gotta leave.”
Then he started to reach for your hips, about to turn you around and have his breakfast in bed, when your hand swatted him off. The other anchored itself on his thigh, and as you sat up, Joel could tell there was something more adamant in that. You regarded him with a scowl.
“If I wanted to make this about me, I would’ve grabbed my vibrator and gone to town already. This is for you.”
Before he could protest, you inched up some more.
You straddled the broad, muscly legs that had once been bracketing your head, and you placed a palm on his chest. You made him lean back against the headboard.
“Honey—” Joel started.
“Zip it, Miller.”
Well, goddamn. For a woman a fraction of his age and size, you commanded him well. He didn’t move a muscle.
He couldn’t deny that it turned him on, too. To think that you wanted him badly enough that you’d suck the sexual equivalent of a wet noodle and then get on top of him for more. Joel had to grit his teeth and steel himself when your hips shifted. You were bare under one of his t-shirts.
And your eyes were alight with rapt intrigue. Like he was something worth salivating over, and not some decrepit old man whose dick wouldn’t work. The smile you wore before had only grown bigger, and your thighs were squeezing his hips. Your heat was sliding up and—
“Fuck,” Joel hissed.
The breath was knocked out of his chest. That was how stunned he was to feel the seam of your cunt align with his length, which rested lazily across his lower stomach. You braced one hand on the headboard behind him, flattened the other palm to his chest, and again, lowered yourself, rubbed yourself, so that the underside of his shaft cut you down the middle. It parted your folds.
Your wetness was spreading down the length of him. Soft as it was, Joel was thankful he was a shower, not a grower, and he hadn’t lost too much of his size by not being hard. You were pressing yourself gently against him now, bracing your knees on the bed on either side of his body, and your gaze was gradually trailing to his face.
Your motions, much to his surprise, were slow. Sensual.
You weren’t in a hurry at all to get his dick hard. You simply followed what felt good: a little gyration of your hips, a press of your heat, gentle thrusts with your knees planted firmly on the bed. You were riding him, except you didn’t have him inside you at all. The expressions that crossed your face could’ve fooled Joel, though.
Brows knit together in a mixture of pleasure and purpose, you peered down at him and let out the smallest whimper. The sound was more like a breath, trapped somewhere in your chest and begging to be let out with each rut of your lower half. It was as if the action was getting you off—not fucking him, but humping him.
“That’s it, daddy…That’s—oh, fuck that feels nice.”
The speed of your motions increased the slightest amount, coating his cock from root to tip, and for a minute, Joel thought he might’ve stopped breathing.
He had stopped, briefly, just to suck in a breath and hold it, and, fuck, he didn’t want to let it out, because what if this was all a dream? What if he was seeing things, and you weren’t really grinding on his cock at all but laughing your ass off and leaving his bed? Heaving a sigh or rolling your eyes at the sight of him still not getting hard at this.
Joel looked down to double-check his traitorous dick.
The second he caught a glimpse of your sex and his sliding against one another, though, he let out a groan.
This had to be a fucking joke.
Go, go, go, go, GO! GROW!!
“You can do it, bud, just…” Joel trailed off, realizing that he was talking to his penis out loud. “Sorry. I’m…sorry.”
And truly, he was. He’d never felt more remorseful or dumb. On top of that, you probably thought he was nuts.
You only giggled in response.
You leaned back, dropped your chin, and directed your attention to Joel’s woefully soft and squishy member.
A fingertip prodded at it gently; he twitched.
“C’mon, you got this!” you cheered him on.
It was lighthearted. Easy. Kind of insane.
Here you both were, egging on his peri-geriatric penis to form an erection, when Joel should’ve been balls deep in you. Should’ve been giving you exactly what you needed, how you needed it, with little to no interference to your pleasure. And now here you were. Talking to it instead.
“I love you,” Joel blurted out.
He’d only said this a handful of times to date—your relationship was still relatively new—but at present, he couldn’t help it. You were making him laugh when just minutes ago he’d felt as humiliated as he’d ever been.
You leaned down to kiss him, and you said it back to him.
“I love you,” Joel murmured again, against your lips.
“I—” You shifted over his lap, so that your lower halves were re-aligned and he could feel you. “I love you, Joel.”
The sound of those words, paired with the soft, warm friction of your bodies moving in tandem, had pleasure pooling through his gut. Driving up his spine. Stirring something dark and familiar in his mind—arousal.
A second after that, something stiffened in his lap.
Just a little bit. ‘Stiff’ was the key word there, not hard—Joel tried not to grow too excited while it seemed that his dick was filling with blood and the flesh was gradually getting firmer than it had been before. Still, he grinned.
He was back to kissing you, and you’d felt it too.
Your fingers wriggled on his chest. You started rocking back and forth, a bit more quickly now, and hummed.
You pulled away to catch your breath.
“Does that…help?” you murmured.
“What?”
“My…when I rub— here?”
You were trying so hard to help. You must’ve had no clue it’d been two utterances of ‘I love you’ from your lips that had stoked the fire within him. The friction helped, no doubt, but it was you and what you felt that made it happen—got him harder. Joel’s grin stretched bigger.
“Sweetheart, it’s—”
“‘Cause we can switch it up a little. I bet variety helps.” Suddenly, you were leaning back and lifting your hips. You gripped the base of him, now almost upright between your body and his, and started stroking him.
That felt good.
That felt really good.
But anything from you was bound to feel like that.
Joel’s smile wavered momentarily as another jolt of pleasure coursed through him. He couldn’t control the reflex; his hips bucked up from the mattress, and in your hold, the head of his cock bumped right against your clit.
You whimpered.
Your slit was all but dripping with heat. Ready for him.
“Goddamn,” Joel grit out, eyes fixed on that spot.
“Jerk your cock against me, daddy.”
His gaze shot up.
“Yeah, baby?”
The man scarcely knew what it was that he was doing in the moment, or how this might please you—all he wanted was to follow what you’d told him to do.
He nodded dumbly. Grabbed the base of his partly-erect dick and guided the tip to your clit again. He rubbed it.
Your head dropped back on a strangled-sounding moan. Joel rubbed harder—faster, to match the rhythm of your hips—and his own lips parted, betraying a look of awe.
You were writhing above him, reveling in the sensation.
Joel blinked, and he completely forgot his predicament. He dismissed from his mind that slight, inconsequential matter of not being able to get himself hard, and he flipped you. Your body fell prone on the bed beneath him.
And, focused on his pleasure as you were, you might’ve protested. Joel was quick to cut it off when he rolled you onto your side and wedged a leg between your knees.
“Open for me,” he murmured beside your ear.
You whined, ‘Jo-el,’ weakly, but obliged.
“Daddy, it’s supposed to be for y—”
Your last words splintered off. Joel was pushing his dick between your thighs—drenched as both the insides of your legs and his length happened to be, it was easy—and he slid it back and forth. He sawed his half-hard cock like he was fucking you from the inside out, and your answering moan was enough to show him that you liked it. Your head tilted back, against his shoulder, and Joel increased the speed of his thrusts. He smirked.
“This is for me, baby,” he assured you quietly.
Then, he notched his tip at your entrance.
“And this…is for you,” he finished.
Just as your moan morphed into a whine once again, he was pushing in—no more than an inch, but in—and his own breath caught. Joel groaned at the warmth and the wetness, the sheer stricture of your cunt that seized his length like a fist. Your walls pulsed at the feeling. You leaked around that one intruding inch and reached behind you to grip Joel’s neck. You cursed softly.
“Shit, daddy. He’s— he’s in me.” Half-disbelief.
“That’s right. Ain’t that where he belongs?”
You didn’t have to answer that. You simply lifted one leg higher and let him rut in deeper. You fisted the hair at the nape of his neck, and you tilted your hips to him. You soaked him in warmth. Though he didn’t have a full view of your expression from behind, Joel could see that your jaw was hanging slack and your lids were heavy—the eyes rolled back at a third stab of his hips. He fucked in.
Joel still wasn’t fully hard. That was just another part of being old, and he was done pretending like he wasn’t the age he was. You didn’t mind the age he was. If the noises bubbling up in your throat, the wet squelch of your cunt every time he drove home, and the grip on his neck, the gentle, ‘Oh, daddy, like that’ wasn’t proof enough of how much you liked it, the tremors in your legs certainly were.
They were slight. Joel knew what they signified, though.
With three inches wedged inside you, he leaned down.
“Is my sweet girl ready to cum?” he pressed gently.
You bit your bottom lip once before whimpering:
“I— I wanna get you hard first, daddy. Please.”
It was like you needed it. That urge to put him first was unyielding, even in a condition like this, and Joel wanted nothing more than to sate the desire. He also wanted to give you the orgasm you deserved, so he ground himself into your ass. He withdrew to the tip, kissed the warm, sensitive spot behind your ear, then plunged back in.
You convulsed around him.
“That’s it,” Joel went on. His mouth was so close to your skin you were no doubt feeling the grit of his stubble with every word he spoke. He hoped you didn’t mind it.
“That’s a good girl. Daddy’s nearly there. Let the sweet feelin’ in, and I promise I’ll be right behind ya, honey.”
“You— you’ll be hard? You’ll get to finish, too?”
“Givin’ ya ropes an’ ropes of the stuff, sweet pea. Enough to flood your tummy with it. Just…gimme one…good…”
“Oh!”
You let out a cry when he drove in deep.
He wasn’t even sure how he did it; his cock just throbbed and pulsed and pushed through your heat like this was right where he needed to be. He pressed in to the hilt, felt his tip kiss somewhere close your cervix, and that was when it happened again. You clawed at his neck.
You raked your nails down harder and shrieked.
“Oh, fuck, Joel, fuck, fuck, fuck—I love you!”
And that was enough for him, too.
In all the decades of life Joel Miller had lived, he couldn’t recall a single time he wasn’t fully hard and able to cum. But here he was. As soon as you finished, he filled you up like it was nothing. It had to have been the intonation of those words, or else your fingers threading through his hair, pulling tight, and gushing your release all over his cock that helped him get there. Every last sign that you were his, that you loved him, pushed him over the edge.
He was mumbling the same into your skin with each hot, pulsing jet of his seed. He buried his face into the crook of your neck and nearly whimpered. He couldn’t help it.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
Like a broken refrain, he kept grunting, thrusting, and pushing his cum as deep into your cunt as your body would allow it, and when he was spent, he kept going.
“I love you, Joel.”
You whispered it again. You hardly could’ve expected the effect it would have as soon as the words left your lips.
Joel wasn’t exactly prepared for it, either.
As tired as he was, as old as he was, he hadn’t thought it was even possible. But for the second time that morning, he found himself proven wrong. He let out a soft groan.
And, buried eight inches deep, drenched to the hilt in his own pleasure and yours, Joel felt it—he was finally hard.
His cock was swollen to full capacity, while his balls had just emptied themselves dry. Your bodies were drained.
Faintly, he caught wind of a laugh.
It rumbled through your ribcage and made its way to his. Joel dropped his head to your shoulder, grinning, because of course he got a boner right then.
“Down to run it back after work, old man?”
Joel chuckled. He glanced at the clock.
Leave in five minutes or you’ll be late.
He shrugged and pulled you closer.
“I think I’d better just call in sick.”
now imagine a follow-up crackfic where joel buys those gas station boner pills for funsies and gets hard as SHIT for fourteen hours and fucks you through every minute of it
((apparently any erection that lasts over four hours warrants a trip to the ER but let’s just pretend))
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Virginity loss. Creampie. Daddy kink. Girthy, unspecified age gap. Exhibitionism if you squint. Oral (m! and f! receiving). Breeding kink. Assplay. Intercrural sex. Soft dom!Joel. DD/lg dynamics and the use of anatomical terminology to describe various body parts—don’t like, don’t read.
Note: “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” is a song by Journey 🕺🏻
Another note: All characters involved in this story are adults. Reader is described as having grown up in isolation, without access to formal education, and as such, her understanding of the human body and sexual reproduction is limited. This is not a reflection of her intelligence or her ability to learn the topics.
Word count: 18.0k
Surely, it hurt.
It had to.
Whatever was happening in the confines of the bedroom next to yours, the woman didn’t sound like she was having fun. A sharp cry had startled you out of your sleep, only slightly muffled by the cabin’s walls, and when you were awake, you heard all of it. Everything.
“Tommy.” The voice rose, pitchy and shrill. “Pleeease!”
It sounded as if someone were begging for their life, frankly; the responding male groan was near-deafening. The quick, hollow thumps against the wall picked up, and before you could even begin to wonder at what that was from, you heard Tommy Miller’s voice rejoin in turn:
“You fuckin’ love it, don’t ya, baby?”
No, clearly, your wife is in pain.
You couldn’t believe what you were hearing with your own two ears; you and Joel had come to visit for the weekend, since the two of you lived a little ways away from Jackson and the balmy summer weather was too good not to travel. It wasn’t all that often you got to see Joel’s only living family, but whenever you did, it was fun. Tommy, his brother, and Maria really seemed to suit one another, and you relished any opportunity to be around other people. You didn’t get very much of that with Joel.
He was technically your closest, and oldest, neighbor.
Since your grandmother had passed some years back, he had taken it upon himself to care for you. At first, it’d been just a matter of stopping by every now and then to make sure you were fed, safe, and content, but that had morphed slowly over time to you moving into his place. Taking up residence in his little two-bedroom abode out in the middle of nowhere, and becoming something like a friend to him. A pet, a plaything, a ward—you weren’t totally sure what to call your relationship to Joel, seeing as though you’d never been anything to any man before.
That was one of the drawbacks to being born and raised in the remote, post-apocalyptic world as you were: pure naïveté. Not knowing one thing by way of societal norms.
You rushed over to his bed now, no hesitation stalling your limbs as you tore off his sheets in a state of panic:
“Joel!”
The man lay there, motionless. His big, broad, black-and-silver speckled chest rose up and down, again and again.
Joel always slept heavy as shit. He wore boxers and nothing more, which you were used to seeing by now.
And you felt such a singular familiarity with him after all this time that you didn’t think twice to climb into the bed, right on top of him. This was just Joel, after all.
Round, brown eyes flew open as soon as you did.
“Fuckin’ sh—” he started, voice thick with sleep.
“Joel, hurry!” you hissed. Straddling his hips, grabbing at his bare shoulders and shaking them as hard as you could. “T-Tommy’s hurtin’ Maria! We need to help.”
A low groan sounded in Joel’s throat—not entirely unlike the one that you’d heard from his brother through the wall, you thought for half a moment—and shortly, a set of hands landed on your waist. They squeezed you tight.
And, just as it seemed they were about to lift and nudge you sideways, you bore down. Insistent, and frowning.
“Just listen! Right now. Please, Joel, I-I’m serious.”
You were pleading with him now, unable to contain the fear in your tone as you clamped a hand over his mouth.
Honestly, you probably didn’t even need to do that—the room was dead quiet, save for the sounds of you and Joel’s breathing, the soft whistle of the wind, then—
“Ohhhh, fuck me! Tommy, it’s—shit!” Maria whimpered.
“You asked for it, baby. Wanted me poundin’ ya, huh?”
Tommy’s words seemed to bounce off of every surface in the room with a grating, nauseating turn. It made your eyes widen, and your palm press even tighter to Joel.
“See?! He—He’s hittin’ her! We gotta g—”
Joel groaned again. Louder, and more pointed this time.
You hadn’t realized it, but your thighs were holding pretty hard, too. Your groin was aligned perfectly with Joel’s, your weight was sinking down, and that touch was concentrated. If there had been any room to consider your current spot, you could’ve sworn you felt a…lump?
“Fuck,” Joel gritted through his teeth. Finally lifting you off him, and wincing as he did, he sat up. He met your gaze with a sharp, stern, and bewildered sort of look.
“What—” he panted, “—are ya talkin’ about, darlin’?”
“Don’t you hear it?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
You blinked.
“So…go!”
“What?”
“Stop ‘em.”
“From what?”
“Fightin’, Joel!”
Now, it was his turn to blink.
He waited several seconds, then continued.
“Babygirl, Tommy and Maria ain’t…ain’t havin’ no fight.”
For a while, you had only to stare back at him, confused.
The ride home was awkward.
Joel could feel it in his bones, beneath his skin, itching from within the deepest recesses of his body: that morning had changed things. For you and for him.
What he had come to suspect for the longest time—and what had only made sense, since the one, lone soul you’d known all your life until him had been your grandmother—was true. You didn’t know what sex was, or what it did.
Joel swallowed thickly, pretending not to be conscious of the warmth on his back. Your arms snug around him. Your cheek resting gently against the cotton duck fabric of his jacket while the two of you rode on horseback to get home, and a pout the size of Texas no doubt marring your pretty face. You’d been cross with him all that day.
“Venison and cornbread for supper. How ‘bout it?” He tried supplying his tone with some playful inflection, hoping to entice with the promise of your favorite meal.
Clearly, though, he would need to try harder.
You shrugged against him.
“Fine by me.”
Joel knew that tone. Could probably pinpoint with surgical precision what you were feeling before the emotion even rose to your eyes. He couldn’t see you now, but he could feel the frustration bleeding through your words. Being treated as if you were too young, too innocent, too dumb to be told this hurt, plain and simple.
He wrestled with this thought the whole way home, then trudging into the cabin that you’d been sharing for months. You strode ahead, steps brisk and decided, and you peeled off your long, light cardigan without a care in the world. You kicked off your boots and set them beside the rest of his in the mud room. Joel followed you, softly.
He set his hands on his hips after toeing off his own Luccheses, watching you and not knowing what to say.
Then you turned to face him.
The cough was both reflexive and immediate. Joel had never seen—hell, it’d been years since anybody, but this…this was even worse, more jarring than he ever…
He forced his gaze away in a blink. He coughed again.
“Sweetie,” Joel started, low. “I think your, uh—”
“Will you just tell me?” you snapped. You threw your hands up, as if sick of having had to hold your tongue this long. “Whatever was going on. With Tommy and Maria. I know you think I’m…I’m…young, or whatever, but, Joel, I am a full grown adult!” Another pause just long enough for you to gnaw at your bottom lip and cross your arms. Bad, bad move for Joel’s resolve. “Ain’t like it’s my fault I was born after outbreak and never learned.”
You were right.
Joel shouldn’t have been so narrow-minded.
Still, that didn’t change the fact that you were wearing what looked to be the most slight, translucent fucking frock of all time. Something short and sweet and swept up in a sea of white tulle: you could’ve been modeling for a wedding night lingerie specialty line, bare as you were.
He must’ve missed it under your sweater. Not turned his head to meet your eyes or your ensemble that morning before you climbed up on the horse behind him and set out. Joel knew he’d never seen this…thing once before.
Your tits practically spilled out of the top. Your arms remained crossed, and you eyed him with a wary look.
“Well?” you said.
“Well,” Joel repeated, still floundering for words. “Wh—Well, y’know, I…see, I’ve—I’ve been…‘S’always been…”
Shit.
He was tongue-tied.
More helpless than a fish trying to ride a bike.
And, like a teenager with an untimely boner growing in his jeans—even though, at his age, Joel couldn’t get bricked that quick if his life depended on it—he shuffled away. Sidestepped you in the hallway and made a beeline for the kitchen, where he could feel an odd stir start to take root in his lower half. He cursed the half-cocked mass in his pants and sincerely hoped it wouldn’t interfere with what he knew he needed to do now.
“I’ll…I’ll explain it, sweet pea. While we cook, OK?”
“Alright.” You started trailing behind him slowly.
You didn’t sound convinced. Joel wasn’t remotely disposed for the conversation awaiting him in the kitchen, or having to look you head-on while half your body was on display to him. You didn’t seem to see it.
You were as innocent and clueless as the moment you’d bat your lashes at him in the half light of the bedroom that morning, straddling his hips, and replying to his last quip by saying, ‘If they ain’t fightin’, what are they doin’?’
“Who gave you that dress, anyway?”
Joel retrieved the meat from the ice box, setting it out to let it thaw while you and him prepped the rest of the meal. Across the room, you were already grabbing some of the ingredients you’d need: flour, cornmeal, sugar, salt
“Maria,” you answered, simply. “She let me have whatever clothes of hers I wanted. ‘S’nice, ain’t it?”
“It looks like something you’d wear on your honeymoon.”
After turning to preheat the oven, Joel sidled up beside you. His gaze affixed itself to the counter through pure force of will, though in his periphery, he caught sight of the outline of your breasts. He tore open a bag of sugar.
Then you turned to him, voice rising a little:
“What’s a honeymoon?”
Joel couldn’t help it; he had to meet your eyes lifting to find his. Inside them, he saw genuine curiosity brimming.
Innocence, too.
“Just a, uh…trip that folks would take right after their wedding,” he said, before clearing his throat. “Vacation.”
“Oh.”
For a brief space of time, silence settled into the grooves and bumps of that slightly uncomfortable realization—what the world was like before it all splintered apart—and neither one of you tried to speak. You worked nimble fingers over the dry ingredients, Joel cracked eggs one by one, and together, you made relatively quick work of readying the cornbread mixture for baking. It was easy.
Stupidly, Joel thought that he might be off the hook in terms of not having to discuss the mechanics of marriage and sex to you then, when you piped up again.
“So this is what I’d be wearin’ after gettin’ hitched? Like…like Tommy and Maria did?” You licked sugar off your thumb before sliding the tray to him, and he took it.
“Yeah. I mean…”
Joel opened the oven door, and more carefully than he probably needed to do, pushed the baking dish inside it.
“…not immediately.”
When he had, you were right back beside him.
“Doin’ whatever we heard this morning, you think?”
The curiosity in your tone was unmistakable. Perhaps emboldened by the plain look of discomfort that was twisting his every feature, you could say it more freely.
Having sex, of course.
Why the hell hadn’t your grandma bothered to tell you?
“Yes,” Joel replied, stiff as anything. “That’s…part of it.”
“How much of it?”
“Well—”
“And why’d it sound like Maria was in pain?”
“Baby, that—that ain’t any real pain, I pr—”
“She was screamin’, Joel! Really hollerin’.”
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
He absolutely hated this.
With you pressed up beside him, eyes wide and glossy and shimmering with intrigue, his cock half-hard in his jeans and his mind thrumming with that constant, paralyzing thought—‘I promised I would keep her safe, not completely obliterate her innocence like this’—he balked. He took a step away from you and shook his head, like something had just rocked him to his core.
Your brows pinched.
“So then, what were they—”
“—can’t do this right now, sweetheart. ‘M’sorry.”
Joel’s whole chest seemed to cave with his sigh: the kind that reminded him how old he was, how naïve you were, and how wrong it would be if he gave you the wrong impression of sex. Make you afraid of it, or averse to it.
“We can go back to Jackson. Have one of them teachers in the schools explain it to you much better than I ever could.” Joel was walking to the pantry now, resealed food items cradled haphazardly in his arms. He didn’t slow.
And, before he had even gotten the chance to open the door, much to his shock and sheer, unmitigated dismay, he heard your voice again. Behind him, as defiant as ever.
“Whatever, Joel.”
Your voice was hard; he could feel the eye roll baked in. Then you stalked past him, straight for the living room.
Stomping ahead, and calling over your shoulder, you said: “If you won’t tell me, I’ll just ask some other guy to explain. Maybe the boys my age won’t be such prudes!”
It was the closest you’d ever gotten to downright bratty in your life. Joel had only to stand there, arms full of various powdered fixings and his jaw gone partly lax. He stared at your back, gaze following you as you went over to the den. You flopped onto the old and weathered sofa.
He dropped whatever he was holding then.
With something red-hot and ugly beginning to pool in his gut, mind reeling from the words you’d just spoken to him, Joel acted without thinking. Footsteps echoed.
“Darlin’.”
He wouldn’t get angry.
“Sweetheart. Sw—Hey. Look at me.”
That simply wasn’t in his nature. He loved you too much.
You turned to face him in your seat, and this time, Joel didn’t feign not to see you. Half-naked as you were, pert nipples poking through your dress and chest rising and falling in fast, shallow breaths, you looked like a dream.
So what if he couldn’t be with you how he wanted?
He could teach you, and that would be enough.
Joel tugged you back up onto your feet.
“Fine. You wanna learn about sex?”
As soon as he said it, your eyes went wider. A heat must have spread from your cheeks all the way down to your toes and strangled your tongue as it did, because all you could do was close and unclose your mouth, repeatedly.
How fast that brave, no-bullshit attitude was to disappear, Joel thought idly. He wanted to smile.
You didn’t even know what sex was, and still, as if by instinct, you knew that that word meant something.
It made you shift on your feet, toes curling.
“I, um…”
Huh.
“What?”
“It’s just…” you went on, sounding uncertain.
“Baby, if you can’t even stomach the word, I’d say we’d be better off saving this conversation for another day.”
That made you tense up again.
As if he’d just shocked you with a live wire, muscles jumping and skull surely shaking a, no, Joel, I can stomach it fine, I promise, you cut right back in.
Eyes lifting to his, bottom lip no longer snagged between your teeth, and then with your body lowering, slow, back down to take a seat on the sofa, you finally forced it out.
“Joel, I—I want you to teach me how to fuck. Really, I do.”
Well, shit.
Joel reckoned that had ‘pretty please’ beat all to hell.
Your words damn near knocked him sideways.
It was all the man could do to keep from keeling straight over and croaking on the spot—he had to get away from you, if only by a couple extra feet. He shuffled back. Stood at the center of the living room with his feet planted firmly in place, then tilted his head to you.
“And just where did you learn that word, young lady?”
Paternal condescension came too easy to him.
Joel blinked hard to keep his face in check.
You shrugged before him. Hummed back.
“Dunno. ‘S’what Maria said, right?” you replied, eyes locking with his. “Moanin’, ‘Fuck me, Tommy, pleee—’”
“That’s enough.” Joel held his hand up to stop you.
What was he going to do with you? Gaze glittering bright, lips parted, practically careening over the edge of your seat to hear the rest, while simultaneously looking terrified to learn for certain. You knew some words, but not other ones. You had an innocence and an obscenity bound up inside you at once. Joel was afraid to touch it.
“If I’m teachin’ you a thing…” he resumed, slow, stance widening where he stood and arms folding. “I mean one thing, sugar, we’re only using the clinical terms, y’hear?”
Joel scarcely had the words to describe the depth of his own emotion and what he felt toward you; he knew he’d need to keep some…distance when discussing this subject. Making his jargon dry, unappealing, and scientific seemed like the best way of doing that.
“Alright,” you said, tucking your legs underneath you.
Another beat of silence.
Another ripe, strangled breath slicing through his teeth.
“OK…” Joel went on, trying his best not to grimace. “Has anyone talked to you about the, uh…birds and the bees?”
“You mean dicks and vaginas?”
“Hey.”
Joel choked.
His hand scrubbed down his face in an almost vicious way, and he had to shield his stubbled mouth with his palm, for fear of another less-polite sound tumbling out.
Sat on the couch, you wore a faint, smug little smile.
“Sorry. Penises and vaginas,” you corrected yourself.
Again, Joel was blinking furiously, but now his index finger was lifting, too, pointing at you: ‘Thin ice, kid.’
You weren’t going to make this easy on him, clearly. Whether you were aware of the reasons why, or knew just how to wield your power over him was a separate question. Either way, Joel would need to keep moving.
So, pretending to clear a cough from his throat again, he went on. Recovering the grit to his voice, and scowling:
“Yes. Penises and vaginas. Pretty simple stuff, really.”
You raised your brows. Joel ignored it.
“Pole goes in the hole, and—”
“How’s it fit?” you cut in.
“What?”
Joel’s frown deepened. You sat straighter in your seat.
“I mean…every time I’ve seen one, it’s, um…wormy.”
Wormy?
“Wormy?” Joel returned immediately, in disbelief.
And he couldn’t contain the next, which all but launched itself off his tongue: “You’ve—You’ve seen a dick before?”
“Penis, Joel.”
“Penis.”
He sucked in a breath to try and calm himself, but the effort, evidently, was for nothing. He was near-seething.
You peered up at him.
“Just yours,” you said. A little sheepish. “Once or twice.”
Joel let the breath out. His mouth tightened.
“You’ve—” Then he stopped himself. The question was stupid; of course, you’d caught glimpses of him naked before. That was inevitable living in a house this small.
Before you could even try to apologize, he pressed on.
“OK, well, what’s…what the hell’s ‘wormy’ mean?”
“I dunno. Just, like, squishy and pink, I guess.”
“That’s—” Another brief pause. Joel had to steel himself right. “Well, hon, it doesn’t stay like that. It…It gets hard, when a man feels good. Helps him fit inside the woman.”
Not terrible.
Not perfect, but not terrible.
