Archive of Our Own

You’re just stowing the last of the grocery bags in your trunk and slamming it shut, yanking your door open - what a fucking day, all you want to do is get home and forget the world exists - slide behind the wheel, and reach for the ignition when…

Something rustles in the backseat. 

You have just enough time to glance in your rearview mirror and panic when a man lunges forward, hiding his face behind your headrest, and jams a knife against your throat.

FUCK.

“Don’t fucking move,” he growls.

You don’t recognize the voice, but as scared as you are, you’re pretty pissed off too.  Like life just can’t help itself, it keeps getting shittier and shittier. 

And weirder.

“Hands on the wheel.”

“You told me not to move,” you snap.

“Oh, a smartass?”

He slashes the knife shallowly across your throat.  Not deep enough to cause any real damage, just enough to draw blood - and to let you know he’s not fucking around.

“OW okay, fuck,” you grumble, latching onto the wheel.

“Do not fucking test me, okay?  I’m not in the mood.  It has been…god…such a shit day.”

“Tell me about it…I’m not being a smartass!” you add preemptively.

Your throat really stings.

“Alright, do you live alone?”

“...what?”

“Do.  You.  Live.  Alone?”

“Yea, why?”

FUCK.  Why the FUCK did you TELL him that?

“Perfect.  We’re going home.  But first…”

He rummages around in a pack and produces an enormous plastic zip-tie.  

“Ordinarily I wouldn’t bother, but you’re a fucking firecracker and like I said, it’s been a shit day and I’m not in the mood.  Hold still.”

You tremble a little, but hold relatively still while he loops it around your neck, securing you to the headrest. 

“I’ll keep it kinda loose so you can still turn your head a bit, but if you decide to be a real smartass and wreck the car, you’ll probably choke to death.  This way we both die.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” you murmur, staring obediently straight ahead.

“I fucking knew it.  Smartass.  Alright, get driving.”

You crane your neck but don’t get very far. 

“I - uh…I can’t see the ignition…can you…?”

“Oh.  Yea, hang on.”

He shoulders his way between the front seats, brushing against you while he stretches for the button.  From your peripheral, you see his hoodie ride up, revealing a lean, ridiculously muscled torso.  Then his scent hits you.  

Fuck.  He smells amazing.  And he's hot.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

What a STUPID predicament.

“Foot on the brake, there, captain.”

“Oh, right, sorry.”

He hits the switch and your little car fires up. 

He dives into the backseat before you catch a glimpse of his face, but his scent washes over you in a second wave of mouth-watering sexiness.

It’s embarrassing how dizzy you get, but you haven’t been fucked in a while and OF COURSE he’s fucking hot. 

Shut up, you tell your boy pussy severely, trying to ignore the way it’s sniffing interestedly. 

You careen a bit crazily out of the parking lot. 

“Are you okay?”

“Sorry, yea.” 

You clear your throat and focus hard on things like turn signals and traffic lights and staying in your lane.  After a couple of minutes, you settle in and start to calm down.  

“I probably don’t need to say this but…”

You glance in the mirror.  “But what?”

“Eyes on the fucking road!”

“I - uh - I’m DRIVING, the mirror is necessary?!”

“Fine but don’t fucking look at me.”

“Okay.”

“Good.  Anyway, I probably don’t need to say this but if you fuck around with me, you will find out.”

Your boy cunt drools hopefully. 

“Cut it out,” you growl under your breath.

“The fuck did you say?”

“Nothing.”

You can tell by the tense silence he doesn’t believe you. 

“Where’s your phone?” he snaps.

“In my pocket.”

“Hand it over.”

You actually do try, but attempting to fish it out of your jeans, while maintaining attention on the road, while having your neck tied to the headrest makes it unreasonably challenging.  You keep losing your grip, and it slides back in your pocket. 

After about the tenth time, he sighs. 

“Never mind, I’ll get it.”

“No way!”

“Shut the fuck up unless you want fucking stabbed, I told you I’m not in the mood!”

“Neither am I,” you mumble.

Your boy pussy twitches unhelpfully, as though to say I am!

“Cut it OUT!” you growl again, slightly louder.

“CUT WHAT OUT? ”

You jump and instantly choke yourself on the zip-tie, then launch into hyperventilation.  The panic is rising, it’s too much, you might actually freak out…it’s getting really hard to breathe, your grip on the steering wheel is crushing your hands…oh god, oh fuck, oh fuck…

“Hey,” he says softly, shifting forward so he’s right behind you.  

Practically cheek to cheek.  But you refuse to look in the mirror and can’t turn your head.

“Hey, it’s okay.  You’re okay.  You’re doing really well.  Yea?  Nice deep breath.  There you go.  Take another one, nice and steady.  Good, you’re doing great.  Few more deep breaths for me.”

You concentrate on the sound of his voice, a fixed point, soothing and steady, controlling the panic.  The anxiety starts dying down a little, then settles in a smooth, glassy surface, a calm lake of undisturbed waters.  

“Good.  That’s really good.  You okay?”

You try to nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. 

“Stay nice and calm for me - you’re doing great, okay? - while I get your phone out of your pocket.  This is for both of our safety, okay?”

You nod again, blinking back tears.  Trying to be brave in a really stupid situation. 

“Alright, eyes on the road, captain, I’m just going to touch your hip, okay?  Then reach into your pocket - “

He talks you through the whole process, maintaining that calm, soothing tone, and does exactly what he says he will, which weirdly makes you trust him. 

But once he gets his hand slithered into your pocket, fingers curled around the phone, he can’t get it back out either.  He keeps getting stuck on exit.  His fingers are agonizingly close to your inner thigh, brushing your leg every time he tries to get his hand free. 

You know he’s not teasing you, he’s clearly not even interested, which is both good and bad, but the repeated stroking motion is getting your lonely boy pussy way too excited. 

It wants his agile fingers moving in and out of its silky, slicked up walls, stroking repeatedly like he’s doing to your leg.  Teasing you, playing with you, making you so needy you abandon all pride and beg him to fuck you, groveling at his feet and offering your hole like a cat in heat.

It wouldn’t take much, at this point.  You really need fucked.

Meanwhile his hand is still slithering around in your pocket, brushing your leg.

You start to moan, try to catch it, don’t quite get it handled in time, and a gurgled whimper comes out. 

“You okay?  You’re not choking are you?”

“No…”

“Okay good.  I swear I’ve almost got the damn thing out…hang on…”

“Okay…”

“Can’t have you trying to make calls and shit…voice activated or whatever…fucking firecracker…seem like the kind of little trickster that would do that…”

You don’t say anything, too busy gnawing on your bottom lip, trying not to squirm.

“Alright, nearly there…lift your hips up for me…”

You fling your hips up, excited to submit, not caring about choking or the road, and his hand slides out, phone successfully secured. 

“Wow, easy there…and okay, I’ve got it, we’re good.”

