I Really Like This Idea!

I really like this idea! ❤️

I've set this blog up to gather positive stories in the Pedro fandom.

I've heard so many lovely stories of friendship being built through a shared love of Pedro, of Pedro being a light in the dark and his wonderful characters providing comfort.

Tag me, inbox me, or email me at pedropascalpraise@yahoo.com, with all your Pedro stories.

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Always Been You | series masterlist

COMPLETE | ao3

Summary: You and Joel have become best friends, but as the years pass, you both realize that the love you have for each other goes beyond just “best friends”. Will either of you have the courage to express your true feelings or will you both just remain secretly in love with each other? Character pairing: no-outbreak!Joel Miller x fem!Reader Rating: 18+ minors dni, each chapter will have its own warnings.

Keep reading

I love this picture so much 😍

So presh 🥹

Read… just go read everything on this list 😍 You won’t regret it

STORY MASTERLISTS!

Something to Fight For Series (COMPLETE)

For readers 18+ only please!

summary:

After a disastrous blind date you decide to stay away from the miserable Joel Miller forever. The only problem is your best friend Maria is dating his brother and their construction company has been hired to renovate where you work. In an effort to support your friend, you’re thrust into the unwanted job of babysitting Joel’s young daughter one night. As time goes on you’re not expecting to find a confidant in Joel Miller but when you do, you wonder how you ever survived without him.AU LOU universe with no outbreak. A slow burn slice of life love story with smut.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Part 15

Part 16

Part 17

Part 18

Part 19

Part 20

Part 21: Epilogue

Vignette #1 - After the Holiday Party

Vignette #2 - Joel Learns to Text

BRAVO! TAKE A BOW Series

Summary: As a struggling actress you’re amazed when you land a role in an indie film you’re dying to be a part of. What you’re not expecting is to develop feelings for your mega famous and often exasperating co-star Dieter Bravo

1- Audition

2- Chemistry Read

3- Table Read

A Little Sun

As a PA to megastar and mega man-child Dieter Bravo you've had your fair share of headaches. Getting accidentally pregnant with his baby however takes the cake, especially when he offers to pay you to be his surrogate. You just weren't expecting to fall in love with him along the way. (plot prompt inspired by 'Daddy Dieter' by @absurdthirst on Ao3 - read their story, its really wonderful!)

First Trimester

Second Trimester

Third Trimester

Post Partum

CODE BROKEN Series (COMPLETE)

For 18+ Readers only!

"You broke into my house," Joel says moving his gaze from your eyes back down to your mouth as his wide hand grazes his belt buckle. "Moved my shit around. Least you could do is be polite." You only wanted to pull a silly prank on your neighbor, Joel. Who could have seen it ending up like this? [AU where Joel Miller ends up in Jackson City by himself.]

Part 1: Go your Own Way

Part 2: The House of the Rising Sun

Part 3: Tainted Love

Part 4: I will Survive

Part 5: Total Eclipse of the Heart

Losing our Minds Together

For readers 18+ only please!

summary:

As an artist by trade it's only natural that you'd agree to give your young neighbor Ellie drawing lessons. You just weren't counting on her stoic father Joel Miller getting under your skin... or becoming your muse. [AU LOU universe with no outbreak. A slow burn slice of life love story with smut, romance and more.]

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Dare to Surrender (COMPLETE)

for 18+ readers only!

summary: “First to come loses.” You can’t stand Javier Pena but when Steve Murphy makes an off-hand remark that gets both you and Javier’s competitive sides going, there’s no telling how far you’ll go.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

So Much to Lose

For readers 18+ only please!

summary:

Newly settled into Jackson city and forced to go on patrols with the miserable Joel Miller sets off a chain of events and encounters that have you questioning everything, including your own heart. note: Featuring Dark!Joel

Chapter 1 : Patrols

Chapter 2: The Doe

Chapter 3: You Make the Rules, Remember?

Chapter 4: Lessons

Chapter 5: Home for Dinner

Please, Mister Miller?

for 18+ readers only!

Summary: After being dumped by your longtime college bf, your roommate Sarah Miller invites you to her hometown for the holidays. There you meet her dad and decide you need to know if he’s as good in bed as he looks. (General warnings: Infidelity and unprotected p in v)

Please, Mr. Miller?

Movie Night with Mr. Miller

Mr Miller's shortbread

Lights with Mr. Miller

Running Errands with Mr. Miller

Goodbye Mr. Miller

Daddy Morales

for 18+ Readers only!

Summary: A distraught Frankie drives you home after babysitting. You cheer him up.... and then you keep cheering him up all over town. (General warnings: Infidelity and Daddy kink)

Part 1 - Drive Home

Part 2 - Pit Stop

Part 3 - No More

Part 4 - Too Late

Part 5 - The BBQ

ONE SHOTS

Say, Thank You. [Dave York x F!Reader] (Rated 18+)

After driving you home from babysitting his kids, Dave York has a proposition for you that you just can’t refuse.

A Secret Kind of Pain [Frankie Morales x f!reader](rated 18+)

Poker night over at Benny’s tests the amazing burgeoning relationship you have been hiding with Frankie Morales.

FALLING IN LOVE

How I imagine these characters fall in love. Rated: G

Joel Miller

Javier Peña

Such beautiful writing! 😍 Also I love that you kept the razor crest cause that was THE best ship!

Me and My Husband

Series Masterlist

Married!Din Djarin x F!Reader

Series Playlist

Main Masterlist | Din Djarin Masterlist

Graphic by @nostalxgic

Banners + divider by @saradika

"And I am the idiot with the painted face In the corner, taking up space But when he walks in, I am loved, I am loved"

Series synopsis: Din Djarin is doing what any typical Mandalorian would be doing after reclaiming Mandalore; finding a riduur and settling down. He’s still a member of the Guild on Nevarro, taking bounties here and there to support his new family. But when he meets you while you’re working the front desk at an inn on Naboo, he finds himself hooked, feeling like he’s found something new and exciting in his now mundane life. How long can he keep up appearances with his riduur? And how long can he keep his little secret with you?

Series warnings: set after season 3, canon divergent (long live the Razor Crest), infidelity, eventual smut (starts at chapter two!) angst, some rules/customs I made up for Mandalorian culture/weddings/marriages, switches between Reader and Din’s POV, no use of y/n

Chapter One: Lonesome Love

Chapter Two: Drunk Walk Home

Chapter Three: Nobody Fucks Like Me

Chapter Four: Remember My Name

Chapter Five: You’re an Angel, I’m a Dog

Chapter Six: I Gave Too Much of My Heart Tonight

Chapter Seven: I Know Who You Pretend I Am

Chapter Eight: I’ll Betray You Like a Man

Chapter Nine: I’m Sorry I’m the One You Love

Chapter Ten: We Nearly Drowned for Such a Silly Thing

Bonus:

Moodboard by @janaispunk

Moodboard by @jksprincess10

Moodboard by @noxturnalpascal

Art by @pamasaur

Jesus Christ. Smoked while reading this and feel like I need another one 🥵🥵🥵

Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.

