He Thinks My Ass Is Pretty. Had Me Fucking Wheezing

“He thinks my ass is pretty.” Had me fucking wheezing 🤣😂🤣😂🤣😂

Joel Dealing with Preggo Wife # 8- Drama Queen

Joel Miller x F!Reader

Can be read with others in series or alone

Warnings: allusions to sex, mostly fluff and comedy

- - - -

Its been a pretty quiet evening, and with you home, thats saying something. Joel's minding his business watching Tv when you come plopping down next to him on the couch. He doesn't acknowledge you.

So you scoot over and sigh heavily. Still No reaction from the male.

You feint a yawn and snuggle your head on his shoulder. He smiles a little, but doesn't look at you. You rub affectionately like a kitten.

Nothing.

Take the hint, you stupid hunk.

Your pretty manicured hand creeps on his thigh, stroking up and down senually with delicate fingertips.

He knows where this is going, but he won't entertain you. He coughs a little, bored, and continues scrolling channels. Wants to see how far you'll go to get what you want.

As if on cue, you persist. Wrapping your arm over his broad shoulders, hitching your knee awkwardly on his thigh despite the baby in your belly squirming at the uncomfortable angle. You playfully boop his nose, giggling like a flirt. He purses his lips, but nothing else.

You stare at his profile, that unique Joel Miller look of concentration. Handsome and stoic—that little shithead.

You're teasingly rubbing your fingers through his scruff, twisting gently as a massage.

You bring your lips and kiss him kindly on the cheek. Something sweet. Innocent. Then again, but a little longer. Then some more, peppered down his jaw, along his pulse. Heated and wetter. Growing more needy and nipping his ear, making little happy moans as your hand continues to wander over his legs, tip toeing to his crotch.

Joel sighs, finally looking at you. "There a reason you're trying to get me turned on, ma'am?"

"Mmm," you hum, biting your lip and staring his plump ones. You crawl closer, breasts smashed against his bicep as you lick your lips, tongue peaking out with lusty eyes trying to put him under your best charm. Yesyesyes give it to me, Fucker!

Yeah. He knew exactly this is where this was going.

"I want a Big—" you kiss his nose "—Messy—" teeth nip at his lower lip "—Hot—" you peck him teasingly, sucking his flesh in your mouth so he knows you mean business. Then you stare down at him with your serious eyes, foreheads pressing,

"—Fudge Cookie Dough Chocolate Gooey Fantasy Milkshake with extra Rainbow Sprinkles from Clyde's Creamery."

He cracks a warm smile, cupping your jaw and parting your lips with his thumb. You suck it into your mouth, hoping to please him. Just as hes about to kiss you, he leans in and says, "No. Its 11pm. Bedtime."

You get off his lap with a cold shoulder and a scoff, proceeding to ignore him for the rest of the night.

Hes evens surprised when you go to bed still silent, facing away from him without a kiss goodnight when you turn off your lamp.

Until it's 2am when he's startled awake by the sound of the the front door opening. He's storming downstairs trying not to trip, and haphazardly throwing a shirt on backwards while in his boxers, only to see you with a packed bag, hand dramatically caressing  your bump with fake ass tears down your cheek going outside to the car.

"Where the FUCK are you going??" He asks, rubbing his eyes. Aggravation and rough exhaustion evident in his tone.

"You said you didn't love me, so I'm leaving," you huff. There's no hint of a joke in your words. Genuine pain. Hurt. Quiet and walking away. You dont wait to see his reaction and without another word, you turn to leave.

Hes so whiplashed, wracking his brain trying to remember any time he even remotely could have said something like that and you interpret it—

"I SAID YOU COULDN'T HAVE A HOT FUDGE COOKIE DOUGH CHOCOLATE GOOEY FANTASY MILKSHAKE because it was FUCKING 11PM AND CLOSED! Now get your fat beautiful ass and our baby back in here and dont ever pull this stupid stunt again!"

You scowl at him, preventing any physical reaction of your internal swooning he thinks my ass is pretty. You hold your ground and refuse to move from your position, defiant, in flip flops and a long nightgown on the front porch at 2am.

Joel furrows his brows and closes his eyes, soothing over the wrinkles you've caused to grow on his forehead.  "Fuck. I'll get you one tomorrow morning for breakfast. Okay?"

You smile giddily and skip back inside "Okie!" You step past him drop your shit on the couch, kissing him on the cheek. "Dont forget the extra rainbow sprinkles."

He grunts, glad that it's dark enough in the house you can't see how exhausted and annoyed he is.

"Oh and close the door, Joel! You'll wake the neighbors with your unnecessary shouting bit. Dramatic much?" You scoff, and waddle up the stairs and right to bed like nothing happened.

-

Tommy also has access to your ring camera notifications and sees Joel and you out there and the whole conversation, and he's laughing so hard when he watches the playback. He teases grumpy exhausted Joel the next morning, conveniently with a to-go milkshake in his hand at 8am.

"Softy for your girl?"

"Shut up."

"And when you have the baby, then there's gonna be two of her!" Tommy wheezes.

Joel's saggy and wrinkled eyes manage to open wider than ever as that particular horror sets over him.

- - - -

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@harriedandharassed @lola8888673 @its-nebuleuse @zliteraturehoe @merz-8 @joeldjarin @pascalscoffin @pedroshotwifey @ghostslillady @innerpersonunknown @missladym1981 @mrs-oharaxx @survivingandenduring @milla-frenchy @cockykookiee @fairytale07 @daddy-din @pedropascalsbbg @spookyxsam @somehopeatlast @millercontracting @pedrostories @mishala005 @theoraekenslover @animez96

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Details…

Happy valentines to us!!! 😍😍😍 THIS WAS SO GOOD!!!!!!! Why do I have such a thing for this sleazy man?!

I’ve Got My Red Dress on Tonight | (joel miller x fem!reader) (18+)

Part 5 of Meet Me in the Back

pairing: sleazy gas station clerk!joel miller x fem!reader summary: When your Valentine's Day date doesn't show, you decide there's one person who would be happy to see you. warnings/tags: [18+ MINORS DNI] age gap (no specifics), drug use (marijuana), daddy!kink, fingering (vaginal and....anal!!!), v brief foot fetish, squirting, praise!kink and degradation!kink (use of slut/whore), unprotected PIV, creampie, some ~touching in public, smoking, taking pictures mid-coitus, really nasty gross fluff i'm sorry about it. lemme know if i forgot something i gotta go fast i wanna post word count: ~7.8k jesus christ | ao3 a/n: much thanks for the anon who suggested a V Day fic for these two <3 Thank you to my love Iris @papipascalispunk for making sure my commas and em-dashes are where they're supposed to be. ALSO. Chloe, resident sleazy!joel expert, wrote a little drabble inspired by Joel in this fic!! Please check it out after you've read this chapter! The Sighting by ChloeAngelic <3 Taglist Update: I have decided to decommission my taglist in favor of an updates blog! Please follow @atticrissfinchupdates and opt in for notifications to get notified when I post a new fic! Series Masterlist | Masterlist | Kofi

The dress feels ungodly tight, but you had figured it would be worth it. 

It wasn’t. 

In fact, the dress hasn’t seen anything but the inside of your apartment. 

Your hair was done just the way you love it, you pulled out all the stops with your makeup, and you had squeezed yourself into this glittery, red mini dress that makes your tits look stunning, which you bought just for this night. 

You’d been out with Brent twice before, and even though you’d thought it was a little early in your “relationship” for a Valentine’s Day dinner, when he asked to “make it a special night” for you, you agreed. The last thing you wanted was to be alone on this godforsaken holiday. 

Well, at least he’d had the courtesy to give you twenty minutes' notice that he was bailing on you instead of just leaving you waiting on your couch wondering if he would come at all. 

Now you’re just waiting on your couch, wondering what the fuck to do. 

You open your messages on your phone and swipe away from your broken plans. The next thread under it is Joel’s. 

Joel: i swear 2 god i saw one tho

You: you did not see a UFO, Joel 

Joel: yes i did!!! it was way the hell up there flashin its lights!!! saw it clear as day!!!

You: that was most definitely just a normal plane, old man. Turn off Ancient Aliens once in a while. 

Joel: ur gonna be real sorry wen im FAMOUSS for findin the first REAL aliens 👽 🛸 

You: I’m sure I will be

Joel: u can make it up 2 me by flashin me them headlights of urs again 😈

Joel: honk honk 😈

You: Bye 🙄 😒

Joel: 👅

A smile tugs at your lips as you read through the conversation from earlier this evening. You hadn’t told him about the date. Or dates, rather. If this one had gone well, you might have. If things wound up back at your place and actually moved a step toward something. 

You deflate against the back of your couch. Because there’s nothing now. Just you, your suffocating dress, and your stupid heels. The vicious claws of insecurity start to scrape at the back of your neck. 

Brent didn’t want you. You weren’t good enough. You’re not good enough for anyone.

Tears prick at your eyes and you dab them with the side of your finger to keep your mascara intact, following it up with some deep breaths and your head tipping back between your shoulders, forcing the tears back into your skull.  

That’s not true, you recite to yourself. You know there’s always someone who’s happy to see you. 

Another deep breath. 

Someone who would be dead on his feet seeing you dressed like this. 

On your next breath you’re already shimmying out of your panties and checking the mirror to make sure no one is getting a free show who doesn’t deserve it. 

You scurry as quickly as you can to your car, shivering so fiercely it feels like your goddamn pussy has goosebumps from being exposed like this. You weather through it, chanting in your head some quote you heard about how hoes never get cold. 

When you get to the gas station, you scamper from your car into the store, shuddering when the heat hits you once you open the door. You tug your dress down and glance around, not immediately seeing Joel anywhere. He’s not at his usual spot, parked behind the counter. You venture further into the shop, peering down the aisle. 

“Evening,” someone says just behind you, and you jump, whirling around. 

It’s not Joel. It’s some other schmuck with a scraggly, graying ginger beard and a crooked, lumpy nose. His smile is friendly enough, but it lacks that trademark sleaziness that typically oozes from the person you’re accustomed to seeing man the store. His name tag reads Walter. 

“Evening,” you squeak out, cringing and clearing your throat when your voice spills out much higher pitched than you expected. You tug on your dress again. 

“Help you with anything?” he asks, and you’re relieved to find his gaze holding steady on yours, not drifting elsewhere despite the swathes of skin on display in your chosen outfit.

Joel wouldn’t even be able to begin to know where to fucking look, your mind provides, and you find yourself trying to come to terms with the apparent fact that… Joel isn’t here. 

He isn’t here – on Valentine’s Day. 

“I’m, um…I’m actually looking for Joel?”

Walter’s eyebrows shoot up, then fall into a furrow. “He been hiring on the clock again? Goddamn it, I told him not to fucking do that anymore,” he mutters, shaking his head down at the floor before looking back up at you. “Miss, I’m real sorry, I know you’re doing honest work and all, but I can’t have that shit here.”

It takes a moment for you to fully register what he’s saying, but when you do, your eyes go wide. “Oh, sir, I’m not— you’ve got— no, no. I’m just a friend of Joel’s.”

“I'm sure you are, Miss, but I—”

“I’m not a prostitute,” you insist under your breath, glancing around to ensure no one is in the vicinity. “I swear to god, I just had a date tonight, or I was going on a date, and then I wasn’t, and— I swear, I’m just dressed for a date. A normal date.”

You’re not sure your frantic insistence has Walter very reassured, but he just nods, a skeptical look in his eye. “Well, in any case, he’s not here. He’s got the night off.”

