GOJO SATORU: ONE FOR THE MONEY, TWO FOR THE SHOW
✩ ‧ ˚. synopsis: you and satoru, your fake boyfriend, have awards to accept and places to be. so how'd you two end up fucking in a bathroom? NSFW
contents: fem!reader. semi-public sex, p –> v, blowjob, unprotected sex, creampie, praise, you two get walked in on at the end (kinda). references hungry for more. not proofread, ignore any minor mistakes. 3.5K words.
“you two are so cute together,” the interviewer sighs, looking at you and satoru in turn. “please, tell us more about your relationship!”
satoru laughs, resting his hand on your back and pulling you into his side. you put on a smile and instinctually put a hand on his chest, pretending not to notice the way he stiffens up at the contact. “where do i even begin?” satoru asks dryly, turning and looking down at you affectionately, and he’s almost a good enough actor for you to believe there’s any real emotion behind those cold blue eyes.
two weeks ago, satoru’s media team came to you with a request for you two to start dating as a way of gaining more attention from your fans. naturally, you declined—it’s not like you’d gain anything from the deal but the burden of being paraded around on the arm of the man you hated—satoru gojo, the cocky son of some famous actor in the 90’s. but after multiple increases in the amount of money satoru’s team was willing to throw at you, you finally agreed under the condition that this arrangement would end the second you wanted it to.
“i’m sure you’ve seen our latest movie on netflix,” satoru starts, looking back up at the interviewer, whose eyes have practically turned into hearts. “the one with the serial killer, yeah? well, it started from there and just grew into more.”
“i guess you could say the attraction on the screen wasn’t all acting,” you add with a knowing smile. good thing you were a decent enough actor to pretend as if you weren’t just lying through your teeth, otherwise the millions of dollars in your bank account would all be gone.
the interviewer laughs and turns to the camera, saying something about how the chemistry between you and satoru was what really made the movie a hit—in fact, it might even be the reason you’re both getting nominated for best actor and actress.
“well, if you’d excuse us, i think we should get back to the party,” satoru jumps in, nodding his head at the interviewer in thanks. he removes his hand from your back as you follow him to the main area, weaving through crowds of fans and interviewers on his way there. you walk at his side, heels clacking against the freshly polished floor. satoru dips his head and whispers, “hold my hand.”
you scrunch up your nose and shake your head. “no thanks, it’s not like anyone’s watching right now. it’s way too crowded.”
“just do it,” satoru mutters, grabbing your hand anyways. when you start to pull away, he fixes you with a stern look and adds, “they’ll think something’s wrong if you don’t.”
“ugh, fine.”
two hours pass, filled with other actors’ remarks on how good you and satoru make as a couple. suguru geto, one of satoru’s close friends who had played a cult leader in a recent documentary even said that you might be the girl who could fix satoru. yeah, right.
“so, when do awards start?” you ask satoru, swirling your drink and relishing the sound of the ice clacking against the side of the glass. he shrugs and takes a swig from his own cup, which looks suspiciously like apple cider disguised as champagne. “really? you’re nominated for like, four awards, and you don’t even know when you’re getting them?”
satoru laughs carelessly and looks you up and down, eyes lingering on the short cut of your dress. “at this point, i’ve got so many awards that it doesn’t even matter anymore. and by the way, you look really good in that dress. oh, wait, didn’t i buy it for you?”
“you’re not smooth.”
“then why am i nominated for best actor, huh?”
“because the system’s absolute shit, obviously. otherwise toji would win every time.”
satoru groans and drinks the last couple sips of his drink, rolling his eyes. “don’t even mention that piece of shit.” you shrug in response, hiding your smile behind your glass. a couple years back, satoru had lost a role to toji and to his despair, the movie did really well, despite what he’d promised to the producers who had turned him down. and it looks like he’s still bitter over that, and all of a sudden, the perfect plan to piss satoru off appears in your head.
“look, it’s toji right there!” you gasp, setting down your drink and hopping off your seat, walking over to toji while ignoring satoru’s warnings. “oh, hi, i’m a big fan,” you say to the tall, well-built man, smiling bashfully. toji turns and looks down at you, raising an eyebrow and smiling.
“hey, pretty, you’re the girl in that movie with the serial killer, yeah?” he asks, crossing his arms. you nod and internally marvel at how tall he is—especially compared to satoru, who, by any standards, is pretty damn tall. toji looks you up and down, taking his sweet time drinking in the way your dress hugs your figure. “that scene in the alley was really fuckin’ good,” toji adds conversationally. “you’re definitely winnin’ best actress for that.”
anyone who’s watched the movie knows that the scene he’s referring to is the one where you get fucked by satoru against a dark alley wall—and you’ve seen enough edits of the scene to know exactly why it’s getting all the hype.
“aw, thanks,” you say coyly, resting a hand on your hip and tilting your head. “y’know, i’ve always wanted to star in a movie with you,” you continue, hearing satoru come up behind you in the background. you ignore the sickeningly obvious way he clears his throat and flutter your eyelashes at toji, who’s eying you with interest.
“i’d like that. i can probably pull some strings,” toji replies with a smirk. his dark eyes flicker from you to satoru and his smile turns almost patronizing. “and who’s this?”
“her boyfriend. and i really hate to interrupt this friendly chat, but she’s not up for grabs,” satoru snaps, wrapping an arm around your waist and dragging you back to your spot at the bar. you shoot satoru an indignant glare, but receive no reply besides his tightening jaw. toji laughs and waves you off, mouthing “call me” at you when you turn back apologetically.
satoru drags you by the hand to one of the bathrooms, shoving open the door with the side of his arm and pulling you inside. there’s a long, shiny counter, which you become very familiar with once your fake boyfriend hoists you up and sits you on it. “the fuck was that?” satoru hisses, narrowing his eyes accusingly.
“what, we were just talki—”
“i don’t like the way he was looking at you,” satoru interrupts, crossing his arms tensely. he fixes you with a cold stare and you fidget uncomfortably with the hem of your dress, which you now realize is rather short.
“okay, and?” you reply irritably, starting to get annoyed by the way satoru keeps patronizing you. “it’s not like we’re even dating, gojo,” you snap, emphasizing the use of his last name.
“yeah? well, i don’t need my ‘girlfriend’ slutting herself out to the guy everyone knows i hate,” satoru fires back, taking a step forward. his palms rest on the counter on either side of your exposed legs, and you suddenly notice how red satoru’s face is. the flush in his cheeks wasn’t as noticeable underneath the bar’s dim lights, but here, it’s rather obvious.
“are you jealous?” you ask incredulously, unable to suppress the cheeky smile that finds itself on your face. satoru’s jaw slackens and his eyes widen, and that’s enough of a sign for you to confirm it—satoru gojo, your fake boyfriend, is jealous. he doesn’t reply immediately, so you laugh, throwing back your head and giggling at the way satoru’s petty rivalry seems to be only one of the reasons he was so eager to get you away from toji. “aw, that’s so cute, but we aren’t even dating, sweetheart,” you coo, reaching out and caressing the side of satoru’s face.
he instantly swats your hand away, rolling his eyes at your laughter. “well, we still have to act like it, you idiot,” he mutters, leaning over you and eying the low neckline of your dress. you instinctively cross your arms and glare at him, and satoru only cocks an eyebrow in return. “so, if we were actually dating, do y’know what i’d be doing right now?”
“what?” you decide to humor him.
satoru’s demeanor completely changes at your question, going from pissed and flushed red to almost playful.
“this.”
and just like that, satoru slips his slender fingers underneath the bottom of your dress and pulls it up, exposing your black, lacy panties.
“gojo, what the—”
“shh, it’s all for the show,” he whispers teasingly, brushing one finger against the warm skin of your thigh. you involuntarily shiver from his touch, and against all rational impulse, find yourself wanting more.
in the acting community, satoru was well-known for being a stuck-up brat, and when you two had first announced your relationship, plenty of actors doubted it. after all, how could you, the classy it-girl of the movie industry, date an asshole like satoru? but even you were surprised at how easily people started to believe it when you two interacted in front of them. you’ve been told that you two had a rather unexpected burst of chemistry together, and that your relationship might actually make it.
what a shame.
satoru hooks his fingers underneath the waistband of your panties and tugs them down, raising an eyebrow when you don’t protest. he maintains eye contact with you as he slides your panties down your thighs, exposing your embarrassingly-wet cunt. satoru looks almost as surprised as you do at how soaked you are, even as he runs two fingers over your slit before sliding them in. you hate how good it feels—it’s been a while since you got a chance to sleep with another man, especially since you’ve been stuck with satoru for the past two weeks.
“shit, you’re so fuckin’ wet,” satoru murmurs, scoffing in mild disbelief as he meets your eyes and smiles. he curls his fingers upwards, causing your thighs to reflexively close before satoru reopens them. “so, wanna explain, sweetheart?” he tsks, tapping your thigh with his other hand.
you make a face and look away, cheeks heating up the longer satoru waits for a response. “it’s probably from toji,” you snap back after a moment. satoru laughs sarcastically, shaking his head almost condescendingly and pulling out his fingers.
“nice try, hon,” he says sweetly, lifting his fingers to his mouth and licking off your slick in one smooth motion. satoru exhales heavily and swallows, taking his time in doing so. “want me to go grab toji to join us?” satoru asks, forcing a smile on his lips. “i’m sure he’d love to watch you beg—”
“shut it, gojo,” you interrupt, swatting away his hand, which somehow found its way back in between your thighs. “we have an award show to get to, there’s not enough time for this bullshi—”
that was a mistake. satoru instantly lifts you off the counter and, ignoring the rather wide range of curse words you throw at him, sets you on the ground and starts unzipping his pants. “shh, we got all the time in the world. they can’t give an award to someone who isn’t there, right?” satoru cooes, threading one of his hands through your hair and pulling you closer to him. his other hand finishes unzipping his pants, freeing his already-hard dick.
you look up at satoru, forcing yourself to act unimpressed—even though you know damn well he can see through your half-hearted attempt at hiding your real feelings. “s’ that all?” you ask, hating yourself for the crack in your voice when satoru laughs at you.
“ah, i think it’ll be more than enough for your pretty face to handle. now c’mon, open nice n’ wide for me,” satoru instructs you, reaching down and tilting up your chin as he guides his dick into your mouth. against all rational impulse, you let him, all while glaring daggers at him from below.
you run your tongue over his flushed red tip, and satoru sucks in a harsh breath, chest tensing as you continue kitten-licking him. his hand moves from your chin to the top of your head, and he pushes your mouth farther onto his dick, jaw tightening the more your tongue laps at him.
sure, maybe you shouldn’t be sucking off your fake boyfriend in a bathroom where anyone could walk in at any time, but it’s the first time you’ve felt this way in too long, and you weren’t ready to let this feeling go just yet. so you humor satoru and moan, smiling when you feel the way his whole body loosen up at the soft vibration. “f-fuck, didn’t think you’d actually know how to give a man a good time,” satoru mutters through gritted teeth.
“really?” you ask, pulling away from his dick for a moment to catch a breath. “we fucked for that movie, though, and you seemed pretty damn satisfied then, didn’t you?” you say in-between heaving breaths. satoru scoffs and shakes his head, pushing your mouth back onto his dick.
“yeah, but that was for a movie. this isn’t,” he clarifies, eyes fixed on the mix of spit and pre-cum dribbling down your chin as you continue sucking him off. “fuck, why are you good at this?” he hisses, almost incredulously—it’s as if he was hoping you wouldn’t be this good for him for some reason, but now’s not the time to reason through it or wonder what’s going on in his mind.
satoru shudders around you, and you feel the hair threaded through your hair tighten. it’s not enough to be painful, but his grip still makes you whine from the increased pressure. his breathing becomes more shallow as you run your tongue over his length, and his foot starts to bounce on the floor as he gets closer to cumming down your throat. “shit, baby, m’ close,” satoru confirms a moment later, tilting his chin back and glaring at the ceiling.