You perked up where you sat, and it was in that moment that Joel realized that his joints ached. His legs burned. The forearms crossed over his chest had unconsciously constricted tighter to the point that it was getting a little tough to breathe, so he released his hold. His hands fell to his sides at the same time you stood up in front of him
Damn that smile of yours.
Damn those gleaming eyes.
“Can you show me how?” you asked softly.
Your gaze trailed to his crotch, and Joel could feel it like a real, bona fide weight sinking him. It was curious. Sweet.
‘That ain’t right,’ was Joel’s first instinct, which he said.
Even faced with the stern, stormy exterior of a man no less than several decades your senior, though, you didn’t seem deterred by those words. If anything, it made the little tilt in your lips kick higher. You smiled lightly at him.
“How come?” you asked. “It’s just teachin’, Joel.”
Too easy.
Joel swallowed and shook his head.
“No. Sweetheart, teachin’s a whole other beast from…from me showin’ you what I mean. You gotta know that.”
Still, his eyes were glossing over, and a haze was settling over his mind like a mist in the sky just before the break of dawn. His limbs felt heavy, and his tongue went dry.
You were too fucking sly and sweet for your own good.
As if on cue, you drew closer to meet him where he stood. The hem of your dress shifted and swayed, barely long enough to scrape the tops of your thighs. Joel couldn’t bear to look higher, so he just stared at your legs. Scrambling like hell to come up with an excuse as to why he’d need to leave the room in less than a second, he wasn’t remotely prepared for what you ventured next.
You took the hem in your hands, and you lifted it.
Not just an inch or two but ten, easily, all the way until the fabric was touching your navel. The move exposed your entire lower half to him, and Joel found himself ogling a pair of bright, white, matching underwear.
Before he could move, you tilted your hips. As if showing him a new bump or bruise—which you often liked to do whenever you were hurt and needed attention—you said:
“Joel, look.”
He did.
He almost had to.
Old and awful and ashamed as he was, he couldn’t keep his eyes away. They were unblinking and ravenous, soaking in your form like a hunter surveying its next meal
Then you shifted on your delicate, socked feet.
“How ‘bout me? Can you show it on me?” you whispered.
Joel didn’t have the bandwidth to mince words right now
Teachin’, touchin’, lovin’, squeezin’—he had that craving.
One look between your legs and the man would’ve died on the spot if you told him. That was how needy he was.
Your fingers wavered a little when you didn’t hear a response. Joel was too busy eyeing you and trying not to drool, but the sight of you starting to lower your skirt snapped him out of it. He placed his hands on your waist.
“Wait.” Then, realizing how abrupt and sharp that sounded, he paused. He tried softening his tone a little. “Sorry. I mean. You…you want me to show ya, sweetie?”
Finally, his gaze slid up to meet yours.
You were watching him closely.
“If that’s…OK,” you said.
Well, shit.
Nothing would make him happier.
Still, fighting his base instincts, and just narrowly managing to keep his hold steady, Joel reeled it in.
Every thick, callused finger splayed across your sides was practically humming with primal energy; all the same, his love outweighed the lust. He lowered his voice to only the gentlest of tones and asked you, point-blank:
“Is that OK with you? Do you want me to teach you?”
Waves of chill bumps seemed to answer first: your skin, your eyes, your smile, every breath betraying that eager, nervous need. Then your grip moving from your dress. One hand clasping around his wrist and nudging it in.
You nodded.
You let him brush one sweaty palm across your skin.
Joel lowered without thinking. Sinking to the floor, onto his knees, felt like exactly what he needed to do, and he didn’t give a shit if it pulverized his joints beyond repair.
“Right here?” he breathed, now level with your heat.
Wooden floorboards creaked under his weight, and the air swelled thick and warm where he knelt. Sunlight streamed through the windows, bathing the space in a dreamlike sort of haze. Joel inhaled through his nose and almost pitched forward; you hummed your soft assent.
You didn’t know what you were doing then.
By what remaining, fraying thread of resolve the man possessed, Joel stopped himself before he went too far.
He blinked fast and moved his hands to your hips, just below where you were holding your dress’s hem for him.
Clinical.
Educational.
Fucking academic was what this would be.
“Anyone ever teach you about her?” Joel asked gently.
A ringing in his ears succeeded that question, louder than anything he’d ever experienced, and he looked up at you. You stared down at him, and one bat of your eyes was all it took to remind him he’d have to take this slow.
“Her?” you murmured.
“Yeah. Her.”
Joel wished his hands weren’t so big, seeing how easy it was to move his thumb: his palm glided across the slope of your tender mound, and in no time at all, he had a thick, callused pad stroking you over your panties. It traced your seam carefully—cautiously, like a single wrong move might wind up losing you to him forever—and then he searched your face. He swallowed, watching the features contort the slightest, slightest bit in yours.
Your breath hitched, and you whimpered.
You spread your thighs a little more.
“Private parts have…pronouns?”
That thumb swiped up. It grazed a tiny bud beneath cotton, and in under a second, your lips were twitching again. Your hips stirred, as if beyond your conscious control, and Joel eased off of you. He nodded his head.
“‘S’called a ‘vulva,’ baby.” Then his palm cupped it. Holding you in place, repeating: clinical, educational, academic like a broken refrain in his mind, over and over again. “This whole thing. Pronouns make it a little more personal, y’know? But can you repeat that word for me?”
“Vulva.”
The word was foreign on your tongue. You didn’t seem acquainted with the taste or the feel, and that forced a tiny line of worry between your eyebrows. Joel went on.
“Just like that, baby. Good. Reckon it’s best you learn about you before we take on any other stuff, for now.” Holding your heat like a weight in his hand, he crooked his fingers, and the pads grazed a smooth, clothed orifice. “Now what’s this called? You already said it.”
“The…um, vagina.” With a smidge more confidence, you still balked when his index and middle fingers prodded the fabric. That was all he needed for it—two tips poised above that tight, tender hole through the cotton of your underwear, and Joel could sense how acutely you felt it.
You shifted on your feet and let out a sharper noise. You clapped a hand to his shoulder and squeezed it, shortly.
“Joel.”
Then it felt like you were pulling back.
“What’s’a matter, baby? Everything alright?”
Inundated as he was with desire, Joel kept a firm grip over his self-control. His touch retracted from your heat.
“Y-Yeah. I’m fine. I just feel…”
A beat passed, and it seemed you were looking for words
“Is it normal? I feel a little…weird, and…and…”
Still searching. Joel was watching you closely, puzzled.
“Yeah, darlin’? What feels weird? Talk to me.”
At length, the internal foray ended, and you had only to clamp your other palm onto his shoulder, holding tight with both hands and letting your hem drop down again.
A sigh escaped you.
“Joel, I’m…I’m just…sticky down there.”
You said it, and at the same time, your thighs clenched.
Joel was no longer touching between your legs, but the gesture, along with your half-whispered, half-whimpered words nearly sucked him back in all over again. His head spun. His fingers were practically aching with need, wanting to tug your panties down and show you that this was a good thing, but, as before, restraint stopped him.
Instead, he nodded up at you.
With your palms pressing hard and your body positioned over him—towering, compared to his obeisant kneeling—Joel could only be sweet. Understanding. Softly coaxing.
“Yeah? Wanna show me, sweet pea?”
It took some more effort after that. Cajoling, for one thing, but also assuring you that the sticky, wet feeling you got between your thighs wasn’t something to hide but a perfectly normal, natural bodily function of yours. That it helped facilitate the act of sex, as a matter of fact.
“Means she’s happy,” Joel said, watching as you peeled your panties down—very nearly hearing the tacky sound.
Sure enough, the truth came to light. Quite literally, he was proven right with a pool of something thick and crystalline collected at the gusset of your undies; the stuff stretched in a half-dozen strings from the fabric to your drooling cunt, bared to him and pulsing with heat.
Clinical.
Educational.
Fucking academ—
“It hurts, Joel,” you said.
“Hurts?” Joel blinked once. “Where’s it—”
Suddenly, you were rubbing two fingers between your folds in a crude sort of way. Your underwear was in a puddle at your feet, and your free hand was back at the hem of your dress, lifting it slightly. Joel’s eyes widened.
“Right—Right here. It aches. Make it go away, please.”
“Baby—”
“Please, Joel. You said you would teach me, right?”
He did, of course.
He just never thought it’d include touching you half-nude
Leaning in on his knees, pretending he wasn’t decades your senior, chock-full of grays, and a man who had sworn to your grandmother that he would keep you safe. Ensuring you would be taken care of. Surely, that promise encompassed the perils of men and their darkest intentions, yet, here he was. Basking in your glow, reveling in the heat, sleek, and that fucking scent.
His lips were the first to give way.
They seemed to act of their own volition as they sank in to press a kiss between your own—lower, and wetter, but still your lips all the same—and they didn’t hesitate. They formed an ‘o’ directly over your throbbing clit and kissed.
Your stomach clenched in response. Your hips stuttered.
The hand that was clutching your dress jerked to Joel’s salt-and-pepper locks and made a fist, tight as anything.
‘Joel,’ you whined.
‘Joel,’ you pleaded.
‘Joel’ became the quietest, most plaintive refrain in a matter of seconds, with that old, lined, and weathered mouth latching onto your little nub and suckling her in.
Joel pulled off with a wet pop. He didn’t waste time.
“That’s your clitoris, sweetheart.” Hooded, hazy brown eyes drifted up to meet yours, while your legs trembled around his head. “Sensitive, ain’t she? Say ‘clit’ for me.”
Your jaw was slack.
Short, shallow gasps were working their way in and out of your lungs while it seemed you were trying to recover some semblance of propriety, but all that came out was:
“Joel…oh…oh…”
“‘Clit,’ baby. Say it back.”
Maybe that was mean. Hell, it definitely was.
Here you were, fighting to make sense of the wild, shocky feeling spiraling up from that tiny bundle of nerves, and he was making you talk your way through it. The smallest grin twitched at the corners of his lips, though he worked hard not to let it show too obviously.
He squeezed one of your thighs and forged on, soft.
“How’s about it? Got lots more ground to cover.”
You swallowed, finally blinking back at him.
“Cl—Clit. Can you kiss it again, please?”
And Joel did: to reward you, but also to contain the laughter that was no doubt about to be bubbling to the surface if he didn’t make use of that mouth of his, fast.
He kissed your clit like he’d done before, smiling against slick, sopping wet flesh and loving on it gently. He licked a ring around the hood and was about to use the tip to lift it up—to really hit your pleasure point and make you squirm—when another thought possessed him. Another step, another lesson, another far-too-tempting-to-resist spot where he might continue this campaign of erudition
“Ever heard of a thing called a ‘g-spot,’ baby?” Joel said.
You shook your head no.
With your hips tilted toward him and his head in the way, the fabric of your dress hadn’t slid down much since you’d let go, but all the same, Joel lifted a hand to grip the hem of it. He coaxed your fingers down while he did.
“Watch as you do it. I want you to put those pretty fingers to use, try and find that place. Can you do that?”
“Where?”
“Inside you.”
“But I—why?”
“Feels good, trust me.”
Your brows knit in that familiar way; Joel could fall apart with just one look at it. He didn’t press, even when your fingers fumbled down your tummy and made a pass through your legs—completely unaware of what those digits were meant to do and simply wanting to try. Perhaps you’d hoped to replicate the sensation he’d given you, too, or you wouldn’t have moved so quickly.
Swiftly slicking up your fingertips and toying, but making a face when it seemed like you couldn’t feel quite the same thing as you had before, you peered down at him.
“In here?” Your index hovered over a wet, dripping hole.
“Right there, baby. Push it in f’me if you can, alright?”
When you did, Joel had a front row seat; physically, he was no more than five or six inches away while you slid your small, trembling finger through the soaked band of muscle, but it felt like he was in you for the whole thing. Ogling the spectacle of your tight and untouched virgin cunt stretching, then hugging that little digit, before you whimpered and keened his name, was unlike anything he’d ever felt. He knelt between your legs and observed with all the outward practiced detachment of a doctor, though inside, he felt like every inch of him was on fire.
“It’s tight,” you whimpered.
“I know, honey, I kn—”
“I don’t like it.”
Right as your wrist flicked back to remove that finger, pussy stuffed too full and not in a good way, you’d evidently decided, Joel leapt to act. He didn’t even decide so much as he simply listened to your cries.
It hurts, you’d whined above him, Oh, Joel, please.
Suddenly, his thumb was rubbing your clit to dull the ache. Before your index could slide out, his own pushed in alongside it, coaxing that tight, wet ring to stretch with the heft and grit of his hand. Decades of experience preceded him, which made him confident in his words of assurance then—even when you grimaced and groaned.
“You’re OK,” Joel mumbled, nodding when you winced. “You’re alright, just stings a little bein’ stretched, huh?”
“Y-You said it would feel good,” you keened, mournful.
Clearly trying to buck that uncomfortable feeling, you moved back. You stumbled, as your ankles were still trapped within your panties, and Joel had to catch you.
You were close to the sofa; he nudged you toward it, swift enough that he didn’t need to move his hand and simply guided you onto the wide, cushioned armrest. Your feet kicked off the cotton, and in a second, you were sitting—straddling—that spot. Joel stepped even closer.
His finger sank another inch, and you looked fit to be tied
“I said, I don’t—” you started, sharp.
“—know where it is. Lemme help you.”
Joel had another half-minute, maybe. Laying sprawled out like you were, still impaled by his finger and yours, you clearly weren’t a fan of this feeling and would be shoving him off at any second. He’d have to be quick.
So, steeling himself and standing over you on the couch, he pushed in. To the knuckle. His pointer finger was big and warm and ribbed all over with little calluses, and it probably felt like a hot poker was forcing its way inside of your too-tight cunt beside your index, but Joel kept at it. Your muscles pulsed again, a tiny line or two of moisture crawling down his palm with the excess of your desire leaking out, and you grit your teeth. Your heels dug into the couch, and just when it appeared you’d had enough, he felt it. The tip of that probing digit brushed the place.
It was spongy and slick. Solid, but not without some give
Touching it made you squirm worse than anything.
Or, better might be a more accurate assessment.
“Oh, baby,” Joel said, relief flooding his tone as he saw it. “That’s the spot, ain’t it? That’s that special spot, there.”
Your reply was a light grunt when he stroked it again.
It was like you weren’t quite sure how to answer for it—your body, however, gave its resounding approbation when your walls bore down again and squeezed him.
Clearly, this wasn’t a pained hug. You wanted more.
“Remember what we call this spot, sweetheart?”
Syrup practically dripped from every syllable, and Joel didn’t refrain from leaning in. Pressing his forehead to yours, bracing his free hand against the sofa cushion behind you, the old man worked his finger back and forth. He dragged your smaller one with it, and he grinned when a hoarse little cry leapt out of your throat.
That wasn’t an answer, unfortunately.
Joel held the couch even harder and sawed his finger in and out, grazing that special place with every movement.
“C’mon, darlin’, I know you ain’t forgot it already.”
Your pussy was as full as it had ever been and making wet, squelching sounds each time that your finger and his moved through it. Clearly, your mind wasn’t firing on all cylinders, simply soaking in the sensations as you whined, moaned, and rutted your hips. Just precious.
Joel wasn’t letting you off that easy, though.
Still stroking, still petting that sensitive flesh, he went on:
“Is this what we call your…clit, honey? Is that what it is?”
Without warning, he pushed a second finger inside, and you hissed. Your own index slid out instinctively, and as if knowing the rest of it by heart, you started rubbing that sweet, pulsing, needy nub like your life depended on it.
“N-N-No, this—this is it,” you stuttered. Overcome with the wishing and waiting—wanting to show him what you’d learned, as well—you were keen. “This is my clit.”
Pleasure must’ve bloomed through your lower half when you said it, because your next words were swallowed up in a strangled moan. You tried lifting your hips instead, seeming to say to him: ‘See? I’m really learning, Joel.’
A grin sabotaged his face, and he couldn’t contain the urge; Joel leaned in and kissed your forehead. He tilted his chin to steal a glance where you were touching yourself, seeing how urgent those little circles were getting to be, and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe. Pride. He halted his ministrations just long enough to take a seat on the old couch and pull you into his lap.
Now cradling you, placing sporadic and comforting kisses along your hairline as he returned his fingers to your heat, Joel felt he could’ve melted between the cushions with just one whimper from your lips—that was how thoroughly you’d softened him already. He loved it.
“Very good, baby, that’s your clit.” His thumb covered yours easily and helped it draw little lemniscates over the bud, which made you squirm on top of him. You bit down on your bottom lip when he scissored his fingers inside you. Then he curled them and brushed that place again. “And what’s this, sweetie? Remember what we call her?”
Your brow furrowed.
Clearly, you were trying to think while the pleasure mounted and spiraled. You tilted your chin to him.
“It’s…It’s my g-spot, right?” you ventured softly.
“Exactly right,” Joel cooed in your ear.
As if to reward you for it, he curled his fingers and tapped that sensitive, special spot over and over again, knowing just what kind of effect it would have on you then. Your breath hitched, and your reflexes sent you lurching toward his chest. You clawed at his t-shirt.
Joel was certain he’d never seen something so goddamn endearing in his life. His smile widened, and he hugged you to him even tighter, not wanting to lose sight of you for even a second. Your legs trembled around his hand.
He nuzzled your cheek.
“That’s it. Good girl.”
Another clench.
“Daddy’s girl.”
And, as soon as he said the words, your chest heaved. Be it a breath, a whimper, a moan, your whole frame shook with the movement, and suddenly you were peering up at him through your lashes and staring, all glossy-eyed.
“Wh-What?” you stammered.
One more plunge of his fingers, and you keened. You looked bewildered, beleaguered, practically bursting at the seams and having only to meet his gaze and squeeze
You were close.
Joel could hear it.
“Daddy?” you repeated, breaths ragged.
Of course, you’d never heard that one before. Joel just nodded his head and let you bask in it—that feeling of wild curiosity. Perhaps not everything would compute.
He could teach you, but you might not get it just yet.
Seeing this look, and sensing how close you were to your climax, Joel leaned close and kissed your temple before murmuring, low: “Yeah. ‘M’not your old man, but that’s another word folks like to use sometimes. If you like it, then that’s all it’s gotta be. Our own little special thing.”
Your fingers tightened at his collar, like a wave was overtaking your body and you couldn’t control it.
Joel foresaw the question before it even arose.
“You doin’ OK, sweetheart? Feelin’ alright?”
“I—I don’t know. It kinda…sorta feels…”
“What? You got a funny feelin’, baby?”
You nodded.
His fingers had been stretching and pumping and pushing all kinds of fiery sensations inside that tiny space, feeling wet muscles contract around him—it didn’t surprise him in the least that you needed some extra time to come. You didn’t even know what it was.
“That’s an orgasm, honey. ‘S’a good thing. Real good feelin’, if you just let it build and build for a little bit lo—”
“Wanna stop,” you hiccuped. “Feels like I’m gonna pee.”
Joel had to hide a grin behind a bevy of kisses. He kept cradling you, kept fingering your soaked pussy with all the soft, practiced resolve of a man much gentler than he’d ever known himself to be. You weren’t pushing him away; he wouldn’t force you toward it. He just wanted to guide you to a path that would give you replete pleasure.
Hell, maybe he could even get you to squirt.
“You’re not gonna pee,” Joel assured you gently. “Even if you did, I wouldn’t care. You know your pleasure’s the most important thing, right? ‘S’why I’m here, baby.”
It seemed to strike you at almost the same moment it did him: this was not only for you, but about you. More than a step above simple pedagogy, Joel was trying to make sure you understood all the inner-workings of sex.
“That’s makin’ love, y’know? Takin’ somebody’s pleasure into your hands and treatin’ them right. Makin’ it…good.”
“Makin’ love,” you repeated, just like you’d done for every other term he’d taught you that day. You drew in a breath
And, at the same time that Joel’s movements slowed with his speech—fingers pumping slower, deeper, to make your insides all but strangle him with just how good it made you feel—something stirred in him, too. Hell, it was the first real movement he’d had in ages.
Decades, maybe.
Thank the stage of life that he was in, his lack of access to peri-geriatric care, or his blasted uncooperative cock, but the man hadn’t had a real, bona fide erection in a long time. He’d figured that that would help keep his urges at bay while he was teaching you these things.
Now he was almost fully hard in his jeans. You were about to finish all over his fingers, and then what?
“Daddy,” you whimpered. Your feet kicked and inadvertently brushed over the bulge in his pants. “Faster, please. I—I think that feels even better f’me.”
Joel couldn’t have you see it, or feel it, or know exactly what you were doing to him and think that you were in some way responsible for helping out with the rest. No, he wouldn’t allow that. This wasn’t about him getting off.
He slid your body back. He slotted his own, head-first, between your legs and dove in. Out of sight, he started to grind his lower half into the sofa, but only after you’d taken hold of his hair and rocked your hips into his face.
That’s it.
This is for you.
“Daddy’s gonna take real good care of her,” Joel said, as if finishing the thoughts that were brewing in his head. “You just lie back an’ close your eyes. Soak it all in, OK?”
And you did.
When he reared back and spit on your pussy, smeared it in with his fingers and panted again, just for good measure, ‘What’s the word for all this, baby? What do we call her?’, you raggedly answered. You told him that it was your vulva, and then you moaned so loudly that Joel thought it might blow his eardrums out. He rutted his denim-clad cock into the couch and kept going. Pleasure spiraled from some of the furthest recesses of his gut, and he dragged his warm, wet, silver-stubbled mouth up your slit, glistening with saliva and your own arousal.
“Smart girl,” Joel murmured appreciatively. Licking lines around your clit, before dropping a quick kiss over it. “And what’s this little button called, baby? It feel good?”
You replied by digging your heels into the couch first, head lolling back on the armrest. Then, light as anything:
“My clit. It—It feels so good when you do that, Daddy.”
“When Daddy kisses her and licks on her some?”
“Gives me that…funny feelin’ all over again.”
Joel could say the same for himself. Something tightened in his balls, right as he humped the cushion with a little more force, and then he knew it, without a shadow of a doubt—that old, worn, once-dysfunctional member of his was now engorged with blood and stiff. He could probably fuck his fist once and blow his load.
He tried to ignore it.
He pushed two fingers to the rim of your cunt, feeling tender, taut flesh bar his entry again, and he worked his way through it. Delicate as ever, your hole spread for him.
“And this?” he asked.
You told him.
He slid in deeper, and before he could even inquire after that ridged, sensitive wall of your insides, you stuttered:
“Th-That one’s my g-spot, Daddy. That’s—That’s—”
Joel sucked your throbbing clit between his lips and flicked the tip of his tongue, just as his fingers curved in.
“That feels good, Daddy, please.”
Your pussy pulsed against him; it wet his silver beard in streaks and left him groaning between your legs, dry-humping the old couch like he was an animal in heat.
He was much, much too old for you.
This was just a learning experience.
One measly orgasm and then he’d—
“Faster, faster, Daddy. P-P-Please.”
Joel pistoned his fingers and flicked his tongue and sucked mercilessly on that little nub until you squealed.
“Let it happen, baby. Come for Daddy,” he beckoned.
“Come? Where?”
“Here.”
And with that, Joel crooked his fingers one last time and made you finish on his tongue. You didn’t squirt, but your whole body convulsed, and you kicked your feet and made those pretty little whiney sounds and pulled his hair—as if you were stunned by whatever was happening to your body, your thighs clenched around his head and damn near yanked out half the grays. Joel kept licking and fingering and mumbling sweet nothings all the while
Pretty girl.
Precious girl.
Daddy’s girl—you were everything, everything to him.
Heat flooded his jeans, and he didn’t even realize it.
It took him more than a couple seconds; he’d just finished lapping up the last of your release and was trying to catch his breath, panting and blinking and savoring your taste, when that recognition dawned.
The man had reached his peak entirely untouched.
Sticky and warm, trickling down his front, it went quietly.
Joel swallowed and propped himself up on an elbow, meeting your gaze with a hot and semi-hooded stare.
He needed to clean up. He needed to get out of there.
Suddenly, you reached for him, fingers outstretched.
“Daddy.”
It sounded so sweet—still as innocent as ever.
You had no fucking idea how badly he wanted you now. How much he hated himself for even taking as much as he had. But he did, and nothing else would take it back.
He really, really needed to go.
“Are we gonna make love now?” Your smile was crooked.
Joel sat up. His mind was clear. Conscience was fucked.
He shook his head as he wiped his mouth of you.
“No. We aren’t,” he answered, pushing to stand.
He turned before you could see the spot in his jeans. Before you could protest, he hardened his voice out of necessity and, already striding from the couch, said:
“Lesson’s over. Put on your underwear, sweetheart.”
The look you gave him then could’ve broken him in two. It was raw and soft and hurt, clearly. You blinked a little faster as you sat up, dress falling back down to cover your modesty and everything the two of you had done.
“But—”
“Don’t talk back to me, neither,” Joel forged on, despising every syllable coming out of his mouth. He was already at the threshold of the room and turning away. “Whatever happened today was teachin’, remember?”
You blinked again, eyes glossier than a moment before.
You rocked back on your heels and tried to stand, but Joel was already retreating. He pursed his lips together, throat clearing and the most flimsy, pathetic veneer of paternal concern working to stabilize his tone. It failed.
“B-But, Daddy, I—I thought—”
His voice audibly cracked when he curtailed your speech.
“Ain’t nothing, honey.” He shook his head against the lie. “This was wrong. If you wanna pout and whine ‘bout it, best head into your room, ‘cause I don’t wanna hear it.”
That made your lip curl in surprise. Soft, muted fury.
You made a fist at your side as he turned on his heel.
And, though he tried moving fast—pretending to shrug off the moment and trudge his way out through the door like nothing had happened—he evidently couldn’t make it quick enough. Over his shoulder, he heard your voice.
Having just made it onto the porch and felt the warmth of the outdoors on his skin, it was as faint as anything. A slight breeze, along with the crushing weight of knowing how badly he was fucking this up, greeted him swiftly, but not before your words reached him. Joel swallowed.
That hurt just about as bad as anything he’d ever felt.
He knew he was wrong, especially hearing you sob:
“Daddy, please come back.”
Your body was abuzz from head to toe.
Anticipation was one thing, and hatred was another—both feelings seemed to be at war within you constantly.
Though, really, you didn’t hate Joel, and judging by the way things had panned out lately, you likely never could. A week had passed since your little ‘lesson’ with the man, and nothing had ever made you feel so shaken. Or lonely.
One moment being the most precious thing in a person’s eyes, only to fall from that staggering height to nothing. Joel had up and left and brushed you to the wayside, leaving you to clench your fists and kick and cry like a child throwing a fit. But you weren’t. You were a full-grown adult trying to learn what sex meant, and damn if you didn’t feel the sting of being abandoned so easily.
You wanted to hate him more than anything else.
You wished with every fiber in your being not to need a man like him, but you did. It confused you, particularly during moments like these when you’d sneak off to his bedroom in the early morning hours—he’d offered to take you fishing that day, and you’d declined. Now you were in this cabin alone, sifting through all his jackets, flannels, and chambray shirts hanging in the closet and hoping you’d locate one that smelled the most like him.
One you could get off with, maybe.
“Ow,” you murmured presently, having hit your knee on the little hickory nightstand before clambering into bed.
You slid the long-sleeve on. You shuffled forward for a pillow, then grabbed it. Following the same four or five steps you’d been replicating since That Day—seeking identical pleasure and failing spectacularly each time—you stuffed the big, bulky, feather-filled cushion between your thighs and pressed on. You let your eyes droop shut.
Good girl.
Daddy’s girl.
‘S’what you are, right? All mi—
You pivoted and gripped the footboard, bracing your knees even harder against the bed. So what if you needed to wear his shirts and reminisce on all the delicious, filthy words he’d spoken to you just days ago? It wasn’t like you were wailing for the guy’s attention.
That would have been embarrassing. Sad, and all-too predictable for a girl who had been raised without the influence of a male all her life—weepy and needy wasn’t what you hoped to emulate. You wanted to be tough and self-sufficient, just like it appeared Joel had always been.
You wanted to eat, sleep, read and write and cry yourself to sleep whenever you needed it, alone, so long as it meant you wouldn’t have to feel what you had back then, rejected by someone else. That, more than anything, made you realize how dependent you truly were.
This wasn’t working.
After five minutes humping at a pillow like your clit was on fire, you didn’t feel a thing. Well, other than defeat.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” You tugged Joel’s shirt tighter around you, blew out a breath, and leaned back.
Your eyes scanned the room—for what, you weren’t sure.
You’d been in here plenty of times before, whether you were cleaning or doing Joel’s laundry or whatever the case may have been, so your surroundings were familiar: old, five-drawer dresser across the way, stacks of quilts that should’ve been shelved ages ago, little trinkets here and there, a canteen hanging off the side of a ladder back chair, and then a desk, wide and shining and empty.
Finely ground specks of pine littered the surface of it.