Sleazy swimming instructor!Frankie Morales x f!reader Rating: 18+ My masterlist

Summary: In an effort to feel more like yourself and less like the sheltered girl you always were, you take up swimming lessons, unaware of the temptations that are placed in front of you by a man you think might be the devil himself.

Warnings: Smut, non-TF AU, implied age gap, the touching is dubcon/almost noncon at first but she’s really into it so idk, infidelity, reader is married to John Smith, Christianity, sleazy!Frankie, dom!Frankie, oral (f, m receiving), face fucking, cringe protected PIV with reader’s husband, semi-protected PIV with Frankie, creampie, reader was raised Christian and is still practicing, doubting one’s own faith etc, blasphemy, praise kink, religious references, taking the Lord’s name in vain, rough sex, double dipping??, ass play, come play, brief reference to abortion, inappropriate student teacher relationships, weed, possessiveness, mention of doodee in a public pool.

A/N: Special shoutout to @5oh5 for giving me so many fantastic ideas for this!! This one's dedicated to my demonic sub mommy @gracieispunk, the #1 Frankie fan. I'm treating this as my 4k followers celebration, so thank you four thousand times over for following me, for reading my fever dreams put into words, for your comments and messages and everything else. This has been such a fun hobby for me and I hope to give you all even better stories in 2024 🤍

“Damn he really about to give her the father, the son, and the holy semen.” - @atticrissfinch

Word count: 10.9k

The smell of chlorine penetrates your nostrils while the sound of children yelling and screaming and hollering and splashing grates your ears. The community pool is a place that shouldn’t scare you but somehow does, making your eyes shift side to side, looking at the big blue rectangle and the small blue rectangle, one with people swimming laps and the other with kids floating around with those puffy, plastic, floaty things around their arms.

You grab the cross that rests against your chest, wind the thin gold chain around your finger and swallow around a lump in your throat, looking down at your black swimsuit, wondering if it might have been a little too low cut after all, leaving little to the imagination. You would love to turn on your heel right now, to sprint out of here, and find an activity less daunting to start off your year of taking up hobbies to become more independent, to learn how to trust in God and spend time with Him while learning something new. 

You've always been told what to do and yet, sometimes, it feels as though you don’t know how to do much of anything. It was time for you to do something for yourself, everyone at church agreed, and you’re not sure who suggested it but something lit up within you when swimming lessons were suggested. It offers independence and self-sufficiency, they said. It’s a survival skill too, really, if you think about it, not just a hobby. But the deep water is so daunting, the tiled bottom you can barely see from where you stand, and the chemical filled, blue water sloshing against the drains. 

Learning how to swim, a baptism — what’s the difference, at the end of the day? They both involve dipping your head under the water to become something, at the hands of someone who has done this many times, who hardly sees the novelty anymore while you go through your transformation. It must become routine for them, and you hope it does for you too, that you’ll be able to dive into the lake by John’s family cabin and go for a swim in the mornings when you head down there for the summer. You never knew why your parents never taught you, whether it was your mother’s neuroticism and firm boundary that the beach water could never surpass your knees, or your father’s insistence you went to choir when your friends went to the pool. None of it matters now. 

You dip your head and whisper a quick prayer, holding onto your cross, asking God for courage to do something so out of your comfort zone, thanking him for the confidence to come here today in the first place. It wasn’t an easy decision, praying over it with John, then deciding to tell your parents that you would be skipping family dinner on Sundays to take swimming lessons, ensuring them that of course you’d still come to church, and of course you’d join them for coffee and of course you’d go to Bible study with the girls on Thursdays instead. It surely wasn’t a coincidence that the only lessons were available on the Lord’s day - you thank him also for the opportunity to spend time with him one on one for eight weeks, hoping that you can bring something new to the table when you return to your family dinners. 

You jump at the sound of your name, snapping out of your moment of recollection, your attention directed up to a man standing in front of you, holding his hand out to introduce himself. He’s wearing swim trunks, a light colored shirt with some sort of birds on it, and a pair of awful looking flip flops — bright red and frayed at the edges, probably a decade old. 

“Frankie,” he says with a smile on his face, a smile that deepens the crows feet above his cheeks, that warms his stunning brown eyes, “I’ll be your instructor for the next few weeks, we exchanged a few texts earlier.” The fluorescent lights behind him illuminate his messy hair, the halo of golden brown curls that point in all different directions, that he pushes his other hand through while he raises his eyebrows. 

“Yes, right, Frankie,” you say, nodding and smiling back. Your mouth is dry, hands beginning to tremble. What is this strange feeling? Your face feels hot all of a sudden, heat flashing over your cheeks and your temples. Your chest feels like it’s about to break out into hives or something. But he looks so… Scruffy. There are silver threads in his mustache and in the patchy beard covering his jaw — he looks nothing like John and yet you remember feeling something similar to this the first time your now-husband took you out on a date. 

“You ready?”, he asks, and you don’t miss the way his dark eyes sweep over your bathing suit, how it hugs your hips, your waist, your chest, how his gaze lands on the golden cross you’re playing with and the rings on your finger, the gold band and the silver one next to it the one with the sparkling diamond. You don’t miss the little smirk that pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Alright, señora,” he says, tipping his chin towards the large pool, “Let’s go.” 

You bite back a smile at his words, at being called anything but sweetie. 

“We’re gonna start off pretty easy,” Frankie says as he walks you towards the shallow end of the big pool. He unbuttons his shirt and throws it to the side, revealing a set of broad shoulders, his brown curls dipping into his neck and the width of his back as he climbs down the ladder into the water and motions for you to follow. “Come down here and we’ll have you just walk a little, back and forth, nothin’ crazy.” 

You nod, hands still trembling and that heat sticking to your chest and cheeks, different from the heat in the dry heat in the room. You curl your hands around the railing and carefully take one step at a time, descending into the blue pool, pausing halfway down, breaths moving a little faster. 

Temptation, temptation. The ladies at church told you that you might meet a handsome man one day who makes all kinds of promises, who sweet talks and says he’s good for you, who makes you stray from the Lord and lets the darkness swallow you whole. He has the devil in him, they said, and he will be sent to test the strength of your relationship to God, to your trust in Him and your faith. 

“What's the holdup?” 

You hear Frankie’s voice from the water and feel the waves crashing against your thighs, snapping out of your frozen state and taking the last step down, the surface of the water reaching your waist as you slowly walk towards him, elbows cautiously lifted in the air. 

He waves towards himself and you take three more steps, closing the distance with a bit of a stumble, tripping before Frankie catches you with his hands around your waist, stabilizing you with a firm grip, with big hands and thick fingers spanning an obscene amount of your skin. You gasp at the sensation and he pulls you closer as he clicks his tongue, playfully scolding you for running in the pool, winking and sending a shiver down your spine that settles in your womb with a low throb. 

But he doesn’t let go of your waist, even when you reluctantly try to squirm out, brushing against his bulge in the process, under the water, wet pieces of fabric dragging over each other while he looks at you with those deep, dark eyes, those mesmerizing, brown orbs that make you swallow around a lump in your throat when he cocks an eyebrow. 

