#tom holland dom | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shawnxstyles · 9 months

Note

Omg! Panty stealer pt2 is sooooo gooood! Cocky and dom Peter absolutely blew my mind! Your writing is awesome!

Pleeeeease tell me that it will be third part to fulfill the panty trilogy! As humble suggestion maybe reader find out that Pete is SpiderMan and he will finally get head from her while he is in his spidey costume? Or maybe more than just blowjob?Hehehe Am I very bad and naughty that I'm typing this to you? 🥵🤤

Anyways love ya darling! You're smashing it!

in the suit

words: 3k

warnings: smut; (m- receiving [oral], dirty talk), language, and fluff of course. barely edited.

note: panty!peter blurb #1 coming up :D also, this is the way i believe y/n would have found out about spider-man, but i have another request for the same thing so i’ll probably do an alternative version!

—

you couldn’t stop thinking about it. how?

how does peter manage to get into your room every night? okay, not every night, but most nights.

most nights, peter magically and mysteriously sneaks his way up into your forbidden bedroom with ease. sometimes, you even wait and watch outside your window to try to get a peak at what he’s doing. but you never see him.

he’s just so slick. how does he do it?

you and peter have been together for over a month now, if you’re counting the day he broke in. the feeling isn’t necessarily new in your heart. you feel like you’ve known him your whole life. like he’s always just… been there.

through this month of stability yet craziness, you haven’t gone back to the frat house since the halloween party. you thought that after you guys got together you would stay there more often, but peter doesn’t want you to be ‘attacked’ by the guys. meaning, he doesn’t want them to ask a million questions when you guys are supposed to be private. you thought his excuse was dumb, but he was also just being a bit protective.

in reality, peter just didn’t know how to get you into the frat house without anyone seeing you. you both had agreed that your relationship was going to be kept private, very private. people could spread rumors and assume you two were together, but you weren’t going to show each other off. you guys liked it this way, it made your relationship more special because it was just for you two.

peter had a sixth sense, sticky fingers, and webs. it was pretty easy for him to crawl up into your room especially because you didn’t have security cameras (maybe you guys should get some at some point though…). you would constantly ask him how he does it since you live on the second floor and it was high up. but peter responds by not responding and instead laughs and kisses you. god, he was too good at distracting you.

but tonight, you were determined to find out.

peter had already texted you earlier and said he wouldn’t be able to stop by tonight because of overbearing homework. you completely understood, and sent him a good luck and goodnight to me then message. but truly, you were sneaking out and heading towards the frat.

you put on your sneakers and a hoodie, pulling the strings tightly around your head. the early december weather was no joke in massachusetts, and your thermal leggings were barely helping to keep you warm. as quietly as possible, you leave through the back door, making sure not to alert anyone or anything. not like you have a system to alert though.

you cut through some of the hedges until you’re in the front yard and the frat is staring at you from across the street. taking a deep, chilly breath, you cross the road with your frozen fingers tucked in your pocket.

all the lights in the top rooms were off, except one. you’re not totally sure which one is peter’s, but what other frat guy would stay up until 11 p.m. working on homework?

maybe ned, but he sleeps downstairs.

you walk until you’re under the window, the yellowish light taunting you. there was no latter, vine, rope, or magic hair to get you into the bedroom. the houses were built very similarly, and you know he doesn’t bring a latter with him.

so how does he do it?

you take a glance at your surroundings. the biggest difference of your houses was that the guys’ didn’t have large garden hedges. they just had a shit ton of messy bushes that they should probably trim once in a while.

having no ideas, you try to jump towards the window. great, that’s totally going to help you. maybe you’ll get some super jump that can spring you up and inside.

you feel stupid. yeah, peter may be the smartest person on campus and going to mit on a full academic scholarship, but how does he sneak into your room? with geometry? you didn’t think so.

wait.

what if… he’s hiding something from you?

that would explain why he’s so weird about it. letting the impulsive decisions take you over, you throw a rock at his window. hopefully, you’ll get his attention and he’ll come down, so you can see how he does it. or he’ll just go through the front door… whatever he does, you need to ask him this question right now. or else you’ll never be able to sleep again.

when throwing the rock gets tedious and noisy, you quit. just as you’re about to drop to the ground in annoyance, you hear a distant whipping sound. you hold your breath as if the person whipping will hear you.

fuck. it wasn’t a good idea for you to go out at night.

suddenly feeling anxious and scared, you slowly creep towards the sorority house. you don’t get too far before you see a body flinging through the air. the whipping noise gets closer and closer to you with every web on the streetlights. what the…

there’s only one person that could possibly be doing the impossible.

spider-man.

but what was he doing in your little neighborhood? this was one of the safest places in the area, so he didn’t need to check up here. there were so many more places in massachusetts that needed saving. feeling beyond curious, your feet scatter to hide you behind one of the untrimmed bushes.

you watch through crowded leaves as spider-man swings through the neighborhood, getting towards you. it’s like he can sense you and he’s coming for you. your heart thumps wildly in your chest, nervous about seeing him. you’ve never seen him before, and at least not in person. he was popular on the newspaper and television screens, but never on the street. unless you lived within the city.

with one long and final thwip, spider-man flings himself towards the frat house.

what. the…

you place your hand over your mouth, just in case your breathing is too loud. you intensely watch as the spider crawls up the white wall and towards the only lit window in the whole house.

no. fucking. way.

before you could fully register what you were seeing, you felt the gasp leave your mouth. you slap both of your hands on your face to shut yourself up. you nearly fall back on your heels as spider-man halts his movements. he scans his surroundings before jumping down the wall entirely.

your eyes are wide and your hands of shaking. you’ve never felt your heart beat so unbelievably fast, but you’ve also never been more afraid. what does he do to people that find out? what is going to happen to your relationship?

the body of blue and red stocks closer to the bushes with careful steps. you try to scoot away, but your back hits the fence. the wood creaks, your actions not quiet enough. his footsteps pick up speed as they rush to the bushes with determination.

spider-man jumps over the plant with grace, hoping to see a wild animal of some sort. but when he sees his girl with the most shocked and terrified expression in the world, he immediately falls to his knees.

“y/n,” he calmly says, slowly inching to you. he doesn’t hesitate to comfort you as peter. you don’t move, you just listen. “it’s okay. i promise.”

now that he sensed you, peter could hear your heartbeat overbearingly in his ears. he could hear your muffled breaths under your palm, and he just wanted to soothe your fear.

“baby,” he wanted to cuddle your body until you stopped shaking. you weren’t crying, you were just in shock. peter takes a quick glance at his surroundings before yanking off his mask and kneeling, so you could see his face reflecting off the moonlight. “it’s just me.”

“i…” you whispered as your hands fell from your face. peter doesn’t hesitate to grab them gently with his gloved ones. “…knew it.”

“you knew i was spider-man?”

“well… for like five seconds,” you flusteredly laugh while trying to recover. you still haven’t gotten used to this. well it’s only been a minute. “i knew you were hiding something.”

“what are you doing out this late anyway?” he stares straight up at the moon as it shines vehemently over you both.

“uh… well,” you start, “i was kind of curious as to how you always snuck into my bedroom without a latter or something, so i went to see? i don’t really know what i was looking for.”

peter chuckles. “but you found your answer, yeah?”

“yeah, i did,” you smile with sweetness as peter helps you up from the grass floor.

—

“it’s different breaking into your room rather than mine,” you say as you sit on the edge of peter’s bed. you watch as he tosses his mask inside of a box labeled books. “so that’s what was in the box. not dirty magazines.”

“surprise?” peter laughs and you giggle at his shyness. his cheeks and nose were red from the cold, but also from the slight blush that crossed them. you made him feel all warm and tingly inside, and even a little gooey.

his hand reaches for the button on his chest. it deflates, instantly becoming huge around him.

“wait,” you stop him before he undresses himself. he looks towards you. “can i just… look at you for a moment? in the suit?”

a small smirk creeps up his face. peter clicks the button again and his suit encloses on his body, outlining his muscles perfectly. every ridge and curve of him was being shown off by the spandex. you felt a spark of lust fire inside of you at the sight.

“like me in my suit, baby?” he teased as he trudged over to you. you stood up from the bed to meet his buff chest. you nodded with a bite of your lip.

he nearly growls before attaching your lips. it’s barely been a day since he’s last kissed you, but that’s too long for him. his gloved hand grips your jaw to deepen the kiss while your hands explore his messy hair.

the heat between you was undeniable. you were getting worked up over peter in his suit, and that’s something you never thought was possible. because you didn’t think peter being spider-man was possible.

is there a spider-man kink?

you take your shirt off after breaking the kiss, but resume it in no time. as he pushes you onto the bed, you stop him, having a new idea in mind.

“peter,” you sigh, spandex body hovering over yours.

“you okay?”

“yeah, yes. i just…” you swallowed, “can i…”

you didn’t really get your question out. you just slithered your body off the bed until your knees were digging into his carpet. peter’s eyebrows shoot up as he stares down at your figure, submissive below him.

“fuck. you want to touch my cock?” peter was already growing hard at the idea of fucking you in his suit. he found it hot that you found his suit hot. everything seemed to be a turn on right now. but now you were on your fucking knees like an angel and damn near begging to touch him?

how could he say no?

“go ahead then, sweet girl,” peter allows, but you stay still.

“how do i take it off—?”

“right—”

he unzips a zipper that you swear wasn’t there before. you barely take him fully out before you’re drooling at the sight. he was big and thick, and you don’t think you’d ever get used to looking at and feeling him.

your thumb drags over his weepy tip and he winces at your freezing touch.

“sorry!” you exclaimed with a funky smile. he forcefully laughs while you spit warmth into your hand.

“it’s okay, baby.”

your delicate hand wraps around him as you shift up and down. he sighs into the air, eyes fluttering back. your other hand scratches his thighs lightly. then, you fondle his balls until he’s groaning above you.

“fuck, darling,” he moans as his rough hand rests on your head. with his grip on you, you feel inclined to put your mouth on him. you’re barely an inch away, so what are you waiting for?

your lips pucker as you kiss his veiny shaft. you see from the top of your eyes how his face floods with pleasure, and your ego rises.

“if you look at me like that again, i’m going to explode, baby,” peter husks with his fingers laced in your hair for support.

with a hummed chuckle, you finally place your mouth on him. you suck on his leaky tip as a deep groan elicits from him. his noises always give you a bunch of reassurance, so you hum against him in satisfaction.

“takin’ me so well,” peter forces himself to stay still and let you do all the work. although, his hips just want to break free and ram into the back of your throat until you lose your voice. for another time… “love when you’re on your knees for me.”

you vibrated a moan against his cock as you took him deeper, a little more than half way. you were never the best at giving head because you couldn’t go that far down without gagging atrociously, but after peter showed you a better technique, for breathing and comfort, he thought you were a professional.

“you like being on your knees for me? or for spider-man?”

a groggy moan rippled around his cock from your filled throat, confirming his suspicions. you were definitely turned of the idea of peter as spider-man, and because of that, he was too. every time you were horny, peter was too.

you released your hands from him and braced them on his thighs. you focused and remembered the small notes he’s given you before. you take a long breath before sinking his cock deep in the back of your mouth. your thumb stabs your palm to eliminate your gag reflex, and it works. your nose nudges the base of his cock and you can see up close how his abs contract tightly.

“fuck! doing so good for me. going to make me come, sweet girl.”

hearing this, you bob and twist your head with a goal. your tongue swirls exploring around each ridge like it’s never tasted the plain before. peter was delicious; he was sweet with a pinch of saltiness that made you a fan of giving head. you would get on your knees any day for him.

his cock twitches in your mouth, warning you that he’s coming. you feel his hips buck into you as he strongly yanks your hair. you groan as he lets himself go.

“where do you want it? on your face? chest? or are you going to swallow it like a good girl?”

even when his dick twitches again, you don’t make an effort to move. you lick the underside of him, which sends peter over the edge.

a string of hushed groans fall from his pink lips as his muscles clench. ropes of his orgasm spurts down your throat, and you swallow every drop like a champ. well, almost all. parts of his come drip from the corner of your lip as he slowly pulls out of you.

the second he exits you, your jaw is instantly sore and achy, but it was worth it. to see the flustered and breathless peter above you was worthless everytime. peter was nearly disoriented by how fucking incredible your mouth was. how you were.

he tucks himself back into his suit as you remain on the floor. he leans down and helps you up, your knees popping in the process.

“how was it this time?” you croaked, voice cracking horrendously. peter tries not to laugh as he wipes away the nearly dried sperm on your face. you open your mouth without a thought, and he sticks his thumb in your mouth for you to lick it clean.

“it was good. fucking amazing. impeccable. exceeded expectations. outstanding performance—”

“okay, okay i get it. you’re a nerd!” you brokenedly laugh as you shove his chest. you got a sudden wave of chills because you were starting to get a bit cold. your body was still running hot because you were still, well, turned on.

“nerds are awesome, okay? they know everything.”

“like what? impress me,” you challenge as you throw your leg on top of his lap and get yourself seated. he smirks, feeling his cock chuff up a bit already. you were beyond soaked in your panties, and you just couldn’t wait for peter to destroy you.

peter knows you didn’t actually want him to say anything nerdy, so he made it a bit sexual. as always.

“they know how to… kiss.”

“you’re probably the one nerd that knows how to kiss.”

“okay, fine. i know how to kiss,” his hand cups your face as it leans closer towards his. he places a soft, longing kiss on your swollen lips before pulling away way too fast for your liking. “i know how to touch you, i know how to rile you up. right? i’m doing it right now. and you’re probably soaking.”

a warmth wave floods through your body at his words.

“i know how to talk to you too. bet these dirty words are going straight to your little clit, huh?”

“peter,” you whimper. he was right. he was beyond right.

his hand trails down your bare stomach and hovers over your clothed cunt. he can feel the heavy heat radiating from you through your leggings, begging for more.

“i can feel you. i can smell you, too. a perk of being spider-man,” he smiles, “guess this nerd is pretty great.”

“peter!” you shook his shoulders in desperation, but he didn’t move. you had a love hate relationship with his teasing. he indeed got you riled up, to the max, until you were begging him to touch you. he just dragged it on and on and on. he loved hearing you beg for it.

“okay, okay, sweet girl,” peter chuckled as his fingers fumbled down the waistline of your leggings. they were thick, so you helped him get them down. “just want to hear you say how awesome nerds are first. how do you think i made these webs?”

“you’re the hottest, super-nerd i’ve ever met in my life. now can you please fuck me?” you begged as your cunt ached.

“aw thanks, baby,” all he did was laugh at your misery with a smirk. “all you had to do was say please.”

—

note: not my best work, but i hope you enjoyeddd. literally posting this at 1 am :D

taglist: @invisibletrolleyson-jeremy @lnmp89 @crybabyddl @pretty-npeach @marine-mayday @aerangi @justanotherpasserby-blog @tinafuentes @moniffazictress11 @eywaheardyou @alwaysclassyeagle @mrstealuregirl @bisexual-desi @sherlockstrangewolf @madsttx @graywrites20 @bradtomlovesya @princesspannnn @sageisswaggg @purplerose291 @girlbossnancy @lockwood-lover @marzipaanz

crossed out= not able to tag

#shawnxstyles #panty!peter blurb #requests #peter parker #peter parker smut #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #tom holland #tom holland smut #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #dom peter parker #peter parker fan fic #tom holland fan fic #spiderman

545 notes · View notes

youandtom2 · 2 years

Text

Praise You Like I Should (CEO!Tom Holland) 18+

Summary: You were always a people-pleaser, desperate to do right by everybody no matter what they asked. Being an intern, your boss Jackson exploited your people-pleaser tendencies in a very unprofessional manner, and CEO Mr Holland wasn't happy about it... Themes: smut! little bit of fluff and angst, dom!tom and sub!reader, oral (m+f), major praise kink, sir kink, overstimulation, masturbation (alone) , slight jewelry kink w/c: 10k+

MASTERLIST

You look over the dimly lit hall before you, tables decorated to the nines with hand-folded serviettes, silver-ware suited for royalty, gleaming as they sit on a fresh white linen table cloth, surrounded by tall plum-coloured cushioned chairs. There’s about twelve tables dotted around the hall identical to one another, waiting to be filled by guests in about an hour or so. The room sparkles with the metallic colouring of birthday banners and balloons floating around the room, illuminated by the dancing, multicoloured disco lights.

The surprise birthday party you were instructed to organise is for Mr Holland’s business partner, Taylor. They’re each other's yin and yang, mixing together like oil on water but somehow they make it work. The informal Taylor bases his relationship with his employees on friendship and a sense of mutual equality, where the formal Mr Holland prefers professionalism and respect on top of trust. Nevertheless, both are equally respected as bosses and businessmen in their own right. It doesn’t necessarily mean you all prefer one over the other, but if you had to make a choice as to who you would rather hang out with, the answer is an obvious one.

As an intern, it isn’t exactly part of your remit to organise and host birthday events, but your boss, Jackson, ordered you to do it. Jackson’s notable within the workforce for several reasons; he’s outgoing, social, ambitious, confident, and is unofficially Taylor’s kiss ass. He appointed himself (ahem, you) with the responsibility of organising Taylor’s surprise party, not because he thinks he’s capable, but because he’s looking for recognition. What people don’t know is that he’s actually a lazy guy who has gotten himself drunk with the taste of superiority, abusing you as his own personal slave for favours both big (entirely consequential and out of your depth) and small (worthless and petty). Unfortunate to be his first intern, you’ve realised how gluttonous he’s become with you at his disposal how and whenever he pleases. However, being placed at the bottom of the pecking order, you’re not at liberty to say no.

Jackson’s not your favourite boss by any means, but by God he keeps you busy. It tooks weeks for you to organise the venue, the catering, the entertainment, the decorations, the invitations, most importantly the cake, and the little oddities that everyone forgets about like hand-written name tags and having straws at the bar. You’ve been working relentlessly and after weeks of stress, late and often sleepless nights, numerous phone calls and emails, cancellations and rebookings, tonight is the night that all of that can end. The curse of being a perfectionist and a people-pleaser can finally release its hold on you.

Just as you finish clarifying the itinerary with the hotel’s bar staff, you notice a dark figure walking through the entrance. Your eyes trail nervously from the black patent shoes to the white shirt peeking beneath the black suit of which belongs to Mr Holland. He has his tortoise shell glasses perched perfectly on his nose, reflecting the colours of the disco lights as he walks towards you, stoic and poised. A silent ‘fuck’ crosses your mind.

Being the CEO eight floors above you, Mr Holland’s face isn’t one that you see as consistently as Jackson’s. He’s at least 6 tiers above you in the pecking order, one of two to take superiority over a long line of directors, specialists, managers, supervisors and assistants before you. So you can hardly blame yourself when you start to feel nerves gathering in your chest, despite how well-respected he is amongst the workforce.

His eyes finally find yours and he clarifies your name. You can appreciate that he’s at least taken the time to learn your face. “You're Jackson’s intern, right?”

Wow. He knows you more than you thought. “Yes sir. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, thank you. I was just coming to take a look around. I’m normally part of organising the celebrations but this year I’ve been too busy.” He wordlessly waves a hand before weaving in and out the tables, reading each name tag as he passes by. You watch nervously as he inspects the room until finding himself in front of what you call The Shrine with folded arms, almost bursting at the seams. More simply, it’s a collage of photos of Taylor taken over the years pieced together in a mosaic standing on an easel, gathered and no less arranged by you, of course. Next to it stands an empty corkboard, waiting to be filled with pictures from tonight's celebration, provided by the pop-up photobooth beside it.

“Whose idea was this?” There’s a warm smile on Mr Holland’s face.

