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disturbedbydesign · 2 years

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Special Girl - Part 4

Summary: You arrived at Harvard as a shy, nerdy girl. You never thought a guy like Lloyd Hansen would notice you. But Lloyd saw you—really saw you—and for a time you became his special girl. Now, years later, you’re stuck in a sexless marriage. Unloved and unfucked for months, you’ve decided enough is enough. The fact that Lloyd has been keeping tabs on you for years has nothing to do with it… or does it?

Pairing: Lloyd Hansen x Reader

Word Count: 9.5K

Warnings: DUBCON (alcohol use/manipulation); INCREDIBLY unsafe/unhealthy/deadass wrong BDSM practices (Lloyd doesn’t do safewords or aftercare); plus-sized reader/fatphobia; cheating; degradation; bondage, spanking/whipping, gagging; knife kink; blood kink; CNC roleplay; gunplay; rough oral (m receiving); explicit sex (O,V,A); unprotected sex (Lloyd doesn’t wear condoms, ok?); unwanted pregnancies/abortion; physical intimidation/abuse; general toxicity; Lloyd is a psycho and he’s fucking mean—Dead Dove Do Not Eat! 18+ only, no minors.

Series Masterlist

Part Four

The gate is open when you arrive at the stone Neo-Tudor in Woodley Park, but it closes behind your SUV as you pull into the circle drive. You exit your car and your heels crunch on the gravel as you approach the massive wooden door. You grab the knocker—a bronze circle dangling from a lion’s gaping maw—and you tap it three times against the mahogany. He keeps you waiting but you know he knows you’re there, that he’s watching you. You look up and see a camera built into the stonework. You give it a wave and then you flip it the bird.

The door swings open and there he is, towering over you in a loudly patterned knit polo and a pair of navy slacks that fit him like a glove. He looks so different from the Lloyd you once knew—not just the mustache but his whole look. Harvard Lloyd was preppy and clean-cut, but the man in front of you is unabashedly and unapologetically himself. You like it. You like it a lot.

“That was cute,” he says. “Real mature. Get the fuck inside.”

You step into the foyer and you want to take in the majesty of this house but you get lost in Lloyd’s blue eyes and pink lips and the dimple popping on his cheek as he smiles down at you.

“I knew you’d come,” he said. “Sorry your husband’s such a fuckin loser, but you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I don’t want to talk about him,” you say. “Frankly, I don’t want to talk much at all.”

Lloyd laughs. “Aww, come on. Humor me, Porkchop. At least pretend like you still care. It’s so much more interesting when you do.”

“Fine,” you snap. “What would you like me to say, Lloyd? You want me to ask you why the fuck you’ve been following me for… how many years is it now?”

“Too goddamn many,” he says.

“Well, we can certainly agree on that.”

Lloyd turns on his heels and walks himself into you, pushing you back against the door. “Did you come here to fight, or did you come here to fuck? I can do either, and I’ll win both ways.”

He steps back and you realize you’ve been holding your breath. You let it out and you center yourself and you say, “I don’t want to fight with you. I really don’t. I just want to have a good time, so can we just pretend for one night to be normal fucking adults and forgo all the usual bullshit?”

“Not a chance,” he replies. “Normal is so boring. But that’s your thing these days, right? You’re just a nice, normal Stepford wife? How much weight have you lost anyway? A buck? Buck ten?”

“Something like that,” you answer.

“Such a shame.” He reaches around and grabs your ass. “I miss the rest of you. Speaking of which, are you hungry? Because you need a cheeseburger or twenty.”

You’re hungry, but not for food. “No thanks,” you say. “But I’ll take a drink.”

Lloyd guides you into the dining room, the hand on the small of your back making you weak. You see that the 12-person dining table is set for two and piled high with all your favorite foods.

“What the fuck is all this?” you ask.

“I told you,” he says. “You’re too goddamn skinny.”

Your mouth waters at the smells wafting off the table and your traitorous stomach growls. “Fine,” you say, and you let him fix you a plate as you take a seat.

He presents you with far too much food. Even if you were starving, you could never eat all that, but you pick at it a bit. The truth is that you are hungry, that all of it looks so incredibly good to you, but you know you’ll make yourself sick if you eat too much. You don’t want to be full and bloated and lethargic, because you’re here to fuck not to feast.

Lloyd sighs and rolls his eyes as he watches you push food around your plate. “You gonna make me force-feed you? I have all the requisite equipment, you know.”

“You really are a twisted fuck, aren’t you?”

“You’ve finally figured it out, Porkchop. Only took you your entire adult life.”

“Oh, no. I’ve known. I’ve always known.”

“And you love me anyway,” he says, a shit-eating grin on his face. “How lucky am I?”

“I don’t love you anymore,” you snap.

Lloyd gets up out of his seat and kneels down next to you and pushes the slit of your dress up. You’d had the heart filled in years ago, with dark black ink, but the LH is still there—slightly raised—if you know to look for it.

“You remember this day?” he asks you, and of course you do.

“I try not to.”

“I think about it all the time,” he says. “You were always so willing, so eager to please. Can I tell you a secret?”

“If you must.”

“You’re the only person that’s ever loved me like this.” On the this, he squeezes your thigh hard. “I always knew you were special, Porkchop, but that day… you proved it to me. You proved it to me so many times.”

“Oh, please,” you say, swatting his hand away. “You’ve never given a single shit how I felt about you or about anything at all.” You stand and take a step away from him and he rises to his feet. “Look, Lloyd. I’m here. I know what this is. I don’t need all this honey-tongued bullshit. Are you gonna fuck me or not, because frankly this is all a bit much, even for you.”