“Promise to be careful?”, he asks. The raspy timbre of his voice turns everything around you into a blur, the screaming and splashing suddenly drowned out by the sound of his breaths as he waits for you to respond. 

“Yeah.”

“Good girl.” Your face flashes hot at the nickname, cheeks burning with embarrassment and lust. He leans in, hands still circling your waist, thumbs digging into your bathing suit, and his lips hover right by your ear. “Let’s start with some of that walking, just back and forth,” he says, his tone a little lower now, pulling you even closer for a moment, “Can you do that for me?” 

With goosebumps covering your arms, with desire pulsing in your cunt, you nod, and he releases you, letting you turn and walk away from him, putting one foot in front of the other, feeling the waves crashing against your ribs at every step, turning to walk back to him where he stands with his arms folded over his naked chest, smirking like he did earlier, in a way that should irk you and creep you out but instead makes something inside of you fizzle and flutter. 

More praises, perfect, good girl, then you try to listen carefully when he talks about proper breathing technique. It’s so difficult, he makes it difficult, especially when he tells you to bend over, just like that, and touches the small of your back, pushing it slightly. Your common sense couldn’t be further away from this pool, but your eyes flit down to your chest and you see the cross resting there, a few droplets of water surrounding it, skin glistening and nipples hardened under the wet, shiny, black swimsuit. 

You glance back up, and before you know it, your lungs are filled with air and you’re bending over to dunk your head under the water, plunging in and holding there for a few moments, taking in the soothing silence of the pool, before coming back up, breaking the surface and being met with the noise again, looking up at Frankie. 

“You can hold your breath pretty well,” he remarks, swiping his thumb across his bottom lip and nodding in approval, “That’s good to know.” He takes a step towards you and looks down at your wet lashes, clumped together, the drops of water sliding down your clavicle and into the suit. 

“Before I forget,” he says then, clearing his throat and gesturing to your swimwear, “You might wanna wear a two piece instead of this, it’s more aerodynamic, you know, under the water? Helps you swim faster, less fabric weighing you down and such.” 

“Oh, okay, yeah,” you chirp. He’s the expert — who are you to say that he’s wrong? 

“I’m gonna have you floating on your back now,” he says then, and spins his finger, urging you to turn around, then gesturing for you to lean back against his chest. You take in as much air as you can and lean back, letting him catch you with two hands on your back, and your head leaning onto his shoulder. A whiff of his cologne hits you, your breath hitches in your throat, and you feel one of his hands sliding down to your asscheek, cupping it and squeezing, forcing a little whimper of your throat, one you’ve never heard yourself. 

You feel the rumble in his chest when he chuckles, and you hope he can’t feel you pushing your ass further into his palm, rubbing against it almost, like a cat in heat or some poor, lost person under the spell of something dark, something twisted and demonic. 

When you look up at him, he’s staring at your chest, and again, you should be so incredibly uncomfortable, you should feel violated and upset and creeped out. But you have never been this aroused in your life, and that sweet pulsing in your cunt, the ache in your clit and the sensitivity of your nipples tells you that you’ve never truly enjoyed your body and what it is capable of — your God-given body, with God-given feelings and sensations you never knew existed, that John has never evoked in you. Both of his hands come to your behind then, holding you up while you rest a little closer to his neck, breathing him in, and he kneads your flesh while you spread your legs, entirely upon instinct, with no thoughts running through your mind other than a want, a need, for him to touch you somewhere else. 

You don’t know how long you float there, or how long you spend holding onto the railing and kick your feet while he has a hand under your lower stomach to hold you up and his eyes on your ass, but your breathing is heavy and your insides are hot and tight until the session is over and he helps you out of the pool, where the cold air hits you along with the reality of what happened in the heat of the water; the sinful reality of your dance on the edge of adultery, of accepting the touch of another man, one who does not value the sanctity of marriage, judging by the way he looked at your rings with mischief in his eyes. 

“Thank you, Frankie,” you say curtly, a tight lipped smile holding back the storm of emotions in your chest — the guilt, the regret, the arousal, the strange gratitude you feel towards this man for showing you how your body can make you feel. 

“See you next Sunday,” he winks, drying off his chest with a towel. 

—

The drive home is unbearable, the ache between your legs so distracting that you fear you might drive off the road. The guilt should consume you but your primal brain brushes it off, too excited for the carnal desire that has sprung up within you, itching for release, for the touch of that man again. 

You feel possessed almost — this is not attraction, it is not love or comfort, it’s something entirely different and dangerous. It slithers around your limbs and tightens around your throat, and the lightheadedness that should concern and suffocate you, instead feels delicious. It feels like adrenaline and blood coursing through your veins, it feels like your clit swelling and your nipples perking up, like his bulge feeling a little firmer the second time you came near it. 

Lies spill out of your mouth when you arrive home, when John asks how it went and you say it went well but that it was a big step. He seems to understand when you say it was quite scary at first and that you feel the want to pray about it, to debrief almost, with God, that you only need a few minutes to yourself before you can start making dinner for the two of you.

The bedroom door shuts behind you, the lock flipped, and you kneel at the foot of your bed, hands clasped together in prayer, unsure of what exactly you’re about to ask for. 

You try anyway, thanking God for the courage to step out of your comfort zone, for a knowledgeable instructor, but at the mention of Frankie, at the thought of his broad chest, his curls and his eyes, the dull throb behind the fabric of your panties makes a reappearance, an ache between your legs that won’t settle no matter how hard you try to shake it off. 

It feels like an affront to God, truly, being so distracted when you speak to Him, and so you decide to revisit after cooling off. You flop down on the bed with a sigh, noticing after a moment that your legs have spread and the button on your jeans has popped open. The locked door stares at you, reminding you that John will not be barging in, no matter what you do. 

So with the feel of Frankie’s touch still burning your skin, around your waist and hips and asscheeks, you slip a hand into your panties and slowly begin to rub your clit, stifling your moans as they catch in your throat, not moving an inch so as not to evoke suspicion. Your body is so flooded with arousal that you come mere moments later, his name on your tongue, and then the bitter aftertaste of reality. 

Back onto your knees at the edge of the bed, you ask for forgiveness this time too, and for the courage to stick to these lessons, despite your apprehension surrounding your ability to swim. 

—

Sunday, the Lord’s day, another afternoon standing across from Frankie, and you’re wearing a two piece this time, at his suggestion, one that barely holds the flesh of your chest and behind. He suggested a warm-up before today’s session, and so you find yourself doing stretches with your eyes fixated on his shorts, and the massive bulge he has seemingly made no effort at  trying to hide. 

He clears his throat before he speaks with a chuckle, “Checking me out?”

You avert your gaze and brink profusely, feeling that heat in your cheeks again, “No, I’m— I’m sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he muses, glancing down at his crotch,  “Probably not every day you see that kinda thing, with the whole, you know—” He gestures towards the cross dangling from your neck and you grab it in response, in defense perhaps, refusing to admit that he’s right. 

Never have you seen this kind of thing, never have you seen this kind of man. You’ve been so sheltered that you’ve barely even seen yourself. Frankie is everything you have been told to fear, and everything that begins to churn inside of you, stirring and bubbling up to the surface, slithering into your trembling arms. 

