Safewords

“You know, you don’t have to get me my coffee anymore, Mackenzie.” Johnathan, her boss, let her know with a confident, charming smile. He was just that, always. From the day they met a well put together man in a suit with a nice watch and a hundred-dollar haircut. He always smelled of sandalwood or an Irish spring, some sort of men’s fragrance and she was sure he had a better skincare routine than her. . . that was Johnathan, he’d smile, order an Americano, he’d always tell her to keep the change, more than the order by dozens.

It was her first day and she’d left early just to be sure she could bring him his order with her own Dolce Cinamon latte. She’d spent the weekend rebranding her wardrobe from the granola sort of style she was used to wearing under her smock at the café to a more business approachable collection of tasteful skirts and blouses, a smart blazer or two and some cardigans she wasn’t sure she’d wear or not, a couple pairs of pumps and heels that made her ass look great.

John had given a job description, she was to be a personal assistant of sorts. . . with one wrinkle, one wrinkle that was more than just that, more than just a simple red flag. If John’s firm offer got her out of steaming milk and sweating, suffering for a measly buck, she was in. Wage slavery was not a life she could accept, not forever. She’d missed the boat on leveraging her education, she’d resigned herself to the Café, John’s out was a tidy offer while initially a shock.
The building was gorgeous, tall, glass, an ostentatious lobby with security and shops all around the first floor. It was in the banking district of her city and shared offices with too many other businesses to really parse, she lost count by the time she found his name in the directory, a reminder of the floor she would be working on. Office 16D, a private investment brokerage. She took the elevator to the sixteenth floor and then rounded a corner. A frosted glass door separated her from the rest of her life and a smiling man greeted her.
Some time passed after she was settled into her desk. There was a computer and a phone, a desk filled with stationery and files, it seemed someone else had-had this position before her and didn’t bother to clean out their things before leaving. Mackenzie tried not to obsess about that red flag, but the day was boring and there was little else for her to do. Little else for her to do until an instant message came through the team’s interface on her computer screen. She’d nearly forgotten it existed, but the ping brought her back to reality from her daze.

Johnathan: I’d like you to start touching yourself for the Camera, Mackenzie. Like we talked about in your interview.
The wrinkle. A call started and Mackenzie felt something in the pit of her stomach. She grimaced then took a breath, smiled, she didn’t want to seem anything less than grateful when he saw her! –but the camera displayed on the call, when answered, was not her face.

The Camera’s view was under her desk, up her skirt. While initially it was an unfocused grainy shot, she spread her legs – this was not instinct, quite the opposite, she nearly had to pry them open. . . what if someone saw? -what if someone walked in, if the phone rang, if. . . any number of nightmare scenarios played through her mind, they were not the first time she’d thought of them though, she’d considered them for hours the night before and days before that. . . since her interview, since she understood the scope of the position.
Mackenzie nodded and lifted her skirt, the shadow it cast over her cute, lacey, red panties gone. She’d worn a pair she’d had from before, but skirts and a blazer weren’t all her new boss suggested she wear.

There was an anxious moment, a moment where she almost couldn’t fathom doing it, doing what she’d been hired to. . . then her fingers set to work. First, sinking down into the mound that was her covered cooz, her sweetness, she hissed gently, the soft silky material pressed and grinding into her. . . it felt nice.

Johnathan: I’d like you to pull your panties aside, let me see you.
A notification instructed.

While heat was welling, she needed more time to feel comfortable, more time to ease into such a thing. . . and yet, she complied dutifully, she pulled aside her red panties and adjusted on the seat – her eyes flicking to the frosted glass door over her desk. . . nobody had come in, a quick correction in her seating and nobody would be the wiser, she thought.

gulp.

Mackenzie pulled her tongue over her lip and dragged her teeth with it, nervousness didn’t cover her concern for the moment; still, her panties were not in the way and while she was quite familiar with her own body by touch and at certain angles? –there was something quite different about seeing herself, seeing her soft, pink, and indeed, glistening labia under two fingertips. Her digits glided over her hood and pulled it back a slight, just enough her clit started to pull out from beneath. Mack gasped as she prodded the pearl, a bundle of nerves she couldn’t resist for long.

Each flourish of her fingers was a new height, a new pleasure, she started tepid at best but over time she felt it hot, bubbling up her throat, little moans and mewls that rippled through the room, through his microphone.

Her opposite hand slid over her body and soon it too was in the mix, pulling the skin over her pussy taught to provide more ease of access to her clit and hood, she brushed them eagerly, the heated starbursts of lust and otherwise pinging about in her mind and body both. “Hsssth!” She hissed out loud as she felt the first signs of impending climax, a tightening stomach, and heat that poured out her cheeks – even through her foundation she was clearly blushing brightly.

“Ff-ffsssth,” another hiss, she nearly cursed too! Mackenzie’s orgasm was welling up just under her fingertips and she knew with a little focus she would not need much more. She pressed down and strummed for all she was worth no longer pulling at the skin over her crotch but rather groping her chest feverously, clawing at her blouse, breathing deep her own flowery perfume even, any sensory indulgence to cling to till finally. . .

. . . she arrived, “Oauh. . . ha, hnnnngph.” Mackenzie’s hand climbing from her top to her throat then up to her mouth she bit on her nail and adjusted herself again, smoothed her shirt and only when she was told by the screen she’d done a good job, did she pull her panties back in place and clear her throat. Good job. . . It felt good, Mackenzie felt good.

Sweat beaded on the side of her face just behind her ear, running down her nape she considered for a moment the box she’d opened, a box she couldn’t close, a piece of herself she could never change. Her overbearing mother, the one who loved to tell her what to do with her body and money, with her mind and soul. . . she’d tell her she gave something up, a piece of her soul, she’d somehow tarnished her virtue, Mack didn’t feel tarnished, she didn’t feel less than, quite the opposite: Mack felt Elevated, a new high trickling down her spine as well as the inside of her thigh, sweat and lust combining in her nostrils.

The camera flicked off and the message closed leaving her with sticky fingers and a hitch in her breath. . . she couldn’t recover the rest of the day, feeling on edge at every little sound or change in the air, she felt guilty, she felt strained, she felt a thrilling amount of freedom she had no idea where to put! She was excited, even still, even after the deed was long done. Admittedly, she wasn’t sure she could do this and yet, such a large part of her needed to see this through, to catch this high again.
Days and weeks bled by and nearly each of them was filled with a certain amount of the same, nothing ever seems to happen up on the sixteenth floor. There was one regular visitor, a tall woman often wearing a blazer or powerful looking dress of some variety. She must be some other sort of business banker type, she considered for all of two seconds then moved to obsessing if her and John had other arrangements. She was certainly pretty enough.

The woman, like Mackenzie was blonde and leggy, though her breasts were noticeably larger, and her facial structure was sharp, hauntingly symmetric, she was beyond pretty, that didn’t do her justice. The blonde businesswoman was older than Mackenzie and looked every bit the woman she hoped to grow into. Baroque suits, handbags in the thousands of dollars, more than a pay cheque on each finger this woman oozed money and class both.

His wife?
Johnathan: There’s a gift in your desk, I’d like you to use it today.
Her musings on the mysterious woman were stolen from her, replaced by excitement and wonder. While she considered asking a question, the reality was she rarely said a thing to her boss in the chat windows, he directed her and she did what she was told, there was no need to muddy it up with questions or confirmations. –but she wanted to thank him or exclaim gratitude somehow, a gift.

Her desk shifted open drawer by drawer till she found the bottom emptied out except a small box wrapped tastefully, professionally. The paper’s folds were crisp, and the bow tied too perfectly not to be gift wrapped. She lifted the lid and inside was a small inlay with toy, a vibrator specifically. The small, silver handheld surprised her. It was expensive looking, exceptionally crafted, she didn’t know much about sex toys herself, but she knew it looked far nicer than any she owned past or present.

Mackenzie lifted the small silvery tool out of the box and held it in her hand for a moment, feeling the weight and crafting for herself. The device flicked on with a nearly silent buzz and she murmured, impressed. It was a soft sound but as she ran it over her thumb, she knew it would be something else, knew she’d need to lower the intensity. She did just that, a low, gentle setting to begin go figure he’d advise just as she selected it.

