Chapter 5
Something cool drips onto the top of my crack. Lube. I hear the click of a cap I didn’t notice him grab. The liquid slides down slow, finding the line of me, pooling right where his thumb touched.
“Easy,” he says.
His finger follows the lube. Circles. Just circles, unhurried, spreading the slickness around the rim. Every pass makes my breath hitch. My thighs try to close and his leg keeps them apart.
Circle. Circle. Then a pause, the pad of his finger resting there, a question with weight behind it.
He presses. Barely. The tip of his finger eases in and stops, letting me feel the stretch, giving me time. My whole body goes rigid across his lap.
“Breathe,” he says.
I breathe out long, and something unclenches.
He slides in a little deeper, patient, like he has all night, like this is the only thing on his schedule.
And it comes back to me. I haven’t had anything in my ass in years. But God, did I love it! The feeling of being full, used, and filthy was something I discovered in college. That my ex-husband didn’t love it was a disappointment. Not a dealbreaker, but definitely a disappointment.
His finger works deeper. Slow, in and out, half an inch at a time, the lube making it easy, making it good.
“There you go,” he says. “You’ve done this before.”
“A long time ago.” My voice comes out thick.
“Your body remembers.”
It does. The fullness, the way every nerve down there seems to wire straight to my clit.
I rock without meaning to, a small push back against his hand, and he lets me, matches me, keeps the rhythm I set.
Heat builds again, different this time, deeper, coming from farther back.
My ass still stings from the spanking, and his finger moves inside me.
I’m dripping onto his jeans, and I realize with a kind of stunned clarity that I could come like this.
Just from this. His finger in my ass, his thigh under my hips, and nothing touching my clit at all.
I press back again. He answers with a slow, deep stroke, and I moan into the couch cushion.
He slides his finger out. Slow, careful, and then it’s gone, and I’m empty.
A small, pathetic sound leaves me before I can catch it.
“I know,” Dean says. His clean hand strokes the small of my back, once. “Stay.”
More lube. Cold, a fresh drizzle, and then something presses against me that isn’t his finger. Rounder. Firmer. Smooth and unyielding in a way skin isn’t.
The pressure increases. Gradual, patient, the widest part stretching me open, my breath going short and high, and then my body gives and takes it.
The base settles snug against me. Full. Held open. The stretch fades to a deep, insistent presence I feel with every heartbeat.
“Good girl.”
The words land the way they always do, straight down my spine.
I flex around the plug without meaning to and gasp.
“Up.”
I push off his lap, knees pressing into the worn fabric of the couch cushion. I’m surprised by how much my legs tremble. Every movement pushes against the plug in my ass.
Dean moves with one hand still on my leash, unhurried. Belt buckle clicks, jeans undone, zipper lowered just enough. He doesn’t say anything. Just lifts his hips, and I catch a glimpse.
Oh.
Thick. Longer than I’d imagined. Curved up against his abdomen, flushed where the heat lives, and I feel an absurd pang of disbelief: I’ve been sprawled across this man’s lap for twenty minutes like I belong here, and this has been underneath me the whole time?
The leash draws me forward, one gentle pull, an invitation written in tension.
I pivot on the cushion, hands and knees, and the plug rolls inside me as I turn, a slow echo of pressure I feel all the way up my spine. I lower my head into his lap, guided not just by the leash but by a desire to please him.
He’s warm. Heavy. Real in a way my fantasies never were. Salt at the tip.
I take my time at first, learning the shape, the resistance, the way his breath stills when I go deep. His hand finds my hair.
His left arm stretches over my back. Fingers find the base. He tilts it. Barely. A whisper of motion.
I gasp around him, my body tightening in protest and pleasure.
Then again, timed, deliberate. As I sink down, he presses. As I pull up, he releases. Each stroke reminding me of my entire body.
I lose rhythm. Find it. Lose it again when he twists it, slow and cruel, and my hips jerk forward with nothing to meet.
“Steady,” he says.
So I steady, cheeks hollowing out, tongue flat, hair swaying against his thigh. My jaw aches in the way an old muscle aches when it’s finally used. And all the while, his fingers, patient, merciless, keep time at the center of me, rocking that small, solid presence deeper with every pass.
I’m being used. I’m pleasing him. This is all I want.
His cock swells in my mouth, hard and hotter than before, a live wire against my tongue.
A low, rough grunt tears from his chest. Before I can process it, his hands, both of them, close around my head, not pushing, not pulling, just holding firm.
Then he eases me off, slow, deliberate, letting the slide take its time.
Spit strings between his length and my lips, my chin, my fingers on the couch.
“Messy girl,” he says, voice thick. He wipes a thumb across my lower lip. “Still good, though.”
I blink up at him, my jaw loose, breath shaky. His cock glistens, red and heavy above me. The plug in my ass pulses with every beat of my heart.
He rises in one smooth motion. I shuffle back instinctively, giving him room.
His hand never leaves my leash. The metal clip glints under the low lamp as he steps around me, his bare feet silent on the floorboards.
I keep my head down, my back arched, my knees spread, still in position. Still waiting.
“Same position,” he says, now behind me.
I don’t need to look. I know where he is. I feel it in the heat at my back, in the way the leash tenses, in the slow drag of his hand over my ass, the one he just spanked, then fingered, then filled. A fresh wave of slick warmth leaks from me.