You should be so afraid of this man, of the spirit within him that draws you in and makes you commit such awful acts of sin against your marriage, against the vows you’ve taken and the promises you’ve made your husband — promises that a little part of your mind reminds you that he has taken as well, but that he does not keep, because he does not keep you with his actions or his words. Rather, he relies on you being kept, out of obligation and loyalty, never suspecting that outside of the four walls of your home lurks a man whose only intention is to take, to steal, to corrupt and to lead astray. 

Frankie tells you to do jumping jacks and he stares at your chest while you do them. 

—

Someone calls his name as you step down the ladder and he tells you he’ll be right back. You carefully descend down into the water again, a little less scared this time, and wave your arms around under the surface, creating little waves with your hands in figure eights while you pass the time. 

“Hey, señora,” he calls out a minute later, and you look up at him as he approaches the pool. He takes a couple steps down and pauses to look at you, to observe how you stare up at him with wide eyes, your nipples giving you away again, thighs clenched together under the water. 

“I could get used to you looking up at me like that,” he mutters, tilting his head, his tongue in his cheek, his brow arched. 

You barely even understand what he means but you can tell it’s something that, again, should drive you straight out of this pool and into your husband’s arms, but you like looking up at him too for some reason. 

Despite your heart being in your throat and your arms trembling a little at Frankie’s attention, you begin to swim with ease, stretching your arms out and pushing the water behind you, kicking your legs and getting a few feet further every time, staying at the shallow end of the pool. 

Then Frankie takes a few steps back, into a deeper section. “Swim towards me,” he winks, holding his arms out and waving towards himself. So you launch forward, kick your legs and wade through the water, and when you get close to him, only an arm’s length away, you feel his fingers brush against your tummy and his hands sliding around to grab your waist. 

He turns you around but doesn’t let you swim away yet, holding you against himself, pushing your ass into his crotch, onto his erection, as he praises you, good girl. 

Your arms fail you when he releases you from his grip, and you splash around, arms waving and legs floundering, convinced you might drown until he grabs your waist and pulls you towards him. You grab his forearm to stay afloat, breathing fast, nearly panting, distracted and horny and frustrated at yourself. 

“You’re unfocused, baby,” he coos into your ear, tracing his fingertips down the muscle that connects your neck to your shoulder, holding onto your waist with his other hand, “That’s dangerous, you know? Need to be aware of your surroundings.” 

“S— sorry,” you whisper, tilting your head to the side to stretch your neck further for him. 

“I know one thing that might help,” he whispers, nibbling on your ear, taking it between his teeth and pulling it slightly, “It’ll relax you, then you can refocus.” 

“Yeah, that— that’s a good idea, whatever it is.”

He releases you from his grip while he whispers, “Just gonna go tell the management that someone shat in the other pool, then we’ll be alone, alright?” before getting out and heading towards the front office. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry, but before you know it, a lifeguard comes out, blowing a whistle, waving his arms and instructing everyone to get out of the water. Frankie speaks to him for a moment and the lifeguard nods, and then he’s back in the pool with you, watching everyone filter out. 

You stand against the tiled wall, with Frankie in front of you, pretending to make conversation while he submerges his hand and starts to tug at the strings of your bikini bottoms. Your hand shoots out and grabs his bicep, and you eye him as he tugs one final time and the fabric peels away from your mound. The last person leaves the pool, the lifeguard has disappeared already, and he moves to the other side, one firm tug and your bottoms are floating between your legs. He fishes them out and throws them over the edge of the pool, letting them land with a wet smack on the tile, and nudges your legs apart with his foot, bringing his hand to the apex of your thighs, running a single, thick finger through your folds. 

“Think I know what you need, little miss crucifix,” he croons, then looks to his side to see that the coast is clear, puts both hands on your hips and hoists you up onto the edge of the pool, pushes your legs apart as you squeal in surprise and holds them open. He wastes no time, his tongue crashes against your clit and he eats you like a man starved, sloppy and wet and dragging his tongue up and down and side to side, he sucks and releases and nibbles and pulls.

You lay down, only to arch your back and let him spread your legs further, growling into your pussy, pushing his tongue into your opening and rubbing the tip of his nose on your clit so that you’re constantly stimulated, coming back up to lick and suck until you’re coaxed into an earth-shattering orgasm that rings in your ears and rips his moaned name from your throat.

You cover your face with your hands, coming down from your high, your back hitting the tiles while you feel him kiss your folds and your inner thighs. The searing heat of his touch and the biting cold of your indiscretions coalesce into something that sends goosebumps over your arms, and the water on your skin suddenly feels freezing. You sit up and watch him push up on his hands just a little, just enough to get closer. 

“This cannot happen again,” you assert as you close your eyes, holding your hand out in front of you, not touching him, but also not stopping him from pressing kisses to your wet chest, licking up the drops of water sliding down between your tits, “I am not a cheater, Francis.” 

“My name is Francisco,” he mumbles into your neck, sliding his tongue over your skin and biting into it after. The sound of his name, how his voice carries the syllables — it echoes in your mind, it makes you gasp for some reason, sending a new wave of goosebumps over your arms, following the one from his lips on your pulse. 

“Okay, Francisco, well, this is never happening again.” The insistence in your words is rendered useless when you tilt your head to the side, stretching the column of your throat, giving him more space to claim, space that he covers with his lips, one kiss at a time. 

“If you say so,” he whispers, his hand making its way to your jaw now, your ear sliding between his middle and ring finger, tilting your head back so he can raise up and begin to kiss you, angle your face and slide his tongue into your mouth. You moan into his mouth immediately, never having been kissed like this, with determination and lust and the taste of your pussy on his tongue. 

He places both hands down on the tiles on either side of your ass and lifts up fully from the pool, making the water slosh and little waves crash around him he pulls himself out and up over the edge with his lips still on yours, urging you down on your back while he kneels on the drain and lays down on top of you. His hard cock grinds into your naked center and he growls while tasting behind your teeth, then strokes your tongue with his own, takes your leg and hooks it over his hip. 

He overwhelms you with his scent, his weight, his sounds, the size of his cock. He sucks on your tongue and bites your bottom lip, pulls on it and moves to your neck, sucks on your skin and sinks his teeth in. The way he thrusts his hips, the way he humps you, it’s animalistic and wrong and terrible and it turns you on so severely that you can feel your slick dribble out of your opening and slide down between your asscheeks, mixing with the water below. You’ve never heard sounds like the ones coming from his throat and his chest, more masculine and rough than anything John has ever uttered, more hungry and wanting. 

John. 

Shit. 

You tap Frankie’s shoulder just as you feel the head of his clothed cock begin to push into your hole, his wide head barely entering you, and as much as you want to rip down his swim trunks and let him fuck you right here, you get a single moment of clarity when you look up and see the sun shining in through the square window in the ceiling, the rays of sunlight radiating down, reflecting off the shimmering surface of the pool, giving Frankie that halo again, those radiant curls sticking out in every direction. 