“Got it. Okay, thank you,” you say, wincing a little at the palpable awkwardness. You rush past him to leave, your heels clicking loudly, and apparently, whorishly, across the floor. 

“Stay safe out there, honey,” Walter calls after you. 

Your car is blessedly still harboring warmth as you clamor back inside and start the engine. You catch your breath and mull over what to do next. 

He wasn’t there. On Valentine’s Day. You feel like that can only mean one thing. Something squiggles and squirms in your belly at that thought. 

You have one more shot, and you take it, speeding off toward the outskirts, hoping you can go fast enough to drown out the weird feeling in your stomach. 

—

His truck is there. And it’s alone in the gravel next to his trailer. 

You see light through his weeping blinds, a warm yellow glow accompanied by periodically flickering colors that you assume is his television. A good sign, you think. 

The wind whips around your bare legs as you climb his steps carefully in your stilettos, staring up to admire the waxing gibbous moon shining absurdly bright against the speckled black sky. You lean against the dilapidated railing of his tiny porch in front of his door. The sky is never this bright where you live. It fills you with a sort of warmth. Comfort. You hear the distorted sound of voices on his television and the faint aroma of weed seeping out the frame of his door. 

You don’t hear anyone else. 

So you knock. 

You hear a nasty cough from the other side of the door and the volume of the TV ticking down. The door swings open and you’re hit in the face two-fold—with a wall of smoke and a wall of bare-chested man. 

Joel blinks and squints reddened eyes as he blocks the entire doorway, billows of haze attempting to escape around him to the fresh air. Then recognition glows in his eyes and his gaze drifts. Up and down. And his jaw goddamn drops. 

Your arms clasp at your back as you rock on your teetering heels. 

“Hi.”

Joel crams his eyes shut again, shaking his head like a dog like he’s trying to clear a fog over his vision. But he opens them again, and you’re still standing there, and he expels a long, narrow breath through his lips. 

“Jesus fucking Christ. This is heaven, right? Or— jesus— fuckin’…hell, in that devil of a dress,” he shakes his head again, slower, more like disbelief, and a smile pushes at your mouth. “You just showin’ up on my doorstep? Dressed like that? I must be fuckin’ dead.”

You temper your broadening grin, reining in your utter delight at receiving exactly the reaction you were craving. “So, you’re saying me, weed, and…” you crane your head to peek at his television, “And SVU is your idea of heaven?”

“Damn near fuckin’ close,” he says, a reverence about his tone as he drinks you in gratuitously. He pulls himself out of his stupor and hurriedly gestures inside. “Jesus, sweetheart, come in. Gotta be freezin’ your gorgeous tits off out there.”

His hand falls to the small of your back as he ushers you inside, the sweet tang of his evening stress relief burning stronger in your nostrils in his living room. 

Joel shuts the door behind you both and lets out a sharp whistle. “Sweet Mary Mother’a God. That fuckin’ ass,” he mutters under his breath. 

You peer your head around your shoulder to take in the sight of him, just as he does you. One hand frozen against the door, soft belly poking out over the hem of his sweatpants, dark hair sweeping over the curve of it and up his chest. And, of course, that fucking tent at his crotch, growing larger by the second. 

“Be still my fuckin’ heart – the hell are you doin’ here in that, darlin’ girl?”

Your cheeks begin to heat. 

He’s never said it like that. Darlin’ girl. It’s usually some iteration of one or the other, but never together. 

Darlin’ girl. 

You fill in a blank for yourself — unintentionally, but so fucking naturally. 

My darlin’ girl. 

Where your stomach was squirming, it now flutters. You swallow it down. Pull your mind back. You just want to feel wanted. That’s why you’re here. 

Then he’s at your back, pressing all of him against you. The softness of his torso, the scratch of his facial hair, the hardness of his cock. Planting feathery kisses along your neck with teasing bites. 

A giggle bubbles up your chest and you free up more of your neck for him to devour. “I’m here to see the stupid aliens, you dumbass.”

His lips pause on your neck. “Oh yeah?” he mumbles against your skin. 

“Yeah,” you laugh lightly, “Where’s your flying saucer? Your flashing lights?”

Joel’s hands sweep up your sides and cup your breasts through your dress, squeezing them tight in his grip. “Right fuckin’ here, baby,” he growls into the underside of your jaw, “Let me turn ‘em on for ya.”

You throw your head back with another easy laugh and you feel the shape of his smile against your cheek as he massages your covered tits. 

“Mmmm,” he hums, rocking his hips against your ass, his massive length nestling and sliding between your cheeks over your dress. “Come smoke a bowl with me. ‘N then tell me why you’re dressed like living sin in my living room.” 

“How about you just fuck me,” you sigh, tangling your fingers into Joel’s hair and holding his lips to your neck. 

“‘Cause I wanna stare at you in this dress a little while longer ‘fore I rip it to fuckin’ shreds,” he says, his words increasingly muffled by the exposed skin of your spaghetti-strapped shoulder. 

A shiver trembles down your spine and you take a steadying breath. “Okay. Then you better detach before all that shit goes out the window.”

Joel takes a deep breath and rolls his forehead over your shoulder with a moan. “Smart. You’re so goddamn smart. So goddamn pretty. Got my Peter pipin’ up a storm down there.”  

You roll your eyes and will yourself forward, toppling onto his sagging couch with him trailing along behind and groaning as he sinks into it. 

Your hands go to the straps on your heels and you begin to unfasten when you hear a definitive nuh-uh. You glance up and Joel’s eyes are fixated on your blood-red satin heels. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare.”

“Really?”

“Really. Those naughty fuckers stay on,” he orders, and you have no choice but to let your hands fall away. 

“Okay, then.”

Joel’s tongue darts out to wet his lips briefly. “Shit. Alright. Where the fuck was I?”

Joel busies his hands – his focus – with topping off the contents in the bowl of his bong. He graciously offers it to you. 

“Light it for me?”

Joel smirks and flicks his lighter as he holds the glass contraption steady. 

Once you’ve taken a healthy puff, Joel sets the devices aside and crooks a finger under your chin, coaxing you forward. The burn curls in your throat as you hold the smoke. Joel’s nose traces a delicate line down your cheek before hovering his parted lips over your mouth and tracing his thumb over your painted red lip, smearing the color down your chin. 

“Let it out,” he mutters, his heavy, rosey stare shimmering into yours. 

The smoke cascades from between your lips into Joel’s waiting mouth where he inhales it with practiced ease, holding it for a moment before exhaling the remnants of it over your face with a lazy smile. 

“So fuckin’ sweet spillin’ outta that mouth, little Sugarplum,” he croons, continuing to futz with the color on your lips. 

You wrinkle your nose at him and laugh. “Dude, you’re so fucking high right now, my asshole would probably taste sweet.”

“It does,” Joel drawls, rolling your bottom lip down and watching it snap back up. “I got first-hand ‘xperience. Or…first…mouth…” Joel’s train of thought floats off from there as his eyes transfix on your lips. 

“Another hit, please.”

That refocuses his attention and he nods, a little sluggish. You take the reins this time, lighting the bowl yourself and savoring your pull. 

As you exhale again into the thick air of his trailer, Joel takes another, more modest puff to maintain his already achieved high. 

“Shit, I needed this,” you groan, feeling more and more boneless as you melt into his couch. “That’s good shit.”

“I don’t skimp on what’s important,” Joel mumbles, slumping over until his curly mop plops into your lap. 

You chuckle at him, stroking a hand through his hair and receiving a very pornographic moan in response when your nails scratch against his scalp. 

“Fuckin’ Christ. You’re my fuckin’ angel. Angel in devil’s clothes.”

Cleverness begins to fail you as the cozy tendrils of the weed start to lighten your brain into something a little more relaxed. So you just sink into the couch, playing with his soft locks and humming to his lethargic babble. 

When you’ve waded through the deepest of the haze, Joel sits back up, cradling his cheek in the crook of his arm as it balances on the back of his sofa. “So what are you doin’ here, Sugarplum? You get all dressed up for me? ‘Cause I somehow doubt that.”

You smirk at him in what you hope is playfully, but lands somewhere closer to dopey. “Why do you doubt that?”

He just fixes you with a telling look, and you concede. 

“Okay. No, I um– I had a date tonight.”

Joel nods, a little exaggeratedly in his current state. “Pretty little thing had a date. ‘Course she did.”

“Well, I did,” you say, pulling your legs up onto the couch and folding them to your side, maintaining what seems like a silly level of modesty given your present company. “Until he canceled on me about twenty minutes before he was supposed to pick me up.”

The divots between his brows seem to grow impossibly deep at that. “You gotta be goddamn jokin’ me. No fucker in his right mind would stand up a thing like you.”

You dip your head down, picking at the fraying threads of his couch cushion. “Not so sure about that.”

“I am. I’m damn sure.”

You shrug, “I just didn’t want the dress to go to waste.”

“Sure as hell didn’t.”

You hum in response. Picking. Tugging. Picking. Tugging. Until you feel fingers pinching your chin and guiding your attention up. And his eyes are still watery, still tinged with red, but are so unwavering as they burrow into your own, brimming with wetness for a wholly different reason. 

“Hey,” he utters, soft as anything, soft as his hair, soft as his belly, soft as his eyes. “It sure as hell didn’t,” he repeats, and waits for you to acknowledge it. 

And you do, with a small nod and sniffle. 

“Good girl.”

Your lip quivers at that, and the words tumble out. “Fuck me. Right now.”

Your back hits the seat cushions and his mouth is on yours, tasting sweet and a little bitter as his tongue strokes between your teeth. His noises pitch upward as you tug lightly at his hair, and his knee situates itself between your legs, providing you with delicious friction against your already dripping core. 

Joel’s breath wafts hot over your ear as he rasps, “You take your panties off for him or for me?”

“For you,” you reply breathily, moaning as he nips and licks at your ear, his increased breath reverberating in your head so loud it makes your pussy throb with the influx of intimacy. 

“All for me?” he asks, maneuvering a hand down to where you’re wet and begging for him, “Goin’ commando in this tight ‘n tiny little number, riskin’ givin’ anyone on the street a flash of your drippy little slit?”

Your moan bounces off the walls when he slips two fingers inside of you, pumping and curling them with a rehearsed accuracy that has pleasure fraying your edges as soon as he sets his pace. 

“And you brought it here to me? Brought me this sexy, heart-shaped box of yours all wrapped up in a pretty package?”

“Yes, daddy,” you breathe out, wrapping a heel-clad foot around his waist to spread yourself open for him, “Brought it for you. All for you. Please.”

“You gonna come for me, you naughty little angel? Come on daddy’s fingers.”

You whimper as he strokes at you with those fingers, his other hand descending on your clit to rub circles with his thumb. Your hips buck into his hand on your clit and down onto his fingers pistoning inside you, and you feel yourself coming apart all at once, your voice breaking as you call out for him. 

Joel showers you in praise as he fucks you through your release, resting his forehead on your temple. “Good fuckin’ girl. All that for daddy. Good girl. Squeeze daddy’s fingers, just like that, baby. Fuckin’ shit. So fuckin’ pretty.”

A whine kicks up in your throat as the overstimulation starts to throb in your clit, and you bump at his hand to stem the sensation. Joel’s fingers web through yours as he pins your hand above your head on the arm of the sofa, his two fingers slowing to a methodical crawl within your pussy. 

“Love how you feel around my fuckin’ fingers, sweetheart. Love seein’ how tight you clench around ‘em, knowin’ I’m about to stretch you wide open on my cock and feel you just as tight.”

“Fucking love your cock, daddy,” you keen as your hips undulate in time with his continued ministrations inside you. “Wanna be filled with it right now.”