Johnathan: You may start on low.
She was grateful but also sort of shocked, he always took a little control, but this felt more involved.

While instincts told her to look over her shoulder, to lock doors and hide under a thick downy blanket; that was not the job, on instinct (as it was becoming just that) she spread her legs and lifted her skirt, she’d quickly replaced all slacks and pants with skirts and dresses – the idea of trying to pull her pants up with someone coming through that door was not in her itinerary.

Mackenzie furrowed her brow and let the toy disappear under her skirt, biting down on her tongue absently, more holding it between her lips and teeth as she guided the toy toward her “Oh!” –that felt nice, a vibration that rippled from her hood out her back and up through her spine, a vibration that she felt throughout her entire lower half. Mackenzie’s toes curled just a little, she felt sweat between them, sapped by her socks, she felt pang of arousal throughout her, it was only growing.

The young woman hissed and whined, throwing her head back, carried away by the intense vibrations even on this lower setting she could feel herself marvelously close to something more, something climactic, something of a premature orgasm, she felt the first of what she hoped to be many small orgasmic jolts, or large – she certainly wouldn’t complain.

Johnathan: I’d like to turn it to the medium setting.

She choked, it already felt great so she imagined it would only improve. Mackenzie tugged her skirt and folded it up on itself, she was wearing a nice tasteful blouse though the cleavage low and ample enough one might say otherwise. Skirt hiked and breasts glistening with sweat she proceeded, the low buzz intensifying in sound and feel both, climbing, like her heart in her chest – the pleasure of the moment grew. She breathed a ragged inward breath and slowly lulled her wrist about, rolling it such that the wonderful device in hand worked her over.

In a matter of moments, she was practically oozing from her insides out, not just the tangy lust between her legs but the sounds of enjoyment from her lips! It’s almost too much to take in stride but her fingers are soon sinking into her top to assuage the need for more, she’s seeking out a turgid nipple to pinch, trying to quell the urgency that her mind requests she put up her leg, really gain a good angle.
The vibrator sinks down when she feels overwhelmed, tingling and teasing her petals as she gives her clit a break from the intensity of ‘MED.’ Small coos and whimpers began to take hold of her breath, while she tried to just. . . breathe, her chest betrayed her and volume snuck into every single one, if she wasn’t careful – someone would hear her. Surely, he could hear her between the microphone and the desk, but maybe even through his thick wood door and the frosted glass window. The thought set her off, and deeper toward depravity, closer toward yet another pleasing pang. She took the time to grind out yet another orgasm, this one larger than the previous, it made her quiver visibly, made her leg tense and shake.

She removed the toy and for a moment thought she was done – but something of a sadistic streak ran in her boss occasionally, something of a demand for her to take herself to new levels, or just the urge to overwhelm Mackenzie. -whatever it was, four letters spurred the toy back to her oversensitive clit.

Johnathan: More.

After some hesitation, some reluctance and second thought – she murmured then moaned. Moaned as the toy returned to her throbbing clit for another pass, for a circular grinding. “Uhff, hff, nnngg. . .” She whimpered and carried on, once again pinching her nipple to sober mind, to return to a state of being where she didn’t feel like her entire crotch was going to explode with something more, more than an orgasm, she felt over stimulated, like one giant raw nerve.

Johnathan: Turn to high.

The buzzing intensified and with it her whining, her murmurs growing to cries of weakness, of vulnerability, of overwhelmed insecurity and a vibrating, undulating, never-ending starburst of heat battering her hood and clit into submission. She felt pins and needles across the bottoms of her feet, each of her pads cramping in her heels she’d been arching them so fervently.

Mackenzie’s insides churned and shuddered and without warning she cried out with enough volume she was sure to have disturbed another office down the hall. -The poor thing bit the inside of her cheek when she clamped up, hard enough she tasted it, hard enough it gave a sobering sting. In that moment she was entirely unaware of the soaking mess she’d made of her backside, the state of her panties and skirt.

Her eyes were rolling into her skull by the time another bing chiming from her computer told her she could remove the toy.

A moment passed and the office felt humid and sticky, she’d made it that way. Mackenzie’s breath was deep, long, each catching in her throat as she removed her hand from her shirt and the other from under her skirt, realizing just how damp the articles were between her sweat and countless orgasms. She was soaked!

Johnathan: Great work.
The chat closed and she was left to deal with the repercussions alone.

Her eyes skirted down to the wet spot on her lap, and she croaked, though thanked herself up and down for remembering to leave a longer coat behind for just such an occasion. It was an unseasonably warm autumn day but better to look overdressed than like she’d spilled or had an unfortunate accident.

After some uncomfortable time waiting for the clock in a soggy seat the young woman found herself confronted. “Afternoon,” it was her.

“Good afternoon,” Mackenzie chimed back from her seated position, her face burning brightly between her freckles, between the speckles across the bridge of her nose and cheekbones, rouge.
“I’ll let myself in,” she chuckled gently, her nostrils flaring. Did she know? Mackenzie had to wonder, had to. Her nostrils flared too; the room was practically dripping with the scent of sex – just like her bunched-up panties.

Frig, frig, frig!

Even the tops of her ears burned with embarrassment, she chided herself for not going to the bathroom to at least try to clean up a little more than a tinkle and washing her hands – she just. . . she didn’t want to be seen red as a beet and, friiiig! Her mind beating her up with every embarrassed stick it could find. She croaked, only to be interrupted by a message after the door clicked behind her.

Johnathan: You may go for the weekend,
Enjoy your time off.
She collected her bag and the unseasonably warm jacket for the unseasonably warm afternoon, wearing the shame of her lust the whole way home, the slight discomfort of a soggy undergarment riding up her behind haunted her every step and while she felt shame, she also felt free.

She was a Exhibitionist, there was no doubt in her mind. . . love it or lump it, she’d arrived.

The following Monday, she arrived yet again, arrived at her desk with the knowing thought in the back of her head that had captured most of her weekend. She wondered if there would be another present waiting for her, another surprise, another layer.
Mack’s heart skipped a beat when she found it. A small, nondescript, silver package with a tasteful bow, the same as the one before but several inches larger in all dimensions. . . her teeth chattered with delight, with possibilities a plenty.
There were only so many, only so many things it could be – the box, she imagined each of them in detail her tongue tapping the inside of her cheek. . . she wanted to reach into the cookie jar, but to be caught, the idea of being caught in that act was almost worse than the idea of being caught in the other – worse than the idea of someone other than the woman, finding her with her fingers deep in her own cookie jar.
The morning was agonizing, painful. She almost wondered – wondered if maybe today, the day was not, if she’d spend the night agonizing too, if he’d never direct her to open that special, silver box.

Looking out at a plate window she huffed her way out of a daydream to find it waiting for her – she’d nearly missed the moment, her screen ticking toward sleep.

Johnathan: There’s a gift in your desk, I’d like you to use it today.
He repeated the same message from the other afternoon. Her heart once again thudded, her cheeks flushing, she blushed so hard she could feel it on the tops of her ears, feel it burning on her collar. . . she couldn’t resist but to nearly fall over herself reaching into her desk, clawing at the box unceremoniously she nearly tore the beautiful wrapping paper and bow just to get at its contents.

. . . and what contents they were.
Beneath the lid what she found made her gasp, made her heart jump, made her glower. . . a phallic object, a fleshy tool a lifelike dildo, mostly pink with dark, angry veins.
She shivered, it was large, the dildo, long and thick. She was already feeling herself work up a sweat at the nape of her neck, work up something entirely different between her legs, no small amount of need, no small amount of heat. The camera shone on her thighs, and she spread them for it, she knew what she was meant to do and before the window told her specifically what to do, she found herself in motion.

Mackenzie tugged up her skirt and hiked it into itself, sliding into the hollow of the desk, so much so the camera was forced to adjust to the darkness, expensive enough it had the lenses to do so. –a feature she never noticed. Blind to the act except for the camera recording every detail, she guided (with its help) her bulbous dildo toward her body, toward her crotch.

With panties still in place she prodded herself, the mint-colored lace starting to grow dark and cling to her body, anticipation welling in her loins. “Hff, ssssth,” the chat box grew a flashing ellipsis, and she knew directions were coming, in preparation she pulled aside the lace and her lush pussy lips prickled with the chill of outside air against their dampness. She hissed and the typing ceased. Two for two.