“What?”, he murmurs, and you wonder if that’s how he would sound if you woke him up from his sleep. It makes your insides twist but you can’t think about the implications of any of that now. 

“I— I have to go, sorry,” you say, wriggling out from under him, grabbing your wet bikini bottoms, already gone cold. 

“Alright,” he sighs, but before he lets you out from under him, he wraps his paw around your neck and anchors you right there as he leans down to kiss you again, with barely any tongue this time, only a light sweep across your swollen bottom lip, before he plants a kiss to your mouth and then whispers, “See you on Sunday.” 

He raises up and climbs off, heads over to the rack with towels and picks one up, coming back to hand it to you — one that you unfold and realize is incredibly small, clearly meant for children, and he smirks at how your struggle to cover your chest and your naked center as you stumble to the showers. 

—

Thursday Bible study feels like pulling teeth. 

Of course marriage is the topic of the day, and you would’ve known, had you checked the schedule before leaving the house. You’d fake any illness necessary to avoid sitting in Betty’s living room, around her dining table, hearing about how much your friends value their godly marriages, how much they feel like they’ve been brought together by God, destined to meet and be with one another. 

Betty says that Cameron was placed in front of her one day, that there is no such thing as a coincidence, and you think of Frankie in half a second. You think of the ad you came across, the availability only on Sundays, how quickly he spotted your cross, your ring, how he immediately knew how to push your buttons. 

What would your life look like if this was not how you spent your evening? What does Frankie do with his free time? 

Questions you shouldn’t want the answer to, and yet you still wonder. 

Somehow, the topic of sex is brought up. The other women giggle, one of them flushes pink and red in the face, another fans herself. 

“It’s a part of marriage,” Betty says, sing-songy in her tone, “We shouldn’t be afraid to talk about it.” Reassuring nods around the table encourage her to keep going, and she looks down at her notes, then begins to talk about abstinence, the wedding night, about learning and figuring things out with your partner. 

One of the girls shares a story about going away on a trip, and her husband making love to her all night. More stories follow, the girls opening up one by one, but even the most detailed stories leave something to be desired. The more you hear, the more you feel Frankie’s firm grasp, his aggression, his want to take as well as his drive to give. You feel the hardness of his big cock, his hands on your thighs, his voice, low and raspy. 

You excuse yourself to the bathroom and take a few minutes to cool down, and the pieces begin to fall in place. 

For every saint there is a sinner, for every day there is night, for every angel there is a demon, and for every John there is a Frankie. For every Sunday dinner with your parents, there is an empty hall, a warm pool and Frankie’s head between your legs. 

Frankie has been sent to test your faith and your faithfulness, your loyalty and your dedication.

The only issue is that you’re so incredibly weak in your self concept, your beliefs, your awareness of your needs and your desire for your wants that you don’t stand a fucking chance. 

You might go to Hell, but at least the burning touch of Frankie’s hand will guide you there. 

—

The clock on the wall ticks every second and you find yourself counting to ten, then restarting, counting to then, restarting, letting the sound fill the silence of the dinner table as you sit across from your husband. Neither of you have said much of anything during the entire meal, and while you’re relieved that he doesn’t seem suspicious, you can’t help but feel a little irritated at his inability to notice that you’re being awfully quiet. 

It’s probably best if you don’t talk anyway.

“So, um—”, John clears his throat and offers a sheepish smile as he spins his fork around in his hand, “You wanna get down and dirty tonight? Thought maybe we could try a new position.” 

You smile back, hoping that maybe a new experience with your husband will curb your curiosities about Frankie, that they’ll ground you again and remind you of why you saved yourself for him, why you’ve decided to hide the truth of your indiscretions, not wanting your marriage to dissolve. “Sure,” you say, simultaneously wondering what’s gotten into this man who usually only lasts around ten minutes in the missionary position, never very creative despite the porn you know he has consumed over the years, that he had to seek counseling for at the church, at one point, realizing he was being tempted and seduced by the ways of the flesh, that a Godly man would not consume such materials. 

He wiggles his eyebrows at you, real frisky today it seems, cheeks blushing and that sheepish smile returning, “I was thinking about, like, doggy, you know, from behind?” 

You nod, chewing on your last bite of dinner, looking down onto your plate with only a bit of tomato sauce remaining. “Yeah, that— that sounds good, I just have to clean up a bit and then I can meet you in the bedroom?” 

—

When you walk in, John is already undressed, lying under the duvet with his hands folded, eyeing you as you begin to remove your clothes, slipping off your sweater and throwing it over the ottoman in the corner, unbuttoning your pants while you hear him whistle from the bed. Sometimes he takes your clothes off, but most often you find yourself taking them off when he’s already naked in bed. You flash him a glance while you take off your bra and panties, dropping them on the floor and stepping over, lifting up the sheets and getting under. 

You remember all the wonderful things the older ladies at church told you about the marriage bed, about how magical it felt to finally be intimate with their husbands, learning together, finding out what they like. Until now, you’ve found out a little bit about what John likes but not too much about yourself, and he doesn’t seem too interested to find out much more than how he can get himself off. Before the wedding, you had kissed, held hands, hugged, even took a few naps together on your couch. Both of you had felt tempted, but you were proud of having waited, having saved yourself, giving yourselves over to one another on the wedding night, fumbling with the condom, unsure of how to properly arrange your limbs, getting through it in one piece and trying again the next morning. 

But despite the year that has passed since that night, things in the bedroom haven’t changed too much. John is more steady with the condom now, slipping it on despite your birth control pills, never letting you feel his bare skin inside of you, only in between your folds for a few moments before he pulls away to rummage through the nightstand. 

Tonight, the silver packet is already placed next to the pillow when you snuggle into John’s side, tentatively giving him a few kisses on the lips. He’s hard already, but the erection that pushes into your thigh when he turns over feels different this time. Selfishly, you find yourself wondering what it would feel like to have something bigger grinding into your flesh, something more like— 

You don’t go there. 

After less than a minute of kissing, a few light pinches to your nipple and a full grab to your tit, John nudges your legs open and starts to descend towards the foot of the bed, taking the time to kiss down your torso as he makes his way to your spread legs. It’s been a while since he did this, and for a moment, you fear that he can tell it hasn’t been as long for you. Maybe you can blame it on being stressed, if your responses aren’t what he’s used to when, if you’re honest with yourself, you can’t remember how you responded to his tongue anymore. 

He begins to lick your clit, one stroke of his tongue after another, wedging a finger into your opening, drawing it in and out, unaware that you’re about to crawl out of your skin, feeling the anxiety begin to creep up when you realize that it surely won’t be enough to get you anywhere, and that even after several minutes of slobbering over your sex, you surely won’t be wet enough to take him, or to even take another finger at this rate. And if he notices that something is different, if he asks what’s going on, the all-consuming guilt of your affair will spill out through the cracks and destroy everything in its wake.

So for the sake of your marriage, just this one time, you allow yourself to go somewhere else inside the confines of your own mind — to the edge of the pool, where Frankie pushed your legs open, where he ripped off your bikini bottoms and devoured you, where he nibbled on your folds and sucked on your clit and made you convulse with pleasure. You close your eyes as you think of him, incredibly guilty but turned on nevertheless, believing that this is what she meant when your mother said that marriage is sacrifice. 

