Chapter Text
The dress Easterman asked you to wear to dinner was already folding into you after downing wine and several courses, the unforgiving fabric straining against the normal bloat. Conversations at surrounding tables entwined with the faint jazz humming through speakers above, making the atmosphere intimate yet casual enough to relax. It had been seven months of this: a weekly engagement (usually dinner or a day out on the town) enough to satiate him, and in return, money was wired directly into your checking account. It was always a gracious sum, a little more than initially promised on the contract you signed, and it kept you living comfortably without having to keep a job anymore. After trial and error of other sugar babies, you seemed to fall right into his lap—perfect, in every way. And thankfully, you were also intelligent enough to stay afloat in a conversation with the doctor, which was usually where the others paled. He was reasonable enough to know you were too far out of his league without the benefit of money, but just delusional enough to believe he could still have a genuine chance at keeping you to himself.
That delusion spurred him on in the back of the car, the backseat too dim for you to immediately spot his fingers twitching between you two, like a spider prepping to lunge. You had agreed to a nightcap at his place, thinking nothing of it. You’d entertained him before, familiar with the tango of sugaring arrangements, but it was always inspired by lust and alcohol for you, unaware of the emotions transpiring within Easterman.
Inside, he led you to the comfort of a couch in the living room, watching you sit down with a relieved hum. He cocks a brow at you, crouching down to a squat before you.
“You don’t get enough credit, waltzing around in these contraptions,” Easterman gives you a lopsided smile, warm fingers wrapped around your ankle. “May I?”
“Go on,” you nod approvingly, gifting him a smile in return. He doesn’t hesitate, undoing flimsy buckles to free your reddened feet from the stiff heels. You watch in mild amusement as he palms your heels, sliding calloused thumbs up and down the tender arches to soothe the ache.
“How ‘bout that drink, hmm? More chardonnay? Or something stronger?” His lashes fan up to his brow bone as he flits gray eyes up to yours, attentive and subservient. You nod in confirmation, asking for your drink of choice, and he stands himself up with a quick peck to the top of your foot.
Returning with two glasses in hand, he hands one over whilst taking a greedy gulp of his own, swallowing down fiery liquid to warm his stomach. Rounding the couch, he looms behind you for a long moment, gazing down as you sip your drink. He studies the curve of your nose, the rise and fall of your shoulders—every movement so graceful and confident. You crane your head back after to look up at him, neck vulnerable in its stretch.
“What’re you doing back there?”
Easterman steps closer til his hips hit the back of the couch, baring natural teeth in a devious smile. It was the kind of smile that told you where this was going, and made your dress feel all the much tighter. He slides clammy fingers down the base of your throat, watching you swallow in response.
“I can’t look at you?” he asks, tilting his head at you teasingly. Not waiting for a response, he bows his head down to breathe in the lingering perfume on your skin, the notes only serving to make his mouth water with want. His hand lingers on your neck, petting the skin with restraint that makes his fingers tremble. His breath, warm and heavy with liquor, makes you shift in your seat as he mouths words against your skin.
“You make it hard, you know—to be a gentleman, to treat you right,” Easterman sighs against you, nose drawing a line up to your ear where he can tongue the inner shell. “When all I want to do is tear the skin from your bones, burrow in your carcass. But I mind my manners, for your sake.”
“Why don’t you start by tearing this dress off?” you counter, turning your head to meet his gaze and nudge him away from your ear.
It’s all he needs, the confirmation he’s not violating the contract and overstepping. Easterman straightens up and walks back around to face you properly, chugging the last bit of his drink and setting the crystal on the table.
“Turn around, ass up,” He loosens his tie as he watches you shift to your knees, bent over with your hands on the back of the couch. Rolling up his sleeves, he reaches for the zipper of your dress, only to shred the fabric clean down your back with surprising finesse. Easterman yanks it away to the floor, some torn stones clattering across the hardwood. Your intimates get the same treatment, threads popping as he snatches them away. The heat of body makes you shiver as he shifts closer, clothed tent nudging into your backside. Deceivingly loving kisses get trailed down your spine, soothing impressions the boning of the dress left behind.
“You poor thing,” Easterman coos against your skin, eager hands pawing at your fleshy sides. “Suffering in silence while that garb suffocates you. Should’ve let daddy help sooner.”
You blame the three glasses of wine you had for dinner for how you arch into him, judgement going out the window. Your head turns in time to catch him kissing down your tailbone, long fingers squeezing your ass with delight. His eyes meet yours briefly, crinkling with a smile you can’t see, before a long wet stripe makes you lurch forward into the couch. Easterman’s giggle rings like a bell through the living room, pleased by your reaction, before pushing a hand down on your back to make you arch further. Finger coax your cunt open with clinical precision, slicked by the saliva that dripped from his ravenous tongue above. He mouthed at the pink rim with devotion, lids sewn shut in delight. The efficient combo had your toes curling in record time, nails nearly puncturing into the couch cushions with gravelly moans.