You settle back in your seat, navigating the next few turns, hoping your cheeks don’t look as hot as they feel.

He’s busy fucking around with your phone. 

“Unlock code?”

“Go fuck yourself!  Just turn it off!”

There’s a long pause.

You’re just waiting for him to slash your neck to ribbons, debating whether you really care enough to give up your phone code, and decide that you don’t.  Your phone is the gateway to you, and between that level of vulnerability and getting stabbed, you’ll take the knife. 

But there’s no knife-bite.  He doesn’t stir.  

“...but…I kinda want to know who I’m spending the night with,” he says finally.  

His voice isn’t demanding or angry, it’s quiet and kind of…sad?

“There’s not much to know,” you admit.  “Just ask.”

“No, never mind.”

“Wait, what do you mean spending the night? ” you spit out.

“Okay I thought this was obvious, but if you need it spelled out, I’m in a little bit of trouble and need somewhere to crash for the night.  I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow, but town’s too hot for me right now.  It’s way better if it’s random, you know?  No associations to current location, makes it a lot harder to try and find me.  By tomorrow I should have enough of a window of opportunity to get away.”

You blink stupidly, trying to process this.  

“Hello?”

“Do you even hear yourself?” you demand.  “What are you, some kind of spy?”

He howls with laughter.  His voice is rich and carefree and it sounds really nice. 

“Nah, not a spy.  Definitely not a law-abiding citizen though.”

“Great, a criminal.  So if my mom calls and asks who I’m having dinner with, instead of saying alone like I always do, I can cheerfully inform her I’m dining with a murderer!”

You’re expecting him to deny it.  Instead, he sounds confused.

“Alone?”

“Yea, alone.  I already told you I live alone.”

“Eat dinner alone too?”

“Uhhh yea.”

“No…boyfriend?  Girlfriend?  Dog?”

“It would be a boyfriend, but no.  None of the above.”

He’s quiet for a minute.  “Why not?”

“Because I’m clinically insane and crap at relationships.”

He laughs again, more of a soft chuckle.  “Perfect.  We’re gonna get along great.”

Your boy pussy agrees, still happily soaking your underwear, hoping for attention.  There’s gonna be a fucking wet spot on your seat when you get up, all you can do is pray to fuck he doesn’t see it.

You take the next few turns without speaking.  But then his stomach rumbles loudly from the backseat, splitting the silence.

“Hungry?” 

“Fucking starving.  I did abduct you from a grocery store so hopefully there’s something tasty in the near future?”

Your boy cunt shrieks.  I’m tasty!  Me!  Pick me!   With heroic effort, you ignore the way it’s practically panting in your jeans.  God, how embarrassing, it’s fucking pathetic.  

“I - uh…yea, I mean nothing special but…how does spaghetti sound?  With salad and garlic bread?”

“Oh, is that all,” he teases, short-circuiting your brain.  “What about dessert?”

YEA WHAT ABOUT DESSERT, your ridiculous boy slit riots. 

You cough wildly to cover the gasping, then clear your throat loudly. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?  Can’t have my driver fucking dying on me…”

“Yea, no, I’m fine.  I got, um…cookies?  Or brownies, if you want, I think I have stuff to make them…wasn’t planning on it, I don’t have buttermilk but I can fabricate it pretty easily with just regular milk and vinegar…I think I have vinegar…shit…maybe I don’t…”

“Cookies sound great,” he says warmly. 

You can feel him smiling, making your heart flutter.

God, you are such an idiot.

“Dare I ask what kind?” he adds, after a minute.

“Chocolate chip or peanut butter, you pick.”

“What about sugar cookies?”

“Like for icing?”

“Yea.”

“No, you have to chill the dough overnight.”

Silence reigns briefly. 

“You make cookies…from scratch? ”  He sounds incredulous.

“How the fuck else would I make them?” you snap, rounding one of the last turns.

“I dunno, I kinda thought they just came from a box…or one of those round tin thingies…”

You snort contemptuously.  “I like to bake and I have a lot of time to myself, so…no…I do not make them from a box or a round tin thingie.”

His laugh is almost affectionate, not a hint of mockery.  “Alright, duly noted.  In the car, I’m the boss.  In the kitchen, you’re the boss.”

“What a delightful traditional 1950’s relationship.”

He cracks up so hard he has to gulp for air, clutching the back of your seat.  “Babes, tell me again, why are you alone?”

“Well for starters, let me walk that back because we couldn’t be traditional 1950’s relationship material anyways.”

“Why not?  You wouldn’t look cute in an apron with a rolling pin?”

“Not really the point.”

“Yea, no, I know.  Pretty sure there were gay couples in the 1950’s though.”

“Not traditionally.”

“Okay, fine, you win.  Not traditionally.  We would not make a delightful traditional 1950’s relationship.”

“That’s even assuming you’re gay,” you blurt, then clamp your jaws shut in horror.

Oh fuck.  Why the fuck…did you fucking…say that…

You make the last turn and pull into your driveway, staring glumly at your little house.  

“A Cape Cod!” he exclaims delightedly.  “I love these houses, they’re fucking adorable!”

Maybe he is gay.

“And I’m not gay,” he adds.

Devastating you in four words.  But then he laughs roughly, making your disappointed hole wake the fuck back up and start slobbering.  

“I’ll fuck anything,” he adds coyly.  

Before you have a chance to process this - seriously, your brain has blue-screened and chances of recovery are slim to zero - he’s cutting your zip-tie collar off with the knife and getting out.

You still can’t move. 

He’s insanely hot.  And flirtatious.  And he’s spending the night.  And he will fuck anything. 

Oh god.

Oh fuck. 

Yes fuck.

FUCK.

He opens your door and peers in, face obscured by a mask.   

Fear flutters in your chest, but he only reaches in and unbuckles your seatbelt for you, pausing for a second to - you think - smile. 

“You getting out or what, housewife?”

“I’m not a fucking housewife,” you snarl, launching yourself out, shoving past him, marching to the trunk for the groceries. 

“Sorry, house-husband.  See?  You’re a firecracker, I just fucking knew - “

His voice trails off. 

By then you have the bags in hand and slam the trunk, but he’s frozen in place, staring down at your seat.

Oh no. 

He turns slowly.  

“Are you…did you…is that…?”

“What? ” you challenge.

“I didn’t mean to make you piss yourself,” he says almost apologetically.  “I’m, uh…sorry?”

“I didn’t!...oh…”

“What do you mean?  There’s a giant…”

You briefly contemplate grabbing the knife and slitting your own throat just to escape, aware that your breath is coming out in little pants and your cheeks are on fucking fire. 

He’s staring at you in what feels like genuine confusion, but you can’t make your voice work.  All that comes out is a little squeak.  

This is categorically the worst moment of your life. 

He snaps his fingers suddenly, eyes clearing with understanding.

“Ohhh, right!   Wait, yea, I got it.  Boy pussy!”

You gawk at him. 