The toy would not get far without aid or discomfort, these were her options though she did not consider them long. Spitting in her hand she stroked and massaged the dildo, lubricating it for entry all in view of her boss, all in view of the camera, of her generous spectator.

--after all, this was just as much for him as it was for her, she often forgot. It was easy to lose herself to the fantasy the longer she danced around inside of it. Gulp. The dildo found her, starting at her hood she brushed it from the base, a small amount of play to the length it flopped about. “Hnng,” low moans rumbling her throat, swelling under her chin before finding purpose in the air-conditioned office space, escaping with volume, the hallway be damned.

In time prodding teases were just that, she needed more.

Johnathan: I’d like you to insert your gift, now.
The words surprised her, she hadn’t even seen him type them out, but they stood in stark contrast to the rest of the screen, she focused on them only as she slid the tip of her new toy to her entrance. Teasing herself, oozing with excitement, primed, Mackenzie began. Slowly she pressed against herself by the end of the phallus, she felt it buckle slightly then “Uhngh!” It righted itself, gliding past the resistance with a little effort. With no real urgency she began to work the toy inside herself slowly, inch by sure, inch.

Her face twisted with vulnerability, and she was especially grateful it wasn’t in the shot, she knew she must look all sorts of silly with her eyes bulging and crossing, she didn’t often take anything more than a finger or two personally or romantically, her bedfellows also often preferring outercourse, the fairer sex. She had solemnly brought a boy home in her adult life, maybe two or three times if that. Not in recent memory either.

She didn’t do this, not specifically. . . dildos. . . but for her boss, for the fantasy, for the exhibitionist not so deep under her heated surface? There was no question in the matter. That thought kept the toy rigid, kept her urging it further and further still.

When she felt resistance, she’d pull back a slight, stir herself and the toy inside, ease it in circular motions such that it stretched her enough for a second pass, a new attempt, another inch toward “Uhfffk-fuh-fuah. . .” toward curse words and whimpers, toward moans and groans, another inch toward her cervix, toward bottoming out in her body and her wrist and hand reaching her crotch, the toy buried inside to the faux nut sack.

Her eyes crossed and her mind burned, melting with the friction of the toy penetrating her, the friction of it gliding along her velvet walls not just felt below but above, felt all over. . . she felt it curling her toes and making her free hand splay then gnarl like the dying branches of an ancient tree, rigid, grasping for something, anything to grip. – her chair’s arm would not do the trick and thus she reached for her mouth, an attempt to staunch the flow of volume from her lips, the never-ending moans and developing cries that followed them.

While typically she felt herself required to focus on the ebb and flow of fingers ministrations or the lapping of hot, wet slip, being penetrated as such was entirely different, it was raw, it was powerful. . . it felt, entirely different and in many ways entirely debilitating! She couldn’t get over it or enough of it, she could hardly push through, sweat starting to bead about her face, on the side, down her neck and even soaking her cleavage with its salty, sweet brine.

Johnathan: Faster, play with your breasts as well.

His request did not go unanswered, neither did. First a perky tit pulled from her bra then she finally did it, pulling her leg up to her desk for more access, more purchase, she pumped her wrist and the toy in hand, a wet slippery sound of squelching echoing through the microphone, her nectar collecting in gooey lots, lubricating the toy as much as was necessary to ensure she could thrust with speed and ease both. -and thrust she did.

It wasn’t enough to bite her finger, the inside of her cheek or even her lip. There was no silencing the pleasure she felt and the man behind the screen had little intention of cautioning her on it either. She tempered her pitch every so often, gasping for breath only to feel the fear of being caught bubble up and contend with the supreme pleasure that was her vaginal coring, was the self-administered fuck of a lifetime.

She’d never masturbated with a toy like this, never inflicted such guilty pleasures upon herself. . . she felt changed, not just by the hollow between pumps or the fullness on the backswing, not just between the friction or spread.

She felt changed because she wasn’t sure she could ever go back after this, as she marched closer and closer to the climactic, wet finish that would likely ruin her outfit, soak her with sweat and more, gnaw a hole in her finger to stifle the shrieks. She wasn’t sure anything could stand in the way of her orgasm now, never mind the volume or deluge behind it.

“Oaaaauh-ho-hoooauh!” She came, Mackenzie came loud and hard. Biting down on her lip as her insides wrung and clamped down upon her gift. It wasn’t like a finger, wasn’t forced out of her but rather a turgid obstruction there was no play, no give, no squirming out of her, whether by force of her hand, will or the strength of silicone.

Her teeth clenched and her spinal cord buckled, she felt her insides roiling with dazed delight, with jolting spasms of pleasure from tailbone to the base of her skull! She felt it all. . . felt a new height, then, felt the air in the room shift.

The screen as always wished her a job well done but her attentions shot elsewhere, as quickly as she could manage, she shuffled her tit back in her shirt, pulled her skirt out of its hiked-up state but before she could even hope to remove the toy.

“Good afternoon,” there she was. The woman.

The door swung open and in a bespoke, navy power suit a tall, beyond beautiful woman entered the office. Mackenzie looked to her stunned, her face tingling, she was gob smacked, struggling to cover her shame, her guilt, her post orgasm glow!

The younger woman sunk into her chair and nodded kindly, “Good afternoon,” squeezing her thighs around her gift heaven forbid it roll off the edge of the chair. Her voice was uneven, a slight panic and pitch both, she knew. . . the woman. She had to!

She stood there looking confident, like she could never be out of place anywhere, like she belonged, as if a woman like her could look out of place in any scene – she was more than just a sight for the sore, she was so hot it hurt.

“Ahm. O-one moment please,” before she could advise her boss, ask if the woman, the same woman was expected, or so much as press her ‘page’ button, the window opened and all she needed to know began with an ellipsis flashing across her screen, Johnathan’s next task sure to populate soon after.

Johnathan: . . .Next ProjectPrevious Project

A small bag with several gelatin caps sat between them on a beat-up coffee table. Rory sat across from Mike, a pillow of separation between them, a pillow of breathing room. Under his brightly coloured hair, perfectly groomed and spilling the scent of palm oil and shampoo, Mike inspected the bag himself. The caps were clear gelatin, and the crushed-up translucent, purple diamonds tumbled over themselves, with just a little air in either cap. “So, this is it." Mike regarded them as “free-range, organic, farm-raised, fair trade—Bonafede Molly."

The ribbing tease made Rory’s eyes roll. He was a taller but far more svelte creature, almost willowy in his oversized sweater, the very same one that ate up his short shorts, almost like he wasn’t wearing a pair at all. His long legs were pale and admittedly chilly in the apartment air. Rory pulled his sweater over his knees and adjusted in the couch seat. “Something like that.” Agreeing, yes, it was the Molly they’d be doing tonight.

While Rory had dressed for comfort in a crewneck and shorts, Mike didn’t know the meaning of dressing for comfort. Rory was sure he’d never seen Mike off, which was to say, he was always very well dressed, groomed, and set for the scene. He set the bag down on the table, back where he’d found it, and nodded.
In his time, there were brightly coloured pills with fun logos; the 90’s and 2000’s were. . . different. He never knew what he was getting, and sometimes the fun was in the fucked-up biproducts that went into an e-pill. Rory insisted those days were over and pure MDMA was the way, Molly. Pulling his hands through his dyed beard, the short man prepared himself mentally; it had been so long. He asked for this, though; he asked Rory.

I need to escape for a night, trip balls. Will you come with me?

With heart in chest and hope abounding, Rory did just that: “Yah.” The bag opened, and two caps fell out into Rory’s waiting palm. He pulled back his sleeve and fingered one into Mike’s hand, who held it up like a shot.

“Cheers!” He chuckled with a certain amount of jolliness and whimsy; it wasn’t just an escape; good sport that Mike was; he made it a fun game too. There was no clink from the two gel caps as their fingers bumped together, but they each made a dramatic sounding “Ahh!” once they’d swallowed their respective cap, chuckling after they washed it down. It didn’t taste like anything, and the high was not immediate for either of them; in fact, they’d planned for exactly that.

