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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 months

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Same as it ever was 9

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as neglect, bullying, manipulation, cheating, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Between your home life and work, you just can’t catch a break. Especially after you draw the ire of your boss.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen ft. Pete Brenner

Note: was thinking of this one all night.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You’re left breathless in the echoes of pleasure. You lost count but that hardly matters. A foggy daze falls over you, stars in your eyes that make the world a little brighter despite the dimming evening. You heave and brace the back of the leather seat as Hansen pushes himself straight, looming just outside the open door.

“Come on,” he demands as he tugs your panties free from your ankle, “we got places to be, kitty cat.”

You murmur and sit up, your thighs and cunt exposed to the chilly air. You could sleep right then and there. As the afterglow fades, the days, weeks, years of exhaustion set in. You slide to the edge and struggle to pull your skirt down as you stand, stepping into the shoes that’d fallen forgotten to asphalt.

Hansen holds up your panties, white and puffy like a parachute. You’re embarrassed at the sight of the cheap bargain store briefs. You try to snatch them but he keeps them out of your grasp. He tuts and points his index in your face, keeping you at a distance.

“The next time I’m done there, you’re not wearing these,” he crumples them and throws them into the gravel, “preferably none, but if you insist, I like lace. Or crotchless.”

“Mr. Hansen–”

“This isn’t a conversation,” he snaps his fingers and pushes back his sleeve to check his watch. “That was fucking tasty but I’m starving,” he drops his arm and reaches to snap shut the back door behind you, “let’s go.”

“Uh, sir where–”

“Number one,” he holds up a finger as he marches around the car, “no fucking questions. I say, you do. Number two, I don’t like to repeat myself. Dinner.”

“I thought…” you let the statement fizzle out. He doesn’t care what you think and it doesn’t matter. You won’t lie and say you’re not hungry.

You clamp your mouth shut and get in the passenger seat. As you lower yourself down, you sit on something unexpected, realizing what it is as Hansen squeezes your ass from below. You look at him and he snickers, dragging his hand out slowly.

“You know, I don’t mind the extra luggage you got in the trunk,” he taunts, “or the thighs. Keeps my ears warm–”

You grimace. He’s so disgusting, yet what about you? Even as his words repulse you, you feel that twinge in your core. You can feel the tingle of his tongue on your cunt at only the suggestion. You’re trying to remember the last time Pete made you cum like that. Or at all. You can’t.

“Also, dresses. Something just below the ass with a good view of the tatas,” he turns the engine, his eyes over the wheel as he steers with one hand, “I’m sure you can dig something up that makes my balls tight.”

You shake your head and look out the window, “yes, sir.”

“Keep that up too. I just twitched.”

You repress an ‘ugh’. For a man who gives such good head, he compensates a bit too much. He could shut up and be a perfectly charming guy. Maybe shave too.

“Don’t fucking mope,” he warns, “I served you dessert before dinner. You should be fucking bouncing… in more ways than one.”

You swallow and turn your head straight, pushing your shoulders back. You mutter another acquiescence. Reality sinks back in. You left your family for this. To cheat.

🗄️

The restaurant is nice enough to make you want to disappear. You don’t belong here. You haven’t been to a place in the last twelves years that didn’t have colouring mats or booster seats. Even before you had kids, even before you married, you couldn’t say you’d been anywhere as refined as this.

The hostess doesn’t seem to notice your displacement. Her beaming smile is warm and welcoming and her tone is almost soothing. You wait for your boss to follow her first but he gestures you ahead of him. You precede him at the heels of the tall brunette, her slim figure moving as if on a catwalk.

You barely hold in a squeak as Hansen gropes your ass suddenly. You flinch but keep from stumbling. You expect him to be distracted by the statuesque young thing in front of you. He’s probably just teasing you. Making a point that isn’t as flattering as it seems. He could have her instead so take it.

The brunette introduces herself as Lilianna and seats you at a booth. She proclaims a server will be with you shortly and sets back to her station at the door. You sidle onto the bench as Hansen slides in on the other side. He crowded you as his cologne wafts towards, that and another scent you don’t want to think about.

“Wine,” he picks up the smaller leather folio, “you look like you need it.”