Lloyd shakes his head and huffs out a laugh. “And here I was trying to be nice,” he says.

“It doesn’t suit you,” you reply, and he smiles.

“Yeah, well, I gave it the old college try, now didn’t I?”

Before you have a chance to come up with some snappy reply, Lloyd has pulled you to your feet and his lips are on yours. His kiss makes you dizzy, as it always has, and when he lets you go he cocks his head with a satisfied smile on his face.

“He doesn’t kiss you like that, does he?”

“I told you I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Just answer the question and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

You sigh. “No,” you say, “he doesn’t. He doesn’t kiss me at all anymore, but you know that already. I’m not even gonna ask how the fuck you know…”

“Best not to,” he replies.

“So I get what I want now?” you ask. “Now why don’t I believe that?”

“I mean it,” he says. “What can I say, Porkchop? I feel bad for you. I know how much you need this, and let’s just say I’m feeling generous. Besides, I know what you like—what you really like—because it’s what I like, too.”

“And what is it that I like, Lloyd?”

He leans down and brushes his lips against your earlobe. “You like when I make it hurt,” he says. “You like it when I take control, when I use you like a fuckdoll, when I make you cry, when I make you scream.”

And, of course, he’s right. He knows what your body needs—he's always known, long before you even did. You’d been thinking about it, too—what you want from him this weekend. You’d spent the last two days asking yourself the question: If you only get one more night with Lloyd Hansen, how do you want it to go? You’d come up with an answer, but you never thought he’d actually let you pick. You were ok with that, though, because you’d take anything Lloyd gave you.

“So,” he asks. “What’ll it be? I’ve got all your favorite toys.”

You swallow deep, ashamed to ask for it even though you’ve done it before. It was his idea last time, because of course it was, but he’d somehow tapped into your darkest fantasy. He always just fucking knew.

“You remember that thing we did after the Halloween party your senior year?” you ask.

Lloyd chuckles darkly. “Of course I do. How could I forget? That want you want, Porkchop? You want me to force you? You want to pretend you don’t want it so bad I can smell it on you?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

“Alright,” he says, “but you remember the rules, right? I do whatever I want, I put it wherever I want, and I don’t stop, no matter what.”

You shudder at the memory of it—the way it felt to flirt with that kind of danger, to give up control completely and let him be the absolute worst version of himself. “I remember. I want it.”

Lloyd smirks at you as he runs his thumb across your lip. “You really haven’t changed at all, have you? Still my special girl. You ready?”

You are. You’re more than ready. You can’t remember a time when you weren’t waiting for this moment, to replay and relive one of the most terrifying, exhilarating nights of your life.

“OK, then. Let me go grab some things, get set up. Pour yourself a drink, Porkchop. You’re gonna need it.” Lloyd walks toward the foyer and stops at the foot of the ornate split staircase. “One more thing,” he says. “When I come back down these stairs, you don’t know me. You don’t know my name. You don’t know my face. I’m a stranger—the big, bad wolf—you got it?”

You call out your agreement. It’s not exactly the way it went the last time, but you’re more than willing to play along. It excites you if you’re honest. The last time you roleplayed this with Lloyd, it was more of a date rape scenario. The idea of him taking you as someone new and unknown already has you throbbing down below.

You pour yourself a tumbler of whiskey from a crystal decanter on the sideboard, your heels clicking on the hardwood floor as you pace and sip, pace and sip. It’s taking Lloyd longer than you’d expected, but maybe that’s a part of his game—to build up your anticipation and your fear, because now you don’t know who the hell is coming down those stairs. You’re intimately familiar with Lloyd Hansen’s brand of cruelty, but he wants to be someone else tonight. You realize you have no idea what he’s capable of and that it’s distinctly possible that, after years of honing his “security service” skills, he may have a few new tricks up his sleeve.

Lloyd won’t hurt me, you tell yourself. Lloyd would never really hurt me. But you don’t really know anymore, and it’s the not knowing that excites you.

You don’t hear him come up behind you; you just feel a hand around your mouth and a massive bicep around your neck as he lifts you off the ground and drags you toward the stairs. You kick your feet as they drag across the floor and your screams are muffled by his hand, and when he tosses you down on the carpeted staircase you see he’s wearing all black tactical gear, including a utility belt in which you can clearly see his gun, his knife, and… is that a fucking grenade?

“Scream and I’ll slit your throat, bitch,” he snaps, and when you look into his eyes they are ice cold. You open your mouth—not to scream, just to gasp—and he slaps you hard across the face. “Do not fucking test me.”

He binds your wrists behind your back with a zip tie and pulls you to your feet, yanking you up the stairs and down the hall to the bedroom. You’re already crying and you don’t even have to fake it because your body is terrified even if your mind is not. He swings you around and throws you on your ass on the bed, and that’s when you see the camera set up.

“Wh- what’s that for?”

He slaps you again, backhand this time, and you cry out.

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up,” he says. “Or do I have to gag you, too?”

“Please don’t do this,” you beg. “I’ll give you whatever you want. You want money? I have lots of money.”

Lloyd laughs. “I don’t need money,” he says.

“Then why are you doing this?”

“Because I’m bored,” he replies. “Now that’s enough fucking questions. I ask the goddamn questions, you got that?”

“Yes,” you reply.

“Yes, what?” he hisses.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good girl.” He releases his gun from its holster and pulls it out of his belt with one hand and unzips his fly with the other “Now here’s what’s going to happen. I’m gonna take my dick out and you’re gonna open your pretty mouth and you’re gonna choke on it until I cum.”

“Please don’t make me do this,” you cry.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “You’ll like it. I can tell what a dirty little whore you are.”