This was where Joel did his woodworking. Off to the side, a partway-whittled bucking bronc stood, aloof.
You rose from the bed and walked to it.
Maybe—most likely—you were stupid. Joel had all but told you this to your face. Your fingers were small and helpless, and they couldn’t reach nearly close enough to where you needed them; they didn’t know what to touch.
What if you just…
Your brain didn’t get the chance to finish that thought. Your body acted first, and time sped up as soon as it did.
Before you knew it—and damn, were you so, so stupid—you had a hand on a tool. Vaguely recalling the name, some quarter-inch straight chisel or other, you held it up. Set it down. Shook your head, like this was the single dumbest idea you’d had in your life, then took it again.
You grabbed it and examined the handle briefly.
It was wooden and rounded, maybe three inches in diameter. Five inches long. You hadn’t the faintest idea as to what the appropriate size for a…substitute should be, or what the real deal even looked like, for that matter. All you knew was that man parts were hard, and probably much longer than any one of your fingers. You sat up on the woodworking stool and slid the chisel between the tails of Joel’s worn, buttoned shirt.
You were wet. That was the byproduct of thinking of him and humping a pillow mercilessly, plus brushing your fingers through your folds a few times that morning.
But you were tight, too. As if trying to stick your finger through a concrete wall, your walls wouldn’t budge an inch. If anything, the more you tried it, the more your body started clamming up and shutting anything out. You held the tool upright in your fist, tried sinking down, and, in a too-quick move, damn near slip-n-slided your silly, virginal rear end off the chair and onto the floor. You clamped your legs together and let out a wretched sigh.
“Just…go…inside,” you pleaded helplessly. Missing Joel’s thick, callused fingers and wishing he wasn’t such a dick, you tried thinking of him. Attempted imagining his voice.
“Hey, sweetheart?”
Then the bedroom door flew open.
Your hand released, and immediately, you jumped in place. Out of habit, your palms slammed on the table, like, I have nothing to hide, and you made a pass for the half-finished horse figurine. You grabbed it thoughtlessly.
Right as you flipped the thing upside down, pretending to study the base and looking for anything to fix your gaze on, Joel walked in. His footfalls echoed behind you.
A light touch grazed the nape of your neck.
“Hi, baby.”
“Hi, Daddy.”
It slid out without you thinking, like that was natural.
You tried covering it up as quick as you could anyhow.
Turning to face him, chisel still trapped between your thighs, and wearing nothing but the shirt on your back which also happened to be his, you held your arms out.
For the first time in a week, you smiled at him.
Joel hugged you after you set his latest creation down, and you could feel how surprised he was in that embrace. You hadn’t gone near him in days, and the last things you’d said to him, apart from, ‘No, thanks’ when he’d asked you to tag along on his fishing trip that morning, had been, ‘Whatever’ and ‘Leave me alone.’
You were bratty and full of anger. Who could blame you?
Now you were back to being his pet, or at least behaving like it. Joel seemed to heave the smallest sigh of relief as he stroked your head, kissed the crown of it, and rubbed your back. Told you all about the trout that he’d caught and the bear tracks he found, the sights he wished you’d been there to see and the flowers that he picked for you.
“Sittin’ in a jug in the kitchen if you wanna see ‘em,” Joel said, eyes glittering as he stroked your cheek. He really did seem to miss touching. “Lupines, just like you like.”
You tilted your face away from his fingers, smile tight.
“Thank you, Joel. I appreciate that.”
And, although the words, along with the slight movement away from his touch, were likely more than enough to clue him into the fact that you were still cagey—maybe turn a weaker man away from you, discouraged—Joel just stood straighter. Hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and surveyed the table out in front of you.
“I’ll clean the fish. You sit back, sniff them pretty flowers I picked ya, and afterward, I’ll show you how to whittle. How’s that sound?” The man wore an easy look. Underneath several decades of wrinkles, you could make out an expression that was lighthearted and jovial still.
You had a wood chisel about one inch shy of your pussy.
With that in mind, you shook your head and pressed on:
“I wanna try learnin’ on my own first. That’s what I’ve been doing, sittin’ here and admiring your handiwork.”
Lie.
“Get started in the kitchen, and I’ll be out in a little bit. Wanna try the, um…push-cut technique I read about.”
Whatever that fucking means.
You’d heard Joel mention it maybe once.
In reality, you simply needed an excuse to get him out of your hair so he wouldn’t notice that you weren’t wearing pants underneath that oversized long-sleeve shirt of his.
“Well, shoot, I can show you that right now, sweetie.”
Before you could protest his kindness, Joel bent over you, over the table, and reached for a coffee can full of loose materials. He took what seemed like a regular knife
If looks could kill, the man would’ve dropped on the spot.
Your body sagged a little in your seat, and you crossed your thighs tighter to make sure that the tiny metal-and-wood gadget in between them wouldn’t budge an inch.
Joel held his project up to the light.
“See…whatever you do, you gotta keep a real tight grip on the base. Like this.” He demonstrated by holding the flared bottom of the woodblock. “Wrist is always steady.”
Just shoot you in the head.
Wondering if tetanus might not be a legitimate concern in the event that the rusted chisel nicked your skin, you sat in stiffened silence. You listened to Joel wax poetic on finding the grain, saw how invested he was in sharing all the things he knew about his beloved hobby, and felt his palm fall next to yours on the table. He nudged you playfully, and the warmth of that touch made it hard not to remember. Just a week ago, the two of you together.
Then nothing.
‘This was wrong.’
“Wanna try it out yourself?”
Joel was still standing over you, still smiling, and the look on his face as he held out that mini cottonwood figurine made you want to say yes. You lifted your hand to take it.
Then Joel glanced down, grin stretching wider still.
“Gonna wanna use the quarter-inch straight chisel, hon. Why don’t you take that out from in between your legs and hand it over to me?” he pressed. He didn’t blink.
For a second, your world stood still.
Your breath hitched in your throat.
Meanwhile, Joel’s was flowing easy. He extended his free hand out to you, crooking his fingers in a ‘give it’ motion.
You didn’t think—probably couldn’t have done it anyway. Your eyes were glazed, and your heart was thrumming at at least a hundred beats per minute while you unstuck your legs from the seat. Numbly, you parted your thighs.
You pried the little chisel out of place and held it, shaky.
Joel’s expression above you was bafflingly calm. Like this was an everyday occurrence, he just took the tool that you’d retrieved for him, and then he turned it in his hands. Gave you a once-over that seemed curious.
Amused, even.
“I’m sorry,” you spit out. “It’s…It’s gross, I know. I’m—”
“—not mad at you, darlin’. Ain’t a thing to be sorry for.”
Joel shook his head, and in that low, rasping drawl, you sensed more than just an effort to console. His words were slow, like he was spoon-feeding you honey, and affection bled through every note. He focused on you.
His expression softened even more, if that were possible.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, darlin’. This is my fault.”
You stood.
You didn’t wait for him to tell you not to go, and you moved to leave. More than halfway across the room, you only stopped when he stepped in front of you, hands out.
Pleading with you gently.
“Baby—”
“Stop calling me that!” you snapped, all rancor and heat. “Quit callin’ me sweetheart, and honey, and darlin’, and whatever other name you think’ll make this all OK again.”
You could barely think having him this close to you, but you went on anyway: “Wouldn’t hear one word of that when you left me alone last week. We did what we did, and then you made me feel like I did something wrong!”
Joel’s expression splintered on hearing that. Above you, it was clear that there was a pain behind it—he wanted to reach out and touch you—but he had to control himself. Instead, he swallowed the big lump and shook his head.
“Wasn’t nothin’…nothin’ wrong that you did,” he croaked.
“Was it?” you said, voice cracking in the same way. “Because you haven’t been able to look at me all week, and every time it feels like we might talk, you just leave.”
“‘Cause I was in the wrong. I shouldn’t have done any of those things and…and stolen your innocence from you.”
“But I asked you to!”
“Don’t make no difference. ‘M’too old, and I shouldn’t—”
“—leave me to feel like I’m an idiot!”
“You’re not—”
“Like I’m broken and useless and stupid.”
You probably could’ve talked until you were blue in the face, and Joel’s expression only would’ve grown more distraught. He ran a hand through curls of black and gray and seemed to be making a concerted effort not to let his fingers shake as he did. He faltered in front of you.
He felt for his breast pocket, brows bunching together.
“Baby, you gotta…” He stopped himself shortly. Swallowed like something got stuck in his throat. “Believe me, ain’t none of that true. Wasn’t nothin’ you did—and you shouldn’t feel like you need to be usin’ my woodworking tools, neither…Should be somethin’…real.”
You couldn’t read his expression at the last.
Still, you knew what you hoped it meant.
“So show me,” you said. “Teach me.”
Your voice was weak. His lowered.
“You know why I can’t do that.”
Every spot, scar, and wrinkle gracing those weathered, middle-aged features seemed to harden at once. He wore a stern look, like a father’s, and didn’t budge when you reached out to touch. Just lifted a hand to his chest.
And, sliding something small out of his breast pocket:
“I stopped into town. Got you this.”
A little hand-held mirror.
You took it.
What for?
And you asked him that.
Watched Joel shift from foot to foot as you held it up.
The look in his eyes should have been answer enough. They told you, without prevarication, what this mirror was for. It was up to you to make sense of it yourself.
You took a seat on the bed.
Joel’s bed, big, broad, and soft as a cloud, made for the perfect space to do this. You didn’t have to think about it.
“Like this?” you asked him.
Joel stiffened where he stood. The moment you leaned back and set your heels apart on the bed—facing him directly, with nothing but his shirttails keeping you covered then—he scrubbed a hand down his beard.
He stared no lower than your collarbone.
You sat the mirror between your legs.
“Not here,” Joel said, jaw clenched.
The glass was rounded with a handle.
Perfect for holding it an inch away from—
“Baby,” Joel cut in, a little more choked. “I meant alone.”
“Then go.”
You were tired of feeling spineless—something naïve and meek and incapable of doing things on her own. Guilty as Joel may have felt, it didn’t change the fact that you had needs, same as him. If he didn’t want to see this, so be it.
You lifted the ends of your shirt to take a look at yourself.
The mirror was propped up on the comforter, affording you a near-perfect view of what had made you curious.
She was pretty. Plush. Simple.
You’d never gotten a glimpse at her from an angle like this, but with one look, you realized why the female form had held so many captive for as long as the human race existed. You had power—real, tangible power—inside it.
Joel’s mind seemed to mirror your every thought to a T.
His gaze had tripped from your neck to your shoulders, down your stomach and toward your center. Once it landed on open, dripping folds, it was like they froze him.
Rooting the stubborn, stern, frowning old man into place, your pussy worked like a spell. That knowledge alone was enough to send your muscles pulsing for him.
For yourself, you corrected.
Your pleasure came first.
“Baby…” Joel trailed off.
He stared, and he sulked, right as your middle and ring fingers teased a line up your aching slit. You were so wet that the most featherlight of touches got them soaked.
Joel swallowed again, bracing both hands on his hips.
“Darlin’—”
“What did I say about names, Daddy?” you cut in. You teased him with the D-word at the same time you found your clit, and a ripple of pleasure pulsed through you. “Don’t talk sweet if you’re not gonna treat me like it.”
You surprised yourself with just how steady you spoke. Similarly, Joel seemed to be stunned himself. He took a step forward so that he’d be stood at the foot of the bed.
“‘M’always sweet on you,” he mumbled. “…ain’t I?”
“Maybe when you feel like it,” you countered.
You made a messy circle with your fingers.
Then another, and another, and another. Sensations rose sharp and hot, further heightened by eyes on your body.
“When you need it,” Joel rebutted once more.
His voice was stern. Underneath it, though, a tortured man was trying to claw his way out. Fighting for control.
Losing the battle momentarily, he leaned in.
Hands still on his hips, eyes still glued between your legs, in an act that you would’ve deemed crude were it done just about anywhere else, Joel bent forward and spit.
A glob of saliva landed squarely between your fingers, almost too perfect for you to believe after you’d seen it.
But then you felt it: warm moisture mixing with yours, motions circling faster and faster around that little bud, Joel’s gaze growing even more intent as he watched you.
There was a frown on his face, but he was crumbling.
“Want Daddy to be sweet on you, huh? Is that it?”
The answer he received came in the form of your fingers sliding between your desperate, clenching, needy walls.
One inch.
One measly inch, and then they stopped.
That was all you could fit inside. You whimpered, shrill.
“Daddy, ‘s’too tight. Can’t go any deeper.”
“An’ what did I teach you ‘bout squeezin’? ‘Bout keepin’ her nice an’ wet so the stretch ain’t so painful goin’ in?”
That line of questioning was pointless, clearly.
You were drenched. Your legs were spread, revealing a wet, drooling pussy practically soaking straight through his comforter. The fingers you’d tried to push in wriggled
Joel grabbed the mirror.
“What’s this for?”
With your fingertips otherwise occupied, the man was free to thumb at your clit while holding the mirror to it. Your hips bucked instinctively, and it was like you could hear the arousal trickling out of you. Joel’s eyes slid up.
“Well?”
So this was a review, apparently.
You babbled, “My clit’s for—for makin’ me feel good.”
“An’ where else can you do that?”
“Here.”
Again, your fingers tried to slide in to locate your g-spot, but the effort was fruitless. Your hole was as tight as anything, and you simply didn’t have the grit to get it in.
“Here?”
So Joel did it for you.
With one thick, sure finger, he split your digits apart and entered your pussy pushing in between them. Languidly.
He held the mirror with more force, sawing the finger of his other hand back and forth to coax you open. To no one’s surprise, it was an easier go. Though one of Joel’s was almost as thick as the two of your own, this stretch was good. The pleasure it elicited made your jaw slacken.
And, just as a gasp left your lips, Joel put the mirror down. He reached for the back of your neck and, angling your chin to your chest, made you watch your reflection.
With the mirror resting between your legs, you had a front row seat to see it all: Joel’s finger dragging in and out, a tiny, gaping ‘o’ in its wake, your arousal trailing it.
He’d done this before, but it was your first time watching
You loved it.
You loved how lewd it looked with this big, coarse, liver-spotted hand flexing back and forth, making a finger disappear and reappear outside your pussy over and over again. You relished the sight of your juices trickling down his palm and wrist. You adored the grip at the nape of your neck, how Joel kneeled into the bed and lowered his mouth beside your ear, telling you the filthiest of things while he fingered you. ‘Missed her Daddy, didn’t she?’ and ‘That’s it, open f’me’ made you dizziest.
Then Joel told you to strip down.
Your fingers trembled with the buttons of your shirt—luckily, you’d only done three or four—and you got it off. You shrugged the thing behind you while Joel added a second finger, and you spread your thighs even wider.
It was a tight fit without his tongue to help. Whimpering and whining and murmuring, ‘Daddy, please,’ you made the sting evident, and that was when he started petting your g-spot. At the same time, to your surprise, Joel leaned down and took one of your nipples in his mouth.
The pleasure together was mind-numbing. Joel licked and sucked while his fingers drove in relentlessly; his tongue lapped over that hard, pebbled flesh and smeared the skin all over with saliva. He panted.
“This is…another spot,” he managed raggedly.
Another lick. Another loud, wet pop of his lips.
Your pussy clenched so tight around his fingers you feared you might cut off the circulation, and you moaned
Erogenous zones, Joel muttered against you.
And what a gift it was to be told—shown—where to find your pleasure. To have the doors thrown open wide and nudged inside that special, private place with the help of someone else. Perhaps the act wasn’t so much a loss of control on Joel’s part, but simply that: giving. You hoped he didn’t feel guilty again, and could enjoy this with you.
A minute later, you were watching yourself come undone
Trembling, fluttering, pulsing around Joel’s fingers while he sucked your nipple between his teeth, like he was feasting on you, you were inundated with ecstasy.
A shrill, pleasured shriek starved you breathless. Spit leaked and dribbled down your chin. The sight of your pussy getting stuffed with Joel’s fingers, at the same time he practically tongue-bathed your chest within an inch of his life, drove you wild beyond all understanding.
You pawed at him the second that your orgasm receded.
“M-More, Daddy,” you whimpered, greedy. “Please.”
No making sense of it then: you were desperate.
Beside you, Joel was sucking in deep, shuddering breaths and blinking furiously, as if trying to clear his field of vision or shake his head of some ugly thought.
You touched his chest, and he lurched backward.
He was doing it again.
“Joel—” you tried his name, gentle.
“I—I can’t.” He shook his head. “We gotta stop.”
“But you don’t wanna. You’re just sayin’ that now.”
You were out of breath, panting on the bed, and you realized then with some embarrassment that you were completely naked. Joel was clothed. He started to stand.
The old man had a look on his strained, weathered face like he’d witnessed fifteen wars firsthand. He braced a hand against a bedpost, clenching his jaw, and when your hand reached out to touch him again, he balked.
Groaned.
You must’ve nicked him someplace painful, inadvertently
Glancing down, you saw your hand atop a denim mound.
That hadn’t been your intention. You’d meant to grab at his belt loops and pull him close, help him see that he wouldn’t be doing you wrong, but your palm had landed on his crotch instead. You weren’t sure what this meant, but you couldn’t help but recall the noise he’d made when you straddled him early that morning at Tommy’s place. It sounded eerily familiar—and you really hoped you hadn’t fucked things up and hurt Joel in some way.
“I’m sorry!” you squeaked, yanking your hand back. “I’m— I— I didn’t mean to, I promise. Did I hurt you, Daddy?”
“Go—” Joel swallowed. Turned. “Go to your room, baby.”
Your heart sank.
You’d run him off again.
How many times would it take for this to be enough? When would you not be messing things up so pitifully?
You sniffled at the same time Joel took a step away.
His back was facing you, and his gait was unsteady.
Just as you started to slide off the bed, about to scamper off naked and humiliated, you stopped.
Joel halted where he stood, torso folding in slightly.
“Daddy!” you cried.
Before you knew it, you were in front of him. Hugging him. Trying to fit your arms around that thick, sturdy waist and babbling incoherently, something to the effect of, ‘Are you alright?’ and, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’
Something poked your stomach.
The reason that you weren’t able to fit your wrists around his back, you swiftly realized, was that something was standing at a perpendicular angle from Joel’s lower half.
You pulled back. You stared.
Joel was already hastening to shove the appendage away, but you saw it, clear as day: all of that was him.
He must’ve tugged it out of his jeans in the split-second that he’d been turned, hissing through his teeth and saying some words you were half-certain you weren’t allowed to repeat. Now Joel was fisting the thing, all thick and angry and pink, like it were something bad.
For some reason, the sight made your mouth water.
“Daddy?” And it was more a breath than a question.
Joel’s expression hardened, same as it had earlier—only this time, there was a tinge of pain behind it. He grunted.
“Darlin’,” he said, stern. “This is a grown man problem. Don’t want you havin’ to deal with none of it f’me, OK?”
“But I’m grown, too.”
You said it without thinking.
It was like a primal drive cut in, and your mind spun.
Your fingers trembled by your sides, and when you stole a look at Joel, you saw him eyeing you steadily. Chest rising and falling in shallow breaths and teeth grinding.
“Sweetheart—” he started to warn.
“Can I touch him? Just…just a little.”
Your voice was soft as you asked him.
Your movements were slow as you approached—you didn’t touch until Joel had breathed a fierce sound through his nose and jerked his chin once. Assent.
“One touch an’ you’re done. Y’hear that, honey?”
It was as if he were actively trying to deter you.
And it wouldn’t work—you were reaching out.
Your fingers curled around flesh that was hard and warm, and intrigue blossomed from the tips of your toes to the lips that wanted to grin at the feeling. Your eyes peered down, and you saw it, plain as anything: this…thing in your grip was dense. Long. Veiny. Flushed. And rigid.
It amazed you just how big the flesh could swell, and how hard it had gone underneath your touch. Holding him like you might a length of rope, you couldn’t even reach your middle finger to your thumb—that was how thick he was. You probably should’ve been frightened by the size, but instead, you found yourself admiring him. Ogling one small, shiny pearl of moisture sitting atop the rounded end and feeling your mouth start to water again.
Joel let out another rumbling sound.
He pried you off by your wrist.
“There. You touched ‘im.”
“Daddy’s…penis, right?”
You knew that he’d taught you the word before already; you just liked the way his pupils dilated when you said it.
And, sure enough, Joel’s irises were swallowed up.
His throat bobbed. He put a hand on his zipper.
“Yeah. Now Daddy needs to take care of ‘im.”
He took a load off in the easy chair behind him, collapsing with a sigh. You didn’t follow at first.
You just watched, enrapt, while Joel planted his feet wide on the floor and fisted his length, eyeing you close.
A grown man’s problem.
Not yours. Not now.
“Can’t even stay hard,” Joel said suddenly. Humorless. “Takes me more’n an hour on a good day. That’s why I say it’s a problem for me, not a little thing like yourself.”
That made you bristle.
You stepped closer. “‘Little thing’?”
“You know what I mean. Don’t got nothin’ to do with your bein’ a full adult—which you are—but your experience. Years you got under your belt.” And in a semi-ironic gesture, Joel hooked a thumb through a denim loop and tugged his jeans lower, exposing more of himself to you.
Spit burned in your throat going down. It was the most infuriating thing; knowing your body was just as good and ready as his, but because Joel deemed you little…
You walked to where he was and got on your knees. Kneeling, you saw the man tense and sit up taller.
“That wasn’t no invitation, sweetheart—”
“I want you to treat me like I’m grown.”
And really, that was all you could say.
No amount of pleading eyes or pawing, needy hands, fingers curling into fists and demanding in a shrill voice, ‘Treat me as an equal, Joel’ would ever accomplish what you managed with the uttering of those nine little words.
For the first time, Joel looked like he understood.
Leaning forward, squeezing the base of his length in one hand and cupping your face with the other, he hummed.
“That what you want?” Thumbing at your cheek.
You nodded. You softened under that touch.
“C’mere, baby.”
C’mere.
Come to daddy.
The next thing you felt was a set of lips on yours; Joel kissed you gently. His mouth was warm and soft and tender beyond all comprehension, drawing you to him and tasting you by turns. Heat fluttered low in your belly, and before the rest of your body could even fully respond to it, he was pulling back. His lips shone, red and swollen.
Smiling.
“‘S’what I wanted to do this whole time,” he murmured, sounding a little bit sheepish as he said it. “Should’ve been the first thing I did—that’s how real folks do it.”
Frankly, you were too light-headed to reply.
You nodded airily, jaw hanging slack.
“Now where’s my sweet girl?”
That you could answer without words. So you did.
Letting Joel capture your lips again, setting your hands on either one of his denim-clad thighs and rising off your heels. Kissing him, and feeling the vibrations of a groan.
Hearing him stroke himself faster, then pulling from him.
Gaping.
“Y’know what made him so hard, baby?” Joel asked you, expression going a bit more lax while he rubbed himself. Evidently, whatever he was doing felt good. “Tell Daddy.”
So he was still in teaching mode.
Your spit was practically leaking out in strings at either side of your mouth, but you managed to steel yourself.
“A-Arousal,” you stammered. Swallowing. “Your penis gets big whenever you’re aroused, uh, seein’ something.”
“And what did Daddy see?”
Your face heated.
“Well…”
Joel drew closer, eyes bright and glistening.
“You can tell me, darlin’.”
Another beat.
“Me?”
Very good, baby seemed to shine in every blink of that honeyed gaze, and Joel bent forward to kiss the tip of your nose, then your cheek. You preened under his touch.
“That’s right. You made Daddy so hard,” he murmured.
Trapped between wanting to curl up on Joel’s lap and soak in all his praise and actually hoping to learn another lesson, you let him take the lead. You tilted your chin with the beckoning of his forefinger and thumb, and you squeezed his legs harder, toes curling underneath you.
In his fist, Joel’s length was ruddy-looking and flushed. The little bead of liquid at the tip had grown even bigger, but the sight was fleeting. At the next possible opening, Joel slid his palm up and over that end and stroked it rapidly. He smeared the moisture over his dick and, peering down at you with an almost curious look, widened the spread of his legs. He shifted closer.
“I’m an old man,” he said, a little deflated. Shaking his length near your face. “He don’t…stay hard for very long.”
You swallowed.
You watched Joel continue to pump himself, but it was clear those motions were slowing. His member was beginning to soften in his hold, sagging at the tip.
“Daddy…” you whined. You didn’t like to see him sad.
“Couple kisses from your pretty lips might wake ‘im up, though. Could ya…Could ya do that f’me, hon? Kiss ‘im?”
You didn’t think twice—you treated it just like you did with his mouth before. You bent down and kissed him right on the thick, glistening head, all round and pink.
Joel groaned.
He cursed again.
“That’s it, baby,” he praised you, voice strained.
You were starting to get the sense that certain grunts of pain—or what sounded like them to your ears—were really more bound up in pleasure. Because of this, you went on, quietly, ‘That feel OK, Daddy? That…better?’
“Ten times better,” Joel hissed through his teeth. Releasing his hold on your face to grip the armrest. “That—That’s what Daddy likes. Little game of lollipop, huh?”
You cocked a brow at him.
Joel chuckled, “‘S’what it’s like, right? Lickin’ a lollipop.”
Hearing that, you couldn’t keep your lips from twitching.
Okay. Lollipop.
That made it more fun.
When Joel held his big, still partly flaccid length out to you again, you acted even quicker. You kissed his tip, and then, not needing to map it out, you pressed your lips to the side, the base, someplace near the thatch of black of gray hair by his tummy, peppering pecks. It was a game.
And your old man seemed to be enjoying it thoroughly, as his hips jerked with every other movement of your mouth. You stuck out your tongue and licked a stripe, and you heard a low, prolonged growl peel out of him.
“That’s it, sweetheart. That’s a good fuckin’ girl.”
You licked the warm, gummy flesh again and relished the taste. That texture, frustrating as it may have been for Joel, was tantalizing all the same. You reached up and replaced Joel’s hand with yours, and strangely, you loved the feel of his dick all soft and wormy beneath your fist.
Your old man.
You peered up and met with scars, slightly sagging skin, silver-flecked hairs, a wide, bushy trail that spanned all the way to his navel over a heaping mound of muscle and fat. Joel was thick, and he showed his years through every inch of his body. Words couldn’t begin to describe how much you loved that, and how feral it made you feel.
Parting your lips, about to stick out your tongue to give him another long, wet, and tender lick, Joel stopped you.
He twitched in your palm.
“Baby, how ‘bout you put Daddy’s penis in your mouth?”
He said it so soft—so ragged and broken and wanting, by the sound of it—that you almost froze on the spot. Spit smeared your lips and down your chin, falling in little droplets onto his jeans every now and then, and your mouth hovered over the head of him. Your eyes rounded.
“Like…Like this?” you stammered. Lowering.
You took his tip between your lips; it started out with a kiss, just suckling the edge, but then, swiftly, your mouth opened up around him and stretched. Your jaw ached to accommodate his girth, and with just one inch, you felt the sting of what seemed like ten. You gagged, not used to that sensation, and your head jerked back by instinct.
You expected Joel to be put off—irritated, even.
But when you turned a coy look his way, you were surprised to find his eyes heavy-lidded and glazed. Expression as limp as ever—his member stirring stiffer near your lips and between your fingers, simultaneously—he watched you. He nodded. He sucked in half a breath
And when he spoke again, it was like he really was in pain
“Honey…” Dick swelling nearly to full-size in your fist. Hand moving from the armrest to lay flat on the crown of your head, a little shaky. “Darlin’, I’m—I’m— I can’t last.”
You were about to question that, confused as to how one little suck of your mouth could make him so squirmish all of a sudden, but then Joel’s other hand was moving, too.
This one reached lower.
It shoved his pants and boxers down, almost to the point of the fabric pushing past his thighs, and then you saw it.
More squishy stuff.
It wasn’t…part of Joel’s dick per se but rather sat at the base. Hairy and round and plush in a funny-looking duo.
“Y’know what’s in there, baby?” Joel murmured.
You had no idea. You said as much in a shrug.
That made Joel stiffen more, teeth flashing.
A soft chuckle, “Guess we never got to that part, huh?”
For a second, you were puzzled. In the next, you were being lifted to your feet. You might’ve stumbled, except Joel picked you up and carried you all the way to the bed.
You landed with a soft thud and saw Joel undressing before you’d even regained your bearings. As with most things he did, the man was relatively slow-moving and careful, but there was a grit and a resolve just the same.
He unbuttoned his flannel shirt and didn’t unglue his gaze from you once. He kicked off his boots, toed off his socks, and when he got to his boxers and jeans, he put a hand on one of the closest bedposts and paused, briefly.
“Baby.”
You were lying sprawled out over the bedspread, naked, with Joel standing off to the side, eyes as ravenous and wild as you had ever seen them. At the same time, it looked like the man had just swallowed a cup of nails.