“fuckin’ hell, i—” he cuts himself off with a loud, lengthy groan, pushing your head even farther on his dick and tensing as the full force of satoru’s orgasm hits him. he lets loose a flurry of curse words as he cums in your mouth, filling you up to the point where it starts dripping down the side of your face. it’s hot and salty, two sensations that you normally wouldn’t put together, but in this moment it’s all you can think about as you slide one hand downwards towards your throbbing pussy.
still reeling from his surprisingly quick orgasm, satoru leans back onto the counter and pants for air. as for you, you’re starting to want some of his pleasure for yourself—so you slip two fingers inside your cunt and pulse them back and forth, needy moans slipping out of your lips at every thrust. “gojo,” you call, looking up at him and licking his cum off your lips. the sight of you kneeling in front of him, cum dripping down your lips and fingers knuckle-deep in your cunt is enough for satoru to cum again, but he forces himself to maintain some level of control.
“jus’ call me satoru,” he murmurs, reaching down and tugging you up to your feet. it’s hard to stand while your legs are trembling, but thankfully, satoru does most of the work for you by positioning you against the wall, back facing him as he aligns his still-hard dick in front of your dripping pussy. “say it,” satoru mutters in your ear, resting one hand on your waist and the other on the wall just above your shoulder. “say my name f’me, sweetheart.”
“s-satoru,” you breathe, and a moment later, your fake boyfriend—who doesn’t feel so fake anymore—shoves himself inside of your welcoming cunt. you’re already wet enough to the point where he doesn’t really need to prep you at all, but you’re still just tight enough so that every thrust feels like he’s breaking you down in the best way possible.
“y’feel so good,” satoru groans, resting his chin on your shoulder and snapping his hips back and forth, setting a steady yet harsh pace. you stutter out satoru’s name again and again as your vision goes blurry, with your only thoughts revolving around the dick shoved up inside you and the man praising you in your ear.
satoru curses when he feels your walls clench around him, breaths growing shallower with every thrust. “arch your back for me, princess,” he mutters, eyes fluttering rapidly as he squeezes your waist. “yeah, jus’ like that,” satoru praises, breath brushing against the side of your face as he continues thrusting into you. “how’re you feeling, pretty? s’ this all right with you?”
you nod shakily in response, swollen lips hanging wide open as you gasp for air. satoru clicks his tongue and slows his pace, dipping his chin and studying your face. “gonna need you to use your words, angel.”
“m' good, i wanna cum,” you mumble, a loud moan slipping through your lips when satoru laughs and resumes fucking you a millisecond after you answer.
“i’m gonna fill you up, baby, i promise,” satoru whispers, and his words are barely audible over the lewd, sticky sounds coming from everywhere. all your senses are directed at satoru—the man you really shouldn’t be fucking right now, but all your inhibitions fade away as you feel your stomach start to tighten as you approach your orgasm.
“fuck, satoru, m’ close,” you whimper, arching your back even more and clenching your teeth shut. satoru sucks in a sharp breath as he confirms that he’s also about to cum, and his thrusts grow sloppier the closer he gets. “don’t stop, please, i—”
from there on, your words mix themselves together, with the only understandable word being satoru’s name. your fake boyfriend spills into you first, cum leaking from his tip and mixing with yours as you both chase your releases. and it hits you hard—if it wasn’t for satoru, you would’ve crumbled to the ground from the sheer force of your orgasm. all you can see is white as satoru finishes emptying his load inside of you, and the sticky, viscous liquid trails down the warm skin of your thighs as it overflows from your abused hole.
“shit,” satoru mutters, stumbling backwards and eyeing his now-soiled clothes. “this was a couple thousand dollars, damn it.”
you exhale a breathy laugh and turn around, leaning against the wall and meeting his half-lidded eyes. “you kidding? my dress was way more than that, and there’s no way i can wear that out now.”
satoru grins, running a hand through his ruffled hair and walking back towards you, touching your waist and sliding a finger over your dripping cunt. “you were so good f’me, baby. what were we arguing about again?”
“i have no idea,” you mumble, watching satoru lick his finger clean. he’s shameless—even as clarity returns to both of your minds, he still insists on dragging the moment on. not that you mind—that was the best sex you’d had in a while, even if it was too fast and in a bathroom.
“we should get back to the ceremony,” you say distractedly, pulling down your dress and frowning at the new wrinkles. “can i wear your suitjacket? i don’t want people to see this.”
satoru sticks out his bottom lip and pouts, looking you up and down. “but i like it. you look like you just got fucked by a really hot guy. oh, wait, that’s me!”
“you’re an asshole.”
before satoru can reply, the bathroom door opens, and you both jump out of your skins. thankfully, satoru had time to pull his pants on, otherwise it would’ve been significantly more embarrassing. suguru pokes his head in the bathroom and rolls his eyes when he sees you and satoru, and an exasperated sigh slips out of his lips when he sees your fucked-out states.
“are you two seriously fucking during the awards?” suguru snaps, amber eyes glittering with dry amusement. you look away bashfully, tugging down your dress even farther out of embarrassment. satoru shrugs nonchalantly and walks over to suguru, offering his hand in search of a fistbump.
suguru eyes him dubiously and crosses his arms. “did you wash your hands?”
“heh, no, not yet.”
ignoring satoru’s smug grin, suguru swats his arm away with the back of his hand, disgust evident all over his face. “gross, fuck off.” he turns to you and arches an eyebrow, looking you up and down disapprovingly. “you two should clean up before coming outside, otherwise they’ll probably take away your awards,” suguru adds, wrinkling his nose. “i’ll tell them you’re on your way.”
“okay, thanks,” you mutter, face warmer than ever. suguru nods in response and leaves, and when you and satoru finally return to the awards ceremony, there’s plenty of whispers about you two, and most of them aren’t very family-friendly.
well, at the very least, nobody’s gonna doubt that you two were a couple now!
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JJK MEN AS YOUR PERSONAL TRAINER. | TOJI FUSHIGURO, GOJO SATORU, CHOSO KAMO, SUGURU GETO.
𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — synopsis. having private sessions with the men prove to be an experience. what type of trainer are each of them?
𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — cw. smut, edging, degradation, praise, dry humping, fellatio, switch!choso, overstimulation, emo boy!choso, cervix fucking, unprotected sex, they are all whores. mdni <3
𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — word count. 3.1k
𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — dolled up! oh em gee ?? headcanon format ? yup! i originally wrote this as a little joke since i started pilates but then my mind wandered and it wasn’t a joke anymore. other than that, ino was supposed to be on the list but he couldn’t make it :( something about being busy .. regardless, comment / reblog if u like ! it would make my day, thank u ♡
TOJI — THE CORRUPT TRAINER.
there must’ve been a clear distinction as to why your trainer only allowed sessions from 9pm up until midnight, but your desperation when it came to relentlessly searching for a personal trainer didn’t leave enough room in your mind to think deeper about the true nature of its shadiness. all you needed was a spotter, and toji’s services claimed to provide just that.
and what happens when you combine height, a monsterous build, superhuman stamina, and a handsome face? well, you get toji fushiguro in all his abhorrent glory.
his chiseled body virtually doubled your frame with biceps the size of your head, shoulders wide enough to emphasize the narrowness of his waist, and veins crawling up his limbs even when the muscles weren’t flexed. a mean looking man with a scar over his mouth like some battered veteran. whatever he got into during the day was truly nothing you’d want to take part in.
inviting him over to your home gym was one thing, but it was looking to be another when his “help” took the form of sensuality; his large hands running along the back of your thighs when he’d seemingly fold you over with your legs on either side of your head for warm-up stretches, or even the occasional groping of your ass when it came down to squats, he was barely doing his job, what you paid a hefty price for, and yet you loved every bit of it.
“c’mon, you can take more of it, cant’cha?” toji’s gruff voice goads, watching the way your tiny cunt struggles with swallowing the head of his wrist-thick, bulbous cock. you were put in the awkward position of doggy, yet another one of his sessions derailed and he deemed this new workout could help you build up some much needed endurance. you were going to need it if you planned on keeping him around.
it surely seems that way when you’re practically running from the pleasure he pistons into you, thick cock kissing your cervix with each skillful, angled thrust of his. large hands were wrapped around your waist, keeping you in place for him — because if there was one thing your personal trainer was strict about, it was form. and your form was beyond perfect.
“‘s just too good.” you mindlessly whined, attempting your hardest to grip onto the thin cushion of the yoga mat beneath you. toji lets out a deep scoff at your vocables, driving his hips against your ass once more, this time a bit sharper with a hint of fervor as its aftertaste. “and you’ve been training with me for how long now?” his question came out in a mocking tone as his lips stretched wide in a crooked smile, that of a statement rather than a query.
“t-two weeks .. fuck.” you respond, mind going hazy from the gaining intensity of his potent movements. the feeling was all too much, it came as no surprise when pleasure began to surge from your spine to coil at your core, building up that high you've been chasing for the past hour, that grumpy ol’ toji continued to rip away from you.
pressing a heavy hand to the small of your back, he arches you forward, groaning at the sight of how swiftly you position yourself for him, your face pushed against the mat.
maybe his training has paid off. . “two weeks and you’re still struggling to take my cock?” he pulled your hips back against his, leaving you defenseless in the ministrations. “guess i need to train this pretty little hole of yours more often.”
with the end of his sentence, he snakes his thick arm around your waist, the pad of his thumb finding your achy, puffy clit, rubbing the nub in tight, harsh circles. if your moans weren’t already loud enough, you were sure the whole town could hear you by now, crying out his name like no tomorrow while your legs trembled with your impending orgasm. “‘m cumming! so hard!” you cry, drooling into the mat as he fucks you through your orgasm.
it wasn’t until soon after that he finally reached his high, sending hot and sticky ropes of cum into your womb. not once had a session with toji ended with him shooting his cum in a more responsible way, with a rubber. it was clear to you since the very first time you allowed his fantasies to come to fruition — toji didn’t believe in condoms.
your body went lax as soon as he pulled out, and he tucked his cock back into his pants, hovering over your sad frame with an amused smirk on his scarred lips.
“good session. i expect $800 wired to my account by the mornin’.”
GOJO — THE ENABLING TRAINER.
when you first showed up to the private room of your local gym in search of your assigned instructor for the night a.k.a “the strongest,” you were expecting some big burly man with a cocky attitude — someone you didn’t particularly get along with. but much to your surprise, instead, he was handsome; fluffy white strands of hair that strayed upwards and a million dollar smile with just the charisma, the charm to back it up.
gojo stood over 6 feet tall, and although he was on the lankier side, there was no denying the lean muscles that peeked through his skintight black top. he smiled, throwing a loose cloth over his broad shoulders.
“you ready to get started?”
your eyes greedily took him in, scanning over the finer details of his gorgeous build. it wasn’t until about thirty seconds of daydreaming about what he’d look like unclothed that you finally gave him a response in the form of a nod and hum.
of course satoru wasn’t an idiot, he could tell from how dazed you were during the first few minutes of instruction that you were focused on something else, not that he minds though, it’s truly an honor that a girl as pretty as you is capable of fawning over him, just as many others do.
after having to shake your thoughts whenever it came to watching him take a large swig from his water, droplets of the liquid streaming down his chin to graze his prominent adam's apple, or the soft appraises he’d coo when you finally got the hang of his workouts, it was the end of yet another vigorous session with him, sweat dripping from your chin down to your chest that was scantily clad in a baby pink sports bra. you held on taut to your water bottle as satoru carried conversation with you.
“you improved so much in just an hour. i’m proud.”
his praises barely reached your ears before you looked at him with adoration glossed over those pretty eyes — there was something about him that you just couldn’t get over, but you knew you needed him badly. you dabbed perspiration from your forehead with a matching pink towel, soft smile forming on your doll-like features.
“thank you,”
he nods his head slightly before starting, “you seemed a bit distracted today, though. something on your mind?” his query pulled you from your gojo-induced hypnosis, causing you to blink away the embarrassment pooling up within you. were you truly that obvious?
“hm? there’s nothing, i’m fine,” your reply came out low and sheepish while your eyes struggled to find anywhere else to settle besides those bright baby blues. he took it upon himself to inch closer to you, studying your features until you gasped softly once your back hit the wall. “nothing?” he asks for confirmation, and you affirm. “nothing.”