He’s already hard when he pulls his cock and balls out, and against the black fabric of his pants, they look even more terrifyingly large than usual. He takes a few slow steps towards you, his heavy cock bouncing as he walks, and he positions you so that the camera has the both of you in profile. He releases the safety on his gun and points it at your forehead.

“Open up, bitch. And if you even think about biting me I’ll blow a hole in your head and fuck that instead.”

You open your mouth for Lloyd, tasting your own tears as they fall down your face, and he grabs your head and shoves his cock inside roughly. You let him fuck your throat with his gun to your temple and you try not to think about the fact that he never put the safety back on. You gag on it, you choke on it, you drool all over yourself and you cry.

“Such a good little cocksucker,” he says. “I knew you would be.”

You can feel your rapid heartbeat in your cunt as he holds you against him, your nose pressed to his flesh as you cough around his dick. When he finally lets you go, you’re dizzy from lack of oxygen and you feel like you might hack up a lung. He just laughs that evil fucking laugh of his—the one that makes your blood run hot and cold at the same time.

“Too big for you, sweetheart? You used to something smaller?” You close your eyes as you feel the cold steel of his gun touch your face, leaving an icy trail as he drags the muzzle across your jaw. “Tell me, Sunshine, when’s the last time you got fucked?”

“S- Six months ago,” you stammer.

Lloyd tsk tsks and says, “Such a shame. Pretty little slut like you should be getting stuffed full every night. What kind of fucking loser did you marry, anyway? Letting all this good pussy go to waste.” Lloyd tilts your chin up with the barrel of the gun. “Tell me about him.”

“Wh- what?”

“Tell me about your husband.”

“Wh- why?” you ask, because this is not at all how you thought this was going to go. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Just an interested party,” he replies. “Now tell me, when your husband was fucking you, did you like it? Be honest, now.”

You sniffle a bit and shake your head.

“Use your words, Sunshine.”

“No,” you admit.

“That’s what I thought. I bet you’ve just been waiting for a guy like me to come along and give it to you nice and rough, haven’t you?”

“No,” you cry. “I don’t want to. Please, Sir.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you want,” he snaps. “You’re mine now, you got that? And before I’m done, all three of your holes are gonna be dripping with my cum and you’re gonna be begging me for more of it.”

“No!” you yell, but inside you’re screaming yes yes YES.

He slaps you across the face and then grabs you by the neck with one hand, the other still holding the gun. “Scream all you want. This is happening. Might as well try to enjoy it.”

Lloyd fucks your face again and finishes in your mouth, making you hold his load on your tongue and stare at the camera, your face absolutely wrecked from him, before swallowing it all down.

“Tastes good, right?” he says, but you don’t answer him because you know it’ll piss him off. Which, of course, it does, and he grabs you by the back of the neck and shoves your face even closer to the camera. “Say it. Say you love my cum.”

“I- I lo- I love it, Sir. I love your cum. It t- tastes so good.”

“That’s right.” He grabs you under the arms and tosses you back onto the bed. “Now since you’ve been so good, I’m gonna untie you, but if you try anything, I will fucking kill you. I’ll fuck a corpse. Don’t think that I won't.”

“I won’t, Sir. I’ll be good for you, I promise.”

“Alright then.”

He holsters his gun and takes his knife out to cut your zip-ties, and when you’re finally free you stretch out your arms and cradle your wrists where they burn. You look at him and he looks at you, and you know what he wants you to do. You dart off the bed and run towards the door, and when he catches you, you let out a primal scream so loud it rattles your ribcage.

Lloyd wraps his bicep around your neck and presses his knife to your cheek and you can feel it ghost the skin, threatening to break it. “You stupid bitch,” he hisses. “What the fuck did I say? And to think I was gonna go easy on you.”

He throws you on the bed and pounces on you, ripping your dress open down the middle. You thrash and kick beneath him but he’s straddling your hips with his full weight and he’s got both your wrists captured in one of his hands.

“Stop fucking squirming,” he barks, cutting your bra off you with his knife before slicing your panties off as well.

You’re yelling for help but softer now, not wanting any neighbors to mistake your current situation for anything other than two consenting adults having a bit of fun. But these walls are thick, the house is set back from the road and the neighbors aren’t very close. You know in your heart that no one can hear you—that Lloyd would want it that way.

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” Lloyd says, “and it’s going to hurt you, and when it does hurt you, I want you to remember that it’s your fucking fault. You could have just been a good little slut and taken my dick and fucking thanked me for it, because I know how goddamn desperate you are for a proper fuck, but noooo. You had to get brave. So now it’s gonna hurt you, but I bet you’re gonna like it anyway.”

Lloyd shoves your ruined panties in your mouth and you scream into them, tasting your own arousal on the fabric as he removes his utility belt and shoves his pants down to his knees. You squeeze your thighs tight but he wrenches your legs open and looks down at his prize.

“Pretty little pussy,” he says. “And you’re so fucking wet. I knew you wanted this.”

He spits on your pussy—not that you need any help in the lubrication department by this point—and he grabs the base of his cock.

“The harder you fight me, the harder I fuck you,” he says, lining himself up with your entrance. “And just so you know, I love it when bitches cry.”

With one hard snap of his hips, Lloyd spears into you with no mercy and you bite down hard on the fabric in your mouth as you take all of him. It’s been years since you’ve felt Lloyd inside you but your pussy remembers him like it was yesterday. The burn and stretch doesn’t last long, your body—so desperate for him—molds itself to accommodate his length and girth, and within a minute he’s got you clawing at the sheets and curling your toes. You know you’re supposed to be fighting him, that that’s the game you both wanted to play, but every cell in your body wants this and you can’t force your body to pretend otherwise.