“Right?”  He jerks a thumb at the humiliating wet spot.  “Didn’t piss yourself - tough little firecracker - that’s juice from a boy pussy.  Am I right?”

You nod shamefully, not trusting yourself to speak, reasonably sure you’re going to burst into tears.

“Damn, baby boy, you better lock your bedroom door tonight or I’ll sneak in there and fuck the hell out of that boy pussy.” 

He shifts suddenly, adjusting his jeans.  

“Goddamn.  Gotta get my ass inside, straight into a cold shower, fucking hell…”

He’s mumbling over his shoulder while he stalks up your porch stairs, pausing at the front door. 

“Well?  You coming or what?”

Your brain’s still trying to catch up.  Replaying the words boy pussy.  Sneak in there.  Fuck the hell out of you.  Coming or what.

You shake the cobwebs out of your lust-crazed mind and march determinedly up the sidewalk, digging out your key, letting you both in. 

Whether or not sex is involved, you’re pretty sure tonight’s going to be one wild ride.

***

You drift around the kitchen in a daze, putting away groceries while he inspects your house, making sure you don’t have any other phones, rounding up your tablet and laptop, checking all the doors and windows, closing all the blinds.

Like he’s sealing up Fort Knox or something. 

“Sorry for all the restrictions,” he says, not sounding sorry at all.  “Can’t have you calling me in while I’m trying to lay low for the night.  Behave yourself, play by the rules, I’ll be gone by sunrise.”

“Okay.”

“Atta boy.  Look, you’re not going to like this, but even with all these precautions I gotta keep an eye on you.  You’re a feisty one, might have a phone hidden somewhere or…who knows what.”

“I don’t.”

“Yea well, I’m not taking your word for it, so consider yourself under close supervision for the next twelve hours.”

“How close?” you ask suspiciously. 

“I’m not crawling into the shower with you or anything, but I’ll still have to keep you company.”

“That’s ridiculous!  My bathroom is tiny, I don’t think another person can even fit in it while I’m showering!”

“Okay then I’ll be in the hallway, with the door open.  But when I shower - and I need to, believe me - I’m gonna have to…”

“Have to what? ”

“Restrain you,” he says coolly.

You flush, then gulp nervously.  “...what?”

“‘Fraid so.”  

You consider arguing, but this is the first opportunity you’ve had to get a good look at him.  You eye him up, gauging your chances of success.  

They’re not good.

First of all, he’s huge.  You’re small.  He already basically admitted to being a murderer, or at least he didn’t deny it.  You, conversely, struggle to kill insects because it feels cruel.   Plus, he’s already sliced you once, and collared you in your car.  You have no useful defensive skills, and he looks like he fights for a fucking living. 

Fuck. 

Fuck?

NO.

“I thought I was the boss in the kitchen,” you grumble.

“Yep!” he says cheerfully, twirling the knife.  “Except for this tiny little exception.”

“It’s not a tiny - “  You trail off when you see his eyes intensify.  “Okay, fine.”

“Good boy.”

“Stop fucking saying that!”

He looks taken aback.  “I, uh…okay, firecracker, settle down.  Listen, I’m fucking starving but I really need to shower first, wash all the blood off.  So let me get you…secured and I’ll get cleaned up and then you can shower, or dinner first, whatever you want.”

“How generous,” you say dryly.  “I think we both know I need a shower too, so you go first, then me, then dinner.”

He laughs, amazingly sexy.  “Oh right.  Yea.  Dirty firecracker.”  

“Bathroom’s this way,” you mumble, shouldering past him.

He falls into step quickly beside you.  “I know,” he grins.  “House inspection, remember?”

“Towels and washcloths are there, just use whatever products you want.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you…have clothes?”

“Yep, brought my pack in with me.  Just have to grab it from the living room.  Can I trust you to wait here?”

“What do you think I’ll do unsupervised?  Summon a demon in my hallway?”

“Stranger things have happened,” he mutters, disappearing back downstairs.  

He’s back in a flash, pack slung over his shoulder, bounding up the stairs.  He makes even that look hot.

“Alright, come on.  Don’t make a fuss either, I don’t want to hurt you.”

You opt to sit on the closed toilet lid and let him handcuff you to the towel bar.  

“I mean it,” he says softly, when the cuffs latch with a brisk, metallic clink.  “I really don’t want to hurt you.”

“Okay.”

“As far as restraints go, that’s pretty sad but doesn’t matter.  If you rip the bar out of the wall, I’ll hear you get loose, that’s all I need, really.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He starts stripping down right in front of you and to your everlasting shame, you can’t take your eyes off him.

He’s fucking gorgeous.

He yanks the hoodie off first, dumping it on the floor, revealing a blood soaked tee shirt clinging to his muscled chest and belly.  He peels it off, somehow looking even hotter, skin covered in blood.  Scars and tattoos mottle the otherwise smooth surface of his torso, but before you’re done gawking at that, he’s unbuckling his belt and dropping his jeans.  His leg muscle is thick and knotted - goddamn - and his briefs are…not doing a very good job of concealing his junk.  

His dick is huge. 

You’re already making another wet spot.  

Fuck.  Fuck fuck fuck. 

He deposits his socks on the bloody pile of clothes and glances up at you.  

You can’t look away.  

But he misinterprets your wide-eyed stare. 

“Oh hey, don’t worry, it’s not my blood.  I mean…not that you’d be worried…but you look kinda worried…you okay firecracker?”

“Mhm,” you mumble, ripping your gaze away, staring hard at the floor, blushing furiously.  

He shifts, then drops his briefs on the pile of clothing. 

Oh god.

You want to look up so bad and feast your starving eyes on that enormous cock, but your neck stays frozen in place, tractor-beam-gaze fixed on a loose fuzzy on the bathroom rug.  You’ll have to remember to tug it out and throw it away later…

“Firecracker, I think you might just be…the cutest boy I’ve ever fucking seen.”

“Shut up!  Take your shower and quit teasing me.”

“Oh, I’m not teasing,” he says, turning the taps on full blast.  “Say the word and I’ll turn you inside out.”

Oh GOD.  Your boy pussy ramps right back up to nuclear blast level, dying for invasion.  

But there’s no way he’s actually interested.  He’s just a wild flirt and you’re there.   It’s a simple matter of convenience.  In a room full of other boys, he wouldn’t even glance at you.

He hops into the shower, humming cheerfully. 

“Wow.  You’ve got a lot of snazzy products.  What, uh…what shampoo should I use?”  

“Oh, whatever you want,” you answer vaguely, gesturing carelessly with your hand, but the cuff stops you short, clinking protest against the towel bar.

Instantly his head is poking out from behind the curtain.  “The fuck was that?”

“I talk with my hands sometimes...forgot I…couldn’t.”

“Oh okay.  Seriously though, you have like six different shampoos and they’re all in fucking French.”

“Well, what kind of hair do you have?”

“Brown?”