Both were savvy enough with MDMA to know how to navigate a night, and they’d come prepared, each of them. Mike had drafted a mini-module of sorts for a sans-dice D&D experience, something of a small set of social interactions between Salvador and a roving circus. The theme was not uncommon lately; they’d both had their eyes on the opening of The Amazing Digital Circus.
Aside from activities planned, they had intentions to order food that were easily bypassed. They had bottles of water and chewing gum; they had comfortable clothes; well, one of them did. Layers to shed.

With the premier come and gone, The Amazing Digital Circus is only the beginning of their YouTube algorithm-guided evening, with the playlist eventually settling into a constant circulation of old D&D content, critical role-type streams, and the like. No surprise, the DM’s previously watched videos would be so on the nose.
Sweat began to prickle up the lowest reaches of Rory’s spine, with a particular warmth he enjoyed wrapped around his mind. Mike regarded a tingling sensation somewhere he couldn’t place, like on the tip of his fingers or just before his cheeks. They were getting there. For some time, they spoke; they didn’t just speak like they did from time to time after sessions when the rest of the group had gone to smoke or order food, pee breaks, and whatever other opportunities left them in a position to chat.

Insecurities, fears, hopes and reasons to frown, reasons to smile, faith, experience, hope.

They talked on a deeper level; they talked at a pace and from a place that only Molly and other rollercoaster-like trajectories could launch a person on. They didn’t just go through what happened last Sunday; Mike told him about stories that shaped him and who he was. Disarmed and intrigued, Rory shared his own journeys in kind, with the same excitement, the same flashing of his hands, or rolling expressions of excitement and joy.

Who would have thought? The flared-out, brightly coloured, and beyond interestingly dressed man would have something in common with the shamelessly queer brunette across from him. They were indeed two of the very same variety sitting across from each other; they truly were kismet in a painfully obvious way.

As the night progressed, so too did their state of undress. Rory had shed his oversized band-sweater in exchange for his much more breathable tank top and shorts; he looked so much smaller and petite compared to Mike, even if Mike was shorter. The two complimented each other like that. Mike, too, had unbuttoned his pinstripe vest and removed his bowler, begging the question, Where did you find a bowler hat in the 2020’s?

“You have it made.” Mike said in his persnickety way, likely a purchase from a steam fair or renaissance of some sort—maybe Etsy though. His hair had a radiant sort of look to it; for someone who dyed it so often, he managed to keep it, well, healthy; it looked soft. Rory nearly commented on wanting to touch it, wanting to feel its green and purple tones under his pale digits. A desperate huff took him to a water bottle, taking him to assuage the heat bubbling up his throat with a long few swigs from the bottle.

They both did drink. A bead rolled down Mike’s beard, and Rory watched the journey in detail, watching the drop soak into his T-shirt under the vest. The vest, which is not long for this world, Mike removed too. “I’m getting so fsk’so-hot.” Mike confessed, and for a second, Rory let it mean more than it did.

“Huh?” The brunette asked under his sweaty, matted hair.

"It's really freakin’ hot in here!” Mike gasped, ready to peel out of his pants—or at least socks for the moment. Off they’d come too.

Rory felt himself blurt something he couldn’t stop: “You’re freaking hot.” His hand didn’t shoot to his mouth, but there was a moment—a nervous laugh—that, oh fuck! Sort of moment. The cat was out of the bag for Rory, and Mike could only pour fuel on the fire by laughing, laughing with mirth, a jolly bone-shaking sort of dramaticism to his laughter.

They both tried to keep casual for a moment, but "seriously?" Mike finally broke their laughing fits, some insecurity creeping into the perfect gentleman’s expression and into his tone.

"Y'ah. . . like,” more nervous laughter bubbled up from Rory, his toes wiggling, tingling, and wriggling under his tennis socks; it was almost time for them to go too. “I just, I dig,” he could go on, “your hair, your whole vibe; you’re shamelessly charming without even trying it, y'ah, damn lug.” Rory puffed, and Mike blushed.

“You know, they can’t find out.” Comet. Mike’s partner, in fact, hinged on Comet not finding out about what they were up to. There was more than just a little trouble in paradise—more than just a reason or two. Comet couldn’t know they were high; moreover, they were flirting.

The jealousy of that trespass, the betrayal—it would come at a cost Mike wasn’t ready to pay, even if he wanted something more than friendly flirting over a couple caps with Rory. “Of course,” Rory agreed seamlessly; he knew that coming into this night, “nothing we do here gets back to Comet.” Slender fingers, manicured and soft, tugged a little at a set of jeans, straight cut and a nice navy. They could come off any time now.

“I feel safe with you, Mike." With a gentle smile, Rory continues to assuage the nerves of his bearded friend, rubbing his thigh and adding, “I want you to feel the same way, huh?” Suggestions were dripping off Rory’s tongue like the sweat on each of their brows. “I wouldn’t treat you like Comet, I'd. . . I’d do better by you.” While Rory only knew bits and pieces, he wanted to believe that was true. He wanted to believe he’d be a great partner to Mike.

Mike blinked and started to speak, but Rory took the words from him and resumed his sentiment: "I... you’re just, you’re so fucking cool, like the other side of the pillow type rizz, and I love your whole vibe really, Mike! I’ –I like get all fucking warm and ooey gooey thinkin’ about you, man." Well, the Molly probably did that for the most part, at least today, but the message was true and was out in the open now.

“I really fuckin’ like you, man.” Rory added that before Mike could speak a second time, Mike’s bearded face hanging open in a gob smacked sort of guffaw.

For a moment, Mike let the heat in the room simmer, a pregnant pause that left Rory all but crawling out of his skin in need of affirmation, in need of something, some sort of confirmation he wasn’t out of his mind, that he wasn’t the only one who felt that way! "You're a nerd. You wanna date me ‘n’ shit, like, kiss me? You probably think about me all the time,” Mike started to tease. “I’m just an innocent, well-dressed Dungeon Master, trying to make my way through life!” Dramatics, flash, and charm.

The DM did not just verbally rib Rory but added a few pokes and gentle shoving, “Aauh! Hey! Quiddit’!” Rory whined desperate for freedom from the pressure that was his undying attraction, his sexual tension, and the angst of 20-something-lust bottled up then, given purpose like a burning rag stuffed in the spout. Rory was ready to throw his Molotov cocktail ass into Mike, a flaming, gay cascade across his stout, squat body. He needed that.

Mike was teasing, but vulnerability, rawness, and chaffing cracked through the fun. “Rory?” He asked, deadly serious.

“Y’ah? – what’s up?” Rory responded, his jaw starting to tense uncontrollably. He needed something to occupy his mouth, lips, and tongue—lest he bite a hole in the inside of his cheek! It was at that moment that Rory started to realize just how high he was, how pliable he was, the starburst rippling over his skin, and the clammy sweat under his fingernails and on his palms. In a word, he was fucked!

Mike hesitated, visibly nervous. He was on the edge of words he couldn’t take back, his pie-eyed, lip-smacking expression likely just as fucked up as Rory's. Rory couldn’t help but think. They were both high, thank goodness. They were both ready to make mistakes. “They can’t find out." He repeated, but it was clear to Rory that he didn’t just mean about the caps or hanging out either.
Rory nodded, and before Mike felt like he had to spell it out for the world, Rory gave him a line. “You don’t have to say it." Rory’s voice took on a sultry sort of cooing, an undeniable amount of gravel in the sweetness, like cookie crunch in a caramel stream. Rory pushed forward across the couch, and his fingers went to work. Purposeful but gentle too, he started to undress Mike.

“Oh-uh, I,” The older gentleman stammered. It wasn’t going to stop the younger man, though; no, there was no stopping him now.

“Let me take care of you.” He insisted, and like that, jeans came off, and an enamoured brunette mop closed into hairy thighs. Mike unsurprisingly smelled more like his cologne than anything else, and while he was undeniably hairy and well groomed, it was almost like he brushed the treasure trail that led up his stomach and intermingled with his chest’s curls. Rory took a deep breath of that cologne mixed with natural Mike, loving every little bit of the moment but pressing further into the next.