“So fucking wet for me,” he says in between his harsh, deep thrusts. “Hubby can’t fuck you like this, can he?”

You mumble garbled nonsense into the panties in your mouth and Lloyd laughs down at you.

“This what you want, you dumb slut? Just a big fat cock and a rough fuck and all the fight goes right out of you? Just a stupid cockdrunk little whore with a pathetic limp-dicked loser for a husband?”

Your eyes roll back in your head and you claw at his shoulders as he starts hitting it just right.

“You gonna cum, bitch? You gonna come all over my cock?”

You shake your head and you keen into your gag, wishing so desperately he would take it out so you could say all the things you want to say to him—how big he is, how good he fucks you, how hard he’s going to make you cum, how much you love him. But all you can do is make feral, animal sounds as he fucks you roughly through your orgasm. But he’s not done yet—not even close—and he flips you onto your stomach and pulls you up onto your knees and he starts all over again from the back. He’s got your face pressed into the mattress as he fucks you stupid with the roughest, deepest backshots he’s ever given you. You’ve basically left your body at this point; you’re just a fuckdoll for him to toss around and it feels so fucking good but all you can do is whimper into your gag and pray that this feeling never ends, that he doesn’t leave you again.

“Gonna fill up this tight little pussy,” he says. “Pump you so full of my cum you’ll be leaking me for days.”

You moan when you feel Lloyd’s cock jump and start to pulse inside of you, feel how much wetter you are as your juices combine, and you grip him tight with all the strength you can muster as he cums because all you want to hear is that fucking sound he makes when you pull that move out on him. He curses as his hips stutter, and you know that if you could see his face, he’d be wearing that beautiful, blissed-out look he gets when you hold him tight inside you after he finishes. It’s the only time that Lloyd Hansen looks innocent, angelic even. It’s your favorite sight in the entire world.

But you don’t get to see it, because he pulls out of you with a lewd squelch and slaps you hard on the ass.

“That’s two holes full,” he says. “I’ll be nice and give you a minute before I take number 3. And, Sunshine, just so you know, I don’t have any lube.”

***

The months before your wedding day were a whirlwind. You probably should have waited, but when Michael asked you to marry him the morning you both graduated from Harvard Law, you didn’t hesitate to say yes. You think you really must have loved him then; you’d been together for almost three years and he was wonderful to you—always so sweet and thoughtful, emotionally present and available. He was, you thought, the kind of guy you were supposed to marry. He was everything you thought a life partner should be.

In the two years between when Lloyd left you and when you met Michael, you’d thrown yourself into your studies and stayed away from relationships altogether. You stuck to one-night stands: just empty sex with guys you knew were bad news—older men you met in bars mostly, who you knew would be more than willing to fuck you rough and leave before sunrise—but it never brought you the satisfaction you’d hoped it would. Even when the sex was good, you always felt worse in the cold light of day. Because none of those guys were him, they never could be.

Your GPA was flawless, though. You made sure of that.

Your senior year of undergrad you started going to therapy and it helped. You were forced to acknowledge things you already knew deep down, but hearing them said out loud—and saying them out loud yourself—was the first step towards finally moving on from what you’d come to consider the Lloyd Hansen era. You finally told Shay everything that year, and though she was furious with you at first for keeping all those horrible secrets when she knew she could have helped you, she understood you were trapped in a horrible situation. Between your shrink and your best friend, you finally started working through all that dark shit you’d been holding onto for so long. You finally put Lloyd in the rearview, stopped hoping he would seek you out when he came back to campus (which he did on occasion, always for The Game, and a few other times, too).

By the time you started your first year of law school, you’d finally accepted what Lloyd had told you years ago: he didn’t want you anymore. It was over.

So you let Michael take you out a few times, and he was always a perfect gentleman. You could tell he really liked you, and he was patient with you when you told him that you wanted to take things slow. He waited months for you to be ready to sleep with him, and when you finally did and it wasn’t what you wanted it to be, you told yourself—maybe this is what normal is. Maybe this is what sex is supposed to be. Maybe you were just so broken you didn’t know how to enjoy it anymore. You worked through that with your shrink, too, and after a year or so, you got used to the monotony of it. Sure, the sex was mediocre at best, but you decided to give Michael a chance—to try something different, someone different who was the exact opposite of the man who’d destroyed you so many times (and the men you’d sought out to replace him).

In those early years, you never asked Michael for the things you really wanted because it felt like a betrayal—like you were trying to turn him into Lloyd, like you’d be defiling him in some way if you brought any of that into your bed. Your therapist had told you that your sexual desires were perfectly normal, that there was nothing wrong with wanting to be dominated or engaging in BDSM practices that were safe, sane, and consensual. You’d come to understand exactly how wrong and dangerous Lloyd’s way was, and what it should have been like, but you still couldn’t bring yourself to ask Michael for even the simplest of things: to tie you to the headboard or blindfold you or give you even the lightest of spankings. Because that wasn’t him and you knew it, and you couldn’t divorce your desire for those things from your desire for Lloyd.

It wouldn’t have been enough for you anyway. You didn’t want safe, sane, and consensual. You craved the pain and the danger, and you knew that Michael would never, ever hurt you. So you convinced yourself that it was all ok, that your boring, vanilla sex life was something you needed after what you’d experienced, that it would be good for you in the end.

And Michael made you happy, he made you feel safe and secure and loved. He never missed an opportunity to tell you and show you how much he loved you, and you knew that he meant every word he said. Michael never lied to you, never manipulated you, and (in his own way) he made you feel special. He made you feel like a partnership with him could one day heal everything that was wrong with you, that his love might be able to kill the cancer that still lived inside you—dormant but always waiting.