You snort a laugh.  “Never mind.  Use the red one.  Not the red-red one, the pinkish red one.”

“Not red-red, pinkish red, got it.”

The scent of cherries fills the bathroom as he lathers up. 

“Damn, this is like…really nice.”

“Don’t forget to condition!”

“Separate shampoos and conditioners, holy shit you’re fancy.”

“I’m not a neanderthal.”

“I am, I’m a brute.  And I never gave a shit about fancy hair stuff but I might have to start.  This is delightful.”

“Leave the conditioner in for at least five minutes.”

“Baby, my whole shower doesn’t take five minutes.”

“It fucking better!  Don’t you dare waste my conditioner!”

You can hear him laughing quietly.  “Aye aye, captain.  Conditioner’s in, five minutes, start the stopwatch.”

He goes back to humming, then stops and sighs.  “Which soap?  There’s like…a dozen.”

“The big green bar.”

“I’m surprised a fancy boy like you even uses soap,” he remarks, reaching for the washcloth. 

“It’s really good soap,” you defend.  “My favorite brand, also French.  Quad-milled, I think.  And mostly pure olive oil.”

“72%, says here right on the bar.  Damn.  This lather is…wow…”

“See?”

“I stand corrected.”

He finishes scrubbing, rinses his hair, and you remember just in time to avert your gaze and scrutinize the loose fuzzy on the floor before he steps out, dries off, and shimmies his sexy ass into clean clothes.  

That’s when it first occurs to you that he doesn’t have his mask on anymore.  It’s sitting right there on the pile of clothes.  

You’re dying to look at his face. 

But doesn’t that mean…he’ll kill you?  Isn’t that what they do in crime documentaries?  Kill you if you see their face, so you can’t identify them?

You keep your gaze trained safely downward.

“Alright, firecracker, your turn.”

He unlocks the cuffs and tosses them in his pack.  

“Oh, uh, garbage bag?”

“Under the sink.”

You watch him stuff his bloody clothes in the bag and then into his pack, while you sit there awkwardly, not sure what you’re supposed to do next.

No way you’re just stripping down in front of him, you’re not shameless like he is.

“Are you gonna wait in the hallway?”

“Yep.  But the door’s gotta stay open.”

“Okay.”  

He chucks his pack in the hall and stops right in front of you, feet planted on either side of yours.  You’re still sitting down…he’s standing over you…damn near got his dick in your face…oh fuck, you want to lick it so fucking bad…

Your breathing starts speeding up, but you manage to stay quiet, sitting there panting in what could reasonably resemble panic, rather than lust.  Hopefully he thinks it’s panic.

He does. Like he’s completely oblivious to how sexy he is, which only makes him hotter.

“I’m not a monster, you know,” he says softly.  “You’re allowed to look at me.”

“No!  Because isn’t that…doesn’t that mean…you’ll kill me?”

He laughs.  “Nah.  You don’t know who I am, and describing me to a police sketch artist?  Well…you wouldn’t do that, would you baby?”

“No,” you answer instantly. 

The sad part is, it’s true.  When he leaves in the morning, you have no intention of reporting him.  And even if the police somehow manage to track him to your house - feasible, if the grocery store has camera surveillance and sees him getting in your car - you will not cooperate.  

Why you feel loyal to your gorgeous abductor is a complete mystery, but in your defense, you did say you were crazy.  Plus, he’s hot.  Which sort of makes this a forgivable crime.  He could do a lot worse and you’d still forgive him, easily.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

“Alright then.  Feel free to take a peek, come out, come out, wherever you are.”

“No.”

He shrugs amiably.  “Bathroom’s all yours.”

You wait till he’s out of sight, then strip with blinding speed and dive for the shower.  

Your soaps and shampoos and conditioners provide a familiar backdrop of comfort and by the time you’re lathered, conditioned, and soaped, you’re starting to feel like yourself again. 

You step out and rub dry, then realize you didn’t bring clothes in with you.  

Fine.  Towel it is.

You march into the hallway and nearly trip over him.  He’s leaning casually against the door frame, hot as hell, and you accidentally lock eyes. 

Fuck.

His face is as hot as the rest of him.  

It’s like your eyes don’t know where to feast first.  There’s a huge scar starting at the corner of his mouth, running up his cheek, and his smirking grin just makes it sexier.  Vibrant green eyes stare down at you, only partially concealed by glossy chestnut hair falling softly over his face.  He’s tattooed and scarred.  He’s funny and dangerous and he’s being nice.  And he has a huge cock.  

FUCK.

You’re never going to make it. 

Yes you will!   You will not be a pity fuck, no matter how crummy things get, you will retain your dignity. 

“Clothes,” you murmur, trailing down the hallway.  

He follows to your room.  

“You wanna pick out my outfit?” you snap.

“Can I?” he throws back, grinning, not fazed in the least.

“No!  Get out.”

“Fine, I’ll just be in the hall.  Leave this fucking door open.”

Hitching the towel more firmly in place, you manage to wriggle into clean clothes and emerge successfully dressed.

“What about your hair?” you demand abruptly. 

He stares at you, nonplussed.  “What about it?”

“Didn’t you want any of my products?”

“I, uh, didn’t really know what I was looking at…”

“Come on.” 

You tug him back to the bathroom and make him sit on the toilet lid while you assess his hair texture.  Of course it’s thick and lustrous naturally, with just the softest hint of wave.  The kind of hair people spend hours trying to achieve while he just prances out of the shower and lets it air dry.  He doesn’t even condition.

You pick the one you think will work best and hand it to him, but he just stares blankly without touching it. 

“Uh…help?”

You sigh, squirting some in your palm and rubbing between your hands.  

“Hold still.”

“Yes, boss.”

You try not to gasp at being called boss - even though your boy cunt is so far past excited, it’s tragic - and run your fingers through his hair, scrunching and tousling. 

“There.”

“Thanks babes!”  He turns his head left and right, examining your handiwork.  “Wow, you’re a magician.  I look kinda hot!”

“You already looked hot,” you grumble, turning cherry red, snatching the bottle of product.

He waits with a coy grin while you throw some in your hair and wash your hands, then catches your gaze in the mirror.

“Dinner?” he asks hopefully. 

His stomach is still roaring. 

“Fine.”

He stays out of your way but keeps you company while you whip up salad, spaghetti, and garlic bread, then dish and serve while the cookies bake.

“This is fucking delicious,” he mumbles around a huge mouthful.  “My 1950’s house-husband is a stud in the kitchen.”

“You weren’t kidding about being a beast,” you answer dryly, ignoring the way your heart pattered when he called you his stud.  

He laughs, attempting to chew.  “I’ll try harder to be civilized.”

Or don’t, cackles your boy pussy.  It’s hungry too, empty and throbbing and aching to be fed.

There is a MURDERER in your HOUSE keeping you HOSTAGE shouts your brain, trying valiantly to voice reason. 