“all you gotta do is use your words if you need me.”
gojo’s hands found their way at your thighs, creeping them upwards underneath the thin spandex of your shorts. his touch felt hot against your skin, each brush of his fingertips along the expanse of your inner thigh causing shivers to trickle down your spine while he watched with mirth at your pitiful attempt to keep your whines at bay.
“i think .. i think i need you.”
with that, satoru smirked and lifted your leg up just enough so that it fell over his arm. his lips met yours with a salacious that only the whorest of whores could possess, skilled tongue angling its way inside your mouth to gently clash with yours in the sweetest harmony that had you buckling underneath the frame of his body.
it must’ve been a spur of the moment when you found yourself rutting your hips up in search for satoru’s, a pitchy moan sounded into the kiss when he matches your ministrations, grinding his sweatpant clad and half-hard, leaking length into the seat of your shorts; creating the most delicious sensation as the tip nudged against your clit.
his free hand took purchase at your cheek, his thumb rubbing ever so gently against the heated skin while his movements increased in greediness. your mind’s too hazy to make out anything besides the pleasure and build up of your orgasm — so much so, that it pulled you back to reality as soon as it hit, your sloppy kisses coating gojo’s soft lips in a thin sheen and the seat of your shorts sopping wet from the release of your high.
yet, gojo kept at it until he too came to a falter, cumming an ample amount in his sweats while groaning deep into your mouth. he separated from the kiss for just a split second before he took it upon him to goad,
“we can add 30 more minutes and i’ll give you more than just a taste.”
CHOSO — THE INTIMIDATING TRAINER.
a pierced tongue, some tattoos running along both veined arms, and a deep, monotonous voice were a recipe for your timidness when it came to the kamo, who you’d invited over for your very first home training session. it didn’t help that he was on the quieter side, responding to whatever small talk you’d make with one or two words while his intense eyes would follow every move you’d make as he’d help with your form.
he truly wasn’t a bad guy, or so you thought. even now, during your session with him, his praises were appropriate, he wasn’t too handsy nor did he seem to have any ill intent; being with him felt surprisingly comfortable and refreshing just as the crisp, cold water you two were currently drinking, made fresh from your refrigerator’s tap.
“was it too intense?” he’d asked in regard to the exercises you had just completed. intense was an understatement, you didn’t know how you could move your body in such ways that you did, which wouldn’t have been possible without his expertise. choso set the chilled glass of water down onto your coffee table, feeling coy from sitting on your couch, something he’d never done even with his regulars, and in response, you shook your head at the query, settling yourself by his side.
there was truly no denying how absolutely stunning you were, like some angelic being brought to him from the heavens up above in the form of the sweetest thing he’s ever met. he was afraid that if he blinked too hard, you’d vanish.
the more his eyes focused on your lips when you talked, how you’d massage the sore muscles of your thighs and even let out cute whines because of the fact, the more he found it harder to contain his thoughts, rapidfire in his mind. those perverted thoughts that only some horny teenager could have, not a well off adult like him.
yet, it wasn’t enough to stop him from getting hard in his sweats, a dark grey patch spreading at the crotch, what he’d hoped you’d mistake as spilt water.
“shit,” with that of a husky sigh, he ran his hand over his face, tinges of pink battering the tattooed scar across his nose and cheeks. “i’m sorry.”
oblivious to his situation, you were quick to express your inquiry. “sorry about wh- oh.” the head of his cock practically peeked through the barrier of the hem of his sweats while he made a futile effort to cover himself with one of your pillows once you had realized.
he looked cute like that, embarrassed by something so natural that it even spurred on your arousal, the thought of him getting worked up over you doing virtually nothing. “i-it’s okay.. i can help you if you want.” you offer, moving your position to sit between his thighs.
violet hued eyes widened from your newfound boldness, the clearing of his throat being the only true source of sound he could make in that moment.
“nah, nah. it’s-“ before he could inch out the words, you were drawing featherlight circles at his tip over the fabric, causing his breath to hitch and resolve to falter.
choso wasn’t someone who’d allow himself to be in such a pathetic situation, yet the thought of you carrying out his perfect porn plot fantasy was all he needed for that internal morality to fly straight out the window.
you chuckled at the way he hiked himself up when you finally took him from his bottoms and into your hot, wet mouth. just the sight of his cock disappearing past soft, glossy pink lips has his temperature rising, feeling as though he could pass out.
it’s hazy for him — your hand at the base, the rhythmic bobbing of your head slowly while gradually picking up speed. he never would’ve thought the job he took on for extra cash to fund his college textbooks would end up with someone as gorgeous as you giving him a chance. every pump of your hand around what couldn’t fit into your mouth had him groaning, bucking his hips up as gently as he could without battering the back of your throat.
though, he wouldn’t mind if he did.
staving off a gag, you ultimately increased your pace, determined to get him off while your other hand fondled his plump balls.
from the faint touches alone, he could feel his high approaching, embarrassingly quicker than usual. yet, he couldn’t help it when you started to grow sloppy, a mix of spit and precum dribbling down his shaft.
“w-wait, fuck.. ‘m gonna.”
it took no time for him to shoot his seed into your awaiting throat, his head thrown back against the headrest while he bucked his hips to jettison every last drop. you swallowed all he had to offer before pulling away, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
maybe he wasn’t as intimidating after all.
GETO — THE CHARMING TRAINER.
you were his favorite. you had to be. even in the long line of women waiting to have their own turn with him, you were always a top contender. he had always made time for you, and you alone.
geto’s popularity made perfect sense in your mind. he was tall, handsome with narrow features and dragon tattoos strung along both arms, a man ahead of his time. not to mention, his docile, gentle demeanor. he was charming as all get out and you were beyond aware of your superstar status of being the only one he wanted.
“are we actually going to get some training done or is there something else you want to do?” he straps his fingerless gloves around his palm, tank top tight around his torso, carving out each and every trace of his abs while looking over you, a pleasant smile quirked at his lips.
you felt sheepish under his sharp gaze, a feeling that comes all too natural with expert trainer, suguru geto. “i’m fine with whatever you have in mind, sugu.”
if you didn’t know any better, you’d swore you saw his cheeks dust in the lightest shade of pink at the endearing nickname. you were cute, too fucking cute and perhaps, that was the reason he kept you around.
“i’m thinking we test that stamina ‘nd see if you can hold up riding me?” he hooks his finger under your chin, tilting your head up just slightly. “no help, all on your own.” in all honesty, you could definitely take up his challenge. how hard could it be to take some dick?
or so you thought.
“fuck, sugu! ‘s too much!”
you wouldn’t want to be caught dead in the miserable state that you were in but it ultimately did seem as though geto’s lessons had gotten you nowhere. the tip of his cock wasn’t even an inch past your cunt while you rested your hands on his broad shoulders, pathetically trying to take what was the easiest part.
he smirked at you, resting his hands behind his head. “i’m not helping, princess. i meant it.”
you continued to try and sink yourself down onto his unreasonably thick cock, a soft crack of a whine tumbling past parted lips when your pussy engulfed another half inch of him. “but-“
“if i have to help you, we’re not finishing until you’re a mess.” he grits, not harsh enough to come off as daunting but stern enough to warn you. yet, the warning fell to deaf ears when you began to whorishly beg pleas of “help me, sugu. help me.”
from that, he let out a low groan, his hands on your waist sinking you all the way down to the base before he gained stability, flattening his feet onto the floor and fucking his cock into your fluttering cunt.
with the way he moves, you were almost positive you had the wind knocked out of you from those first few thrusts alone. soft babbles resonated throughout the room while you clung to his body like it’d comfort you in the hell that was his potent ministrations.
you felt far more sensitive than you ever felt, white hot pleasure coiling within you in no time, your pussy tightening around his shaft in such a suffocating way, geto felt as though he couldn’t breathe either. “s-so tight, princess. i know you wanna cum, cum for me, baby.” he goads through a strained voice, his thumb now working between your folds to find purchase at your clit, rubbing the puffy nub in moderate circles.
“if you do t-that, i might—“
and before you knew it, you were gushing around his pretty cock, face twisted in the prettiest picture of pleasure. the aftershocks of your orgasm were way more intense as you were fucked to overstimulation, a sly grin on his lips.
“told you we weren’t stopping, darling.”
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Waiting Game
Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader
Summary: Joel Miller has mastered the art of self-control in all areas except one: not fucking his friend’s daughter. A cross-country road trip home from college takes a hard turn when he’s forced to share a motel room with you.
Warnings: 18+. Protected p-in-v. Praise. Overstimulation. Sweet, possessive, slightly obsessive and pussywhipped Joel. Daddy kink. Drug use. Angst. Accidental creampie. Joel fucking you while on the phone with your father.
Part 2 | Part 3
“You okay, hon? You sound…distracted,” your dad presses. A hint of concern rises from his end of the line.
At length, Joel grips both of your legs and brings them up over his shoulders, and he grins before kissing your ankle and shoving his cock even deeper.
“Yes!” you yelp as you crush the phone to your ear, hoping your father can’t hear any of the filthy sounds down below, “Just a little stretched—I mean stressed out, is all.”
Aside from the fact that he smoked like a chimney and bumped far more Billy Joel than any man ever should, Mr. Miller was an A-OK friend—your father’s best friend.
All you needed was a ride home for the holidays.
From the second you’d set foot in his old Ford Bronco, you sensed this trek wouldn’t be an enjoyable one—thirty-hour road trips rarely ever were—but you leaned back in the passenger seat, propped your feet on the dashboard, and bopped along to ‘You May Be Right’ for the fifty-fifth fucking time that morning and smiled.
Joel frowned.
“Dogs off the dash,” he muttered, swatting at your bare, polished toes before you kicked his touch away.
“Shotgun puts her feet up, driver shuts his cakehole.”
That wasn’t even how the saying went. Oh well.
Joel slowed the car to sixty in the right-hand lane and smacked your ankles even harder. You yelped.
“Hey! You can’t hit a woman!”
“I’m not hitting a woman, I’m hitting a little gremlin,” Joel tried not to grin as he delivered another tart slap to your foot, and you almost jerked into the passenger door.
He momentarily righted the car before it went veering into the lane beside it, seized one of your feet, and tried to forcibly shove it off the dashboard, to no avail. As soon as he moved one limb, the other would glide right back up to take its place; Joel’s hands were big, but they weren’t massive enough to grab hold of both of your legs at once and make you stay the fuck there, Christ’s sake.
You liked to see him flustered. Brought a whole new hue to his tough, stubbled cheeks that folks rarely got to see. You squirmed in your seat when he reached for your side.
“Wh—NO! No tickling!” you cried, trying your hardest to roll away.
But the man was nothing if not a lover of cheap shots and filthy antics. He’d never played a clean game in his life and wasn’t about to start now.
His gaze darted from the road to your writhing form, pinned against the door and begging him to stop, while he pressed his foot harder on the gas and smirked.
“Too much?” he teased, “Say pretty, pretty please.”
In other words: give up. You would do no such thing. Your elbow jutted out to the side and clipped his fingertips sharply, and right before he could reach for you again, you were heaving yourself up and leaning almost halfway out the open window, trying to shy away from his touch.
“You fuckin’ nuts?! Get down!” he yelled.
“But it just may be a luuuunatic you’re lookin’ for!” you sang along to your old friend Billy Joel and pretended not to see, or hear, Joel Miller twisting desperately across the center console to take hold of your belt loops.
“Get—I swear to God, kid—DOWN!”
Joel had just managed to finagle a loose, feeble grip on your denim waistband as he tried to keep the car from soaring across three lanes of traffic, was just about to yank you back inside and give you a red-faced, fatherly lecture of a lifetime, when a sound startled you both.
A siren, and a set of flashing blue lights behind you.
You scrambled back in your seat and swallowed a lump in your throat the size of a peach. You turned off Mr. Long Island.
“Great! Good fucking going,” Joel griped beside you as he flicked on his blinker and started to pull off the road.
Dogs no longer on the dash—and a very pissed off cop pulling up behind your car on the shoulder of the road—you got the feeling this would be a long couple of days.
You hadn’t even made it outside the city limits of Boston.
Somewhere between Richmond and Roanoke, the two of you turned off the highway to find a place to sleep.
Joel had sat and stewed and ignored you for the customary duration of about two hours before choosing to re-engage in conversation, but deep down, you knew he was still kind of irked by that reckless driving citation he’d received. You couldn’t help but feel responsible.