So of course you’d said yes. How could you not?

Your wedding day should have been the best day of your life—that’s what people always say, right? You should have felt joyful and excited and ready to start your life’s next chapter, but you woke up that morning in your suite at the Fairmont a total ball of nerves. You and Michael had decided to get married at one of the nicest hotels in Boston, just 5 miles from your alma mater, and all your friends and family were staying at the hotel with you. You’d had your rehearsal dinner at Toscano the night before and you’d never seen Michael so happy, and when you’d said goodnight to him on the brick sidewalk outside the restaurant, a slight chill in the late-September night air, he took your face in his hands and kissed you and said, “I can’t wait for you to be my wife.”

You’d returned to the hotel early, leaving him to a night out with his best friends from high school. His oldest and closest friends from his small town in upstate New York were spread out around the country now and they rarely all got together, and you wanted to get your beauty sleep anyway. You’d insisted on separate rooms so that Michael didn’t see you until the wedding—you weren’t particularly superstitious but you didn’t want to chance it, and you would be having your mom and bridesmaids coming to your suite early to start getting ready anyway.

You woke up the morning of your wedding in a cold sweat, unable to remember the details of your dream but knowing that it was a nightmare. Your anxiety sat in the pit of your stomach from the moment you opened your eyes and coffee only made it worse. You threw up your room-service breakfast in the toilet before showering and preparing for everyone to arrive in your suite. In all your planning, you were most excited about this time—getting professional hair and makeup with your mom and your friends in the suite, drinking mimosas and listening to music and laughing—but now that it was here, you really just wanted to be alone.

You heard a knock at the door and Shay’s cheery voice ringing out. “Morning, Sunshine!”

You shuddered at the nickname, but she didn’t know—she couldn’t. Still, it brought back just a sliver of your nightmare: Lloyd, hovering over you, your neck trapped between his strong hands as he squeezed.

“I’ll be right there,” you call out, grabbing your robe and trying to pull yourself together—to put on your happy, blushing bride face for your best friend so she had no clue what was really going on inside you.

She tackled you the second you swung open the door, and she was exuding all the excitement you knew you should be feeling. You smiled at her, bright and bubbly as you could muster, but she knew you too well.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Just nerves,” you replied, and it wasn’t exactly a lie.

You were a nervous, jittery wreck, but it wasn’t the natural state of an excited bride-to-be. You had the nerves of someone on the verge of a life-changing decision that you knew, in your heart, was a mistake. You couldn’t have articulated that then, of course, but deep down you knew. Maybe you always knew.

“It’ll pass,” Shay said, patting you sweetly on the back. “Everyone is nervous on their wedding day.”

“I know,” you told her—but not like this, you thought.

Soon your mother and the rest of your bridesmaids arrived, and you were distracted by the chatter and the hair and makeup and the several mimosas you drank.

“You should slow down a little, sweetheart,” your mom advised you gently. “It’s gonna be a long day.”

But you needed something to take the edge off, and the alcohol was helping to loosen you up and quiet the voice in your head telling you to run screaming from that room.

You picked at the fruit plate and the crudité set out in the suite’s living room. You laughed with Shay as she got her makeup done and told you some story about her fiance’s terrible taste in jewelry and how it took him three tries to get the ring right. (You’d picked out your own ring; Michael had insisted you get exactly what you wanted.) If you were honest, you were more excited for Shay’s wedding, more joyful about her upcoming union than you were your own.

When it was time to get your dress on, you almost threw up again. It took three people to get you into it: the sparkly tulle ballgown of your dreams, with a sweetheart neckline and off-shoulder sleeves. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, your hair and makeup flawless and your white dress perfectly fitted and pristine, it took everything you had in you not to start bawling. Your mother saw you starting to tear up, your chest rising and falling quickly beneath the tight corset that left you little room to breathe. She took it all as being overwhelmed by good emotions—she didn’t know then (nor have you ever told her a thing) about Lloyd Hansen—and she smiled as she stood behind you and handed you a handkerchief.

“Don’t cry, you’ll mess your makeup!” she said.

You managed to rein in the tears, though the panic was spreading out from your chest and pulsing through the rest of your body. Shay came up next to you and grabbed your hand softly.

“What do you need?” she asked.

“I- I just need some time alone, I think. There’s a lot of bodies in here and it’s getting really hot and I just… I need time.”

“You got it,” she replied. “Ladies, we’re gonna finish up hair and makeup in my suite, ok?”

The pros you’d hired looked a bit miffed to have to pack up and set up somewhere else, and you made a note to tip them extra for their trouble, but you couldn’t fucking breathe and you wanted another mimosa or two (hold the orange juice) alone with your thoughts before the ceremony, which was only an hour away. Your mom took a bit of convincing to go, but Shay was something of a parent whisperer and always knew the right thing to say.

And so, 45 minutes before you were set to walk down the aisle towards Michael and the future you were pretty sure you didn’t want, you found yourself alone in your massive suite, in full wedding regalia, drinking champagne from the bottle and staring into space. It was a little easier to quell the panic alone, without having to play pretend for a room full of people. By the time you finished the bottle, you desperately needed to pee and you cursed yourself for choosing aesthetics over comfort when it came to your dress, but somehow you managed to gather up the layers of tulle on your own. You returned to the main room of the suite, already stumbling a bit and you weren’t even in your heels yet, and prepared to open another bottle of bubbly when you heard the beep of a key swiping in the door and the sound of the lock unlatching.

“I need a minute!” you yelled, grabbing the empty champagne bottle off the couch and looking for a place to stash it.