He is HOT and you are DESPERATE TO GET FUCKED and he will GLADLY FUCK YOU, bellows your boy cunt.  

“You okay?  Got a real weird look on your face…”

“Yea, fine, thanks,” you mumble, hiding behind a giant mouthful of spaghetti. 

“Now who’s barbaric,” he teases.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“There’s my grumpy firecracker!”

After you’ve both cleaned your plates - you are amazed at how much he can eat, it’s strictly incredible - he helps you wash dishes and tidy up.   

“Now what?” you ask. 

“Can I have cookies?”

“Yea, they’re cool enough.  Help yourself.”

You watch in awe as he stacks cookies onto a plate, piling them on till they kind of resemble Mt. Crumpet.

“You’re spoiling me, firecracker.”

“Shut up.”

You know what he means, though.  Originally, you offered a choice between chocolate chip or peanut butter, but he asked for a combination:  peanut butter with chocolate chips.   You started to explain about textures and consistency and add-on ingredients, but the look on his face was so hopeful - and hot - you caved and made it work.  

Boy pussy drooling while you mixed up a batch of Frankensteinian cookie dough under his excited, eager gaze.  You even let him lick the bowl.  Under your excited, eager gaze.

“I mean it,” he says seriously, cramming a cookie in his mouth.  “Oh my fucking god these are amazing.  Can I keep you?”

Your voice abandons you.

He laughs, eyes sparkling.  “Anyway, what does a firecracker do for fun at night?”

“I usually read before bed…”

“Read before bed…like…books?”

“Shocking, I know.  Less shocking that you don’t.”

“I read all the fucking time, actually.”

“Oh yea, like what?  Magazines?”

“No,” he snaps.  “I mean fucking books.”

He looks kind of hurt, and it’s the first time he’s seemed almost…vulnerable?  Your heart twists. 

“Sorry.  What, uh…what kind of books?  You’re welcome to peruse my shelves…”

He sets the cookies down and follows you to your little study, taking his time, examining the titles.  You have to laugh…he’s practically eye level with your highest shelf whereas you have to drag a chair over if you want a book from it.

He hears you chuckling and whips around.  “What’s so funny?”

“Um…nothing, it’s just…”

“Still don’t believe a brute can read?”

“No!  No, I’m laughing at me, not you.  See the top shelf?”

“Yea, I’m looking right at it.  So?”

“You’re eye level, but…I have to drag a chair over if I want a book from that shelf…it’s just kind of funny.”

He cracks a grin.  “Yea.  You’re tiny.”

“You’re huge.”

“Or you could just ask me.”

“Sorry?”

He gestures at the books.  “If you want a book from the top shelf.  Save yourself the trouble of dragging furniture and just ask me.”

Why in the fuck your boy pussy thinks that’s hot is a mystery but it starts whining and squirming again.  

“Um.  Thanks.”

“Mhm.  Mind if I borrow one?”

You wave carelessly.  “Whatever you want.”

He grabs one.  

You peer curiously at the title.  “A Means To Freedom?”

“I love Lovecraft, and I’ve always wanted to read this one…”

“That’s a two-volume set, take both.”

He looks surprised.  “You sure?”

“Yea, you can’t read one and not the other.”

He beams.  “Thanks.”

You grab your own book - Lovecraft sounds good, nothing too challenging - and settle in the living room, curling up in your favorite chair while he sprawls on your couch, munching cookies.  He’s too big, his legs dangle over the side, but it’s really cute.  And it feels surprisingly nice to not be alone - to be sharing the evening in companionable silence, after a satisfying meal together.  You could easily imagine him as your boyfriend.  So what if he’s a murderer?

The biggest obstacle isn’t his criminal activity, it’s you.  No way this glorious beast actually wants a freak like you.  That’s obvious.  Even if he’s too polite to say it.

Your shoulders slump as you turn the page.  

Alone is where you belong, where you will always be.

Your own means to freedom.

After an hour or so, he lets out a ferocious yawn.  

“Firecracker, whaddya say we call it a night?  I can’t leave you down here to read, I’m sorry.  Are you tired?”

“Yea, actually…fucking exhausted.”

He flips the book carefully closed and sets it on the stand, waiting for you to walk around and turn out all the lights and check the locks.  

He follows you upstairs, but he hovers too close on the staircase - you catch your heel on his knee and trip.  Before you can brace yourself for impact, you feel his hands close on your waist, catching you, holding you steady while you regain your footing. 

“Sorry, babes, my fault.”

“No, it’s fine,” you mumble, grabbing for the handrail.

His touch was like electricity.  You were sleepy before, but you are wide-the-fuck-awake now.  It’s been…so long…since you were touched.  

You stubbornly ignore it and get him a spare toothbrush - the one thing he forgot in his pack - and then it’s lights-out.  

“My spare bedroom’s full of stuff, but I have a king-sized bed,” you offer stoically.  “Assuming you insist on keeping an eye on me all night, you’re welcome to bunk up.”

“Good because that’s exactly what I planned on.”

You wonder briefly if there’s anything else to that statement, but he doesn’t elaborate, and you’re determined to see this through with dignity intact.  Even though that’s not really what you want.

So much for locking your bedroom door.  

You change quickly into jammies while he turns his back - how old-fashioned, maybe you are a 1950’s couple - and he does the same. 

“Ordinarily, I sleep naked,” he says casually, sliding into bed with you, “but I didn’t want to scare the wildlife.”

The wildlife isn’t scared, purrs your boy pussy, fully prepared to launch into cream-factory-production-mode.  

You only turn pink, flick the light out, and curl up awkwardly on your side with your back to him. 

“Night night, firecracker.”

“Night.”

Your breathing sounds too loud, no matter how quiet you try to be.  Your pulse thumps in your brain, pounding a rhythmic, merciless drumbeat, ribcage disrupting the sheets when you breathe.  But you’re too nervous to shift position for fear of making even more noise.  

You lie still, frozen, more uncomfortable than you’ve been in a long time.  

It’s so weird.

But you’re scared to disturb him - almost as scared that you’ll fling yourself at him and he’ll fuck you out of boredom or pity, and you’ll fall madly in love and he won’t think twice about you after the sun rises. 

You’d probably pass each other in the street and your stupid face would light up, smiling excitedly, and he’d brush by you with a blank, vaguely irritated expression, like who the fuck was that?

He breaks the silence, scaring the shit out of you.  You jump like a rabbit. 

“Hey, firecracker?”

“...yea?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Is it…is it the scar?”

Your brain draws a complete blank.  You roll over to face him, confused.  Your nightlight casts just enough illumination to reveal the strangest thing - he won’t look at you.

“...is…what?  What scar?”

He snorts, a bitter laugh without humor.  “The fuck do you mean what scar? ”  

He jabs his finger into his cheek.  Cruelly.  Grating his nails into it, which looks painful but he doesn’t seem to notice.  

His voice is acid.  “THAT scar.  Is it that scar? ”  

“I don’t…I don’t understand.  What about your scar?”