Though it had been pretty funny when the state trooper had approached the car and pointedly asked, “What the hell was your daughter doin’ danglin’ outta this thing?!” Joel was nowhere near as amused as you, but he managed to roll with it and told the cop you were just trying to wave to the cows in the fields passing by.
The police officer hadn’t bought it.
He probably would have arrested you both if you hadn’t been such a coquettish flirt and somehow managed to persuade the man to let your ‘dad’ off with just a ticket.
You had hoped that would temper Joel’s anger some, but if anything, the sight only seemed to make him more mad at you. You weren’t sure why.
Presently, you pulled up to Balmaceda’s Mountain Lodge and cast a bleak look at the front office before you.
This looked nothing like the snug, homespun mountain retreat you’d been picturing in your mind. Ahead of your car, there stood a single-story concrete slab of a motel, tilted to one side and consumed almost entirely by the dark of night and wide open wilderness. A big block letter neon sign displaying the owner’s name in red now barely flickered above a muddied, pinkish glow. You groaned.
But before you could complain to your travel companion, Joel was already stepping out of the car and heading toward the main office. Hastily, you followed after.
“No way, Miller. No fucking way are we staying in Murder Motel,” you hissed.
“Bal-ma-ceda’s,” Joel intoned with a maddeningly accurate lilt, ignoring your protests, “I think that’s a Chilean name.”
He swung the door wide for you to enter and pretended not to see you shoot him a glare as you strolled in.
“Needin’ a room?”
The lady behind the counter barely graced your entrance with a look.
“Yes ma’am. Whatever you got,” Joel replied, smiling.
“Smoking or non?”
“Smoking, please.”
Of course he would. You could already feel the fetid stench of American Spirits wafting up to your nostrils.
“King or two Queens?”
“Queens,” you and Joel answered in unison.
At first, the woman nodded, flicked through a rolodex on her desk and nosed through a couple yellowed pages in front of her. Then, frowning, she looked back up.
“Sorry. All the Queens are took up. Rest of the rooms are being fumigated but the one—” she tapped a manicured nail on the motel map, “—and it’s got a King. That okay?”
No. No, it was not. You opened your mouth to speak but were shortly cut off by the woman before you could.
“Of course, if you don’t want dad hoggin’ up all the sheets, there’s a pull-out sofa for him to sleep on.”
The sixty-something desk clerk offered a smile, and you likely would’ve returned the favor if you hadn’t been so deeply nauseated at the thought of everyone around you assuming that Joel was your father. You chanced a look at the man, who seemed equally uncomfortable as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. You sighed.
“Alright.”
Defeated, but marginally pleased that you wouldn’t have to share a bed with your ‘old man’ that night.
Joel paid and signed the papers without another word, or look, to you or the woman. By the looks of it, he just wanted to book the room and get the hell out as fast as possible, his brow pinched inward and lips zipped tight.
He’d turned to leave so quick that he was almost approaching the door when the lady called out,
“Mr. Miller! You forgot your keys.”
You hardly needed to steal a glance in Joel’s direction to see that he was flushed. Even blushing a bit.
You strode over to the counter and intercepted the keys she was dangling for someone to take, then politely, finally, were able to manage a smile and a thank-you.
You turned back to Joel.
“Here you go, Daddy.”
In a blink, the small silver set was pelted in his hands, and the man nearly dropped them—and lost his balance. By some miracle, Joel managed to catch them between his big sweaty palms and step aside just in time for you to saunter past him, straight through the door.
“I’m starved,” you announced, then, averting your face to hide your smug expression and lower your voice a bit, “Feed me, Daddy.”
In that moment, Joel thanked every last one of his lucky stars that his pants were made of denim, and that the denim itself was thick. And that the woman at the front desk was swift to turn her attention back to her tabloid magazine, away from you two, and didn’t look up again.
If they weren’t, and if she hadn’t, it would’ve been plain as day to see that Joel Miller was sporting a hard-on.
A huge, swollen hard-on that made it almost impossible for him to walk and haul luggage and try to keep apace with your steps as you sailed along the gravel drive. So big the man had to will himself not to limp, not to make it known how stiff he was, until he eventually failed at both.
Once you’d grabbed your bags back at the car and made it up to your place, you entered Room 102 with a lightness you hadn’t felt all day. Joel slogged behind with all of the baggage and a boner beneath his jeans that probably could’ve cut sheet metal, if needed.
He was fucked. No doubt he’d have to enlist in the Witness Protection Program after your real father found out that his best friend had gotten visibly bricked up for you, his one and only daughter. How awkward holiday dinners were bound to be from that point on; how humiliating it seemed to him to pop a chub at a thing as dumb as saying ‘daddy’; how batshit insane it was that he hadn’t gotten laid in almost a year, and you were still, somehow, the only one he wanted to break the dry spell.
Joel was better than this. A fucking pro at self-control and all things dirty old guys didn’t do. He could chill out.
He just needed to rub one out in the bathroom, fast.
So, while you flopped down on the bed, Joel dropped every bag and made a beeline for the toilet. Slammed the door so hard he probably could’ve knocked the thing off its hinges, but he didn’t care. He was wrestling his belt, button, and zip off in a second. Then haphazardly turning on the sink to mask the sounds of all that was to come. No pun intended.
He yanked his thick, throbbing, rock-hard member out of its confines and had to hiss through his teeth to keep from moaning. The sensitivity he felt was unbearable, the front of his boxers already painted with pre-cum.
Gingerly, Joel wrapped one hand around his cock and raised the other to anchor himself against the sink. He slid his palm, which he’d just barely lubricated with some spit of his, up and down the shaft and groaned. A welt of pleasure formed in his chest, and he rubbed even faster. And, in spite of his legs feeling a bit like jelly, he stood there and fucked his fist and wished with every bit of himself that it was your warm, lush folds opening around him instead. Stifled a groan and would’ve paid any sum of money to hear your moans spilling out while he thrusted. The act here was more mindless and reflexive than anything else—jerking himself and soaking in the sharp, fiery sensations that shot up through his body.
To him, at least, it was all purely physical. Mechanical.
Nowhere near as euphoric and otherworldly as it would have been with your hand actually curled around him.
Or your lips. Or your tongue. Or your tight, wet cunt.
Fuck, he needed a shower.
Blindly, Joel moved inside the tub to his left and yanked the curtain shut over a space almost two times too small for his frame. He turned on the water and made it hot. Then he fisted his cock again, pressed his head to the shower wall, and pumped himself as fast as his forearm would allow him—trying all the while not to think of you.
You, with all your wily, shrewd ways were still the daughter of the man who guzzled down IPAs with him at the local dive bar every Thursday night over jalapeño poppers and buffalo dip. The man who clapped him over the shoulder and shook his frame with the kind of good-natured sneer that only a best friend could make, ‘A man as suave as you oughta get some tail every now and then. Go find you a gal and fuck her brains out, Joel!’
But the only ‘gal’ Joel wanted to rail was the one who called that man ‘dad’—and just called him ‘daddy’ for the first time that night—and he hated himself for it.
Sparks of pleasure continued to ignite across his lower half as he jerked himself in the shallowest, short pumps. He flicked his hand back and forth, circled the tip with his palm, and felt a groan start to claw at his throat. He tried to picture any face but yours but failed miserably.
All he could think, see, or breathe was you—imagining your lips enveloping the head of his cock, jerking him softly, taking him down to the back of your throat and bobbing that pretty little face up and down his length.
That sweaty, desperate fist of his just wasn’t cutting it.
For the first time, Joel couldn’t make himself cum.
Now even more pent-up and pussywhipped than he’d been when he first started, he slammed his palm against the wall and flung the shower handle in the opposite direction—turning the water as cold as it could get.
Five minutes passed, and the icy spray had scarcely left a dent in his raging erection. Joel stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his hips, and stood in front of the mirror to see that he was still very hard.
Fuck this.
He bunched his strewn aside clothing together and held it over his crotch, discreet as he could, and waddled out.
And, either the temperature inside had just jumped fifty degrees or the world outside had just caught fire, but Joel’s face was flooded with heat the second he exited.
You were sprawled across the bed wearing nothing but a thin white tank, shorts, and fuzzy socks—and a scowl.
“Sofa’s broke,” you said.
Joel blinked.
“Broke?”
You nodded toward the busted sleeper couch at the far end of the room, torn to pieces and kicked a half-dozen times since you’d tried unfolding it in Joel’s absence.
The jaws of the old steel frame had simply refused to give way, and now the sofa was so out of sorts and misshapen that you had no hope of putting it back the way that it was. You sank further in the bed and pointed to the floor.
“You can sleep there.”
Joel eyed a flat sheet and a pillow laid across the carpet, visibly coated in dust and grime. He turned back to you.
“You’re smokin’ crack if you think I’m doin’ that.”
“Be grateful I’m not making you sleep in the car, daddy.”
Again with that fucking name. Joel tightened his grip on the clothes he was holding over his dick and tried to fight a thousand dirty thoughts threatening to seep back into his head.
Unfortunately, the dirty thoughts had hands—and were beating his ass to a bloody pulp when he first caught sight of your nipples poking up through your shirt. Just when the man might have started to drool or else begun humping that pile of clothes, you snapped your fingers.
“Miller Lite. Eyes up here.”
Fuck.
“Got a…stain on your shirt,” he grumbled in his defense.
“Shut up. Now, we can flip for the bed if you want.”
By turns, Joel’s focus was slowly coming back, and the man was trying like hell to find a place on your face that didn’t arouse him to no end—to help ease the intrusive thoughts and all. So far his search had yielded nothing.
“Like, uh…coin?” he asked. Endearingly stupid.
“Heads, I win,” you said, nodding, “Tails…”
Joel swallowed.
“Tails, what?”
“Tails, you tell me what was going on in your head when you were jacking off to the thought of me just now.”
Your words came out in a hurry, almost too quick for Joel to comprehend. He still heard them, though, and nearly choked on his spit when he tried to swallow again.
“I wasn’t—”
“You were,” you bit back, “I heard you moan my name.”
Joel didn’t remember that. Joel didn’t remember much of anything that had taken place in that bathroom apart from being implacably horny and unable to bust a nut. You stepped off the bed to stand in front of him.
“What? Cat got your tongue all of a sudden?” you sneered, “Think I’m just gonna run off and tell my da—”
“Don’t,” Joel’s response was immediate, insistent. Then, setting his jaw in a way you knew too well, contemplating about fifty different thoughts in the span of two seconds, he pressed the clothes pile to his crotch even tighter and sighed, “Don’t…do that, please. I’ll take the floor.”
You raised both brows, mildly amused.
“I said we could flip for it. C’mon,” you said.
“Ain’t got any coins.” Joel was already retreating to his makeshift sleeping pad on the floor, eyeing the shag carpet for any traces of blood, piss, or rodent droppings. Before he made it too far, you reached for his arm.
Joel tensed under your touch.
“We can try something else.” Your voice was cloying, almost too sweet to be trusted.
It had just dawned on you then how bare the man standing before you was. Clad in only his towel, every taut, toned inch of Joel’s body was there on display—coated with sweat and a fine sheen from the shower, his skin practically shone in the glow of the bedside lamp. You watched him shift in place and saw the towel around his hips stir along with it. He never let those old clothes in his hands move an inch away from his groin, though.
“What game?” he asked.
“Something my roommates showed me,” you began, “‘Too Hot.’”
“Too Hot?”
“You heard me.”
“What, like— like Spin the Bottle, or some bullshit?”
Joel could just picture it: a gaggle of your college pals huddled around an old, empty bottle of Bud Light as you watched it turn circles again, and again, and again on the dorm’s linoleum floor. You tugging at the sleeve of some oversized man-child from a frat Joel couldn’t name, leaning in and beaming like the insatiable flirt he knew you to be, asking that boy if he wanted to sneak off somewhere and let his tongue take a tour of your mouth.
The thought made Joel’s stomach turn.
Presently, you wrinkled your nose up at him.
“Spin the Bottle? That’s rookie shit,” you made another face reminding Joel, once more, how little he knew of the life you lived 1,900 miles away from Austin, at college.