You get wetter — wet at all, really — and John pulls away. He never lets you finish when he goes down on you, either with a remark about it taking too long and his boner going down, or noticing you’re close and jokingly pouting that it’s unfair if you get to come now and he has to wait until later. Sometimes you wonder what kind of porn he watched, if his attitudes and beliefs about sex have changed since he was a teenager. He reaches over and grabs the condom, and you can see the tip of his tongue poking out as he slips it out of the foil and finds the right side, rolls it on and climbs between your legs. 

There is something unappealing about the whole ordeal, something about the way he focuses so hard that barely any attention is paid to you, about how disconnected from his own body he seems, not letting his touch guide much of anything, deciding on an action and then following it rather than letting his desire guide him. Not that it would guide him anywhere pleasurable for you, but you think it might be more attractive to see him taking what he wants. 

Not that you’ve seen that more than once. 

“Okay,” he breathes, steading himself on his elbows on either side of your head, guiding his cock to your entrance and pushing it in, giving a few preliminary strokes, his back stiff as a board, grunting when he finds a rhythm he’s happy with, not entirely consistent, thrusting fast, not hitting the place inside of you that you’re doing everything in your power not to think about the existence of — the little spot that the tip of Frankie’s finger nudged into and stroked, the spot you should forget about. 

You snake your hand down between your legs and rub at your clit, changing up the direction, the speed, shifting and speeding up and slowing down until you can tell John is close. “Wait, wait,” you say, in an uncharacteristic expression of wanting to get your own before he gets his, “Just— I wanna come, sorry it’s taking some time.”

He groans and pulls out, sits back on his heels and swats your hand away, placing his own fingers on your clit and rubbing in a circular motion, asking if he’s doing it right, getting increasingly agitated as you try to adjust his movements, sighing and giving up at the end of it. “You’re not gonna come anyway,” he groans, moving his hand to his cock to give it a few strokes, trying to get it back to its former state of hardness.  

Something about the visual of him, about the contempt in his voice, makes something flare up inside of you. It makes something start to burn as it coils and weasels its way into your ribcage, turns up the heat of your blood and makes the edges of your vision darken. It’s as if something is taking over you, possessing you, using you as a vessel, reaching its hand out to you to say, enunciate the words I feed you and then take my hand, let me bring you somewhere you are allowed to be selfish and where you no longer need to sacrifice. 

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” you smile and grit through your teeth, the sickening guilt replaced by something new, something devious and wrong and demonic, “How about— you said you wanted to try something?”

He flashes you a grin and you get on all fours, feeling him shift around and enter you again, pulling your hips back in an unstable manner, while you fake a few moans and he thrusts in some sort of jumpy, inconsistent pattern, until he comes silently and flops down on over you. 

You tap your fingers on the sheets and turn your head to smile at him, “I’m just gonna go get cleaned up.” He puts his hand around his dick and pulls out, discarding the condom while you pick up your clothes and snatch your phone off the dresser, heading into the bathroom. 

After locking the door behind you and sitting down on the toilet, you grab your phone and stare at the contact name Frankie Morales for what must be a full minute before you open a text message to him.

“What’s your address?” 

Your phone is silently put on the countertop while you wash your hands and get dressed, the flushing of the toilet covering up the beep of his response being received mere seconds later. 

“i’ll send in a sec. door’s open but no panties allowed in the house so pls be mindful of the rules. they r very strict” 

You roll your eyes and wait until his address follows in a second text, then the wheels start to turn. An excuse and a coverup form in your mind while you pull on your pants and your sweater, a way to get out of this hell for at least one night, to see what it is you’ve been warned about for so long, to see if one person’s abyss is another’s salvation.  

When you come out of the bathroom, your hand is on your lower stomach. 

“Hey, I’m just gonna go to the store, okay? I think my period’s coming soon and I’m out of pads,” you say, nodding towards the door, “I’ll run some errands while I’m at it so just text me if you need anything, I’ll do the whole round.” 

“Okie dokie,” he says, and you turn the corner, stepping out into the hallway before you let the resentment set in any longer. 

—

Frankie’s place is, unsurprisingly, in a dodgy part of town, one with frequent sirens and more than a handful of boarded up storefronts. There’s a chill in the air when you step out of your car, on the other side of the street from a house with a single porchlight on, lighting up the entrance and the wall of the garage next to the door. You slam the car door closed and take a breath, looking up at the full moon and shaking your head at yourself. Of course it would happen on a night like this, of course it would happen on a day you haven’t felt Jesus’s presence, on a day you wonder if he really does care for you after all. 

On a day that you feel the embrace of something else, another shadow wrapping his arms around you and promising you that your desires will be seen, heard, honored, that your wants and needs will all be fulfilled. More than fulfilled, you’ll be allowed to gorge yourself if you go with him, if you turn away from the light and embrace the darkness.

You ring Frankie’s doorbell and take a step back, fidget with the rings on your finger, necklace forgotten despite the cold touch of the gold on your skin as you stand outside and wait. The door opens to a dimly lit house, the smell of weed and cologne permeating your senses. You should be turned off, you should be grossed out, you should be so unimpressed. 

And yet, your pussy is already throbbing at the first inhale of his scent, and at the sight of him as he opens the door, chuckling while he pulls off his baseball hat and runs his fingers through his mess of curls, then puts the hat back on and adjusts it with both hands, and takes a step closer. 

“That was fast,” he muses, leaning into the wooden frame leading the way to his living room. His bicep strains the sleeve of his t-shirt as he leans on his elbow. 

“Shut up,” you quip, your breaths heaving, “You know just as well as I do that I shouldn't be here so don’t push your luck, Francisco.” 

He laughs at that, taps his knuckles against the frame and takes a breath, cocks an eyebrow and looks down at you, at the porchlight drenching you in golden rays as it contrasts with his own figure in the doorway, the shadowy inside of his house. “Who am I in your eyes?”, he asks, taking a step towards you and circling your waist with his hands, pushing you over the threshold of his territory, into his space, “Some kind of Antichrist? The devil himself? Put in your life to lead you astray? Make you sin?” 

His hands are on your back and the door is still open behind you, eyes adjusting to the warm lighting in his living room that stretches into the kitchen, the couch illuminated by the TV and the hazy air above the coffee table, the ripples of smoke coming from a joint halfway tucked into an ashtray. 

“Maybe...”, you murmur, looking down at his shirt with your hands on his chest, swallowing so hard you hear the gulp in your throat, “They told me he'd be tempting, and that's all you've done… Tempt me, into— into adultery.” 

He cracks a smile and leans over to close the door behind you, stepping closer when the door snicks shut, until your feet are between his. Refocusing on you, he narrows his eyes as he whispers, pushing your hair over your shoulder with one hand, the other on your hip, “What have I done? Tell me.” 