That’s when you heard it—that same maniacal cackle you’d heard in your dream.

“Really, Porkchop? You’re wearing white? That’s rich.”

You were frozen in place, staring at the city of Boston out the floor-to-ceiling windows and praying you were either hallucinating or dead and at the gates of Hell. But then you felt the heat of him behind you, saw his reflection towering over yours in the window. You were only surprised that a part of you wasn’t surprised at all.

“I don’t suppose telling you to leave will do any good,” you said, still not turning around.

“No, I don’t suppose it will,” he replied.

Lloyd ran his fingers across your bare shoulder, toying with the strap of your dress before letting his fingers travel down your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps on your skin. You wanted to scream, shout, be angry, but you found that you weren’t. Not at all.

You watched him in the window, impeccably dressed in a bespoke black tuxedo, as he leaned over and put his lips next to your neck. “You look beautiful,” he said. “I knew you would. Such a shame you’re wasting all this on a spineless fucking loser.”

You laughed then—a full belly laugh that you couldn’t get a hold of. You laughed until tears were streaming from your face and your fake eyelashes and eye makeup were fucked. You laughed harder than you’ve ever laughed in your life—before or since.

“What’s so funny, Porkchop? I mean, I know what I think is funny, but what’s got you so tickled?”

You caught your breath and you swung around to face him, your princess skirt twirling in a circle around you as you stepped to him. “You. You, Lloyd,” you said. “You’re such a fucking drama queen, showing up here half an hour before my wedding when we haven’t spoken in years. What is wrong with you?”

Lloyd scoffed. “Laugh all you want, but I came here to do you a fuckin favor.”

You roll your eyes. “This’ll be good. What favor is that, Lloyd? What completely selfless act have you come here today to do?”

“I never said it was selfless,” he tells you darkly, “but I came here to tell you not to marry this guy. He’s… not good for you.”

You blow a raspberry and put your hands on your hips. “You are fucking shitting me, right? I know you of all fucking people are not here telling me who is good for me and who isn’t.”

“The irony isn’t lost on me, Porkchop. Believe me. But I’m actually telling you the truth, and I think a part of you knows I’m right.”

You tried to keep it off your face but he saw it. Of course he saw it—that flash in your eyes, that admission of the truth you’d been trying so hard to ignore. Lloyd grabbed you by the upper arm and pulled you close to him.

“So you do know,” he said. “Smart girl. Now what’re you gonna do about it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lied, but you knew he could feel your blood pumping hard and hot in your veins. “You need to leave. Everyone will be back soon.”

“Who? Your mother? Shay? The other wedding accessories? They’re not coming back. Nobody’s coming, Porkchop. It’s just you and me.”

“Wh- what did you do, Lloyd?”

“Relax,” he said, letting go of your arm and grabbing the unopened bottle of champagne out of the bucket. “Everyone’s fine. They all got a text from you telling them not to come back up, that you’ll meet them downstairs when you’re ready.”

“How the-”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “We have more pressing things to discuss, like your choice of groom.” Lloyd popped the champagne bottle and you jumped at the sound of it. “A little jittery, aren’t you? It’s almost like you’re having second thoughts.”

Lloyd took a swig from the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before holding the bottle out to you.

“Drink up,” he said. “I know you need it to get through this fucking charade.”

“Fuck you!” you shouted, because he was right and you hated that he was right but he just knew you better than anyone and it still pissed you off.

You took a sip and put the bottle down on the coffee table. “Why are you really here, Lloyd? Because I know you don’t give a shit who I marry or what I do with my life. You made that pretty fucking clear, so why? Is it just to torture me? Did you wake up bored this morning and decide to come ruin my day for fun? How did you even know I’d be here, anyway?”

“I saw the engagement announcement in the Alumni Bulletin,” he replied, “and I was just so disappointed, Porkchop. I mean, this guy? Really?”

“You don’t even know him,” you snapped.

“No, but I do know his father, and if the apple falls anywhere near the tree…”

Michael’s father, who you’d always just referred to as The Senator, wasn’t a particularly warm man, but he’d always been nice enough to you.

“What is that supposed to mean?” you asked, actually curious.

“He’s dirty,” Lloyd says. “How do you think they’re paying for this six-figure wedding? Why do you think you have half of Washington on your guest list?

You rolled your eyes and took another swig of champagne. “All politicians are dirty, Lloyd. Who the fuck cares? And Michael isn’t interested in politics.”

Lloyd chuckled. “He says that now. But wait, let me guess: he wants to be some sort of do-gooder lawyer and champion the little guy, right?”

You nodded, trying to muster all the sanctimony you could, but your heart wasn’t really in it and you could tell it showed.

“Let me tell you what’s going to happen, Porkchop—what your future is going to look like. If you marry this douchebag, he’s going to come up with some excuse to take whatever cushy job Daddy sets up for him. In a few years, he’s going to switch gears and work as a lobbyist for Big Pharma or Oil & Gas or some other soul-sucking industry you absolutely despise. Then, once Daddy retires, he’s going to take up the mantle and keep the family legacy alive. You’ll squeeze out a couple of brats along the way, stop working, and you’ll end up a crooked politician’s wife—bored out of your fucking mind, doing nothing and contributing nothing and being absolutely, mind-numbingly miserable.”

“Wow,” you said. “That’s quite the fiction you’ve created in your head, Lloyd. You’ve been thinking about this pretty hard, huh?”

Lloyd took two long strides toward you, trapping you between his broad body and the backside of the couch. “Don’t fucking marry him,” he said, his voice more serious than you’d ever heard it. “It’s a mistake.”