“You want daddy’s cock now?” he teases, the tips of his two fingers dragging delightfully against the most enticing spot of your inner walls, drawing a tender gasp from your lips. 

“I really, really do,” you whimper, grinding onto his hand harder, “Need you to split me open, daddy.”

“Can I get a ‘please’ all pretty-like for me?”

You whine again and nod. “Please, daddy. Fill me with your cock.”

“You deserve it, don’t you, sexy girl?”

And the way he asks it, the way his eyes bore into yours when he does, you feel like he’s asking you to admit to more than you’d otherwise be willing to offer yourself. 

Tell yourself that you deserve good things. You deserve this pleasure. 

“I—” your breath hitches as his fingers crook inside you again, your nerve faltering at your lips. 

Joel’s lips part as he keeps drawing your pleasure tighter again, and you feel your core building that pressure again. “Tell me. Tell daddy you deserve his cock.”

“I— I deserve it,” you force out through the mounting pleasure in your brain, gasping when his fingers pick up momentum. “Oh, god, that…it feels…”

“Yeah, pretty girl? You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good for daddy, I can feel it too. You deserve this, baby,” he coos, releasing your trapped hand to press firmly above your pulsing cunt. “Fuck, you’re so goddamn wet for me. Show me how wet you are for daddy, make your little hole gush for me.”

“Daddy, I…oh,” you squeak out as a wave of pleasure washes over you, pulsing out your limbs. And more than that, you feel a steady stream of liquid flow out of you, you hear the wet slap of Joel’s fingers, his palm, as it floods his hand. 

“Oh fuck, that’s it, baby. That’s it, darlin’ girl. Soak my fuckin’ hand. Such a naughty little bitch. Squirtin’ out your filthy little snatch for daddy. That’s fuckin’ right,” he babbles as his palm smacks lewdly up against your cunt with a fresh wave of wetness. 

Your hips jolt with the heightened sensation, and you can’t muster anything more than barely audible moans as Joel fucks you until you have nothing left for him to coax out. 

“Fuckin’ shit, sweetheart. Messy fuckin’ girl,” he grunts as he wipes his dripping hand on his sweats before tucking both behind your knees and spreading your legs to admire your drenched, finger-fucked cunt. “So juicy for daddy, huh? Daddy’s gonna slide his big straw into that sloppy little juice box of yours. And when I’m done you can suck on his big straw like a good little girl. How’s that sound, sweetheart?”

“Can you please just fuck me?” you beg, slipping the straps of your dress off your shoulders to push your dress and strapless bra below your tits. Joel stares hungrily as you play with them for him. 

“Fuck me. Yeah, your little box is ready to get stuffed, ain’t it?” he moans, tilting his head to the side to kiss up your calf and up to your ankle, still encased in your shoe. His teeth bite at the strap and buckle, skimming his lips wetly down the curve of your foot to the arch of it and sucking at the side of it he’s able to reach. 

“Joel,” you whine helplessly, desperately as your pussy screams for that bulge in his pants to bury itself inside your body instead. “What the fuck are you doing.”

“Worshippin’ my slutty little goddess. You blessed me with this little dress, this tasty little puss, so I’m gonna show my appreciation,” he mutters into your foot. 

And it shouldn’t feel good, but you’ve never had anyone put their lips on your feet before, and you’re so fucking horny for this man, you let yourself feel it. Your other heel drapes over his shoulder as his mouth drags over the slope of your foot and back up your ankle. 

“Such a pretty outfit, so I’ve decided not to tear it apart. Nasty little whore, you made it easy to access whatever I want anyway,” he chuckles a bit, gliding his teeth up until he can bite at the skin under your knee. 

You groan and press your head into the couch cushion, “Not the first person to accuse me of being a hooker tonight.”

Joel pauses for a second with a suspicious look. “Who was the first? Better not’ve been that shitty fucker who stood you up, or I’ll deck his lights out,” he says with a gentle aggression that has a rolling heat burgeoning in your stomach for a reason you can’t quite place.

“No, it was that old guy at your work tonight.”

Joel cocks his head. “Walter? Walter said you were a hooker?”

“I said I was looking for you and he just…assumed, I think. You hire hookers on the clock? ‘Cause he seems to think so.”

“Only a handful of times,” he mutters, his eyes going shifty, uneasy, almost…embarrassed. “I don’t wanna talk about that. Not with your slutty little hole winkin’ at me like that.”

“Fair enough,” you dismiss, tapping your heel against Joel’s back to spark his attention. “Stop making me fucking wait for what I came for.”

“Already came twice,” Joel says under his breath, but he uses the hand not gripping the back of your knee to work his cock out of its confines, springing out angry and red and as intimidating as ever. He leaves it bobbing free as he takes up his hands behind both of your knees to spread you wider. “Guide it where you want it, pretty girl. He’s all yours.”

You bite your lip at those words. He’s all yours. Your hand wraps around his girth before you let your mind race too far. You stroke him softly and revel in the way his chin droops down to his chest and a groan rumbles in his throat at the first real stimulation of his cock. 

“Let me feel that red velvet pussy, baby.”

You finally notch the fat head of him at your entrance and wiggle your hips down the couch, gasping as it parts your opening with a dull sting. When you capture Joel’s gaze, you beg softly, “Fuck it, daddy. She’s all yours.”

His face caves into an expression so aroused it almost looks painful. And then he’s groaning to fill the hush of the room and spearing into your cunt with every inch of him at once. 

You’ll never get used to the sounds that he pushes out of you when he fucks you full, when he enters you for the first time and smacks you in the face with how gigantic he is in comparison to the tight ring of your pussy. Like a wounded animal, like prey falling to a predator, like you’re irreversibly changed once he’s claimed you for his own. 

His rhythm sets off harsh and frantic and consuming, keeping your legs spread to feast his eyes upon your ravaged flesh. 

“Fuck, so goddamn perfect. Feel so perfect around my cock. Milkin’ daddy just right with this tight little hole, aren’t you, baby?”

“Yeah,” you whimper, tweaking your hardened nipples between your fingers and massaging at your tits as his hips smack against yours, the drenched state of your pussy enhancing the sound. 

Joel secures your legs over his shoulders and leans in over you, bracketing your head with his hands and snapping his hips into you as you cry out with the change in angle, pulling him deeper inside you. 

“Yeah, daddy’s so fuckin’ deep, huh? You love this fuckin’ cock? You love daddy fuckin’ this dirty snatch so fuckin’ deep?”

“Yes,” you keen, flinging your hands back to dig your nails into the arm of his couch and using it as leverage to fuck yourself down onto his length as he shoves it in, falling into a blissful harmony. 

“Fuck daddy’s cock, slutty girl. God, I fuckin’ love that. Suckin’ it right up your cunt like a pro. Pussy’s so tight I got it molded to my cock now, don’t I? Ain’t gonna fit right with no other cock, is it?”

“No, daddy,” you whine, plunging yourself down onto him again and again just to feel the tip of it dragging along your cervix in that way you have come to fucking crave. Joel’s cock fucks you open and curves up into that perfect spot inside of you in the most flawless rhythm, and it has you spiraling into another orgasm with no discernible warning. You pussy clenches and spills around his cock, soaking the both of you with what Joel had already primed you for with his fingers. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, baby,” Joel moans as he lets his cock slip out of you to watch you gush onto his thoroughly soiled couch. He fucks back into you in a single push and withdraws again, just to see more of it rush out. Joel fists his cock and slaps it down onto your spread folds in a series of heavy smacks, then rubs the head of it against your clit as the rivulets cascading from you subside. “Gushin’ like a fuckin’ jacuzzi. Where you been hidin’ this little party trick?”

“I don’t fucking know,” you pant out, trying to get a grip on your shaking thighs as Joel’s cock slides through your folds. “Fuck. I didn’t know…”

“Well if anyone was gonna teach you, it would be your big dick daddy, now wouldn’t it?” Joel brags, smacking the full length of him against your lips and lower belly. 

You twitch with residual aftershocks as the weight of him jostles you, and Joel chuckles. 

“You’re shaking like a leaf darlin’,” he says, tapping one of your quivering thighs. “Flip over for me. Daddy’s gonna dick you down real good.”

“Gonna?” you squeak out, staring at him incredulously, “What have you been doing so far?”

Joel presses his lips together to stifle a laugh and smacks at your thigh again. “Ego’s already big enough, darlin’. Don’t go pumpin’ it up for me now.”

“Can say that again,” you mutter with a small smile, but flip over until you’re flat on your stomach and resting your head in your arms. “Big dick, bigger ego.”

Joel grunts behind you as he settles on top of you, slipping his arm under and around your shoulder and nuzzling into your neck. He grinds his cock into the cleft of your ass before pulling back and aligning it at your entrance again with his hand. He hums in your ear and says with laughter in his voice, “Imagine if it was my ego I was shovin’ into this tiny cunt. You’d be fucked.”

Your reply is replaced with a gasping moan as he presses back into you at a different angle, this one rubbing intensely along the front wall of your pussy. The groan you release is embarrassing, abhorrent to your own ears, but Joel’s answering moan has all concern fluttering from your conscience. 

“How’re you still so fuckin’ tight after I’ve fucked you open so many times, huh, Sugarplum?” he asks, voice clearly forced out through his teeth, like he’s fighting for his life not to spill his load inside of you in the next few seconds. But he bottoms out and fucks you slow, staying balls deep and making a home for himself there in the deepest part of you. “Jesus, need to dust off the ol’ cock ring. Wanna fuck you for hours, baby. Fuck you raw and stupid on this dick. Fuck you ‘til you fall asleep on it, you’re so goddamn tired. Fuck you ‘til you forget what it feels like to not be stuffed full of me.”

“Daddy,” you whimper into your arms, already overwhelmed by the sheer heft of this man making room for himself inside your body, not even giving your pussy an ounce of space to relax that isn’t around him, isn’t on his terms. “Feels so fucking good inside. So fucking big.”

“I know it, sweetheart. So good at takin’ this cock. That first time I thought you was gonna pass out on it. And look at you now – shakin’ and beggin’ for it like a bitch. You daddy’s bitch, nasty girl?”

“Yes,” you whine as Joel starts to slam his hips harder, faster into you, “Yes, I’m your bitch, daddy!” And you’re suddenly screaming it for him as his fingers dig into the back of your shoulder, holding you steady as he uses you. 

“Fuck yeah,” he growls out, hoisting himself off you and hauling your hips into the air along with him. He fucks down deep into you as you moan into the couch, allowing him to take what he’s rightfully earned from you, simply by appreciating you, knowing how to make you scream, knowing how to make you come. 

And you’re fairly dizzy with the experience, but you aren’t far gone enough to not feel the slippery thumb massaging circles against the tight ring of muscle he’s only ever explored before with his tongue. 

A mewl escapes your lips as the tip of the digit teases your resolve. 

“You gonna be my little slut, baby? Let daddy put his thumb in your ass. It’s real good for ya. It’ll be real good,” he speaks in breathy pants as his cock maintains its devastating tempo. 

You let out a pitiful whimper, and you’re only partially surprised that the only answer in your head is yes, yes, yes. 

It’s apparently also on your lips, because without even registering that you’ve said it aloud, Joel is rumbling out a deep and resonant, “That’s my darlin’ girl.” You swear you feel your eyes roll back in your head as the possessive praise inextricably clings itself to the sensation of his thick, meaty thumb gliding into your asshole up to the knuckle. 

It shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t feel this good having his cock filling you to the brim and then even more of him filling your ass. You’ve never liked anal, you’ve never even been interested in it, but this fucking tornado of a man has everything spinning in your head, disorienting your thoughts, screaming at you that what you thought was wrong is so, so right. 

“Lemme get a picture of this, sweetheart – of you all plugged up with me.”

“Okay,” you gasp, constricting your grip around his thumb as if needing to hammer into your head that there’s a finger in your ass. A thick finger. He can probably feel his own cock through the separating skin. 

Joel groans as you flex around his finger. “Spread yourself for the camera, baby.”

Your hands move to your cheeks and you can’t bring yourself to feel shame for this. Not for shit like this, with him. Not anymore. He makes you feel dirty and sexy and beautiful and worth his time. Why the hell wouldn’t you want to document this?

“Fuckin’ hell. Just like that.” You hear a series of shutters, and then his thumb slides out of you and he uses it to pull at the small established gape he’s made of your asshole. A few more shutters and Joel is muttering perfect, fuckin’ perfect, as he tosses his phone aside.

The words flow through you like hot honey tea, even if you weren’t meant to hear them. How does a man like him make you feel so treasured when you’re with him? You don’t belong to him, but he treats you like you do, in the most respectful of ways. He drags you down with him into the depths of his depravity, and yet once you’re there, you’re pleasured like… like a goddess. Like his goddess. 

Joel’s hips ramp up again, timing his thrusts with that of his thumb as he fucks you in both holes at once. “God, so fuckin’ beautiful like this. Wanna stretch this hole open until you can take this whole cock up your ass, baby. Spill my load in there, watch it drip down your cunt.”

And you had said unequivocally no. You had said, not tabling. Off the table. But, god, deep down you know he’d make it feel so good. Somehow, he’d make it worth it. And it’s fucking killing you. You can’t admit that to him, you can’t let him know that you’re convinced he could make anything feel good. That’s too close to something. And this isn’t something. This is I make you feel good, you make me feel good, and we go our separate ways. 

So you just moan for him in response. A verbal confirmation is too much. Giving him too much power over you. And Joel seems too lost in the clutch of your body to parse the difference. 

“Velvet fuckin’ pussy, darlin’,” he chants to the rhythm of his hips colliding with yours, and you’ve come to recognize the telltale signs of his impending orgasm. His sounds start to fluctuate in pitch, his hips more stuttered in their movement, his fingernails indent your skin as he frantically clings to the final moments of euphoric crescendo before the cymbal crash. 

And crash it does, announced with an unabashed groan of sheer pleasure as he spills himself inside of you again, so many times now you’ve lost count, lost sense of the level of responsibility in your actions. Too feral, too dependent on the soothing, post-fuck tranquility of his come dripping from the deepest part of you. A balm to your stretched, aching wound that he caused, because you asked him to — keep asking him to — again and again. A reminder of where he’s been, what he’s done to you, what he’s done with you in all these private moments. 

He slips himself free, and you feel the trickle of him, evidence of how much he’s pumped into you. Leaving you open and gaping, yet so fucking full of him, even after he’s gone. Pulled out and dripped free of your heat and hold. 

Lazy kisses paint up your back where your dress has ridden up your spine, and then back down to bite more reminders of him into the flesh of your ass, until he guides your hips flush to the couch and blankets you with his weight. 

Minutes of quiet breath-catching tick by, feeling the scratch of his hair where your bare skin meets along your bodies, until Joel breaks the silence to say, “Stupid bastard was out of his fuckin’ mind.”

And you’re not positive why, but you feel tears stinging your eyes again. You steel yourself, refuse to let them fall, force them to dry out before they betray you. 

You clear your throat of any traitorous frogs before you speak again. “Sorry about your couch.”

“Nothin’ to be sorry ‘bout,” he reassures, grunting quietly as he shifts himself off you and slips behind instead, pulling you into him, “Plus, Doreen’s got one of them special little steam cleaners she lets me borrow from time to time. Get it cleaned up real nice.”

“Doreen?”

“Little old lady ‘cross the way,” he says into your hair. 

You do your best to turn slightly and look at him. “You’re friends with the little old lady across the way?”

“You doubt my charm?”

Your eyes search his face — the wide, dopey smile, the drooping eyelids, the dwindling glassy rose in his eyes from the weed — and you smile back. 

“Maybe. Feel like you would be a kind old lady’s worst nightmare.”

“Nah, I’m a good boy. Just ask my mama,” he quips. 

“Sure,” you joke, positioning yourself back into a proper little spoon. 

You feel a kiss on the back of your head. “Gonna step out for some fresh air and a smoke. Keep me company?”

You grumble as Joel props himself upright on the couch and pulls his sweats back up. “‘S’cold outside,” you groan, watching him as he stands and slips on a shirt from where it was strewn onto the back of a chair. 

Joel studies you where you lie, your dress a flimsy accordion with the top and bottom convening at your torso, leaving Joel’s favorite bits on display. And as much as you assume it probably pains him to have your body hidden from his view, he says, “You can wear my coat.”

Your eyes light up. “Yeah?”

Joel masks a grin and grabs the coat off the peg by the door, throwing it to you. You know this coat. You’ve worn it before. And although you don’t want to give yourself away by inhaling its scent too gratuitously, you don’t capture any hints of your perfume on the fabric in your covert sniffs. It’s been too long. 

You push yourself onto only moderately shaky legs and work yourself back into your dress properly before slipping your arms through the coat and zipping it around you. You feel a bit like a giant marshmallow in the padded utility jacket, but when you look back up at Joel, there’s a shimmer of something in his eyes, on his face. And something like a twitch in his mouth, like he wants to say something, but thinks better of it. 

You’re not sure you’ve ever seen Joel hold his tongue over anything, so it’s likely just a trick of the light, the lingering effects of your high. 

Joel’s eyes only tear from you to swipe up his smokes and lighter from the coffee table and step into a pair of slides before he’s leading you out the door. 

The cold is bitter, but Joel’s coat is warm enough. Your legs prick with the chill breeze as Joel sticks two cigarettes into his mouth and lights them both, handing one off to you. You rest on the railing with him side by side, taking reasonably synchronous puffs as you stare up at the moon, the stars. 

A couple screams at each other a few lots down, their voices only muted by the distance and the persistent, humming buzz of Joel’s porch light. 

“Right on cue,” Joel mumbles around his cig as he scratches his beard. “Kev can’t keep it in his fuckin’ pants for the life of ‘im.”

“Mmm. Sounds like someone I know.”

Joel’s sidelong glance is sprinkled with a sort of childlike mischievousness as the corners of his mouth lilt. “Maybe so. But I wouldn’t step out on my girl, though.”

His lingering gaze has the back of your neck growing hot. You hum in agreement as you take another drag, tapping the ash with fingers half-obscured by the length of Joel’s sleeves and watching as it falls to the gravel below. 

Joel flicks the ash of his own smoke against the railing to plop down next to yours, and exhales a cloud as he stares off in the direction of the feuding couple’s trailer. “When I got a girl, that’s all I need. And it’s been a rare blue moon that my girl ever went and got it somewhere else.”

He takes in a steady, clean breath and shrugs with his head before continuing. “And whenever they did, they came crawlin’ right back. Always come to find that their daddy lays the best pipe. Ain’t never seen one of my girls spread ‘em open for no one else after they stepped out the first time. Not ‘til after it was over.” 

Your focus catches on his lips as they wrap around his cigarette again, the barest concave of his cheeks as he sucks, the pout of him as he expels into the night air. And you ache to say something. You feel heavy with it. 

The opening chords of a melodic ballad fall upon your ears, and you both swivel your heads in the opposite direction of the screaming pair. Instead, you’re graced with a couple coming together in an embrace, slowly rocking to the music floating from their porch. 

A soft laugh escapes you as you watch them wistfully. “Now that is how a Valentine’s Day is supposed to end.”

Joel glances at you. He takes one last drag from his smoke and tamps it out on the wood before dropping it into a chipped mug on the railing, housing a dozen cigarette butts. He holds a hand out to you and tilts his head toward the pavement. 

You stare at his outstretched hand, and your mind trips over itself to unravel the intent behind it. “What are—”

“Dance with me.”

Your eyes snap up to his, and you’re met with an easy smile on a disheveled, glassy-eyed, gorgeous man. Braving the cold in sweats, a wrinkly and hole-riddled Henley, and slides on tube-socked feet. Asking you to dance while clad in his coat and your stilettos. 

You chew on your lip as you watch his fingers wiggle impatiently as your cigarette butt kisses Joel’s in the mug when you discard it. And then as your hand slides into his. 

“Atta girl,” he praises you softly, tugging you down the steps with him and onto the pavement. 

Joel isn’t fancy with it. He just pulls you close into him, wrapping his arms around your waist as you drape your head on his shoulder.  He sways the two of you from side to side following the beat of the music. Your heels scrape the asphalt, your nails scratch the back of his neck, and his hands dip below the hem of his coat to tease at the round of your ass over your dress. 

“Sure I ain’t said it enough, but you’re a goddamn knockout tonight,” he rumbles quietly into your ear, his fingers groping at the bottom curve of your cheeks to emphasize his point. 

And after your date flaked on you, after you got dolled up for him, got your hopes up for a nice night, and had your plans disintegrate between your fingers, just for Joel to swoop in and illuminate your sky with stars, those words spear right through your heart. 

And you know you should say something traditionally sweet back. Something like thank you or you too. But as those softer words rattle around your brain, you feel wetness trickling down your inner thigh, and you opt to whisper something more personalized. Something you know Joel would find sweetest of all to fall from your lips. “I can feel you dripping out of me.”

A groan vibrates up his chest and one hand slips between your bodies until you feel the cool press of his fingers at your cunt. 

“Fuck me, darlin’,” he breathes, bringing up two thick fingers for you to see, glistening opalescent in the moonlight. 

He doesn’t ask, you just drop your jaw and stick your tongue out for him, sucking your shared juices off his skin as your eyes lock. He pulls them free and replaces them with his mouth, tasting the two of you off your tongue. Joel’s hand nestles under your dress once more to cup your pussy. Not to slide inside, not to get you off. Just to hold you as close as he knows how. To catch where the two of you fall. 

He nuzzles your nose with his and tucks your face into his neck with his other hand as he sways with you. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Sugarplum.” 

You sigh into his neck and lay your hand over his beneath your dress. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, daddy.”

Read Chloe's Account of Joel's UFO sighting here!

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I really do hope they all go to hell 😭

Chapter 5: All the Boys Want Me

‼️WARNING‼️: STRONG TRIGGER WARNING FOR SEXUAL ABUSE TO A MINOR AND GRAPHIC LANGUAGE.

Growing up I had more confidence than I probably should have. I would strut my chubby 7 year old body around the pool wearing a tankini that made my butt sag, look the male lifeguards up and down, then do a cannonball in the shallow end, to show them just how sexy I could be. I always assumed that they were drooling over me because, well, how could they not? I knew plenty of grown men that wanted in my pants so I just assumed I had whatever it was that made men go crazy.

Men like my uncle. My mom’s brother. Let’s call him Bobby. My uncle Bobby would stumble into my grandma’s house, high off of whatever pills he could get his hands on that day. He would look at me and say “Wow you’re really growing up! How old are you now 18?” I’d laugh because I thought he was just trying to compliment me and say that thing that all adults tell kids which is “you’re growing up so fast!” “No I’m 5 Uncle Bobby!” I’d say trying to sound sassy while rolling my eyes. He’d grab me into a bear hug and squeeze my ass and say “well you could have fooled me!”