You run your hands up the fabric of his shirt, slide them up along his neck, the patchy scruff on his jaw, up, up, a little further, until you reach his hat and carefully take it off, toss it over to his couch and run your fingers through his hair, separating his curls while he gazes at you in a way that you can feel on your skin, in a way nobody has ever looked at you, not on your wedding day and never since. 

“Tempted me into adultery with—”, you say, your voice as shaky as your breaths, gesturing to his chest, then his face, his hair and then his shoulders, his arms, “All this.” You step back, open up the space between your bodies, and with a sudden wave of courage, nod towards his crotch, “And that.” 

He seems to like that, pulling you back in and curving both hands around your hips, leaning in to brush the tip of his nose along yours. “Godly cock wasn't doin’ it for ya?”, he whispers, with his eyes blazing, darker than they’ve ever been. His touch is scalding, heat rolling off the skin of his neck and arms, almost as hot as he makes you. 

“Shut up,” you mutter, convincing no one, not even yourself. 

His lips come to the side of your neck, the bristles of his thick mustache scratching your skin, scruffy and a little unkempt, with hints of gray. Sleazy old man. “You’re going straight to Hell, you know that, right?” He seems to enjoy mumbling terrible things into your skin and pressing the words into your body with a kiss immediately after, sealing it with a lick of his tongue, “No space for girls like you in heaven.” 

“Shut up—”

“Maybe even purgatory, adultery is pretty bad,” he chuckles, arms wrapping tighter around you, his hard cock pushing into your stomach through the fabric of his sweatpants. A drop of arousal seeps out of you at the feeling, into your panties, still wet from the lubricant on the condom from earlier. 

“Shush, stop—”

He shakes his head and interrupts you with a kiss, finally, dragging you along the floor, through the dim light of his living room, the kitchen, the hallway, to his even darker bedroom, to the unmade bed opposing the reclining chair covered in clothes. With his tongue in your mouth, he undoes your pants and pulls them down, kissing along the edge of your underwear when he’s squatting down, grabbing your ankles and stepping you out of your jeans. 

“I told you no panties,” he whispers, teasing the seam of the fabric, moving further in, licking a stripe over the lace covering your clit, making you gasp, “You’ve been such a good girl until now, what happened?”

“Nothing,” you mutter, looking at his hair and wanting so badly to drag your hand through it again, to feel those thick curls on your fingers. 

“You seem agitated.” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“No, I don’t,” he mocks, pulling your panties slightly to the left, revealing part of your mound, kissing the skin that makes contact with the air. “What happened? Got shitty sex from your husband or something? Came here to get the real thing?” 

You roll your eyes at him, at the reminder of why you’re here, on one hand wanting to say that yes, it’s only because my husband sucks in bed, and on the other, trying not to spill that you make me feel something I couldn’t even conjure up in my dreams and you’ve possessed me like a demon and I don’t want you to leave my body and I love how you feel. 

“How about that,” he marvels as he raises to his feet, moving his hand to your chin and tipping your face up to look into his eyes, “Crawling to the cross… Finally gonna let me fuck that tight ass little pussy? Not reserved for Jesus anymore? Or your husband?” 

“Thought so.” Frankie smells like sweat and cologne and weed, and this is a terrible idea and you really shouldn’t be here but your sweater slips over your arms just as easily as your bra, as easily as his own shirt falls from his body and his sweatpants drop to the floor. 

“You're gonna smell just like me when I’m done with you,” he coos, and you hate how much his words go to your clit, to your nipples and every other erogenous zone he might discover on the surface of your body, “Gonna smell like my come, my cologne, my spit, my sweat… Like my bed—” 

You whimper and he kisses you, then murmurs into your lips, “But first you’re gonna suck my cock, and then I’m gonna fuck you.” He rips your panties down your legs and forces them off, then pushes you to your knees and tells you to open up, digging his thick fingers into your cheeks to pry your jaw open. 

Your lips part, jaw separating wider as he rubs the tip of his massive, impossibly long cock on your lower lip, sticky with precome as it oozes out from his slit, and he groans at the sight, putting his free hand on the back of your head. John never forces you to your knees, never shoves his cock past your lips — he begs and pleads, lays on the sheets and takes your mouth in silence, tensing up a little before he comes. 

But Frankie, 

“Hope you don’t have a fucking gag reflex,” he mutters, then pries your mouth open a little more and presses his cock in, deeper and deeper until his tip hits the back of your throat, placing one large hand under your chin and the other on top of your head, holding you in place while he tips his head back and thrusts. 

Frankie fucks your face, relentlessly and without reprieve, shoves his head down your throat, makes you drool and claw at his thighs, forces little sputtering, choking, gagging sounds from you, ones that spur him on and make him growl and moan, pushing in as far as he can and retracting until only his tip is left within. John would have come by now, you note to yourself, sated and done for the night, but Frankie only gets harder, with your nose buried in the coarse dark curls on his pelvis, inhaling his musk, your eyes sliding back at the scent. So masculine and so fucking hot. 

“That was your warm-up,” he pulls out with a groan, slips both hands under your arms and pulls you up, leaning you over the bed, kicking your feet apart and slotting his dick between your asscheeks. “Know we haven’t gotten to the backstroke section in the lesson plan yet,” he chuckles, thrusting gently, sliding his length over your asshole, “But you can think of this as another type of backstroke, hm?” 

“Yeah,” you whimper, hands fisting in the crumpled sheets beneath you while he pushes you up on the mattress, teasing your entrance with his tip now, bare and dripping, letting your wetness coat him as he feeds you less than an inch at a time, drenching more and more of him before he pushes in, the first time you’ve felt a naked cock inside you, a loss of another type of innocence, an intimacy not awarded to you by your husband. 

“Tight fuckin’ fit here,” he remarks with a low whistle, “Looks like John Smith didn’t do much to stretch you out.”

You whip your head around in absolute horror, “How do you know his name?”, and Frankie looks at you, dumbfounded, mouth open, brows scrunched together as he pauses. 

“His name is John Smith?” He’s on the verge of a laugh now, dragging a hand down his face, through his curls, then coming to scratch at his beard, “Are you serious right now?” 

You roll your eyes at him and concede, “Yes, Frankie, that is his name.”

“That’s your husband’s name — John Smith.” 

“Yes,” you sigh, “Frankie, do I need to remind you of what I said when I showed up here?” He pushes in a little further then, amusement plastered all over his face, his sly smirk doing something to you that you can’t quite place, as if you feel it in your chest somehow. 

“Remind me of what?” He tilts his head, wraps your hair around his fist and sinks all the way into you, bottoms out and watches it punch the air out of your lungs, a pathetic little breath escaping you while your eyes slide into your head and he gives your hair a little tug. “Remind me of what?” 

“That I shouldn’t be here,” you breathe, bordering on delirious already, clenching your walls around him just to feel his size, to feel every curve, every vein, his skin, the burn starting to set in from how you gape around him, fucked open and stretched out. His, now. “I think you might be the Devil or something.” 

“Don’t give me that much credit,” he laughs, sliding out, pressing back in, grinding into your cervix and tugging at your hair, listening to you moan, leaning over to whisper, “I am so much worse.” 