He leaned closer, and you did the same, crawling over.
“Yeah? What is it, Da—”
“We don’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t wanna do, OK?” Joel cut in over you. Cupping your cheek in one hand. “Hell, we can stop this right now. Save your—your, uh, first time for somebody a little more suited to you in—”
Now it was your turn to interject, eyes rolling at him.
“If you say ‘age’ one more goddamn time, Joel…”
And it made you giggle, partly because you weren’t often in the habit of cussing, but also because of the look that was suffusing Joel’s whole face as you said it: the guilt.
You could tell that it was still tearing him up, knowing how that wide, yawning chasm of decades wedged between you two wouldn’t close no matter what he did. Fingers gripping the bedpost like a vise, eyes studying you by turns, and his underwear and pants all but bursting around the strain of his dick, he looked…
“—scared,” you finished presently. Tugging on his jeans. “Isn’t it my job to be freaking out? This thing’s colossal.”
You’d helped him strip completely nude, watching him kick off the fabric at his feet and climb into bed beside you, and there was a granule of truth to what you said.
What were you going to do with it? Would it even fit?
Then Joel was on top; fear dissolved into laughter.
“Hey!” you hissed around short, gasping shrieks.
“That’s a big word,” Joel mused, barely having to move a muscle against your writhing and squirming. “‘Colossal.’”
“You’ve got a big dick.”
“Baby.”
“Sorry. Penis, I mean.”
Above you, Joel had only to shake his head and scrunch his nose—with his length hard and bobbing between your bodies, there was certainly no sense in denying it.
Still pinning you with his weight, he slid you both up the mattress. He nudged your head onto a pillow. Once comfortable, safe, and secure, and only then, did you feel him start to shift. You glanced between your legs.
His shaft was heavy. It stretched all the way from your pubic bone to your belly button and then well past it by an inch or three-and-a-half. Your presence was like a pebble beside a pillar; this walking, talking wall of fur and muscle couldn’t be outstripped by anything, it seemed.
Joel stroked your cheek with his knuckles, at the same time watching moisture from that tip wet your tummy.
“Y’know…” he trailed off, low. “Y’know how this goes?”
You did, sort of.
Your brain flashed back to the noises stifled behind cabin walls; Joel’s fingers plunging in and out of you; tongue dragging circles, telling you it was best to be wet and stretched, to make sure there was plenty of room for it.
Not a quarter-inch straight chisel, a finger, or a tongue.
Not even just the tip.
“All of it goes in?” you asked him, gaze flickering up.
“All of it.”
Joel’s hips canted once forward, then once going back.
Then again, in a sawing motion, as if to show you.
“Daddy goes in…” Another undulation. “…an’ out.”
Over the course of all your time observing Joel, you’d come to realize that the man reverted to modes of teaching when he was worried; concealing his nerves became a game part-detachment, part-pragmatism.
You saw it now as he shifted his hips in demonstration, simulating sex with his length dragging back and forth across your belly. His brow knit, and he held your gaze.
“‘Fore he can…‘fore he can move, or anything, Daddy’s gotta stretch your little hole out for him. Get her ready.”
“Like you did with your fingers?” you supplied helpfully.
Joel winced.
“Well, a—a little like that.” And he paused to consider his words. “Except, uh…Daddy’s gonna stretch you a bit bigger. Tougher. When he goes in for the first time, he might…well, there’s this stretch of skin he might…rip.”
“Rip?” You raised your head off of the pillow, voice taut.
Joel tried talking you down, both literally and figuratively.
“Ain’t that bad, I-I don’t think. You might not even have it. There’s just this thing inside of some women—a little tissue, I s’pose—called a hymen. Might break the first time you have sex, and—and with everything else… stretchin’, y’know, if it hurts, you just talk to me, OK?”
You nodded, “OK.”
Joel lined himself up.
He gripped his length and angled it. Shifted on his knees.
Swiped the head through your folds a couple of times and made you shiver—was this supposed to be painful? You liked him there, and you tried relishing the feeling. Being wet, and sensitive, and spread with your legs wide open to Joel, you felt as vulnerable as you’d ever been.
You wanted to get the hurt over with.
“Put it in,” you urged, soft. “Go on.”
Joel’s lips twitched overhead. A light chuckle rumbled through him, and he continued the languorous strokes.
“Ain’t that simple,” he mumbled back. “It ain’t…polite.”
For what?
You were about to ask him as much, when Joel slid the flushed, leaking head of his dick from just grazing and bumping your slit to tapping directly—poking your clit. Smearing that pearlescent liquid from the little hole at the end to your throbbing bundle of nerves. You gasped.
Pleasure blossomed from that site. Joel tapped the head again—gentle, but insistent—and sparks ignited across your lower half. Your hips jerked, and you let out a whine.
“That’s why, darlin’,” Joel answered your wordless query. He smiled, sliding his dick back and forth between your thighs, over your trembling, glistening mound. “Only polite to knock on the door before he comes inside.”
And if you weren’t almost shaking in fear, you wouldn’t have hesitated to roll your eyes. Told the old, beaming man with his length poised over your pussy he was corny and not funny at all, y’know that? But instead, you just mirrored his grin, all crooked, soft, and indolent, and you leaned in to kiss him. You wrapped legs around his hips.
You trusted him.
Yet another confirmation of it came when Joel cradled the back of your head and kissed you deeper, sweetly, and then dragged his lips from your mouth to either one of your cheeks, your nose, your chin. Peppering kisses.
Trying to distract from what was forthcoming, maybe.
“Just look at me,” Joel murmured, drawing back and meeting your eyes. “Look at Daddy now, alright, baby?”
You did.
You nodded.
Joel pressed his hips forward, and—
“Fuck!” You swore under your breath.
It stung. No side-stepping the pain, the push of Joel’s length a mere quarter-inch inside stretched the rim of your pussy to what felt like maximum capacity. You dug your heels in his ass, and at the same time it felt like that thrust was going to halt where it was, you grit your teeth.
“Keep going. Please,” you begged him.
Joel groaned. His whole body shook.
“Baby, this pussy’s so fuckin’ tight.”
You must’ve felt like a fist to him—whether that was a good thing or a bad thing was yet to be decided, as the man’s mouth fell open, and a string of curses flew out. His hips stuttered, like he couldn’t bear the feeling, and then his hand lifted to stroke your cheek. His thumb trembled down the cusp of your jaw as his throat bobbed
“Oh…oh, honey. Can’t hurt ya, little one,” he said, choked
“You won’t. I want it,” you murmured back.
As if to affirm that statement, your walls clenched around his tip and sucked him deeper. Maybe a half-inch.
Once sheathed almost past his throbbing, leaking head, Joel seemed to grow even more delirious. He opened and closed his mouth, gray stubble shining from the faint lamplight of his woodworking station across the room, and you thought he’d never looked sweeter. Or needier.
You snaked your arms around his neck just as you felt your body begin to leak more moisture down his length. One soft, minuscule squelch where Joel’s most intimate part and yours molded together, mixing juices, and you could almost taste him on your tongue—feel him swelling bigger and harder pointing in toward your belly.
“Right here, Daddy,” you breathed, voice shrill from how badly you wanted him. “Show—Show me where it goes.”
You should’ve known that tapping into Joel’s pedagogical side would’ve stopped him on a dime.
And it did.
He blinked.
Eyes already clouded with lust and need, he swallowed.
“Y-Yeah?” He leaned closer and blanketed your body.
You nodded at him sweetly, spreading your thighs.
“Please, Daddy. Teach me how to be a big girl.”
Your words might as well have knocked him sideways. The man heaved the longest, lowest groan through his teeth, and muscles ticked on both sides of his mouth.
He liked that a lot.
He’d give you exactly what you needed now.
And, in short order, that was what he did—lowering his head, capturing your lips, kissing you sweetly and savoring your taste, he relished you. Pleasured you. Braced his elbows on either side of your head on the pillow and sucked in a breath and then slid in, finally.
“Open for Daddy,” he said, without pretense or pause.
No equivocation to his movements now, he drove deep. Your body followed as if by instinct, blooming around the intrusion and letting him in. It hurt; like you already knew, there was no sense in pretending as if it wouldn’t sting, but Joel was there through every second of it. Caring for you, kissing you, sawing that big, slippery member of his in and telling you, gently, ‘This is where Daddy belongs.’
“In—In my tummy, Daddy. Can feel ‘im in my tummy.”
“Yeah? Show me where.”
Joel’s hand moved under yours, swiftly guided to your stomach. His gaze shone with pride when you started drawing little circles over your belly button, all while his length was plunging in and out of your wet, needy hole.
You felt a bulge under the skin, and he felt it, too. Whatever hymen you had was probably split in half.
“See Daddy there? All up in your guts?”
You did. You whimpered, “Uh-huh.”
Then, somehow, the man sank even deeper—what once felt like it was teasing at your tummy touched your lungs.
Joel let out a strangled sound.
“Feel—Feel Daddy here?”
As soon as you answered yes, Joel rocked his hips forward to make sure he hit that spot again. It made stars fly before your eyes, not unlike the way you’d felt when he was knuckle-deep stroking your g-spot, but you could tell that this place was different, too. Your toes curled in anticipation, and your walls pulsed around him.
You liked it, not only for the feeling, but the meaning of it.
Something more significant lurked under the surface.
“Your cervix,” Joel said, voice thin and near hoarse.
Another stab of his pelvis, and your mind went dizzy with the pleasure—silly as it was, it also scared you, so you hugged Joel’s neck and nodded your head, ‘Cer-vix.’
“You know where…babies come from, right, hon?”
That question stumped you for a second.
Slowly, you shook your head at him.
And, like the time not long ago when you’d told Joel you wanted to be a big girl, this admission seemed to leave a lasting impression, too. Above you, Joel continued to roll his hips in fast, shallow thrusts and stretch your pussy out with it, prodding at your cervix in every movement.
“Well, this—this is what I was gettin’ at, darlin’.”
Another beat. Another thrust and a groan.
Joel had just managed to steel himself when he went on:
“The birds and the bees, I mean. This is…it. This is…”
Making love.
Making…
Joel didn’t even need to finish his thought, but he reached down anyhow. Feeling for the soft, squishy globes attached to the base of himself, between his legs, he ghosted fingertips over them and stifled a grunt.
“In here, ‘s’where a man stores semen. That’s—”
“The stuff that makes babies, right, Daddy?”
The pieces fell into place without him having to say another thing. The jostling of your body underneath him, pussy taking him deep with every stroke, how Joel would grunt and groan and pant in keening desperation, ‘Oh, sweetheart, that’s just what Daddy likes. Keep goin’,’ it only surprised you how long it had taken for you to see it.
Instinct clouded your sense; you said it without thinking:
“Want it in me, Daddy.”
Joel choked.
Oh.
At the same moment, your walls reflexively clenched, and your fingers wound through the dark, sweat-dampened curls at the nape of his neck. Inhaling a whiff of his aftershave and his natural scent, you felt something stir within you. You couldn’t name it.
You couldn’t place that primal need or why you craved him in you, pulsing out however much of that seed his body could give. It was as simple and as insistent as breathing; your pussy enveloped his length from root to tip and gave it a squeeze like your walls were trying to milk him. Joel’s body responded in kind, and he groaned.
“‘M’sorry, Daddy,” you squeaked. “I didn’t mean to.”
“You want Daddy to make a baby in your belly?”
Joel’s mouth was hovering less than an inch away from your own, and the look on his face was that of a man starved. His thrusts slowed. Hard, hot flesh twitched inside you and sank all the way in until you squirmed.
This gruff man, this tough man, this caretaker and wellspring of kindness and warmth. Protection since the day he’d entered your life. And now he was buried to the hilt, hips digging into yours, and he was smoothing a hand over your cheek. Seeming to be waging an internal war, he swallowed and held your hip with his other hand.
“Don’t—Don’t answer that,” he rejoined, hoarse.
“Please, Daddy. Please,” you whimpered back.
In an exploratory move, you reached to lick at his bottom lip. After that, his chin, down the plane of prickly silver stubble and then around his mouth, like you couldn’t get enough of the man. It felt natural; you lifted your hips and raised your eyes to him at the same time, begging.
You didn’t need to ask. Joel didn’t need to speak again.
But after taking a look deep in your eyes and feeling you hug him—tug him in, both between your arms and your thighs—it became readily apparent his resolve was shot.
His hips drew back and rocked forward.
His tip nudged your special spot, and you both groaned.
No further teaching or talking was needed from that point forward; you and Joel seemed both to operate on instinct, with your bodies making all of the requisite decisions to keep moving. Joel slipped his arms under your body and held you tight, pressed himself as near as he could while he drilled you into the bed and pushed you closer and closer to your peak. His length swelled and throbbed, and the whole time through, he couldn’t take his eyes off your face to watch what his movements were doing. Always ‘my girl,’ ‘my darlin’,’ or ‘my sweet, precious baby’ as his pubic bone bumped your clit and he cradled you to him. The bed creaked underneath the weight of each thrust, and before you knew it, your moans were increasing in pitch. Your body tightened.
Joel’s did the same, and with the tight, wet suction of your pussy all but cutting off the circulation to his dick, neither one of you had much say in what followed after—ropes of warmth coated your walls with every pulsation of his length, and euphoria seized you from head to toe.
How long it lasted, or how long Joel remained buried in your aching heat was anyone’s guess. All you knew was that when you re-opened your eyes on recovering from your pleasure, Joel was watching you. Thick, sticky warmth stuffed you to the brim before starting to leak out—and, evidently, your old man loved that feeling, as he couldn’t keep a grin from spreading across his face.
Cheeks glowing, eyes bright, and smile mirroring your own, it was clear he wasn’t going anywhere this time. Joel held you closer, then pressed a kiss to your cheek.
Joel miller fucking you hard while ranting about his day and not realizing that you almost passed out from too much orgasms
────۶ৎ too many times
joel doesn’t realise how many times he’s made you cum. not until you start slippin under.
warnings: smut, rough sex, overstimulation, joel ranting mid-fuck.
ᐟᐟ ⟢ a/n: joel rantin while wreckin you???? pls keep feeding me this good shit. thank you for your servic
ᖭ༏ᖫ
joel doesn’t mean to fuck you dumb. he really don’t. he just comes home pissed, shoulders tight, boots stompin through the front door like the floor insulted him personally.
you ask him how his day was, sweet and soft like you always do, and he just grabs you by the hips like he’s starvin.
“fuckin useless,” he growls, breath hot on your neck as he hauls you onto the bed. “whole crew’s full of dumb fucks—tryna carry steel like it weighs nothin. could feel my back givin out just watchin.”
his belt’s off, pants shoved down, cock already hard and angry red at the tip. you’re soaked just from the sound of his voice, that edge of southern grit makin your thighs press together. he slides in with no warning, thick and deep, and your body gives like it always does—greedy for him.
“ain’t even lunch,” he huffs, settlin his weight over you, slow-rollin his hips like he’s got all the time in the world. “n’ i’m already dealin with shit. got one guy droppin tools, another one disappearin to piss every five minutes. swear to god—jesus, baby, you’re tight.”
you can’t answer. your mouth’s open, eyes flutterin, arms limp above your head. he grabs your wrists, pins ‘em down, starts fuckin you hard—not mean, but rough like he needs it. needs you. each stroke knocks the breath out your lungs, the head of his cock hittin deep enough to make your toes curl.
“y’ain’t even listenin, huh?” he chuckles, breathless, hand comin up to cradle your jaw. “too cockdrunk to care.”
you nod, or try to. don’t even know if it happens. all you know is you’re clenchin again, cryin out as another orgasm tears through you—your fifth? maybe sixth. your thighs tremble, your cunt flutterin round him, wet and swollen and overstimmed. he doesn’t slow. just fucks you through it like he’s still ventin, brows furrowed, sweat drippin onto your chest.
“you takin it so good, baby,” he mutters. “fuck. should come home angry more often.”
you’re barely conscious—floatin somewhere between bliss and blackout, lips glossy, babblin his name. he finally looks at your face, sees your eyes rolled back, sees the tears on your cheeks.
“shit. baby? hey—hey, y’alright?” his voice cracks, rough but soft underneath. “look at me. need you with me, darlin.”
your lips part, breath hitchin, and you manage one tiny, ruined moan: “keep goin…”
and fuck, does he.
ᖭ༏ᖫ
thank you for reading. reblogs & feedback appreciated.
WHATS THAT JOEL FANFIC CALLED WHERE READER IS ON A BEACH SUNBATHING AND RICH OLDER JOEL ASKS TO TAKE SOME PICTURES IN PRIVATE AND IT DERAILS AND THE BOINK ON THE BEACH IN PUBLIC,, IM BEGGING, I CANT FIND IT ANYMORE
I need Tommy Miller in ways that sets feminism back hundreds of years. I’m going absolutely feral over this man and I’m actually physically pained that there’s not nearly enough fics for this rock solid hunk of a man. I feel like I’ve re-read every Tommy Miller fic 5 times now 😮💨 I need more than c r u m b s
saw someone request @gothcsz for a javi version and I had to write it with joel
warnings - smut !!!!
You’d stopped trying to talk to him three orgasms ago.
Joel hadn’t looked up at your face in over twenty minutes—hadn’t asked how you were doing, hadn’t kissed your mouth, hadn’t said your name once. Because he wasn’t talking to you. Not really.
He was talking to her.
And right now, his broad shoulders were wedged between your trembling thighs, his palms holding your hips down firm, and his mouth—his goddamn mouth—was buried between your legs like he was making up for lost time. You’d lost track of how many times he’d made you come. Everything was slick now—your thighs, your stomach, his beard—and you were so overstimulated your legs shook violently every time his tongue slid up your soaked center again.
Joel’s voice was rough and gravelled as he pulled back for half a breath, looking down at your swollen, glistening pussy with something like adoration in his eyes.
“Fuckin’ look at you,” he muttered, not to you—to your cunt, like she was the one answering his prayers. “So goddamn pretty like this. All messy ‘n’ twitchy for me, drippin’ like you need me down here.”
You whined something—his name, maybe—but he didn’t hear it. Or didn’t care.
“Nah, not talkin’ to you, babygirl,” he rasped, dragging two thick fingers through your folds, watching the slick stretch between them. “M’ talkin’ to her. She’s the one beggin’. Look at this mess—fuckin’ soaked.”
He groaned like it pained him to look away, then leaned in again, licking a fat, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, moaning against you like he was tasting something forbidden.
“You make me fuckin’ crazy, you know that?” he murmured against your folds, lips dragging over your inner thigh, beard scratchy and wet. “Pussy this sweet should be illegal. What am I supposed to do, huh? Ignore her when she cries for me?”
You reached down, tried to tug on his hair, tried to pull him up toward your mouth—but he just growled and shoved your hand away.
“Uh-uh. You don’t get my mouth, baby. She does.”
And with that, he dove back in, tongue circling your clit with maddening precision, fingers thrusting into you with wet, obscene sounds, your body arching off the bed as the next orgasm built too fast, too sharp—
“She wants it,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I can feel her. Clenchin’ around me like she knows she belongs to me.”
You were crying now—shaking, begging, and he still wasn’t looking at you.
“Goddamn,” he muttered again, almost reverent. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty, baby. So fuckin’ messy. And all mine.”
cws/tags: so much angst (w/ happy ending! i swear), discussion of suicide attempt (the canon one), suicidal ideations, losing a child, losing a parent, survivors guilt, discussions of abortion, unplanned pregnancy, p in v, oral sex, virginity loss (but it's not that big of deal/not a kink), both dealing w grief, ellie is dead, this is set in jackson post tlou pt I
summary: joel is put on suicide watch after he returns to jackson w/o ellie and reader becomes his 'caregiver' of sorts. lowkey enemies to lovers but also not bc it's kinda one-sided 'hatred'
a/n: author is pro-choice! and also understands the complexities of mental health that reader and joel do not at times (just wanted to make it clear that i understand... from personal experience... what depression is like as well as suicidal ideation).
title is from the song 'the suburbs' by arcade fire, but listen to the entirety of the suburbs (album) and funeral (album) if you want to understand my mindframe while writing this
the last sentence is a quote and i've reblogged it before but i'll find the image and post it/reblog it again
wc: 9.4k
masterlist | ko-fi | taglist
Joel is just surprised Tommy has the gall to ask, “Where’s Ellie?” when he arrives in Jackson alone.
In this world, when two people leave and only one comes back, you don’t ask because you already know what happened. You wait for that person to tell you about a miracle, and when they don’t, you know for sure.
“Heaven, if you believe in that sort of thing,” is Joel’s response.
But Joel doesn’t believe in Heaven or Hell, or anything other than ashes and dirt.
“I don’t know what to say,” Tommy says because he’d already said ‘I’m sorry’ when Sarah died, and that didn’t bring her back.
It takes a hefty amount of booze to get Joel to tell the story.
“I just hope she died for something. Then, at least, I’ll know I’m being selfish.”
I didn’t get that with Sarah, he thinks. She didn’t die for a ‘noble cause’. He doubts Ellie did either.
“You’re being put on watch,” Maria tells him the next morning – when he’s sober and asking what his duties are now that he’s back.
Life goes on, which means work goes on, so what’s my job? As long as it’s not burning bodies, I’ll be okay.
“Watch? Like I’m watching, or I’m being watched.”
“Being watched.”
He asks why, though he doesn’t need to. Tommy knows why he’s got that scar on his forehead.
“Fucking authoritarian bullshit,” he mutters, half into his pillow. “Thought you were a communist.”
“I am. And this has nothing to do with that.”
“I bet Tommy put you up to it anyway.”
“He didn’t ‘put me up to anything’.”
“But he told you, didn’t he?”
“He told me a long time ago.”
“Figures. You always knew I was a coward.”
“You say stuff like that, and then act like you don’t need help.”
“I didn’t say I don’t need help. I said I don’t want it.”
She’s silent, letting him continue. “Now let me grieve in peace, will you?”
She hums something akin to agreement, but asks for something that sounds like protest to him. “Where’s your gun?”
“Which one?”
“All of ‘em.”
He tells her because he doesn’t want Tommy or anyone else searching through all his bullshit because that’s what happens if he doesn’t give ‘em up.
“Want my kitchen knives too?” he says, almost wryly.
She takes most of them, but leaves the more blunt ones out of sympathy. He can have butter on his toast. Unless she takes the toaster so he can’t take it with him in the bathtub.
She leaves the toaster, and then, leaves him alone.
Quite frankly, he’s too old to kill himself. Sure, people do it at his age, but he’s so goddamn tired. Moreover, he knows he could get someone else to do it pretty easily. Maybe he could be a martyr. He could save someone from a clicker or a soldier. He could save someone’s life for once. But would that be enough to save his soul? To make it to Heaven and see Ellie and Sarah again?
Maybe, he would, if God really does love people the way some say he does. But if Joel was God, he’d deny himself entry.
He stays in bed for the rest of the day. Aside from the two times he eats. And once in the middle of the night to take a piss because he may be depressed, but the last of his dignity is motivation enough not to wet the bed.
He doesn’t shower or change his clothes. Not like he’s wearing a shirt anyway, just boxers ‘cause it’s too hot outside and he doesn’t want to get up and turn on the fan. Sleep doesn’t come easy, but it comes. It comes because it has to, reluctant as it is.
He wakes up to the voice of an unfamiliar woman. Quieter than Ellie or Sarah, less stern than Maria or Tess. Not like he was expecting to hear from three out of four of those women, not outside of his dreams.
You’ve always cared about people, saving lives and all that. But you’re no good with a gun, so Tommy finds a better job than patrol for you.
“You’re going to be watching my brother, Joel.”
“Like, spying on him?”
“No, like making sure he doesn’t kill himself.”
A suicidal man is nothing new, especially in this world, but Tommy’s bluntness about it is. He acts as if it’s a normal job. Like the ones in office buildings that sound wonderful even though the people who tell you about them assure you it was barely better than life is now. This new watchmen position is the same as patrol, in a way. Terrifying in the gravity it holds. You have to keep someone alive.
You can shoot deer, you can run quickly, you can hide well. You can survive on your own. But, at age 10, your mom bled out as you sat by her side. You were too weak to carry her, to dig a grave and bury her. Your survival feels unearned, but you’re no good with guns. You’d miss if you tried to do it. That’s a rare thought anyway, and surely not one you plan to ever speak aloud. They’d put you on watch too, which sounds suffocating, in all honesty.
You don’t know Joel. You’ve heard his name in passing, but you arrived in Jackson during the period of time he was gone. He was going to take some girl to some hospital for something or other.
“What about that girl?” you ask. “Is she not taking care of him?”
“She’s not around anymore.”
“Oh,” you say.
He just nods. The ‘why’ of the whole arrangement makes sense, but you’re still unclear on the ‘how’. Am I just supposed to stay in his house 24/7? Is he allowed to shower on his own? Do I have to cook or do laundry?
“Just check in on him. He’s not the most… personable, but don’t take anything he says to heart.”
Just check in on him. It sounds simpler than it will be, you know that much. Even keeping a plant alive takes more than ‘checking in on it’.
You arrive at his house around 10 AM. You assume he’ll be awake, but when you look around his living room and kitchen, you can’t find him. Oh God, you think. What if he’s…
He’s asleep in bed. You’re pretty sure. He’s lying there and there’s no evidence that anything’s wrong, but when you say his name from the doorway, he doesn’t move. So, you walk closer to him, just to make sure he’s breathing.
“Joel,” you say softly – because your other option is reaching out to touch him, and you feel that’s a little too personal, especially when he’s not wearing a shirt.
“Who the Hell are you and how did you get into my house?” he says.
“Tommy sent me.”
“Oh, so they’re making you watch me?”
“Yeah.”
You’re glad he knows about the arrangement. Maybe he’ll give you some direction on what to do with him.
“Must hate you if they stuck you with me.”
You can’t tell if he’s being ironic, but you hope so. Still, you don’t know how to respond. You decide on a simple, “I’ll let you get some sleep. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”
Though you’re alone in the room, you sit with perfect posture on Joel’s couch, looking around at the decor – or lack thereof – looking for clues about who this man is.
You think about making him breakfast, but you’d have to raid his cabinets to do so, and you’re terrified to make any missteps when it comes to Joel. You don’t think he’ll kill himself over burnt toast, but there is a persistent need lodged inside your brain to make him like you. It’s a little selfish when you should be focused on just keeping him alive, but maybe if he likes you, he’ll feel better, maybe you’ll feel better too. That’s still nothing but the ever-lingering hope in your heart. But it’s something.
He comes downstairs eventually, in a t-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms.
“Good morning,” you say.
“No, it ain’t,” he says, heading in the direction of the kitchen.
“Do you want me to help you with anything? Breakfast or coffee?”
“I can make my own damn coffee, kid.”
And he does. The first shred of kindness you get from him is an offer to pour you a cup.
“I’m alright, but thank you.”
He sits down in a chair across from you and sips his coffee as you watch him awkwardly.
“Are you really gonna do that all day?”
“Do what?”
“Sit there and stare at me.”
“I don’t know what else to do.”
“You could leave, for starters.”
“I’ll get in trouble.”
“What? You afraid Tommy’ll get upset with you?”
“A little.”
“He’s a softie. I wouldn’t worry too much.”
You are worried. Sure, you want Tommy to be happy with you, but moreover, you don’t want to leave Joel alone lest something happen to him. You might not know the guy very well, but you’d hate to see someone take their own life.
“Can I just stay here? I promise I’ll leave you alone.”
He shrugs, and you take it as a yes.
He does not need a caregiver or a watchman. He does not need you, but you look like a kicked puppy and there’s no way he’ll force you to leave. Another young girl he’ll reluctantly let stick by his side. It’s almost cruel of Tommy to send someone like you. Someone young and full of life. Someone he has a hard time pushing away.
He should’ve sent Joel a crotchety old bitch or a drill sergeant. Maybe Tommy thinks he’s doing Joel a favor by giving him a nice girl, polite and eager to please. It’s a good thing your chipper attitude irritates him. It’s the first item on the very small list of qualities that Joel dislikes.
At first, he insists on making his own food. You’re still a guest, even if he’s reluctant to have you as one. It doesn’t matter where he lives, he’ll always have been raised in Texas. He’ll always hear his mother calling him out on his lack of manners. His hospitality is force of habit.
Plus, if he lets you do anything for him, he’ll owe you something – at least in his mind. And he doesn’t want to owe anyone anything. He doesn’t want to give or get or build any kind of rapport with you whatsoever, especially since you seem to take all attention as progress, despite the fact that Joel is harsh with you most of the time.
The whole ordeal makes him feel like more of a failure than he did before. He couldn’t save Ellie, or Sarah for that matter, and now he’s being forced into his own retirement or held hostage depending on how you look at it, so he can’t even get the satisfaction that productivity brings.