Bobby had a raging pill addiction, one he inherited from my grandmother. It wasn’t uncommon to go to visit my grandparents house and he’d be there slumped over in a chair drooling and murmuring about how the family all treats him like shit. I felt bad for him. He must have been the outcast and felt lonely. I knew what it was like to be lonely so I’d make a point to sit with him and talk about whatever I could think of. Most often times it was about plans I had for my future or showing him my latest moves I learned in ballet class. “I’m turning 6 soon so I’ll be moving up a class in ballet!” He’d mumble something about the government and continue to drool and snore. I’d continue dancing and telling my stories.

Sometimes I’d go over to my grandparents house and he’d be there all day. My grandpa would be taking one of his daily naps after the bar and my grandma would be passed out on Xanax or forcing someone to take her to dollar general for cleaning supplies. Which would leave me and Uncle Bobby alone. One day, when he was only about 50% fucked up with pills, he came up with a game for us to play. It was called Disneyland. Disneyland was a game that was just for the two of us and HAD to be our secret. Otherwise everyone else would want to go to Disneyland with us someday.

The game went like this. For everything I let him grope and touch on me, he’d promise a ride on a different attraction at Disneyland. “This one gets you a ride on the tea cups!” He’d say as he groped my nonexistent boobs. “This one get you Tower of Terror” He’d whisper squeezing my butt. “This one is very special. It’s for splash mountain!” He’d laugh grabbing my vagina. I didn’t really like playing this game because it made no sense to me. How did any of these things add up to rides at Disneyland? I had no idea but the game seemed to make him happy and less lonely, and got me a promised trip to Disneyland. So I continued to play it with him every once in awhile when we were alone.

One day I walked passed him getting ready for dance class. He said “mmm” and smacked and squeezed my ass. I didn’t like it when he did that because he always did it too hard and it hurt. It reminded me of the spankings id get at home and it pissed me off. I’d finally had enough of it that day. I went up to my mom later on and said “I don’t like that Uncle Bobby touches my bottom. He shouldn’t get to smack it if I’ve done nothing wrong.” To which my mom looked at me in horror. She wanted more details but I was afraid to get in trouble so all I told her was that “Uncle Bobby likes to grab my butt when I walk passed him and I don’t like it. I also don’t like it when he says I’m sexy because that’s a bad word.”

I remember that night my aunt and uncle came over to my grandmas house. My mom, dad, grandma, uncle Bobby, and his wife all sat in the kitchen yelling while my grandpa and I played outside. I loved family quality time like this. My mom called me into the house and told me to sit on the couch, then left me alone in the room. My uncle Bobby came in and got down on his knees infront of me and said “Sorry sweety for touching your butt. I didn’t know that that’s a no no spot for you.” I sat in silence, thinking “huh, what about the other spots?” I didn’t look at him. “Can I have a hug now?” I just shook my head no and started to cry. I didn’t know why I was crying until he told me. “I guess we won’t be going to Disneyland since you told the secret.” Which made me mad because I DID NOT tell anyone our Disneyland plans. How dare he say I broke my promise.

For years to come after that the family never spoke of the incident. My mom’s biggest rule was that if my uncle Bobby tried to be alone with me I needed to try my best not to do that. I wasn’t allowed to be alone with him and it was my responsibility to make sure that didn’t happen. When he’d come over to my grandmas house I’d run and hide in my grandpas closet. “Watcha doin darlin?” He’d ask. “Oh I just wanted to sit and think in the dark grandpa!” I’d yell out from underneath a pile of clothes in the closet. I didn’t want to get in trouble so I did my best to make sure I didn’t end up alone with uncle Bobby.

It made my grandma angry though. She’d burst into the closet after awhile “why do you treat your uncle Bobby like this?! He’s done nothing wrong and you act like you’re afraid of him!” She’d seeth between her oddly white dentures. “I’ll get in trouble with my mom. Because he touched no no spots.” “HE DID NOT YOU MADE THAT UP!!!” She’d yell. I hated her. I was a lot of things to her apparently. Stupid. A brat. A bitch. Ungrateful. Stuck up. And now a LIAR? I was a lot of things but I was no liar. THAT WAS A SIN.

Uncle Bobby wasn’t the only man who saw the true sexual beast I thought I must have been as a child. Lots of church elders would sneak in a handful of nonexistent boob when giving me a hug. One of whom took me and a few other girls to the park and to McDonald’s one day. I learned that grownups love to share secrets with pretty little girls. Secrets like what color of underwear we were all wearing, or the fact that you can put salt ON TOP of your ketchup before dipping your fries.

We moved churches a lot growing up. Most of the time it was because my parents would find out a pedophile was targeting me. My parents would tell the church council and they’d get “well he’s been a member longer than your family has been so we can’t ask him to leave.” So we’d leave and find a new one. I felt bad that my parents had to deal with having such a sex magnet of a kid like me. The struggle of being THIS sexy was just too much for the house of god and his men to remain pure. I remember when I was 12 and got an email from a 40-something year old man in the church. It read, “ that dress you had on last week looked SOOO nice. You should wear it more often! ;) -love Mark.” I proudly showed my mom the email to prove to her that the dress was a fantastic purchase choice. We left that church after getting the usual reply from the council. Then my mom threw the dress away.

I got my first real, tax paying job at the age of 16. At Pizza Hut. There I felt free. Free to flirt with all the middle aged men that would tell me what they’d like to do to me after my shift. Free to flirt with my manager for free food. Free to escape the hell that was my house. Free to escape the man I called Dad. I found comfort and friendship at this job. Friends of all ages. A few teenagers that I’d go to Walmart with after our shifts ended and buy ice cream and pajamas. But my best friend was the delivery driver. I will not name him. I simply refer to him as “pizza hut guy” now. He was 32 and I was 16-17. We’d stay up all night talking on messenger video. It started out simple. Just him walking me to my car at night to keep me safe and asking if I got home alright.

It didn’t stay simple for long. I revealed the secret about my uncle to him one night after sneaking some alcohol from my parents. He was so hurt by the information that he cried. I couldn’t believe how good of a guy he seemed to be. He was perfectly nice. He always asked if I had taken my meds, even started to video called me to watch me take them every night. Wow, what a great guy. I’d call him on nights where my dad had been angry and throwing things and he’d promise that someday it would be better. Even if it was up to him to make it better for me. We’d hang out all durning our shifts, even coming in on our days off just to sit in the booth and hangout.

That booth was one of my favorite spots. It felt like it was just him and I, and that I could tell him anything. I told him my deepest darkest secrets and fantasies. He’d tell me his too. We’d laugh and cry and spend all night talking in that booth. Then go home after closing time and video chat until 3am. He’d ask me what color of underwear I was wearing and I’d answer him in Spanish to see if he could guess the right answer. He’d ask to see them so I’d set my camera up and prance around my room to show him. He’d tell me how beautiful I was and how if things were different, maybe he would fall in love with me.

Love. I still had no sense of what that word meant. I knew it was sexual. But also cuddly. Hot, but also comfortable. I wanted it so bad. I wanted to know exactly what love was. And if he was willing to teach me, I was willing to learn. We’d sit on the same side of the booth watching scary movies and cuddling he’d put his hand on my thigh and run it along the inseam of my jeans. Sneaking his hand up higher and higher until I’d call it quits. He’d get sad and say “I just want to make sure you know how it feels to be touched the right way before you end up in a relationship someday and have no idea what you’re doing.” It made perfect sense to me so I’d let him continue. Higher and higher his hand would go on my thigh and I’d giggle and he’d squeeze and smile. Until my manager would eventually walk over to tell us that we need to either clock in and work or order something. He’d snap his hand back into his lap so quickly I would try not to burst into laughter.

One night we had a closing shift together and once we locked the doors he asked if I wanted to sit for awhile before going home. I thought this sounded nice so I agreed. He walked me to my car and sat between me and the open driver door. My car was too small for him to sit in comfortably since he was 6’2” and about 350lbs. So he’d sit next to me on the ground often. He said he wanted to play a game and I was intrigued so I agreed. He said “put your hands on the steering wheel and don’t move them. No matter what.” So I did. He started groping my thighs, breasts, he’d put his hand lightly around my neck, then he’d grab my vagina through my jeans and I got nervous. I started to move my hands off the wheel. “Uh uh uh” he said with a smile. “Lay your chair back” I didn’t want to do that. “Lay it back or we just won’t be friends anymore.” I couldn’t loose him. So I did. He then climbed halfway into my car putting his body weight on me and trying to unbutton my jeans. “ I think I need to go home now.” I said trying to not panic. “Just few more steps until we’re done.” He said trying to get his hands into my pants.

I don’t know what happened in my moms brain that night but she forced my dad to drive her passed the Pizza Hut I was supposed to be closing that night. All the lights were off but she saw my car and Pizza Hut guy’s car still there. Just as he was about to fully climb on me my parents flew through the parking lot and he jumped off me and tried to pretend he was tying his shoe. “Get home. Now.” My mom shouted at me. He got up and just whispered “sorry” to my parents. He got in his car and sped off.

I got home and my mom laid into me about how dangerous my actions were and how I must be leading this man on. How she wasn’t stupid and knew I’d been talking to him every night and how he is expecting me to do things now. I was confused. Shouldn’t she be mad at him? I broke down sobbing. “I just wanted a friend mom. He’s not my friend though. He lied.” She called my job the next morning, told them everything and quit on my behalf. I went to return my uniforms and my manager said “ugh now I have to hire two waitresses to replace you. I can’t even go on my vacation anymore.” And that was it. Pizza Hut guys still works there to this day. I can’t walk into a pizza place and not get sick from the smell now.

I lay awake at night often. I think about all the girls that came before me into these men’s lives. And then I get a gut curdling pain when I think of all the ones that were after me. All the ones that my uncle got to. All the ones in the churches. And all the teenage waitresses at that Pizza Hut. I worry that I could have done something to stop it but when I really stop and think about it. I don’t think it was my job to stop it. I think it was my parents job and they failed me and all the other girls. I think it’s the churches that keep loyal money held higher on the totem pole rather than the innocence of children. I think of all these men who are disgusting, vile, and evil vermin who serve no greater purpose than simply paying taxes and dying.

I do get to revel in a few things though. The man from the church that took me to McDonald’s is now serving life in prison due to having 200 files of child pornography on his computer, some of which were homemade. Pizza Hut guy would be 39 or 40 now and is still a fat fucking Pizza Hut delivery driver. Then there’s my uncle Bobby. He died a few years back from an overdose. Everyone cried at his funeral, everyone but me. I even got a few minutes alone with the body to say goodbye. I simply looked at his disgusting, rotting corpse and said “Hope theres a Disneyland in hell. Have fun bitch.”

Oh my word! This story is just beautiful! Gut wrenching, anxiety inducing, BEAUTY!!! 😍

under the night | joel miller series

pairing: joel miller x f!reader, set in jackson after the end of tlou part I summary: peaceful settlement life in jackson is vastly different to how you once lived; traversing the united states, fighting to survive, and constantly looking over your shoulder. when you find solace and connection in joel miller and your guard lowers, will it become clear that jackson isn't as safe as it once seemed? series warnings: [18+ MINORS DNI] age gap [20 years], angst, nightmares, smut, violence, attempted assault, murder, canon typical violence [ie infected cameos lmao]. explicit warnings included on each individual part. *COMPLETE

part one

part two

part three

part four

part five

part six

part seven

Phew. This absolutely blew me away! 😍

Illicit Affairs - A Joel Miller One Shot

Pairing: Joel miller x fem!reader

Rating: Explicit 18+ minors dni

Word Count: 7468

Summary:  A little angst-ridden affair with Joel Miller, as a treat?  