“Mine, sir.”

“And the handcrafted name tags?”

“Also me, sir.”

“I love it. It’s very creative.” You exhale loudly, relieved. The people-pleaser inside you starts to buzz, fluttering wildly at Mr Holland’s praise. “Did you…” His eyes squint narrowly, honing in on you. “Did you organise all of this?”

“Yes, I did. The venue and catering took some negotiating but once that was planned, the rest came with time.”

“Impressive.”

You’re about to thank him but you're interrupted by the obnoxious calling of your name in a voice that booms from the entrance of the hall. Jackson marches towards you and you stand a little straighter. He doesn’t notice Mr Holland standing in the corner of the room next to the shrine. Instead of Mr Holland announcing himself, which is what you expected him to do, he sinks his hands into his pockets and quietly observes from afar.

“I need a rundown--” Please, that would be great. “--and for the love of God where is the present I was supposed to get Taylor?” Thanks for getting me a present for him, I’ll pay you back.

Your answer is succinct and to the point. “I’ve left it in your hotel room; it’s a dinner reservation at Keens Steakhouse in New York. As for tonight, the bar will be open for guests when they arrive at 6:30pm, Taylor will arrive between 7:00pm and 7:15pm for his surprise, the buffet will open at 7:30pm and cake will be served at 8:30pm. Last orders are at 11:30pm and the curfew is midnight. Everyone has checked in and has their hotel room key, although Kelsey couldn’t make it tonight, so her room is spare.”

Jackson gives a gruff nod, mumbling something intelligible under his breath. He cautiously looks to the bar, then narrows his eyes at you with a pointed finger wavering in your face. “I need tonight to be perfect so I need you to be sober. No alcohol. Got it?” In other words, I can’t be bothered making sure everything goes smoothly so I need you to stay sober while I get shit-faced. You nod, pursing your lips angrily as he walks away from you without a final word.

With Jackson no longer in sight, the tension finally deflates and your shoulders relax. You hate that every interaction with Jackson is a test of your skill and knowledge, caught in a vicious cycle of having to prove yourself worthy time and time again.

As Mr Holland emerges from the corner of the room, it’s an observation he also confronts having finally witnessed Jackson’s true authoritarian nature. His eyes are fixated on the golden doors in a stare so firm it could burn holes through the metal, and just when he steps into the brighter lights of the bar, his overall demeanour changes.

His jaw ticks when he finally faces you. “Jackson’s keeping you on your toes tonight it seems.”

“He always does, sir.” You shuffle awkwardly on your feet, recounting the numerous occasions his brutal demands have worked you to the bone.

“I don’t think I appreciate the way he talks to you.”

“Oh I’m used to it by now.”

“So he talks to you like that all the time?” Shit. In truth, Jackson would never have spoken so harshly to you had he known anyone was in the room let alone Mr Holland, but that was his mistake. One you’re not sorry for. “Well, if he isn’t going to tell you what an amazing job you have done, I will. You should be proud of organising all of this by yourself, it’s not easy. Well done.”

Your chest swells with pride as Mr Holland pats a gentle hand against your upper arm. Finally, your first taste of positive reinforcement. “Thank you, sir.”

Mr Holland’s smirk quirks at the edges. His hands find themselves deep within his pockets once again as he coolly and oh-so-calmly exits through the doors.

~~~~

You are insomnia personified. As relieved as you are that the night is going exactly to plan, with the nervous anticipation over, you just cannot wait to get to your bed knowing that the stress is over. You have hours of sleep to catch up on, a stone of weight to put back on and friends and family to respond to, and without a single alcoholic drink to lift your spirits, you’re finding it harder and harder to keep the exhaustion at bay. Beyond the exhaustion, however, there’s a sadness hidden deep within your conscience and while you glance over the decorations you hung up as the melodic singing of ‘happy birthday’ rings in the air, it spreads. It’s clear that people are oblivious to what makes you so downcast on a celebratory night as they pass nothing more than a glance your way, but in all honesty, you much prefer it to be that way. You wouldn’t want anyone to see the tear building in the corner of your eye.

For now, you thrive on the compliments you’ve heard about the venue, the decorations, the drinks and the food, each and every one of them satisfying your perfectionist mindset. Okay, so what no-one knows you organised the party, and sure, you can oversee the fact that none of the compliments are directed to you in particular, because in the end, you’ve gained Mr Holland’s approval and that’s enough for you.

Well, it was enough until Taylor took to the stage for a speech.

“...and a special shout-out to Jackson for putting this all together for me. This is absolutely amazing, I couldn’t have asked for more.”

Your heart sinks in your chest and your ears instinctively drown out the clapping and cheering of the crowd around you, eyes set in stone as they watch Jackson accept the dedication so graciously that it makes you sick to your stomach. It takes every ounce of energy you have left in you to suppress the wobble in your lip at the sight of Jackson soaking up the glory like a sponge. Jackson taking the credit for your hard work was something you should’ve expected from him. After all, he is lazy and will never be willing to admit it, definitely not in front of Taylor. Still, the chase for recognition was always going to be a losing battle for you; you’re an intern for fuck’s sake, you are merely just a name and a face for most, unfulfiling of the protagonistic arc the people here want in their stories. Jackson, the kiss ass, makes much more sense being the hero than an underdog intern.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, accepting defeat.

You claim an empty seat at an empty table in a dark corner of the room, far from the crowd mingling on the dance floor and you remain there as the party continues into the night. The glass of tepid water looks pitiful in your hands, its lack of taste offering no respite from your sorrow.

With fifteen minutes until last orders, you begin counting down to the moment you can retire to your bed which you know won’t arrive until after you’ve cleaned up the hall. You’re jealous of some of the guests who have already decided to leave the party.

The chair to your right suddenly scrapes across the floor and you’re slightly taken aback when Mr Holland sits close beside you and abruptly rests an elbow upon the table, blocking your view of the crowd and demanding your attention. A cedarwood scent silently announces itself and you inhale it deeply, finding sanctuary in its presence despite how startled you are by it. Your breath is simply taken from you when he shuffles himself closer. He isn’t wearing his usual attire; something a little less formal, but likely to be just as expensive. With that expensive taste comes his expensive appearance: clean, styled, decorated admirably and booming with authority. A warmth starts to take a hold of you.

His movements are harsh and his body moves with brute intention, but behind those curls, his eyes hold sympathy, knowing what is upsetting you before it even spills from your lips. You try to fake a smile but he can see right through it.

“I thought it was you that organised the party,” he calmly states.

“I did. But because Jackson instructed me to plan a party means he takes responsibility for it.”

Mr Holland doesn’t waste a single second. “It isn’t right. It’s one thing to speak to you so rudely, but it’s another to take credit for your hard work, and I’m starting to believe that Jackson doesn’t value you as an intern as much as he values the superiority that comes with it, am I right?”

Anxiously, your eyes catch Jackson lazily hanging over the bar and demanding another drink. If Mr Holland were to know the truth, it would get Jackson in a lot of trouble and the people-pleaser inside you is screaming at you to just deny it all. Your skewed perception of professionalism means skipping over these things, something about snitching just seems so petty and childish, and that’s not the impression you want to give Mr Holland of all people.

Mr Holland’s stern voice brings you back. “You’re not answering to him now, you’re answering to me. Am. I. Right?”

You gulp. “Yes, sir.”

“I intend to have a word with Jackson--”

“Mr Holland, it’s okay, really--” You try to protest but he quickly rests his hand on top of yours, his warmth enveloping it completely, and your mind halts. Your heart flutters the moment his fingers curl just the little bit tighter, a compassion that says more than words could. It’s genuine, caring, but firm in a way that’s supportive, pledging to do right by you.

“He will apologise to you and let everyone know the truth.”

“Please, I don’t want to cause a hassle or stir anything in the office, I just want to do well. And what would it change if people knew the truth? It doesn’t bother me that much, honestly. Besides, you know the truth. That’s all that matters to me.” Desperately and without thinking, you twist your hand and your fingers interlock, returning the squeeze with a soft smile. Mr Holland tries his best to return the sentiment but you can tell the whole ordeal still troubles him and sits discontented by your side, a regretful sigh heaving through his lips. Soon, after a silent plea to let it go, he eventually sits level with you with a brighter sparkle to his eyes and instantly, the mood is lifted. You notice how his hand doesn’t leave yours.

“You at least deserve a drink.”

“I shouldn’t, I’m closing up tonight and I’m working early tomorrow.”

He scowls for what seems like the hundredth time tonight, facing issue after issue the more you expose Jackson’s true nature. “It’s Saturday tomorrow, you should be having a day off.”

“It’s laughable you think I get a day off,” you chuckle. The sad thing is, he thinks you’re joking. Jackson often sends you his overdraft of reports to complete over the weekend and has the cheek to deem you lucky that he gives you so much wisdom and experience. You can’t imagine Mr Holland being aware of this…

“Don’t be silly darling, everyone is entitled to days off. Even Taylor took a day off today for his birthday.”

Again, your scathing laughter meets his ears and he tilts his head, that skewed eyebrow lifting high into his forehead. “No offence sir, but with his position, he can afford to. I don’t think interns have that same benefit--”

“Of course you do, it’s company policy that everyone is entitled to a day off on their birthday.” Before you get a word in, he’s already pulling out his phone from his suit pocket. “Tell me when your birthday is so I can make sure you get it off, and I know when to get you a birthday present. Taylor too--”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that.”

“We do it for all our employees, regardless if you’re an intern or not.” His calendar flashes to life before his eyes. “So when is it? June? July?”

Your mouth suddenly goes dry and it gawps like a fish, not a usual response to such an easy question. Your fingers knead together on your lap as the sadness once again materialises and Mr Holland quickly senses something is amiss.

“It’s…it’s today. My birthday is…was today.”

Mr Holland’s eyes widen with horror. It’s no less than a minute later that he finally replies. “And Jackson has you working?”

“Since 7am this morning. I had asked for my birthday off two months ago because I did actually read the company policies, but he said interns can’t request holidays because they’re not permanent. I didn’t think anything of it.”

“What?! For fuck’s sake…” Mr Holland twists his chair violently, its legs colliding with the table as he tries to face you more directly and leans forward, your knees slotting into the space between his. The wave of his anger has rolled back even higher in its tide and now, unlike before, there’s a vein popping at his temple. “Let me just make this clear, okay? Correct me if I’m wrong. You’re telling me that Jackson has knowingly denied you of your birthday holiday entitlement and instead had you plan someone else’s birthday just so that he can take credit for it, make you work through it and clean up after it as well?”

God. In his words it sounds so desperately sad. Up until this point, you were able to distract yourself from getting caught up in the tragedy of it all, but now there’s nothing stopping the gates from opening and wallowing in self-pity. Although your blurring eyes tell of your true emotions, the forced smile on your lips does everything it can to convince both you and Mr Holland that you’re not bothered by it. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Mr Holland’s heart inevitably sinks. In that moment, he thinks of the cruelty behind Jackson ordering you to buy and wrap his present for Taylor when you have none to open. He thinks of you, alone, buying the candles of the birthday cake you wouldn’t be blowing out. He thinks of you, just hours ago as the crowd sings happy birthday to another person, blissfully ignorant of your sorrow. He thinks of the hours you spent working when you should have been with your friends and family. It’s all of the things you truly deserve, but have been robbed from you.

He reaches once again for your hand, now resting on your lap, and the tips of his fingers graze your thigh. You would be a fool to miss it. “Darling,” he sincerely murmurs, almost as quiet as a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

The fake smile takes lead and the rebel tear is wiped away. “It’s okay, it’s not your fault--”

“But it’s not okay. You…you didn’t even get to have a drink.” Damnit, your cheeks are wet again. “Did you at least get a break today?” Don’t cry in front of your CEO. Don’t cry in front of your CEO. Don’t cry in front of your CEO.

In fact, you spend so much time failing to not cry that Mr Holland assumes the worst. He takes in a long, deep breath and lures you into his embrace with a hand creeping up to the back of your head, and the second your forehead hits his shoulder, the dams break.

“I’m just so tired,” you sniff.

“You’ve been overworked, darling, that’s why.” His hand passes over your hair, gently cupping the curve of your head as he takes in every hiccup. His breath flows past your ears smoothly, broken up every few seconds with whispers of comfort. You feel horribly embarrassed, crying into the expensive suit of your CEO at the party you organised on your birthday: definitely not the definition of professionalism you are chasing.

“I’m sorry. I promise I’m not usually like this.” You retreat from his shoulder but the hand cupping the back of your head prevents you from travelling too far and you’re stuck, just inches from Mr Holland’s pitying eyes. He keeps you concealed from the crowd, but it’s not enough to hide from the burning glare of Jackson, his eyes drawing daggers at you from over Mr Holland’s shoulder. He’s somewhat frozen in a stupor, scarily steady for a man who was flailing over the bar minutes ago, but anger is a quick cure for intoxication.

Mr Holland’s voice sidles quietly into your ear. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me. Get yourself up to bed, I’ll deal with Jackson.”

“But--”

“I will not take no for an answer. Now go.” You shiver at the stern tone, appearing only as he turns to lock eyes with Jackson who’s faring a guilty look upon his face. As Mr Holland brings you both to a stand, he gently encourages you towards the golden doors and although you should be indulging in the relief of finally being let off, you can’t pull your focus away from Mr Holland’s cold stare that refuses to stray from Jackson. In the few seconds that it takes to walk from your chair to the doors, a clear, obvious shift in mood transpires, one that is felt by the entire room because now it isn’t just you that notices Mr Holland’s sudden decline in temperament. Evidently, everyone is quick to sense the tension. The crowd’s lively dancing now settles into an awkward shuffle and the singing dulls into hushed whispers because they know to never underestimate the seriousness of Mr Holland’s anger. It’s uncomfortable and intimidating, even more so if you’re the reason for his vexation and if that’s the case, you should be on your knees begging for his forgiveness. It’s the one power Mr Holland holds that Taylor, his business partner, his equal, doesn't possess. This is your first time seeing him exercise this power and it’s incredibly daunting.

The beat of your heels clicking their way up the staircase is a quick one, not daring to hang around the unease any longer. The fresh smell of washed cotton that greets you in your room winds you down and you don’t spare a second of reflection before you strip yourself of your stiff dress, blister-inducing heels, thick make-up and the heavy stress. You slip right between the sheets, ready to drift asleep.

The lights are switched off, your eyes are closed and your body properly relaxes. Yet inexplicably you can’t settle into your bed no matter how much you toss and turn. Rationale convinces you that it’s because you’re in a bed different from your own, that the mattress doesn’t have the mould of your body imprinted on it, and although it’s a perfectly reasonable explanation, your inner conscience is telling you something else…

Flashes of memories made just half an hour prior spring to the surface and suddenly you’re watching yourself converse with Mr Holland again. But it isn’t exactly how you remember it.

For example, his hand is on your lap, gripping the curve of your thigh with his heat scorching through your skin when you know that, in reality, it was nothing more than a soft sweep. And when you both stood, you know he guided you with a gentlemanly hand, yet your dream sees his hand curving down the slope of your ass and squeezing the flesh. You have to refuse the idea of you shivering with arousal from hearing Mr Holland’s stern growl because truthfully, it was nerves.

Or…was it both?

You try to ignore it, but the seed has already been planted. Now all you can visualise is his fleeting touches, his soft voice praising you and calling you darling, the twinkle in his eyes as he sympathised for you, the caress of his hand through your hair as he comforted you, the way he cared for you, and fucking hell, the exhilaration of seeing him protect you so defensively when no one else did. His taut jaw, his clenched fists, his dark eyes, the pulsing vein at his temple, his eminence that commanded the room, the list is endless.

“F-fuck,” you stutter, succumbing to the pleasure of your own fingers toying with your clit. You don’t quite remember the exact moment your hand slipped beneath your underwear, too caught up in your fantasy of Mr Holland to realise. Regardless, the movie in your mind continues to play out and by now, none of it reflects any real events from tonight - it’s all purely fictional.

His hand slides up between your thighs. He dons a devilish grin because he knows there’s a whole crowd blissfully unaware behind him. An innocent gasp slips from your lips and it lures his eyes to your mouth, panting as he traces the letters of his name over your covered cunt as a sign as to who it belongs to. Overrun with anticipation, you bite your lip, feeling the pad of his finger slip beneath your thong and…

“Oh my god! Shit!” Your body seizes, curling into itself as your fingers dull to a small twitch between your clenched thighs. There’s a blissful moment where you ravish the hot rush of blood pulsing at your pussy, letting it bubble until it slows to a simmer, and only when you come down from your high minutes later do you fully realise what has just happened. Eyes split wide open, you rise from your bed.

You just masturbated fantasising over your CEO.

What in the hell have you gotten yourself into?

~~~~

The morning comes surprisingly quickly and the hotel's thin curtains don't fully shield you from the sun's glare. It’s bright, directly in your face and if you didn’t know any better, you would think that it’s spotlighting you because it knows what you did last night. As if you forgot…

The guilt still ruins your conscience and you feel nothing but regret; fantasising and sexualising Mr Holland’s kindness is just the pinnacle of everything you disagree with and it doesn’t exactly define the sort of professionalism you strive for.

Shaking it off as best you can, you refresh yourself with a shower and a harsh splash of cold water to your face, and by the time you open your laptop it’s 9am. There hasn’t been any emails from Jackson so far which you’re not too sure if you’re shocked by. It’s typical on a Saturday morning for Jackson to send you multiple reports with deliberately vague instructions that you would somehow have to decode and translate for yourself. But regarding last night’s events, perhaps he’s heeded Mr Holland’s words and decided to honour your weekend entitlements.

The white screen stares back at you, watching you nervously bite your nails as if you’re expecting a red notification to pop up, attached to an email from Jackson with hungover words. A minute or two passes by and alas, nothing. Not a word. In all honesty, you don’t have an issue with it, not at all, but it means that your routine is completely disrupted and you’re struggling to decide what to do with yourself. And without work, you have nothing to distract you from last night’s sin while it plagues your mind.

A new sweat arises and your cheeks flush with embarrassment. It shouldn’t have felt as good as it did, and that’s the part you think is the worst. Why did it feel so fucking good?

What brings you out of your self-loathing is three quick, quiet knocks echoing from your door in quick succession. Curious, you open the door and when you see who stands there in all his formal glory, you wish you hadn’t. Your heart immediately jumps to your mouth.

“Oh, Mr Holland--hi. I wasn’t expecting you…” Your words fade into a soft whisper when your eyes spot a small pink bag, its ribbon handles hooked daintily onto his fingers. Surely that can’t be what you think it is…?

He’s painfully quiet, a small smile painting his lips at what he sees; he’s never seen you dress so casually before and he wants to take a good long look at you, unsure of when he’ll see such a sight again. The weight of his stare burns holes through you, heating you from within.

Not a second later, he holds out the pink bag towards you and you forget to breathe.

“Happy belated birthday,” he gently voices. Your fingertips graze each other as you take it from him. For such a small, delicate bag, it’s certainly weighty and your stomach drops thinking about how much money he’s stupidly wasted on you…

“Thank you sir, really. You didn’t have to do that.” A nervous chuckle escapes your dry mouth. “How…how did you get this so quickly? It’s barely past 9 in the morning.”

“I have a few contacts who owe me a few favours. And I just felt so guilty about you missing your birthday. Sorry you couldn’t celebrate it like you should’ve.”

“Like I said, it’s okay--”

He shakes his head disapprovingly but surely, a taunting smirk begins to form. “Am I going to have to give you the same ‘talking to’ I gave Jackson last night to make you realise that it is definitely not okay?”

Yes, yes, yes, fucking yes. “No, no, of course not. Sorry, I suppose that’s just the people-pleaser in me.”