He also finds himself pretty fucking bored without work. He became so used to being in constant battle, even in his sleep. One wrong move and he was dead. The worst injury he’s gotten in the past few weeks was a paper cut.
Reading was never his biggest hobby, but it’s not bad when you find the right book. Often, you’ll sit across the room from him and read a book of your own, and the silence as he relaxes into the couch is quite peaceful for a change.
No amount of peace and quiet can cure his boredom, though. It makes him antsy, and you notice. You notice a lot when your job is just staring at him, it seems.
“I found a book of crossword puzzles,” you announce.
“Congratulations,” Joel says.
“I thought since you were bored, I’d give them to you, and maybe you could do them…”
By the look on your face, he can guess that you’re regretting your words. Lest he make you cry, he accepts the book.
“Plus, it looks kind of old so I don’t know if I’d know how to do it myself,” you add.
He knows you don’t mean it as an insult, but it sounds like one, and it makes him laugh. The list of qualities Joel likes about you is already long — and buried deep in his subconscious — but he’ll have to add the fact that you can make him laugh.
“Are you calling me old?”
“Not in a bad way. You’re just older than I am.”
He flips through the book and finds that about 80% of them are done.
“Somebody did most of these already.”
“I’m sorry… maybe I could erase that person’s answers and then you could do them?”
“I think I’d still be able to tell.”
You hang your head in defeat.
“Gimme a pencil and I’ll try the ones that aren’t done yet.”
You look through his junk drawer, find a pencil, and hand it to him. He doesn’t expect you to sit on the couch next to him.
“I know you’re supposed to watch me, but you don’t have to watch that closely.”
You move away slightly, no longer looking over his shoulder.
“I was just curious about the answers.”
“I was kidding around,” he says (though, it’s only a half-truth). “Come back here.”
It takes him about a week to finish the book.
“Had to go back and fix some of the others,” he says. “The person who originally filled ‘em out was an idiot.”
“That’s not very nice. Maybe it was a kid.”
“Kid had great handwriting, then.”
You pause, hesitating for a reason he can’t pinpoint.
“What? You want me to say sorry for calling that guy an idiot. ‘Cause I will if it matters that much to you.”
“No, no, fuck that guy, he was an idiot,” you say, clearly taking after him.
“Language, Missy,” he says, jokingly scolding you.
“Sorry. I should stop swearing.”
“It’s okay. You probably picked it up from me anyway.”
“Maybe,” you agree. You’re fidgeting, holding something behind your back, he notices.
“Whatcha got there?”
“Oh, it’s nothing, really,” you say, holding it out to him. “I just figured since you finished the crossword book, I should get you more.”
He only did the crosswords for you. He never really cared for them anyway. He just wanted to make you happy — he’d rather have you content than pissy or whiny. The only thing worse than your constant insistence on getting his approval would be if you just sat there and cried all day.
He’d tried to give the book back to you, but you couldn’t do ‘em on your own since you were lacking in 90s pop culture knowledge. So, he did them, with you watching over his shoulder the whole time.
He’s about to admit this to you and hand the new one back over to you when he looks at the pages – white paper, stapled together, all drawn up in pen.
“Did you make these?” he asks, in awe of both your ability to draw perfectly straight lines, and moreover, how much you must care if you’re willing to go to these lengths. Kiss-ass behavior, he tells himself.
You nod, and he gets the sudden urge to hug you, but opts for a thank you with a smile he can’t repress.
“You didn’t have to do all this, but it’s very sweet of you.”
He considers taking back the ‘very sweet’ comment when he finds that 3 down is four letters with the prompt “grumpy old man”. JOEL fits perfectly in the blank spaces.
You go on walks, read endless books, and Joel finally lets you start taking on some of the housework. It should be nice, but you get the feeling he’s not all that happy about this situation. Not that he tells you it outright. He doesn’t tell you much at all. And you’ve tried. It’s not like you’re asking hard-hitting questions.
“How old are you?”
“56.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue.”
He doesn’t even bother to ask the same question back to you. Sometimes, he doesn’t even look up at you when you speak to him. You know it’s the depression of losing someone close to you, you know what that feels like – the problem is, you don’t know how to fix it. You only know how to hide it.
It’s quite simple, in theory. All you have to do is give him the desire to get out of bed every day. But you don’t even know what he likes. All you know is that your presence is not high on his list of favorite things. You try and try until you swear his shitty attitude is rubbing off on you.
Tommy checks in with you periodically, asking you how things are going with Joel, and this would be the perfect opportunity for you to get out of this position, which Joel would probably love, but to spite him, you tell Tommy it’s going well.
And it is, in a way – Joel is not actively mean to you. He doesn’t insult you or argue with you, he just mostly ignores you. So, you figure if you ignore him, maybe he’ll miss your attention. Stupid teenage bullshit mindset, acting like you have a crush on him, playing some sort of push and pull game that he’s not even privy to.
But that’s not like you. That brooding behavior is all Joel, so it lasts no more than a day or so until you go back to trying, and accept the fact that he’s just an asshole. Doesn’t mean you have to be one.
You never expected to win him over with the crossword puzzles but you see the look in his eyes when you give him the homemade ones, and you know there’s something in there besides all that pain. You know that look, can’t put a name to it, all you know is that it’s a good sign, one you had yet to see from Joel.
Joel wouldn’t have thought he’d get tired of hearing someone ask, “can I do anything for you?”, constantly begging to dote on him, to care for him. The last time someone did this for him was on Father’s Day, which is an ancient holiday now, almost mythical.
But it’s been weeks of the same old shit. It has nothing to do with you. In fact, you’re probably the best ‘caregiver’ he could’ve gotten stuck with. Thing is, though, he doesn’t want a caregiver, and he’s tired of said caregiver bombarding him. It’s enough to just have her watching him like a hawk, but yapping in his ear is another thing. Because he enjoys the quiet (and because the way you ask him questions reminds him of Ellie.)
It’s a joke, a stupid joke. It’s his patience wearing thin.
“Can I get you anything?” you ask.
“Sure. A beer, maybe. And a fuckin’ blowjob,” he mutters. Yeah, that’d be the dream but it’s a joke, bordering on a jab at you.
“I don’t think we have any beer,” you say. You both know damn well there’s no alcohol in the house.
“I know.”
“And, as for the other thing- is that something that you’d want… me to do?”
“Hey,” his tone softens. “Sweetheart, it was a joke. I was messing with you.”
“Okay, so you don’t want that, correct?”
“It was a joke. I’m sorry I even said it.”
“Don’t be sorry,” you say, sheepishly. “It’s your house, your rules, right?”
The concept of free speech in his house was one he’d brought up regarding ‘swear words’— It’s his house so he’s allowed to say ‘fuck’, ‘shit’, ‘bitch’, and every other word he could come up with, and he came up with some deep cuts just to make you laugh. Admittedly, it’s a nice sound.
“Yeah.” He thinks for a moment. “I just think that these sorts of topics aren’t appropriate for someone…”
“You know I’m an adult, right, Joel?”
“Yes, I know, but you’re still young and you seem a little innocent. I don’t want to put those types of thoughts in your head.”
“I know what a blowjob is, and I know what sex is. I just haven’t found the right person yet. That doesn’t mean I’ve never thought about it or whatever.”
You rarely snap at him, so he knows that word — innocent — must’ve been more offensive than he’d meant it. Maybe you’re not innocent. Maybe you’re just kind and a hell of a lot younger than him. Maybe it just seems like you should be.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just saying that I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
“But do you want it?” You punctuate every word with a newfound annoyance.
“It’s not about that.”
“Yes it is.” You’re quite incredulous for someone who has been presented with the idea only a moment ago.
“Fine. Yes, in theory, if we were just two people who know each other, then, sure, if you offered, I’d say yes.”
“I offered.”
The way he calls you ‘sweetheart’ feels more like an insult than a term of endearment. You’d rather be ‘kid’ or nothing at all, anything less patronizing. It’s worse when he calls you innocent. You’re not innocent, you’re just nice — something that Joel is not. You’re painfully nice. You’ve heard it makes people like you. You’re still waiting on the results, though.
But, if he’d ordered you to suck him off, you’d have kneed him in the balls, and he would’ve thought twice about calling you ‘sweetheart’. The thing is, he doesn’t. Instead, he backs away from the opportunity, tells you it was a joke.
But you see two things behind his eyes: one, he wants this. He might not want to want this, but he does. More importantly, you see his genuine concern for your well-being override this desire and you realize you feel safer around him than you do around most men. That’s one of the reasons that you do give him ‘a fuckin’ blowjob’. The other being that, sometimes, before you go to bed, you can’t sleep, and a certain man comes to mind as your fingers slip beneath the waistband of your panties.
When you reiterate that you offered, you exchange a long stare wherein you try to reach into each other’s souls and sort this shit out but when you both realize you can’t, Joel says, “Okay.”
And you say, “Okay.”
A new kind of tension bubbles to the surface as Joel sits down on the couch and you kneel before him.
You fiddle with his belt, eventually managing to get it undone, but Joel does the rest of the work it takes to get his pants down to his ankles, boxers too.
You’d imagined he’d be big, but that’s how fantasies work. Every man’s dick is big in your lewd daydreams, but it’s like you manifested it with Joel. You begin to feel like you’re in over your head, and though you aren’t innocent, you aren’t experienced enough to take him. But who are you to back down from a challenge?
Joel can see hesitation wash over your face for the first time. You pause, study the scene like you’re trying to decide your approach, and then you take his cock in your hand, looking up at him like you’re asking for the green light.
He gives you the go-ahead with the only piece of advice he thinks you’ll need. “Just don’t bite, and you’ll do fine.”
He probably should’ve mentioned another thing: don’t take too much at once or you’ll choke. His head lolls back and his eyes fall closed the moment your lips meet the tip of it. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t want you to feel intimidated by his presence while you’re exploring, so to speak. He lets out a low groan of approval to let you know he’s still with you.
But he’s fading into a beautiful oblivion until he hears you gag, feels you sputter and it shocks him out of that blissful feeling. His eyes snap open and he cradles the back of your head.
“Easy, easy,” he says. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
You pull away briefly and catch your breath.
“That’s good,” he says. “Breathe, baby.”
He can see you looking for instructions, so he takes your hand and helps you get a firm grip on his cock, sliding your hand up and down, and finally letting you do it on your own.
“Doin’ good, baby,” he says. “You gotta give your mouth a break sometimes.”
You’ve never gotten anything close to praise from Joel before. It’d warm your heart like nothing else if it weren’t so goddamn sexy in this context.
You nod, wipe the spit from your chin, and give your mouth a brief break, but you can’t hold yourself back forever. Soon, your lips are back on his cock, kissing from the base to the tip, flicking your tongue over the head, seeing what reactions you can get from him.
When you get into the rhythm of hand and mouth in tandem, you barely register him telling you that he’s gonna come.
You imagine it’s an acquired taste but it’s not awful. You can swallow it. So, you do, and you look up at him with a smile.
He looks like he’s woken up from a dream and he’s still getting his bearings straight, but he’s quick to stand up and take your hand.
“Where are we going?”
“To my bed.”
You’d follow him anywhere but bed does sound good to you right now. It sounds like an adventure. You don’t go into his bedroom unless absolutely necessary. You’d think he was hiding something horrible in there if you didn’t have a mutual feeling regarding your own bedroom.
“Are we going to have sex?” you ask.
“No,” he says.
“Then, what are we going to do?”
“You,” he begins. “Are going to lie back and relax.”
He coaxes you to lie down, and he doesn’t have to try hard.
“I,” he continues. “Am going to make you feel good.”
You’re fairly certain about what he means, so there’s nothing left for you to do but let him do the work. It’s just another part of the job you’ll have to learn from experience.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says.
You nod.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Let’s get you out of these clothes,” he says, playing with the hem of your t-shirt.
“Wait-” you say, sitting up, and he withdraws. “Can we kiss… first?”
He looks surprised for a moment, and you worry you’ve fucked up.
“I just feel like we should do that,” you say, much quieter.
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess that makes sense.”
His hand cups your cheek and he looks you in the eyes like he’s trying to find answers somewhere in there.
“Has anyone ever kissed you before?”
“Not really, not the way I want you to kiss me.”
“Feels a bit rude of me to have put my dick in your mouth before you’d even been kissed.”
Still, he leans in and kisses you, but it’s soft, gentle. It’s not a peck on the lips, though, it’s more. It gradually gains momentum and passion. Eventually, he slips his tongue in your mouth and you take it in stride.
“You’re very good at this,” he says. “If I didn’t know any better, I wouldn’t think this was your first time.”
“Is that a compliment?” you ask, doubting Joel is capable of such things.
He ignores your question, and sighs. You know it’s not directed at you because you’re fairly sure he’s not listening.
“I know I said I was gonna do some things with you, but I don’t wanna take things too fast, okay?”
“Are you saying you’re just going to kiss me?”
“I think that’d be the right thing to do.”
“That’s not fair,” you whine.
You wish you could sound sexy, or whatever, but you probably come off like a bratty child.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s not fair. You said you’d make me feel good. I thought you were gonna return the favor.”
“I was.”
“Then, why are you backing out?”
You’re shocked that he’s the pussy — pun-intended — in this scenario.
“I thought it might be too much for you.”
You grab his hand and slip it under the flimsy fabric of your shorts.
His eyes go wide.
Fucking hell, you’re wet, is the only thought on Joel’s mind. It makes sense. He’d be offended, maybe even worried if you were dry as a desert down there, but he’s barely touched you. Either you really enjoyed kissing him or you actually liked sucking him off too.
He gently presses the pads of his fingers against the wet spot on your panties.
“You’re right, baby. It’s only fair if I help you out.”
He’s able to get your shorts and your panties down in one swift pull. You look impressed by the action. Just you wait, he thinks. He’s not an expert by any means, but it’s not too hard to learn if you pay attention — and sex is one of the only times Joel does listen — it’s also not a skill you lose over time. It’s muscle memory, or maybe it’s innate.
His thumb rubs your clit lazily as he watches your face scrunch up in pleasure, your eyes fill with need. When the first finger slips inside you, he hears a breathy sigh come from above — it sounds like relief though he knows you haven’t come yet.
He’s never had a woman have such a strong reaction to his lips on her clit. It almost startles him at first. You’re frantic from the moment his lips meet your skin, crying out for him like you’re scared he’ll stop.
“Hey,” he says, “I’m right here. Don’t have to get so worked up. I’m gonna take care of you.”
He can’t say another word because his lips are occupied, so he relies on his hands, his soothing touch, to tell you that everything is alright. He gets the urge to tell you how good you are for him, how good you taste, how pretty you are like this, but he knows it’d be cruel to let up now. He’s callous often, sometimes harsh, but rarely cruel.
His instinct tells him to drag this out, to make your thighs shake, to have tears running down your cheeks, to tease you. To be the asshole that he tends to be when you’re around (and when you’re not). This is a version of Joel you might come to like.
He’s lived long enough to be well-practiced in this field of life. Doesn’t matter if he’s particularly romantic or even sociable, it’s just happened enough times over the course of fifty plus years for him to know the ins and outs. He can get you there quickly and lead you through it slowly.
He’s so used to you saying his name in a tone he considers pestering that he’s begun to hate the word itself. But when it’s drawn out and desperate like this, it sounds wonderful.
You’re at his mercy, he thinks. Which means he’s in control. And, as much as he’d hate to admit it, control does not mean he can kill you, control means he can care for you.
When you come down from your high, Joel is looking up at you from between your thighs with messy hair and kiss-dark lips. His smile looks like one of pride. Your cheeks heat up, only half-remembering what just happened. You could describe the event simply in a cause and effect relationship — he went down on you, so you came. You know what an orgasm feels like, but that was something beyond anything you’d ever experienced before. You fear an addiction may be coming on.
Your voice comes out shaky, which only makes your first words after a long silence sound stupider. “Thank you.”
He looks confused, and it takes him a moment to respond. “My pleasure,” he says, and you swear it might be when you see a semi through his sweatpants.
You’d offer more ‘help’ but you truly don’t think you can manage it. You can feel your body pulling you towards sleep. Your eyes have barely opened and they want to close again.
Joel notices because how could he not, you’re completely naked in every sense of the word.
“Get some rest,” he says before standing up.
He’s leaving.
“Where are you going?” you ask, instinctively.
“Downstairs.”
You do not want to say it. The fear of rejection is too strong, but so is the sudden urge to cry. Holding back tears is a strength of yours, though, so Joel never sees them. Somehow, after doing one of the most adult things, you feel like a baby in the wake of it. You are supposed to be taking care of him, and you are failing.
“What?” is his response to your refusal to meet his eyes.
“I just assumed you were going to stay. That’s all.”
“I can. If that’s what you need me to do.”
You don’t say anything. He climbs into bed anyway after picking up your underwear and handing it to you.
He doesn’t hold you but he doesn’t leave either. What he does do is kiss you on the forehead when he thinks you’re already asleep. It’s a compromise between your fear and your desire.
It isn’t as weird as one might think it would be — acting as if you’ve never done anything remotely sexual with one another. It’s easier because you don’t have to go back to being friends. You never really were. It was always awkward. What’s new? Only your knowledge that at least some of your feelings are mutual. Only the fact that you think about having sex with him every time he’s in front of you. It’s really just out of curiosity sometimes. What would he be like in bed? Does he want it too? How would you even broach the subject?
Sometimes, it’s not just curiosity. Those days are harder to navigate. You have to pretend like every little touch — most of them accidental — fuels the fire. It’s not the sensation itself. It’s just the acute awareness of his body, how close it is to yours, how easily you could reach out and touch him, that enters your mind.
“You’re staring.” Joel says from the other side of the couch.
“Sorry. I zoned out.”
“Got something’ on your mind?”
“Not really.”
“C’mon, what is it?”
“Why do you suddenly care about my thoughts?” About me.
“You think I didn’t care about you before? You’ve been in my house everyday for months now.”
“So?”
“And, I haven’t tried to kick you out yet.”
“You’re not allowed to kick me out. That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Okay. How ‘bout this: I’m down here sitting with you because I know you don’t like to be alone.”
“So you pity me?”
“No, if I pitied you, I’d have told Tommy to give you a new job.”
“Okay, so, you expect me to believe you care but you refuse to talk to me half the time.”
“I’m not much of a talker. But, now that I’m trying to talk to you, you’re shutting me out.”
“I’m not— It’s just not a big deal. I don’t even remember what I was thinking about anyway.”
“Bullshit.”
“What?”
“I said, that’s bullshit.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll talk.”
You take a deep breath before speaking, one long enough that he gestures for you to go on.
“I was just thinking about what it would be like if we had sex.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, since we, you know, we did that stuff… it’s not like it’s a totally crazy thought.”
“‘That stuff’? Be more specific, honey.”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“I do, but you can’t be thinking about having sex with me when you can’t even use big girl words when you’re talking about it.”
“It doesn’t even matter.” Your face is burning. It so, totally, does matter. “I was just curious.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Mm-hmm. Go on thinking, I’ll get back to reading.”
“Wait, what? You just made me tell you that to make me embarrassed? You’re not even gonna—”
“What? Gonna fuck you?”
The word slips out of his mouth so easily.
“I don’t know, maybe.”
“Well, I’m not.”
Truth is: he’s been thinking about you every day since. He only caught you staring because he was doing the same. He tries to restrain himself because it feels like the right thing to do.
But he still, he acquiesces and takes you upstairs to his bedroom.
He lays you down on the bed and undresses you slowly like you’re a gift and he doesn’t want to tear the paper. He places your clothes atop the dresser, but leaves his strewn across the floor.
Wonder fills your eyes as he reveals his naked body. Hesitation and awe wrapped up in one.
“Wow,” you say, breaking the silence, “it’s, um, you know— do you think it’ll fit?”
It’s not the first time he’s heard that. It no longer brings him that bashful pride that it did when he was younger. It’s just a fact. A nuisance sometimes.
“Not if we don’t get you ready first.”
“Do you need to get ready first too?”
He looks down at his cock, rock-hard and eager.
“No, baby, just looking at you is enough to get me ready.”
A thought crosses his mind — one he thought he’d left in his teenage years — what if he comes too quickly?
He lies back on the bed next to you and reaches for you, waits for you to let him maneuver you.
“Come here,” he says.
You sit up and face him, slowly inch towards his arms that beckon you.
You’re fairly sure you know what he wants you to do. Sit on his face. But god, something about it seems awkward in the amount of control you simultaneously give up and are given in turn.
“You trust me, right?” he asks.
“Of course.”
An answer you wouldn’t have ever thought you’d give back when you first met.
“Then, come sit on my face.”
You swing your leg over him and steady yourself above his face.
He grips your thighs to guide you. You grip the headboard to save yourself from passing out the moment Joel’s mouth meets your skin.
Joel wouldn’t be the man you’d have thought would have such a talented tongue based on how little he uses it. You can’t blame him for not talking right now. Your moans echo off his bedroom walls and permeate the balmy summer air. The windows are closed and the curtains shield your naked bodies from the neighbors but even if you’d left them open, you wouldn’t have the sense to care.
You’re an incoherent mess of moans and half-words, trembling thighs and sweat. Your orgasm comes on strong, and if your eyes weren’t screwed shut, maybe you’d see the gates of heaven.
It’s been a while since he’s done this. Tess never liked it like this and the last woman before her was one from another lifetime, pre-outbreak, an inconceivable world despite having once called it home.
He’s not really thinking about that, though, in this moment, all Joel can think of is you. Your skin, your sweat, your heat, and the pretty noises you make. At one point, he swears he hears his name though your thighs are covering his ears. And he doesn’t mind it one bit.
“I’m gonna pass out,” he hears from above him.
“No, you’re not. I’ve got you,” he tries to say, though surely his words are muffled.
“Don’t let me go.”
He doesn’t. He carefully helps you lie back on the bed. When he meets your gaze, he swears he’s never seen adoration like that in anyone’s eyes before. At least, not in a long time.
It terrifies him, but in spite of his hesitation, he holds you close.
A blanket of peaceful silence settles over your bare bodies.
You speak quietly, trying not to awaken Joel’s senses. The ones that pull him away from you. The moment feels like glass in your hands.
“Are we going to have sex?”
“Hm?”
“We were going to, right? You were getting me ready for it.”
“I thought I wore you out.”
“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean I want to stop.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’d tell you if you were.”
He hesitates.
“I’ll be good. I promise.”
Those are the words that awaken his arousal. In an instant, you find his body looming above yours. He kisses you until your lips are red and puffy. He doesn’t break your gaze as he positions his cock at your entrance. Your green light is your needy hips begging him to fuck you.
He starts slow, even the head is a stretch. You scrunch up your face and hold back the urge to squirm.
“It’s gonna be a little uncomfortable at first, baby, and that’s why we’re gonna take it slow.”
Slow is an understatement. It takes ages for him to give you another inch — or maybe you’re just antsy. This one makes you whimper, makes you clamp down around him.
“It’s okay, baby. You’re gonna be fine.”
Joel’s voice is tender and sweet, and it gives you enough hope to ask for something you think he’d usually deny you.
“Can you hold my hand?”
He interlocks his fingers with yours. It feels oddly natural. He doubts he’s heard someone ask to hold his hand since— not now, he’ll go soft if he thinks about her. He’ll close in on himself and you need him — in more ways than one.
He continues slowly as he promised he would until he hears your moans of pleasure and your pleas for more, more, more. More is a little bit faster, a little bit harder, as deep as you can take it, and most importantly, his thumb tracing circles on your clit.
You squeeze his hand with yours as your inner walls clamp down around him.
“Just let it happen. It’s okay. I’m right here.”
When you come, he does too — the most blissful mistake he’s ever made.
Curses fly out of his mouth through his orgasm, stopping briefly as he catches his breath, and resuming when he pulls out and watches as his come drips out of you.
“Fuck. Shit. Fuck, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you insist. “I liked it.”
“I’m glad you liked it.” Because I fucking loved it. “But, it’s dangerous. We’ve gotta be more careful.”
In the future — it’s implied. Another time is nothing when the lines have all been crossed and when the other side brings him a warmth the hot summer never could.
You have more power over him than the sun.
It becomes a routine — briefly — and you are more careful. You discreetly buy condoms, but when your next period doesn’t come, you fear it might be too late.
You don’t tell Joel, not at first. Sometimes, they’re irregular, and you don’t want to give the man a heart attack. But then a week passes, another week passes, and eventually you have to — especially when you’re beginning to feel a bit nauseous and have no other explanation for it. It’s better to say something before he asks.
“Joel,” you say, “I haven’t gotten my period yet.”
A look of horror crosses his face before he asks, “How late is it?”
You take a breath before admitting, “A few weeks.”
“How many?”
“Almost three.”
“Fuck.” He sighs in preemptive defeat. “Have you taken a test?”
“No, I thought it would come so I didn’t want to overreact.”
“We’re going to go get one.”
He stands up immediately and turns towards the door.
“Wait,” you say, stopping him in his tracks.
“I should probably get it. It’ll look less suspicious.”
No, it won’t. Those who suspect something is up with you, will have their suspicions, and those who don’t, won’t think to pay attention.
They recommend taking multiple because false negatives are common.
The first one is a clear positive, so clear you think it might be a false positive, so you wait to freak out until you see two lines come up on the second test.
Joel is silent, even when you hand him the test.
But, so are you, because what more is there to say? The tests say it all.
“I’ll do whatever you need me to,” he says, and you’re surprised until he clarifies.
“I doubt they’ll make you pay for the pill or the procedure — however they do it, but I’ll take care of you while you’re recovering. I’ll be there through it all. Promise.”
The pill or the procedure. The abortion that he expects you to have. Truth be told, you hadn’t really thought about what you’d do until now. It’s probably the right decision. Do you really want to bring a baby into this world? Can you even take care of one?
“Okay,” you say. “I’ll make an appointment.”
You save your tears for Maria. She approaches you in the clinic. You’d be delighted to see her at any other moment.
“Making an appointment?” she asks.
“Yeah, just a checkup,” you lie.
The woman at the counter clarifies with you. “Just a checkup? Is that what you’d prefer?”
You turn back and forth between her and Maria.
“Um, no,” you say, “keep it as is.”
Maria raises an eyebrow and there is nowhere left to hide. You might be able to outrun her, but she knows where you live and isn’t afraid to confront you at your doorstep.
She saves you some of your dignity when she whispers, “How about a chat at my place? I have some tea that helps with nausea.”
The tea is persuasive but you’d have to go anyway. You don’t speak on the walk to Maria’s. She brews the tea and you sit across from each other in the kitchen before she finally speaks.
“What’s the appointment for?” she asks. “And I’m not here to judge you, I just want the truth.”
You’re not my mom, you could say, but she’s the closest thing you’ve had to one since your own passed.
“An abortion,” you say quietly, looking down at the table, at your hands around the mug.
“Okay,” she says, gently. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
You try to reply but all the comes out is a sob.
Eventually, she pries the truth out of you. You explain what happened when you told Joel the news.
“So, he made the decision, and then told you he’d be there for you if he did what you wanted?”
“I guess. But, I think it might be the right choice. I mean, it'd be hard to raise a child in this world…” You cut yourself off when you look at her bump. She’s gonna be a mom, a good mom. And, stupidly, you’re jealous.
Even though it’s not there yet, you swear you can see a high chair in your periphery. You could be holding a warm bottle instead of a hot mug of tea. Maria could be feeding her child his first bite of baby food next to you.
“Let me ask you something, and I want you to really think about it, and be honest with me.”
You nod and wait for her question.
“If Joel had said he’d support you no matter what, even if you wanted to keep the child, if he said he’d step up as a father, would you have made the appointment?”
“I don’t know.” Oh, but you do. Maria waits for you to come to a conclusion, for you to spit it out.
“I like the idea of having a kid. I love kids, and I sometimes think about what it would be like being a mom, but I know that I can’t be one. Not right now.”
If there is one thing Joel can’t be, it’s a father. Not again. He’s too old, too grouchy, too cynical. He’s not the man he used to be. He was never good at it anyway. He couldn’t save his own kid. He’s already a failed father — once, if not, twice.
You’d be a great mother, and that’s the greatest tragedy. He’s failed you already. He’s not good at the kinder things of life. He shouldn’t have indulged in you, in the love you gave him when he cannot give it back. There are a lot of things Joel can’t quite get right — being a lover, a father, a good man.
Every night since the outbreak began, he’s watched Sarah bleed out in his arms. Sometimes he sees Tess, Sam and Henry, Bill, even Tommy which feels like an augury. Ellie is there almost every night, losing consciousness. Only sometimes is she in that hospital bed, often, she’s lying in the show, with blue lips and almost no pulse. Now, you’ve begun to enter his subconscious. You’re always too far out of reach, screaming his name until he’s shot dead, and the last thing he hears is you shriek as you watch him die in front of you.