Petrified and pleased if both could be true at once, Mike dared to assist in removing his underwear, and like that, he was nude on the sofa, an average but no less impressive cock on his crotch beckoning the young man forward. “I’m gonna--”

“Yeah, please.” He wasn’t so charming with his cock out; it was sort of endearing to Rory. Maybe the nerves of the moment, maybe just. . . maybe he was hot too. Rory gorged on what felt like sexual power, energy, and excitement, kissing the inside of Mike’s thigh in agreement while his hand took hold of the older man’s root, stoking gently and appraising the weight, girth, and heat of his member in his hand. Not left wanting, he proceeded to kiss little circles up his DM’s thigh toward his crotch till his arm was forced to contort and his cheek brushed up against penis and testicles.

They were burning hot, likely the product of the drugs, the product of his own body heat, and the product of his own arousal. He felt himself overheating as he rubbed his cheek into his partner's for the night’s package, and "Hnnnph" audibly groaned with satisfaction for that moment and for the opportunity to lay down over a stranger’s sofa and grind his face into his all-time crush’s crotch. It was magic, in a sort of debasing, animal, hot-hot-I’m-stupid-heat way. Rory didn’t really know what came over him in that moment, but judging by the groans leaving Mike’s mouth, it was appreciated, judging by the possessive hand on top of his head encouraging him to push forward. Well, it got his tongue out of his lips at least.

Mike’s privates were not guilty of tasting strong but more having an absence of taste, a slight salt on his tongue, a sour hint but nothing over the top, and this was almost a godsend given the sheets of sweat they both felt on their brows and elsewhere, collecting up their spines and in the crevices of their skin, particularly Mike's, as he had more spots for sweat and more places to love.

“H-holy shit, Rory,” He grunted, unable to contain the lust he felt, the pleasure that arrived with Rory’s attention; it was almost worship at this point, not quite stroking or sucking just yet, he noted, though Rory took the moment from him and stroked that scrawl out of his mind just as soon as he’d made it. Rory’s tongue dipped out past his thin, lower lip and dragged from his hairy underbelly up to his meat toward the ridges at his tip. He could make out with Mike’s cock all day, but he instead dipped down with his mouth open, taking the first few inches inside his maw.

The hot, wet slip of Rory’s tongue slithered around Mike after a moment, after an audible "Omsssth" slobbery entrance.

It wasn’t enough, though—not enough just to hold him there in his hot hole of a mouth; he wanted Mike to enjoy this fully. He began to bob his head, holding back the curls of his pubic hair, which was soon soaked and matted with saliva. Rory took to the task, knowing it pleased him too and pleased him to service Mike’s prick.

Almost as if by mind of their own, the fingers that weren’t occupied by undulating nuts or holding back hair, by plucking the odd stray pubic hair from his tongue, had sunk under his own beltline. Through his bald reaches toward the swollen hood, his fingers searched, seeking out his entrance and tugging at sensitive flesh, gliding and grinding, pleasing his own lust and assuaging it while he happily added to Mike’s.

Rory tried his darndest to make it sexy, making the noises echoing in the room—the sort Mike would want to hear, not the sort his throat was forced to garble out. There was a difference in his mind, but at least he wasn’t gagging. At least he wasn’t making too much of a scene; at least Mike didn’t know just how much he wanted him inside! - He wasn’t sure there was any going back if they took things there.

Growing harder and throbbing in the back of his mouth, Rory employed every trick he knew to make it feel perfect—to make it feel better than good. He knew Mike had been missing out on “Slrrpht!” a good release. Rory’s lips sealed and his cheeks caved in. He sucked for all he was worth and felt his eyes nearly cross, then Mike shoved him off.

Before Rory could ask if he’d done something wrong, the older man was grunting and shifting on the couch, lumbering over him with a very obvious look in his eyes—a look that told him no, quite the opposite was true. “Ugnh, are you sure?” Rory murmured almost too quietly, almost so close to silent that maybe Mike missed it in his energized advance, in his ultimate yearning. He was hard as a rock and ready to slam into Rory with the same violence to deliver him there on the couch.

“C’mere,” he was sure.” Mike made short work of Rory’s shorts, tugging and demanding them down around his ankles, then off, his underwear bunched up inside came with. He wasn’t even sure what they looked like; he was so enraptured by the vision of a swollen, healthy cunt. “Fuck,” he grimaced in a way that didn’t spell out difficulty so much as distress, so much as desperation and need.

“Yah,” Rory agreed. Fuck. They both felt it. Rory lay on his back with his legs spread, Mike pulling him toward him by his hips; they were bony by comparison but wide too. Mike marvelled at the sight of his partner for the evening, of Rory, his midnight love. For a moment, they stroked themselves in earnest, Rory sliding his fingers in and out of his boy-pussy while Mike prepared himself for entry, made a few good grunts for measure, and his cock tip slid and ground itself over Rory’s labia and hood. “That fe-that feels gooh’d’uh.” A breathless confession aired between them before Mike gave in and plunged forward.

“Wa’auh!” Rory cried out in earnest pleasure, in the utmost bliss, in the sudden ecstasy of Mike forcing himself inside deeper and thicker than his two fingers were capable of if felt like. Even if it was just his first few inches before Rory tightened up, it was blissful delight, the friction and fullness both making him wheeze and whine.

Mike’s thicker, stubby fingers came down on Rory’s chest and pinned him to the couch as he started to throw pipe, throw his hip forward with rhythmic rocking, and throw himself toward the young man in a squelching set of deliveries that made the whole couch creak and skip across the floor beneath, an unpleasant sound that neither cared to address.

Rory had to admit, missionary had never felt so good, be it the drugs or who it was with; he couldn’t decide. The heat of it all was delicious, an ooey-gooey-delight to it all, like he was lubricated with a warmed gelatin, even though they’d just been spitting on each other like a couple of damned high schoolers in heat!

Their bodies were working in overdrive, and while Rory knew he was close, he wanted it to last all night. He wanted Mike to "keep going! Don’t stop, doh’hon’t!” and he didn’t, he slammed inside, plap-plap-plap, with increasing intensity till Rory was sure he’d bust in his cooch right there on the couch.

“Y-you can,” He encouraged him to, too, to cum. He wanted to feel that; he wanted the privilege of Mike’s seed oozing deep inside his body. Mike denied him for now.

Mike tugged him off and pulled out, smearing himself across the inside of Rory’s thigh as he flipped him about. Even though he was a little taller, he was svelte enough that Mike had no problem tossing him over the arm of the couch and mounting him from behind. “Mike!” Rory gasped with surprise as he hit the couch, and Mike, in time, hit his ass with a firm thwap!

He didn’t know Mike had it in him! He didn’t mind either. “You’re so fucking hot, Rory, I’m going to fuck you all night." Whether it was a promise or a lie, it was the sexiest thing he’d heard in his adult life. He needed it to be true in that moment, and with Rory stuffing his cock inside of him, he was a believer.
From behind, Rory felt every thrust through his cheeks and thighs, felt the older, hairier man crashing into him with force enough to grind him into the couch, with force enough to make him release a litany of lust, a long and lurid choir. “Ooaauh!” Rory went on only to feel a hand in his hair, another on his back, his shoulder; it pinned him in place there as Mike drove himself forward time and time again.

Feeling an absolute fullness, an impossible urgency, a hot-hot-molten heat, Rory finally arrived, tightening, cringing, and crying out. Mike, of course, wasn’t far behind. A finally sounding of more erratic thrusts, his haphazard pin is no longer vice-like but weak and distracted. Rory could have broken free, but instead he rode the high of his orgasm, rode the high from Mike’s spewing cock. He swore he felt it, felt it belch rope after rope inside him as Mike said, “Hauh, aauh, hooo’!” He exclaimed his pleasure into his back, into his nape, nestling in for something of a formless embrace from behind, a shifting hug.

“Tha’that was amazing.” Rory confessed breathlessly, feeling just how amazing it was rolling down the inside of his leg—amazing for them both. He collapsed onto the couch, and Mike slowly slid out, finding their bodies flushed with effort and a sheen of sweat on each of their pink bodies. He felt himself swollen; he felt a supreme emptiness that only came with a hard fuck and a fullness that only came with being sexually fulfilled, a fullness that only came with being cum inside.