“Why the fuck would I ever listen to you? Why would I ever think that you have my best interest in mind? This is just some fucking game to you, Lloyd, but this is my life.”

“Exactly,” he replied, his hands curling around your wrists, “which is why I’m not gonna let you throw it away.” You tried to pull your hands away but he gripped you tighter. “Look at me, Porkchop. You look into my eyes and you tell me I’m playing a game with you. Go ahead. Look.”

When you stared into Lloyd’s blue eyes, they were stormy and angry and a little bit feral but they were honest. It was the same look he always gave you when he told you he was going to hurt you and you were going to like it—no lies detected. But it wasn’t enough. Lloyd couldn’t just show up at the eleventh hour with some narrative about your inevitably terrible future and convince you to call off your wedding (even if some part of you already wanted to). No, if he really wanted you to pull a runaway bride, he had to give you something to run towards.

“Tell me why you really don’t want me to marry Michael,” you demand.

“I already did.”

“That wasn’t good enough,” you said. “If you really don’t want me to marry him, you need to do better than that.”

Lloyd ran his hand across your hair and down your cheek before tilting your chin up at him. “Don’t. Fucking. Marry. Him,” he said, his lips dangerously close to yours. “He’s never going to be enough for you. He’s never going to be what you want.”

Those were the magic words—the words you’d heard in your head, in Lloyd’s voice, for years—and you let out a whimper as he put his thumb to your lips and dragged it across them, smearing your bright lipstick across your cheek. He dropped his head down and dragged his tongue up your neck, stopping just below your ear and whispering, “Tell me to stop, Porkchop. Go on. I’ll stop if that’s what you really want.”

But you didn’t. Of course you didn’t.

Lloyd bit your earlobe, tugging at the 2-carat diamond stud he found there. Your breath hitched as he pressed his hard body against you, and when his lips captured yours, you opened up for him. He kissed you hard and deep, grunting into your mouth, and when he wrapped his hand around your neck to pull you closer, your legs started to give out. Before you even knew what was happening, Lloyd had you up and over his shoulder like you weighed nothing, and he carried you into the bedroom and tossed you down on the mattress. Your makeup was already fucked and now your hair was fucked and you knew he was about to ruin your dress, too.

“Don’t rip it,” you begged.

“Don’t worry, Porkchop,” he said, whipping his suit jacket off and tossing it in the corner. “I’m gonna fuck you while you’re still wearing it.”

Lloyd stood at the edge of the bed, loosening his bowtie and unbuttoning his white dress shirt and taking off his belt. He saw you eyeing the black leather and he smirked down at you. “Still the same little pain slut, I see.”

Your mind was racing with all the things he could do to you with that belt but he just tossed it on the floor before shucking off his pants and kicking them away. He hadn’t bothered to wear briefs, and for the first time in years you were eye-level with Lloyd Hansen’s glorious cock. Was it possible it had gotten even bigger, or were you just so used to Michael’s average-sized member that it just looked like a monster? It didn’t matter, because you had dreamed about it for so long and now it was here right in front of you—in all its fat-headed, angry-veined glory—and you needed to feel it in your mouth again.

You crawled toward the edge of the bed as he grabbed the base and put on hand on the back of your head, guiding it into your open mouth, and when the taste of him hit your tongue you moaned loud and lascivious.

“You miss this dick?” he asked, and you nodded and groaned as you took him deeper, not wanting to waste any time getting him down your throat where he belonged. You gagged on him and pressed past the point of discomfort until your nose was pressed against his well-trimmed hair. “Fuck, Porkchop. It sure missed you.”

You put your hands on his narrow hips to brace yourself as you let him fuck your face, your already wrecked makeup becoming more defiled by the minute as it mixed with your tears and your drool. Your cunt was soaked and throbbing and lonely under the endless layers of tulle and you wished yet again that your dress was more user-friendly, but you couldn’t help but get off on the fact that Lloyd wanted to debauch you in it—that this is what he really came for, that even after all this time he couldn’t stand the idea of you marrying another man and he couldn’t stop himself from showing up to put an end to it.

As he breached your throat over and over again, you thought: He loves me, he really loves me.

Lloyd put the heel of his hand to your forehead and pushed you off him and you coughed as you crawled up the bed and grabbed one of the pristine white hotel pillows to wipe your face clean. It came away with a smeared imprint like a disfigured clown face and you had to stifle a laugh. Lloyd didn’t like it when you laughed.

He felt around under the hem of your dress until he found your ankles, then pulled you down towards the edge of the bed and tossed the layers of tulle up onto your stomach and chest, and you placed your hands on top of them to push them down and get a better look at him. You wanted to watch him push himself inside you, watch as your pussy took him back in and welcomed him home. He grabbed your turquoise thong at the hips and ripped it off you—there went your something blue—and he ran his fingers across your sopping entrance.

“How long you been this wet for me, huh? I bet you were dripping the second I walked in the door. Slutty little cunt knows Daddy’s home, doesn’t she?”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Fuck me, Lloyd. Oh, God, please fuck me. I need it so bad.”

“I knew you did. I could fucking smell it on you. So goddamn desperate for my dick. Always were. Always will be.”

Lloyd pushed just the tip inside and you moaned as you clenched around him, but he took it away from you just as quick as he gave it. You whined at the emptiness and he laughed at you.

“Ah ah ah,” he said. “You know what to do, Porkchop.”

“Please, Lloyd,” you begged. “I need to feel you inside of me please.”

He slapped your clit with the heavy head of it before teasing you with the tip again and taking it away. He wore a sinister smile as he said, “Not good enough.”

“Fuck me, Lloyd. Please fuck me. I’ll be such a good little whore for you if you fuck me.”

