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“The Lady of Loss does not reward gawking,” Shadowheart said, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of her mace.
Across the scarred tavern table, Astarion leaned back with that particular smile he reserved for people he found either delicious or amusing.
Probably both.
“I wasn’t gawking,” he said, swirling his goblet. “I was appraising. There’s a difference. One is rude. The other is simply… honest.”
She held his gaze, chin lifted, dark hair falling in one perfect wave across her eyes. “Oh? So what is your honest appraisal?”
Astarion opened his mouth—probably to say something that would have made a lesser woman combust—when a child in a Twilight Sparkle onesie walked straight through the tavern wall.
Well. Through the gap in the foam divider panel separating the Baldur’s Gate immersive roleplay booth from the My Little Pony merchandise table.
Shadowheart blinked.
The kid bent down to grab a fallen plushie, looked back up toward the cleric's "modified" camp outfit, and announced to everyone waiting in line: "Mommy, that lady looks naked."
The half-elf looked down at herself, then back at the kid.
“Shar provides,” she said. “She simply provides... selectively.”
See, this wasn't really Shadowheart. Her real name was Jen—at least that’s what her friends called her—and at conventions she answered to whatever character she happened to be weaponizing that weekend. This time around she'd chosen the infamous cleric of Shar—mostly because she was pretty and just inappropriate enough while still technically cosplay.
A point promptly proven by Astarion.
Or rather, by Sheldon. The proud owner of at least one replica sword he had described as “battle-ready” in public, and apparently very committed to the larp right up until the MLP crossover.
And predictably, the wannabe dashing vampire had used the distraction as an excuse to stop pretending to appraise anything and to begin gawking at everything—his eyes flicking from Jen's face, to her chest, then back up again half a second too late to be subtle.
Not that she blamed him, the child had simply said what everyone else in the booth had been thinking.
Jen smiled sweetly. Well, as sweetly as a girl could after wearing fake elf ears since 7AM.
“Careful,” she said in her flattest cleric voice. “Shar takes more than memories from those who stare too long.”
"I-I wasn't, I sw-swear!"
Jen rolled her eyes. “Shame… A confession would have been more interesting.”
She walked out before his jaw finished dropping.
By this point of the convention, it was getting old. The noise, the body heat, the particular aroma that resulted from ten thousand people in polyester armor that apparently didn't know about deodorant.
But not that these were unfamiliar sensations. Jen had been coming to these since she was sixteen, where conventions had been a place to disappear into a character because being herself hadn't felt like quite enough. Back then she'd shown up in a store-bought costume that didn't fit and spent the whole day trying not to be noticed. That version of her would have hated this crowd. This version had other ideas.
"Excuse me, are you Shadowheart?"
Jen just kept walking. It was cute. Just… cuter the first ten times.
"Shar doesn't bless the desperate," she said, without turning around.
The guy scrambled to keep up with her for about three steps before his friend grabbed his arm and saved him the embarrassment. Jen caught it in her peripheral vision and smiled to herself.
She could still enjoy it a little.
Besides, this costume had been her best work yet. She'd started with a reference image of Shadowheart's camp outfit and then cheerfully ignored half of it. The neckline plunged low enough to be less useful as armor and more for distraction. The slit up the thigh showed a full length of smooth leg whenever she moved, which was often, because she moved deliberately. Her midriff was bare and the dark pre-Act 3 hair framed makeup sharp enough to count as a weapon.
She looked like Shadowheart if Shadowheart had decided Shar's whole deal was a bit too… modest.
If that was even possible.
And it wasn't cheap costume-shop nonsense, either. Jen took pride in her work. She handmade the robe using real materials with weight and movement, not that shiny B.S. from China that smelled like plastic and child labor. Anyone could buy "sexy cleric" in a panic. Jen had standards, and they extended well beyond the seams.
"Shadowheart! May I please get a photo?"
At least this one was respectful. She stopped and smiled, tilting her head just slightly.
"The Nightsong does not wait," she said, in her most convincing cleric voice, "but I suppose I can spare a moment."
The sweaty nerd holding the phone absolutely lost it. His lady companion stared daggers. Jen posed—one hand on her hip, one brow arched, the full thousand-yard stare of a woman who had devoted herself to a goddess of darkness and also knew her angles—then she was moving again before his pants got sticky.
Jen was terrible and she knew it.
Of course on the surface, she stuck to the part of "good feminist" and pretended like everyone who looked was an objectifying pig.
But beneath it, was the part people missed, usually while trying very hard not to look like they were definitely doing some objectifying.