Content: Modern day AU (no outbreak), mostly soft!Joel but he’s a dom when it matters, Sarah is early 30’s, age gap but no specific age of reader mentioned (mid 30’s/53), cheating/infidelity, no physical descriptions of reader other than she has hair, bit of swearing, quite a bit of angst, some fluff, some smut; unprotected PIV (v. unwise but these guys really aren’t thinking straight), no use of y/n, some dirty talk, mention of breath play, pet name (baby), brief physical restraint, quite heavy handed Taylor Swift references. Just a note we tend to be very Fleabag coded here. Let me know if I missed anything 

A/N: It’s the end of the festive season, so what I thought we all needed to cheer us up was some quite depressing affair angst. You’re welcome! As always, my reader is a bit of hot mess, but we’re not here to judge. And if Joel loves her… I think I’ll keep this as a one shot but we’ll see. I would love to hear your thoughts! I don’t have anyone reading so apols for any mistakes (I never learnt to spell soz) and some British references may have slipped in by mistake!

Listen to: Taylor Swift Illicit affairs (obvs)

The beginning

It starts off simple enough, you find you keep mentioning him to your friend Crystal as you push the girls on the swings. Can’t help but feel a bit excited when you see another opportunity to say his name, feel a buzz of something when she gives you a curious look.

“That’s the third time you’ve mentioned this Joel Miller today.”

Your conversations are always snatched in the playground, little unsatisfying dribbles of chat as you chase after the children, longing for the days when they’re old enough to play together without your help and you can sit back and chat properly on a soggy wooden bench for half an hour.

“Ah it’s just fun it’s it? To get lost in the fantasy sometimes... He’s like, 50-something, 53 I think, and married. Got this perfect Dad bod thing going on, you know the type, strong and broad but soft tummy. So cute.” You shake your head; “It’s not a thing, really.” You laugh, toying with your wedding ring and giving Crystal a generous smile. “I haven’t had a crush in years, you know I’ve been with Ed since I was 18.”

The lies come so easily for you; you find they can spill out without you having to process them now. There’s the truth: you’ve been with Ed since you’re 18. Then there’s to lie; you haven’t had a crush in years. The lived reality, the actual cold hard truth, is that you’ve never been totally faithful to Ed. Never. You’re like an alcoholic who can go years without drinking, without ever picking up a bottle, but it’s always in you. Waiting for the next time you fuck up, waiting for a glass of temptation to find its way into your hands. Like all good addicts, you can deceive yourself so thoroughly that sometimes you believe the lie. Believe you’ve never fallen, that you are the perfect housewife everyone knows you to be.

A good girl.

“How’d you meet him again, is he in the play?”

“No, no, he’s helping build the set, but I think they’ve managed to rope him in to help with the production side of things too.” You shoot her a spirited glance; “Good with his hands!” You both cackle loudly, nothing like a bit of mom-humour to see you through the tediousness of another turn around the play-park.  

“Do you know his wife?” Crystal makes a show of rummaging in her bag for snacks, as if she’s not interested in the wife at all. You know that really she’s desperate to hear more, to suss out if this is going to be another unspoken mistake. Sometimes you think she knows, you have moments of clarity where it feels like you’ve exposed yourself under her penetrating gaze and she can see right into your heart of deceit, but you resolutely close it off and lock the door. She can’t possibly know things about you that you refuse to know about yourself.

You can’t help but pull a face; “She’s actually his third wife.”

“Oh honey… at 53?? He got any kids? Wait, is the wife in the play? Do we know her?” She’s given up the pretence now, shooting over questions without pause. You try and not to sound too defensive, you’ve got nothing to feel guilty about. Yet.

“He’s got a grown-up daughter from his first marriage I think… she’s probably about our age? 30 something… same as his current wife.”

Crystal’s mouth has opened but she’s chosen to keep quiet, letting you fill the slightly tense silence. You realise too late you probably shouldn’t have said ‘current’ wife, implying something temporary.

You clear your throat with a little cough, trying to pull back some of your nonchalance, “His wife, Jenni, she used to be part of the theatre group, but she isn’t in this production. But she’s the reason he’s helping… so it’s her fault really.” You test out a little laugh, Crystal gives you an anxious smile.

“And Ed’s being supportive of you doing the play? Happy you’ve got the lead part, that you’re going to be out at rehearsals a lot?”

“Oh yeah, yeah, sure.” You let the lie slip free but hastily decide to correct yourself, sometimes you owe her a little something genuine; “Actually, he hates it. He’s really stressed at how much parenting he’s going to have to do…” You roll your eyes, “going to be a shock to the system looking after the four girls by himself a couple of times a week. It’s just a few evenings and Sunday mornings, but you know how they fall apart without us.”

You’re back on safe ground, grumbling about your husbands and their weaponised incompetence is easy and natural, unthreatening to the status quo. You make a mental note to try and not bring up Joel’s name again next time you meet up with Crystal. His number tucked into your contacts like a promise.

You know you’re not special. A quick scroll through TikTok while you’ve stuck the kid’s in front of Miss Rachel and it’s full of women loving the ‘trad wife’ role, thriving by dedicating their lives to their kids and seemingly devoted husbands. It eats away at you, that you should be grateful for the prison you’ve found yourself in. No money of your own, an alert to Ed’s phone every time you buy anything, a calendar filled with events, parties, activities, all for someone else. Aren’t you lucky, people say to you, to be able to spend so much time with your children while they’re young? You always smile a dutiful yes, make a wisecrack about running on coffee fumes and being held together by Sellotape. Now you’ve added the play into the mix it is pure chaos, an additional spinning plate that you so desperately need for yourself.

***

Rehearsals

The hall is tired and cold, hard chairs dotted around, the plastic scratched to white, with a sad looking coffee station positioned in one corner. The stage is somewhat incongruous; impressive, purpose-built sometime in the 80’s, when apparently there was money for things like community plays with a full lighting rig and heavy, thick velvet curtains. The money has long since run out, but the drama club continues to trudge on, putting on several plays a year on minimal budget. It’s your first time this year, causing quite the stir by swooping in and nabbing the female lead. You’re a sickening mix of proud of yourself and desperately, horrendously, sure you’re going to fuck it up. A flicker of dread every time you walk through the double doors.

Joel is sitting near the back of the big room, nursing a polystyrene cup full of bad coffee. You’re holding your own thermos from home, you learnt the hard way that the coffee here tastes unbearable; a disgusting synthetic burn. Not for you. Joel continues to look steadily towards the stage as you approach the seats next to him, not even a hint to suggest he’s noticed you. Your stomach flutters. His dark but flecked with grey hair looks different today, freshly washed maybe, normally unruly almost curls pushed flat and slicked back. Pared with the deep frown and set jaw he looks completely unapproachable, like he would growl at you before deigning to answer a question. It’s doing something unspeakable to you.

You love this bit, when you pretend there isn’t an insane, almost animal chemistry between you. That the air isn’t thick with a longing that almost has your feet lifting from the floor with the fizz of it all. A silent want it isn’t decent to acknowledge.

Joel leans back purposefully, stretches a denim-shirted arm across the back of the chair next to him, legs set wide apart, tool belt still on. It’s so unmistakably masculine, heavy, almost threatening, and you’re like a schoolgirl bubbling and giddy at being this close to him. You choose a chair just in front him, so if you did turn your head you’d be looking directly at this ridiculous display.

You don’t turn your head. You don’t indicate you’ve even seen him. Two can play at this game.

You concentrate on pouring your coffee, still piping hot and filling the area around you with something other than tension. You can hear he’s leaned forward, coming an inch closer to you.

“Smells good.” You turn for just a second, gift him a half smile, before returning your gaze to the stage. Joel’s head is leant forward, his strong, aquiline nose just in your peripheral vision. You’d like to run a finger down it, push a fingertip against his hard-set mouth. You take a sip of your coffee instead.

“Could I trouble you for a cup? The stuff here tastes like shit.” The easy southern lilt of his voice drips into you, stoking your hunger, leaving you desperately unsated.

As if you hadn’t planned this, as if this hadn’t been what you’d been thinking about while brewing the coffee, as if it wasn’t what you were picturing while you were on the stage mere minutes ago and trying to remember your lines.

“Sure, I’ve made plenty. Found out the other week their coffee is basically poison… it’s just black, is that ok?”

He nods, “Just the way I like it. Thanks darlin’.”

You knew, of course, you knew.

You turn your body slightly, so anyone watching would think you’re mostly focused on the stage, not giving too much of yourself away. Your pulse thrums in your temples, you’re worried your hand might shake as you pour some of your coffee for him. You see marks in the rim of the cup, you can almost feel that harsh noise of teeth on polystyrene that led to those indents, you suppress a shudder but your eye twitches, so you quickly smooth it away with a finger as if brushing a hair from you face.

It’s set your teeth on edge but simultaneously has you lost in what it would feel like to have his teeth on you. You peek up at them involuntarily, he catches you and you think you can see his tongue flicking against them just for a second, before you flinch away. Fuck. His tongue. You think of its warmth, the suppleness, what it would be like against the salt of your skin, against the heat you can feel building in your belly. Everything about him is intoxicating; an alchemy of soft and strong, solid but dangerous, in conflict with the stable but weak waiting for you at home. The bland but cruel that lives in your house, traps you in an airless drudgery. Joel’s leaned even closer, feet still set firm apart, coffee cup held at the bottom in two hands, forearms leaning on those strong thighs.

“You did good up there today. Voice is coming along.”

“Thanks. I’m trying real hard not to sound like a strangled cat.”

A natural self-depreciation often takes over whenever you speak, although you don’t always believe it. He’s shaking his head, frown deepening and you want to reach out, run your fingers over those deep set lines and smooth them, trace them so you know every crevice as well as your own.

“You’re good at it. Why’d you pretend you’re not?” No tempering, he’s direct, almost accusatory? You shrink back. This isn’t how you play the game normally; usually you’ll make-believe into someone you deem more palatable, a much meeker and humbler version of yourself, then they’ll stroke your ego but not feel threatened. Easy, calculated and everyone’s happy. Why won’t Joel play?

“I…” You’ve been looking at him too long, your eyes stuck on his handsome face, you shouldn’t look at him this long, it doesn’t appear natural. Doesn’t look how a happily married woman should be looking at a currently married man.

You shift your weight again, turn away to the stage. No eye contact. You begin again; “Won’t win me any friends here if I know I’m good.”

The truth has fallen at his feet and he doesn’t know, can’t possibly know, what a rare gift it is.

“That’s more like it.” He stands up, slowly, deliberately, stretches, so you catch a glimpse of his tummy as the denim of his shirt rises above the band of his jeans. A smattering of hair that might just have made you lose your sanity for a heartbeat. He takes his now empty cup in one hand and the other, the other it falls away from him. Brushes past your shoulder with a delicacy you didn’t think this man possessed, barely perceptible, just a stretching of limbs after sitting in a hard, worn, unforgiving chair. But to you, to you, it feels almost like a kiss. A light in the dark. He wants to touch you. He’s going to keep finding ways to touch you.

***

You let Joel be the one to make the first move. Men often like to think they’re the ones in control, don’t they? You receive a text, to say thank you for the coffee, a question about how you’d brewed it, where you’d got the beans. You promise to bring some for him to the next rehearsal. Plan out how you’ll casually hand him a bag the next time you see him, with a spare thermos so he can have his own when he helps out. It’s what you would do for any of your friends - it really is - but he’s so touched. A blush creeping up on that usually reticent face, his cheeks soft and rounded while he’s smiling sheepishly at you, as if you’ve gifted him something so much more. You suppose you have. A promise of giving and receiving, of continuing to touch each other’s lives in unseen ways.