He still couldn’t shake the thought of those boys.
“No, Joel,” you shook your head, drawing your syllables out for effect, “‘Too Hot’ is just…edging your opponent.”
Joel’s throat tightened, and he tried not to let his eyes widen too much, but he was almost certain they had. Before he even knew the words he was saying, the thought of your father taking his fist—or a shotgun—to his face made him blurt out in response, stammering,
“We can’t— I can’t— can’t lay one finger on you, darlin’, you know that. Your dad would murder me.”
To his surprise, the smile on your face only widened.
“Bingo,” You stuck one pretty finger in his face like he’d made the world’s finest discovery, “You can’t touch me.”
“Huh?”
“That’s the whole fuckin’ game, Miller. We can kiss, but we can’t touch each other with our hands. First one to crack and grope the other player loses the game.”
Your expression now was something just shy of sadistic. Watching him with keen, narrowed eyes and a wicked little grin, it seemed you were half-expecting him to fold on the spot. No way was this a game your college friends taught you; you just wanted to play him. Make him lose.
And Joel was a man who couldn’t stand to lose, no matter the stakes.
You watched that failure-averse glint eclipse every shade of lust in his eyes, at least momentarily. Suddenly, Joel didn’t look so fearful of your father’s wrath or what lurid implications this night might bring—he just had to win.
“You suck, you know that?” he said, at last, dropping his makeshift shield from the front of his towel and knocking you flat on the bed with a single push.
“You wish I would,” you grumbled, heart still jumping up in your ribcage all the same. You scooted back.
“I bet you will.”
The man was a menace when he had the will to be.
At length, Joel crawled over your body and made room for himself snug between your legs. The bulge that he’d been trying to hide all this time was now heavy on your center, pressed tight to your stupid-thin shorts and the panties you’d conveniently forgotten to wear. He grinned.
“Are tongues allowed?” he hummed.
“Everything but hands,” you shrugged.
Try as you might to play it cool with him, though, every fibre of your being was alight with desire for the man on top of you. You flitted a look between his soft brown eyes and slightly parted lips and could’ve melted in that bed had Joel not lowered his head and dove right in for it.
His mouth was far gentler than expected. Reverent, even. He slotted his lips between your own and made a fine, delicate showing of just how tender and adept he could be while imparting his slow, sweet kisses. Skirted his tongue across your bottom lip before driving it inside, coaxed your mouth open to him in a matter of seconds. He was graceful. And patient. And lithe with that tongue.
Joel Miller was showing off for you—the bastard.
“Sweet little thing,” he groaned against your mouth, “Ain’t felt a tongue this shy on mine in a long time.”
Of course he’d try taunting you, too. Same old Joel.
“What’s it been? Two years since a woman let you touch her?”
“Twenty since I felt one this good.”
You would’ve liked to reach around the back of his head and seize a clump of that thick, dark, grey-speckled hair. But you couldn’t. Your hands remained plastered to the duvet beneath you, and then, just slightly, your fingers started to curl inward. Joel’s palms laid flat on either side of your head.
It felt weird; mashing lips, teeth, and tongue with a man who’d been alive about twenty years longer than you and went further back with your father than you could even remember. What felt even stranger was the fact that you couldn’t touch him, or take him between your two hands.
Joel’s tongue continued roaming every contour and crevice of your mouth like he had an ache for this taste that he just couldn’t quench. Your tongue tried keeping up, too, but frankly, you were too preoccupied by a pulse between your legs—your parts and Joel’s practically throbbing in time with one another—to work just as hard.
Even through the towel, he felt huge.
You whined when Joel started to grind up against you, and shortly, those fingers of yours that had just been grazing the sheets before were gripping them. Tight.
“Earlier…” Joel murmured between kisses, hips working a vicious pace against you, “You said you were hungry.”
“Yeah?”
“Sorry—starved,” he corrected himself, and you almost could’ve smacked him for being so smug about it.
“What’s your point, Miller?” You were fisting the sheets beneath your palms and gyrating your whole body to meet the motions of the man currently dry-humping you.
All of a sudden, Joel’s movements stopped.
He peered down at you with a curious look.
“I could go for something to eat, too,” he declared.
You blinked. Stared. And just when you’d opened your mouth to say, well, maybe you should’ve grabbed us a bite to eat when we passed that Burger King on the way in, dipshit, Joel’s torso started to move down your own. Slow and painstaking as ever as he made sure not to graze one inch of your skin with his hands while he did.
You leapt back against the headboard, almost cracking your skull on the wood.
“Joel— Joel,” you hissed as the heels of your feet dug into the mattress below, and Joel just sank even further.
Then he was slowly, scrupulously pinching the fabric of your shorts between each index finger and thumb, gaze trained close on your lower half to make sure he never touched you, and he started pulling it down.
“This isn’t—” you started again, only to be offered a soft shush and an even quieter rustle of the cotton material sliding down both your legs.
You dropped your head on a pillow and probably could’ve burned a hole in the ceiling with the wide-eyed look you fixed on one spot, in utter disbelief of what he was doing.
“No panties, huh?” Joel observed. Gentle puffs of his breath were now fanning across the whole bare expanse of your lower half, and your pyjama bottoms were shortly discarded. His face was just hovering there, and you could tell that he knew you knew by the way he lowered his voice and brought his head to have only the tips of his chin stubble grazing your abdomen, “You needed this.”
Some lone remnant of ire flashed in your eyes.
“I don’t need shit from you, Miller. You need me. And you’re gonna lose this.”
Even though your gaze was still trained to the ceiling, you could feel him grin against your delicate skin.
“Hey,” he mumbled, “You said tongues are fair game.”
Fuck me, you wanted to keen the second his lips made contact with your…lower ones, and Joel swiftly got to kissing you there just as he’d done to you above. Hot, soft, and tender as the first rays of morning sun heralding a new day, he sponged his lips across the seam of your heat and made as if to massage the place, gently.
You could hear as well as you could feel that effusion of desire leaking out of your cunt and pooling around the man’s mouth. How eager he was to lap it up with his tongue, to grace your ears with those delectable squelching sounds, he caressed every inch between your folds and only sank deeper when you whined above him.
“Joel.”
Right now you couldn’t look down. Not with the way your legs were already trembling around his head, your chest heaving with the fastest, most frenzied breaths. You’d sooner die before you watched him unravel you like this.
“Darlin’, you’ve got a man soaked.” Some sound almost resembling a chuckle reverberated between your thighs and sent a brand new shockwave of pleasure in its wake, “You like it when daddy uses his mouth on this needy, wet cunt, don’t you?”
Yes, yes, you did. But your answer was nonverbal: a sharp curl of your toes and a grip between your fingers so tight across the sheets that he saw you veritably could’ve torn the linens in two.
Neither of you had laid a hand on the other.
Joel was perfectly content to make do with his mouth for now.
“Got those sheets all balled up, you’re fixin’ to rip ‘em.”
“My tongue make ya feel that good, honey?”
“Poor thing can’t even breathe it feels so nice, right?”
So he’d seen you hiccup, try to steady your breaths, and fail before succumbing to a string of lewd moans. Joel saw you, and knew how you felt, as if he’d had his own secret gauge for how good his mouth was doing you in.
Surely, he could’ve sensed the words before they ever came out of your mouth.
“Touch me, Joel, please.”
His tongue was just then making a lazy circuit around your clit, mouth saturated in your juices, when he smiled.
“Nah.”
Curt and cruel as ever. Then:
“No matter how fuckin’ perfect this pussy is, I ain’t losin’.”
He completed the arc with his tongue and took your bud between his lips, sucking in. You almost screamed.
“Motherfucker.”
“Miller, baby, Miller. Close, though.”
And just when you thought he’d had his fill of cheeky games, Joel sucked your clit even harder and flicked the tip of his tongue against your bundle of nerves until you were writhing, crying on the bed above him,
“JoelbabypleasebabyfuckmefuckohfuckitfeelsoGOOD.”
It was a bit tough to decipher through your strangled, desperate moans, but Joel got the picture. Heeding your requests, he kept at that pace above your clit and slid his tongue back and forth, over and over, lapping up your honeyed glaze like it was the finest thing he’d tasted. Scruff harsh against your thighs, lips soft in a perfect suction, Joel Miller had your head swimming in desire and your better judgment dissipating before your eyes.
At the first sign of bliss, your muscles clenched, and the last linchpin of your resolve crumbled right along with it.
You carded your hands through Joel’s hair and grabbed hold of those locks with a full-throated moan, using his head for shameless leverage to buck and rut your hips into his face as you rode out the peaks of your high.
And, ever the gentleman, Joel fought like hell to keep his lips and tongue connected to your core while you writhed above him—this time at liberty to work his arms under your thighs and hold them since you’d given up the game. He would’ve smiled if he weren’t so narrowly preoccupied, seeing you thrash about and moan out loud and fuck his face like it was the last thing tethering you to earth. He liked seeing you come undone beneath him.
A bit too much, if he were being completely honest.
While you made the languid descent from ecstasy and your breaths were still slowing in your chest on the bed, Joel was back on his feet. Padding toward the bathroom door, slamming it shut behind him as he had before. When he returned in a minute or two, he was clothed. He fished for his keys in the pockets of his snug, stonewash Wranglers and made a face. He didn’t look at you.
“I’ll be back,” he said, starting toward the door.
“Back?” You sat up, perplexed, “The hell ya goin’?”
“Out.”
This motherfucker.
“Did I miss something? Were we not just seconds away from getting down to some how’s-your-father?”
Joel visibly grimaced at your choice of sex slang. Under the circumstances, you would concede it wasn’t ideal.
“O-kay, sorry,” you returned, crossing your legs out in front of you, “I mean…don’t you want me to get you off?”
Again, Joel’s expression twisted into something just shy of overwrought, weary, and repulsed—a look that you couldn’t begin to understand, for the life of you—and you watched him flit his eyes from the bed to the door, again and again, seeming to be pining for the sweet release of leaving your shared motel room as soon as possible.
You’d been with your fair share of emotionally avoidant fucksticks, but most of them didn’t ghost until after they’d gotten their nut and felt no reason to stick around. Joel’s exit seemed premature. Strange.
“So you don’t want to fuck?” you asked, deadpan. You’d never been one for beating around the bush.
“Can’t,” Joel shook his head, bringing one hand to rest on his hip while the other fiddled uncomfortably with his car keys, “Your dad…that’s just— that’s crossing a line.”
“And being nose-deep in my cunt isn’t?”
You stared him down, incredulous.
So now he decides to claim the moral high ground, after coaxing you to soak every inch of his beard and cum all over his tongue? How very fucking charitable of him.
“That’s different,” Joel retorted, rubbing his knuckles in a nervous tic, “That was a game. I won. We’re done.”
You set your jaw just tight enough to keep your tongue in check and refrained from firing off a brash, unsavory remark. It wouldn’t do either of you a lick of good.
You let him leave. Joel had told you that you could keep the bed, he didn’t mind, and then he slipped out the door without another word. Leaving you cold and alone on the soiled, tawdry floral bedspread of Room 102, wondering what the hell had gone so wrong in the span of the last five minutes. From the center of the bed, you could see Joel’s Bronco pull off into the silent, frigid night.
You were still hungry as shit.
Rolling onto your side and rummaging through the bags at the end of the bed, you found nothing even remotely edible—save for, literally, one of Joel’s brownie edibles—and you groaned out loud. You threw your shorts back on, stepped into your old Luccheses, and did a quick circuit around the room to find your jacket before you left. As it turned out, you’d forgotten it back in Joel’s car.
You dropped to your knees and went back to tearing through luggage, searching for some suitable outerwear.
By the end of that second suitcase foray, though, you found you had nothing of your own that was hefty enough to brave the below-freezing temperatures outside, so you had to settle on a dark brown, fleece-lined coat from Joel’s bag. It was durable enough but about four sizes too big—and reeked of cigarette smoke.
You trudged outside, not really knowing where you were going or what you were hoping to find. Your stomach growled, and a few cool gusts of wind came to lap at the bare skin of your thighs where Joel’s spit was still drying.
You stepped a few feet out and turned toward the road.
Bal-ma-ceda’s, you read the seedy neon sign and heard Joel’s enunciation of the name ring between your ears.