Mr Holland stands stoic before you, his head slightly tilted and his hands clasped in front of him. His eyes are watching you endearingly, drawing you into him, but everything else about him oozes something that makes you want to swallow a little harder. His confidence in himself is mildly intimidating and you wish you could feel the same. Just his being here creates a dizzying effect on you that you just can’t shake.

“You can think of this as a congratulations of sorts too.”

You tilt your head. “Congratulations?”

“Mh-hm,” his eyes flit over your confusion, a devilish, haunting smirk gracing his wet lips. “Congratulations on becoming a permanent member of Taylor and I’s company.”

Mr Holland admiring you be damned, you find yourself taking a step back in shock. “Are you…are you serious?”

“Of course I’m serious, do you think I would lie to you?”

“Not at all, I just, I thought it was going to be Jackson’s decision. I am his intern.”

You aren’t a fool to miss the way his jaw ticks at the mention of Jackson’s name and all too quickly, a ferocious fire consumes his eyes. A small shiver cuts through your skin. “You don’t work for Jackson anymore because Jackson no longer works for me.”

“What?!”

“What did you think when I said I was going to deal with Jackson? That he was going to continue working for me even after finding out he was treating you badly? Or finding out that he orders you to do his work over the weekends? Or even when he blackmails you into doing jobs beyond your remit? How could you possibly think that I would let that sleazy bastard feed off my pay when I know he isn’t capable of the job? You’re far more deserving of the position than he is, far more deserving of the appreciation and beyond capable.”

“Sir, I…I can’t thank you enough. I’m very grateful. I won’t let you down, I promise.”

“I know you won’t. Although I do sometimes wish you would’ve told me or Taylor about Jackson’s behaviour sooner. I don’t tolerate that kind of exploitation, not even for a second and you shouldn’t have either.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I was just so caught up in wanting to do well that I would’ve done anything to please the company.”

“Maybe you should stop spending your time trying to please other people, and focus on pleasing yourself.” His face gravitates just a hairsbreadth towards yours and in quieter, darker words, he whispers… “You were certainly capable of pleasing yourself last night.”

You take a timid step back, mouth agape. You can’t think of anything to say, not when the ringing in your ears starts to resonate louder and louder. Shame swells like a disease and you can feel the bile rising in your throat. You are almost certain you didn’t hear anyone outside your room last night, how could he have possibly known?

“I…um…I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

He smoothly leans against the door frame, his wicked grin tells you that he doesn’t believe a word you say. Nevertheless, he explains, not to worsen how mortified he knows you already feel, but to reminisce of the surge of adrenaline and lust that coursed through him last night.

“I came by late last night to drop off your present. I didn’t think you would still be awake so I planned on leaving it at your door, and just as I bent down to place it there, I heard just the softest of moans—“

“I think you must be mistaken—“ An uneasy chuckle barely covers your tracks, leaving you just as compromised as before.

“I thought you might’ve been with someone, but I then didn’t hear any other voices, so I assumed you were by yourself.”

“Sir,” you squeak, intending to finish your sentence but you just don’t have the words nor the confidence to deny him of what he already knows. You feel like a deer caught in the headlights, exposed and vulnerable without the faintest idea of how to get yourself out of his commanding presence.

A million and one emotions rage through you and drown you in a fluster. Your feet shuffle nervously beneath you, slowly inching your way back into your hotel room as you sense yourself losing control over the conversation. With a mouth drier than the Sahara desert, there’s not much else you can do or say to avoid falling victim to both Mr Holland’s taunting and your own taunting; last night’s images playing out before you more vividly now that he resurrects them.

The subject finally diverges, but it doesn’t mean you're any more comfortable with it. “Do you know you’re the only one that addresses me as ‘sir’?”

You shake your head, eyes inevitably averted. You didn’t know that, you just thought it was professional.

“You never corrected me.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“I liked hearing it. Just as much as I liked what I heard last night. But I need to know,” he takes a step to cross the threshold of your hotel room. “Was there anything…anyone in particular crossing your mind?”

“There was…” His jaw ticks furiously and you instantly get the notion that denying him is simply not a choice here.

“Who?” He demands in that stern voice you’ve heard only once before.

One word sits on your tongue and you know that as soon as it breaks the silence, the professionalism you worked so hard to build up will crumble before you. But the risk is entirely worth it.

“You.”

Mr Holland’s lips part and releases a snicker as if he knew, and the curl of his smirk becomes dangerous. He lets the singular word ring out into the air, and the tension envelopes you both in a suffocating bubble until he finally speaks. “You…what?”

“You, sir.”

His chest rumbles with approval and you even feel its vibrations fluttering low in your stomach. Desire consumes you; a desire to know what he’s thinking, to know what he’s planning to do with that compromising information, to figure out whether he’ll respond to it in a way that satiates your more promiscuous desires like the ones that distracted you last night. You would give anything to see what’s going on inside his head.

Inexplicably, he nods towards your pink bag, easily brushing over your last conversation like it was nothing to him and it completely throws you off. “You should open it.”

It takes a second to drag your eyes away from him. You actually forgot you’re still holding it in your hands. The tissue paper rustles loudly as you reach in-- “Inside.” Mr Holland urges. With a short nod, you lead the way, allowing him to slowly close the door behind you with a gut-wrenching squeak and a thunderous boom.

The second the door shuts, the air becomes taut, strained and harder to breathe and you dedicate all your efforts into ignoring your last conversation just as easily as he had, but he’s standing right behind you and the warmth of his breath skates past your ear and it’s all you can think about. Even without disclosing what he now knows, the presence of Mr Holland alone would bring about such unnerving effects, so you don’t find yourself at fault for struggling to keep it together.

From the pink bag you pull out a small white and gold box, wrapped with yet another ribbon. Inside is a silver chain, light and dainty, but the pendant it carries is nothing alike. The reflection of the sun hits the circular-cut diamond, becoming iridescent as it hits your eyes. The stone is slightly on the larger side, bigger than any other necklace you own, but it sits perfectly in the balance of being flashy yet classy. Expensive yet tasteful. It’s a piece that you can’t price and that exact thought scares you.

“It’s beautiful,” you softly murmur. The chain cascades elegantly across your fingers, almost mesmerising to watch.

Your eyes catch his movement in the mirror in front of you and steals your attention away from the necklace. He holds out his hand by your side, soft but firm.

“May I?” You almost flinch as his words hit your ear, the ripple of your shiver continues for long after. As the chain pools in his hand, he is equally gentle, handling it with expertise while he lifts it carefully over head and rests the pendant tenderly in the dip between your clavicles. Its icy cold touch seers your skin, heat radiating with each grazing touch of his fingers as they clasp the chain together behind your neck. Once secure, you admire the way it shines brightly against your skin tone, eyes momentarily lost in your image until you realise that yours are the only pair looking back at you. Mr Holland remains engrossed with the curve of your neck, his proximity close enough to be counting the beats of your pulse as it thumps beneath your skin and for all you know, it’s elevating, thrashing harder and harder while you watch with wide eyes as Mr Holland presses his lips against it.

The second his lips meet your skin, his hands find your hips, holding you steady to prevent you from buckling. A numbing tingle shoots through your nervous system at the feeling of Mr Holland swiping his tongue across the reddening bruise he’s leaving behind. Every kiss is with purpose, targeting each and every sweet spot as if he had a map to each of their location: the peak of your neck that connects to your jaw, the sensitive spot just millimetres below your ear, the slight curve of your shoulder that sits beneath the chain. He instantly claims you, and you show no sign of resistance when you find yourself voluntarily tilting your neck, begging for more.

You finally meet his eyes in the mirror, realising how cavernous his blown-out pupils are; that if you search too far you’ll become trapped. “This…” he whispers, planting another kiss to your ear, his hands beckoning to the chain, “is the only thing I’ll allow you to wear while I fuck you.”

A shameless, breathless mewl whines from your throat and a rampage of endorphins consumes you. As the first piece of insight to his mind, you don’t get nearly enough time to let it process in your head before his clawing hands are tugging at the drawstrings of your joggers.

The small nip to your neck is a wake-up call. This is real and this isn’t a fantasy of yours, only that it will be a recreation of what had you orgasming last night.

“You know, I can be a people pleaser too.” His hand slips beneath your joggers, but refrains from slipping beneath your underwear. “I can please you in so many ways.” As a testimony to his words, his fingers trace over the silk of your underwear, catching your bud in its travels and a silent gasp bursts from your lips. “But not without earning it. Do as you’re told, and I’ll do exactly that.”

Your head falls back onto his shoulder, words vacant, eyes rolling.

“Are you listening to me?” The hand on your hip squeezes harshly and you jerk in his arms. You have never agreed to something quicker in your life.

“Yes, sir! Oh—”

“Good. Then you can start by closing those curtains over there.”

His hand slips fluidly out of your joggers when you force yourself away from the subtle torment. The light dims a little, however you think it’s more for privacy than for light. When your back turns once again, Mr Holland sits himself on the edge of the bed, legs spread and leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. Whatever it is about him in that single second triggers something in you; attraction, lust, sex appeal, or all of the above. Whatever it is, it compels you to give yourself in to him.

A messy mixture of want, need and unrelenting desire brings you to your knees before him. His eyes sweep over your face, examining, analysing, translating every desperate twitch. He can even see your lips parting where he spots the remnants of teeth marks from when you had nervously bitten them in hidden moments. Smoothly, the pad of his thumb brushes over your lip, tugging it into a pout because that’s what he wants to see; you, desperate, pouting, begging for him. It soon pops back into place, his hand now curling around your chin and pulling you closer. His own lips are nothing more than a breath away from yours and you think he’s going to finally kiss you, but annoyingly, he only allows you to feel the shape of the words as he whispers them to you.

“So what is it about me then, hm? What do I do that turns you on?”

“It’s…it’s stupid.”

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “Let me rephrase.” The grip on your chin tightens and your noses collide. “Tell me what it is about me that turns you on.”

“Last night at the party, you were the only one that…cared. You made me feel like I wasn’t invisible.”

“What else?”

“You stood up to Jackson for me - you just looked so determined like you were unstoppable.”

He tilts his head in the other direction now, leaning in just as close, your breaths mingling together. You’re so desperate to feel his lips on yours. “And?”

“When…when you touched my thigh--”

“You were burning.”

“I was nervous--”

“Because of me.”

“Of course because of you. I was scared of disappointing you.”

A small snicker escapes him and leaves behind a wicked smirk. Two hands now firmly cradle your jawline and you think the moment has finally come. Why else would your heart be thumping in your chest?

“Not possible. I always knew you were a good girl. And I think you like being told that, don’t you? You like being recognised to the point where you need to be reassured of it. I saw that coy little look on your face the first time I told you how impressed I was. It was obvious that no one else had praised you like I did - you couldn’t keep yourself together. And I bet if I kept telling you how fucking sweet you are, and how much of an perfect angel I know you are for me, the second I slip my fingers into your tight little pussy, you’d be an absolute mess.”

Well, he’s not wrong. You’re already soaked.

“Please, sir,” you whimper. “Please just kiss me.”

Finally, finally, he pulls you in for a long, languid kiss, his tongue takes lead to taste every part of your bitten lips as they slot perfectly in between his, lingering longer with each time he captures them. The blood rushes so quickly through your veins you think you might implode, overwhelmed by just how good it feels that your hands suddenly grapple onto the cuffs of his shirt.

A satisfied hum buzzes against your lips, twisting your own into a small grin that unbeknown to you, Mr Holland could actually feel.

“Let me see you,” he demands, his hands plucking at the hem of your sweatshirt. When you don’t do it right away, a tight grip coils around your neck and stops the gasp leaving your mouth. “Do. As. You’re. Told.”

You’re baring your all for him (all except a diamond necklace) in a matter of seconds, standing before him as he leisurely leans back against the bed, resting on his elbows. Those predatory eyes roam your body, mapping out the shape and details, and imprinting them to memory.

“So fucking pretty…” He deliberately watches for your reaction and you crumble under the praise resulting in a mirthful laughter to shake his chest. His arms reach for your waist, luring you in with the tight grab of your hips until his lips sit just below your ribs. The heat from his breath hitting your skin makes you involuntarily wriggle, but he doesn’t allow for any movement from you, not unless he permits it. You feel his lips suddenly, trailing across your ribs and up your chest. “Do you know what good girls like you do for me?”

“What?” You breathlessly murmur.

“They get on their knees,” Mr Holland pauses to let you act on it. Now you’re looking up at him as his knuckle ghosts over your cheeks and he mingles closer. “They look at me right in the eyes and they beg me to give them a taste, to let them suck me off because they’ll do anything for a reward, even if it is just a few words of praise. So let’s hear you, pretty girl. I want to hear you beg me with that sweet, innocent voice of yours.”

You take a cautious breath. “I want to taste you so badly, sir. Please. Will you let me?”

“Hmm.” He purses his lips. Shit. It isn’t good enough for him and he spots the panic in your eyes. All of a sudden, you begin pleading in such a desperate, childish tone you didn’t know you were capable of. Even your lip begins pouting as the need to please him becomes so overwhelming that, unexpectedly, your eyes water, like you’re facing life or death. And he is the decider.

“Wait, wait, no, please, I want to make you feel so good, so, so, so good. I can do it, I promise, and I can be good for you if you let me. Please sir, I really need it. I’ll do anything.”

Mr Holland smiles and gently kisses you with approval, just the shortest of pecks of reassurance before he leans back and nods towards the zipper of his suit trousers, tented with the erection that’s pleading to be satisfied. You waste no time in unbuttoning, unzipping and pulling free his hard cock that almost dwarfs your hand and you stare at him with such bewilderment, a stare that is returned by a certain smugness, a confidence that has you licking your lips.

There’s a surge of instinct coursing through you and your brain convinces you that there’s nothing else you should be doing, that your whole purpose at this very moment is to do as you promise; to please him, to make him feel good, so when you hear his moans the second you wrap your lips around him, your heart flutters with fulfilment. It’s a sensation you keep chasing, growing stronger the longer you bob your head up and down his cock, every time his praise seeps from his lips, and you just about lose it when his fingers comb through your hair. You offer every trick in the book; swirling around your tongue around the head of his cock, sweeping it across the small slit to collect the small bead of cum, teasing him before taking him down your throat and gagging on him. Not too little, not too much. Consistency is key.

You’re not sure how much of an idea he has about just how dedicated you are in your mission to prove yourself to him, that you’re desperate to show how capable you are by what you’re willing to do; perhaps a horrible side-effect of having to constantly prove yourself to Jackson with each conversation, but with Mr Holland, there’s an element of belief and confidence: a contradiction between Jackson’s ‘I don’t believe you until you prove it’ versus Mr Holland’s ‘do it because I know you can’.

Mr Holland’s head falls back, his eyes closed, and falls into an eerie silence. If it wasn’t for his hand still combing through your roots, you would’ve thought he wasn’t satisfied with you. Still, you keep going, running your lips and tongue down his shaft and returning slowly back up again where you get a teaser of the bitter-sweet taste you’re vying for. He doesn’t say anything for a while and you’re undecided of whether you’re doing so well that he’s speechless, or you’re not doing enough that’s worthy of his praise. It’s hard to tell with his head tilted back, and you begin to lose faith. You’ve become so drawn into his voice and words that you feel lost without them.

‘You like being recognised to the point where you need to be reassured of it.’

“Sir,” you meekly voice, leaving a beat to suck on the head of his cock. “Am I making you feel good?”

The depth of his growl sends a spike of arousal straight to your clit. He spits out his words in a manner that’s uncontrollable. “Fucking incredible.”

His head finally lifts and his eyes pin on you, fully blown and dilated. “Look at you - oh fuck - taking me so well. Knew you’d be a good girl but f-fuck, I don’t know if I can hold it in any longer.”

You reply with a wanton mewl, your dopey, tear-stained eyes saying the words your mouth can’t. You need to do something that would push him over the edge, do something that would completely shatter his world, never to be forgotten. He’s already so close, and you're already dripping onto the carpet, and with one last final trick up your sleeve, you catch his eyes, sink yourself onto him until your nose bashes against skin, and fight through the gag. Teeth baring, you slowly, lightly, graze your teeth up his cock, ghosting over every vein that pulses, leaving behind the soothing aftercare of your soft lips. By your side, his thighs twitch and by the time you reach the head of his cock, an explosion happens.

Mr Holland swings forward, grappling onto your head as you drink down everything he gives you. His entire body tenses, trapping you into a headlock and just only for a couple of seconds do you feel yourself losing breath. It's slightly tense and panic-inducing but it doesn’t matter, because above you he’s panting heavily, enclosing his thighs around your head and holding onto you for dear life. It’s all the signs you need to know that you’ve done what you promised, you have proved yourself.

“Fucking hell,” Mr Holland pants. His grip loosens around you and your lips release him with a pop. The instant your lips are free, he claims them, humming into them with adoration. “That was…” A soft, tender kiss. “The best goddamn…” Then another. “Blow job I’ve ever had.” He kisses you for a final time with a smile laced through it, and rests his forehead on yours to give himself some time to catch his breath. “So good…” he breathes. “So, so, so good. Sweet angel. My sweet angel.”

There isn’t anything to describe the burst of achievement that swarms your chest when you hear those words and your cheeks inevitably heat under his hands. You’re smiling, obviously smiling and no matter how hard you bite your lips to hide it, the pull is too strong. You make yourself far too goddamn easy to read so when Mr Holland catches a glimpse of your reaction, he smirks, clearly amused, and simultaneously reaches down the length of your body until his hand finds sanctum between your thighs.

“Hmm, you’re soaked, darling. Don’t you think we should do something about it? After all, you’re earned your reward, and I’m dying for a taste of that messy, little pussy of yours.”

You release a shaky breath when his fingers start exploring. “Yes, oh god, yes.”

“Yes…what?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Better. Let’s not make that mistake again.”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Now--” In a vice-like grip, Mr Holland encircles your waist and your body burns against the rough cashmere of his suit. It’s surprisingly stimulating as he casually hauls you off your feet, but you would much rather the heat of his skin. Nevertheless, your back soon meets the soft cotton of your sheets as he lays you to rest on the bed, remaining shadowing above you basking in the sight of your naked, wanting body. The diamond that nestles deep into the base of your throat twinkles obnoxiously in his eyes and he almost grows jealous of the way it hugs your neck. However, it's a jealousy he can overlook as his eyes wander over the peak of your breasts and your glistening cunt, because he knows that they are all for him.

Mr Holland promptly sinks to his knees, placing his head in between your thighs, his eyes never straying from your cunt. There isn’t a moment of hesitation when he swings his arms to cross over your hips, dragging your legs effortlessly over his shoulders and diving, tongue first, into your cunt. It’s a complete invasion of his touch, his tongue immediately swirling around your clit with a careful, consistent pressure that deep down, you know will end you in minutes. The gasp is telling of your struggle to keep composed, gradually crescendoing into a moan as that amorous tongue descends down your slit, licking you up in long, fat strips. An urge in your hips begs for attention, wanting to raise higher to ease the tension building deep in your stomach, but you're trapped, locked in place with no routes of escape and you have to tell yourself that you just have to tough it out.

But it’s harder said than done when he begins slotting his tongue into your hole, tasting and caressing every inch of you he’s capable of reaching. Digging deeper and deeper, his mouth consumes the entirety of your cunt, humming into it to push you further over the edge. He knows you’re hanging on by a thread, but it doesn’t mean he’s willing to slow down. And just then, an evil, malicious thought spawns in his mind which he voices immediately.

“You’re not cumming until I say so. Understood?”

The feeling of you clenching to stop the impending orgasm has him chuckling. He knew you were close.