Then he starts to fuck you, deep and almost punishing in its fervor, his hand gripping your hip so hard you swear he could crush your bones, hand fisted in your hair and pulling on it until your head leans back, and he towers over you, forces you to look up at him while he pounds you from behind, while he shows you how a real man fucks you, one who isn’t tied down and restrained by the shackles of a past spent trying to be pure, trying to suppress his instincts. 

Frankie lets go of your hair and purses his lips, lets a glob of saliva fall to your crack and watches it slide down while brings his thumb to his mouth, wets it with spit and reaches down between your cheeks, rubs your tight ring of muscle and gently pushes in while you look back at him, eyes wide with apprehension. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he rolls his eyes, pushing further in when he feels you relaxing around his finger, “Sodomy in front of the Lord, I get it.” 

You roll your eyes back at him. 

“I can promise he’s not looking in here, baby, he doesn’t wanna see this any more than that little husband of yours does,” he says, then narrows his eyes in that way you hate, “What was his name again?”

“Shut up,” you groan, and the hand on your hip finds your hair again, tugging it back harshly while his wide thumb sinks in fully.

“What was that?” he growls, giving you a hard thrust when you don’t respond, your slick seeping out and smearing over your inner thighs when he withdraws and fucks back into you, makes your flesh shake and jiggle. 

“Forget it,” you mumble, letting your hands slide out in front of you, suspended by his hand in your hair, feeling your ass bouncing against his hips at every thrust, the wet squelch of your pussy taking him and his balls smacking against your clit, sticky and sinful and the best feeling you’ve ever felt. 

“That’s what I thought.” He lets go of your hair, letting you fold in half as your chest hits his sheets and your face is buried in his scent again, and he reaches around to put two fingers to your clit, circling it quickly, bringing on your orgasm in mere seconds. You soften, letting him in even deeper, sucked in by your pussy while your asshole flutters around his thumb, and he chuckles, muttering under his breath, easy to please. 

He keeps rubbing, despite your whines and whimpers, fucking you and playing with your clit until you come for him again, then flips you over onto your back, pulls you to the edge of the bed and slides back in. You glance down at his pelvis, sticky and wet with your arousal, thick hair he hasn’t trimmed in what must be months, dark curls you want to feel against your sensitive little nub. Both of his hands slide under your ass to lift you up, his cock reaching so deeply his name rips from your throat with a loud moan, the first followed by more, forced out one by one, his name in there again somewhere, incoherent almost. 

Then he lays you down, pushes you up on the bed and kneels between your thighs, lays down on top of you and cages you in with his bulging arms. He captures your lips in a kiss as he grinds into you, pushes his pelvis into your clit, lets his sweat smear across your torso, your shoulders getting covered in the concentrated scent of his underarms. 

You're gonna smell just like me when I’m done with you. 

It’s like you’re being baptized in his scent, drenched in his perspiration, in the saliva covering either side of your neck from his wet kisses, his precome dribbling out inside you, the taste of it still on your lips. 

“Frankie—”, you pant into the crook of his neck, fingers twisting in his hair, your other hand on his upper back, holding him close, “Frankie, I’m gonna— I’m gonna come, I—”

He shushes you with another kiss, with a rumbling growl, letting you come before he throws your ankle over his shoulder and he pounds you until the sound of your moans drowns out the sirens outside the window and his snarls, his curses, the wet slap of your bodies and his grunts when he takes your other ankle and folds you in half again, pushes your knees into your chest and shows you how you’re meant to be fucked. 

You can tell he’s close, closer than he wants to be, muttering how fucking tight you are between grunts and moans, both hands gripping your hips, pulling you back onto him with every thrust, his cock so deep within you that the room is a blur, hazy from the darkness, the air thick with the smell of sex. His thrusts slow, trying to abate his orgasm, failing to when you tighten and whimper his name again, when you arch your back and suck him in further, until your walls suffocate him and he grunts your name, panting with his jaw hanging open, lifting up to look down at how he splits you in half. 

“Hope you’re on the pill or something,” he groans, while his cock pulses and swells inside of you, while ropes of his come fill you and slide down his shaft. Then he chuckles, his voice going low and gravelly, “You know, so you don't have a little demon baby in here you won't let yourself get rid of. That wouldn't be good for business, would it?”

Crushing you with his weight again, he bites and kisses your neck, staying lodged inside your cunt, body pressing you down into his sheets, a drop of his sweat sliding down your chest, your own heat dampening the backs of your knees. His lips find yours, tongues twisting together, heavy breaths filling the silence in the air. You swallow his saliva, you’d drink it if you could, his blood or his spit or his come. 

“You’ve never had that before, huh?”, he murmurs into your mouth, “Never taken a load like that?” 

Your hips squirm in response while you shake your head, and another laugh rumbles in his chest. “You like it, though, you like having my come inside you.” You don’t dare tell him you’ve never had a load inside of you at all, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of being the first to own you like this, the first person to risk something. He pulls out and brings his hand to your core, lets some of his spend seep out onto his fingers, and smears it over your folds, your clit, up to coat your nipples, your lips, then back down to rub it into your asshole. 

“You like when I cover you in it,” murmured and low, his eyes dark again, piercing and paralyzing while you raise up on your elbows and look up at how he towers over you again, “Not so Godly anymore when you're covered in the Devil's seed, huh?” 

“No,” your voice is weak, little more than a squeaking sound.

He cranes his neck down to smell your shoulder, your arm, your chest and your neck. “Told you you’d smell like me,” he whispers, pressing his lips into your chest, right above where he marked you, “Nothing left of you now, it’s just me. All me.” 

His finger comes to your stretched out, gaping entrance. It collects more of his slick, warm load, and he brings it to your chest, one streak across and another down the middle. He crosses you with it, with the evidence of your lust, your sin, your adultery, your submission to darkness and evil, to your own wants and your own primal drive towards this man, the desire for you that you sense in him. 

“Yeah, now you know who you belong to.” 

You look down and see the glistening cross of semen, your nipples still glossy, filthy and revolting and terrible and making your pussy clench so hard another thick drop splashes out of you and onto this bed, your clit beginning to ache again, wanting more and more and more. 

“See that?”, he tilts your chin up with one hand, the other planted on the mattress, muscles bulging out, his wet, semi-hard cock hanging between his legs, come still seeping out of him, dripping from his slit, “Don't need God when I’m here to tell you what to do, baby.” 

 “No?”

“Nah,” he slides his hand around your neck to cradle the base of your skull, moving his knees to the outside of your hips, shifting closer until his cock is in your face. “And now you’re gonna lick up all my come, you’re gonna suck my dick till I’m hard again, and then I’m gonna teach you how to ride me.” 

“Okay,” you whisper, lashes fluttering, lips parting at the sight of his thickness, his length, the flushed red tip. 

“Not just gonna teach you how to swim, sweetheart — gonna teach you how to take my cock. Mine, just mine, until you can’t do without it, until you come crawling over here every night, begging for it, until you pray to God and ask him to free you from being so cockdrunk and addicted to me.”

You pause for a moment, looking up at his face, eyes adjusted to the darkness now, and then, “Frankie?” 

“Yes, angel?"

"Teach me.”