What you wouldn’t give for the greasiest, girthiest, barely-FDA-approved 7-Eleven corndog to kill your thoughts about that sleazy little fucker right now.
You started toward the convenience store across the street but quickly found that it was closed—along with every other establishment on that stretch of road. You glanced toward the front office and caught a glimpse of your old friend dozing behind the counter. The speakers outside were playing a tinny rendition of ‘Piano Man.’
Just as you tried not to barf in your mouth at the sound and silently primed yourself for a long, long trek through the boonies to the nearest gas station, you stopped.
In a compact little breezeway that cleaved the motel in two, you saw light pool around an old vending machine.
You almost fell over yourself trying to get to it.
Never mind the fact that there were about half a dozen ragtag teens decked out in camouflage and comically tattered denim cutoffs crowding the area. All absently smoking and blowing o’s, or else sipping on cans of beer in the cramped, concrete passage, they looked bored. A couple lazy smiles broke out upon seeing your approach.
You nodded back and sidled up to the snack dispenser.
Then you zeroed in on the first sugar-packed products you could find: a pack of sour gummy worms and a bottle of Sprite—no, Mountain Dew—and a chocolate bar. Maybe a bag of Cheetos or Fritos thrown in for good measure. All of the snacks were probably stale as shit and hadn’t seen a replacement since dinosaurs roamed the earth, but you didn’t care. You were prying singles out of your wallet and salivating before you could think.
“Gotta kick it a couple times ‘fore it’ll spit anything out,” one of the boys lounging around you piped up.
You’d just inserted a couple bills and were waiting for the machine to dispense your gummy worms, when the thing appeared to stall. Stuck in its tracks, like he’d said.
You raised a brow and tapped the toe of your boot to the appliance, turning toward the one who’d addressed you,
“Like this?”
“Nope. Nuh-uh.” The redhead got up and strode over, where his much bigger, square-toed boot delivered a kick to the vending machine that almost toppled it.
A bag of Trolli Sour Brite Crawlers dropped out.
The kid—who actually happened to be nineteen years old and a student at some college a few states away, along with his whole group of friends—was kind enough to repeat the same ritual for all of your treats. You’d just gathered your stuff together and were about to thank him for his services, when the guy presently stuck a hand in your direction and introduced himself as Connor.
Then Blake. Then Micah. Then Wyatt. Then Trent. All traveling with their team for a tournament that weekend.
Then a beer was held out to you. You declined. A little homemade deer jerky? No, thanks. How ‘bout some Oreos? I’m good on snacks, really. Well, shit, you seem a little high-strung, why don’t you take a hit right here? And Connor pulled his dab pen out from his pocket.
Well.
You hadn’t smoked in a minute. You might’ve decided to take a bite out of Joel’s brownie back in the room, but you hadn’t known how strong it was—or where the fuck he’d gotten it. The pen this stranger was offering you was one that looked similar enough to the kinds you’d seen passed among your friends a hundred times before that you felt comfortable taking one hit, maybe. Two max.
You felt stupid as soon as you’d sucked in every breath, but you ended up taking four hits in total.
You hacked and sputtered and blinked up at Connor, who was grinning big.
“Alright, hardass,” he chuckled, taking back the device.
“Daddy know you smoke?” Wyatt cut in with a sneer.
Daddy?
There was no fucking way Joel looked that old for everyone to think he was your father. You inwardly cringed.
“Y’all been spying on us?”
“Ain’t shit else to do around here.” That was Blake.
You tried to swallow but found your throat much drier than it had been before. And not just from the weed.
“He doesn’t care,” you said, managing a shrug.
It wasn’t entirely false. Joel did give no fucks about you.
“Dude looks like a— a fuckin’ DEA agent or something,” Micah said, amused.
“Like that guy from Narcos,” Trent snickered.
You’d never seen the show and didn’t particularly care to know what law enforcement archetype Joel appeared to embody—in fact, you didn’t want to discuss him at all.
Just as the first fuzzy beads of warmth began to roll into your head, you were already planning your exit strategy. Thank Connor for his selfless assistance and cannabis, bid the group a good night and the best of luck in their upcoming lax tournament, and be done with this shit, ASAP. You were still trying to steady your tongue in the bone-dry cavern that had become your mouth when one of them kicked at a near-empty case of beer at their feet.
“We’re about out.” Micah announced.
Seconds later, Connor was turning to you.
“Wanna…restock in our room?” he asked, the corners of his lips twisting into a smile as he looked down at you.
You crinkled your nose and shook your head. Connor leaned his whole weight against the vending machine between you, seeming unconvinced by your answer.
“I don’t believe you,” he said, “I think you wanna come.”
“Do I?”
You only entertained the backtalk because your brain was currently swimming in a far-off, pleasant void of contentment and indifference. Every sharp edge dulled in your mind, to an extent, and your body at ease. You didn’t have to be home to anyone, anytime, and Joel was probably halfway plastered at a dive bar down the road. You didn’t move back when Connor stepped forward.
He wasn’t even that close. You could leave whenever you pleased.
“For sure. I think you’d enjoy our shitty beer and even shittier company. We can smoke some more, too.”
The man certainly had a way with words. He muscled in a bit closer.
“You think so?” you hummed.
“I do. I really do.”
“And you’re willing to risk the wrath of my dad if he finds out where I am?” You made it sound like a challenge.
“Wyatt can fight.”
Connor motioned toward his friend, who was mindlessly chomping on deer jerky in his lawn chair off to the side, glossy-eyed and hammered. You couldn’t help but laugh.
“Okay, but make sure he’s ready. I can only stay for five.”
Connor seemed wounded as he put a hand over his heart in mock dismay.
“Only five minutes?” he griped, “Why not ten? Or twenty?”
“Six.”
“Fifteen at least.”
You folded your arms over your chest and felt an opaque haze beginning to settle over your brain. It wasn’t quite a high, just a lightness of being that drove tender little streaks up your spine. Like Joel, tickling at your sides while you writhed around in the front seat of his car.
This time you took the beer Connor offered and cracked it open. He seemed pleased—and taken by surprise—to see you down the drink in spite of the overflowing foam.
“Ten,” you returned once you’d swallowed it all.
“Twenty.”
“Honey?”
The last voice didn’t belong to anyone in the group. You turned on your heels and almost coughed up your beer.
It was Joel, of course.
Standing at the threshold of the breezeway like a surly, disconcerted parent, of all things, watching you like he’d just caught you red-handed in the most horrific of acts.
Clutched in one hand was a Burger King takeout bag.
“Daddy. Hi,” you breathed.
Apparently your attempt at casual came across more slurred than anything else, because Joel stepped closer.
‘Let’s go’ was all he said. No accusations, no threats, no outward displays of emotion found anywhere on his face. Just a gruff ‘Let’s go,’ and a free hand reaching for yours.
Instinctively, you recoiled.
“We’re just talking,” you said, gesturing behind you. If you could have seen the uniform looks of discomfort and agita, damn near treading on fear, among them all, you probably wouldn’t have bothered.
“Good. Now you’re leaving,” Joel supplied in a moment.
He was blissfully indifferent. Asserting his will in a space where, less than one hour ago, he couldn’t bear to share a room with you, much less impart a shred of dignity or care to your condition. He had nerve, that was for sure.
“I’m not leaving,” you said, a touch more venom in your voice than you intended.
Joel raised both eyebrows.
“No?”
His expression, directed to you, was infuriating.
“Fuck no,” you answered.
A few of the guys behind you sucked in a breath as if to say, ‘Okaaaaay, time to go!’ but then Joel pressed,
“For someone who wants to be treated like an adult—”
“Adult?” you scoffed, “You treat me plenty like an adult, Joel. Just whenever the designation suits your needs, huh?”
No one moved.
Well, Joel flinched a bit. Then he squeezed your wrist.
Truly, you never failed to underestimate the man’s brute strength when it came to carrying you off at will—but there you were, being yanked behind the big, bad Joel Miller as he hauled you off to who-knows-where. You scowled but didn’t bother to steal a glance behind you at the beer, boys, or vending machine treats you were being forced to abandon. All you could do was stare a hole through Joel’s skull and tug back—largely ineffectually.
“You’re an ass,” you spat, digging your heels into the gravel terrain as he pulled you along.
“You’re a brat,” he fired back.
In a minute, the exterior of Room 102 was coming into view; Joel was practically toting your ass like a knapsack.
“You just abandoned me back here, Miller. You— you don’t get to pretend like you give a fuck now.”
“I was getting you Burger King, for Christ’s sake.”
Joel was fiddling with the lock now. Simultaneously juggling your hand, the paper bag, and a set of keys that didn’t seem keen on cooperating, he huffed, disgruntled.
“Even got you those—” Joel grunted, thrusting his shoulder into the door, “—fuckin’ curly fries you wanted.”
Your jaw slackened. That was supposed to make it okay?
“Joel, FUCK your curly fries!” you cried, “Are you seriously still trying to play good guy right now?”
“If that’s what you—”
“No. You don’t get to tonguefuck your friend’s daughter and buy her a goddamn Double Whopper and act like it’s all good. Sure as hell don’t get to dictate who I talk to.”
Like he had before, Joel cringed to hear your crude language—particularly as it related to what he had done to you but didn’t seem capable of owning up to just yet. You couldn’t bear another second of that look.
“Fuck this. I’m sleeping in the car,” you grumbled.
You thrashed your arm out of Joel’s hold and started off in the other direction. Picked up your pace when you heard the bag of fast food drop to the ground and Joel trotting after you. Calling your name.
Even at your most brisk, you knew you couldn’t outstrip those big, beefy legs of his. He gained on you in seconds.
So you took off running.
Joel gripped his side, thinking, ‘Aw, hell’ before breaking out in a sprint just as fast.
You were pissed at how far he’d parked this time around. You caught sight of the old Bronco perched a ways away from your room and almost opted to change course on the spot, to the front office—maybe dive behind the counter and beg that poor old woman to give you another place to stay—but you kept at it, anyway. For once, you were glad to have had Joel beat by so many years, because the man’s endurance was, evidently, shit.
“Hey, s— stop!” Joel shouted after you.
Fat chance, Miller.
You closed in on the car. Joel rarely ever locked it.
Your hand secured a grip on the door and jerked it back. It swung right open.
Just as Joel was pulling up the rear, you had the driver’s side slammed shut and your palm laid flat on the door lock knob—shoving the little black lever down each time Joel tried to unlock the car.
It was a fruitless endeavor, you knew; you couldn’t keep the man out all night so long as he had the car keys in his hands. You could piss him off some more, though.
“You won the fucking game, just take the bed!” you said, straining against the door with your weight pressed hard on that knob. Joel was furiously working to get it open.
“I mean it, Joel, I-I don’t wanna sleep in there wi— shit.”
You leapt back in your seat as Joel flung the door wide open. You scrambled across the center console, made a desperate grasp at the passenger door to climb out the other side, but your ankle was taken between two hands. Just as you tried to slink out on the opposite end of the vehicle, Joel pulled you right back in. Flipped the center console up so you were sprawled flat across the bucket seat at the front of his car and pinned underneath him.
Then he pulled you over his lap.
Not into it—nestled on top of his crotch, with your ass pointing up in the air. Joel’s big ass Carhartt jacket was bunching up around your torso, collar crowding you up to the chin. Your twisted just far enough to meet his gaze.
“What do you want from me?” Joel demanded, “What?”
You stared up at him, poring over your options in the span of what seemed like two milliseconds. Wondering, silently, why he wasn’t touching you anywhere.
“I want you to fuck me, Joel,” you replied at length.
Seated between driver’s side and shotgun, Joel looked perfectly unperturbed, raking a hand through his silver-flecked hair and letting his gaze trail up to the ceiling, as if considering something of grave importance.
“And what after that?” he asked, still staring at the roof.
Before you could reply, though, he was forging ahead,
“What happens when I can’t even look your dad in the eye knowin’ I’ve been balls deep in his little girl, and every fuckin’ time I’m over at your house or you’re over at mine, I’ll be thinkin’— no, dreamin’ of what it was like to have you wrapped around my cock, screamin’ my name and takin’ it so deep inside you like I know ya want it?”