“Such a sweet, little angel. So obedient too, right?” He blows a gentle breeze onto your clit and you simply whimper in response. “Right?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Satisfied, Mr Holland has your cunt in his mouth again, salivating over its taste as he suckles on your clit, your folds, your skin, anything to lure out what he knows he’s going to get eventually, but it makes it twice as appetising when he knows your orgasm is only at his command.

Meanwhile, your heart stammers in your chest with each tug of his lips. Whatever sanity you have left to cling onto, you claw at it with desperate hands, fighting to hold up the wall that blocks the blood rushing to your cunt, holding your breath to stop the bubble from bursting, because fuck, you are ready to snap. You can’t help but notice how he’s taken a page from your book, pleasuring you at a steady consistent pace, not too much but not too little. Unsurprisingly, the result is the same but the conditions are far worse.

“Oh my god, please let me cum, I can’t hold it anymore.”

His grip only tightens, his tongue moves faster and his mouth gets hotter.

Your hands, of a mind of their own, decide to condemn your obedience and push at his arms around your hips in an attempt to get away. Despite his obvious strength, you somehow manage to get a microsecond of respite, but his mouth only sucks you back in again, murmuring only one word that runs laps around your head.

“Obedience.”

“I can’t, sir, please, I can’t h-hold on. Fuck!”

“Oh dear.”

“NO! No, no, no, no, okay, okay, I’ll do it, I can hold on. Just…please go slower.”

His dark cavernous eyes meet yours from behind his arms, unmoving even as he relishes the taste of your slick, challenging you for only a second before he thankfully listens to your wishes. Weakened, your head flops back onto the bed with a small bounce, eyes drifting shut as the feeling in your stomach calms and a small relief hugs your heart. It’s a small price to pay to lose the feeling of euphoria that was going to course through you…only if Mr Holland had let it or if your people-pleasing traits had failed you, none of which had actually happened.

The feeling deflates but the pleasure still lingers.

“You taste so delicious, darling. I could eat you all day.” Arousal jumps to your clit like a flash of electricity. “And you’re doing so well for me, how could I ever stop?” This time, it’s his tongue, soft and caressing. “And this pussy; so pretty, so fucking pretty, I could just play with it for days.” His finger begins circling your clit not too long after he spits into it. By now, you realise what he’s doing. He’s feeding into your need for praise that, along with the small touches and sweeping licks, builds you up just as quickly and suddenly as before, and once again you’re struggling to cope. “I know you can be such a good girl for me, I know you can do as I say, and you have no idea how much it turns me on when you do.”

“Sir…” You warn. He instantly recognises the desperation.

“I’ve got one last instruction for you, angel.” He sucks on your clit for just a couple of seconds, just to get you closer and closer to falling apart. “Cum for me. Cum in my mouth.”

“Fuck!” You scream as an endless stream of euphoria consumes you, hitting you in a sudden white wash of heat that riddles your entire body top to toe. You can feel your cunt clenching erratically, between homing an orgasm and suffering under Mr Holland's continuous lashings, it can't, not for one second, rest until either relent. You feel your own slick, hot and bothered, trickling down your ass but before it gets the chance to meet with the white sheets beneath you, Mr Holland sweeps it up expertly with his tongue, partnered with a primal growl of pleasure.

By the time Mr Holland has finished cleaning up every inch of your cunt and ass with his tongue, he proceeds to kiss his way gently up your body, not forgetting to leave your tits untouched and pinches your buds between his lips. You have just enough energy to cradle his head, allowing yourself the pleasure to run your fingers through his hair, moving with him while he leaves sharp kisses to your chest, your collar bone, your neck, ear and jaw, until once again, those hungry lips claim yours.

Still somewhat recovering, you purr quietly, content with the overall sense of pleasure, both of your sexual and people-pleasing needs.

Your lips slowly part. The kiss ceases but your noses brush off one another gently, still basking in the blissful, intimate aftermath of what's just happened. Your CEO above you remains, hovering over you with admiration in his eyes, running over your features as if it is the first time he's seeing them, adoring them all over again.

There's two words sitting on the tip of his tongue, hidden behind a smirk because he knows what he'll see when he speaks them.

"You're beautiful."

Of course, his prediction comes true. Your cheeks redden, your eyes roll away and your teeth sink into your swollen lips, muttering incoherently about it not being true but thanks him incessantly, but Mr Holland is too caught up in your coy modesty to rebuttal. It's just like the first time he complimented you, and he realises then and there that he's addicted to being the person that makes you shy, blushed, diffident.

Being a CEO, he does indeed posses significant power in the palm of his hand, obtained by hard work, dedication, commitment and sacrifice, but for him, there isn't a power stronger than the one he has over you and all it takes is a few, simple, praising words.

"We still have another three hours until check out."

Your eyes and ears perk up. "Sir?"

Cautiously, he shuffles above you, innocent until you feel his cock sliding into you and he relishes the catch in the back of your throat at the sudden pressure forcing its way fluidly into you. You're simply speechless, questioning if it'll ever end as he pushes every inch of him inside you, breaching and stretching the boundaries of your walls. Mr Holland snags your bottom lip between his teeth, harshly biting as a relief for the tight grip that surrounds his cock.

When your ass eventually meet his hips, you both release a groan in unison, breaths mixing and mingling until Mr Holland breaks the silence.

"You're gonna look even more beautiful when you're all fucked out and dumb for my cock, all with a diamond wrapped round your neck."

His hips snap back at a frighteningly fast pace and thrusts in even more aggressively. The pain is immeasurably exhilarating. Your thighs squeeze his waist, mouth agape without a single breath escaping.

"Think of this as a second birthday gift." Like before, he draws back and slams into you without mercy. "Do as you're told and you'll get your third on Monday in my office."

Somehow, your gut tells you that you won't have a problem with that. Not at all.

#dom!tom holland #ceo!tom holland #soft!dom!tom holland #sub!reader #tom holland smut #tom holland #tom holland fic #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #smut #angst #peter parker smut #one shot #peter parker #tom holland one shot #tom holland fanfic #praise you like i should

3K notes · View notes

tomdayaland · 1 year

Text

Tom, Zendaya and Nikki at Richmond Park again today. 🥰

#tom holland #zendaya #tomdaya #tomdaya in kingston #richmond park #march 12th 2023 #looks like Dom walking toward them

430 notes · View notes

tomhollandnet · 1 month

Text

Tom with family and friends at The Brothers Trust fundraising quiz (x)

#tom holland #dom holland #2024: posh pub quiz

71 notes · View notes

littlemissomega · 1 year

Text

Meeting the Coworkers Part 1

Warnings: smut, kinda threesome [steve doesnt really do anything] dom!steve x innocent!sub!reader x dom!peter parker, overstimulation, oral [f receiving], mention of oral m recieving, fingering, mention of virginity, degrading, squirting, overuse of the words 'whimpers' and 'chuckles' (yes that's a warning)

Summary: Steve has been clear about his polyamorous relationship with some of his coworkers since he started dating Y/N, but she never really wanted to meet any of them. Steve intrudices her to Peter first, and things get heated

Masterlist

"Are you sure you're ready for this, princess? Cause if not, we can always kick him out and-"

"Stevie," Y/N interrupts, "I-I'm ready! I want to…to try,"

"Okay, babygirl, let me call him in,"

Steve runs his hand up and down Y/N's soft thigh.

"Peter, you can come in now!" Steve calls.

Y/N's breath catches in her throat and she curls in closer to Steve when she sees him.

Steve and Y/n have been dating for a year and she's never been happier. Steve made sure she knew off the nst that he has in a polyamorous relationships with a few people he works with, but she should not feel pressured at all the become apart of it. So it had just been the two of them for a year.

But Y/N got increasingly more curious about that part of Steve's life.

"You remember Peter, dont you, princess?" Steve asks gently.

Y/N nods. She remembers the day she and Steve were out getting coffee and Peter just "happened' to be there. He made her even more curious. And a few other emotions she didn't quite understand.

He made her blood light on fire, just like Stevie does, which confused her. She didn't want to cheat on Steve, she loves him! One night, she confessed the feelings she had to Steve, and he just chucked and kissed her nose.

"Hi, darlin'! You look pretty today!" Peter smiles.

Y/N cheeks flush at the complement.

"T-thank you," she stutters.

"Awww she such a cutie, Steve! Can't even take a complement without blushing!"

"I know! She's my shy llittle baby," Steve chuckles.

Y/N blushes even harder and fiddles with the hem of her sundress. She's sitting on the bed between Steve's legs. She doesn't even hear Peter talking to her through her blushing. Peter sits down on the bed and gently grabs her chin, making her look up st him.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, babygirl,"

Y/N let's out an involuntary whimper, causing both men to chuckle.

"What do you say when you understand, princess?" Steve asks.

"Yes, sir," Y/N responds.

"Good girl," steve whispers in her ear.

"You've got her trained right up, don't you?" Peter chuckles, "you wanna lay back, pretty girl?"

Y/N looks back at Steve and he nods. She scoots forward on the bed so she can lay back, making sure to hold the hem of her dress so it doesn't ride up. Steve positions her head in his lap and she looks up at him with wide, doe eyes.

"Are you sure you want this, bunny?" Steve asks one last time

"Uh huh!"

"Do you remember your safe word?"

"Red," Y/N nods.

"Good girl! You hear that, Peter?" Steve asks, looking up at his boyfriend, "she says red and you stop,"

"Sir yes sir," Peter chuckles.

"Daddy?" Y/N whispers.

"Yes, bunny?" Steve respinds.

"Is he gonna be gentle?"

"Even gentler than me" Steve chuckles.

"Can you h-hold my hand, Daddy?"

"Of course, pretty girl," Steve smiles, lacing his fingers with hers

Peter positions himself in front of Y/N's clamped shut thighs and grabs the hem of her dress; going to take it off.

"Wait," Yn interrupts, "C-can I keep it on? Just f-for now?"

"Of course, princess," Steve and Peter respond at the same time.

Y/N always been insecure about her body. She thinks she too short, and as Steve likes to call it, 'curvy'.

Peter flips the hem of her skirt up just so her white cotton panties show.

"You gott open your pretty thighs if you want me to do anythjng," Peter chuckles, gently rubbing her thighs.

Y/N lets out another whimper and hides her face in Steve's lap.

"Can I kiss you?" Peter asks, wanting yn to feel more comfortable.

Yn looks up at steve as if she's asking permission.

"Whatever you're comfortable with, bunny," Steve smiles, stroking her hair.

"Yes please," yn whispers.

Peter moves up so he's straggling yn and lowers his lips down to hers. He smells like peppermint and kisses her gently and reassuringly. It takes her breath away and went he pulls away and moves down to her neck, she's gasping.

"A-arent you gonna…give Stevie a kiss?" Yn asks quietly.

"Awww silly baby!" Steve chuckles, "always thinking 'bout her Daddy!"

Steve grabs Peter's chin and kisses him passionately. Yn whimpers at the heated sight above her.

"Good boy," Y/N hears Steve mumble into Peter's lips.

Steve pulls away from the kjss.

"Now get to work," Steve chuckles.

Peter kisses down yns neck and her eyes flutter closes.

"You're so beautiful," Peter mumbles.

Warmth blooms through y/n. Steve calls her beautiful every day, but it's weird hearing it from someone else. Nice, but weird.

"Thank y-you,"

"Oh such polite little baby! Did you Daddy teach you that?" Peter asks.

"Uh huh!" Yn nods.

"Now, be a good girl and open those pretty thigh," peter croons.

Yn buries her face back in Steve's lap as she slowly spreads her thighs. Peter settles between them and smirks at the little wet patch.

"I've surprised Steve doesn't have you in little lacy panties!" Peter chuckles.

"Daddy loves my pa- oooh," yns moan interrupts her and peter gently strocks her clit through her panties.

"So sensitive! Look at me," peter voices.

But y/n keeps her face hidden. Steve reaches down and spanks Yns thigh. She gasps and looks up at him in shcok.

"You know better! You've gonna give me a reputation of not knowing how to keep my little baby slut in line! Listen to Peter or else!" Steve snaps

"I'm sorry Daddy!" Y/n whimpers.

Y/n looks down at Peter and he keeps eye contact with her and he slowly tugs her panties down. She squirms under his intense gaze, but she doesn't look at. Yn doesnt want her Daddy to get mad again!

The cold air hits yns wet pussy and she gasps, attempting to close her legs, but Peter stops her.

"Fuck, what a pretty pussy!" Peter croons.

Y/n's face flushes even more.

Peter continues looking at her and he lowers his lips to her pussy and gives her clit a little kitten lick. Yn jolts and moans as Peter continues. Her toes curl and she clutches Steve's hand.

"Sweetest fucking pussy I've ever had," Peter mumbles into her, the vibrations jolting her core.

"Ngjjff Daddyyy," she moans.

"What, pumpkin? I'm not the one makes your pretty pussy feel good, Peter is!" Steve chuckles, leaning down to kiss her nose.

Yn states up at steve with wide eyes as Peter continued lightly lapping her clit. She squirms at the sensation. Warmth grows in yns core quickly.

"You know what she really likes?" Steve voices, turning his attention to Peter. He stops and looks up to listen, making yn whimper, "when you give her clit a little smack. I've made her cum before from just spanking her clit!"

"Oh really? What a naughty little slut!" Peter croons, smaking yns clit.

Yns back jolts off the bed and the tries moving away from peter to escape the sensation, but that just causes him to do it more.

"Sit still," Steve snaps.

"I'm sorry, Daddy, it's just-just nghfjfhf too much!" Yn blabbers.

"I've barely touched you!" Peter inserts.

He smacks her clit again before leaning down and plant a soft kiss. The kiss turns into sucking on it. Yn moans as she gets closer to her release.

"D-daddy I'm gonna cum! Can I please cum?"

"I'm not the one you need to ask, doll,"

Yn looks down at peter, her face bright red.

"Peter please," she whimpers.

"Please what?" Peter asks mockinglg, switching to rubbing circles on her clit.

"Peter please please please gonna cum oh please please can I cum, sir?" Yn babbles.

"Good girl. Cum for me, baby,"

Yn throws her head back and grips the sheets and fire corses through her vveins. peter gently works her through her orgasum. She bites down on her lip to try and muffle some of her moans.

But once yn starts to relax again, peter goes straight back to work. He goes to slip two fingers in, but then realizes y/n's sopping hole is far too tight for that. He's able to slip the tip on one in, but barely. He moves his mouth from her clit as she squirms uncomfortably from the stretch and sensitivity from her last orgasam.

"Fuck she's tigher than a virgin!" Peter coments.

"That's cause she is one!" Steve chuckles.

Peter looks up in shock.

"You haven't popped her cherry yet?"

"Nope! I've tried loads of times, but Daddy's fat cock is just too big for your little baby pussy, isn't it?" Steve asks yn.

"No wonder you're wound so tight when you come over! Wands couldn't walk for a week after y'alls last date! You've been using up all your self restraint here!"

Yn feels a pang of guilt. Is she hurting her Daddy? Is he bitter than he hasn't been able to 'pop her cherry's? She starts feeling even more guilty when Steve leans down and softly kisses her.

"I love you., baby bear. And I've already told you, we're taking this at tihr pass. So stop thinking about it!" Steve whispers getnly.

"Damn she's dripping down my wrist and I can barely get one finger in!" Peter voices, finally easing his finger in.

"Relax your pretty pussy, baby," Steve orders gently, "it'll feel better if you do,".

Yn sniffles as peter works his finger in and out of her, digging her nails into Steve's hand.

"I can see what you mean, man," peter starts, sliding his finger in and out slowly, "she'd probably suffocate your dick off if you tried to put it in!"

"Oh yeah! My little baby is just so much smaller than me! I've never been able to get more than two fingers in her pretty pussy, even after making her cum till she's dumb and with lube!" Steve explains.

"I can see why!"

"I've tried putting my cock in before, but I just can't make even the tip fit, and she cries so hard I just can't,"

"Daddyyy," Y/N whimpers, her face flaming red, "staph it!"

"Stop what?" Steve asks mockinglg.

Yn struggles to form words with Peter's finger in her pussy, and his thumb starting to rub circles on her swollen clit.

"Stop talking a-about putting…..you in m-me," yn stutters embarrassedly.

"Aww bunny! You had my cock in your mouth just this morning and can't even say the word!"

"Daddy shhh!"

Y/n's thighs start quivering even more as another climax builds.

"Do I need to put my cock back in your mouth so maybe you remember to word?" Steve asks.

Yn jumps at the idea and crans her head back furture.

"Uh huh uh huh uh huh! Please Daddy, I'll be good! Wanna make you feel good Daddy!" Yn responds excitedly but yet still so innocently.

"Oh I was just messing with you, baby bunny! Right now is just about you and making your pretty pussy feel good.

Yns face drops and eter chuckles into her pusy, making her moan.

"B-but Daddy I-" yn starts.

"Maybr if you're good, I'll let you suck on Daddys cock later," steve smirks, pating her cheek.

"Damn, Rogers, you've got her giving you blow jobs as a reward?"

"She's a Daddy's girl," steve ssmirks.

Peter startd sliding his finger in and out faster and yns pussy flutters around him more. Yn struggles to contain her sounds, and Peter and Steve can tell.

"Let me hear you, pretty girl," Peter orders.

"B-but-"

"Stop muffling your pretty moans or you won't be cumming for a month," Steve snaps.

Yns moans start bubbling over as the last of her pride finally melts awat. Her body ie on fire.

"Good girl," peter chuckles, "does that feel good?"

"Fuck fuck f-fuck feels s-jfkfjfhfj so good! Can I cum again, sir?" Yn blubbers himystrrically, her brain foggy with pleasure.

"What a dirty mouth! Cum for me, dirty girl," Peter responds.

"Look at him while you cum," Steve orders, moving yns head so she has to looking in Peter's eyes while she cums.

Yn moans and squirms and pants through her orgasm. Fire engulfs her belly and she squirts all over Peter's face. She has to request the urge to let her eyes flutter shut.

"Fuck shes a squirter?" Peter moans.

"Oh all the time! I'm surprised she didn't earlier! She must be dehydrated. Have you not been drinking enough water today, bug?" Steve asks.

Yn just whimpers, not able to form words after another intense climax. Peter keeps going at first, then he stops. Yn let's out a sigh of relief, knowing she'd be even more sensitive after that. Her eyes flutter shut and she relaxes against the mattress.

Then she feels the tip of something hard and warm against her puffy pussy lips and jumps. Peter slides is cock through her soaking, sensitive folds and yn lets out a strangled cry, looking up at Steve. He smirks at her.

"Daddy," she cries.

"What is it, bug?"

"Too mu-much! Too sensitive!"

Yns magic blocking bracket flows as it works to keep her powers from overtaking her. When she gets overwhelmed, it's hard for her to control her magic, which is why Steve had Bruce make her the bracelet.

"Take it like a good girl, bunny,"

Peter's rough jeans rub against her thighs and she lets a loud moan.

Yn feel so warm it's maddening, and she starts tugging on her dress.

"Off off off please, Daddy, want it off!" Yn cries, her voice muddles with pleasure.

"Okay, baby boo, one second," Steve smirks.

Steve pulls his girlfriend's dress off over her head and throws it off the bed. Yn feels Peter's cock get even harder as he looks up and down her body.

"Fuck, you really did get a good one, Rogers,"

"Damn right I did,"

Steve reaches down and runs Y/N's nipple through her bra.

"Can I take this off too, pumpkin?" Steve asks, tugging on her bra.

Yn can barely hear him with Peter grinding against her core, so she just nods. Steve quickly takes off her bra to reveal yns hard nipples.