Then he’s guiding my hips back, just a nudge with his knee, opening me wider. His cock brushes my slit, once, twice. Wet. So wet. He guides himself in with one hand, the other keeping steady on the leash. No rush. Just pressure. A slow, thick slide forward, then a breath, then deeper.
I gasp. Full. So full.
He bottoms out, stills, gives me a second, just one, to adjust. His hips press against my ass, the plug trapped between us. I feel every ridge of it, every inch of him inside me.
Then he pulls back just enough to start. His rhythm is deep, steady, each thrust deliberate, each withdrawal controlled. He doesn’t pound. He owns. My body rocks forward, held in place only by the leash he keeps taut in his fist.
And then his other hand returns. Not to my hip. Not to my hair.
To the base of the plug.
He twists it. Just a quarter turn. Slow.
My whole body clenches around him, tight, sudden, and he groans, low and long.
Again. A slow roll of his fingers. The plug shifts inside me, the firm pressure morphing, spreading, hitting a spot so deep I didn’t know it existed. My vision blurs. My elbows shake. I drop down onto my forearms, but the leash keeps my head up.
He fucks me like that, long, deep strokes while his fingers work the plug in tight circles, sometimes pressing, sometimes twisting, sometimes just resting the weight of it against my stretched rim while he thrusts.
Each movement sends shocks through me, up my spine, down to my clit, which throbs with every pulse.
He chuckles, low in his chest. “Good girl.”
I feel him swell again, deeper than before. His thrusts shorten, grow harder. His hand on the leash tightens. His fingers on the plug still.
I’m close. So close. The dual pressure, him inside me, the plug filling me, his voice holding me together, is too much. I’m unraveling. My hips push back against him without permission.
“Don’t come,” he says.
I freeze. Breath locks in my lungs. I bite my lip so hard it stings.
He fucks me as I hold my orgasm, through the tremble in my thighs, the wet sounds between us, the quiet, desperate whimpers I can’t stop. He pushes on the plug, his pace relentless.
Then, finally, he grunts, long, guttural, and shudders inside me.
Hot. So hot. I feel every pulse, every spurt, muffled by the rhythm of his hips as they slow then stop.
The words land like a strike, “come for me good girl”, and my body obeys, convulsing around him as he’s still pulsing inside me.
My clit ignites, white-hot, and the pleasure rips outward in waves, flooding my thighs, my stomach, my fingers curled into the couch.
My moan tears loose, and I bite down hard on my lip to keep it from turning into a scream.
It’s not one peak. It’s a pulse, then another, then another, each wave rolling back into the next. The plug in my ass thrums with every contraction, amplifying the pressure, making it deeper, dirtier, impossible to escape.
By the time I surface, gasping, my elbows give out. I sink fully onto the couch, cheek pressed to the fabric, the plug still buried in me, his cum slowly leaking out around it, warm and slick against my inner thighs.
I didn’t feel him pull out.
I didn’t feel him move at all, just this sudden, hollow ache where he was, this absence that aches almost as much as fullness did.
Then his hand settles on my ass. Firm. Possessive. His thumb brushes the base of the plug. “Good girl.”
Epilogue
Biscuit sits beside my desk. Front paws squared, one ear up, one ear folded, eyebrows tracking every person who walks past the cubicle wall.
Bring Your Dog to Work Day, and my dog is the best-behaved animal on the floor.
Somebody’s beagle has already been escorted out for eating a whole sandwich off a break room table. Biscuit hasn’t moved in twenty minutes.
I typed “sit” into a status update earlier by accident. Deleted it before anyone saw.
I finish the email to the client, timeline attached, revised milestones highlighted in a yellow so cheerful it borders on sarcasm, and hit send. Then I sit there with my hands on the keyboard, waiting for the next fire.
Nothing. Inbox at zero. The last three threads all end with my reply and a checkmark.
I scroll up to make sure I’m not missing something, some passive-aggressive “per my last email” lurking in a folder.
Nope. Everyone’s answered. Everything’s handled.
I don’t know what to do with my hands.
My phone buzzes on the desk. Dean.
It’s a winky face. That’s it. That’s the whole text.
I laugh out loud, which makes Biscuit’s tail sweep the carpet twice, and a head pops up over the cubicle wall then politely retreats.
I type back: see you tonight.
A coworker appears at the edge of my desk, holding a printout. He’s got the apology face on before he even speaks. I recognize it, because it’s my face, patented, all rights reserved.
“Hey, so, the vendor receipt from the Hartley order,” he says. “Accounting says it can’t be processed until next week without the updated cost breakdown, and the vendor’s out until Monday, so …”
So. The sentence just ends there, a leash dropped on the floor for me to pick up. I know this script. I’ve performed it a hundred times. I breathe in, and the okay is already loaded.
Biscuit looks up at me.
I look back up at the coworker.
“Can you find a creative way to finish it before the weekend, so I’m not answering emails about it on Saturday and Sunday?”
He blinks. The printout lowers an inch. I keep my face pleasant and my mouth closed, which is the hard part, because every instinct I own is screaming at me to fill the pause with but if you can’t, that’s totally fine. I don’t.
“You know what?” the coworker says slowly. “I could pull the template from last quarter and just update it when we get the current numbers. Accounting would probably take that as a placeholder.”
“That’d be great.” I smile.
He nods, already turning, already solving it, and walks off with the printout tucked under his arm.
I look down at Biscuit. He’s still sitting. Still watching me.
“Good boy,” I tell him and scratch behind the folded ear.
Thanks for reading!