“I know you don’t wanna touch me with a ten-foot pole, and I get it, I really do, I just want to hear you say it.”

“You’re bleeding!”

“So what?  And that’s it, isn’t it?  I fucking know it is, why don’t you just say so?”

Your confused brain slowly starts connecting the dots. 

“Wait…are you saying…you think I don’t want to touch you because…you think your scar is…ugly?”

“Fucking hideous is the word you’re looking for, and yea.  I knew that was it.  I fucking knew it.  Fucking stupid fucking face.”

He starts clawing at it, alarming the shit out of you.

“Hey!  Stop!  Stop that, holy hell, you’re bleeding even more!”  

“Don’t fucking worry about it,” he snarls.

You freeze, genuinely unsure what to do.  

Your heart is twisting as much as your slobbering boy pussy - which at this point is like a natural reaction in his presence, you’ve given up, you can’t help it, you will drip like a leaky faucet around him no matter what, it’s a foregone conclusion, pride be damned - but he is deeply distressed.

As dissimilar as the two of you are, you know what he’s feeling.  

You take a deep breath, heart climbing into your throat, and scoot over to him.  

He doesn’t move.  

After another heart-wrenching pause, you sit up, take another deep breath, ignoring your sweaty palms and racing heart, and throw your knee over his waist.  So you’re sitting on his stomach, looking down at him.  Straddling him.  If you stay here long, you’re gonna drip on his ab muscles, but you’re planning to retreat long before you can reach that level of humiliation.

Feeling you on top of him stops him short, which was the only reason you did it.  

He stares up at you in surprise.  

“Stop scratching your face,” you say softly, reaching for his hands. 

He lets you take them, sandwiching them firmly between your own, and you know it’s because he’s letting you…both of your hands together are smaller than one of his.  

It doesn’t feel like he’s breathing. 

“I’m probably squishing you, but don’t worry, I’ll roll off in a second.  I just…I know how you feel, I think, and…I want you to know…no.”

He blinks back tears.   “No, what?”

“No, it’s not the scar.  Your scar is fucking hot, just like the rest of you.  It’s…well, in a way I guess maybe it is the scar.  But not why you think.  You’re gorgeous and amazing and hilarious and fun…literate, even!”

He laughs, just like you hoped.

“And I’m none of those things.  Except literate.”

“Hey - “

“No, I mean it.  It’s pretty obvious I’ve been dying to touch you all night, but I can’t - except for right now, and this is oh-so-temporary, because I had to get your attention somehow.  But I’d just be a pity fuck for you, and I can’t do that.  Pride and solitude are the only things I have.  I can’t give them up, just to be a notch on your bedpost.  Even if I want to.  Okay?  So it isn’t your scar.  It isn’t you at all.  It’s me.  Got it?”

You pause to make sure he’s following along, then lift your knee, fully intending to go die of shame on your side of the bed, but he grabs your waist, securing you firmly in place.  

Straddling his stomach. 

Your heart’s galloping madly in your chest, breath catching.

“Seriously?”

“Well I sure as fuck wasn’t joking,” you snap, disgruntled.

He throws his head back and laughs.  Warmly, richly, comfortably.  It doesn’t feel mocking.  It feels…joyous.

When he meets your gaze, his green eyes are shining in the reflected night-light.

“Firecracker,” he says affectionately.  “You weren’t kidding about being clinically insane, because if that’s what you think, you’re fucking delusional.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“What the hell are you talking about?  Not gorgeous or amazing or hilarious or fun?  Babes, this is the best night I’ve had in, fuck, years!  Been having the time of my life since the moment I got in your car.  Bringing me home, showering with all your fancy shit with your cute little ass cuffed on the toilet.   Making me the most delicious meal - I’m fucking serious, don’t argue - then eating dinner together.  Even helping you clean the kitchen was great.  Reading together, all cozy in your living room, wolfing cookies you made for me.   Hell, you styled my hair.  But…as great as it is…I’ve been fucking devastated the whole time and trying to hide it…”

“What?” you interrupt.  “Why? ”

His green eyes reflect depth when he stares up at you.

“...because I was sure you thought my scar was disgusting.  You’re telling me you think it’s hot?”  He starts laughing again.  “Firecracker, where have you been all my life?”

You’re sure this is somehow a trick.  He’s just playing with you, like a cat clawing a mouse.  He has to be.  

“Listen, I know that look by now, you don’t believe me, and that’s fine, I get it, you are - after all - delusional.  I won’t fuck you if you don’t want me to - and holy fuck do I want to - but you’re not a pity fuck and I don’t want you thinking you are.  So okay, fine, no fucking, but only if we agree it’s not because of my scar and it’s not because you think you’re, I don’t know, not good enough or something.”

“I will never agree to that!”

“Get comfortable then,” he says coolly, tightening his grip.  “Because you’re not going anywhere till you do.”

Oh fuck.  Oh no.  

Your thirsty hole is already slobbering.  He’s definitely going to feel you soaking him, you’re about to get so fucking wet it’s disgusting.  Maybe you should agree to it, lie, say whatever you have to just to get away.

“Oh by the way,” he purrs, making you instantly squirm.  “I deal with liars for a living, and I know when someone’s withholding the truth.  So if you lie to me, I’ll know it.  Clear?”

FUCK. 

“I - uh - “ you stammer nervously. 

“Fuck, you’re so cute.  Goddamn adorable.”

“I’m not!”

“Yea you are.  So…agree?  Or get comfy?”

“I feel trapped,” you say faintly, head spinning.

“Well that’s because you are.  Not the worst trap I’ve ever set, believe me.  This is downright pleasant, actually.”  

He smirks evilly.  “Don’t think I forgot about your car seat, by the way.  Do you know how hard I had to fight myself not to drop to my knees and lick it?  Goddamn, I wanted to.  So fucking bad.  Fuck.  Gotta warn you babes, I’m getting hard just thinking about it.  Sorry.  Not like I can help it though, damn…the way you soaked that motherfucker.”

“Uh - I - yea - “

“Wanna know what else I was thinking?” he purrs. 

“I - I don’t know…do I?”

“How bad I wanted to get my dick wet on those fluids.  Right there in the driveway, bend you over the hood and fuck you hard, slick my cock with your boy pussy juices, pushing inside that little pink boy slit, hearing you moan…” 

He convulses suddenly, hissing through his teeth.  “Fuck!  Fuck, I gotta stop talking about it…oh fuck…”

Your culprit boy pussy feels no remorse as it churns out a fresh flood of juices, listening to him talk about how bad he wants it.  You’re panting shallowly, certain you’re flooding his belly.  He might even be able to feel your hole wincing, sitting flush on his muscled stomach. 

“Fuck!  Can we please just fucking agree?  I’m fucking dying, gonna have to sprint for the bathroom in a second…”

Before you even realize what you’re doing, you rock forward slightly.  Then backward.  Making yourself gasp softly.  Then doing it again.  Staring mesmerized into his gorgeous face, his wild green eyes, nostrils flared, flushed and panting.  While you rut slowly on his stomach.  