An animal urge had them each momentarily satisfied and maybe more dangerous than their fuck. Climbing over one another, they began to “smch, mph, smck!” Smucker and kiss, tug at lips and hair, feel one another in earnest, and see one another with purpose.

Rory was just a guy, impossibly into Mike. Mike was just a guy seeing Rory for the first time, really seeing him. He underestimated him as more than the player at his table but a supportive, warm, and hot, swelteringly so, sexual creature. Someone he wanted around There was understanding in that kiss—those kisses, more like. There was an understanding that there’d be more, that this wasn’t over when they sobbed up, that his completion wasn’t the end but more of a. . . to be continued.

Still, they had a lot remaining, and Rory made a very good point, pointing Mike toward the bedroom. “It’s only 10:16, hon; you still have a lot of all night to go.” His face pulled to a playful grin. Cheshire, bubbly giggles. Mike didn’t argue; he didn’t have it in him.

He was done arguing, done letting things get in the way of what he wanted and of who he wanted. He wanted Rory; it was no secret that Rory wanted Mike back; why not roll the dice?

The truth for Erin was that everything felt hard fought; she felt nothing really came easily to her; even her identity was a war. She made the grade easily enough; that wasn’t really the problem; in fact, she was kind of doing miraculously well compared to some of her peers when it came to actual school. Navigating the social minefield—that was another story.

Her voice had a slight timbre, and while her hips were wide, her bust was still rather petite, with a slightly angular face under brunette hair. She took time with her hair every morning, did well to make sure her makeup was good, dressed in a feminine flare, she had to, and had to take extra care to pass. If she didn’t feel feminine, it was hard to feel herself, even if it was just a flash of pink or a blue, pink, and white pin on her cap. She always did this.

College came with its own set of realities outside of her new lifestyle, far from outside eyes, far from family, and far from people who forgot her name or got it wrong, aggressively, or accidentally, interchangeably. A chance not to reinvent herself but to be her authentic self. A chance to drink when it didn’t go her way, which seemed to be more than not this past few weeks, or at least since her 21st birthday, whenever that was.

Since it had been a bit of a blur, she was no longer at the mercy of a friend or fake ID; she was no longer at the mercy of circumstances when she wished to assuage her awkwardness with a drink. Today was no different; today was not special; today was tipsy; she was tipsy.
She’d been heading home, toward the dorms, at a hurried pace. Erin’s head was down, and her arms clutched a paper bag with a bottle, deciding she’d best get a second bottle before stores closed or she had to ask Matt for some of their beers. They always made her feel bloated and texting her ‘dormie’ to raid their fridge was unpleasant at best. They shared keys and had few boundaries between them; they were close.

Into Campus, over the quad, through Blue Building and into residence Erin hurried, brisk winter air nipping at her nose. She’d nearly made it inside her building and toward the set of halls she called home when a familiar face came to view and clocked her almost immediately. Alec, she was surprised he recognized her from the front; he only ever seemed to stare at her ass.

It was awful to admit, but in this moment, the affirmation of anyone staring was kind of comforting, comforting in a completely abysmal way, a completely shameful way, one that made her cringe because the moment he greeted her “Hey, Erin!” with a bright eye, she prepared to lay it on, lay it on thick.

She didn’t want him to know how she was feeling, that she’d been drinking on a random Tuesday afternoon, that she was a mess. “Hi Alec,” Erin greeted him with a brighter than intended sounding lilt, “I ahm, meeting Matt, then?” putting on that octave higher customer service voice she reserved for parents and cute boys, telephone conversations with people of relative importance.

Who did she have to impress?

Alec is objectively handsome, with stylish glasses and wristwatch, salt and pepper, dad shade, a gristly voice, and a 25-dollar hair cut. Alec wasn’t precisely her type, but daddy issues were close to home, and he flagged daddy. She gulped, and he nodded with an endearing look. “Who else would I be here to see?” teasing her, he looked her over twice, and she felt it. She felt his eyes on every inch of her body, felt him tracing her camisole, where her cardigan got slinky around her hips, her mom jeans, maybe even the little lump she neglected to tuck, and her trunky thighs. He was eating her with his eyes. . .

“He-heh, sure. Well, uh, I’m going to go.” She murmured awkwardly as ever, pulling a brunette curl where it belonged, behind her ear. Erin began her escape, nearly pushing past him. She felt herself say, “Ouhff!” Stumble, missing a step, she toppled downward; she nearly lost her bottle too!

“W’oah There!” Alec exclaimed and caught her around the stomach before she ate the staircase. It was a little early for dinner. “Careful Erin!” Smelling the alcohol on her, he smirked. He too remembered college, remembered drinking a bit more than was appropriate, and remembered making some choices he probably would regret in the morning.

Erin looked shocked, their bodies so close, she hadn’t felt another hand on her body in so hopelessly long, she was starved for that, starved for more than just a grope or grind at a party, more than another girl affirming her with a Yas queen! She was starved for more than just compliments like "what a pretty name!" and other such kindness, whether genuine or not. “I, er, ahm—" entirely endeared, entirely so she was starved for more than just compliments like "what a pretty name!" and other such kindness, whether genuine or not. She was starved for more than just compliments like "what a pretty name!" and other such kindness, whether genuine or not. ok she grimaced. It was so easy for her hormones to go out of wack, to jump up and down, to take her from hopeless and tipsy to acutely aroused and beyond needy. “Yeah! I’m such ah-well..." anyway, "Thanks, Alec," she said, smiling. She broke from his body and tried to make a quick exit before she embarrassed herself further.

Making a break for the door Erin nearly excused herself entirely—almost nonverbally, for that matter—when Alec reached for her hand, watching her wide ass, as was tradition. “Hey, Erin?” Looking at her with expectation, looking at her like she knew what he was thinking, like the power of suggestion or mental melding could convey what he wanted in that moment!

“… Erin?” He finally gestured to the door and asked, “Do you mind?"

“Oh!” It dawned on her, “I thought 'er,"—you meant sex. She floundered for a second, internally devastated, devastated for a gambit of reasons, a gambit of emotions: “I thought maybe Matt was coming down; do you need in, Alec?” She finally caught up, and Alec nodded graciously.

“The front desk won’t give me a up, not without Matt or another student, eh-heh. You wouldn’t mind letting me, yes?" They briefly spoke over each other as understanding became clear, a mixed bag for them each in a different sort of way. Alec for not taking his chance; Erin for much the same; he stared, but that was all. “Thank you, Erin.”

“Of course!” She tittered politely and waved an ID card under a reader, granting them entry through the door closest to her and Matt’s rooms, respectively; there was no need to navigate the main entrance or front desk, for that matter. The two started toward her floor, and where they’d inevitably veer off is Matt’s exact room down the hall from hers. It wasn’t that she was mulling it over; maybe that was the issue; she made a choice, though. Erin stopped and looked at Alec, trying to find her words.

“You can wait with me if you would like. . . I mean, you don’t have to stalk the halls waiting for Matt to show up; why don’t you come hang out in my room?” She smiled, though inside she was a little uneasy. Inside, she had a nagging feeling she might regret this.

Alec seemed all too agreeable; happy to oblige, he followed her into her small dormitory room.

Erin’s room was decorated relatively sparsely, with an obligatory set of pride and trans flags over her Ikea bed, a desk with a laptop and docking station, a screen, a lamp—nothing special really, but enough character to make it feel her own, a few nick knacks, and just enough mess for it to feel human. There wasn’t exactly a place for him to sit besides her computer desk, so she gestured to that chair after clearing it off and turning it around. Erin decidedly said, “I’ll sit here,” settling down on the edge of her bed with an awkward matter of her bottle.

Her mind circled back to Alec catching her, to the scent of his cologne and natural musk, while restrained, felt entirely overpowering in that moment. “So… Erin.” Alec hummed absently as he looked around the room. “This is you, then.” Smirking.

“This is me.” She agreed, biting her lip, with the brown paper bag and bottle sitting like a sore thumb between them, standing out. She’d set it on her desk, and she indeed felt it calling to her. She wanted another drink; she regretted inviting Alec in here; she regretted how inexplicably weak she felt next to him in that moment, not just because she wanted a drink but because...