The fact that you got the first orgasm of the night meant he was still sober enough to be mindful. He had a routine of making you cum first, so he didn’t have to worry about pleasing you later when actually fucking you. On the nights when he was babbling junkie promises and sweating like a beast, you more often than not had to crawl out from under his passed-out weight, unsatisfied and regretful. However, those were the nights that always led him to waking up remorseful and sending you apology money—not a bad trade off.
He slinks off to his haunches as you turn around to face him. It’s a pleasant surprise when you bend down to kiss him, Easterman making a happy whine into your mouth. His hands find your face, keeping you close even when you part. He forgets how to speak, staring into your eyes with desperate emotions that betrayed his loyalty to you. A smile stretches on your face as you chuckle, the sound bringing him back.
“Your turn?” you ask as you take his hands, pulling him up to his feet.
“Ye-yeah, fuck, please just–,” Easterman finds his footing, moving towards the couch. “Come here, baby.”
His clothes join yours on the floor and he’s antsy to get between your legs again, the smell of your sex wafting in the air and scrambling his thoughts. Cock prodding at your flesh, he rubs the head up and down the hot folds, slicking it and watching you squirm against the cushions. When he pushes himself in, the two of you groan in content, joined once more after nights apart. A shaky, relieved exhale breathes out of him and he hooks one hand under a knee, the other smoothing over your chest. Distracted, he struggles to find a good rhythm, and you roll your hips instead, making him still above you to watch you fuck yourself on him. Easterman stares in adoration as you grind against him, heart pounding in his chest with something too close to love but too deplorable to be innocent.
“You beautiful girl, always so good for daddy,” he hikes the leg in his hand to his shoulder, bending forward to angle himself in deeper. The free hand claws at a breast, blunt fingernails putting crescents into the supple flesh. Seeing you like this is better than any drug he's ever tried, more intoxicating and addictive. He swears he feels high right now, mind fuzzy and blissed out as your walls milk him closer to release with every lift of your hips. His head turns to mouth at your ankle, sloppy kisses shooting tingles from your foot down to your stomach. He bites into the meat of your calf with sharp canines before finding his voice again.
“God, I would give you everything—anything you wanted, I swear,” Easterman’s brow knits together with a strained moan, eyes finding your flushed face. “I’ll pay off your fucking debt fully. You want a flight to Milan? How about a new car? Jesus, I’d marry you and give you everything, just to keep you with me.”
The clinginess in his voice makes your heat throb, too close to push him off and laugh at his proclamations in an attempt to dismiss him. You sit up slightly, practically folded in half as your hands find him to writhe in sync, sweaty skin sticking together.
“You mean that, daddy?” you pout at him, a devious moan following to play into the ploy. It works—Easterman groaning lamely in response and doubling his efforts, nearly pushing you through the couch with rougher thrusts.
He nods feverishly, letting your leg fall to grab at your hips. Legs wrap around his waist and he nearly spills into you then, a stuttered whimper parting his lips. “Yes, every word. Every single word.”
His lips crash into yours, teeth clinking together. Easterman kisses you with ferocity, balls slapping between your legs as he drills himself into you. He pulls back and forces your jaw open, holding it taut between stern fingers before spitting harshly into the agape mouth. Hazy eyes watch you gulp it down before he returns his mouth to you, messy kisses muffling sounds of pleasure.
When he comes, it makes his whole body seize, muscle going taut as a bow before turning to jelly. He pulls out just in time to watch the globs of cum spurt across your abused sex, precum gushing out of your hole as you shake out a mild orgasm of your own. Sliding down to his belly, he smothers his face in the mess with gluttony. Slurping noises fill your ears as he laps away the mess, mumbling inaudible praise into your flesh. His nose makes you spasm with little jolts every time he nuzzles into you, smearing the mess thoroughly. Stormy gray eyes lazily find yours as he rests his head against your thigh, breathing still labored.
“Stay til morning, at least?” The question is timid, as if fearing he’s overstepping now that he’s sobering up from the lust-induced haze. Easterman mentally prepares himself to be pushed away, or asked for compensation for extra time. He searches your face for anything signaling that you feel the same way he does—he can’t read your expression.
“Morning,” you echo, nodding faintly. “I can do that.”
You stretch a hand down and pet at the flimsy, wet strands of hair atop his head. With a faint ‘oh’, he melts against you, eyes closing as he soaks in the temporary attention.