His muscle definition makes it even more delicious.  Ribbed sensations strike your nerves, like you’re a lightning rod and he’s the storm, as you slide over each set of ab muscles.  

Fuck.  It feels really good.  

Your hole is gasping in relief, but it’s also making the desire so much worse.

He lets you rub against him, dragging your wet boy pussy over his belly, but if you try to lift up, he slams you back down on his stomach.  

You start moaning softly.

“Oh fuck,” he whispers.  “Fuck.”  

“ - I’m…fuck…so wet - “

“ - I know - firecracker…I’m fucking begging you…please…please let me fuck you - “

Instead of answering, you flatten yourself on him, chest to chest, and cup his face gently, turning his head away from you.  

You laugh throatily.  “ - thought it was your scar…oh…you mean…this scar…?”

You drag your tongue up his scarred cheek, lapping the blood in broad, wicked strokes.  Rubbing your drooling boy cunt on him at the same time, humping his stomach while you lick his face.

“ - oh my…god - “ he chokes.  

“ - mmm…even your blood is sexy - “

His breath speeds up, lifting you slightly with each inhale, dropping you gently with every exhale, like riding a warm, muscled ocean wave.  

You lap your way across his cheek, lipping and nibbling, tangling your fingers in his glossy hair, sticking your tongue in his ear, breathing hard.  

His fingers are really digging into your waist, but he’s holding still.  Except for bucking a little when you kiss his skin, suckling little bruises into his neck.  His torso is a mess of boy pussy fluids.  Muscles bunched and tense beneath you, waiting desperately for your permission.   

“You said I was a good boy,” you purr, rubbing your boy cunt on him, “but I think you’re the good boy in this relationship.”

“ - I’m…such a good boy - “ he gasps.  “ - your very good boy, your best boy, anything you want, baby - “

“ - awww…look so cute, all desperate for my boy pussy - “ 

“ - fuck!...oh my god…people say I’m a monster, you’re…fucking merciless - “

“ - no I’m not - “ you coo innocently.  

His breath stops when you scoot backwards, dragging your dripping hole farther down, then lifting up just a bit, so you can rub against his erection. 

You both gasp at the same time. 

Oh holy fuck.  

You won’t be able to hold out much longer.  Another minute of that and you’ll be begging him to fuck you. 

He’s panting heavily.   Chest heaving.  Eyes like green fire.

“ - babes, I’m gonna fucking explode - “

“ - okay!...fuck!...I can’t take it anymore either!... I want you to fuck me! - “

The words are barely out of your mouth before he’s surging up, hands strong on your waist, throwing you down on the bed.  Landing heavily, stealing your breath - first with his weight, then with his kisses when his hungry, panting mouth finds yours. 

“ - fuck!...been dying for this boy pussy…all goddamn night - “

He doesn’t break the kiss, still devouring your mouth, biting your lips, licking your tongue, as he tears your clothes clean off. 

“ - R.I.P., jammies - “

“ - I didn’t…like them anyway - “

His clothes disappear like a magic trick, and that godlike naked body is grinding you into the bed, covering and protecting and ready to consume and possess you. 

You jut your hips up impatiently, streaming fluids.  

His laugh is filled with lust.  “ - fuck, I’m so hard - “

“ - I’m…soaking…”

“ - fuck!...I wanna just…can I just fuck you - “

“ - yes!...fuck, I want you to!…fuck foreplay - “

“ - fuck foreplay - “

He presses his body against yours, skin hot.  His heaviness, bliss and a comfort.  His mouth is still hungry for you, kissing you raw, chafing your lips, and you don’t care, you love it.  Saliva pools between your mouths, webs of spit, sticky and delicious between your tongues.

You whine a little as he guides his erection to your slobbering boy slit.  Circling the leaking head, warm and hard against your skin, slicking himself up, mixing your fluids with his precum. 

Lowering his hips, he positions himself and applies steady pressure, gradually increasing the force, your tiny hole slowly spreading open for him.  

He pushes inside with a tight, wet pop.

“FUCK,” he groans.

“ - oh my… GOD - “ you shriek, clinging to him, digging your fingernails in his back and scratching deep.  

He’s much bigger than you’re used to, and you didn’t want stretched - still don’t - but he’s splitting you open with a girth you’ve never felt before. 

“ - holy fuck, you’re big - “

“ - holy fuck, you’re tiny…I’ll go…slow at first - “

“ - okay - “

“ - that is one tight hole, gorgeous - “

You whimper, hanging onto his back, while he burrows slowly deeper.  Thrusting gently, opening you up on his cock, letting your muscled walls stretch around his shaft, slow and steady, until he’s fully seated. 

You’re panting hard, pouring sweat, so filled you might break.  

“ - how you doing, firecracker…you okay? - “

You nod, biting your lip. 

“ - you sure? - “

“ - mhm…yea - “

“ - alright, let me know - “

He pulls slowly out, and the emptiness is not a relief, it’s devastating.  You want filled, you want joined, you want your body stretched around his, complete and connected and intimate.

“ - more, more, I want it back in - “

He laughs softly, nuzzling your cheek. 

“ - naughty boy, I love it - “

He splits your boy slit open and nestles inside you, taking his time.  

“ - fuck, you’re tight…so warm, like fucking…liquid fire…god, you’re a drug - “

“ - keep going…please…don’t stop - “

He grunts and keeps sliding, in and out in delicious repetition, stretching you slowly.  You can feel your body adapting, muscle unclenching, opening up.  Blooming for him.  Like you’re a fucking flower.  

His dick is soaked with creamy boy pussy fluid. 

Your hole sighs happily, full and fucked, stretched past its limits, glad to get ruined by such a gorgeous beast.  

“ - fucking…luckiest motherfucker on the planet…god, you’re…fuck, you’re magnificent - “

Your cheeks flush with praise, lips parted, eyes starry.  You arch your back, moaning. 

“ - more, I…I want fucked - “

“ - okay…you gotta…let me know if it’s…too much - “

“ - just fuck me! - “

He pushes in harder, using force to split you open, stabbing inside you and oh god, that massive cock getting buried in your boy cunt makes your brain go blank.  Then restart, exploding fireworks. 

“ - god, that…fuck, you feel good - “

“ - love the…fullness…I’m so…fucking…full - “

“ - fuck, baby…soaking my cock in…boy pussy milk…just look at that cream - “

He rolls his hips more aggressively, slapping wetly against your thighs when he seats.  

“ - fuck! - “

“ - oh my god - “

With a grunt, he picks up the pace, fucking you harder, but you can tell he’s still holding back.  

“ - more!...goddammit, fuck me! - “

Your boy pussy has been waiting all day, no, forever for this, you want railed like a whore on his ungodly dick.  