Another person is another tragedy once they have the misfortune of coming into his life. There cannot be another person, especially not a child.
You should be back by now, he thinks as he splashes water on his face for the umpteenth time, hoping it’ll wash away all the mistakes he’s made.
He can tell it’s Maria by the way her knuckles rap on his front door. He can tell she’s pissed too.
When he opens the door, he sees you in standing behind her, like you’re afraid of him.
“Unless you want to have this discussion on your doorstep, I suggest you let me — us — inside.”
He does, reluctantly.
“Joel Miller, when do you plan on becoming a man?”
“What?”
“You just told her to make an appointment, didn’t even give her a chance to think about it? You managed to run away from your problems while you’re on house arrest. Impressive.”
“I thought that was what we both wanted,” he says, looking past her, to you.
“I guess, maybe,” you shrug.
The one thing he’s grateful for is Maria’s suggestion that you talk privately.
You sit further from him than usual, you refuse to meet his eyes.
“I’m sorry I didn’t ask what you wanted. I thought I was making the right choice.”
“It’s okay. I don’t even know what I want.”
But the tears suggest otherwise.
“Do you want to keep the baby?”
“Maybe, but I can’t. It’s not a good idea.”
“That’s what I think, but Maria’s right, it’s your choice.”
“But I don’t know how to make that choice.”
“You’ve got a good heart. Follow it.”
You spend a lot of time thinking, remembering, and trying to convince yourself that there is no part of you that wants to be a mother. But, in your bedside drawer, there is a handful of photos — all from before the outbreak. You see your mom as a child on a swing set, and as a teen blowing out candles on her birthday. Her mom is in that one too, sitting next to her, smiling. You wish more than anything to have pictures of you and your mom.
You think about the little girl who pretended a ratty old stuffed bear was her baby. You can hear your mom telling you that you’re doing a good job, how you’ll be good at this one day. Your bedtime stories were never about fairy princesses, but about your family, the ones you didn’t get to meet.
“I wish I could have that,” you’d say.
“One day, you might be able to — the world is scary right now, but that doesn’t mean it’s gonna be like this forever,” she’d insist.
In retrospect, you wonder if she really believed that, if she really believed that teddy bear would one day be a baby that you’d be the one carrying, and she’d be the proud grandmother.
“I told her I wanted to be a mom like her,” you explain to Joel, and he understands.
You know about Ellie, but not about Sarah. Joel never brings either of them up to you. Until now. It’s a fair trade, he tells himself. Photos for photos, info for info. But it’s more than that.
“Hold on for one minute, I’m gonna go get something, and I’ll be right back.”
It’ll only take him a second to grab the pictures, but he’ll need a moment to compose himself.
“This is Sarah,” he says, pointing to the little girl in the photo. “My daughter.”
You’re silent for a moment, gazing at the photo, at a younger Joel you’ve never met.
You’re the first person not to tell him that you’re sorry for his loss, and he is relieved not to hear the empty sympathies once more.
“What was she like?” you ask.
It’s hard to explain, and for that reason, he talks for at least a half hour about Sarah. All her likes and dislikes, all his favorite moments from the day she was born until the day she died. He tells the story of that too.
When you try to tell him that he sounds like he was a good dad, he has to explain why he wasn’t.
“I couldn’t save her,” he says.
“I couldn’t save her either,” you say, pointing to your mother in one of the photos.
“You were just a child,” he says. “It’s not your fault.”
“And, you were just a man,” you say. “It’s not your fault.”
“A grown man.”
“Doing the best that you could.”
And you’re right. He did try his best. He stops arguing not because he’ll ever concede but because the weight of the present falls upon him all at once as he meets your eyes and remembers why you’re here.
He can’t have Sarah back, he can’t have Ellie back, but you’re right in front of him — and he loves you. It’s too late to turn back and kick you out on your first day, it’s too late to never speak to you, it’s too late to not love you.
It’s not too late to fail you like he’s failed everyone else. It’s not too late to do the opposite either.
You tell him your decision, and wait for his disagreement, for him to dissuade you. But, he doesn’t.
“Okay,” he says.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to try my best.”
You cancel the appointment and make the final decision, but it doesn’t feel real until Joel finishes building the crib in the spare bedroom. The most unexpected part is how excited you feel even when you’re nauseous, even when your feet are bloated, even when your back is killing you.
You’re also terrified, particularly when you hear Maria’s account of her labor and delivery. For someone describing how painful it was, she seems oddly unfazed, happy even. She’s too focused on her baby boy, and you get it — he is pretty cute.
When the day comes, you find that you’ve underestimated the pain entirely. The wounds you’ve gotten in combat are nothing compared to this. Every hour that goes by feels like a full day for you. Every time the doctor checks your dilation it’s still not yet time.
Until it is. And everything becomes a million times more chaotic. You swear the only thing keeping you sane is Joel’s hand in yours. (You have to apologize later for squeezing it so tightly.)
Finally, the telltale cry comes, and it feels like you’ve run a marathon by how exhausted you are and by how proud you are of yourself for doing it. This will go down as the greatest feat of your life and you are more than satisfied with that fact.
The doctor announces that it’s a boy and though he said he’d be fine with either gender, Joel’s smile is wider than you’ve ever seen it. You’re smiling almost as big. It hurts your cheek muscles but you can’t stop, especially when they hand you your baby boy. Though he doesn’t know how to speak, his hand wrapped around your finger tells you that it’s going to be okay.
There is so much pain in this world, but not in this room.
Summary: You’ve been babysitting Sarah Miller forever. One day, you’re surfing the web on her dad’s computer, and you find some…unusual things in his search history.
Or, Joel likes to jerk off to your lookalike on PornHub. It’s time you showed him what the real thing is like.
Note: ‘Just call me if anyone else checks in…and by anyone, I mean any swingin dick’ is a line from No Country for Old Men
Word count: 12.7k
Purple slime had been Sarah’s idea.
It was an innocent thing, really. The four-year-old had practically been bouncing on the balls of her feet, eyes wide and shining with excitement when she’d begged—‘Can we pleeeeease?!’—and who were you to tell her no?
You’d only be breaking one small rule of Joel’s, after all. One silly little admonition he’d made before leaving for work the first day you’d started babysitting for him. That had been over a year ago, and he hadn’t even sounded that serious when he’d said it. He probably wouldn’t mind if you bent the rule this one time at Sarah’s behest.
‘Don’t go in the computer room, please.’
Don’t use Joel’s desktop. Don’t rifle through any of the drawers in Joel’s office—it was a mess, but everything was in its place, according to him. Just don’t go in there.
But in exchange for Sarah agreeing to take her nap that day without protest, you’d promised to order her slime.
Purple, gooey, glittery, sticky stuff for her new collection.
You weren’t sure when the fuck putty had become the plaything of choice for kids in Pre-K, but you hadn’t been in a place to judge; whatever Sarah wanted to do, so long as it was safe for her to play with, was totally fine by you.
It was just one rule.
Surely if Mr. Miller knew how badly his daughter wanted the slime, he’d be fine with you booting up his computer once. That was what you kept telling yourself, anyway.
What kept humming through your mind as the desktop came to life and you toggled straight for Google Chrome.
Be quick, be quiet, it’s fine. It’s fine.
Purple goo—it was safe. Innocent. Completely justifiable.
What could the sweet, old, forty-something and forever polite Joel Miller possibly have to hide on this machine that made it wrong for you to buy this one simple toy?
You reached for the keyboard and inhaled a quick breath.
Then you typed one letter, and your heart nearly seized.
P…
…ornhub.com
It was the very first thing that appeared in the search bar.
You couldn’t unsee it. Instinctively, your hand clamped over your mouth, and your eyes widened. You couldn’t help but read the four URLs that immediately dropped down below the first; they were just so garishly inviting.
Hot, Naughty Babysitter gets POUNDED by her Boss!
Slutty Babysitter Gets Railed from Behind and Loves It
Big Dick Boss Gives Babysitter a Passionate Raw Fuck
‘I’ve Never Done This!’ Babysitter Deepthroats Cock
“Oh…my gosh,” you said, words muffled by your palm.
You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. It was just too bizarre, too far out of character, too unlike your boss.
The man had scarcely said ten words to you altogether that didn’t relate to your job in some way or another. He rarely ever engaged in casual confab, and he certainly wasn’t the type to flirt, or make you uncomfortable in the slightest. Frankly, in all the time you’d been babysitting, you always thought you were just…invisible to Joel Miller.
Not this. Never this.
You were still staring at the screen when you realized that you’d missed one URL title from the list. It was long.
It was the most unnerving one of all, you came to see.
Babysitter Lounging Poolside in Hot Red Bikini Gets a BIG Surprise—Her Old Boss Teaches Her How to FUCK
Your hand lowered from your face. It trembled, contemplating, before coming to rest atop the mouse.
Something about this seemed familiar. Strangely…off.
You couldn’t explain it, but your head and your heart and your hand gravitated to that one odd link in particular. You hadn’t even meant to move the mouse. Or press it with your finger. But there you went, following your instincts like some dumb, brainless ditz, and then the screen was changing. Going dark with the shift to an adult site before brightening anew with the thumbnail.
It was paused on one frame. Your jaw slackened.
The girl staring back from the scene was you.
Or looked exactly, uncannily like you anyway.
It was then that you noticed what she was wearing, too—what you guessed wouldn’t be on her body for long—and you glanced down to your own shoulder. Just like your on-screen doppelgänger, you were wearing the same bikini in a bright, cherry-red hue beneath your tank top.
You wore it under your clothes damn near every day, indulging in the Millers’ backyard pool more often than not, and even being allowed to swim there on the days Sarah had summer camp—Joel had been so obliging.
So accommodating and sweet.
You never thought he’d be seeking your fucking twin online on a porn site after watching you traipse around his property wearing it. Your gut clenched; you clicked.
“Hey, sweetheart! Everything go OK?”
The voice that rumbled through the speakers was low. Male. Vaguely paternal and with a hint of a Southern lilt.
You swallowed, knowing exactly where this was going.
You weren’t sure why you were even watching when you could already predict what would become of it. The camera panned over a body identical to yours; it landed on a face that was smiling and sweet and so like your own you almost had to question whether it might not be you after all. Had you somehow forgotten this secret porn alter ego in a bout of amnesia? You kept watching.
The girl bit her bottom lip and let out the phoniest giggle.
“Yes, sir. Perfectly fine. Do you like my new bikini?”
Be so fucking serious, you thought, critically.
Then you remembered it was porn, not an Oscar-winning film. You saw the camera tilt down to her tits, and you had to admit, she had a great rack. A bit nicer than yours.
For a beat, you wondered if Joel had thought the same.
You had to batter those thoughts away, because the next second brought a big, burly hand onto the screen. It reached for the girl with her perfect, perky breasts and it kneaded them softly. No further pretense or prelude was needed—they just jumped right in and let it happen, like this was a normal thing for a babysitter and a boss to do.
Maybe in some other universe it was. In a world where a girl your age could just smile, and bat her eyes, and let them roll back gently as a whimper crossed her lips and she begged him, ‘More, daddy, more!’ this was all okay.
The man squeezed the flesh harder. She whined, and he proceeded to push the red nylon aside and expose the whole expanse of her breast—and holy shit, even the nipple looked like yours. Your mouth opened wider, and for a moment, it was like you couldn’t breathe as you watched that old, sun-kissed hand fondle the breast of a girl who looked just like you. Who was peering up at a man who sounded almost like Joel, murmuring, ‘Attagirl.’
You’d heard your boss say that once.
It had been such a silly, off-handed thing that you doubted he even remembered saying it. But one time, you’d struggled to open the passenger door to his truck before he drove you home. Once you’d narrowly managed to pry it open and slide into your seat, he’d laughed and rumbled: ‘Attagirl.’ Your face had warmed.
Just like your cheeks were doing now, all hot and bothered and desperate to hear more. Presently, the man slid the top off of the girl’s chest, and her breasts hung freely. You could hear him groan behind the camera at the sight, and not too long after that, before he could reach to touch her tits again, she was crawling on her knees toward him. Shuffling easily and expertly across the lawn chair and undoing the belt, button, and zip of his pants in a matter of seconds. A hand smoothed over her head, and you could see her preen beneath his touch.
Before she’d even wrapped her lips around his cock, your stomach was churning. Your fingers were stirring from the mouse and moving gently—again, of their own volition, it seemed—toward the waistband of your own bottoms. It was sick, admittedly. So wrong to be wanting to touch yourself to the very same video your boss had indulged in himself, in the very same chair he had done the deed. But you couldn’t help it. Your fingers slipped under the the fabric of your shorts, then your bikini, then your throat let out the tiniest noise upon seeing a cock appear on-screen. It was abnormally large, of course.
Silently, you wondered if Joel’s might not look the same. Your stomach flipped as soon as the girl took it in her mouth, and your index and middle fingers landed on your clit. You barely needed to touch to feel a jolt of pleasure.
Her head bobbed up and down. You felt powerless to do anything else but rub. And circle. And moan the slightest bit when you saw her coat his length with her shiny spit.
You heard that your noises mirrored hers. You didn’t care. Really, it felt as though you were in a trance, and you couldn’t stop watching, or touching, until you’d had your fill. Like Mr. Miller had done himself. It was all too much.
Before you even realized it, five minutes had passed, the man and woman on-screen were shifting from oral to raw, penetrative sex, and you were nearing your peak. Right before the cock that had been lodged down the girl’s throat could slide into her wet, glistening cunt, you felt your stomach lurch. You rubbed harder, watching the fat and leaking tip of the man’s cock tease through her folds, and just as he was about to slide in and you could finally find your release…a door banged open downstairs.
You almost screamed.
As quickly as you could, you yanked your hand out of your pants and clicked out of that browser even faster. The second you heard footfalls on the steps, you scampered out of there. Half-sprinting, half-tip-toeing down the hall and toward the bathroom, before halting at the door. You made your presence known with one light stomp of your foot, pretending to be turning and walking out, and as soon as you did, Joel was right there. Staring.
Sweating.
Scrubbing at his face with one weary hand, before taking a rag and wiping it through his beard. He sighed heavily.
“Long day?” you chirped while trying to mask the panic.
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Joel answered, voice wan, “How’s my little terror? Asleep? She give ya any trouble?”
Just asked me to buy her a toy online and inadvertently led me to find your internet Spank Bank archives full of women who look like me. Other than that, it was fine.
“I put her down about an hour ago. She was great.”
You forced a smile, and Joel seemed to believe it.
“Perfect. Need me to give you a ride home?”
“No, no, you should stay here with Sar—”
“‘S’alright. Tommy’s right downstairs.”
Of course he’d brought him home.
“No, really, I can walk. It’s fine—”
“Don’t be silly. C’mon, kiddo.”
Kiddo.
Kiddo.
The man had been jerking off to the thought of you for who knows how long, and now he called you ‘kiddo’?
You hated how arousing the nickname sounded from him
You despised yourself for rubbing your clit in his office.
Most of all, you loathed the way your panties had gotten wet the last time you’d climbed into his truck and heard that word crawl off of his old, drawling tongue: ‘Attagirl.’
Reluctantly, you nodded your head. You followed him downstairs and hoped the car door wouldn’t stick again.
He had to stop.
It was no longer a matter of ‘if’ but ‘when’ his dick would lead him straight off a cliff, and today, Joel was starting to think that precipice was looking extra nice. Tempting.
Almost as inviting as the divot he could see at the small of your back, glimmering with a couple hot beads of sweat under the midafternoon sun. He swallowed.
Sarah was at camp today. You’d had the time to yourself, and the weather was blistering hot, and of course, where else would you be but his backyard? He’d told you ad nauseum, ever since you started babysitting his kid, that his pool was open to you whenever you so chose to go.
Presently, Joel wished he could revoke that invitation.
Seeing how you were flipped on your stomach, body all soft and warm and splayed out on one of his deck chairs—wearing that fucking red swimsuit, of all things—Joel was left to ogle from his office window, and inside, he felt like a certified pervert. Arguably, he was. His old, worn hands had all but glided to find his mouse as soon as he’d sat down at his desk and saw you out there, and no sooner had his cursor found Chrome than his cock started to stir. He’d wanted to watch. If not you in all your bare, sun-baked glory, then surely the woman he could see getting her throat and cunt stuffed on his screen.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
Was he really that much of a gooner he couldn’t let his kid’s babysitter lounge outside without stroking his dick?
Shit. He had the bottle of lotion in one hand and the box of tissues in the other in no time at all. He ripped three free Kleenex aside and reached for his mouse once more.
He was pissed at himself. He toggled over to the Hub with a grunt, and in no time at all, had you pulled up.
Joel liked to pretend it was you, anyway.
If he couldn’t have the sweet young thing every swinging dick in this town would’ve killed to have himself, he could rub one out to a girl exactly like you. He could fantasize.
He could skip the video to 8:53 on the dot, as he always did, and he could rub himself raw. It wouldn’t take long.
He always fast-forwarded to that exact part, without fail, because she moaned like you then. He’d never forget it.
It had almost been six months since it happened, and he still remembered that sound as clear as day. You’d been hauling your backpack off the couch in the living room, having stuffed the thing full with more school supplies than you could feasibly carry, and Joel had been in the kitchen, unseen. You’d lifted the bag with effort, and once you had, you let out a soft but audible whine. You dropped the bag back down to your feet, and when you bent to try again, you’d moaned fully. It was like the stretch had made you feel good, or something. You’d huffed and managed to get the weight slung over your back with modest success, then left, but Joel had been changed. Too quickly had he retreated to his office and swore to find any clip where a moan sounded like that.
“Please! Feels like a fucking dre-e-e-e-e-eam—oh, OH!”
Granted, the dialogue was cheesy, but the sound after it was identical to the one you’d made. Joel repeated it.
He hadn’t even noticed, but he’d already lathered his hand and cock with lotion. He was scrubbing vigorously while your twin wiggled her hips and begged her co-star to put it in, to quit teasing her pussy like that, can’t you see I’m practically dripping for you, daddy? Look at it!
Unfortunately, Joel’s head was turned the other direction—away from the screen, and toward the window—watching you where you sat out on the lawn.
He stroked harder. He groaned.
You had just turned onto your back. Your tits looked incredible. Joel reckoned they’d look even better with his dick pushed up between them, and at the thought, his mouth watered. His lips were slightly parted, and he feared he might drool. What a sight he must have been then: jaw slack, lids heavy, cock in hand, and moan after moan bubbling out of his throat. He got closer to climax.
“Gonna teach ya, honey. Teach ya how to please a man.”
It wasn’t long after that that Joel heard the girl whine in pleasure—the man behind her had notched in the first inch and told her to behave—and meanwhile, he watched your chest rise and fall, rise and fall outside. It was calm. Unlike the girl being taught how to fuck poolside, you remained untouched. Spotless. Placid and serene while your hands picked up a magazine and began flipping through it. While Joel’s orgasm crested inside him, he wondered if you’d ever want to try something like that. Roleplay. Or would it be fake at all? Had you ever been touched by a man, shown the best ways to give and receive pleasure, or was it all brand new, like it was supposed to be for the woman on his screen? Joel panted, and he fucked his hand harder. He groaned.
“Oh, daddy, it’s so big! Feels so good going inside me!”
“You love gettin’ fucked by an older man, don’t you?”
“Yes, daddy, yes! Please don’t stop—oh, OHHH!”
Joel wanted to be the only older man you had.
If he wasn’t the first, he sure as fuck could be the last. Give you all the dizzying, euphoric feelings your body deserved and stretch you open gently for the taking.
He could teach you so much, ruin you for any oth—
Shit.
What the fuck was this asshole doing here?
At the back gate, he saw his neighbor Dieter.
The man strolled across the lawn, and Joel’s orgasm receded in a blink. He was walking right over to you.
No. No, no, no. Joel released his dick from its vice grip and felt the thing twitch in indignation. Meanwhile, the sound of skin on skin continued to flood his eardrums from out of the computer speakers, where the happy babysitter-boss duo was hitting a brutal pace. The girl let out one over-the-top shriek of pleasure, and Joel clicked pause. He toggled out of the browser. Then he redirected his gaze out the office window, where his own girl was being accosted by Dieter. His blood boiled with anger.
Who did this creep think he was? The man never so much as looked Joel’s way or approached his property unless it was to ask to be ‘lent’ some booze or else ask after some friend, relative, or coworker Dieter wanted to be introduced to—he was perennially unemployed and a fuckboy bachelor to his core. The last Joel had heard, he’d spent the last year in Los Angeles, or Paris, or some other too-big city to chase his singing and acting dreams
And here he was now, hitting on his poor, defenseless babysitter. Joel wouldn’t stand for that in any world.
Though his dick was still erect, it had softened some, too. His rage facilitated that, and him shoving his length back in his jeans, zipping it up, and all but punching the desktop off made it spongier still. He walked like he was mad at the floor beneath his boots. He wasn’t sure why he was feeling so defensive—he had just been rubbing one out to the sight of you less than five minutes ago—but now wasn’t the time for thinking. He had to act.
Protect, if he had to.
What if his neighbor wanted to go for a swim, too?
Joel would drown the man with his two bare hands if he so much as reached for your bikini-clad form. He stalked loudly down the hall and searched for a less sweaty shirt to wear, then some deodorant, then a comb. He peered in the bathroom mirror and saw his black-and-grey locks all out of sorts, and for a second, he contemplated taking a shower. You’d probably be able to smell his unsatisfied desire from outside. He looked, and felt, a bit unhinged.
Joel decided he didn’t care, before plodding downstairs.
Outside, you lay in the same position he’d seen you last. Your hand was shielding your face. You were smiling.
And beside you, Dieter was grinning even bigger.
Joel made a beeline down the porch steps, then across the lawn, like his life might’ve depended on it. Scowling.
“—but getting cast in Gladiator II would’ve been wild—”
Of course Dieter was yapping about his failed acting career. Of course. Joel could hear him drone on as he approached, though he didn’t register a word of what he said. Instead, he waved a hand. He feigned a calm tone:
“Dieter! How’s it going?”
And he slowed down, too.
Just as he drew in, his neighbor volleyed a look his way. Joel couldn’t miss how his smile twitched down a little.
“Joel.”
Accepting a cordial hand in greeting.
“Doing alright, how ‘bout yourself?”
Joel nodded fine, just fine and offered some offhand remark about not having seen him since last summer, and Dieter couldn’t resist the chance to puff up and mention a school he’d been attending. Joel didn’t hear it, or give a shit. His gaze was already trained on you. Your own flitted from Dieter, to Joel, then to Dieter again, and your lips were smiling kindly enough. You seem humored.
“Mr. Bravo just got back from Berlin,” you beamed.
Then Dieter met your look and shook his head.
“Dieter, sweetie, Dieter. Or Dee, if you want.”
Joel almost wanted to vomit in his mouth.
“Germany, huh? What brings you here?”
No sense in beating around the bush.
Joel meant to ask why Dieter was here, in his backyard, with his babysitter, of course. Why the fuck he was eyeing you like that, like your tits were two Emmys and the only way to earn it himself was to stare as long, and as hard, as possible. Joel cleared his throat instinctively.
Dieter blinked and cast a glance back to him.
“Oh, here. Yeah. I, um…I just wanted to see if you had that— that—” He snapped his fingers, “That leafblower.”
Leafblower?
He was so full of shit.
“My leafblower,” Joel repeated.
It was fucking July, for crying out loud.
Evidently, his neighbor didn’t seem to care. He met Joel’s gaze with an even look, and he nodded his head.
He doubled down: “Yeah, the leafblower. I’ve had some debris pile up in my yard since I’ve been gone, y’know.”
“Are you gonna be in Austin long? Or are you going back overseas once you’ve had that casting call?” you asked.
You cocked your head with genuine curiosity. Joel grit his teeth, but he tried not to let his discontent show anyplace else on his face. A muscle might’ve jumped when he saw how smugly Dieter smirked at your intrigue.
“Oh, I’ll be here long enough, don’t you worry,” he said.
That was it.
Joel gestured to the shed in the back corner of the yard, about to tell Dieter that the leafblower was in there, go knock yourself out, when his neighbor cut in once again.
“In the meantime, maybe I’ll have you babysit for me. I hate to steal Sarah’s pal, but maybe you can split your time between my place and Joel’s. What do you think?”
You blinked a little quicker, like you weren’t quite sure what to say at first. Joel took the chance to interject.
“You don’t have any kids, Bravo,” he practically growled.
“I know. I’ve got cats, though,” Dieter just grinned back, flitting a cheeky look to you. “And you have no idea how naughty those pussycats can get while a man’s away.”
That was really all Joel could take. He didn’t even let you answer; he just pointed to the shed and made a fist with his other hand at his side. His chest was heaving breaths.
“You and her can chat when she’s off the clock, how ‘bout that? Leafblower’s in the shed. Door’s unlocked.”
His words didn’t invite protest of any kind. Dense as he was, Dieter probably sensed that he’d ticked his neighbor off with the suggestive comment to his babysitter, and he backed away, both literally and figuratively. He bid a quick, cavalier goodbye with a shit-eating grin stretching his lips, and then he went to the storage shed and left.
You were still blinking, still creasing your brows tight, by the time the back gate had slammed shut behind him. You watched after him, teeth gnawing at your cheek.
“He seemed like a funny gu—”
“What do you think you’re doin’?”
Joel’s words appeared to sting like a slap in the face. You jerked your head back to him, seeming to say, ‘What?’
“You know what. Don’t play innocent now,” Joel griped.
You continued to stare, then started to shake your head.
“Mr. Miller—”
“Don’t Mr. Miller me, either,” he snapped, far shorter than he’d ever spoken to you before. His nostrils flared, “You’re old enough to know better. You did all of that.”
“All of what?” you shot back.
“Attracted men like Dieter into my yard.”
“He’s your neighbor! What do you expect?”
Offense marred your tone. He didn’t entirely blame you.
“No, no—he never sticks his nose over here unless he sees something he wants. You were flaunting yourself.”
At that, your mouth fell open.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Miller? Are you serious?”
“Language, young lady—”
“I don’t give a shit.” You stood up from your chair. Your eyes flashed with ire. Just like his hands had before, yours curled into fists. You stood your ground with him. “You invited me to come swim here whenever I wanted to. You did that, asshole. What did you expect me to sunbathe in, army fatigues and fucking combat boots?”
Joel blinked hard at that. He didn’t like being mocked.
“Still shouldn’t be that damn skimpy. And I said lang—”
“Yeah, yeah. Thanks, dad. Don’t act like you’re mine.”
Don’t act like you’re mine.
Joel’s chest tightened. His gaze seared into yours, almost as though he were as angry as you were now, but deep down, the man only felt remorse. Resentment. Whatever rage he harbored now was reserved for himself
He shouldn’t have gone there.
He shouldn’t have masked his own jealousy with pseudo paternal scolding. He looked like a dickhead doing that.
And you weren’t shy to let him know it in the slightest.
Presently, your finger was jabbed in his face. You were planted less than two feet from where he stood, and though you were noticeably dwarfed by his size, your next words had him beat by a foot, if he’d had to guess.
“I watch your kid, Joel. I am not your daughter. If you don’t want me hanging around here in my hot red bikini, then you can just say that. But don’t blame me for him.”
Joel bristled at your words, though he wasn’t sure why. When he opened his mouth to speak again, you added:
“And don’t blame me for that, either.”
Suddenly, he realized your finger was pointed at his legs.
Or, rather, what was poking up stiff between them.
Joel’s cheeks heated up to a thousand degrees.
You’d just caught him. You’d seen his arousal.
And you were turning on your heels again.
Before Joel could even try to summon the words to his tongue, you were grabbing your things. Shoving your shoes onto your feet. And Joel had only to stand there.
Feeling stupid and inert beside you.
As you went to the back gate, he somehow managed to call that you didn’t have a car, let him drive you back.
You didn’t even dignify his words with a verbal response.
You just raised your middle finger over your shoulder.
And then the gate crashed shut behind you.
You would be walking home that day.
Two big eyes and round cheeks were all you could see.
Then, they darted beneath the covers and were gone.
“Oh no, where’d sweet Sarah go?” you wondered aloud. Sitting at the edge of the bed and pretending not to see where she’d just dipped her head under the blankets, you furrowed your brows and proceeded to pat around you.
Everywhere you felt with your hands, you completely ignored the big lump under the duvet. It was a game.
A silly one at that—hide-and-go-seek was generally best left to places where you couldn’t figure out her location in the blink of an eye. But you played along. You heard a soft giggle. You continued feeling around the twin-sized mattress like this was the most bewildering puzzle of all.
“Whe-ere’s Sarah?” you sing-songed.
You heard a shuffling of limbs, a sniffle.