You paused a beat. Had to bat your eyes a couple times to rid your head of those filthy thoughts he’d planted.
“We could, uh— fuck…then…too,” you ventured quietly.
Joel grinned at the spot he was watching, humorless.
“That easy, huh?” he mumbled.
Again, before you could speak, Joel continued,
“I can’t even cum with you on my mind,” he said, and for a split second you thought that might mean he wasn’t attracted to you in that way, when he swallowed hard and closed his eyes, “I’ve tried beating off twice today—in the bathroom and as soon as I left earlier—and I can’t…even get close with you here. You fuck with my head.”
You fuck with my head.
Without meaning to, your hips stirred over his, and Joel audibly groaned. At last, he dropped a palm to your ass and gave it a taut smack, and your whole lower half reverberated with the sensation—and a welt of pleasure.
“You think I want it to be like this?” Joel said, voice strained, fingers kneading over the flesh he’d just struck, “Think I enjoy havin’ the biggest set’a fuckin’ blue balls known to man whenever I’m around ya, honey?”
You winced when you were spanked again, letting out a whimper into the seat’s charcoal-colored upholstery.
“I can help with that,” you hissed, feeling him massage the spot once more. You arched your back into his touch.
“No. You’d make it worse,” Joel shook his head, “Once I get a feel inside this sweet cunt I’ll never wanna stop.”
At the soft rumble of his words, you felt yourself growing aroused. Noticeably so. Your skin broke out in broad swaths of gooseflesh every place he touched, and in the wake of those hands grew a pool of dull warmth. Sticky, slick, soak-straight-through-your-shorts sort of warmth.
Joel’s hand hovered about an inch from the source.
“We’d get bored eventually. It’d be fine,” you said, words crawling off of your parched tongue with some difficulty now. That faint, heady feeling from before had become a high, finally, and it seemed every sense you possessed was ablaze with desire. You were barely able to breathe, much less speak, but there you went, rambling anyway,
“Soon enough, you’ll get over the thrill of screwing me, and I’ll find a nice, polite, age-appropriate boy to spend the rest of my life having nice, polite sex with, and we can both pretend like this never happened. Deal?”
It was quite possibly the dumbest offer you’d ever made.
Joel slotted his hand between your legs to rub against that dampened patch of fabric. You almost jumped.
“Yeah? Just fuck around and forget about it?” Joel spoke, and you truly couldn’t tell if it was a sneer or real sincerity, as your eyes were squeezing shut, “Is that all you want from me, sugar?”
His fingers slipped beneath your shorts and made swift, easy contact with your heat. You buried your face in the seat and tried to muffle the sounds that were clawing their way out of your chest, while your hips tilted up.
“Please, Joel,” you whimpered.
By now, your head was spinning, in a daze, that you almost didn’t notice him tug your shorts down your legs. Or take them off at your ankles. You did get a sense of when he was breaching your folds—taking two, meaty fingers and trailing them up the slick glaze of your cunt.
“Doesn’t seem like this pussy wants ‘nice and polite’ to me,” Joel murmured, eyes gradually fastening to that lovely, exposed spot pointed up to him. He wet his lips, “Needs somethin’ else, doesn’t she, darlin’?”
Speaking of your pussy in third-person wasn’t something you ever thought could be hot, but coming from Joel? While his fingers traced up and down the seal of your entrance, tips circling your tight, hot, throbbing hole? Arousing didn’t even begin to cover it.
You pushed your ass back, and Joel chuckled above you.
“Wanna fuck daddy’s fingers? Is that it?” he taunted.
No, no, no—you wanted his cock buried inside you. But now you just needed reprieve from that ache, and your senses were practically on the fritz trying to get it.
Your hips rocked back and forth over his fingers—sliding the two digits in and out of your cunt with each motion—and, as much as Joel would’ve liked to make you beg and wait a little, your desperate pleas as you fucked his hand were more than enough to satiate him. He worked his free arm under your body and pinched hard on one nipple, eliciting a soft moan of ‘Joel’ underneath him.
“Oh, baby,” he breathed, watching you rut your hips for more friction, “That’s it, baby, fuck daddy’s fingers. Use my hand to make yourself feel good— that’s my girl.”
At the last, you probably could’ve cum on the spot, and Joel could tell by the way you clenched around him. He nudged a third finger between your plush, sensitive walls and heard your moans take on an even higher pitch.
“Hurts,” you whimpered, with no real indication of pain. You just felt stretched out, stuffed, and aching again. The only ‘hurt’ was not having even more of him in you, “Need more of you daddy, please. It hurts.”
Joel wanted to see you cum on his fingers. He really did. But when you got down to begging and pleading for his cock like that, the man’s whole heartbeat throbbed in his jeans, and he simply didn’t possess the resolve to refuse.
He hoisted you upright in his lap so you were straddling his hips. The fabric of his jacket hung loose off your frame and both of your arms as you latched around him.
“Are you high?” Joel asked, voice evening out all of a sudden to pin you with a serious look.
“Yeah.”
“How high?”
“I can consent, Joel.” Your thighs tightened around his sides, and your hips had already begun to stir.
“Not just can consent—do consent. Do you want this?” Joel’s hands moved from the small of your back to cup your face. You gave him a squished-together pout.
“Yes, I want this,” you managed through pinched cheeks. When Joel released you, you lowered your own hands to the buckle of his belt.
It felt foreign and familiar at once—this age-old ritual of fumbling for each other’s clothes and wrestling to get them off, like your bodies might catch fire if you didn’t act fast enough. Joel was a tad more graceful as he shrugged his jacket off of you, peeled your tank top off, and helped you maneuver your bare limbs around him. You, on the other hand, felt half-feral and every bit the wide-eyed novice while you stripped his body garment by garment and wordlessly told him just leave the jeans, I can’t wait another fucking second. Joel bit back a grin and had to steady you above him, feeling his cock twitch against his tummy but still slowing down enough to remind you, shhh, shhh, honey, it ain’t goin’ nowhere.
You had a tough time remembering that as you rubbed your wet centre over his shaft. Feeling so good you feared the feeling might escape any second, you whined.
“I know, baby, I know,” Joel cooed as your head fell in the crook of his neck, “Still hurtin’ somethin’ awful, hm?”
The tip of his cock just barely grazed over your clit and you buried your face even deeper, nodding furiously; Joel leaned forward to grab some item out of the glove compartment behind you and braced your body to him.
He tore something with his teeth. You craned your neck just slightly.
“Don’t laugh,” Joel muttered, voice momentarily stifled by bright, metallic wrapping.
“Is that…” You straightened up enough to cock a brow at him. Joel’s tongue rolled across the inside of his cheek.
“Cobwebs and all.”
Beneath your gaze was the flimsiest, dust-ridden, damn-near vintage condom—a decade old, at least.
“You buy that before or after the Great Depression?” you teased.
“Shut up.” Joel was already working it onto his dick.
“So Prohibition-coded.”
“I can find something to shove in that mouth, y’know.”
You were having too much fun at the old man’s expense, blissfully unaware that Joel was about one Gen X joke away from making you suck three of his arousal-soaked fingers. When you opened your mouth to speak—to try another wisecrack or else question the integrity of this ancient relic of a rubber—Joel crashed his lips against yours and made you mute with his tongue instead.
At the same time, he slowly eased himself inside you.
Your mouth fell open when you sank down on his length, fully, but no sound came out. You just gripped Joel’s shoulders and peered into his face as if to say, ‘Shit.’
No way any man was ever meant to feel this good.
No shot your walls were fitting his cock like a glove.
Joel soaked in your gaping, wordless stare with a nod.
“Good?”
“Great.”
You’d give all eight inches of the man a goddamn standing ovation if your legs weren’t feeling like jelly. Joel let out a small grunt when you clenched around him.
“Nice and…easy,” he said, as much to himself as to you. He pinched your hip in one gigantic hand and held you there, “Let ya take a second and adjust, alright, darlin’?”
“But Joel—” you whined, already trying to slide back up.
His grip kept you impaled on his dick, anchored in place. With the other hand, he brought a thumb to your clit.
“Just feel me, sweet pea,” Joel said, slow and languid as molasses while he touched you, “Ain’t gonna hurt ya.”
You couldn’t be sure if the man was a sadist or the world’s biggest fan of cockwarming—or just polite.
The bare, slightly-less-sexy truth was that Joel hadn’t done this in a very, very long time. Even the sex he’d had, close to a year ago, was something more of a flashbang than a bona fide carnal experience; he’d just bent a perfect stranger over the bathroom sink and drilled her. This was a fever dream, a first to end all firsts, and at present, Joel felt himself toeing a razor-thin line between self-restraint and bliss by just your presence alone.
In short, he didn’t want to fuck it up by busting too soon.
When you rolled your hips and squeezed your eyes shut above him, well, Joel almost fell into a panic.
Think of golf. Differential equations. The weather in Kuwait. Anything to get his mind off of how tight your pussy was holding him in, how lithe your body worked to grind above him while he sat there, so helpless and—
“Big,” you whined, stretched to the fullest you’d ever been. Unable to bounce up and down like you wanted but still squirming for more friction, “So big, daddy.”
Hockey. Geometry. Wind patterns around the Maldives. He held you even tighter, but your motions were growing desperate. You had to start moving.
“Joel, please,” you begged him.
“Baby, I’m—”
About to cum. I am two seconds away from cumming.
“Need you now, need you so—” your voice broke off in a moan as you sank your nails into his muscly shoulders, “So bad, daddy, please, please, please—”
On the seat beside you both, your phone lit up, buzzing:
Dad 💙
Fuck.
FUCK.
Your eyes locked on Joel’s in a shared look of panic and horror, and for once, your bodies stopped, perfectly still.
You knew your dad too well. Just as much as Joel did.
Your father wasn’t the type to call late at night unless something was up. And he wouldn’t stop calling until someone picked up.
“Should we…?” That whisper came from you.
Joel was frozen in fear, eyes now glued to the screen.
“Just…give it a sec,” he breathed, “Might be nothing.”
But his tone couldn’t mask the dread behind his words. He gritted his teeth and watched the phone ring.
It stopped.
Then started again.
The pair of you clung to one other in the old Ford’s bucket seat like your dad might veritably hear the two of you having sex from 1,300 miles away if you moved.
It stopped once more.
The screen stayed black.
You let out a small sigh and felt your eyes start to close.
Then the trill of a ringtone under Joel’s ass started up the second they’d fluttered shut, and suddenly your gaze was wide, and frightened, and freaking the fuck out when you realized that your dad was trying to reach Joel.
“Answer,” you hissed.
“What?!” The whites of Joel’s eyes were bigger now than you’d ever seen them.
“He’ll know something’s up! Just—” you slipped your hand under Joel’s rear, completely devoid of any sexual insinuation this time, and yanked his old iPhone 6 out of his pants, “Answer it. Now. Be cool.”
Joel’s expression was still paralyzed with terror, but he brought the ringing phone to his ear anyway. Gingerly tapped ‘answer’ once you’d smacked him on the bicep.
“He-e-y man.”
You were so fucking dead.
Your face hovered mere inches away, and you could almost hear the warble of your father’s voice on the line.
“Great,” Joel answered, stilted as a puppet with someone’s hand up its ass, “So good. How are you?”
A beat.
“She’s good, she’s good.”
For a moment, Joel’s gaze flitted to the spot where your bodies were still connected and you saw a flash of desire, followed by guilt, then his head tip back to close his eyes as he tried to concentrate on the conversation at hand.
“In the bathroom…Uh-huh…Phone must be dead…”
“No, she’s been a trooper—just fine…”
“Somewhere just shy’a Bedford, I think…”
You listened to Joel drone on and clench his jaw, and every now and then you’d feel a squelch in that tiny space between you two when one of you moved, and it occurred to you then that it probably was not in your best interest to stay seated on his dick while he talked. You shifted your legs underneath yourself to get up.
When you started to slide up Joel’s shaft—the first time you’d ever really moved, mind you—you felt a knot in your tummy start to tighten. The friction was to die for.
You sank back down and heard a hoarse little cry spill out from your lips before you got the chance to swallow it.
At the same time, Joel groaned. Then stopped himself. Then coughed—profusely.