He growls and slams into you, lighting your nerves, rubbing your muscled walls with a size you are now fully addicted to.  

You’ll never want another cock again. 

His eyes flash wildly, beautiful hair falling over his face as he piles into you, knocking you into the headboard. 

“ - fuck, yes!...more - “ 

He crashes into you, impaling you, like his dick is some kind of medieval torture device and you’ve been a very, very bad boy, but you fucking love it.   

Your moans turn feral, rising louder, growling and grunting while he fucks you harder and harder, crushing you against the headboard with every aggressive thrust, drilling your hole open.  

His breath is fast and hoarse, sweat pouring off his beautiful skin. 

“ - c’mere - “ 

He curls a hand around the back of your neck and smashes your mouth into his.  You’re moaning, lost in his kisses, sucking on his tongue, licking his teeth, biting his lips, bruising your mouth, getting your boy pussy wrecked with his dick.

“ - fuck - lemme just - “

He shifts the angle of his hips, and the next time he rocks into you, he scrapes your front wall with the blunt force of his erection. 

“ - FUCK! - “ you shriek, sinking your teeth into his shoulder.

He laughs with savage victory, and rams into you like a beast.  

He will make you cum. 

Your nerves are tingling, dangerously near overstimulation, body a quivering, whimpering, gushing mess, brain disintegrating, totally unable to articulate.  Clinging to him, teeth clamped on his shoulder, moaning and grunting and drooling and snarling while he pounds you.

“ - babes, I’m - fuck, I’m close - “

You aren’t sure if you want it to end or not.  But then he starts ramping up the attention on your front wall and all of a sudden, yes, yes you do, you want the pleasure to overflow and break you apart.

“ - me…too…fuck! - “

“ - gonna make you cum…fuck yea…been fucking you hard…still so fucking tight… how …fuck!...that is one perfect boy cunt, still pouring out slick…getting my dick so fucking wet - “

Your brain is about to skyrocket.  

Nerves electric wires.

Tummy coiled tight.

A bomb about to detonate.

Fuse lit.

The moments till impact can be counted on the strikes of his cock ramming inside you.  

10 - 

He breathes hard, fucking you while you babble.

“ - fuck, FUCK, YES, oh fuck, there!...don’t stop, fuck, fuck me THERE, HARD - “

9, 8, 7 - 

“ - FUCK, perfect, oh my god, that’s, fuck, I can’t - “ 

6, 5, 4 - 

“ - holy…fuck…that’s - “

3, 2, 1 - 

You cum violently, screaming, clenching, waves of euphoria rolling brutally over you, drowning you with full-body pleasure, in a flood of warmth from the tips of your toes up to your pelvis, rushing outward to your arms, your fingers, filling your head. 

He grunts like a beast, and when his first spurt of cum hits your boy pussy, you clamp down hard, gripping his cock tight inside you, amplifying the sensations, sending him to the stars, milking every creamy drop from his dick into you. 

It’s fucking amazing. 

He convulses a few more times before going still, chest heaving, every muscle in his back and shoulders and arms bunched taut, gleaming with sweat.  

You were just fucked by a god.  

He eases down, lying on top of you, petting your hair, huffing hard, nuzzling your neck, kissing your cheek while his heart rate gradually slows.  

You’re kind of dazed, staring blankly at the ceiling, not really seeing him.  Aware that he’s with you, his cock is still jammed inside you, thick and warm and sticky with cum.  Nothing’s leaking out, he’s too big, your skin is stretched tight around him, it’s all pooling inside your body, which is fine, more than fine, it’s delightful, another kind of joining.  

It’s not like you have to worry about…getting bred.  You can’t, thank fuck.

But the mixing and sharing of your most intimate fluids feels really fucking good. 

“Baby,” he says softly, petting your hair.  “You are…magnificent.”

You laugh a little self-consciously, but you know he means it.  He’s staring at you in wonder, like he’s awed that he just fucked you, even though he’s got that backwards. 

“I’m gonna…try and pull out…if you let me.”  

He laughs, sliding his hips away, gradually drawing himself free.  When he finally pops out, you both gasp. 

Then you instantly roll onto your side in the fetal position, whimpering.  

“Baby, did I hurt you?”  

His anxious tone is actually really sweet, and when you don’t answer, he’s all over you.  Petting, caressing, worried.  Comforting, distressed, wanting to help.

“You okay, sweetheart?  I didn’t hurt you, did I?  Did I?”

“Yea maybe a little,” you croak.  “But in a good way.  Just need to…oh man…I don’t even know.”  You laugh crazily and crack a grin at him.  “I’ve never - ever - taken a cock that big.”

“Sorry, babes, I uh…well…how can I help?  Nice hot shower.”

“Legs don’t work.”

“They don’t need to.”

He scoops you up carefully and totes you to the bathroom, holding you upright, laughing all over again at your fancy soap, getting you both lathered up and rinsed.  The washcloth feels amazing on your sore, destroyed hole, so he resoaks it repeatedly with hot water, tenderly pressing it between your legs, so many times you lose count. 

Finally, you want out, so he gets you dried and dressed in clean jammies and tucked carefully back in bed. 

“Hey, you got a heating pad?”

“Bathroom closet.”

He makes a dash for it, back in a jiffy, hunting down the nearest outlet, plugging it in.  He waits till it’s toasty, then folds it up in a sort of pillow, and places it gingerly between your legs. 

Oh god, it feels amazing. 

You let out a soft coo, sighing happily, heat soothing your wrecked boy pussy.  

“God, I’m sorry, babes, I…fuck…”

“Just get in bed, stupid.  Everything’s fine, I feel great.  Better than great actually, I feel phenomenal.”

“You are phenomenal,” he says, climbing in with you.

He scoots over, tugging you against him, careful not to dislodge the heating pad, and cuddles you close.  Running his hands over your back and shoulders, kissing your hair, snuggling the hell out of you like you’re his teddy bear.

“You know, I was thinking,” he says suddenly.  “Maybe it would be dumb to take off in the morning.  You know?  Like, it might actually be riskier to go so soon…maybe it would be better to lay low for a minute, let the dust settle.  What do you think?”

“I think it’s a whole dust storm out there,” you say sleepily.  “Prolly take forever to settle.”

He hesitates, then leans over you to stare directly into your eyes.  The expression of hope on his face wrings your heart inside-out.

“Yea?” he asks softly.

“Yea.  At least a few days.  Maybe even a week.”

“Hmm…it is pretty bad out there…maybe like…a month.  A year?  Maybe…”  

He starts tracing kisses in your neck, lipping and nibbling gently.  

“Maybe forever,” he whispers in your ear.

“That sounds…and feels…so nice…”

He keeps loving you up, rubbing your back, planting kisses all over your face and neck and shoulders, until you drift to sleep in the arms of a murderous, loving beast.  

For a few days.  

Or a week.  Or a month.  Or a year. 

Or maybe - just maybe - forever.