You don’t say a word as you glance over. The brands are unknown to you, the types a bunch of nonsense to your uncultured self, and no prices suggest a number you’d rather not know. You glance around as he hems and haws over the cabernet.

You see pretty young women and men in finely tailored suits. Their voices babble in the low din as glasses clink. Your eyes flick up the small chandelier that hangs over your table. This isn’t a favour, this isn’t romantic, this is him showing you all he has and all you don’t. It’s a statement. He has everything in the palm of your hand, including you and your livelihood.

You shift on the seat and he leans back, stretching his arm up and over before bringing it down behind you. He forces it between you and the leather cushion and rests it at the top of your ass. He pulls you close.

“Relax,” he sneers, “don’t be thinking about your fucking family. You think about me.”

You nod and rest your hands on the edge of the table. He doesn’t realise that’s exactly what you’re fighting to do. You don’t want to think about your kids having cheap chicken nuggets that your husband burnt at home. You don’t want to think about the man you married at all. Not because you feel guilty, which you do to your bones, but because it hurts. This is what you’ve become; no better than him.

“Look, I’m making you a good deal,” Hansen cackles, “all you gotta do is play with it on the way home.” He pauses and looks down dragging his hand across his lap. The bulge beneath the fabric is all too obvious, “you know I’m not a patient man, sugar cakes, but I’ll fucking wait.”

🗄️

Hansen groans as you pump your hand over his lap. Your knuckles brush his zipper each time you descend. You strain awkwardly between the sets, shoulder aching from the tortured angle. He huffs and puffs as he grips the wheel, swerving carelessly around other cars.

“Fuck,” he snarls, “that’s good.”

You shudder and focus on your task. You figure it’s easier to frame it like that. Just an extension of your work. You do your work, get it over with, and get to go home.

“With hands like yours, I bet that cunt is heaven,” he purrs as he pushes himself back in the seat, arms straight as he rocks his hip into your touch.

You stay silent as you play with him. He’s as easy to toy with as any man. Maybe it’s just a skill. It’s always easier to just get Pete off as quickly as you can so you can go to sleep. Much preferable to his nagging and sulking. Wow, it shouldn’t have taken an affair to realise how unhappy you truly are.

“Peachy keen,” he peels a hand away from the wheel and grasps your shoulder, “put your mouth on me.” He slides his hand behind your head, urging you down, “I don’t want a mess so you swallow it up.”

You can’t protest. You don’t even bother. You bend over the space between the seats and go into a trance. You don’t think as you bob your head in time with your hand. You try not to feel as your core thrums at your own degrading actions. You are both disgusted and thrilled by your pathetic deference to this man.

“That’s it,” he strokes the back of your neck, “fuck…”

The car jerks and you nearly gag as he slips a bit too far down your throat. As he keeps his foot on the brake and cars speed past with angry honking, he pushes you down. You move your head as much as you can as you urge him through his climax.

It explodes from his tip, drowning you as you struggle to gulp it down. As you puff through your nostrils, you can smell his cum. You suck him clean as he quakes and lets his hand slip away from your head. He slackens and pants as he leans against the seat.

You pull off of him and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Your palm is slimy and cools quickly. You stir around in your purse until you find a used tissue, trying to clean yourself off as best as you can.

“My fucking god,” he exclaims, “you really don’t look like you can suck a dick but damn was I wrong.”

You roll your eyes, your irritation hidden in the evening hue. He sighs and claps his hands on his chest. He wiggles his hips.

“Do me up,” he demands like a spoiled child.

You hold in a sigh as you obey. You tuck him away and zip up his fly, hooking the button before buckling his belt back across his waist. He chuckles as you sit back.

“When you get in tomorrow, I want you to go straight to my office,” he instructs, “get naked and wait under the desk. I’d like some of that with my morning coffee.”

You cringe as you cross your arms, “yes, sir.”

“You should be flattered,” he tuts as he shifts back into gear, “I don’t keep girls around much longer than it takes their spit to dry on my dick.”

You shudder and look out the window. Your insides curdle at more than his gross statement. At least the kids will be asleep by the time you get home. You won’t have to lie to their faces.