"Oh bunny, you're gonna be the death of me," Steve moans, looking down at her fucking out face.

Steve pinches her nipples between his fingers and she whimpers, twitching from all the stimulation.

Yn orgasm builds so quickly it feels like a freight train about to hit.

"Fuck daddy fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fhck fuck," she babbles, "I can't cant cant too much ooh fhck,"

"Yes you can. Be a good girl and cum for Peter one more time,"

"Come on, pretty girl, I can feel you getting close. Cum all over my cock, honey," Peter moans.

Yn squirms everywhere, almost like she's trying to escape her orgasm, but she can't. It crashes into her and the whole world shatters.

Peter watches in awe as Yn cums, her face flushes red and sweat dripping down her body. Liquid squirts out onto Peter's abs, turning him on even more. He reaches up and runs the nipple Steve isn't. Her thigh quiver and her pussy flutters around him, drawing him closer to his orgasm.

"Where do you want me to cum?" He asks Steve, knowing yn is far too out of it to answer.

"On her stomach," Steve responds, pushing yns hair out of her face as she comes down from her orgasm.

Peter pulls his cock away from her dripping folds, causing a string of cum to string off. Her jerks off to the look of her fucked out face before letting it load out of her smooth stomach.

"Good boy," steve chuckles.

But Peter barely hears him, he's focused on check on yn.

Yn brain starts to clear as she comes up from her orgasm. Her eyes flutter open and she sees Peter and Steve looking down at her.

"Hey, pretty girl!" Peter smiles gently, "you did so good!"

"So good!" Steve repeats.

"Really?" Yn asks weakky.

"Really! You were so so perfect, baby! Daddy is so proud of you!" Steve smiles.

Yn flushes contently.

"Thank you, Daddy,"

"How are you feeling, angel?" Steve asks.

"Sleepy," Y/N mumbles contently.

"Go to sleep, honey," Steve tells her, "We'll get you cleaned up, pretty girl,"

Yn drifts in and out of consciousness while they clean her up.

Peter goes to clean up Y/N's stomach with a tissue, but Steve stops him.

"Can't let me pretty boy's cum go to waste!" Steve smirks, leaning down and starting to lick the cum off her stomach.

Yn squirms a little in her sleep, but doesnt stop him.

Once they finish cleaning her up, Peter and Steve snuggle up in bed next to Y/N. She's out cold.

"You did so good, honey," Steve tells Peter quietly.

"T-thank you"

"Not so confident now, are you? Now, you can let all that dominance go to your head, baby boy! Bucky will tear your ass up if you brat off to him again,"

"I know, sir, I wont," Peter nods.

Peter looks down at Y/N as she sleeps peacefully.

"She's a perfect match," peter comments, "I know the others are gonna love her so that won't be an issue. Do you think she'll agree?"

"Hopefully," Steve responds.

"So, who are you gonna introduce her to next?"

"Hmm maybe Wanda,"

Taglist:

@liidiaaag

@flourishandblotts-inc

@aagn360

@smromanoff

#smut #steve rogers smut #peter parker smut #tom holland smut #innocent!reader #innocence kink #virgin!reader x steve rogers #virgin!reader #overstimulation #tw overstimulation #badly written #Meeting the Coworkers by LittleMissOmega #peter parker x reader #dom!peter parker #dom!peter parker x reader #peter parker x reader smut

601 notes · View notes

bellaramseysgf · 2 years

Text

No More (P.P)

Warning(s); overstimulation,use of sex toys (Vibe & Fleshlight), degradation,praise,mommy kink,edging/orgasm denial,handjob.

Pairing(s); Sub! Peter Parker X Dom! Fem! Reader.

Summary; Peter was happy that you were coming over, he’s not now.

A/n; I’m obsessed with sub Peter so I’m making it y’all’s problem.

PETER IS AGED UP

••••••••••••

“Enough, mommy I can’t—Please” Peter whimpered as you kept your hand stroking over his length. His chest already covered in the number of releases he’d had before this,3 to be exact and you weren’t close to stopping. You knew he could take more.

When Peter’s phone dinged with a text from you earlier he was ecstatic,you were gonna come over. He had been begging you for weeks to come see his new apartment and you’d been far to busy for your cute little friend until now.

Peter frantically cleaned everything trying to get as much unpacked as possible, wiping off kitchen counters,sweeping floors, deep cleaning his bathroom & bedroom.

Peter was nothing but smiles the whole time you were there up until you had opened up his nightstand to look for chapstick. You already had it open before he could warn you to stop, his cheeks turned into a flaming red.

What you saw wasn’t even that bad, so the boy had sex toys. Most men did, it wasn’t anything you hadn’t seen or used before. Looking back to see the red of his face though, you couldn’t help yourself.

“Peter Parker.” You said and he smiled at you “y-yeah?” He said stuttering from embarrassment. “You own sex toys? Oh my god” you spoke in a teasing tone but peter didn’t pick up on it too far into his own head.

“Well, yeah…I-I do” he couldn’t even lie about it, he had nothing he could even say to get you to understand how badly he was embarrassed by it. You could obviously see it on the man’s face.

And that’s how you ended up here, sitting on peters thighs while he was laid, underneath you, your hand milking his 4th orgasm from him. His body was trembling from the impossible feeling of overstimulation,it had his head fuzzy clogged up with intense pleasure.

You finally let go of him and he sighed in relief,but you weren’t done. You shifted from his bed and he was far too drained to even lift his head to watch you.

You climbed back on your same spot settling over his legs. Peter gasped a guttural whine coming from him when he felt you press his fleshlight over his cock.

“Mommy!” He whined out hips bucking from the intense overstimulation. His eyes rolled back as his head hit his pillow, his legs trembling underneath you. “Can’t—Oh god!—s’too much!” His voice was high pitched. Whimpers slipping out with each push and pull of the toy over him.

You couldn’t do anything but smile at the boy under you, feeling him twitch and jerk with each move of the toy. “Shh, it’s okay sweet boy, you’re okay.” Your available hand slid up and down his chest gently, in a comforting manner.

Peter’s hands were gripping the sheets practically tearing them apart as his knuckles turned white. “Cumming—oh god—oh no—mommy!” His whine halted your movements only pulling more sobs from him.

“You said you can’t cum baby, it would be mean of me to force you.” You said and he opened his eyes to shoot you a glare. You started moving the toy again and his mouth hung open wordless sobs coming out. “Such anger in those pretty eyes, almost makes me feel bad” you let out a giggle.

Peter’s gaze softened turning into one of need and want as you brought him to the edge again stopping before he could fall over it. “Mommy!!” He cried out, tears pouring down his cheeks as he wiggled his legs. You quickly steadied yourself with his chest as you grunted. “Stay still or I’ll tie you up and leave you here.” You warned.

Peter’s body immediately stopped thrashing because of your threat. You wouldn’t do that, never. He was too sweet,too good,such a good boy.

“Good boy,my disgusting,slutty,little good boy” Peter bucked his hips up at that making you giggle at his desperation. “You like being my little slut, don’t you?” You teased smiling. Peter nodded quickly.

You pulled the toy off him slowly as it made a soft sucking sound until it popped as his cock was released. He let out a whine and shook his head “no, mommy I can cum again! Please!” You smiled at him “you lied to me?” You asked and Peter swallowed.

Peter didn’t think he could cum again. He didn’t mean to lie but if he agreed and said he did does that mean he’d be forced to wait even longer. If he said he didn’t lie would you walk away?

“Peter, I asked you a question.” You said and he whimpered “I-I lied” you smiled placing a gentle kiss to his lips. “Yeah?, say your sorry.” You demanded your had squeezing his cock agonizingly hard. “Ah!!—sorry! ‘M so sorry mommy!—uwah! Hurts!” The last part came out as a whine and you loosened your grip.

Peter watched as you reached next to you, the soft buzzing sound could’ve made him cum immediately. “Tell you what, since you were so honest with mommy, you can cum” you said flicking the vibe up to the highest setting.

It took all of 10 seconds for peters abs to twitch along with his length as hot white ropes splashed over his chest,thighs and covered the head of the wand.

Peter’s body trembled and his mind was clouded with the afterglow,which he was quickly pulled from when the vibrations didn’t stop.

“Mommy—no no! No! Hurts!” He sobbed out tears pouring down his cheeks once again, “poor Petey, too much of a cumslut are we?” He shook his head desperately. “No! No! Mommy! I-” his hands flew up frantically grabbing at yours. “No! Mommy! Mommy please!!” He cried.

“Hands off.” You commanded. He whimpered still trying to pull your wrists off “hands off or I’ll make you cum until you pass out.” You threatened but it still didn’t stop his hands. “Peter Benjamin parker, take your hands off me right now before you make me do something we will both regret.” He finally pulls them off.

“Fucking brat” you spat at him holding his cock as you pressed the head of the wand harder against his slit making him jolt and sob. “Please! Mommy, I’m sorry—cant—MOMMY!” With a scream his body jolted and clear liquid splurged out.

You let out a giggle as he soaked himself and his bedsheets with is liquified spent. You finally turned it off sitting the toy aside. He was totally spent and you giggled. “Pretty boy,can you give me your color?” You asked and he sighed.

“Green.” He said and you smiled “wanna get cleaned up?” You asked and he nodded. You left him long enough to get a warm cloth and wipe him clean. “You can’t sleep, you need to change your sheets, baby” he grumbled.

Eventually you got him up and changed his sheets, you were able to get him in a pair of boxers before he completely wiped out.

#fem reader #dom reader #sub!peter parker #tom holland #tom holland characters #peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter 1 #peter parker imagine #peter parker x you #peter parker x fem!reader

2K notes · View notes

slayedx · 2 years

Text

probably not gonna post tmr but i’m working on peter parker sex pollen, and i’ll have a billy drabble out later💔💔

BUTTT here’s a sneak peak at my peter fic

out now!!

let me know if u wanna be tagged 🚶🏽‍♀️

#peter parker x reader #peter parker #peter parker smut #peter parker thirst #peter smut #peter x reader #peter thirst #marvel smut #marvel #marvel thirst #tom holland dom #tom holland #tom holland smut #tom holland thirst

189 notes · View notes

tinas1469 · 6 months

Text

By now Jack has become another son in the family and those chairs look uncomfortable.

#tom holland #zendaya #nikki holland #dom holland #tomdaya #Jack #Tomdaya in London #Richmond UK

62 notes · View notes

shawnxstyles · 1 year

Text

glory girl

warnings: no plot smut; praise kink, dirty talking, some edging/orgasm denial, and unprotected sex. ends in fluff :)

note: this is a blurb. i should be working on other fics, but i’m a little too obsessed with tom right now, so i needed to write something hot now!! BYE

soft dom!tom

—

tom’s lips brush the skin of your neck, soft and gentle like you were delicate. he flicks his hips deliberately slow, so you could feel each deep thrust thoroughly. you felt the ridges of veins along his cock rubbing against your walls blissfully. it was sensual and sweet, yet so, so dirty.

your neck strains from being tense, while you bite your lip to remain quiet. you were shy, even if you and tom lived alone and you knew no one else was listening.

“don’t get shy on me now,” tom whispers in your ear with a small pant. in a plank position, his muscular arms flexed with intensity each time he moved. he brushes a strand of hair from your perspired face to see you. “wanna hear those pretty noises.”

you whimpered, legs trembling as tom rocked back and forth into your soaking cunt. gushes of your wetness leaked around his cock, making him twitch and pulse inside of you; that picture alone could get him off. with you nearly withering underneath him, you were the most precious thing tom’s ever seen. your hair was fanned beautifully across your pillow, your nipples were pointy and hard, and your face of desire spurred him on.

“so pretty, my love,” tom massages your breast with subtle pinches while you quietly yelp. you moan sweetly, his words adding even more pleasure. tom knew you loved being praised, being admired. at first, it felt embarrassing to share, but tom loved complimenting you already, so he was excited when he discovered you really liked it.

plus, tom would do anything to make his girl happy and satisfied.

“t-tom,” you pant, the words struggling to leave your scratchy throat. your hands trail up the length of his arm, squeezing his tensing bicep, until they become laced in his brown curls. his calloused fingers circle your throbbing clit, the roughness scratching each nerve explicitly. you curse to the ceiling, stomach tightening as you feel your orgasm near.

tom rams into you impossibly deeper, lifting your leg to reach a new angle. you gasp at the new feeling as your nails grip snuggly on his locks. you were so close, just a little more and you would melt into him.

“tom, can i come? please, please,” you plead with a familiar lustful haze blurring your vision. you couldn’t hear anything besides tom’s words.

“no, you’re gonna hold it. i know you can, baby,” tom encourages with a grunt, hissing as you squeeze around him dangerously snug. if you keep doing that, he would come on the spot. he’s trying to make this last, but it never gets easier with you. you were his biggest weakness, yet you gave him immense strength. “be a good girl for me.”

your loud moan echoes in the air. you clutch hard against tom’s length, trying not to come without his word. his thumb and index finger rolls over your clit teasingly while his tip hits that spot inside of you that makes you scream. you yank his hair harshly, praying he would let you come already.

“please let me come! i’ve been good,” a whine escapes your mouth while your chest heaves in exhaustion. your desperate begging and your hands laced in his hair have him struggling to hold on himself. he moans into the cradle on your collarbone, resisting every urge telling him to blast his load into you right now.

“just a little longer, sweets. you’re gonna feel real good,” his mild pacing thrusts are agonizing because you’re right there and you can’t release it. your teeth sink deeply into your bottom lip and your back arches painfully off the mattress. “i’m fucking you nice and deep, aren’t i, honey?” tom’s eyes are dark with lust and hints of honey, and his cheeks were a tad rosy from the sexual heat in the room. he rubs over your stomach, feeling your muscles contracting to hold in your orgasm.

“oh, you’re so deep. can feel you in my tummy,” your eyes screw closed as your core tenses and you clench around him harshly. your spread legs shake desperately, unable to hold it any longer. “please!”

“let go for me, darling,” tom’s husky voice alerts you, and your body tumbles into that longing release. “look at me. i want to see your pretty face while you come on my cock.”

your foggy brain isn’t working enough to hide your echoey moans and whimpers. your face pinches with a scrunched nose as you try your best to keep your eyes wide for him. your nails scratch tom’s scalp as the euphoria washes over your body like a tidal wave. your heart beats sporadically in your chest at the overwhelming pleasure. hearing and seeing you unfold, tom’s movements become sloppy and slippery as your orgasm coats his shaft.

tom stares at you in all your glory, a moment of disbelief hitting him that you’re all his.

“fuck, baby. ’m gonna come. fill you up so full, you’ll be leaking with my cum,” tom groans, dick twitching as his balls tighten before his cum is shooting out of him. his moans are gravelly compared to your angelic ones, crisping the heated air around you with its masculine tone. his ecstasy occurs in flashes and heavy breaths.

tom makes sure each drop is tucked into your warm cunt, thrusting slowly to ensure it. you smile at the feeling of his orgasm coating your walls until you're full to the brim. clenching, you try your best to keep all of it inside of you.

“good girl. such a good fucking girl,” breathlessly, tom kisses your sweaty forehead while his heart floats in his chest. you smile wearily and run your hands through his damp curls as they stick to his hairline. “always so good to me.”

“i could say the same about you,” you grin with amusement. tom chuckles before kissing you sensually, making your eyes drift closed. your hands cup his soft, chiseled cheeks as everything in the world fades away.

when his mouth deattaches, yours is left aching for more as always. the tingle of his rouge lips lingers when he rolls over to your side and tosses the comforter over you both. he faces your backside and drags you close, securing an arm around your waist.

from the liberating blissfulness and the warmth of tom’s warmth, exhaustion haunts your body and a yawn arises from your throat. his cum threatens to drip out of you, even with closed thighs.

“tired, darling?” tom asks while caressing small circles on your torso. his subtle touch was addicting and comforting like a lullaby to a baby. you hum in response, eyes fluttering closed. your breathing and heart rate soon balance, and the tension within your muscles begin to ease.

you slip away into your dreams with one of them cradling you.

“i love you,” tom whispers to the sleepy girl in his arms. he kisses your shoulder delicately, encompassing the perfection of this moment. as his own eyes start to close, his breathing steadies comfortably. he doesn’t fall asleep until his heartbeat matches yours in perfect sync.

#shawnxstyles #tom holland #tom holland smut #tom holland blurb #tom holland drabble #tom holland fan fics #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland fluff #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #soft dom!tom holland

573 notes · View notes

youandtom2 · 9 months

Text

The Hunting Ground (18+)

Dom!Tom Holland x sub!bratty!Reader

Summary: How else would you get adventure back into your life than to visit a speakeasy that's definitly not a kinky-cult-sex-club? Themes: EXPLICIT, BDSM and mentions of BDM, dom/sub, knife play, breath play, unprotect p in v, oral (fem rec.), orgasm denial, overstimulation w/c: 13k oops

a/n: it's late and it's 13k so I'll probs revisit another time whoops. apologies if writing gets sloppy.

MASTERLIST

“Come on. This has got to be a joke. This is the kinkiest cult shit I’ve ever seen.”

“Nope. Not a joke.”

“When I said I was looking for something exciting and adventurous, I didn’t mean a sex club!” You flippantly disregard the masquerade mask onto the couch, whilst your friend Danny, holds his elegantly in his hand as if it is the beholder of all his memories.

“It isn’t a sex club. It’s…an opportunity.” Danny’s lips twist into a smirk that wavers between sweet and sinful. That alone should’ve told you that his opinion on this ‘club’ was simply that. An opinion. A biassed one at that. The other thing Danny doesn’t account for is that opinions are subjective, interchangeable and while he sees his little kinky sex club as an opportunity, you see it more of a shameless hookup with cultic motives.

But you’re curious to hear how he can possibly sell this to you. “Oh yeah? An opportunity for what? Enlighten me.”

Your friend coyly swivels his hips playfully, that all too familiar bashful glow emanating from his olive cheeks. He leans gayly over the edge of the couch with his bottom lip snagged between his teeth, entrapped in his childlike manner and embracing his inner Princess Diaries by swinging his feet. He so desperately wants to say ‘to flirt with hot men and recklessly have sex with them with no strings attached’, but to your surprise, his answer is a little more profound and in-depth.

“To meet like-minded people who share similar interests. To embrace a community that doesn’t judge you for what you like, who…take you as you are. It’s actually very liberating.”

“Puh-lease! You threw that innuendo in there on purpose. Look. It’s a sex club. You meet up to have sex. That’s the common ground.”

“Oh my God, you speak about it like it’s a brothel and you couldn’t be more wrong. Okay, okay, I’ll admit, it’s a little provocative, but it’s not like some sex dungeon, it’s a speakeasy. There’s a bar, drinks, music, dancing, it’s totally chill. You don’t even need to have sex, it’s not a guarantee.”

You fold your arms, staring outwardly and chewing your lips as you mull over the possibility that it might not all be what you initially think it is. But the only way to prove otherwise is to go. Dammit you wish you weren't so curious.

“And…what’s this place called?”