He gave you a little more this time before ripping your pleasure away from you.

“One more try. You can do it.”

You knew what he wanted you to say, so you said it.

“I won’t marry him,” you cried out. “I won’t. I promise.”

“That’s right,” he said. “Because you’re mine, Porkchop. Your body, your heart, your fucking soul—it’s all mine, and I’ll take it whenever the fuck I want it.”

Lloyd slid inside you to the hilt and you both moaned at the reunion. Your body wasn’t used to the size of him anymore and the burn of it was such sweet agony that your eyes rolled back in your head and you heard him huff out a laugh.

“Still so fuckin tight, goddamn. Poor Mikey’s got a pencil dick, huh? I bet you can’t even feel that shit. Well, you’re gonna feel this.” He pulled all the way out and slammed back inside you. “You’re gonna feel me for days.”

Lloyd fucked you rough and deep with your ankles on his shoulders, pounding your cervix so hard you saw white behind your eyes with each thrust. The pain was like a balm to you after all the years of nothingness—all that boring, ordinary, normal sex you were supposed to like and pretended to like and told yourself you’d one day come to like. It was all lies; you knew it then and you certainly knew it now with Lloyd’s balls slapping against your ass, his rhythm like the rat-tat-tat-tat of a machine gun as he pounded you into the mattress with one hand around your throat and the other working your clit to completion. You were buried beneath a mountain of fabric, your tits straining against your corset and popping out like muffin tops, and you could barely breathe between the tightness of the dress and Lloyd’s fingers squeezing your neck and each vicious thrust punching the air out of you.

“Cum for me,” he snapped, his fingers rubbing your clit in harsh circles. “Cum on my dick. Now. I wanna feel it.”

You were already on the edge, and when he squeezed your neck tighter, you started to pulse and gush around him. Your windpipe pressed nearly closed, you squeaked out your pleasure as your walls clenched around him and he made that sound he always made when he felt your pussy gripping and releasing him as it soaked him.

“Pussy’s crying for me, Porkchop. She fuckin missed me. You miss me?”

You nodded because you couldn’t speak, and Lloyd let go of your neck.

“I can’t hear you,” he said.

“I missed you, Lloyd. Fuck, I missed you so much.

“Bet you never stopped thinking about me, did you?”

“Never,” you cried. “I- oh fuck, Lloyd. Don’t stop.”

His thrusts were growing more shallow now, and he was rolling his hips and hitting your spot with every pass. “Say it, Porkchop,” he said. “Fucking say it.”

“I… I… ohmygod fuck… I love you. I fucking love you, Lloyd. I’ve always loved you. Oh, fuck.”

He laughed as you came again, and he fucked you through it, telling you, “That’s it, Porkchop. That’s my dumb little slut. So stupid for this dick. Fuckin cockdrunk for it. You love me? You fucking love me? I treat you like the stupid whore you are and you love me?”

“Yes,” you cried.

“That’s a shame,” he said, his strokes going deeper and building to his own end. “Because the only man here who loves you is downstairs getting cucked right now.”

Your eyes shot open and met Lloyd’s and the cruelty in them put ice in your veins.

“What?” he said, quirking an eyebrow. “You thought I was here to sweep you off your feet? I came here to tell you not to fuck up your life—to do you a fuckin favor. Well, two favors I guess. Seems like you really needed this.” You started to cry as his hips snapped faster. “And since I know you’re still gonna marry that loser, at least now I know you’ll do it with my cum dripping down your thighs.”

Lloyd pressed your legs to your chest and you thought your corset was going to squeeze the life out of you as he came with a few deep thrusts. When he was done, you lay there crying as he dropped your legs and started to gather his clothes. You wanted to scream at him how much you hated him, tell him that as hard as he’d tried he wasn’t going to destroy the life you’d been working so hard to rebuild, but all you could do was sob. He’d broken you, again, and you’d let him, again. You knew then it was never going to end. There was no bright happy future for you. There was no normal life waiting for you at the end of the aisle in the ballroom downstairs. You’d destroyed your marriage before it had even begun, and you had no one to blame but yourself.

Lloyd leaned over you and smiled that vicious little smile of his. “Have a nice life, Porkchop,” he said. “And I’ll tell you what—if you get knocked up again, you can keep this one. Consider it my wedding gift to you.”

Lloyd kissed you gently—his lips as soft and tender as his words were harsh and cruel—and he waltzed out of your suite and out of your life once again. When you heard the door close behind him, you looked at the clock: it was ten past five, and you were officially late for your own wedding. You dragged yourself to the bathroom and took in the state of yourself; your hair and makeup were completely destroyed, but your dress (though disheveled) was still in one piece.

With a deep breath in and out, you made a decision—the show must go on, because who were you now if it didn’t? You took every second of the past hour and you sat with it for one long painful minute, playing it out like a movie in your head, and then you swallowed it down and you buried it. None of it happened. It was a bad dream, your worst nightmare, but now you were awake.

You texted Shay that you would be downstairs in 15 minutes—told her you’d gotten sick to your stomach and needed to freshen up but that, no, you didn’t need her help. You washed your face clean and put on a fresh face of makeup. You redid your hair to the best of your own ability, changing the style to something you could manage on your own. You straightened your dress and dug out a fresh pair of underwear, wiping as much evidence of Lloyd off you and out of you as you could before pissing the potential UTI away and putting them on.

And then you went downstairs and you married Michael with a big, bright smile on your face as your body started to unwrap Lloyd’s present.

PART FIVE >>>

#lloyd hansen fanfiction #lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen x you #lloyd hansen #chris evans #chris evans characters #the gray man #special girl

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