“Don’t forget your leftovers,” he chortles as he pulls back into traffic, “sure the hubby won’t complain for a nice sirloin.”

You sniff and bend to gather your purse and to-go container off the floor. You sit up stiffly and flick the edge of the cardboard container with your thumb. You hope Pete is asleep too but you’re not counting on that. Maybe the steak will be a good treat to assuage his suspicions.

🗄️

The house is quiet as you enter. You do your best to maintain the lull. You move slowly, leaving your shoes and purse with your coat at the door.

You tiptoe into the kitchen and place the leftovers on the counter. A hint of Hansen’s cologne roils off of your blouse. The scent makes you sick. It also makes you tingle.

You wade through the silence, through the front room and into the main bath. You need to wash the night off. Wash him off.

You undress in front of the mirror but refuse to acknowledge your reflection. You leave the clothes in a heap on the tile and try to stretch out the tension in your back. You twist the faucet and flip on the shower head. You wait until steam rises before you step under the downpour.

You sigh out some of the stiffness in your shoulders. You roll them back and close your eyes, tilting your head up to let the hot flow slake over you. That rare moment of peace can’t last. You know it won’t.

You wash yourself with your hand. Your scrubbie is still in the upstairs bathroom. You wash away the scented soap and with a clean hand, try to rinse away the remnants of the night from between your legs. You’re still tender and wet. Fuck.

You stretch your fingers wide and drag your hands down your face, turning away from the shower head to let it patter onto your back. You groan but choke on the noise as a shadow passes on the other side of your eyelids. As you flick your lashes up, you nearly scream.

Pete steps past the curtain, naked, as he smirks at you. What the hell is he doing?

“You’re home,” he purrs as he reaches for you. The space is so cramped you have no choice but to let him grab your hips, “I’ve been waiting–”

“What do you want?” You put your hands on his wrists.

“Babe,” he whines, “I wanna make it up to you,” his eyes drift down your body, “you’re still fucking gorgeous, you know that–”

“Get off,” you grumble as you push on his arms. He doesn’t falter. He’s stronger than you. You let yourself look at him; he’s still in shape, he has the time to fuck off to the gym with that girl. “How many times do I have to tell you–”

“It was a mistake. It was nothing, please. I love you so much. I’m stupid, you know that.”

“Pete, stop–”

“Come on. You go off all night and I’m not mad, babe. I babysat–”

“Babysat– you’re their father, Pete. You did your job,” you slap your hands against his chest and for a moment, you hesitate. You remember the days when you longed for this. For him. You shake your head and shove him again, “let me go. I’m tired.”

“Please,” he steps closer, wrapping you up in his arms, trapping you, “please, babe, let me show you how much I love you.” He pleads as he tries you kiss you, “please…”

You turn your head back and forth as his mouth smears across your cheeks. You wriggle and squirm, trying to break free from him. Your skin crawls, not only at his embrace but at yourself. It isn’t just your own deceit, it’s your very body. Feeling your soft loose flesh against his firm muscle sickens you.

“Let me go,” you hiss as the shower head pelts your back and shoulders, “Pete, it’s late and I want to go to–” you push your elbows into him, “bed.”

“Please–” he begs again.

You pinch him and he cries out. He lets you go suddenly and your feet slip on the porcelain. You cry out as you flail trying to catch yourself. He rubs his stomach where you pinched him as you fall, the faucet smashing into your back as you whimper. Your ass hits the shower floor just as hard and you reach to rub your tailbone.

“Honey, are you okay–”

“I told you to leave me alone!” You holler up at him, “get out! Go!”

He stammers, staring down at you. He has the nerve to be rock hard. You try to ignore that as he looms over you.

“I hate you,” you snarls into a sob as pain radiates up your flesh, “go away.”

You keep your head down as you move gingerly around to your knees. You turn off the water and wait. The shower curtain rings against the metal bar and his wet feet slap the tile. He huffs as he stomps out. You shake as you sit back and whine again.

You don’t know what hurts more; the bruises that will rise to the surface by morning or your husband’s lack of culpability. He can do whatever he wants but you, you have to suffer the consequences.

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