When you sing, you sing for him now, no longer holding back but searching him out in the throng of cast members and helpers who hang around the stage during rehearsals. The musical director is delighted with your voice, thrilled he took a chance on you and if he notices your furtive glances around the room as you stand by his piano, he doesn’t say a word.

You guess someone must have noticed something; Joel’s wife turns up unexpectedly one Sunday morning. Ostensibly to admire Joel’s handiwork with the stage and check-in with her former castmates, but you see her eyeing you cautiously. Maybe one of her friends has said you often sit next to Joel, reported on the way his eyes linger on you while you’re on stage, mentioned that they can feel an unspoken energy hanging in the air. So, you’re warm and friendly and bubbly, as you always are with the wives, make a show of talking about your husband. How utterly, totally unthreatening you are. Undemanding and malleable, so domestic. A mask that feels so real you forget it’s there until another message drops into your phone, reminding you she has every reason to hate you.

- I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m running out of excuses to come to the rehearsals.

- I’ll have to start breaking things then x

- I should have known you’d have a plan, always do

You picture him, holding the phone away from his face and squinting so he can read the small text, fingers too big to type quickly, permanent frown twitching a little as he smiles at your responses. His eyes can be so soft when he wants them to, heavenly creases forming when he lets himself smile. You want to make him smile like that all the time. To coax the playfulness out of him that hides behind the stoic silence he hulks around.

The messages keep coming. He texts to say you you’re beautiful, encourages you when you’ve had a bad rehearsal, just wants to know what you’ve done with your day. Care and attention that bleeds into you, so you’re thinking about him. All. The. Damn. Time. But it’s also reminding you of a wicked side of yourself, the depths that don’t just want him smiling; you want him hard and desperate for you. Want him to barely be able to breath for the longing.

Later, just out of the shower, one of the few times you have to yourself without a child attached to you, you dare a risky photo, bare skin glistening.

A flurry of messages follow:

- Fuck

- You can’t do that to me

- Gonna give me a heart attack

- You look so good

A pause:

- Send me another

So you do. And it’s turned something that was unsaid into something explicit. A line crossed because you thought, fuck it, I want this. I’m going to take it.

****

You march off the stage, into the darkness and straight into his waiting arms, your lips meeting in the unlit confines behind the curtains. No can see you, can see how your lips fight for each other, your breath tangled as tongues dance and play. It’s over almost as soon as it begins, the firm hand around your waist a ghost already. You’re just stood, dumbly, in the dark, alone again. Hand raised to your mouth, to try and trace where Joel has just been, where you need him to be again.

***

There’s a lot of admin involved in having an affair, dates that you can’t plot out on the family calendar. Stealing time that needs to be accounted for is an almost impossible task. A weight hanging over your shoulders as you know with every minute taken, you should be doing something else; completing tasks that no one else will think to do. The piles of the children’s things on the stairs will remain there until the end of time, the washing in the dryer left to rot, beds forever unmade. As you reel off the list in your mind you understand, once again, why you feel like an indentured servant, no end in sight just eternally repaying the cost of your bad decisions.

Which is why you don’t even really feel a smattering of guilt that you’ve finally engineered time with Joel, alone. A sweet little boutique hotel tucked away so that no one knows. Three hours thieved before you have to pick up the littlest from day-care. Joel’s already checked in, paying cash, so you can simply slide into the unlocked room. Find him sat on the edge of the bed, worn green flannel shirt that fits him just so, a slightly anxious look in those deep brown eyes, as if he’d been worried you might not come.

“Hey you.” You stride over to him, long caramel coloured coat still on as you curl into his lap, a hand on his salt and pepper scruff, a delicate kiss on his always pouty lips. He’s so warm under your touch, your foreheads lean together and you breath him all in, his hand is on yours as you savour his rough skin against yours. You try to ignore the ticking clock in your head, counting down the minutes until you have to be somewhere else, be someone else.

“Can’t believe I’ve finally got you all to myself.” His hand behind your ear now, eyes boring into yours.

“Let me just freshen up.” You drawl, like something from the movies, unfurling yourself from him. His hand reaches out for yours and you hold onto it for as long as possible, only dropping it at the last moment before you go onto the bathroom.

You emerge from the bathroom and you immediately realise the silk slip you’ve pulled on is a mistake. Dragged from the back of the closet it’s too much your other life; the silk is too thick, the cut strangely prim. This belongs to another man’s wife. It makes you feel prissy, the sex that was simmering in the room evaporating as you lay down on the bed and almost resign yourself to the oncoming contact.

Your body is practically braced, muscle memory taking over rather than being in this longed for escape with Joel. His eyes narrow as he leans over you, hard frown working to decipher what’s happened. Why the fire in you seems to have burnt out, left only the husk of a strangely pliant woman. You half-heartedly reach an arm up for him.

“Fuck this.” He pulls back, swings his legs over the side of the bed not looking at you any longer. 

Shame courses through you, like perhaps he’s seen you like this and no longer feels any attraction? That not being able to have you was what kept this aflame. You sit up slowly, shaky with a kind of panic, how could you have got this so wrong?

“Do you want this? Do you want to fuck me? Because right now it doesn’t even seem like you’re in the same room with me?” He’s shaking his head, that way he does when he’s disappointed.

You do want it; you want him so badly it’s an ache in your very being, but your physical body doesn’t seem to have got the message. Sex has either been on automatic with Ed or the briefest of unspoken rendezvous for so long, you don’t quite know how to be present.

“I do Joel, I do. I need you to fuck me. I’ve lost… I don’t… I don’t know how to do this?”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be, your fantasies had you entwined as soon as you entered the room, passion drowning out any hesitation. Not sitting silently at the end of the bed contemplating what a massive fuck up this is already. Threatening both your marriages just to have you lie back and have the same listless sex you’ve been having for years - hardly seems worth it.

But Joel isn’t Ed, he’s someone else entirely.

“I think you do darlin’; I think you know exactly what you want.” Catches your jaw in his firm grip, loops his hand around your hair and pulls you hard against him. You gasp at the jolt of discomfort, a pulse of electricity running down your spine. “Tell me what you want me to do.” His face is so close, hot breath against you as he pulls tighter, makes you neck arch with the tension, hair tight against your scalp, pain, delicious pain. You swallow.

“I want you to fuck me so hard I don’t know my own name. I want you to take me and use me, mark me, make me yours. Ruin me. I want it to hurt Joel.”

“Because you’re just a whore really, aren’t you?” You try and nod, but his hand is too tight, “Use your words.”

“Yes Joel. That’s what I want.”

“Good girl. We’re gonna do it just the way you like baby, you can’t hide from me. I know you.”

His hand drops from your hair, away from your jaw, quick as anything he’s ripped the front of the negligée, freeing your breasts and tumbling you out of your role as desperate housewife. Just you, bare and willing, heart beating so hard your whole body is thrumming with it.

It’s just as he promised, hurt that makes you gasp with the pleasure of it.

How is it, that this man knows you better already than the man you’ve been sleeping with for almost twenty years? The way he’s taken control, physically dominating you but checking in, forceful because he knows that’s what you want and that’s what’s turning you on. Those teeth hard against your skin, everything you imagined they could be, thighs strong and firm slamming you apart, breaking you away from the layers of deceit you wrap yourself in.

You’re crying, because you realise you’ve been grieving a loss for years. A part of yourself you’ve kept hidden under lock and key, not even allowing your mind’s eye to glimpse it. To be cared for in a way that makes you feel slightly ashamed, but now in the daze of post-orgasm softness and the warmth in the security of being completely safe with Joel, you can’t for the life of your remember why. A secret language you can’t, or won’t, speak with anyone else.

*****

It keeps happening, you find ways to keep it happening, even when you tell yourself it’s the last time. You’re an addict after all.

“I wish I had met you sooner, put a baby in your belly.”

You want to hear it, it’s like sweet music being trickled into you; it’s all you want really, this delicious devotion and rewriting of what could have been. A brown eyed baby with dark ringlets and playful eyes. Not to be. Never to be. Guilt for the babies you do have, the children that cling to you and weep when you head off for rehearsals, unsettled, knowing that change is happening somewhere but unaware why. They’re much more aware than Ed, who notices nothing. Sometimes, when you return home and you can still smell Joel on you, feel like he’s escaping from every pore, the perfume you wear just for him lingering on your clothes, your hair, your cunt, you wonder if he’s deceiving himself or if he really, truly, doesn’t suspect a thing. You feel like you pulse with sex, that it’s radiating out of you for everyone to witness. Everyone but Ed, you guess. It’s like he doesn’t even see you; this sexless, genderless being there to pick up the children from school, prepare the meals, wipe down the sides. Mocked for doing something, silly mommy, if and when he remembers you’re there.

More stolen time and Joel’s fucking you again, roughly pressing you against the wall and dragging his cock out as he bites down on your flesh, pushing you to your limits of everything, hand around your throat so you feel dizzy with desire. It hurts so good, the pain you feel you deserve, with a wet, hot, desire you think you don’t. His hands across your breasts, holding you so tight to him as you arch your back and push against him, leaning your lips to him as an offering. He doesn’t stop fucking you, nipping at your neck, with fingers circling against your clit; you can’t escape him, every ounce of your being consumed by this man and his hands, his tongue, his perfect fucking cock.

“I know you. I want you.”

“Joel…” you whine, you don’t want him in your head, don’t want him fucking with you while he fucks you. You want to disappear into the physicality of it, the sheer pleasure of your bodies fitting together like they were made to. He growls into the shell of your ear, knowing you’re unable to escape while caged against the wall, enveloped by his body and chasing a high you both recognise is just a whisper away.

“You are worthy of joy, baby.”

You want to pull yourself away, stop the words penetrating your skin as he’s got one hand tight on your hip, fingers drawing out gasps as you can’t resist the bliss that is blurring into you and shuddering against his cock, tightening involuntarily as you fight against the sentiment, while still riding the joy he’s given you. Joel comes hard, teeth against your neck, sweet profanities decorating the stars that dance in your whited-out vision.

*****

You’re sat in your car, after double checking no one saw Joel get it, sipping on take-away coffees and enjoying being still together, if only for fifteen minutes. The detritus of three children littering the seats, giving away a messy, chaotic side of yourself that almost no one gets to see.

Joel hesitates for a second before reaching out a hand to your knee; “‘m gonna go visit Sarah, I’d like it if you came with me?”

“You want me to meet Sarah?”

“Yeah. She’s a great kid, I mean, she’s a grown-up now but… think she’d like you… she’s never been keen on Jenni…”

“I can’t meet your daughter Joel, you’re still married? I’m married? How would I even get away, what would I say?”

He doesn’t have the answers and you know in the pit of your stomach that he only asked because he genuinely wants you to meet Sarah. There’s a naivety there that makes you feel nauseous, a purity of heart that’s causing you to flinch. He can’t see this for what it is at all; the stupid risks you’re both taking for something that can never be. Lies upon lies becoming increasingly difficult to untangle. You hold him now, his head against your shoulder, your fingers running through his hair and his palms wrapped around your thigh. Close, so close. It’s never been like this with any of your other mistakes, stolen kisses and the thrill of illicit sex sure, but never this intimacy, this madness hovering in your eye-line that darkens your vision and is beginning to suffocate. Joel Joel Joel. He’s all you can think about, teasing out honesties from you that you try to hold so close to your chest, a top layer of your skin scorched off as he won’t let you hide. It’s too much.