“I’m so impressed with the beautiful woman you have become, er, are?” She cringed; this was not it—not the conversation she wanted to have. She wasn’t going to explain the ethos or trans world to an older gentleman half drunk and horny as she’d ever been, hormones out of whack entirely—that wasn’t what she got up for this morning! There was something else Alec could help her with, though—something seedy and gross and, fuck it.

“Thank you, Alec." She tittered, fake, turning on a giddy charm she didn’t know how to finger—one she was fabricating from pornographic places, one she’d seen in videos and read in fiction, one she imagined men would like—not exactly knowing firsthand but knowing enough to assume. “You really think I’m beautiful?” She batted her lashes, curled her hair around a finger, and crossed her legs a little. What was she even doing? This was her friend’s dad!

Alec was responding as she imagined, with smarmy sort of smiles and knowing grins, leaning in as if he were paying much closer attention. He prepared to list the reasons why, the changes. She stopped him before he could say, “Don’t tell me, show me.” She took the risk, so he didn’t have to.
He only hesitated for a moment—a very brief one at that.

The much older man reached across the gap from the computer chair to the bedside, putting a hand on one of her knees and squeezing gently. His hand was large, calloused but soft enough, and possessive, but not so much so that she felt handled. “Hi.” He murmured, and she smelled him again. She smelled him in earnest. An audible gulp from Erin arrived and passed, a small chuckle telling her that was okay before they kissed for the first time.

Erin pressed her lips to his, and he opened them, opened them, and slid her tongue inside with a groan that made her both cringe not because he was older, lecherous, a perve! —but because he turned her on so damn much.

Needy fingers exposed his top button and zipper, undoing his pants blindly while they kissed. Her ruby-red nail polish chipped, in need of a touch-up. “Woah there,” He teased her as she tried to fish him out through his undone zipper. He was surprised at how quickly things progressed, though he wasn’t criticizing her by any stretch. “Go on, you can touch it.” Indeed, he encouraged her.

Erin smiled nervously and started bending downward into his lap once he scooted his chair forward as far as he could with comfort. They were just inches apart now, knee in knee, postured toward one another. She found him, found his girth, and pulled him out while he pushed down his pants to his knees. The feminine need to feel needed, the feminine need to provide pleasure, and the feminine need to suck off someone stronger, powerful, and better off than herself came on strong, and she gave in entirely.

She didn’t exactly waste time with the fashion and passion of worship but did give his mushroom tip and smooch or two after licking her lips and breathed in deep the familiar but removed scent of man's crotch. She didn’t feel the same after estrogen; she didn’t even smell like her old self; she didn’t miss that smell so much as she longed to sap it off another human being, at least today. She wanted to smell, taste, feel the musk of Alec’s nuts, taste his cock.

His fingers were soon in her hair, tangling up the brunette strands while she opened wide. “Oh, fuck, that’s good, Erin.” He encouraged her more as her hot, wet tunnel opened for him, opened wide, and took the first inch or so of his erection. For some time, she just held on—held on to the taste, the feeling, the heat that was a hardened cock on her tongue—that was Alec’s hardened cock on her tongue. It felt supremely blissful, like what she’d been missing; even if he didn’t finish, there was a certain satisfaction in being penetrated, anal or oral; it didn’t matter; she didn’t need to cum to feel good about herself. This made her feel good about herself, though.
in that moment.

The man covered the back of her head with his hands and started to urge her down and urge her forward before she could get fully used to the sensation of him inside of her and in her mouth. A small sound of difficulty was muffled in his lap as she agreed to his will and agreed to the hands forcing her to take more. “Hnggf,"

“Don’t stop Erin." He huffed, not willing to tell her he hadn’t felt this good since Matt’s mom was still around. Her mouth was hot and velvety, and the wet slip of her tongue around him made it easy to feel good, making it easy to forget all about why he’d come here and focus entirely on something far more enjoyable. “Suck that cock.”

It was a moment of conflicting emotions - a mix of gratitude and disgust. gusting old man's words, his perverted, lecherous groan—but it still made her tingle with arousal, still made her hard. She felt herself straining in her own pants; she felt herself getting hot, gooey, and needier by the second, that warm fuzzy, ‘fuck me’ vibe filling her mind, getting stronger with every manic suckle.

She was not a dick-suck savant, but she knew her way around a tool from her own experiences. She knew what felt good and could apply that practically; she knew what she liked. Her lips wetted over and over, saliva rolling down his mast. She bobbed up and down, pulling in her cheeks to make a vacuum seal of sorts. Little noises of suction and slobber filled the dorm, filling the dorm between murmurs of approval and older men’s breaths.

His cock didn’t taste strong so much as it had the typical absence of taste she’d come to expect from a clean partner, the sort of off whiteness, or plain salt, that came with clean skin, eventually mixing with saliva to become something sweeter to her pallet. She licked and sucked, glided up and down, and continued to take Alec toward completion, to get him off there in her mouth, in her dorm, as her best friend’s dad.

--fuck.

He was easily six inches and change, above average; she wanted to feel him inside her but couldn’t take it there on her own. Instead, she pulled back and “Fwauh,” gasped for breath after licking her lips, enjoying the feeling, the taste, the act, sure, but upping the ante.

“Ouh, fuck yah—keep going, Erin.” The lecherous man told her, and she nodded.

“Yes, sir."

“Awh, hon—call me Al." He told her a name she’d only ever heard an older gentleman call her friend’s dad. She felt the gravity of what she was doing again, brow beating her with shame, but she didn’t stop. One of her hands wrapped his spit-slick pud and started to stroke—her other hand on his hip—to steady herself. “Keep suckin’ in."

Stunned for a moment, she finally nodded, "Okay, Al.” not like that. recovering from the awkwardness, she moved forward and opened. From her mouth, she let her tongue dip, rolling it over and around his angry mushroom tip while she jerked him off with her hand. Alec couldn’t let her do this all on her own; once again, his hands were in the mix, one on the side of her face, pulling back through her hair, and then “Grlk!” Pressuring her to take more of him, take all of him. his other hand too.

“Oh fuck, Erin—take it!” He grunted, and she almost gagged hard enough to have more regrets than just the BJ. She felt him throb with bliss inside of her and felt his balls against her chin, wrinkled and hairy. They jumped a little like he’d lost the war, but no, this wasn’t over. He released, and Erin launched backwards, a deep raspy breath sucking through her ragged windpipe and spit bubbles rolling down her chin. She quickly sapped them with her sleeve, her complexion ruddy and flushed from the breathless prison of his crotch she’d just spent a moment too long in.

Several breaths passed between them—several breaths where Erin was unsure if she wanted more or wanted him out!

Alec had seen that look on a young woman’s face before; he too was unsure where this would go, but when Erin reached for her drawer, he seemed satisfied, seemed ecstatic even. From inside came a bottle of jelly lubrication and a condom.

“We don’t need that.” He murmured regarding the condom, and while Erin hesitated, she agreed against her better instinct.

"O-... okay.” A small voice, a small yes, she agreed and opened her cardigan, removing it and her shirt too. Her little trainer ended up squeezed and groped, her breasts sore from E, from growing pains, from “Oaaauh,” his calloused hands taking hold and massaging roughly. She unclasped, and he pulled the bra away. Shoving her down onto her bed and following with her.

Alec was remarkably spry for an old guy; he tossed his stylish glasses and undid his watch, setting each down by the brown-bagged bottle she’d given her desk. “Uhhgh, Al!” She hissed as he started to suck on one of her small, dark nipples, the nub ground between his teeth as his hands adjusted on the bed. For that moment, his squelching suckles were muffled by her low groans into his salt and pepper hair. She kissed his crown and messed up his cheap haircut as he started to kiss down her body, down her stomach, and toward her. “Oh god.” Penis.

He did stop short, however, not getting there; instead, he yanked down her pants roughly and turned her over on her stomach. Instead, he revealed her plush, doughy ass and gave one of her pale cheeks a suckle, a sloppy kiss, and then a squeeze. He’d experimented in college, and he knew kids these days were into it. He'd eaten ass, and Erin’s wasn’t the first, though he wouldn’t make a career out of it.

The man popped his thumb in his mouth and slipped it between her cheeks, spreading them with one hand while his other. . . “Oooauh,” Elicited a long, throaty groan from Erin, circling her asshole, pressing and prodding the spiral of muscle, wicking away any unpleasantness before he replaced that digit with his tongue. While Alec had eaten ass, to Erin it was still a new sensation, still a learning experience, so to speak.