“Sorry, just got a little—” Suddenly, a fiery set of eyes were searing holes in your head, angry as they were desperate, “—tickle in my throat is all.”
You ignored the strained Southern drawl and the eyes that looked ready to put a bullet between your own, and you rocked your hips again. The sensation was just too good. Your body practically acted of its own accord, and suddenly you were bouncing up and down in Joel’s lap.
The man beneath you looked enraged. Aroused.
Ready to wring your neck and maybe spit in your mouth.
“World’s movin’ too. damn. fast,” Joel seethed, trying to communicate to you semi-covertly while you rode his cock, “She’s one hell of a— firecracker, man, I’ll tell ya.”
You heard your dad’s laughter on the other end. While the sound subsided to chuckles, Joel grabbed your neck. He covered the mouthpiece for a second, then, in a murmur,
“This is not a fucking game.”
He squeezed your throat so tight you probably could’ve lost all circulation going to your head, but you smiled.
In spite of the hot, glowing embers of pleasure taking shape at the pit of your stomach and the coil that kept twisting and swelling inside, you grinned down at him. Then you mouthed, softly, ‘Yes, it is,’ and you rocked your hips against him even harder.
Joel drew in a breath through his teeth and watched you ride him with bleary, half-hooded eyes—keeping one hand on your carotid as the other hand cradled the phone to his ear. The man was transfixed.
By the pinch of just one set of fingers, you knew you were done for. A dwindling supply of oxygen, combined with your high and the hundreds of nerve-endings being brushed by Joel’s cock every other moment, you were spiraling toward release and didn’t know how to stop it.
When Joel pursed his lips and lifted his hips to start fucking up into you, you had to let go. Couldn’t hold on. You grabbed hold of his forearm, still hovering across your throat, and you moaned as the bliss washed over you. You slid your needy lower half back and forth, squeezed that tanned, tough arm practically bulging with veins above you, and you came around Joel’s cock. You whimpered his name, again and again, feeling him stroke your walls and fuck you through a euphoric high.
The next thing you felt was the seat cushion behind you—and the shift of Joel’s body weight pinning you down.
His cock hadn’t slipped an inch when he flipped you over; his grip was still secure on the phone.
The only thing that had changed was that look: malicious and vindictive with the hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Joel felt you pulse around him, starting to come down from your high, and he just decided to fuck you even harder.
“Shouldn’t be much longer now…” Joel hummed aloud, lowering a hand to your throbbing clit and muttering a soft ‘Uh-huh’ to your father while you clawed at his wrist.
“Joel,” you choked.
Now the feeling was too much. You were still so wet, raw, and sensitive that the pad of his thumb almost drew a shriek from your chest when he moved his finger in circles. You heard them chat about football. Joel shared a short, strained laugh with the man on the other end and pretended not to hear your whines as he continued to rail you senseless in the front seat of his car.
With the diversion of the phone call keeping his own climax at bay, Joel was free to fuck you as rough as he pleased—and couldn’t be more in awe seeing you veer close to the edge, again.
“Please, daddy, please,” you beseeched him, tears springing to your eyes as Joel’s thrusts kept shaking you.
He just shook his head and smiled as if to say, ‘Hold still.’
“It’ll be fine,” he said, “Mahomes is next-level. Best they can do is keep their heads down and take it, y’know?”
Your own soft, aching hole was taking the beating of a lifetime, and somehow, you managed to meet Joel’s gaze with a look that almost struck him as loving. That blissed-out, cockdrunk look of pure debauchery crossing your eyes in a way he hadn’t come to find in ages, if ever, was intoxicating. He felt the first fluttering pulses of your orgasm squeeze around him again, and suddenly he was pumping you faster, drilling you harder, gripping your throat and starting to sense his own climax draw near.
He couldn’t finish off like this.
Not talking shop and Super Bowl to your father—no.
Joel had to do something you might rightly hate him for for the rest of your life, and never forget, or forgive.
He lowered the phone, and right before he did, said,
“She just stepped outta the bathroom, actually. No, yeah, she’s right here. Wanna say hello?”
Your heart skipped a beat and nearly jumped into your throat. You tried to shake your head—fast—and even went so far as to try and dodge the phone when Joel brought it down to your ear, but that motherfucker had a grip like you couldn’t believe and wouldn’t stop stroking inside you or holding you down. You hated that you found Joel’s total dominance and control…kind of hot.
You flashed him the most nasty, bratty, ‘I’ll get you for this, Joel’ look you could muster anyway, and when he pressed the phone to your cheek, you mouthed a few more silent expletives before changing your air entirely:
“Hey, dad!”
Joel knew he was cooked from the second you said hello. Something objectively malevolent inside him got a rush to hear you speak to your dad in such a contrived, high-pitched tone of voice, knowing the unspeakable things he was doing to your body the whole fucking time. He could focus, now, with no need for any strained civilities of his own, but deep down, he knew it wouldn’t last long. He would not last long.
Might as well make it fun while it lasts.
“He…did,” you hummed, flitting your eyes up to Joel when he brushed your lower lip with his thumb—still holding the phone up for you while he rutted into you, “No, nuh-uh…Mr…Mr. Miller didn’t mind, no sir.”
Shit, the sound of you saying ‘sir’ was something that made Joel’s whole body lurch with pleasure. He made a mental note to have you call him that later and stroked your lip once more.
You tried to turn your face away—telling Joel, wordlessly, that you couldn’t keep up this conversation with your father if you had a thumb in your fucking mouth, but Joel didn’t care. He watched you pause for a moment, let just the tip of his finger press into your tongue, then, battling your better judgment, wrap your lips around the digit almost cautiously and suck. He knew you liked it, too.
He knew it by the way you bobbed your head, hummed, and nodded every time he thrust inside your aching walls and dragged his cock back out. The way your teeth clamped hard on his thumb whenever he grazed a particularly sensitive spot and how your lips held him in like a gag, or some other thing to keep you quiet amidst the moans and the whimpers bubbling up in your chest.
Suddenly, Joel was at your other ear, lips grazing skin and tongue praising your every move.
“My sweet girl.”
“Doin’ such a good job stayin’ quiet.”
“Takin’ daddy’s cock so well, aren’t ya, darlin’?”
From that point on, every single one of your father’s words over the phone fell on deaf ears—all you could hear was Joel. All you could feel was Joel. Your lips parted as if starting to speak, but all that would come out were small puffs of air, perfectly in sync with each one of Joel’s thrusts.
“You okay, hon? You sound…distracted,” your dad pressed. A hint of concern rose from his end of the line.
At length, Joel gripped both of your legs and brought them up over his shoulders, and he grinned before kissing your ankle and shoving his cock even deeper.
“Yes!” you yelped as you crushed the phone to your ear, hoping your father couldn’t hear any of the filthy sounds down below, “Just a little stretched—I mean stressed out, is all.”
The sick, smug fuck currently wedged eight inches deep inside you almost burst out laughing. If you weren’t so perilously close to your fourth orgasm of the night, you would’ve told Joel to take a long walk off a short bridge.
“Just worried about grades a-a-and all,” you stammered.
Joel leaned forward and almost tore a scream out of your chest—his tip was kissing the edge of your cervix now.
“Yes, sir. I will.” You tried your hardest not to whine and almost let out a sigh, “I’ll…ask him about it, for sure.”
As bone-crushingly fun as this all was, Joel was close.
He could feel it in the furthest recesses of his stomach; he was about to blow his load.
So, leveraging his weight to strike just the right angle and pushing his thumb in to stifle your moans, Joel sped up and drew even closer, face-to-face, so he could see your every expression from a hair’s breadth away.
He was so near he could hear your dad’s droning voice. See you struggle to take cock the closer you got to your release. You hadn’t cum in such quick succession…ever, really. All but one of the guys you’d let between your legs before seemed like amateurs compared to Joel, and to be honest, you weren’t sure if you could make it to four.
You popped his thumb out of your mouth and mumbled some ‘Sure, okay’ or other to your dad before casting a pleading look up at Joel. His hips were working up to a ruthless pace.
You covered the mouthpiece.
“I can’t, Joel.”
“Sure you can, sugar.”
“Joel,” you hissed, and tried to grab his wrist, when you felt your stomach start to cave. Every exposed inch of skin gave way to waves of heat, and your toes curled in. Worst of all, Joel was letting out sounds you hadn’t ever heard—short, ragged breaths that broke off in low groans—and it felt as though he were cradling your head. Holding you to him. Your eyes were locked on one another, your mouths practically panting in time, and what parts of you had not yet become commingled with him were practically coated with sweat. And shaking.
Then, in tones that rang like music to your ears:
“Alright, I’ll let ya head to bed, then. G’night, pumpkin.”
Your dad hadn’t even fully hung up the phone before you flung it across the car. Heels dug deep in Joel’s back.
“Cum for daddy,” Joel coaxed, “Cum all over this cock.”
You didn’t need much more instigation than that.
You came. He followed.
And it probably split his eardrum in two having his name screamed so fucking loud, but frankly, Joel hadn’t seen a reason for going deaf that he could’ve enjoyed so much.
Then, he didn’t sink so much as simply collapse on top of you while you both kicked back and let the waves of ecstasy roll over you. You adored his warmth in spite of the heat practically suffocating you both in that car.
Until it was in you.
Sticky, sweet dripping inside you.
You pushed Joel hard in the shoulder.
“Did it…”
“What?”
“Joel!”
You flipped your legs down and tapped his abdomen furiously, telling him, pull out, pull out right fucking now, and Joel gently obliged. Dragged his cock three-fourths of the way out when a frail, tattered condom came loose around the head of his cock and almost fell off entirely. That damn prehistoric rubber had broken inside you.
“JOEL!”
“I’m sorry! Fuck, I— fuck.”
Joel scrambled to get his cum-drenched cock and what remained of the condom away from your body, but the damage was done. You started throwing on clothes.
“I’m ovulating this week, I am so fucking fucked!”
Joel swallowed, shimmying his boxers and jeans back into place and scoping the front seat for his shirt.
“What’s…ovulating?”
You wanted to tear your hair out at the root.
There was no way this man had survived half a century on earth and didn’t understand the menstrual cycle.
“It means I can get pregnant if we don’t get a Plan B up in this bitch immediately. Let’s GO!”
That part seemed to click. Joel almost fell over himself trying to find his keys, while you slid out of the Bronco.
“Where are you going?!”
“To— to try and get some of this shit out of me first!”
Joel bounded after you, and within the first steps, you were sprinting across the parking lot. Your sweaty, half-naked companion tried—and failed—to slow you down.
“Are you not on birth control?” Joel huffed.
“Are you not capable of buying condoms more than once every fucking decade—or three?” you snapped.
Your strides were growing wider and more frantic by the second. Joel clutched his side and struggled to keep up.
“I’m…sorry,” he grunted, more embarrassed and worn-out than anything at the moment, “I’m sorry, darlin’.”
“‘Sorry’ doesn’t get your cum out of me, daddy.”
Your words couldn’t have gotten any more caustic or merciless—or inopportune—if you tried.
As it was, you were passing by the breezeway where all the bored lacrosse players were still lounging around, cracking cold ones, and craning their necks to see what the fuss outside was all about. The sounds of your feet racing fast on gravel and you and Joel’s raucous, bickering back-and-forth had caught their attention, and shortly, Connor was sticking his head around the corner. His expression—along with all the faces behind him—had twisted with horror. Confusion. A visible look of disgust.
Joel had just slowed down to catch his breath. He doubled over and braced both hands on his knees.
“I’ll fuckin’…duct tape my dick next time I hit it, honey!” he wheezed, barely loud enough for you to hear but perfectly audible to all the terrified guys around him.
Joel turned his head and almost groaned.
Then he was straightening himself back up, starting to retreat from the group who had him pinned with genuinely frightened—and nauseated—looks.
Joel normally wouldn’t care. This time, though, he threw his hands up and thought, fuck it, I’ll clear the air.
Over his shoulder, he grinned, yelling back to the guys:
“I’m not actually her dad!”
All of them stared back. Half-jealous, half-awestruck, Connor stood up, raised his beer, and called after him:
“I SURE FUCKIN’ HOPE YOU’RE NOT!”
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