Your palm tapped right by those little feet.
And as soon as you did, she screamed. At four years old, Sarah hadn’t quite mastered the art of being stealthy.
You’d cut her some slack. You always had.
Blindly passing where her body lay, you glided to the opposite side of her bed and tapped inquiringly there.
“Is she…here?” You got a pillow.
“No!” Sarah shrieked back.
Such a helpful, obliging kid. She’d make a terrible spy.
“Is she…up here?” You rapped the headboard twice.
“No!!” she squealed.
You glanced over at the clock on her nightstand. It was approaching bedtime. Taking note of this, and knowing you couldn’t keep up with the charade for much longer, you let out a sigh. You stood from the bed, looked around the room with dramatic éclat, then started to walk away.
“Okay…I guess if Sarah’s not here I’ll have to leave…”
The second you said that, Sarah threw the covers back. She jumped up in bed, and she stomped her little feet.
“No! No! I’m here! I’m here!”
You spun on your heels, eyes wide with faux surprise.
“Sarah!”
And then you rushed back over, just in time to watch her drop to the bed and flash you a wide, exuberant smile.
“Your Sarah,” she corrected.
She adored it when you called her that. Your Sarah.
You nodded your head in agreement, “My Sarah. Sorry.”
She nodded too, like she’d just reminded you of the most important thing, and then she slipped back under her covers. She let you drag the purple duvet over her frame, all the way up to her chin, and when she was all snug inside, she gave another smile. She kicked her feet again.
“Stay,” she commanded, tone still sugar-sweet.
“I will, baby. ‘Til your daddy gets back, I’ll be here.”
“I mean forever!” Sarah dragged out the last syllable, and, not yet content with the answer you’d proffered, tried swaying you again, still more emphatic, “For-ever!”
If your daddy wasn’t such an ass, I might consider it.
Instead, you smiled back at her and shook your head. You smoothed the hair away from her face, then you leaned in and kissed her forehead with a gentle peck.
“Then my family would miss me. I gotta see them.”
“Says who?” Sarah’s pout was unmistakable.
Before you could reply, she cut in again.
“You can be my family. My mommy.”
Your throat constricted at those words. You weren’t sure what to say, or how to assuage your sweet Sarah then.
Again, you were about to open your mouth to speak, when your pint-sized companion piped up again. This time, her voice was softer. Surprisingly delicate and low.
“I want you to be my mommy,” she told you quietly, “Then you’ll live here. With me and daddy. And you’ll never have to go home again and we can play all day!”
Your heart ached. You kissed the tip of her nose and turned away, momentarily, to hide the hurt on your face.
Sarah Miller deserved much more in a mother than you.
When you looked up again, her grin was big. Hopeful.
“Don’t you wanna be my mommy too?” she asked.
“‘Course I do, baby,” you answered without hesitation, “But…don’t you think your daddy should have a say too?”
Somehow, her face got even brighter.
“He will! He— he…”
Sarah trailed off a second, as if considering her words. She didn’t understand what marriage meant. You’d help.
“Your daddy,” you finished for her, speaking slow and soft as you leaned in close, “is a good man who deserves a good woman to make your mommy. Don’t you agree?”
She bit the inside of her cheek.
“Yeah, but—”
“And a mommy’s gotta be someone he really loves.”
“But he…”
She was thinking again. You could tell. You pressed on.
“He is gonna find someone great someday. He’ll love you and her to bits, and y’all will get to play together all day.”
“But he loves you!” Sarah cried, at length.
A beat.
Your breath faltered.
The girl’s words had scarcely hung in the air for more than two seconds, and their meaning hardly registered in your brain before your own were coming out fast. Certain
“Your daddy doesn’t love me, baby. I’m just his friend.”
“Yes, he does! He told me so himself!”
Again, you shook your head.
“You misunderstood him, sweetie.”
You tried to smooth her hair back again, but Sarah’s head bucked away. She scrunched up her nose in clear protest and refused to let you cradle her face until she’d spoken her piece. When she did, her voice was pleading all over:
“Daddy loves you, he told me. You can be my mommy.”
And for what seemed like the hundredth time that night, you felt your heart balloon in your chest. Your gut clenched—but not for the reasons she or you wanted it to. The truth was that you didn’t have the words to tell a four-year-old girl that her father didn’t love you like that at all, that his head and his heart were anywhere but with you, and that, if you were being honest, you were furious with him. How he could so much as hint at such nonsense was beyond you. His little girl dreamed of having a mother. It was stupid and senseless and cruel to even suggest that that woman could be you. You sighed.
But, despite your every thought and feeling to the contrary, you knew you had to soothe the girl with some small semblance of hope. Something to hold her over for the night, so she didn’t cry herself to sleep thinking that you didn’t want to be her mommy. Gently, you leaned in.
You lifted the covers back up from where they’d fallen. You tucked them snug around her torso, and you paused.
Your tone was measured and soft when you spoke next:
“I don’t know about your daddy, baby. What I do know is that I would be the luckiest lady alive to get to be your mommy, alright? I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”
And you meant it. You saw one look light up her face, and every ounce of anger that had been provoked by her father was forgotten in an instant. Her grin ensured it.
“Anywhere,” she parroted back.
“Anywhere,” you said, again.
Then you kissed the crown of her head, wished her sweet dreams, cut the little light off. You left the room quietly.
It was only when you were out of there and far enough away down the hallway that your skin started to burn.
You couldn’t help it. Anger was fast to trickle back.
This feeling was only compounded when the next moment brought a sound to the landing on the stairs. You glanced over down the hall, muscles all tensing at once, and when you saw him there, it was as though your rage just bubbled over. Your jaw clenched; your stomach flipped in a way so decidedly unlike how it had done for him two days ago, in his office, and suddenly, your throat was working again. You kept your voice low this time, keen not to draw Sarah’s attention out there, but the words you used were clear. Quiet. Doubtlessly effective.
Even in the dark, you saw his brows jump when he heard:
“Joel, we need to talk.”
It had been two years since he’d had a woman in here.
Joel wished it were under any circumstances but these.
Presently, your eyes were ablaze. The two of you had just stepped into his room and shut the door behind you, and with the click of a latch, you hadn’t thought to hold it in:
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
He blinked.
Well, many things.
Joel wouldn’t have had the space to explain it all if you’d given him a week, and still, he had to say something. He blinked again, made a sound in his throat as if to clear it, then shook his head. His shoulders sagged in his jacket.
“I…I’m sorry.”
For the other day. For getting caught up in his own anger and taking it out on you. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was apologizing for now, or what he should say, but he thought it best to start there. He shrugged his jacket off and set it over the back of the nearest chair. He turned to you again, where you were standing with a warning look.
“Don’t say sorry to me,” you said. “Say sorry to Sarah.”
Sarah?
Before he could speak, you went on.
“You’re just setting her up for heartbreak, you know that? I mean how selfish— how stupid could you possibly be?”
You pursed your lips like tears might threaten if you didn’t. This caught him off guard—his daughter? What could he have said or done to hurt her in any of this?
“What are you talking about?”
“You said I’d be her mom, Joel!”
He winced. You furrowed your brows and set your mouth in a line—really trying to fight the emotion behind it—and, while all the rest of you bristled in anticipation for what was to come, Joel softened. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t want to be the guy who lost his head at the thought of seeing you cry and forget the whole reason you were upset with him in the first place, but he couldn’t help it. Though you looked like you wanted to kill him right then, Joel drew closer. He shifted toward you.
“Did— did she, uh…call you…mommy?” he said, pained.
“Yeah. And you let her believe she could,” you spat.
He hadn’t meant to do that, either. Sarah had been calling you that for a while when you weren’t around to hear, and after enough times telling her otherwise, he’d just stopped correcting her on it. Sarah wanted a mother. You were the closest thing she had, and who was he to sabotage that? At the time, he’d just wanted to…pretend.
That was a running theme he had going with you.
Right now, you didn’t seem to care about that.
You just rolled your eyes in that cool, juvenile way when you didn’t hear a response from him, and he had to bite his tongue from saying something worse. He hated when you did that. It made him remember your age—the reality of you being his kid’s babysitter and how guilty he should feel for wanting to do something more about that eyeroll.
He wasn’t your father.
You weren’t Sarah’s mother, either.
You most certainly weren’t the girl on his computer screen, as much as he would’ve liked to see you that way, and even though you were standing here in his bedroom.
That was all fantasy. Make-believe. This was his reality.
You were visibly pissed and wouldn’t budge an inch.
“Is it really so bad if she says it?” he grit out.
Your eyes widened. You scoffed.
“Of course it is, Joel!”
You backed away.
He hated seeing that, too. He hated having you move from him, not toward him, wearing that scowl on your lips as you did. His fingers twitched—itched—at his side.
“Sarah’s young. She doesn’t…mean anything by it. She’ll grow out of it soon enough. And I don’t want to hurt her.”
“You’ll hurt her even worse by not telling her the truth!” you snapped. You sounded exasperated saying it now. “We’re not a family. I’m the goddamn babysitter, and— and— you’re Sarah’s father. Act like it, for Christ’s sake.”
That set his teeth on edge.
Joel felt the urge to fight back, but narrowly refrained. He flexed his fingers, and he bit down hard to keep the vitriol at bay. Because that was exactly what fathers did. They controlled their anger; even when faced with a smart-mouthed babysitter who wore his patience out.
Even when your arms were folded over your chest in that impossibly tight, white tank, and your tits looked like they might spill from the fabric at any given moment. Joel swallowed and refocused his gaze before going on.
“Don’t tell me how to be a father.”
Something flared in your eyes.
“Why? I’m fucking right.”
“Language, young lady.”
That only seemed to irk you worse; your hands flew up.
“Yeah, well,” you started, accusing, “If we’re playing house, I might as well be allowed to say what I like.”
“We are not playing hous—”
“But you want to, right? That’s why I’m always here.”
“No, I need a—”
“Maid? Mommy?”
You paced closer. Joel’s jaw clenched.
“Obedient little housewife?” you sneered.
Your eyes were shining like two derisive pools. With every blink, you seemed to mock him more. Goad him on and beg for your reward, though you hardly knew what it was.
“C’mon, Mr. Miller,” you chided, voice low, “What is it?”
What he was, or what he’d stand to take. It wasn’t this.
“Keep runnin’ that fuckin’ mouth, I’ll show you what.”
The words flew off his tongue before he could stop them.
It was a reflex—something that had been stewing in his mind since the second you’d set foot in his room and went on provoking him. But it was wrong, of course.
He was wrong for even thinking it, much less saying it.
Now your eyes were round, and your mouth was slightly agape, and your brain was likely working a thousand miles a minute to process what had just been said.
Joel had to fix it.
“That— that ain’t—” he began, already hating himself.
To his surprise, and embarrassment, a laugh rang out.
Its sound was explosive and short. It split the air with such hot, bitter force that his words dropped off. His gaze had no choice but to remain plastered on yours.
“Oh, I bet.”
You grinned, humorless.
You didn’t appear shocked in the slightest. In fact, his remark seemed only to embolden you then, as you teased that smile wider, drew yourself closer, and tipped your chin up. You looked doubly enlivened by his last admission. Vindicated in some strange, inexplicable way. Your breaths were warm, and the swell of your breasts came to hover just inches from his chest when the last thing he needed to happen, happened between you next.
You pointed again. Joel didn’t need to look down.
“‘Don’t tell me how to be a father,’” you repeated his words from before, voice taking on a low, faux baritone.
Your amusement was clear. His cock was hard.
It seemed you’d never let the latter slip past you.
“Is that what we’re gettin’ at here, Mr. Miller?” you asked, tone now precocious. Probing, “You showing me what a great daddy you are, and me being the mommy you al—”
“No.”
Joel pushed off. He didn’t want to hear another thing.
He headed straight for the door, prepared to usher you out of it. This conversation had taken an irreparable turn.
When he reached for the handle, though, he had to stop. Your voice made him stop, echoing from the opposite end of the room. Joel turned, and he saw you on his bed.
“I’m just curious. Is that really what you meant?”
You were sitting at the foot of it, legs casually hanging off. Your look was innocent, and still more knowing than Joel could bear. The heat left to swirl in his groin nearly suffocated him below the waist, and he inhaled deeply.
“Mean what? I didn’t…mean anything.”
His touch fell from the doorknob all the same.
Your feet were swinging when he faced you completely.
“Just like you didn’t mean for Sarah to call me mommy?”
Maybe he had meant it more than he let on. He couldn’t answer. Joel felt every bit the creep he knew himself to be—decades your senior and letting you rest on his bed, soft, smooth legs kicking back and forth as he watched.
He was good at that, wasn’t he? Watching. Waiting. Aching from the comfort of his home office while he watched those filthy clips on repeat, images of you flitting through his mind at every stretch, moan, and whimper. His will was powerless to his perverted needs. He had only to defend himself against their influence by planting his feet firmly in place and refusing to move.
“You wanna teach me, though. Don’t you, daddy?”
It was as though your words reached him from another place. Somewhere deep within the recesses of his mind—his memory—and the tone of it stirred him. It was familiar, in ways you couldn’t have possibly understood. Unless you were living in his head, there was no way in hell you could’ve known what those lines meant to him.
‘Gonna teach ya, honey. Teach ya how to please a man.’
It made him ache.
Joel still wouldn’t move, but you could come to him.
He blinked once, and you were there. Off the bed. Walking to him. Down on your knees in front of him.
This had to be the work of his own sick imagination.
He groaned at just the sight of your smile, curving slow.
And then you peeled off your top, revealing the bright, nylon, cherry-red fabric he’d seen far too many times on his computer screen and off it—on you, by his pool. Joel sucked in a breath and shook his head, gaze darkening.
“Thought you didn’t wanna play mommy,” he growled.
If this was all just in his head, he could talk as he wanted.
“I don’t,” you answered him soberly. Suddenly, your chin was in his hand. Your eyes were still glistening up at him. “But you need to get this out of your system. Just once.”
Out of his system.
Joel was out of his fucking mind with desire.
“Just once?” His voice cracked as he said it.
Only one time. That was alright. Forgivable.
From what he half-believed to be a figment of his own perverted mind came the word from your lips: ‘Once.’
The next had the thumb that was cupping your chin slipping between those same lips. Still smiling while your mouth slid down to his knuckle. You sucked him gently.
And in just one glimpse, one fleeting second on that lone, thick thumb, the sight below him had every other obscene thing entrenched in his memory beat by a mile. You were better than everything else he’d seen or tried to dream up. You were real, he hoped, sliding your shiny wet lips up and down the surface of his skin, and when you pried them off, and you asked for his cock, he had no choice but to oblige. He had to rack his brain for words.
This was his babysitter, his daughter’s companion, his—
“Sweet fuckin’ girl,” he said when he first felt you there.
Before he even knew what became of his belt, buckle, and zip, the base of his cock was in your hand, and your lips were hovering precariously over the tip. Your breaths were soft and hot. Your graze drank him in with curiosity.
“Should I kiss you here, daddy?” Your mouth lowered.
“Right there, sweetie,” Joel breathed out.
He truly couldn’t believe it when the warmth of you enveloped his tip. When the first lick of your tongue came to collect the bead of precum sitting at the slit and he damn near bucked his hips up. You licked at it again.
And again. And again. And again.
You whimpered lightly, enjoying the taste.
The second you pulled your mouth away, Joel hissed.
“Baby, please—” he started, tone strained.
“What? Where does daddy want it?”
The question was so innocent.
It was clear you wanted to hear him guide you through it, as evidenced by the way your lips twitched at his hand smoothing down and over the crown of your head. Joel held it like he might never get this chance again, and, at once, his voice lowered along with it. He scarcely recognized himself with how gently he spoke then.
“Let daddy show you,” he said, “Open your mouth.”
And you did.
Your jaw fell slack, your lips split apart, and your eyes peered up with a wide and open stare. In a look, you seemed already to say that you trusted him to fill it.
No sight on a screen could’ve made him so hard.
He fed you an inch, eyes locked with yours as he did. His cock slid in another, and another, then stopped. He pulled back. The wetness and the warmth of your mouth nearly did him in, and the way you whined for more had him fisting your hair tight. Trying to keep his composure.
“That alright, honey? Feel…nice goin’ in?”
“Yes, daddy,” you hummed obediently.
Your mouth opened wider.
“More, please?”
Your tongue was flattened in a second. Joel slid back in, and his shaft was greeted by the slick, shiny cushion of the muscle underneath. He sank in. He invaded every inch of your mouth he could find, and he breathed out.
“Just like that, sweetie. Takin’ daddy so well.”
What little gurgles he heard stifled between your lips at that, spit drooling gently from either side, he only found more endearing. When he pulled back and saw strings of your spit trail after its path, he felt delirious. You were real, coating the whole throbbing length of his cock with your saliva and your precious soft whines, and you were sweet for him. Pliant for his cock. Jaw obliging and inviting and hanging wide open for him to fuck again.
He let you have it. He slid in once, grazed your throat, slid out again. He cupped your face in his hands and thumbed your cheeks. He coaxed your lips wider for him. You took it all well; you responded to every tender little directive from the man who was stuffing your mouth, ‘Faster now, atta girl’ and ‘Take daddy deeper’ and ‘Keep that pretty mouth open and those eyes on me.’ Joel was so caught up in the feel and the friction and the intimacy of every passing moment that he almost didn’t see when you started to shift your legs. Parting them.
And, right when the head of his cock had reached the back of your mouth and was teasing down your wet, open throat, he felt it fully: your whimpering plea.
You grinding your cunt against the toe of his boot, and peering up at him with eyes all wet, wide, and needy.
You rutted your hips. It looked like you couldn’t help it.
It seemed as though it were a mere spasm of the body that you couldn’t control—like his cock down your throat was too good for your sense or your oversexed mind to handle. He’d scarcely stirred in place when he felt you humping him, whines rippling down his length with every bob of your head as you keened for some kind of release.
Joel had never seen anything like it. He didn’t know what to say or do except stroke his hand over your scalp and pin you with a look. His cock twitched in your mouth.
“Is that how we ask to get fucked in this house?”
His tone surprised him with how steady it stayed.
Your mouth still full of him, you tried to shake your head.
What came next was more instinct than logical thought; Joel pulled you off his cock and onto your feet. His touch on your body was soft. He couldn’t pinpoint a reason for his being so gentle, but every second that elapsed now seemed to demand it. He was teaching you to please. There could be no better place for kindness than here.
He’d lead you to the bed and guide you down himself. He’d tell you to open your mouth and then he would kiss it, and lick inside it. Maybe spit inside it, too. He’d tug at your bikini straps, watch your breasts give way to the pressure of the pull before bouncing right back in place. He’d take off your top. Latch his mouth around a nipple, swirl his tongue across the skin, and he’d kiss you again.
Joel did all these things, and you let him. You met him with whimpers, with wide open legs, and eventually, with your feet digging into the covers beneath you, begging, ‘Daddy, please put it in.’ Your gaze was febrile as you did.
Whether you meant it, or were simply pretending for him, gave Joel pause. Just as you’d tried to yank your jean shorts down your legs, he dropped his hands to your own. He stopped them in their path. He leaned closer.
“Do you know what you and me are about to do, hm?”
His question was barbed but sweet. Testing the waters.
Were you game to keep playing house? Did you want it?
These things mattered to Joel; whether the wetness between your legs was meant for him and him alone. Whether you needed him there, like the breath in your lungs. He wouldn’t fuck you if he wasn’t. He might feel lonely at times—desperate to feel your cunt squeeze his too-old cock like your life depended on it—but he was a man who wanted to be wanted, too. An instant of clarity hit, and suddenly he was asking it, plain and in your face:
“Do you wanna do what mommies and daddies do?”
Your mouth fell slack. Again. You nodded.
Either you were the single best actress, or you wanted it. Hoping desperately for the latter, Joel kissed the side of your face. You turned your head, quickly, and captured his lips in yours instead. You pulled him down to you.
“Like this?” you murmured, words muffled against him.
You wrapped your legs around his waist and then ground your clothed lower half with his—Joel’s cock was tucked haphazardly back in his boxers, and his jeans, unzipped, hung just underneath them around his hips. He felt like a teen again, clothes thrown askew and hormones all wild.
Except he wasn’t. He was a grown man, in his own bed, with his child fast asleep down the hall. He thanked his lucky stars that their rooms were as far apart as possible, and that he no longer had to worry about the prying eyes of his mom or dad trying to catch him out after curfew. This wasn’t high school, or a night out in college, or the time a condom had split and Sarah had been conceived.
Now if he could just make sure she didn’t get a sibling…
Kidding.
“Pill,” Joel choked out, just as your legs drew him in to meet your movements, “Are— are you on the pill, or—”
Am I going to have to hit up a Texaco at 10 PM to get some rubbers and admit I haven’t gotten laid in a year?
You grinned.
“IUD.”
That works, too.
Joel probably shouldn’t have seemed so eager. He probably shouldn’t have taken your face in his hands and kissed you so hard, either. But his skin was ablaze; his eyes were wild; his limbs were molten; and his head—you didn’t want to know where it was. What he was thinking.
What he wanted to tell you while he tugged his cock back out and started working his hand up and down it. It felt too intimate, too depraved, to be spoken aloud.
Then, to his shock, you said the words yourself:
“Show me how you’d make me a mommy anyway.”
If not for protection. If not for common sense. If not for that thrumming, pulsing, warning repetition in his head: Do not get her pregnant. Do not give your kid a sibling.
But this was all pretend, wasn’t it?
Joel yanked down your shorts, practically tore them from your legs, and situated himself between them, breathing hard and fast, before he nodded his head and kissed you. With his one free hand, he held the base of his dick, and he guided it closer to your slick, puffy, aching entrance through the barrier of your red bikini. He rutted his hips.
You were bare beneath him, save for that one scrap of fabric between your lower half and his. You smiled, and you wriggled your body against his, and you drew him in. Joel groaned when he felt you slide your bottoms to the slide and let him feel, for the first time, how wet you were. How warm, inviting, and tight that cunt must be and how badly he needed it. How desperately he had to be buried inside that heat—he all but panted the words:
“Can daddy put it in?”
You spread your legs wider. You nodded.
Then he did. Without one breath of a thought to the contrary, he pushed the head of himself past the fabric, through your folds, into that wet and precious spot he’d only dreamed he’d ever feel, and he let out a full-throated moan. He felt your walls contract, heard the tender little squelch of your body making room for his length, and he damn near blew his whole load right there. You felt good.
Your chest rose with a breath, and your eyes widened.
Like you hadn’t just had him down your throat, drenched in your spit and gliding in and out: “He’s so big, daddy.”
Joel’s lips kissed your cheek. His tip kissed your cervix. You whined a little, and he pulled you in closer to him.
“I know, honey, I know,” he cooed, rocking you with the softest motions, “Ain’t that what mommy likes, though?”
Your lips parted again. A strangled whine of assent slid out, just as his hips withdrew himself back to that shiny, bulbous head, and then he fucked back in. Back and forth, back and forth, Joel sent your body bouncing with every thrust. He felt you clench, and the strokes sped up.
The bed creaked underneath. It seemed to shake the whole room. In truth, there wasn’t a thought in Joel’s head except for the ones relating to you and how good you took his cock, but somewhere, not far off, there was the instinct of a father idling too. With every stab of the headboard against the wall and every moan of yours under him he had to smother with his lips, he was reminded you two had to be quiet. He leaned in.
Grazing your ear with a stubbled chin, and fucking you gently into his bed, Joel sank his weight even lower.
“Can mommy stay real quiet for daddy? Can she try?”
From the way your eyes were glazed, he expected you to nod. And you did, just barely, heels digging in the mound of his ass and your fingers finding his sides. But then you slid a touch up his ribs; you squeezed the flesh. You let him pound your cunt for a few more precious seconds, and just when he thought that was the end of it, you tilted your head to him. Your nose bumped his, and you grinned, flashing the single most pretty, fucked-out look.
“Feels like a fucking dream, daddy,” you breathed.
Joel balked. He almost stopped right then and there.
Please! Feels like a fucking dre-e-e-e-e-eam—oh, OH!
Oh.
You couldn’t have known that.
There was no shot you knew where the fuck those words were from. Or what they meant. Joel furrowed his brow and kept rutting his hips, hands tightening in the sheets beside your head as the scene from his naughty all-time favorite film flickered briefly through his mind. No shot.
Then your legs wound around the backs of his even tighter, and your eyes were all but shining with a fresh, twisted glint. With a measured tone, you went on for him:
“He’s so big, daddy. Feels so good going inside me.”
You even mimicked her tone. Joel paled above you.
His hips stalled a moment, and your cunt hugged him tight. Your teeth nipped at his chin, playfully, and before he could even try to speak again, your lips were there.
At his ear, whispering what he’d dreaded hearing most.
“You should really clear those PornHub searches after you’re done. Or at least lock your office while I’m here.”
Joel’s thrusts stopped completely.
He was about to search for his voice again, when your walls clamped down around him, and his vision went swimming. His cock pulsed inside you, and he groaned.
Then his hips picked up; it wasn’t a conscious decision. He just needed to fuck, needed to finish, needed to see the light twinkle and burst behind your eyes while he stuffed your cunt full. It didn’t matter what you knew—your lips were curled in such a sweet, smug smile below him, there was likely no use in trying to explain himself now. Joel just gritted his teeth, and he tried smiling back. He fucked you faster, and harder, than he’d done before.
When you clawed at his back, the pace grew merciless. Every inch of the space around him, it seemed, was filled with the sounds of skin slapping skin, whimpers, and moans. As before, Joel almost didn’t recognize his voice.
‘That so?’ was all it could manage to get out at present.
With your cunt fluttering repeatedly, hips rolling with his own, and those lips letting moans spill out one after the next, it was all he could do to try to keep his composure.
Joel kissed you, and then he flipped your body around. He moved back to find the headboard and rest himself against it, got your legs straddling his, and slid you down
Down, down, down on his cock. Stretching you out. Then moving you back up again. Making you bounce in his lap and have your hands fumble to find his shoulders. You squeezed his biceps and moaned, and at the same time, his slick-smeared lower half rutted to greet yours. Your essence drenched him; he could feel it soak straight through the black-and-gray hairs at the base of his cock.
You looked perfect like this—better than any girl on camera could’ve been. Your hips rolled, and you moaned while sliding up and down on his dick, again and again. Joel felt the trembling pulse through your body and his, groaned at the grip of your cunt around him, and helped you ride him. With one hand at the small of your back and the other cupping your face, he held you close to him. Your pace quickened, and the hand at your chin made its way to your throat, to hold you firmly there.
Joel had a thumb on your pulse and his eyes raking over your writhing form when he felt compelled to talk again.
Share a truth, since all the rest was coming out anyway.
He didn’t think so much as feel it flow from there, like the blood rushing through his veins. Joel winced at a fresh influx of pleasure and let you grind on him twice more. Then he was gripping you tighter, fucking up into you harder, and he was skimming his teeth along your skin. As a knot coiled deep within his stomach, he let it out:
“Wanna cum inside this pussy, baby. Fill her up with me.”
The head of his cock struck a dizzying blow to someplace close to your cervix, and you held him tighter.
“Yeah, Mr. Miller?” You couldn’t help the teasing tone.
You fought a breathless laugh, then were forced to suck in a gasp of air just as quick; his length sheathed itself inside you completely, and Joel’s grip constricted on your throat. He kissed you. He lapped his tongue into your mouth while he fucked up into you, again and again.
You whined, and he mumbled against you, “That’s right.”
You hissed at him deep in your guts, and he went on:
“Gonna stuff her full. Make her wet and messy and drippin’ with me. Show mommy how much daddy lov—”
He cut himself short. His balls were heavy, full, and ready to paint you white, but that line was a touch too far, even now. He couldn’t say it outright and not sound like a fucking creep, no matter how deep in this roleplay you happened to be. Joel squeezed your hips and grunted.
And, for what felt like the fifteenth time that night, you surprised him. Your chin tilted to his, your lips brushed against his mouth, and you smiled, again. It was tender.
“How much does daddy love me, hm? Show me.”
Your walls clenched at the end of the last sentence, and Joel couldn’t help but groan in your mouth. His eyes lifted to yours, and in your gaze, he found anything but incredulity—you already knew what he felt, somehow.
“Sarah tell you that, too? That I love you?” he growled.
He’d said it once. At the time, he hadn’t thought he’d meant it at all, but the words just sounded so good when it came to you. Sarah had asked him if he’d wanted you to be her mommy someday, if he loved you like a daddy loves a mommy, and he’d said he did. Looking back, it hadn’t felt half as good as it did right now: peering into your eyes, feeling your warmth swallow him whole, and sensing you were nearing your climax, all because of him. It made him want to say it over again, now face-to-face.
Be it roleplay, fantasy, fixation—he needed to say it now.