Danny smiles contentedly. “The Hunting Ground.”

~~~~~

“Do I really have to wear this?” The flimsy black ribbon of the mask trickles through your fingers. The shell is midnight black with a faint covering of silver lace, embellished with enough sparkle to catch your eye under the streetlights. Ahead of you is what looks like an ordinary bar under the false name of The Playground. The tinted windows and low purple LED lights inside is a clever ruse to fool anyone who is none the wiser to believe that the mystery is revealed when you step inside, leaving no other incentive to keep exploring. However, hidden behind the facade of an ‘ordinary bar’ as confirmed by Danny, is the speakeasy. It’s quietly genius; it’s all hidden in plain sight.

“Yes, you have to wear it; it’s like a pass for entry into the club since it’s invitation-only. Plus, anonymity is kinda a thing here. Especially for newbies if they’re not too sure what they’re looking for. You get all types of people here. You’re bound to find someone who is yours.”

You roll your eyes as you tie the ribbon tightly around your head with a grunt, the thick plastic mask sitting squarely on the bridge of your nose. “Anonymity, sure. These things are as good a disguise as Superman putting on his glasses and all of a sudden he’s Clark Kent and completely unrecognisable.”

“Trust me. They do their job. Oh and one last thing.” Why is he smirking again? “Sub or Dom?”

“Come again?”

“What are you, Sub or Dom?”

You blink. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what that means.”

“God, you’re so vanilla--they’re, um…types of people.” Danny vaguely explains and purses his lips, thinking as he evaluates you. “Hmm, we'll stick to sub for now. When you get inside grab a white cup.”

“Fuck sake.”

You follow Danny down a poorly lit, narrow staircase and you get a sense of entering a restricted area, having it not as well decorated, but then you remember; it’s supposed to be secretive and unwelcoming to any wandering stranger. The staircase is quiet compared to the floors above you and below you, giving off a feeling of limbo, neither here nor there as the pounding of the bass-heavy music distorts your sense of direction. There’s two different songs playing and they blend into each other so well that you can’t quite tell what is coming from where, but the further you descend down the staircase, the more obvious it becomes. The floor above you is phased out when you come to a stone archway, lined with plum velvet curtains hanging at either side where wisps of vapour spill from the room. A fiery red spotlight casts a shadow where the words ‘The Hunting Ground’ are projected on the wall to welcome you. Danny stops you before you enter.

“And you told me this wasn’t a sex club,” you quip, motioning to the entrance to hell.

“Remember it’s just to socialise. Nothing needs to happen, okay? After a drink or two, you’ll start to loosen up and have more fun.”

You huff. “I’ll take your word for it.”

You take one step into the stuffy haze and instantly you feel the change in aura, perhaps because you know what people are here to do. Danny patiently waits with you as you soak in the sights, the smells, the heat and the very suffocating atmosphere of the room in front of you. A fine mist hovers in the air, just enough to hinder your view of anything further than 10 metres in front of you - probably intentional to hide the erotic acts in the corner - and only the blacklights and the dancing neon laser lights shoot through. Unlike the bar above, the music is slower and less adrenaline pumping, perfect to fulfil its purpose of enticing its listeners to socialise rather than all-out partying, but in effect, it makes you more nervous; how do you socialise with people you’ve never met? You bump shoulders with Danny is a quiet plea to stay close.

A few people within eyesight turn their heads as you enter in your sage green dress, making their judgements on you through the narrow slits of their masks, a symbol of membership to the club, identical to the one you wear. Under the cover of darkness, the masks do actually provide a sense of anonymity and you take back an earlier thought; what the hell are these masks going to hide? Everything apparently.

You decide not to linger around the entrance any longer for you feel that others can smell your hesitance a mile off. You make a B-line to the table adorning white cups, directly across the table that hold a much smaller number of black cups, and perpendicular to a table with grey cups. As soon as the rim of the cup touches your lips and alcohol sears your throat, you ease a little.

“God, I feel like I’ve just entered the mafia. Why is this place so stiff?”

Danny laughs inwardly. “Oh they’re stiff alright.” That earns him a swift elbow to the ribcage. “Ow!”

“You said this place was chill and judgement free.”

“It is--”

“Then why do I feel like I’m being victimised?”

For a fleeting moment, you catch Danny’s eyes flitting over to the white cup you hold in your hand, being quickly emptied by you. There’s obviously significance behind the white and black cups and you’re certain Danny knows why as he too picks up a white cup with conviction, but what significance they have is being purposely withheld from you.

It’s definitely a cult thing.

“They just want to get to know you. Give them a chance. It’s all with friendly intentions, I promise.”

“Uh-huh.”

Like Danny said, there’s all sorts of people here; men, women, and more situated around the room whether it’s standing in small clusters around a table or sitting in smaller, more private groups in booths. Few white cups, some grey cups, but black cups hold the majority. Some are dressed more provocative than you would ever dare where some keep their secrets to themselves. Those who begin dancing are booming with confidence, sashaying their hips while others simply observe with a glass of whisky in hand. Even hours into the night, you’re still pondering over the likemindedness of such a diverse group. There must be something that ties these people together, because every hour or so you catch a glimpse of couples' escapades, hand-in-hand as they disappear through another archway with a black curtain.

“I’ll be right back,” Danny murmurs into your ear.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m just going to catch up with a friend. I won’t be long. You can manage your own for a bit, can’t you?”

“Don’t think I have much of a choice.”

Danny quickly disappears into the smog and across the dancefloor, and by the time he reaches the bar, he’s out of your sight and anxiety creeps in. As ever, you find solace in the very alcoholic drink, quietly sipping away in a dark corner of the room.

Or at least you thought you were in the corner of the room…

The solid wall behind you suddenly swings open and you lose your balance, falling backwards into the void that has just opened up. Your heart leaps to your throat and your lungs flood themselves with oxygen to prepare for what you know will be a painful fall and the loss of your dignity. Inches from disaster, a miracle happens when two hands reach out to hook underneath your arms and break your fall, leaving you hovering over the floor until the stranger finds the strength to bring you back to your feet again. Sadly, there’s nothing to be done about your drink that puddles on the floor…

With a breath of relief, you quickly compose yourself, turning around to see that indeed the wall you were standing against was actually a door, and in that doorway now stands the masked stranger that saved you from your fall. He stands just a couple of inches taller than you, dressed in a black suit (it could be navy - it’s just so damn dark in here) but replaces the standard crisp, white shirt with a baby blue one, keeping it casual with undone buttons by his collar. You want to make more guesses of his appearance but this club’s obsession with anonymity is slowly becoming a nuisance.

“I’m so sorry, I really thought that was a wall.”

“No worries, it’s easily done.” His words are smooth and puckish, and you feel like he genuinely believes you when he places a gentle supporting hand against your back.

“Right? Especially with a place like this, I mean, would it hurt to turn up the lights even just a little bit?” An innocent laugh escapes you but the second you see his lips parting in what you can only assume is disbelief, you instantly feel like you might’ve crossed a line. His hand drops and sinks deep into his pocket. So much for no judgement…

“Well, we could but most members here know there’s a door here.”

Caught.

He doesn’t watch for your reaction as he picks up the empty white cup from the floor, long, slender fingers holding it tightly while he studies it for a moment and the corners of his lips tug a little before settling it on a nearby table. You’re still not privy to the colour codes and their meanings, and something itches inside of you when you see this stranger turn to you with a knowing smirk on his face. Because he knows.

He folds his arms, muscles defined in the tight squeeze of his blazer and stands stoically before you. “You’re looking a little lost, newbie.”

“I’m just waiting on my friend Danny. He’s the one who brought me here. I don’t know why to be honest. I don’t really think this is my kind of scene.”

The stranger tilts his head curiously. “How so?”

You snort. Isn’t it obvious? “I mean the mask thing is a little weird. And the segregation of cups? What the hell is that all about? Like, I’m always down for something different but the anti-religion cult vibes just isn’t doing it for me. I haven’t been here that long and already I’ve had so many daggers from people that I just can’t tell whether they want to kill me or eat me.”

“Oh my God, you really have no idea, do you? Tell me then, if this place doesn’t suit your majesty’s preferences, why are you still here?”

This stranger doesn’t need you to take off your mask to know that there’s a scowl taking over your features. Affronted, you decide to mirror him, folding your arms and delivering his own stinking attitude back to him.

“Cut the sass. You asked me a question and I answered it. If you listened, you would’ve heard me say that my friend brought me here. Said that if I was looking for something exciting and adventurous I should come here, but I’m not seeing either. Anyway, what does it matter to you?”

“Careful, newbie. Some people here don’t take too kindly towards being spoken to like that. It can get you into a lot of trouble, unless you’re searching for it, in which case, Danny was right to bring you here. And tell him he should’ve put a straw in your drink too.”

You’re so fed up with these innuendos. “I don’t even know what that means!”

The stranger takes a step forwards and brushes your shoulder with his. You hold your breath as he leans down close to your ear and murmurs words that sound like a threat. A shiver descends down your spine. “Ask him to explain it. Tell him that Tom told him too.”

Your stance stays strong as the stranger sweeps past you in an obtrusive manner without a word to spare. Finally out of sight, you give in to the urge to roll your eyes and scoff with as much conviction until satisfied, having suppressed it in front of that stranger. You’re never one to be so outwardly rude to someone, but unless it’s warranted, then by all means, give them hell.

The interaction has somewhat soured your mood, and considering that this place has yet to prove any of Danny’s claims of what a ‘friendly, non judgemental’ place this is, you might make the move to leave. You’ve been here long enough and you doubt that the fun has yet to come.

Not three steps towards your leave, you’re stopped by Danny emerging from the smog like a phantom. “Oh hey! You’re alive! See? I told you’d be fine.”

“Yeah, not fine, Danny. Don’t leave me ever again.”

“Such a drama queen. Where’s your drink?”

“Spilled it almost falling over. By the way, what do the colours on the cups mean? Some guy ‘Tom’ said that you were to tell me what they mean.”

His smile drops and hangs ajar, eyes wide as he processes the words, the name you’ve just invoked. “Tom--did you just say Tom?”

“Yes, why? He also said that you should’ve put a straw in my drink too. Danny, for the love of God, what the fuck does that mean?”

Annoyingly, he ignores your last question. “What did you say to him?”

Danny devotes all of his attention to you as you recount the interaction from beginning to end, sure not to leave any details out. As your friend, all of your expectations are placed on him taking your side in it all, but with each word you spill, he cringes further and further into himself.

“Then I told him to cut the sass--he was being so rude to me!”

“Oh you have got to be kidding me!” You’re struggling to understand why your friend has descended into a fit of laughter, creasing over until he can no longer catch his breath. It’s great that he’s finding it so hilarious that he can’t even seem to straighten himself up to give you an answer, but what’s even better is that you can’t even begin to imagine how many people are witness to Danny descending into mania while you stand with your arms folded, a slack jaw and a look that could kill. And even if some can’t see it, they can bloody well hear it. “I cannot believe you said that to him!”

“Danny, I don’t have time for this. If you don’t tell me at least something, I’m leaving.”

“Wait, wait, wait, sorry, I’ll tell you, okay? I’ll tell you.” After wiping the tears from his eyes, he latches onto your arms and pulls you into his side, directing you to look out at the room before you. “Okay, so you remember the question I asked you before we came in? About being a sub or a dom?” You nod. “The cups are representative of that. White for sub, black for dom. Grey if you don’t particularly have a preference. They’re sometimes called switches.”

“Okay, but what does sub and dom actually mean?”

“They’re just abbreviations. Submissive or Dominant if you want to be proper. They define what a person likes to be in the bedroom. Dominants are usually controlling, they like to manipulate and gain pleasure from using submissives in whatever way they like. Submissives gain pleasure from being controlled, from being told what to do and will usually go through extreme measures to satisfy their doms, and in lieu, themselves. For example, see over there?” Danny points to a booth of what looks like two guys sitting on either side of a girl. They are shadowing over her, running fingertips up and down her leg whilst she sits bashfully in the middle. “Two doms and a sub.”

You look to another area of the room and in the corner you see a woman, dressed in the tightest latex corset you could imagine, and she looks fucking amazing in it. Full of luscious curves. Her confidence is striking as she walks with her head high like she owns everything in the room. She somehow makes picking up a black cup look sexy, drinking from it until it’s empty but inexplicably doesn’t swallow. With her puffed cheeks, she grabs the face of a man who kneels beside her, opening his mouth—“Oh my God!” The words spill from your lips as you watch the woman spit her drink into the man’s mouth, swallowing with glee in his eyes.

“Anyone can be sub or dom. That’s why the cups make it so much easier to identify who’s who and cuts out all the small chat bullshit in between.”

Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. This is a fucking sex club. “But how did you know I was going to be a sub?”

“I just guessed. It takes a certain confidence and skill to know how to be a dom, and no offence honey, but I don’t think you’d be a good dom.”

“And the straw?”

“Signifies a bratty sub. A sub who likes to be controlled but also loves the fight against it. Anything to piss their dom off.”

“Hold on. A brat?! Who the fuck does this Tom guy think he is? He’s talked to me for no more than five minutes and he calls me a brat?”

“Shhh!! Shut up!!! Oh my God!!” He hurriedly ushers you away from prying ears and you feel a sort of trepidation when he looks around cautiously. “Honey, you know I love you and I care for you but you have seriously fucked up to the point where I literally cannot protect you from what’s about to happen.”

“What? How?”

“Tom’s the owner of this place.” He’s trying to hold in his laughter again. “And you just stood there and insulted everything about his club to him--oh my GOD you are so dead. I’m weak just thinking about it.” Had he not been squealing and bouncing on his tip-toes in a nervous but weirdly excited way, you probably would’ve taken Danny’s warning a little more seriously. In Danny’s overly-dramatic fashion, his translation of ‘dead’ just means that you’re only slightly in trouble.

“So what, he’ll probably just kick me out.”

“You better wish that’s what he’ll do because Tom is a capital D-O-M and is a stickler for obedience. He has everyone, sub or dom, address him as sir. It’s like one of his rules.”

“Sir? Really? Are we back in school?”

Your own mocking laughter is the last thing you hear before a voice creeps up behind you, settling deep into the canals of your ear and shocking you into a small but powerful fright. “We can be if you like. At least then I can teach you a lesson or two about how to respect me, newbie.” The way his voice instantly scorches everything inside you is mildly terrifying. It’s the mixer in your soup of emotions; trepidation, anxiety, curiosity, exhilaration, anticipation, swirling together in the pit of your stomach.

You and Danny’s eyes are locked in a stupor, both of you donning guilt-ridden, colourless faces. You think it wise to follow Danny’s lead in not speaking, not moving because only he knows the repercussions that you face. Besides, if you listened to what your brain initially told you to do, you would be in a lot more trouble.

A wordless plea twinkles in your eye and your heart plummets when you see your friend respond with tightly pursed lips and a subtle shake of the head.

“Next time you bring your friends, Danny, I would expect you to inform them on how to conduct themselves around me. You should know better.”

“Sorry, sir.” Danny’s voice wobbles. Fucking wobbles. Loud and proud Danny, centre of attention on the worst of days, always one to speak his mind and is never afraid of judgement, and now he’s…scared.

“Now go. Justin’s waiting for you.” The unfamiliar person Danny has become swiftly brushes past you with no more than a final apologetic look and disappears further into the centre of the room. A certain desperation keeps your eyes on him for as long as you possibly can until you eventually accept your defeat, standing here alone with Tom stalking very close behind you. You notice his shadow standing just on the coast of your peripheral, lurking.

After an excruciating silence, Tom eventually murmurs into your ear, just the edges of his mask skimming the side of your hairline.

“Follow me to my office. We need to have a chat about rules.”

“Okay,” you breathe.

Sure enough the door you nearly fell through enters the hallway leading to his office. It’s well lit, spotlighting the framed memorabilia on the wall and you almost choke a gasp when you see what they contain. Whips, paddles, cuffs, chains, anything of an erotic nature is framed, dated and hung on these walls in plain sight. Tom catches a glance of your awestruck eyes from over his shoulder, smirking wickedly. Little do you know that that isn’t even half of his collection.

He enters the office first leaving you to nervously trail in behind him.

“Sit.”

The tickle of velvet feathers your bare thighs, knees already knocking together while Tom takes a stand behind his desk, underneath the low-intensity spotlight that shines down on him from above. Your eyes skate over his features the second he unties his mask, shadows hugging every sharp angle from the crook of his brow bone to the contour of his cheeks. Holy fuck. Your knees lock tighter together.

“Mask off.” It falls to your lap. When you look back up at him, you see that he doesn’t bother hiding how he takes in every inch of you and it makes the burn of his stare even more obvious. “What do you know already?”

“Um, not much. Danny told me about the masks, Doms and Subs, the thing about the cups, addressing you as ‘sir’ and…” you clear your throat, a previous anger returning, “having a straw in my cup.”

“Ah, so he explained it to you, did he?” Fuck, even his grin is perfect.

You bite your gums, eyes averting. “Wish he didn’t.”

A piercing whistle rings in your ear, short and sharp in the small, panelled office causing an audible wince. “Oi, eyes up here.” Did he just whistle at you? “I’m going to handle this very delicately because you’re new, but if you keep testing my patience then I won’t even give you the chance to back out.”

What the fuck.

“Since your friend failed to explain the rules, I’ll have to do it instead. This is my private establishment and I expect anyone who enters it to follow my rules, including newbies like you. Rule number one: respect. Respect for me, respect for others, respect for the property. Simple, yes?”

“Yes.” His eyes widened slightly, “sir.”

Tom begins to circle around his desk, nearing you. You tuck your feet in underneath the chair as he leans against the desk a foot in front of you. “Rule number two: boundaries. Boundaries must be set by every individual and must be adhered to by every individual. That includes things they consent to and things they don’t consent to, and safe-words should be agreed to and abided by also. Yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I know you know rule number three.”

But does he know that you also hate rule number three? Grinding your teeth together, you bite back his answer. “Yes. Sir--” Before you’re able to utter another syllable from your lips, Tom has your cheeks in the pinch of his fingers, pulling you from your seat until you’re just a breath away from his own. Despite the circumstances of your racing heart and your throbbing cheeks, you come to realise that Tom has brown eyes, that his suit is really black, that he has one strand of hair that curls against the rest. Shit. You’re really dipping your toes into muddy water here.

“See this fucking attitude of yours? Drop it. If you’re really so eager to talk, you’ll tell me what it is you want out of this. And know that before you start speaking, you’re on your last warning.” Thankfully, his grip loosens but it doesn’t disappear completely. Keeping you just as reigned in as before, his fingers sink to the curve of your chin and curl around it gently. It’s hypnotising enough that it coaxes you into spilling the truth.

“A little bit of excitement and adventure. Danny suggested I could find it here. So I came to find out for myself.”

“And?”

“I’m…not sure yet.”

“We can certainly offer what you’re looking for, but it depends what kind of adventure you want to take. Do you want to explore or do you want to experience?”

“What’s the difference?”

Tom drinks in your curiosity, content with a quirk to his wet lips. All is silent in his sound-proof office, the beat of your own heart thundering in your ears and it’s the only thing you can tune into while the incredibly intimidating man in front of you sadistically drags out each and every second. “We can start off slow, test your endurance and your tolerances, discover your likes and dislikes, introduce new things one at a time, a soft start over a number of weeks.”

“...Or?”

His pupils dilate. “Everything all at once. A full session, right here, right now. Thrown in right at the deep end. No restrictions and I get full control. An experience to say the very least.”

You gasp and the breath gets stuck in your throat. As the idea is spoken into words, you can’t help but picture everything you saw in the hallway, the whips, the paddles, the chains, the ludicrousy of them ever being used as sources of pleasure and begin to feel yourself being overwhelmed. Albeit, the rebellious side of you plagues you with the mentality of saying ‘fuck it’ and trying it anyway, its voice ringing with the sound of your youth; willing to try everything, to say that you were brave enough to try it, to run away from the boring life of always saying no because you just weren’t sure. You might even find that it’s something you like…

“What do you say?” He whispers with the small coaxing of his thumb gracing over your pout. “And don’t leave it up to me. I think you know what I would prefer.”

You take a breath, cheeks already flushing knowing what’s to come. “I…I want the experience.”

He doesn’t move aside from his lids opening a fraction wider. “Say it again. To be sure.”

“I want the experience.”

A slow, salacious moan sings through his sigh, his breath crashing against your skin like a wave. “Mmmm, I was so hoping you would say that. I’ve been wanting to put this brat back in her place all…night…long. Now I can. All. Night. Long.” Warmth encircles your neck and you realise that his hand has completely captured your throat, controlling every breath you breathe. You desperately try to whimper but even then, all your sounds are clamped down by him. Sensing danger, your own hands reach for his wrist as he pushes you back against the spine of the chair and shadows over you with fire in his eyes. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Safe word?”

“Err…” You don’t have one. You’ll have to make one up. What did you have for dinner last night? “Pasta.”

Tom chuckles but accepts it. “Pasta it is.”

When your one and only chance to speak is taken, Tom quickly readjusts his grip on your throat again, closing it off until your skin is tinted red with exertion. He sinks low, invading your space until there’s nothing but him in your darkening sights, until his lips skim the tips of yours.

“I’ve been wanting to get my hands on you all night. Do you have any idea how hard it was to keep that urge at bay? So fucking hard. I knew you were a newbie, but fuck, you were so fucking rude. You know, you never even thanked me for helping you up earlier. Instead, you chose to insult my club and my customers, and when you do that, you insult me. That doesn’t fly with me and something will need to be done about that mouth of yours.”

You gasp erratically, fighting for breath and his vendetta against you refuses to relent. Just as blackness consumes your vision, just as you're hanging on the precipice of consciousness, he finally relieves the tension and you gulp down air like it’s your drug, your lifeline. Almost simultaneously, Tom thrashes his lips against yours, seizing back whatever oxygen you just gained in a vicious attack. His tongue slips in almost too seamlessly, brushing against your own and tasting every inch he can reach.

From one method of suffocation to another. With his hand no longer occupied at the base of your throat, you find it clamped to the roots of your hair, keeping you detained as he forcefully kisses and licks every part of your mouth, barely leaving any time to breathe. It isn’t painful as such, but god damn it’s overwhelming. The small squeak of struggle easily gets swallowed up by him and he growls for more. In time, another is drawn out but this time it's the result of Tom’s other hand pulling down the neckline of your dress and finding your tits, pinching and squeezing with a passion that’s guaranteed to leave behind a bruise. To say you completely underestimated what the experience is and how little prepared you are for it, is under-statement of the fucking century.

He really isn’t shy, is he?

Minutes go by and you’re losing sensation in your swollen lips and Tom can sense that too; you become lethargic, sloppy and out of control but that’s exactly what Tom is waiting for. He can feel the plumpness of your lips as he drags them out slowly between his teeth, perfect to have wrapped around his cock.

He stands to his tallest, your hair still tight in his grip. “Do you have anything to say to me?”

“I’m…I’m sorry, sir.”

“What else?”

“Th-thank you for helping me up, sir.”

“There’s actually one thing you should know about me,” he murmurs darkly. “If someone is apologising or thanking me, I expect them to show their regret or their gratitude to me. Usually on their knees. That way, I know they mean it.”

“And if I don’t?” You are genuinely curious.

A shadow casts over his face, eyes glowering at your words. He clenches his jaw so tightly that you have to remind yourself to unclench yours out of fear. In quiet, articulated words, he provides you with the first piece of insight of what kind of night lies ahead of you. “I will fuck you and edge you against this desk until you are spent of every piece of sanity that keeps your bratty brain together. Even if you beg, even if you are crying out for release, I will not stop until you are nothing but my cum-filled slut.”

“Fucking hell,” you whimper quietly, but he hears it all the same.

“I would think very carefully about your next words, newbie, or you’re going to become very familiar with my temper.”

Hey, you said you were up for the experience…right?

It takes just a fraction of your lips to curl into a smirk for Tom to realise your motives. Provoked by just the smallest of your smiles, he runs his tongue along the lining of his cheek. He can’t quite tell if he’s insulted or pleased, regardless, the result of either is the same; he will have you reduced to absolutely nothing if his life depends on it. After all, he doesn’t allow insults to run dry on him, he snuffs them out as soon as possible and that’s the lesson you need to learn.

“Don’t fucking do it,” he warns one last time. How generous of him.

The air is tight and feverish, and so very, very quiet. Until…”Fuck. You.”

Your words trigger a pregnant pause, leaving just enough time to hear a pin drop before something sinister happens. A cacophony fills the room: the wooden scraping of the chair legs as Tom yanks you from it, the squeal and the grunt that marry together, the clutter of objects as they fall from the desk to the floor, the resounding thump as your body mercilessly collides with the wooden desk and subsequent the yelp of pain to be heard by no one other than Tom.

The brute’s groping hands impatiently tug at your dress, whipping it up to sit around your torso and the moment your ass is exposed to him, he wastes no time to drill his hips into yours in a desperate bid to split your legs wider and keep you still. The sweltering heat of your cunt seeps onto his trousers and, even contained, his cock feels it all. The harder he pushes to force you down, the harder the edge of the desk cuts through your pelvis, and the longer you stay there, the louder your pleas become. And every second of it all is like heroin to him. This is his high.

Tom rips your underwear from you, the thin material reduced to rags in seconds and just as quick, they become your bindings. With your hands now tied behind your back by the remains of your wet thong and your head smothered against the wooden surface, you are unequivocally oppressed.

“Stay there, and don’t move.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t bother trying that shit with me. You’re too late. You’ve already made your decision to be a brat, so I’ll fuck you like one.”

The recognisable sound of chain links clinking together stops your heart dead in your chest. “Wait, what are you doing?” You try to shimmy a look over your shoulder to take a peak, but you can’t see Tom crouching down behind you.

“Extra precaution.” Cold metal tightly hugs your ankles, grinding away at your bone with every tug. There’s little room to move, you can barely bend your knee without causing yourself harm. You didn’t want to believe it, but the reality is true: he’s chaining you to his desk.

“No fucking way.”

“Yes way. This is what you asked for.” He leans down to leave a patronising kiss to the shell of your ear, unbinding your hands and placing them exactly where he wants them, gripped to the edge of the desk beside your head. Not chained, but the wordless warning to keep them there is evident in the squeeze to your wrists. You’re almost crucified to the desk. It’s enough to make your sweltering body shiver. “And I’ll gladly provide.”

Without warning, he spits into your ass and stops to watch it trickle down to your clit with hunger ruining his patience. He collects it with deft fingers, spreading it through every lip of your cunt, all the way back to gloss your puckered hole. You can feel every movement of his whether feathered or anchored, following the path of his fingers from your asshole to your clit and back again, only stopping to teasingly circle your entrance. He repeats it over and over and over again until you’re leaking with your own slick, glistening underneath the singular spotlight and the fire of Tom’s eyes. It’s tantalising. Worse yet because you can’t move to stop him. You’re stuck with a burning cheek pressed against the desk and your hands trapped under what feels like Tom’s invisible reins.

“Look over to my clock and tell me what time it is.”

“It’s 11:57pm.”

“Good to know.”

By 11:59pm he has you teetering towards the edge of your first orgasm with as little as two fingers and a thumb violating your cunt. By the turn of a new day, he has you wishing you had just said sorry and meant it.

“Such a tight little pussy.” He groans behind you, littering small kisses along the base of your spine and your ass. His two fingers enter you again, anchoring down on the spot that winds you up so perfectly, stroking it with the curl of his knuckle and just when you both sense the coil tightening, he picks up speed and power. Anxiety and excitement broil in your stomach.

“Oh God, f-fuck, I’m gonna cum.” He already knows this. He doesn’t need you telling him. In fact, he’s familiarised himself with the quivering of your thighs, the shaking of your body and already, he knows exactly when to stop. “No! Fuck!” You grieve over the loss of your climax quietly with a small groan laced with heavy breaths.

His gruff, irritated voice buzzes straight down your ear, vibrating with impatience. “You will take what I give you. And you will thank me for it.”

The voice that spills from your lips is hardly recognisable. Whining, winging and moping, you don’t quite understand where the grovelling came from and how it took over, but you can’t find it in you to stop it.

“Thank you, sir.”

And just like that, the routine starts again and without a doubt, the result is the same.

Muscles ache, bones shaking, you feel yourself teetering on the edge of liquifying here on his desk. Alas, Tom possesses the ability to keep you solid like no other man has, keeping you somewhat stable and conscious enough to make you feel every last drop of his torment. No matter what sweet relief you feel when he gently massages your cunt, it’s completely forgotten about the moment he slaps the back of your thighs for moving your hands one centimetre out of place. And just like that, you’re back in the room.

When Tom painfully edges you for the sixth time, he asks you to read the time again. The digits of the numbers have blurred since the last time you checked, but you can just make them out. “It’s 12:32am”

He smirks. “Good to know. Fuck, look at the mess you’re making on my floor.” A flat palm smacks against your cunt, seizing at the stimulation. Your thighs beg to squeeze together, anything to build up some friction to tame the urge but the chains rattle beneath you, keeping you contained.

He tames the fire with the lick of his fingers that curl eloquently onto your clit and swivels it around in circles in the same, insatiable manner as before. At first, you think he’s going to build you up again like he has done for the last thirty-something minutes and you’re not so sure that your mind and body can take the strain, but you feel the pressure of his other hand anchoring down onto your back, pressing your stomach flat against the wooden desk and eliminating any chance you have of escaping. Not that you had any before, but Tom’s a man of guarantee rather than possibilities.

It’s new and the prospect that he might allow to cum reignites the exhilaration in your core.

Effortlessly, he sets your nerves on fire, plucking every one with overstimulation and you're on the cusp of the well-desired orgasm that you’ve waited for for what seems like all night. You writhe so desperately for it that your pebbled nipples are starting to chafe underneath you.

Tom’s maniacal laugh drifts into your ears, his lips pressing soft, tender kisses against your ear and your neck. “What do you want?”

You open your mouth and moans spill out, not the words of an answer. He continues to ruin you anyway. “I want…I want to cum. Please!”

“So you don’t want my forgiveness? You’d rather cum instead? So fucking selfish of you.”

He rips his fingers from you and the sensation is lost. “NO!”

“Yessss.”