She grimaced and whined, writhed, and groaned, “O-ouah Al!” Dragging out his name on her tongue while he dragged his from her taint to her tailbone in a long, sweeping motion, he then returned to her pucker. After some laps, a few circling motions, and indeed several feminine, vulnerable mewls from Erin, his finger replaced his tongue, wedging its way unceremoniously into the tight hole his tongue had just occupied. “Al!” She exclaimed again, though the coo that followed showed she was far from upset or disappointed.

“You’re tight,” He said she didn’t need him to either; she felt it. She felt him not only wedge his fingertip to the first knuckle but start wiggling and worming deeper and further, grinding over a spongey bundle of nerves that had her quivering like a worm on her bedspread. Her mewls turned to gasps, and her gasps further still cried as he trained in on her prostate. He liked the sounds she made when he circled it and the way it made her twitch and move, but beyond that, he knew enough to know that rushing this was not in anyone’s interest.

His finger found a twin, two digits spreading Erin’s anus, opening, and closing like a set of scissors when they weren’t grinding over her prostate. “Hnnnggg, Al, ouah, Al!” Repeating that name so much, it felt dull on her tongue; it felt like she’d said it one too many times, and he’d not even gone all the way. – He was getting ready, though, getting closer to replacing fingers too, and he wasn’t moving backwards; it would not be his tongue replacing them.

He slid up her body, still stirring her backdoor with his fingers. “You’re such a little bombshell. Erin, I’ve been waiting for this moment ever since you, well..." He didn’t know how to delicately put it, and he knew explaining himself further wasn’t the answer here.

She grimaced and hushed him, “Fuck me, Al, put it in.” She didn’t want to hear that; she didn’t care to hear it; she just wanted to feel him inside; she wanted to feel his big fucking cock spreading her little fucking hole.

“Y’ah,” He agreed and slid his fingers out of her, wiping them off on her bed spread before the tube of lube was gestured toward. He took hold and squirted a fat lot out of his hand. He started to work it into his length and massage the jelly into his skin. She turned over onto her back and did the same, stealing the tube from him and getting some out on her fingers.

“Ou, it’s cold.” Erin tittered nervously, circling her work, and swelling hole, the glistening clear gel covering her, lubricating her better than saliva alone could hope to. There was a pregnant pause, and for a moment, the heat drained from the moment as the old guy looked down at her, jerking himself off. What was she doing?! She agonized over it all before reaching around her body and spreading her cheeks, her deflated cock hanging slightly to the side.

“It’s okay,” each of the lubed and ready-to-rock, "C'mng..." He huffed as his head pressed into her rear. “Relax,"

She did, reminding herself to breathe in deep and “Ooooouhhh,” moan out lowly, almost a purr, though it sharpened to a yelping hiss as he urged forward, urged inside. His cock felt bigger in her rear than it had in her hand or mouth; it felt bigger than the boys she’d had before him or her battery-operated boyfriend, the one a bit deeper in her desk drawer. It was almost too much for her to handle, but she was a good sport. She breathed deeply and looked up at him with an open mouth and eyes, with flaring nostrils and a twitching cock. It was a lot.

Alec was kind, gentle, and understanding enough to give her a moment to adjust to this, to the girth of a full-grown man cock, his D.I.L.F. dick not digging deeper till she was ready for him. “Fuh-hu-hmmmmnnnng,” Erin whined and bit down on her lip before asking, “Fuck me, Al, fuck my ass.” It was hard to speak; she never said much in these sorts of situations; she just grunted and moved, letting her body do the talking, but she was desperate, and he’d warmed her up with every step; he’d encouraged this; he knew exactly what he was doing.

Hot hands glided over her body, holding her shoulder and hip as the older man leaned down and inclined his hips so they moved forward with him, his member slowly working deeper and deeper still into her hot body, her hot, fighting hole, every inch a battle. "God, you're" tight, he grunted.

She hissed back, “I know."

His eyes were telling her it wasn’t a problem for him; he seemed pleased; it seemed like he was either hurt or in bliss, and she knew which. Once he’d hilted himself, at least as far as she could tell, at least far enough his nuts were touching her body too, she started to grind and wobble, started to move enough that it stirred her much like her fingers, a combination of pain and pleasure in equal parts rolling around inside of her body, a mixture of utmost animal need for more and regret for letting herself get here.

Don’t think of that, don’t think of matt, don’t think of anything but this!—she thought to herself before reaching around him and holding him from the back, digging fingers into his shoulder and side, trying to catch him so he could find more purchase, so he could grind and squish, and pound her prostate into utter oblivion—he was starting to.

Alec was intensifying his thrust, doing so ever more forcefully, his muscular thighs clapping her rear. er rear. The sounds of squelching, of clapping, of flesh on flesh, and of audible pleasure that rifled up throats and whistled through lips filled the room. She was getting close, close enough to feel the spiky ball of her anal orgasm begin to bubble up and begin to reverberate just inside her, just at the tip of his cock in her body, rearranging her guts.

clap-clap-clap. . . no more, he stopped and pulled out, only to flip her over onto her front a small sigh, she’d been so close! A moment passed and the pressure returned, penetration and purchase following. He worked his way back inside and thwapped! Gave her a playful spank, then another, groping and gripping her doughy cheeks after, grinding his hands into the red prints left behind.

Erin gripped her pillow, hugging it to her chest. She felt sweat starting to collect on her scalp under her brunette locks, felt her insides hot and quivering, felt him coring her out thrust after thrust, felt him growing erratic and throbbing, and “I’m getting close." She felt that too, feeling him just as desperate for a cum as she was.

He pushed her down by her shoulders and climbed up to a squat. The man fucked her with intensity, a command of power, and a skill and technique she’d never experienced. It was beyond wild; it was “Oaaauh! So good, so good, so good!”

“Say my name,"

She cringed, “Fuck me, Al,” but did it, "Al-ha-haal."

And he did too. He fucked her hard, pulling out and jerking himself several times just to ram back in, “Ughnn,” the violence of his sudden vigour leaving her stunned but also reeling with the utmost of pleasures, reeling with enjoyment. He did really know what he was doing!

Finally, though, his skill was lost to his desire, his pleasure, his libido, and indeed his endurance. “Hffk!” His cock throbbed after several erratic thrusts. He buried himself deep inside her, and she too whined and felt herself spasm with it, with pleasure, with an orgasmic eruption that was her spiky little ball, deep in her bowls, bursting.

It was like a chemical reaction that came in perfect timing: his seed rushing into her bowels set off a chain of events, set off her own orgasm, and set off a reverberating, spine-tingling, starburst of “Oh yes!"

After some grunts, some huffs, some puffs, and “That was,” confessions of enjoyment, “So good, Erin.” She recoiled into her sheets; she felt his seed bubbling in her behind; she felt it in and out of her battered hole. She bit her lip and felt the cold chill of almost instant regret. Post-orgasm clarity was a total motherfucker.

Cold tingles wrapped her body; she assuaged them with a blanket and pulled it around herself, over her bare breasts and tum, a small tent at the front from her half-hard pud. “Y-yah. That was good.” She murmured, pulling some hair behind her ear.

He stuffed himself back into his underpants and jeans, standing up and putting his watch on again. Adjusting his clothes, he chuckled softly. Still got it, eh?

“You should go."

Maybe not. Had what?

“Eh?” Alec looked cluelessly, then huffed, "Yeah, that’s true.” Realizing this too, he may have crossed a line himself, fucking his son’s friend.

The two wordlessly stared at each other for a moment, still breathing heavily, still a little sweaty, and parched. “Glass of wa-"

“Matt should be home soon,” She reminded him why he was there and gestured to the door, the icy chill of a guilty conscience tickling her spine and tapping on her shoulder. Alec got the picture, collecting himself and making his way to the door.

“I, uh... yeah.” He didn’t thank her; she didn’t thank him; in fact, neither said another word, Alec leaving, still smelling her on his fingers, Erin falling into her sheets and deflating, unsure how she’d ever face Matt again, knowing what she’d done, knowing: I fucked your dad.