“Daddy does love you,” he went on, before you could even respond. His pelvis rutted against yours, and his gaze stayed steeped in desire as he felt you grip harder, “Loves you so damn much he wants to stuff a big load in that pretty little cunt. Make you his. That alright by you?”
Your gaze went blank in an instant. Your lips twitched.
Something delectably wet, tight, and far too tempting shuddered someplace inside you, and with pride, Joel sensed the remnants of it leak out and smear his tummy. You liked that idea. Still, you seemed hesitant as your teeth snagged your bottom lip between them. You drew one steadying breath, and you slowed your movements.
“I’ve never…had that,” you admitted quietly.
Then that sticky-sweet embrace your cunt held him in got even wetter. Like your mind wasn’t fully on-board, but your body was all in. You were close, by the feel of it.
But Joel would only give what you were fully ready to take. At length, he lowered one hand to the small of your back, and his thumb rubbed at the skin. He let you feel him in only the shallowest of strokes, bouncing you softly
“Ain’t gotta be inside, then,” he murmured, assuring, “I’ll shoot this load wherever mommy tells me to go, alright?”
That made you whimper.
From there, your mind seemed to be decided all at once.
“Cum inside. I-I want it.”
Joel swallowed thickly.
“You sure, sugar? I can—”
Suddenly, your hips were stirring. They started up quicker than before, and your hand was swift to plant itself flat on his chest, as though to stabilize yourself.
“Cum. In. Me.”
It was the most decisive, and desperate, you’d sounded all night. Your gaze flitted to his, and in it, he saw a plea.
With a look like that, Joel knew he couldn’t make you wait. He wouldn’t make you wait. Trying not to smirk as he did, he leaned in and kissed you, and felt you drip more arousal as something knotted in your belly. He smoothed your hair away and delivered the gentlest thrusts from below—he knew it wouldn’t take much.
“Mama goes first,” he prodded. He felt you tense, and clench, and leak a little more down his front, and when the head of cock nicked a soft ridge, he groaned, too. “Cum for daddy now and he’ll give you his load, OK?”
Then his touch slipped between your legs. You keened.
“Daddy, I—” you hiccuped, grip tightening like a vice when his thumb found your clit and started rubbing.
Joel circled faster.
“Breathe, baby. Breathe.”
“I can’t,” you cried, “Feels too—”
Good. Your body seemed to finish for you.
It started with a pulse. Then a pinch. A trickling warmth. Joel hardly knew what else to do but keep rubbing that little pearl between your folds, even when you started to gush around his hand. It wet his tummy; it drenched all the hairs around the base of his cock, and still, he kept thumbing your clit and rocking you back and forth above him. He let you cry out and bite his shoulder while your climax tore through you, and though he knew you had to be quiet, he couldn’t help but relish the sound. He smiled
“That’s it. That’s my girl. Give it to daddy.”
And, while he also told you to keep breathing and let him have it all, he was right here—in a matter of seconds, he was slipping off, too. He couldn’t hope to try and stop it. With one more pulse of your walls, you groaned and got your wet, spent, needy hole stuffed full of him, just how you’d asked. Joel flooded your insides with his seed and kept you fucked straight down to the hilt so he wouldn’t see a drop of himself escape. He hugged you tight and heard you whine at that primal sensation, getting pumped with rope after rope of his cum, then he felt your limbs go limp. Joel kissed the side of your face. He cradled you, held you securely in place, and let the last of his spend paint your walls in a couple more gentle spurts
When it was over, he stroked your back. He sensed the aftershocks of your climax pass through your tired frame, and he made sure not to rock you too hard against him. He just wanted you to feel that he was there, if the heft of his cum and his cock still deep inside you wasn’t enough.
His head grew clearer, too. While still drawing short, ragged breaths in time, he managed to find the words that had evaded him before—what he should’ve said.
“‘M’sorry,” he mumbled into your hair.
You just nuzzled your face deeper.
“Don’t be.”
“But I—”
Then you tilted your head—enough for your gaze to meet with his, briefly, and tell him all that he needed to hear.
“You’re a good dad, Joel.”
He opened his mouth, but you were already pressing on.
“And I don’t…mind if Sarah calls me what she wants for now. I’m sure you’ll find someone great to be her mom someday, and then this whole thing won’t even matter.”
For some reason, the sound of it made Joel wince.
He couldn’t quite place the feeling, but he knew he didn’t want you thinking that. His grip constricted around you.
“No,” he muttered, indistinct. Defiant.
“No?”
You almost laughed.
It was insane, admittedly—just last night he’d been dreaming of the feel of you in the grip of his fist, wishing for nothing but his own release and a fleeting thought of your body underneath him, and here he was, doing this.
You’d said it was a one-and-done deal, and maybe it was.
But for him, maybe, it wasn’t. He’d be remiss not to try.
If you shot him down and left him to pine and meander through the manifold archives of PornHub for the rest of his horny life, that would be alright. At least he had tried.
With these thoughts thrumming through his brain, Joel was about to pull you closer and venture to speak again, when, for the second time, his words were cut short. His voice was presently supplanted by a sound that startled you both, and in a moment, he recognized what it was.
A knock.
“Da-a-a-a-a-a-addy?”
Shit.
He nearly caught a knee to the gut with how quickly you tried scrambling off his lap, limbs revived and frantic and desperate to get your clothes back on before that tiny voice could resume its speech—or get a hand to the door
“Yeah, sweetie? Give— give daddy a—” ‘Fuck!’ he cursed under his breath as he tripped over your shorts on the floor, “—a minute. I’ll be right there. Just gimme a sec.”
Joel fell. You floundered. His hand snagged the edge of the bed before he hit the ground fully, while you set off across the room to fight the strings of your bikini top and wrestle the thing on. The second you sensed that battle was lost, you grabbed your shirt instead. You were just yanking it on, and Joel was just regaining his bearings and about to chuck your shorts your way, when a voice through the door stopped the two of you cold—again.
To your horror, it was hopeful. Too sweet to be real.
“Can I sleep with you and mommy tonight?”
You could’ve soundly beat Joel’s ass with that pretty, skimpy swimsuit in your grasp and not regretted a thing, if he had to guess by the look you were flashing him now.
He didn’t blame you. His hands shot up in silent defense.
“Mommy— mommy’s not here, honey. She went home.” Joel shortly tried, and failed, to keep the pretense of innocence alive, all while dodging the first swing of your bikini’s bra at his head. He ducked; you struck a lamp.
He jumped back, a wordless grin stretching his lips as he righted that fixture fast. With one look, it seemed to say:
I’m so, so sorry, baby.
But inside his head, he couldn’t help but admit this was a little bit funny. Probably sensing this, you swung again.
“Yes, she is! I heard her,” Sarah huffed outside.
Joel was sliding up his jeans. Apologizing with his eyes and also trying not to crack an even bigger smile at you.
“Don’t be silly, Sar—”
“You’re having a sleepover!” she accused.
Well, in a manner of speaking.
Joel had just buckled his belt and redid his zip when a flash of red nylon smacked him in the face. Playfully.
You were evidently beginning to fight a grin like his, dropping the feigned indignation and pacing closer.
“Sleeping my ass—” you started in a whisper.
And you were about to chase him again, or else propose jumping from the window to get out now and save face, maybe, when Joel felt an old, familiar feeling crop up inside him. Like before, it wasn’t the kind of urge he could fight; his instincts took over, and he did it swiftly.
Admittedly, the timing was terrible—but he kissed you.
He pressed his lips to your own and relished the feeling. He grabbed both sides of your face and walked you back to the bed—the same one drenched in sweat and your release, which he’d definitely need to change in a minute—and for a fleeting moment, it was all he needed. Your mouth was on his, grinning a little and promising silently that if Sarah ever does walk in on us, I’m gonna kill you.
Against his better judgment, he pushed you back on the bed. He dropped his weight over your body and kept the kiss ongoing, feeling need surge inside for something far beyond the physical. It couldn’t be ‘one-and-done’ here.
But for now, at least, in spite of his feelings, it had to be.
Joel didn’t want to let go or stop kissing, but the next second left no room for much else, unfortunately. His daughter’s voice returned, and the words that followed proved impossible to ignore, for either one of you then.
All color drained from his face, and your eyes widened.
This is my submission for the Dead Dove December 2024 event held by my dear friend @romana-after-dark. I hope you guys like it!
summary: oneshot set in AU, no outbreak. You are a down on your luck waitress who impulsively steals from a man at a casino one night. Unfortunately for you, he doesn't give up easily.
warnings: noncon anal penetration, degradation, coarse language, noncon digital penetration, gambling, theft, slut shaming, mention of sex work, unspecified hefty age gap, reader is feminine but not described in detail.
word count: 4,500
You knew he might try find you, but you didn't think he would go any further than the front doors of the casino. You thought he would stalk around the black jack tables a few times, search throughout the scores the slot machines, maybe even check the high rollers lounge and the rooftop balcony. You knew he would be angry when he realised what you did but you didn't expect him to bother chasing you too far.
You had high tailed it out of there pretty quickly once you stole the chips and cashed out, anyway. Out onto the strip you strutted, abuzz with smug triumph, holding tightly to your purse stuffed with cash. You checked into a hotel a few blocks away, deciding to treat yourself to a deluxe room with a queen sized bed and room service.
Sure, you had done the wrong thing. You knew you had. It wasn't that you were a bad person, though - you were just desparate. Living in a shitty trailer and working your ass off waitressing had driven you to the edge of hopelessness. You were sick of slaving away to earn enough money to survive through the week. You were sick of the disgusting men who oogled you and treated you like a piece of meat while you served them burgers and fries and endless cups of coffee. You had been beaten down by the hardships of life for years now and there never seemed to be any hope for a better future for you. You were never granted a reprieve from the drudgery of your dull existence, not even for a day.
Until the night you met Joel and got greedy.
Joel Miller rarely gambled. He enjoyed the occasional game of poker or darts with his work buddies but he was never a hustler. He had seen his little brother Tommy lose way too much money betting on football games and amateur poker tournaments to want to take a risk himself. He was definitely the more sensible of the two.
He wasn't a party animal, either. It wasn't in his nature to be wild and carefree; becoming a single dad at a young age and raising a daughter while earning a living as a contractor had moulded him into a pragmatic, no-nonsense kind of man. His workaholic dedication to his profession and his responsibilities as a parent had left little room for pleasure in his personal life, anyway.
And even though Joel's daughter is an adult now, living her own life in another state, he still leads a quiet existence outside work. Tommy teases him for being a boring old bastard, but the truth is Joel has always craved a simple life, so he's content with how things are. He downs a whiskey every night and more often than not falls asleep on the couch while watching a movie.
But tonight is different. One of the guys in his work crew is having a bachelor party, so Tommy finally had a good reason to drag Joel out of the house to enjoy a night out. Even though he grumbled and groused about being too old for this shit, Joel acquiesced and joined the group of men for a night of bar hopping (and even a visit to a strip club). At Tommy's insistence they ended up stopping at one of the casinos to try their luck at some poker and blackjack.
It took some convincing from the guys and a few shots of whiskey to get Joel to loosen up enough to get into the spirit of things. He won some money and lost some money but actually managed to have some fun along the way. He was going to call it a night but decided to lay a last minute bet at the roulette table, just for the hell of it. To his surprise he ended up winning.
"You lucky son of a bitch," Tommy laughed in shock, clapping Joel on the shoulder. "Who woulda thought?"
Joel grinned smugly and accepted the stack of chips offered to him by the table dealer. Emboldened by the win and the guys encouragement, Joel placed another bet on the roulette table but promised himself it was his last for the night. He braced himself for disappointment when the spinning wheel slowed down, reminding himself that everybody's luck ran out at some stage. The little round ball bobbled along the slots until it came to a halt on red 23, the slot that Joel had placed his chips on.
The men all whooped and cheered when they saw the result and Joel couldn't help the smile that broke out on his face. The dealer pushed a large stack of chips towards Joel with an uttered congratulations, sir.
"Keep goin', man," Tommy whispered in his ear. "You're fuckin' killin' it, got a lucky streak, Joel, you gotta ride it."
Joel shook his head and collected the stacks of chips in his hands. "Tom, I just won ten grand. Odds are I'm gonna lose it all if I keep goin'."
Satisfied with his takings and ready to go home, Joel bid his brother and friends goodnight and went on his way to the cashier cage to cash out his winnings. He was standing in line waiting to be served when something bumped his elbow. He turned to look at what had knocked him, and there his eyes fell upon you.
You. Young, pretty, well made up. Dress short enough to show off your legs but just long enough to cover your ass. His eyes flickered down the length of your body and back up again, trailing over your cleavage before meeting your eyes. You were gorgeous.
"Oh, sorry about that!" You smiled brightly. "Didn't mean to run into you, mister."
Joel gave you a polite smile in return. "No problem, ma'am."
You fluttered your eyelids and sashayed away from him, glancing over your shoulder with a flirty little smirk. Joel felt his cheeks blush as he watched you leave, his gaze glued to the way your ass swayed with each step of your heels. Goddamn. He felt the blood rush to his cock. Were you actually flirting with him? No, surely not. You were way too young, way too attractive to want an old man like him. Shit, maybe you were a working girl, looking for a john for the night.
Joel shook his head and turned back to face the cashier's cage. He would have to resign himself to the fantasies in his head tonight.
It wasn't until he finally arrived at the cashier's desk and had his chips counted that Joel realised you had stolen $5,000 from him.
It has been about half an hour since your escape.
Your dress, underwear and heels lay discarded in a heap on the floor of your hotel room. Your unzipped purse sits on the nightstand by the bed, a thick wad of cash poking out from its pocket. You slip into a fluffy white bathrobe and stretch out on the bed to flick through the TV channels. Soon you'll take a bubble bath in the luxurious looking tub, then when your room service order arrives you'll stuff yourself with nachoes and a deluxe chocolate milkshake.
Fuck. You can't remember the last time you had experienced the granduer of being so pampered. You close your eyes for and sigh, savouring the moment of serenity for a minute. Right now you're in heaven, your own personal bubble of indulgence, and it feels fucking amazing.
A knock at the door startles you from your dreamy reverie. That must be room service, you guess. It has arrived earlier than expected, before you had a chance to hop in the bath, but a change in plans doesn't bother you too much. You've got all night, after all. You smile to yourself as you scramble off the bed and pad over to the door.
You twist the handle and open the door, expecting to be greeted by a smiling hotel employee carrying a fancy silver tray. Instead, you are met with the scowling face of the man you conned at the casino, his tall figure crowding the doorway. The sight of him right before you is like a nightemarish hallucination, and you gasp in fright, your heart leaping into your throat.
Despite being so caught off guard by his appearance your survival instincts quickly kick in. You hurry to try and slam the door shut but he's too swift; he wedges his work boot over the threshold to prevent it from closing before shouldering his way inside the room. You squeal and stumble backwards toward the bed, terrified by the intrusion.
How did he find you?
Joel calmly closes the door behind him and turns the lock. The soft sound of the latchbolt clicking into place prompts an ominous twist of dread to coil within your stomach.
Is he going to kill you?
"I'm sor--" you begin to say.
"No one ever teach you right from wrong?" Joel barks angrily, cutting you off. He glares at you with his dark eyes full of ire, his mouth set in a snarl of disgust. His large hands fidget by his sides and you worry that he's trying to repress the urge to beat the shit out of you.
Your heart hammers in your chest as your brain buzzes with anxiety and trepidation. You don't know what to do or say now that he's in such close proximity to you, his intimidating presence crushing all sense of security and confidence from you, leaving not even a modicum of courage in its wake.
Even though your mouth is dry and your throat feels like sandpaper, you speak impulsively before even thinking. "I didn't--"
"Think ya can just do whatever the hell you want?" He snaps, taking a step in your direction. "Steal from hard workin' folk and mess up their lives?"
"No!" You shake your head vehemently and shuffle blindly around the bedframe, not daring to take your eyes off of him. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean--"
Joel snorts derisively and takes another step closer; his footfall is slow and heavy, like he's unhurried to close the gap between you. "Didn't mean to rob me? Didn't meant to steal my money and fuck off?"
"I'll pay you back!" You blurt out in panic.
"Damn right you will," he snipes back. "Every fuckin' cent of it."
You swallow thickly and nod. "O-okay, so, I already spent some to get this room - but only for one night, I swear!" The explanation tumbles from your mouth. "But I can give you the rest now, and I promise I will pay you back!"
Joel's eyes narrow and you see his jaw tick once. "When?" He asks flatly. You stare at him and chew your bottom lip for a moment in deliberation. You already spent your weeks wage on rent and bills, leaving you with about ten dollars to your name until next week.
Shit.
"I, uhm, I get paid next Friday," you mumble sheepishly. "I can get you the money then."
He sighs, a heavy exhalation of frustration from his nose. He shakes his head and puts his hands on his hips. "'S too late."
"Please, please give me this one chance," you beseech, clasping your hands in front of you, your eyes wide and pleading. "Just give me until then."
"How much? How much did you use for this room?" Joel demands. You pause, trying to remember the nightly rate the concierge charged as well as mentally calculate the added room service.
"Uhm, I-I think it's a-a-bout $350," you stutter nervously. He huffs an exasperated sigh and runs his hand over the bottom half of his face. Seeing the man you swindled look so frustrated makes you feel embarrassed and childlike. "I'm sorry..." you mumble, ashamed of your greed.
"Here's what's gonna happen," Joel tells you sternly. "I'm gonna take back what you stole from me now, and you're gonna pay me that $350 back come Friday. No more excuses, you hear?"
"Yes, ofcourse," you agree earnestly, "I'll pay back every cent, like you said."
You glance over to the purse on the nightstand Joel stares at you in comtemplative silence, his jaw ticking as he assesses the situation.
"You do this often?" Joel asks after a few beats, his voice considerably more softer than before. It seems like he's gradually calming down. "That little slick act, battin' your eyes while you're stealin' from a man."
"No," you reply meekly, dropping your eyes to the floor. "I don't. I'm sorry. I'm just...I'm struggling with money right now...I was desperate."
A tense silence falls upon the room after your shameful admission. You hope he's taking pity upon you, that he can see just how apologetic you really are. But when your gaze shifts from the ground back up to Joel, you can immediately ascertain that sympathy for your circumstances is the last thing on his mind.
Joel remains where he stands, as still as a statue, but there's an unsettling intensity swirling within his chocolate brown orbs as he stares you down. The wrath which had consumed him is no longer reflected in his gaze; it has been replaced by something more sinister - something hungry, predatory. It sends a shiver up your spine.
Suddenly you feel incredibly self conscious; although you are covered by the plush terrytowel robe you feel naked and on display infront of him. You clutch the collar of your robe closed and clear your throat.
"Maybe you can show me just how desperate you are for that money," Joel muses darkly.
Your blood runs cold at the insinuation.
You've got to get out of here as fast as you can.
When he takes another step in your direction, you don't hesitate to launch yourself toward the bathroom to escape. He's swift to follow you, though; he sprints after you and crashes his shoulder against the bathroom door, flinging it wide open, leaving you trapped and with no where to run from him.
Joel might be really fucking angry at your audacity to steal from him, but there is something else bubbling within the scorching heat of his wrath that is far more wicked. It hit him the second you opened the door and gawped at him with wide, scared eyes and a trembling bottom lip. It intensified the longer he watched you flounder and apologise, so helpless and desperate for his understanding, and he found he could not ignore it for long. You look even more pretty than he recalled, especially when you are just wearing that hotel bathrobe.
What had started as a simmering in Joel's loins has escalated into a depraved and maddening state of arousal that has his cock now rock hard in his jeans. Seeing you plead and admit to your recklessness particularly excited him, perhaps because he saw it as an acquiescence to punishment. And Joel was more than happy to dole out punishment - whether you consented to it or not.
He cannot describe the victorious surge of power that overcomes him when he successfully captures you in his grasp. He grips a hunk of hair at the top of your head to keep you still, and you grimace as your scalp stings with the tight pull. His mouth sets into a grim line of determination while his other hand clumsily rips the bathrobe from your body. You shriek and bat at him with curled fists, putting up as much of a fight as you possibly can, but it makes no impact upon him at all - you are so small and weak in comparison to his tall, burly frame.
"Fuck sake," Joel snaps irritably. "Quit fightin' me." He throws the robe to the ground, leaving your naked body trembling with fear before him. He doesn't stop to touch you or even look at you - he just manhandles you over to the sink and shoves your body around to face the mirror. "Hold still."
He pins your hips against the edge of the sink with his own, the action causing your bones to press painfully into the cool marble surface. His iron grip on your hair forces your neck upright so that your face is directly infront of the mirror. You can feel the rough denim of his jeans on the backs of your thighs and the metal of his belt buckle on your ass.
"How about you show me some more of your little tricks," grunts, his low voice gravelly and slightly breathless. "How's that sound?"
"P-p-please don't," you sob, your vision blurring with warm tears. He ignores you, using the side of his boot to kick at your foot and spread your legs apart. You feel his hand jostle behind you as he hurries to unbuckle his belt.
"You want cash so bad?" Joel taunts in your ear, hastily unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans. "You can earn it. "
He yanks his jeans and underwear down his meaty thighs, freeing his heavy balls and erect cock out of the confines of his underwear, the head already wet with precum. He uses his grip on your hair to roughly push the front of your upper body flat to the bathroom vanity. Your face smushes uncomfortably against the mirror.
"Arch your ass out, bitch." Joel jabs his elbow into the middle of your spine, forcing your hips to involuntarily tilt. "Let me see that fuckin' ass."
His other hand grabs your asscheek and he digs his blunt fingernails into the meat of your flesh, earning a pathetic whine from you. He pulls your cheek to the side to expose your asshole to his perverted gaze before letting out a hungry groan. "Pretty little hole you got there, honey."
He was planning on just fucking your pussy, but holy shit, seeing you spread like this is so tantalising, like your ass is just waiting to be split wide open.
He can't resist.
Joel spits a warm wad of saliva onto your asscrack and watches it slide down to your asshole. Your body jolts at the weird sensation, your limbs vibrating with fear, but Joel's steel grip of your hair keeps you restrained against the vanity.
He uses the fat pads of his two fingers to smear the glob of spit over your hole. He's decided to be generous tonight, giving you a little preparation so you won't pass out on his dick. Yeah, he wants to punish you, but he also doesn't want the goddamn concierge busting down the door because you're screaming in pain.
His fingertips prod at your ring with the clear intention of opening you up, and that's when you start to cry harder, warbling pleas for him to stop and to not to go any further. Joel smirks to himself and pays no heed to your words; he sinks his two fingers into your hole, all the way to his middle knuckles, and you wail at the sharp discomfort.
"Shut up," Joel orders, beginning to scissor his fingers in and out of you. He stares down at his minstrations while you weep pitifully. He's mesmerised by the way your hole clenches and unclenches around his digits, imaginging how perfect you would feel around his cock, squeezing him just right. He keeps fingering you for a little longer until his desire becomes too ravenous to put off any longer.
Joel withdraws his fingers from you, briefly admiring the way you clench around nothing. He takes hold of the head of his cock and jams it against the puckered ring of your asshole, ready to push inside. You start to screech and bash your legs against the vanity in distressed protest, but Joel is quick to subdue you. He crushes his knees into the backs of your thighs, his burly frame easily constraining your lower half.
"Better for both of us if you stop strugglin'," he growls. "Gonna hurt a hell of'a alot more if you don't."
He doesn't waste any longer. He drives his hips forward and forcefully jabs the tip of his fat dick through the first tight ring of your asshole. Your cries suddenly cease as the burning pain engulfs you, your eyes squeezing shut and your mouth falling open in a silent scream. The room fills with the sound of Joel's heavy breathing and the jangle of his belt buckle. He ruts into you, gradually feeding his thick length further inside your ass with shallow, stuttering bursts.
"That's it," Joel croons, voice slurring with lust. "Take it, baby, just take it."
Satisfied that you're now in a state of paralysed submission, he releases his hand from your hair and siezes the cheeks of your ass in both his meaty palms. He spreads them wide and tilts his chin down to watch your defilement, hypnotised by the sight of his cock slowly spearing your tight hole.
Joel eventually slides all the way inside you, his pubic bone flush with the globes of your ass and his heavy balls pressed against the lips of your neglected pussy. He moans brokenly as he revels in the snug warmth enveloping the entirety of his dick.
"Goddamn," he mumbles to himself. "So tight."
Joel retracts his hips until he's pulled almost all the way out of your asshole, then he plunges back inside in one smooth stroke. You expel a guttural howl and grip the edge of the sink so tight your fingertips turn white, your whole body quivering below him.
"Actin' like you ain't never been assfucked before," Joel groans out. He withdraws once more, but this time he slams back into your body with a mighty thrust that forces you to rise up to your tiptoes. He takes pleasure in the ragged scream that rips from your throat and the way your hole contracts around his dick.
"N-n-no," you manage to choke out, your throat thick with unshed tears and mucus. Joel slides his large calloused hands around the curve of your hips to hold you in place before repeating the action again. You bawl again and reach a shaky arm behind you to push against his belly, a futile attempt to get him to stop.
"Don't tell me a slut like you ain't had a dick up her ass," he spits down at you. "Bet that's exactly how you earn your money. When you ain't stealin' it.'
It is impossible for you to muster a response when Joel begins to cant his hips in long strokes, gradually busting you open. The momentum of his broad body keeps your face shoved close against the mirror, the glass fogging with every loud, agonised sob you emit. His balls smack lewdly against your skin with each thrust.
Your body goes slack against the vanity counter as Joel continues to violate you over and over. He's lost in the animalistic pursuit of his pleasure and your punishment, his hefty cock barrelling in and out of your tight asshole with a merciless rhythm. His fingers squeeze your hips in a bruising hold. You feel so good wrapped around him, too fragile to fight back.
"Thought about fuckin' ya," Joel admits inbetween heavy pants. "At the casino. Wanted to fuck you so bad when I first saw ya."
You weep pathetically, lungs aching with every battered breath you inhale, your body going more slack and weak the longer Joel indulges in your suffering. He is so big, bigger than any other man you've ever been with, and there is no way you could adjust to his girth so suddenly, especially in your ass.
"Maybe I shoulda just slipped you a twenty. Bet that woulda had you droppin' your panties right then and there."
Saliva pools in your mouth and drips out the corners of your lips as your mind starts to detach from your physical body.
"Wreckin' ya good, ain't that right, baby?" Joel moans. "Fillin' you up so good, ain't gonna be able to walk for days."
He continues fucking you with a possessed, primal rapacity. He can't remember the last time he fucked with such reckless abandon - maybe never - and he knows he won't last long. He's too drunk on the domination he holds over you to delay his orgasm any longer.
"Gonna ruin this slutty asshole. Have you leakin' everywhere."
Joel pistons into you harder and faster as he chases his orgasm. His heart beat pounds in his ears and he can no longer hear your cries when his escasty soon reaches a fever pitch. It hits him with a blinding intensity that he wasn't prepared for; his head back falls back and his eyes squeeze shut as he explodes inside your ass.
"Fuck," he grunts and huffs like a beast. "Fuck, take it, ya little whore, take it all."
You whimper as he slows down his movements to a rocking motion, sawing back and forth to let your asshole milk the cum from his cock. When he's finished, Joel slips his softening cock out of you, coaxing a vulgar squelching sound from your hole.
He staggers backward, his gait slightly off balance as he comes down from the high of his orgasm. His chest heaves as he stares at your naked ravaged body sprawled infront of him. Your legs tremble for a moment before you collapse onto the bathroom floor, unable to remain standing without Joel's strength pinning you. You hug your arms around your shaking body and curl up on the ground, tears and snot spilling down your face.
Joel watches you wordlessly. He wipes his hand down his sweaty face and sighs. He doesn't feel remorse - why should he? You ripped him off. You stole money he needs for his business, for his house, for his daughter. You deserved this.
You don't dare look at him while he hitches up his underwear and jeans. All you want is for this nightmare of a man to finally leave you alone to lick your wounds. He tucks himself back in and belts up while you dig your fingernails into your arms, deep enough to draw blood.
You hear the heavy footfalls of his boots as he swaggers out of the bathroom. He crosses to the nightstand and retrieves the wad of cash from your purse. He stops to study your ID card, noting your age and your name. Fuck, you're younger than he thought. He scans over your address. And you live in a shitty part of town. Maybe you really were desperate. He flicks through the bills of money and counts, making sure the $4,650 is still there, then stuffs it in his pocket.
Joel walks back to the bathroom but doesn't enter, instead lingering outside, not bothering to give you another look. "Forget the three fifty," he calls from the doorway, his voice gruff. "You earned it."
It goes quiet for a few moments, then you hear the front door unlock and open. It shuts with a resounding thud and your wish to be alone is granted.