~~~~~

You still haven’t came yet. How the fuck have you not been allowed to cum in all the pleasure Tom’s fingers and teasing words have granted you? He hasn’t allowed you to move either leaving all of your muscles, joints and sanity aching against the stiff wood as you remain prisoner to his chains. And as his prisoner, all of your self-control has been stripped from you. With your eyes closed, voice gone, mind vacant, Tom decides to finally, finally, re-evaluate the situation.

And by re-evaluate, you mean change position.

Now unchained, he forces you to lie on your back and you’re thankful that the desk is long enough to support your head, because when you are being punished with extremities, the littlest things can be a saving grace.

“Tell me the time.”

You look over, Tom catching a glint of your red cheeks and the imprints of the wooden grain etched into your skin. “It’s…it’s 1:23am.”

He grins wickedly, licking his lips, and with a smooth wink, he replies. “Good to know.”

“Please, Tom.” The crack is your voice is liquid gold in Tom’s ears and with his hands skating over your thighs, he hears what you have to say. “I’m so sorry about earlier. I am…so sorry. Please--I…I can’t take it anymore.”

“What is it you want?”

“I want your forgiveness. Please, sir.”

He sees it. He really does; the desperation in the tear that leaves your eye, the look of absolute surrender donning your features in fear that he won’t accept your apology, and even in the way your body warms at his touch tells him that there’s nothing else that you desire. That’s the part he loves most and the main attraction for his dominant tendencies; the moment when the bad turn good. When they’re at such a loss with their original intentions that they have no other option but to surrender and submit. From brazen words to pitiful pleas. From bratty attitudes to willful compliance. From ‘fuck you’s to ‘thank you’s. When that switch is pulled, that’s when Tom knows he’s won.

He holds your legs dearly in his hands, your swollen cunt perched directly in front of him as he crouches to the floor. It’s red, puffy and glistening in the light, screaming out to be touched, filled and ultimately freed of the orgasm that is running ragged inside.

He eases the slight quiver in your thighs with a grounding kiss, powerful enough to emboss just the traces of teeth marks onto your skin.

“What a good girl you’ve become.” The same kiss is planted on your other thigh, just a hint closer to your crying cunt. “I’ll tell you another thing about me,” he whispers, feeling the softness of your skin against his lips. “I don’t just dominate and manipulate people, I manipulate pleasure too. I control it. I can stop it from happening, but sometimes I can be in the mood to make sure it never stops happening.”

You take a breath and hold it. The anticipation of what’s about to happen savagely ruins your mind that you just can’t settle your pulse, and even if you try to slowly release that breath, you realise that it is all in vain. Your heart still positively thunders in your chest.

“And guess what, sweetheart?”

Traces of your voice weakly spill out. “What?”

“I’m in that exact mood.”

Tom doesn’t waste a second before his tongue is licking a fat, wet strip up the centre of your cunt and completely destroys your sanity. It’s slow, meticulous in its travels as it covers every inch of you from your hole to your clit and your body involuntarily searches for more. It’s like a wave, rolling over your cunt before crashing into the bundle of nerves at the end. Your cries vibrate through your body, all to be felt by Tom when his lips tightly seal around your cunt, suffocating it with the heat of his mouth and the lashings of his tongue. It’s incredibly enthralling; being constantly aware of every small minuscule change in direction. From thrusting into your hole with tenacity to swirling tightly around your clit in a frenzy, there’s no telling what he’ll do next.

Your body drips with sweat and you can’t decide if it’s from all the involuntary squirming upon the table or if it's the fire within, being fuelled by Tom’s uncontained lust. There’s a small explosion waiting to happen inside you, and Tom holds the detonation trigger.

“Holy fuck.”

“Mmmmm.”

With his head buried beneath your thighs, his hands blindly roam your body. They descend down your thighs and over the valleys of your hip bones, shaping the contours of your waist before feeling the grooves of your ribcage as they expand with each pant you breathe, until he finds your tits, groping and pinching where he can. In both of your minds though, his hands are an afterthought, especially when his gorgeous mouth is massaging your pussy so rhythmically, moving against you like a ship on a wave.

“Ohhhh my God,” you whimper, feeling the burn in your abdomen descend deeper and deeper towards your cunt. You’re so close it hurts. Your legs start to twitch closer together.

“Legs open,” he mumbles. “And look at me. Look at who’s got you shaking.”

You cast your eyes downward, unblinking as he sucks and pulls at your cunt with his lips, making what you think to be the most salacious, delicious sounds a man could make while eating you out.

“F-fuck. Tom, please—.”

Tom’s dark lashes lift, lids heavy as he stares at you with such forbidden intentions that it’s enough to make you shiver. Neither of you break the connection and you think it might just be the final nail in the coffin. With a deathly snarl, he claws at the back of your thighs, lifting them until they are pressed harshly against your chest and pans all of his attention, mind, body and soul into forcing you to cum. You sob as his tongue darts out, abusing your clit in all directions and it slingshots you directly towards the climax you have been aching for.

“Tom!”

With a final flick of his tongue, you crash into your orgasm. It immediately wreaks havoc on your system and splinters your sanity completely, so much that you can’t tell whether you're ascending or crumbling right here on his desk. Your lips part to scream, but your consciousness is shattered into a million pieces and your voice is lost. Wood creaks as your nails dig into the edge of the desk, white-knuckled and numb with a grip so tight you swear you feel your bones begin to bend under the strain.

Like he promises, Tom doesn’t stop. Despite being trapped between your thighs, despite the wriggling and writhing, your pleas and desperate whispers, Tom doesn’t stop. Not for one second.

Every flick of his tongue is more intimate than the last, plucking at your nerves so harshly, nerves that are already pulsing and in need of mercy. Regardless, Tom remains kneeling, feasting on you like you are his last meal, last drink, last breath he’ll ever take.

Swimming through the pain, you come out of the other side to find another climax already waiting, just seconds from bursting as drastically as the first one. With one final pleading look to Tom, his dark eyes swallow you whole, subliminally telling you that he’s more than ready to keep this cycle going for as long as he deems necessary.

Mercilessly, his lips seal around your cunt, tongue slithering itself straight deep into your entrance, still not yet satisfied with what he’s tasted all ready. You’re so wet, and with Tom’s constant laving and licking he only just adds to the mess that he spreads with his hands to your thighs until the glossy sheen catches your eyes. The sparkle of it makes you truly realise for yourself just how aroused he has made you, the sight so alien from your own eyes. No man has ever worn you down like this before. It’s…unnerving. Only because you’re not sure if this is supposed to be what it’s like.

As another orgasm explodes, your body shudders violently on the table, his hands digging themselves into the crooks of your knees being the only thing to keep you from completely wriggling away. Your head collapses against the desk and gives way to a desperate whimper. It isn’t cute, it isn’t coy or coquettish like what you’ve heard before in porn or films. It’s raw, painful and very, very real.

It never seems to end. You’ve lost the ability to determine when one climax ends and when the next starts.

By the fifth time - at least, you think - he claims yet another, an hour later, you break.

After his torture renders you thoughtless, mindless and perhaps a tad vacant, your instincts quickly take over. Your hands whip from the silent hold he had on them and swing down to push Tom’s head full of curls away from your aching cunt while it still throbs through the orgasm. He grabs your wrists, far too quickly for your liking. Tom watches your every movement through his brows, still latched onto your clit, giving nothing away of the disapproval you know he would be demonstrating had he not been so adamant in eating every particle of you. “Please,” your hoarse voice scratches your throat, sounding nothing like you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll do anything, please--ah, fuck--it’s too much.”

Slowly, deathly slowly, Tom’s lips detach from you, finally granting you freedom, salvation, relief. Yet he just can’t resist recoiling every other second for just one last taste, one last swift lap of his tongue from entrance to clit in one clean strip. The moment all touch detaches from you, your thighs swing close, nursing the pulse that squeezes at your abused clit, taming the orgasm as it flickers its last flame.

“Fucking hell,” you pant. “You truly are a sadist.”

Tom only chuckles, deep, dark, leaking from lips soaked in your slick. It rumbles straight to your core. “Tell me the time, sweetheart.”

Bleary eyes lazily drag themselves over to the clock and after a few blinks, the numbers sharpen. “It’s 2:38am.”

His fingers tickle up your shin, tracing circles around your knee. “So, so good--” you gasp, darting to catch his hand before it sinks between your thighs. He smirks, “--to know.”

Your sadist allows you just one minute, you know because he counts it, to cool down and let your body reset; a glass of water, a clean rag and a comfy seat, unshackled and dressed. He also very calmly warns you as he sheds his blazer and unbuttons his cufflinks, rolling his sleeve up his tanned, muscular arm, that although it’s very late into the night, traipsing on the verge of closing, that you still have a long night ahead of you.

A small breath narrowly slips from your lips while you hold his stare. You can’t even dwell on the gravitas of the situation, not risking spending the valuable seconds of your - likely - only cool down. So you bite your lip, sit yourself down and quietly regain your energy.

Your heart beat doesn’t slow as quickly as you want it to. The exhilaration doesn’t leave your system either, stuck in a perpetual cycle of replaying all that had just unfolded.

You force your way through a breathing exercise sitting on the chair he originally placed you in, facing forward, blocking him out behind you because you know that one look at him and he would detonate all that you had worked to subdue. Once calm, the tether between mind and body reconnects and there’s one thing that screams down the line.

Filled with pleasure, yet still feeling empty. Yet to be fucked.

Tom alerts you that your cool down has come to an end as he saunters out of the dark corner behind you. It felt like barely a second. He had watched you the entire time, eyes roaming your figure, how it shook, how it quivered, how you barely managed to stand on your own two feet as you jumped from the desk, body scorching with the heat from your core. You were like a new-born deer learning to walk while he was a wolf waiting in the shadows.