“Joel, you know I have little children, I can’t break up a family. Everyone needs me so much. I need me to stay sane, you’re making me lose myself with these fantasies.” Your fingers brush through his hair; “Perhaps in a few years when they’re older… “ You deliberately trail off. There, some truths for him, a little lie for you.

He doesn’t let you get away with it, not even for a second.

“Don’t bullshit me thinking you’re making me feel better baby.” His stare is hard, but his lips are gentle, finding yours and melting his tongue against you as if he’s trying to prise the untruths from your mouth. You sigh.

“Maybe it’s not bullshit, maybe it could be real… one day.”

“No meeting Sarah then?”

“No meeting Sarah.” You let your hands explore him now; broad shoulders, hard chest, soft tummy, small waist, hard length of him against his jeans. All the contradictions of him, all yours, just for now; “Let me make you happy Joel.”

He stills you, hands on your shoulders, awkward in the small space of the car; “You make me happy whenever I’m with you baby. Just bein’ around you, bein’ close to you, that makes me happy. You never have to perform for me, you know that, right?”

You shrug your shoulders, as if your whole life isn’t a performance, mutter a not at all convincing ‘sure’.

He doesn’t like that, frustration bubbles up and the scowl is back; “Don’t hide from me, I’m not interested in whoever she is.” His hand gestures away from you, as if there is someone else in the car. “Jus’ be here with me, really.”

“I’m more here than I have ever been anywhere, ever, Joel.”

A promise and a truth.

****

The play

Waiting in the wings, you see her, sat a few rows from the front, holding Joel’s hand. She’s so beautiful it makes you gasp. You were right, she is about the same age as you, stunning dark coils of hair and soft, yet playful eyes you’d recognise anywhere. You know, in your very soul, she knows exactly who you are.

Sarah.

After you’d explicitly told him you weren’t going to meet her, that you didn’t want to get drawn into the reality of his life and made to acknowledge that this is a real, tangible, thing. A secret that is beginning to spiral. And now you have to go on stage, perform, all while knowing she’s there, observing, judging. Silly, silly you. Pathetic you. Liar you.

Fuck, you’re shaking.

You risk another peek out, the corset in your costume making it hard to breathe at the best of times, now you’re struggling to get air into your lungs. Joel sees you, gives you brief nod, and you catch Sarah’s eye for not even half a second before you whip your head away. It feels like it burns. Your fucking mother-in-law is sitting a few rows behind them, giving you a jolly wave of excitement, shoving your father-in-law so he can wave too. You’re going to be sick. Thank fuck Ed isn’t coming to watch until tomorrow night.

****

You love her, instantly. There’s a warmth to her that draws you in, a tight hug that says a thousand words.

“You were incredible. Dad said you were going to be good, but honestly, you were so good. I had tears in my eyes in the last song!” You’re blushing, eyes on the floor as you try and accept the praise, try not to fight it off, to let Sarah have a glimpse of how proud of yourself you are.

“Thank you, you’re so sweet. Your dad is very generous.” You can’t look at Joel, you know there are the remnants of tears shining in his eyes and you’re afraid you might have to touch him if you look at him for even a millisecond. This is too dangerous, too raw, too exposed. You’re holding a bouquet of flowers from your mother-in-law for fuck’s sake, standing in the hall surrounded by a cacophony of people who know you. At least, think they know you. Two worlds almost colliding and there is a screaming panic ringing in your ears.

“You did good kid.” He’s trying to keep his voice level but you know it’s wavering. Sarah reaches to squeeze his hand and you return your gaze to the floor. You must stay in control.

Sarah saves the day; “We’ll let you get on, there’s an army of people behind you wanting to tell you how amazing you were. It was lovely to meet you.” A quick shared smile, she draws your eyes up and almost imperceptibly, nods her head at you. A shudder of a sob wracks at your chest and you turn too abruptly to the friends waiting behind you, clutching flowers and cooing at your success. Sarah still holds Joel’s hand as she leads him away, a tight frown mirroring her father’s so beautifully. You start to cry at the very first compliment thrown your way, grateful for the excuse of overwhelm to hide the real reason fat tears are running down your face.

You know you have to end this madness before it consumes you.

****

The car

Joel drags his hands through his hair roughly, shaking his head, struggling to find his words. You’re sat in his truck in a depressing car park, rain drizzling outside, air tight between you.

“I thought this was just sex… I thought… I was wrong. I can’t get you out of my mind baby.” He looks desperate, broken. It’s scaring you.

It’s scaring you seeing this man be so vulnerable; the man that spits in your mouth, calls you a whore, causes you the most delectable pain. His care for you his seeping out his skin and it’s making you feel physically sick.

“You’re not leaving your wife Joel. I’m not leaving my husband. It’s not happening. This can never be…” you gesture wildly at the deserted, seedy parking lot, feeling so deflated all of a sudden, “more than this. In fact, it needs to be less than this - it needs to go back to nothing.”

He leans so close to you now, clutching you to him uncomfortably across the gear stick and pulling against the back of your neck. You don’t try and resist, although you feel stiff under his touch. Your stomach clenches and you’re willing for him to stop looking at you like that; like you can solve all his problems.

“I think ‘m in love with you.”

“No, no, no.” You’re physically recoiling from him, although it’s everything you want to hear your body is rejecting it, bile rising in your throat and making your limbs seem to tremble. “No, you’re not. Whatever you think you’re feeling, just stop. Right now. I’ve got to get back; this can’t happen anymore.”

You can’t look at him, can’t see yourself reflected in his eyes; scared and ruined. Such a fool. You want to get out of the car, but he’s grabbed your wrist firmly. You try and wriggle free, but his grip tightens. You can’t help but make a little squeal as you twist against him uselessly; “Joel you’re hurting me.” You hiss, but even in this heightened state you can’t suppress the faintest buzz of pleasure at Joel holding onto you so tightly, surely marking his fingers on your skin it’s so rough. He pulls you so you’re just an inch away from his face, breath mingling as it has done a dozen time before, but never with this static of dread.

“Who are you really?”

“Not yours.” You grit out. “It’s easy for you, everyone already thinks you’re bad.”

It’s like a slap. One you knew would hit Joel at his core, the fear of being a bad father, a bad husband, rotting away in him. You know you need to shock him so you can free yourself from his deepening expectations, this feeling hanging over you that he thinks you’re the one that can make it all ok again. You know in your very soul you only have the ability to make everything worse. Something is broken and it’s you, you, you.

He drops your hand sharply and you pull it into your chest, your breath is shaking but you don’t hesitate to swing open the car door and slink out, leaving him speechless.

“Don’t call me.” You slam the door shut and stalk back to your car, your head raised defiantly so he can’t see that you are engulfed in shame, barely able to breath it’s so thick around your throat.

***

The aftermath

With no play any longer and a new phone, you’ve managed to avoid seeing Joel for weeks. He hasn’t called and you haven’t transferred his number, frightened that you can’t be trusted not to reach out after a glass of wine. You sigh, admitting to yourself it’s not even then really, it’s literally any time. Sat in the car after school drop off, nursing a coffee during soft play, walking round the grocery store while wrangling the kids. Everything is a story you want to tell him and you know he’ll listen. That he’ll want to listen. At night you silently cry in your empty bed, Ed has long since moved into the spare bedroom, missing the physical presence of Joel, to be warm flush against his chest, but during the day you just want his voice, low and honied, teasing, whispering secrets.

It’s like a relief when you finally run into him. Your youngest is napping in her buggy as you walk through the local park, giving you the briefest respite when you spot him walking towards you. He does a little jog to cover the last few steps, as if afraid you’ll sneak away before he can reach you, pulling up abruptly in front of you.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

He gestures to the little one, “She’s beautiful.”

“Always at their best when they’re asleep…” Always so flippant, you know it drives him mad and you feel instantly apologetic; “Sorry. Thank you… walk with me for a bit?”

He joins you, walking a few steps away as you continue pushing the buggy and it’s a glimpse of a life that never was. Instead, just two acquaintances who ran into each other, sat down at a park bench to share a tepid coffee from a thermos. You blow on your cup reflexively but there’s no need, a bitter swirl caught in your throat.

“Why’d you stop speaking to me?” Joel looks pained, gripping the underside of his cup and staring into the middle distance. It’s cold, you both sit with hunched shoulders.

“I was afraid… that you’d finally see the real me; finish unravelling me, and you’d find me lacking. You’d find nothing there to love, because I think, I really, truly, honestly believe, that I’m unlovable. That I’m not good enough for anyone and least of all you - a good man.” You take another sip, risk a glance at this man who means everything and nothing all at once, the power to destroy your life or just walk away as if he never existed.

“‘m not a good man. I ruin all my relationships… can’t stay married… I let Sarah down, I try and steal other men’s wives…” Without looking, his hand reaches out to touch your fingertips, so lightly it’s like a veil is between you. “‘m sorry, I wanted too much from you, made you feel suffocated when what you needed was your freedom. I don’t want to trap you baby, I just want to love you. Because,” he looks at you now with a force that takes the breath right out of you, “you are worthy of love, of my love, of any love.”

You press your middle finger against the crease of your eye, try to stop the tears that are escaping there. Hot and salting your skin.

“You make bad decisions Joel, but you’re a good man. You do things for love, not to cause pain, you don’t want to cause pain.” The tears are flowing faster, you bring more fingers up to try and stem them, wiping them quickly away so they feel cool against the heat of your skin. Perhaps someone passing by would think you had something in your eye.

“What I don’t understand is that I told you I was falling in love with you and you found the absolute worst thing you could say to me? You did try an’ hurt me.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it… I thought it would make it easier for you to forget me, if I hurt you. That I could somehow sever the connection.” You check the little one, still blissfully fast asleep, unaware of the calamity that is taking place inside her mother.

“Nothing you say could make me stop loving you? It doesn’t work like that for me, you don’t have to always say the right thing, to earn this love or lose this love - it’s there.” Joel grips your hand now, draws it to his chest against his heart in a fist and a sob escapes your lungs. There would be no explaining this to the casual observer, but you let it happen, couldn’t make it stop even if you tried.

“What will I do? What will I do if I let you in and then you don’t want me anymore?”

Your life now filters before your eyes, a slideshow of how easy it is, to live without love. There is no danger when your existence is merely getting by. This way is frightening, uncomfortable; people will judge you. People who you so desperately try and please, try and never let down, so they don’t see who you really are.  

You don’t even know if you have it in you, the strength to be truly selfish and live with the consequences - even with Joel by your side.

“I will give you everything I have baby, I will try and do right by you. But that’s not gonna be easy, you gotta decide. You can continue with the performance or you can actually live your life.”

He sighs, gripping your hand tighter, you can see a shine in his eyes that makes your heart break, he nods at your daughter; “Your kids are always going to need you… I spent a long time trying to be a certain dad for Sarah, got married the second time because I thought she needed a ‘mom’ in her life after hers left… but I think in the end, she always knew when I was unhappy. They feel it in their bones. She was always most content when I was peaceful in my heart. Think that’s the best gift you can give your children.”

You’ve stopped trying to hold back the tears, you just let them fall hopelessly. It hurts, this ache in you, as the truths and half-truths and outright lies that make up your life are sliding out of your grip. You realise maybe you can never go back to how you were, now you’ve seen the colours of a world that you’d kept hidden from yourself for so long.

“It’s up to you whether you’re fine to keep pretending everything is ok, hiding your unhappiness or if you can accept that life is complicated, that difficult decisions can be made for the right reasons. That those people you’re so frightened will judge you - they might understand.”

The end (I think)

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