Sat on the chair, you spin around to complain, attitude brimming, mouth open, words at the ready and…“Hmph!” His hand clamps down hard onto your mouth, pinching your nose with the other. Not a breath slips through.

“Here’s me thinking you had learned to know better than to talk back to me.” His body arches over your head above you, tilting your head back to catch the panic glaze over your wide eyes. You think he’s going to do something rash, something to make you regret even thinking about turning around to answer him back; a slap to the face, a tug to your roots, something as evil as his wicked voice sounds in your ear.

So you can't exactly blame your heart for tripping over itself when, as smooth as butter, he lowers his head, lips puckering to lay a slight kiss to your forehead. It feels like air, an offering that doesn’t conceal something malice behind it. A fragile dusting of comfort to your skin, gentle like a snowflake feathering down onto the ground. Your conscience arrows towards it.

When he lifts his hands from your mouth and nose, you don’t find yourself desperately sucking in the air you lost. Rather, you inhale slowly through your nose and out through your mouth. It had to be that small, insignificant little kiss that lay your nerves to rest.

Tom is one hell of a manipulator.

His lips remain lingering on your skin, skating over the surface, mirroring his hands as they trickle down your cheeks and hold your jaw in their embrace. He whispers…“Do you think you can behave like my good girl again?” A small hum of confirmation buzzes at your lips. It isn’t enough for him. “Take this as your warning. If you decide to be a brat, if you decide to not listen to every word I say from now on, know that I cannot be responsible for what happens to you.”

The severity of his caution has your eyes opening just a fraction wider, able to read the same warning that traces his words in his eyes. He means it. Really means it. Danny’s words echo around your head. ‘He’s a stickler for obedience’. What is he about to do to you that it’s imperative you listen to what he says?

You could say no. You could invoke upon your safe word and make it stop right now. But when you delve deeper into the part of you that made you agree to this in the first place, you find that it still roars with life, telling you that your need for adventure hasn’t quite been satiated.

You swallow, throat bobbing under his digits. “I understand.”

He scrunches his nose in delight. “Perfect.”

You don’t turn to follow his movements to the back of his office, your ears tell you what you need to know. A cupboard door squeaks open, old, rickety, likely an antique. Then rustling. Objects hard, soft, textured, plastic, rubber, metal. A hum of satisfaction, then the closing squeak of the door, different to the first. His footsteps near you, perching directly behind you while you feel the soft sweep of his torso brush against your hair.

Then darkness. Soft, pillowy darkness that floods your vision. Remnants of light trapped in your irises float around like shooting stars before fading completely. It’s the only thing you can hone in on as the knot tied behind your head tightens, confirming that he has indeed blindfolded you.

“Remember your safe word.” He breathes into your ear in earnest. Pasta. “Don’t hesitate to use it.”

“Yes, sir.” You don’t know if he’s still expecting you to say that, but you do it anyway to stay in good graces with him. You’re not entirely sure if it will make a difference to the impending danger Tom warned you of. Even if it doesn’t, Tom’s lip still curls anyway.

“Good,” a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth has you blushing, “now don’t move.”

A single breath is all you have to prepare yourself before something cold eases across the skin of your arm. Insubstantial, almost weightless, it falls from the curve of your right shoulder and descends down until it reaches your hand, resting on the velvet arm. The sensation is ghostly but frigid, gliding but piercing. You can’t quite work out what it is…

The same icy coldness retraces its path back up your arm, floating and gliding along your clavicle and stops directly at the base of your throat, the pit where your collar bones meet.

It knicks your skin.

“Oh my God--”

“Don’t. Move.”

Holy fuck. It’s a knife. It’s a knife. It’s a knife. It is a fucking knife.

That’s the metal object you heard. And its sharpest point is resting directly against your neck.

Your skin pales and your stomach swirls with nausea. All your efforts to stay still and keep calm drains very quickly and panic floods in. Any chills the knife aroused in its cold path is replaced by small beads of sweat, your entire body blazing, screaming danger. Surprisingly, among other things, your nipples begin pebbling, brushing harder against the silk slip of a dress that adorns your body the more the blade's sharpest edge tickles along your skin. Your heart pounds, the sound of panic-infused adrenaline thrumming in your ears, comparable to the time you went on that rickety, old roller coaster when you were younger.

You guess the memory isn’t too dissimilar; forced to feel the thrill of having your own safety rest in someone else’s hands. You have no control here.

It’s…intoxicating.

A dark admission on your behalf, but you’re here for the experience, right?

You dare not speak, dare not break his rules as the peak of the very sharp knife trails lightly up the column of your throat as its runway, bumping over your trachea, scraping the finest layer of your skin, commanding you to incline your head as it rises higher and higher. Your lungs expand and you can’t deflate them until the knife flicks off your chin. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

In the stone cold silence of his room, the resonating shwing of the knife rings in your ears. A small respite.

From what you can hear, Tom moves behind you somewhere. The creak of the floorboard dances from the left to the right and back again, giving you not one hint of where he plans to strike next, subjecting you to the torment of crippling anticipation until he does.

Suddenly the blade comes into contact once more with your skin, laying its long, razor sharp edge against your neck. Your body freezes, your nails scratch the edge of the armchair.

“Stand,” Tom commands sharply. The knife’s blade maintains the same pressure on you, even as you come to a stand, knees knocking beneath you.

Seconds later, the chair clatters behind you, just the swiftest of touches of velvet to your calves before it crashes off to your left, and where four legs once sat now stand just two. Tom. The warmth of his breath flowing past your ear is a stark contrast to the cool blade on your throat. But it’s the low grumble bubbling against your back that plucks a chord deep in your stomach. You can feel yourself getting wetter…

“I can feel your heartbeat hammering against your ribcage, newbie. Worried?”

Yes…

“Or is it more than that? Excitement? Anxiety? Lust? Desire? What is it? Tell me, a penny for your thoughts.”

“Nerves. Mostly. But…exhilaration and curiosity. And confusion.”

“About?”

“Do people actually get off on this?”

He chuckles at your naivety. “Lots of people do. It’s perfect for keeping any brat in their place. But you’ll find it’s mostly the sort that spend all day bossing people about. Whose jobs are to take on the burden of responsibility, leadership, authority. If it’s been a particularly long and hard day for them, they come here. This is their relief.”

“To be held at knife point?”

“To relinquish control. To let someone else take the reins for once. To be controlled rather than being in control. The knife just adds that flare, the incentive to keep them in that headspace of receiving orders instead of being the one to make them. It could be a gun if you’d like,” he jests. You’d shake your head, but you might slice your throat in the process.

You take a constricted breath, feeling the weight of the knife’s edge becoming just that little bit heavier. “And…do you like it? Being the one in control?”

He presses himself against you as if to mould the contours of your body into his, lips furrowing deep into the crook of your outstretched neck roaming where they please. His free hand anchors down onto your hip, slithering its way across the expanse of your abdomen where, if he held you long enough, would feel the flutter of butterflies wings coming from within. Alas, he spreads his fingers, sinking lower onto your pelvis, teasing the curve of your pubic bone and presses down hard, bending you into him. As if the knife he holds against your neck isn’t controlling enough.

His erection pokes and prods at your backside. He’s so hard you release a whimper. What you would give to feel him inside you.

Tom’s words speak directly onto your neck like he’s tattooing them onto you. “I love it.” A beat, then--“Tell me,” he says, low in tone and volume. “Your dress. Any sentimental attachment to it?”

“No.”

The knife’s blade glides to the strap of your dress on your shoulder and picks it up, pulling it taut. “Good.”

One tug and the material snaps.

A small yelp falls out and a flinch has your shoulders raising just an inch closer to your ear. The integrity of your dress now hangs precariously with just one strap holding on for dear life. If one thing is for certain, it won’t be holding on for much longer. You smother the urge to scold him for ruining your dress, your property, and lest you forget the threat of the very sharp knife he holds against you, it’s only the straps, you could tie them back together as a temporary solution. An easy fix.

The knife repeats its actions on the other side until your dress hangs lifelessly around your hips. The cold air bites at your nipples and Tom doesn’t wait one second before he brings the tip to circle around the little bud.

“Oh--” You can’t stop your head tilting back onto Tom’s shoulder when the slight overdose of adrenaline makes you dizzy. The tickling sensation refuses to relent, crossing over the valley between your tits to tease your other bud just as salaciously.

Just when you find pleasure of the tip running rings around your nipples, when Tom’s hand sinks to cup your pantiless sex, when his scent rushes in through your nose, a harsh slap of the blade's flat edge to your tit whips you back to caution. It’s unexpected. Being blindfolded, every touch is. Any touch you feel, whether blade or not, makes you flinch. Quick as a bolt of lightning surging through your body. It’s torturous because in your darkness, in your paranoia, you’re permanently recoiled, shielding, flinching at nothing, waiting for the next hit.

He’ll strike. You know he will. Not knowing when is killing you. And he knows it.

“You asked if I like what I do-” his finger sinks into you, skimming over your clit wet with your slick, “-from what I can feel, I think you like it too.” Your hips buck to gain more friction from both his fingers and from his hard cock pressed against your ass, desperate to feel that euphoria of pleasure again. A sick, twisted crack of satisfaction surges through you when you hear him moan. “Shame you’ve forgotten your manners.”

The surface of the knife slaps you again, harsh against your nipple. “Ow! T-thank you, sir.”

“Better. Now move.”

A few blind steps clumsily place you facing a wall, palms resting flat against the wallpaper while Tom kicks your feet further apart. He makes sure that while he puppeteers you to never let you forget that the knife he holds is always within close proximity, that if you dare defy him, he wouldn’t hesitate to use it. Gentle scrapes, warning knicks, cold presses, even to go as far as break skin would he warn you.

The audacity he has, though, when he takes the knife and slices his way through the remaining fabric of your dress, leaving you to stand stark naked before him. That’s going to be less easy to fix…

“You ripped my dress!”

“Problem?” His voice is challenging, subliminally daring you to bite the bait.

“How the hell am I supposed to get home with no clothes?”

The fiery attitude that tries to bloom inside dies the instant he presses the flat edge of the blade flush against your cunt. The cold surface lying against your heat causes a stutter in your breath. It pushes upwards, almost lifting you off from your feet and onto your tiptoes from fear that any slight movement of defiance would trigger excruciating pain. It’s dangerous, careless, and reckless, and you wish you could scream it, thrash around, push him away and yell in his face. The compulsion is overwhelming. If only you didn’t have a knife to your cunt…

“Telling me your problem isn’t going to make it my problem.”

Your jaw slacks, away from his prying eyes and you suppose you could allow yourself just one moment of freedom. Just one moment of no restraint because releasing what you’re dying to say would just be as gratifying as the first time Tom allowed you to cum. You can easily feel the knot that’s dying to unwind, and saying what intransigent words would tease out the knot inside you, and also send him reeling.

He wants to call you a bratty sub? Fine. That’s what he’ll get.

“You are such a bastard, do you know that? I think you’ve spent too much time being told ‘yes, sir, of course, sir, thank you, sir’ that it’s all gotten to your head. Maybe you could do with being reminded that not everything you do deserves that.”

Quick as a whip, the blade snaps to your neck, digging into your skin that you feel it tearing your skin. The wince is evidence of your pain, but Tom ignores it, settling on placing his focus not on the knife he holds against you, but how quickly he can undo his belt, his trousers, springing his hard cock free and lining it up with your sopping cunt.

Without a warning, because you don’t deserve one, he thrusts into your core, holding your breath hostage under the knife. “So fucking tight,” he stutters to himself. Even for him, the sensation is immense. His next message is for you. “Cheeky little bitch. Think you’re clever? Think you’re funny? We’ll see who’s laughing when you’re begging me to stop.”

Your bodies clash as Tom begins rutting his hips against your ass, the staccato notes of skin on skin and the room swallows every snap, barely making out the door. He fills you, stretches you, and ruins you within seconds and you can’t explain how the pain you feel translates so quickly into pleasure. You feel yourself needing more of it. The stretch, the burn, the knife, it’s indescribable.

His relentless pace maintains, stopping every ten or so seconds to ensure he fills every inch of you, submerging himself to the hilt and mercilessly grinding his hips against you, rolling around your cunt. Without fail, your hands claw at the wallpaper when he does, begging for reprieve.

“When I tell you,” he pants, lips pursed and eyes ablaze, still holding the knife firmly against your neck. “You are going to give me everything.”

He drops himself, snatching a slab of flesh between your neck and shoulder between his teeth and bites viciously in his frustration and you howl. His thrusts only become faster and harsher.

“I need to feel you squeeze around my cock.” A hand slides between your bodies and starts toying with your clit. “I’m not going to stop until I feel you cum around me.”

Tom effortlessly tugs at the elastic band in your stomach and you are about to snap. He overloads your senses, violating your sensitive cunt to the point where you can feel it pulse in anticipation of the orgasm that is threatening to spill. Under the knife that now trails down your body, a pressure builds and it clenches your muscles with its tight grip, and with each pounding Tom hits you with, it grows a little closer to letting go.

Tom fucks you in phases, fast, slow, harsh, gentle, silent, loud, anything and everything thrown into his efforts to completely tear you apart. If it’s regret he’s after, he’s got it. If it’s an apology he wants, it’s there for the taking. If he desires to hear you begging, then it’s on the horizon. You’re willing to give because you’re not sure you know where your limits are, and with your legging threatening to crumble beneath you, you sense that you’re about to get a good idea.

Tears brim your eyes only to be soaked up by the blindfold, a quiet plea for release.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, please! ” Tom denies relief, keeping you squirming on his cock until his needs are satisfied. He has no care for you writhing to get away, because he can easily drag you back where he wants you with just a swift reminder of the blade that pierces your skin. You’re certain by now that you have tiny little cuts littered over your body, accidental or not.

“Tom, stop! I can’t! It’s too much. Fuck!” He doesn’t heed your cries because to him, they are the symphonies he is waiting to hear.

Your entire body quivers and with the flick of his deft fingers and the thrust of his cock, you come undone. There’s no holding it in anymore. The elastic band snaps and a white-hot wash of pleasure convulses through your body. Blood pumping at your core but Tom isn’t relenting.

The squeeze of your orgasm around his cock is suffocating, but yet just as painfully pleasurable as he needs it to be for the euphoric feeling to consume him. Finally, as the walls of your cunt contract once more, he cums inside you. But by this point, you are weak and Tom can clearly see just how destroyed you are. Nevertheless, his selfishness convinces him to pull away and sink into you over and over again, slower and with purpose.

“Don’t you have something to say to me, sweetheart?”

“I’m s-sorry, fuck, I’m sorry!”

“Taking me so well. My little cocksleeve, aren’t you?” He peels away the blindfold to find your eyes over your shoulder, but in your pain and exhaustion you can’t focus on much else and your eyes serve a very glazed-over look. “Look at me,” he spits, you obey. “You’re mine. This pussy is mine. Remember that any time you want to act like a brat.” He thrusts into you again as a testament to his words.

“Yes,” you meekly whisper. The word comes out of your mouth before your sex-inebriated mind can comprehend what he actually said. Once it does, you gulp.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl. Stay still.” Blinded by bliss, Tom pulls from you and with his size, it’s a feeling equivalent to an orgasm in itself and you hiss. Your pussy is hot, swollen, pulsing and leaking and yet somehow, as evident as it is for how sensitive it is, Tom can’t resist one more taste. The knife clatters to the ground. Salvation.

“No, no, no, no, it’s too much, Tom, please, I’m begging you.” The words drip with a desperation you don’t recognise. He simply hushes you, kneels behind you, splits you apart and continues to savour the taste of your arousal, meticulously circling his tongue around the small bundle of nerves once again. The warm, wet muscle glides from entrance to clit, cleaning you up of your wetness and replacing it with his own. For as excruciating as it is to endure so soon after an orgasm, you find yourself melting into the feeling and dizziness envelopes you in a warm hug.

~~~~

“Tell me the time,” he murmurs, turning you around.

Your eyes peer to the clock. “Fuck, it’s…it’s 4:29am. When does this place close?”

Tom sniggers, floating over you with a smirk. “It closed an hour and a half ago.”

“What?! Why am I still here?”

“I’m the owner of this place. I decide who gets to stay and I promised you an experience did I not?”

“You did,” you agree quietly. The slight stickiness between your thighs bears a reminder of the experience and suddenly you’re burning again. You bite your lip, trying to contain the coy giggle like a teenager with a crush. “Some experience that was.”

“Sweetheart, that was child’s play,” he laughs.

“What?”

He pulls you close, skin to skin, soothing out your muscles in a gentle massage. “You didn’t actually think I was going to show you everything, did you?”

Would it be stupid of you to admit that you did? “I don’t know, you did say--”

“That I would give you an experience. Something new, something outside your comfort zone, something you hadn’t done before, an adventure.”

“But--” But the paddles, the chains, the whips, all the things you saw outside…

Not another word lets slip before he cups your cheeks, holding your stare and wordlessly silencing you. “If I had shown you everything, there would be no incentive for you to come back again now would there?” You shake your head. “While you may think I’m a sadist, there are some things within BDSM that newbies like you just can’t be thrown into. Trust me. I wouldn’t put you through that. At least, not yet.”

“Like what? Tell me, I wanna know.”

Tom’s lip curls. He’ll definitely be seeing you around here soon enough given you’re so invested. “Voyeurism, roleplay, flogging, bondage, anal, wax play, primal, orgies, consensual non-consent--”

Your brain fumbles over his words. “Wait what? What’s that?”

The way his eyes lit up so brightly. He brings you closer to brush his nose against yours. “Consensual non-consent or CNC. A fetish where people enjoy being either the victim with the extreme lack of control or the predator with extreme control. Sometimes called rape play--” your eyes widen, “--but it is thoroughly negotiated beforehand and varies from scene to scene. Consent, as well as safe words, are vital. But for some people, verbally communicating consent takes away from the mood. To overcome that, they assign consent to an object. It would be agreed beforehand, could be a red scrunchie that you tie in your hair. If you came here one night wearing a red scrunchie, I would know that you would consent to me taking control over you. Perhaps drag you away against your will, take you somewhere where no one would see, make you get on your knees, suck my cock…” his voice reduces to a whisper and lets you feel his words on your lips. “Would do things to you…”

“Oh…”

Tom sighs, pulling away and composing himself. “For another time.” He winks. “But for now, you need to clean up. There’s a bathroom through that door. Feel free.”

“Oh, uh, thanks.”

~~~~

You don’t emerge from your bedroom until early afternoon the next day. In your true stubborn nature, you do anything you can to prolong the confrontation with Danny. He knows what prevailed between you and Tom, and munching away at a bowl of cereal, you find him smirking at the breakfast bar. All because he knows he was right, he knows that bringing you to the Hunting Ground was the ideal thing for you. You can’t deny him of it.

His eyes find the bite mark on your neck first, bruised and marked. Then to the large T-shirt that he’s certain isn’t yours. The memory of Tom dressing you in it last night has your heart thrashing against your ribs.

“So how did the kinky-cultish-sex club turn out for you?” He grins, a smile stolen from the Cheshire cat.

You click your tongue, deliberating the two ways you could go about this. Against your better character, you grin back at him, colour rushing to your cheeks.

“When can we go back?”

#ive been reading a lot of spicy books recently so this is why this exists #this is foul #knife play??? who am i #truly foul #tom holland #tom holland smut #tom holland fic #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagine #smut #dom!tom holland #sub!bratty!reader #tom holland x you #the hunting ground #peter parker #dark!tom holland

232 notes · View notes