See, Jen was not some poor little thing who had accidentally wandered onto the floor in a revealing outfit and discovered attention. She had planned this. She had measured, cut, pinned, glued, adjusted, shaved, moisturized, and made very deliberate choices about what the costume showed and what it didn't. Her body was something she'd worked for. The costume worked because she had made it work.
And it paid off. The photos, the double-takes, the nervous little "can I just—" from boys who had spent eighty hours romancing Shadowheart and zero hours speaking to women outside Discord. The fellow geeks who stopped her to ask about construction. The photographers who noticed the craftsmanship and not just the underboob. The drama of sweeping through a crowd as if the entire convention center were merely a temple built to receive her. It was her own take on feminism. And it was empowering.
Plus, it was art.
Deeply slutty art, but art nonetheless.
Art that was, unfortunately, beginning to sweat.
The air conditioning in the main hall was fighting a losing battle against several thousand warm bodies, and Jen's exposed midriff, which had seemed like such a clever cosplay choice at nine in the morning, was now functioning as an extremely sexy radiator.
She needed five minutes. Ten. Somewhere quiet and air-conditioned where nobody would ask her to do the Shadowheart finger-guns.
Jen cut left past the main cosplay stage and the side exit spat her out into the food court corridor, where the ceiling was higher and the air actually seemed to circulate. Jen exhaled slowly, tilting her head back and letting the cold air hit her bare stomach.
Better. Much better.
The food court ran along the east wing of the convention center—a long stretch of chain restaurants and pop-up stands selling eight-dollar lemonades and hotdogs that had been rotating for who knows how long. At this hour it was half convention crowd, half bewildered civilians who'd just wanted lunch and had instead discovered that apparently today was the day several hundred people dressed as fictional characters descended on their local shopping complex.
Jen walked straight through the middle.
A group of teenage boys near a burger stand noticed her and one of them nudged the other. The other nudged a third and within about four seconds all five of them were staring with the singular focus of people who had become hungry for something else.
She could have kept walking. Probably the mature choice.
But here was the thing about teenage boys: someone had to be their first real interaction with a woman. Better her than someone who didn't know how to make it funny. She was going to give them something to think about tonight, and she felt absolutely no guilt about that.
Jen slowed her stride.
She turned and found the most gobsmacked face in the row—round-cheeked, probably fifteen, still wearing a Minecraft creeper t-shirt—and aimed the full weight of Shadowheart's most devastating expression directly at him.
Then she winked.
His hotdog hit the floor.
Two of his friends made a sound that wasn't quite a word.
Too easy.
Jen never ceased to be amazed at the effect she had on the opposite gender. It only lasted maybe half a second. She was already turning back before any of them had finished processing it, already moving, already—
A wall of cold hit her square in the chest. Specifically, a large, fizzy, extremely full cup of Pepsi, wielded by a man who had apparently been looking at his phone and not, crucially, where he was going. The cup caught the lip of her neckline and the contents went everywhere—down her front, across her bare midriff, soaking the outfit's fabric in one freezing, sticky cascade.
"Oh—shoot! I'm so sorry—I didn't—"
Jen froze.
Ice cubes sat in her cleavage.
She looked down at herself. The dark fabric of her top had gone black-wet across the front. The carefully sewn trim dripped. Her bare stomach glistened with high-fructose corn syrup.
Jen looked up.
The man looked to be early thirties, with a hairline making a quiet retreat from his forehead and thick-framed glasses magnifying a pair of eyes that were currently doing a very thorough job of not looking at her face. A DnD shirt, wrinkled in the specific way of clothes pulled straight from a pile, stretched across a soft middle. The beard came in patches. The smell came in waves.
"Oh—Shadowheart—I'm sorry! I didn't see you, I was just—the phone, I was checking the panel schedule, I wasn't—please, here, I have—"
He was already pulling napkins from his burger bag. A handful. Then more. Enough napkins to dry a small dog.
"Here! Let me—can I just—"
The napkins shook in his outstretched hand.
His eyes were nowhere near her eyes.
Behind her, the teenage boys had wasted no time. One of them let out a laugh punctuated by a voice crack—the sound bouncing off the food court ceiling in a way that was deeply, specifically, aimed at her.
At them.
Brilliant.
"I really am—I can't believe—you're so—I mean the costume is—not that I was looking there specifically, I mean I was, obviously, it's incredible, the uh— craftsmanship is—" He swallowed.
"That sentence had a rough landing," Jen said flatly.
"I just meant—in the game! The character! Not—I didn't mean—"
A napkin dropped sadly toward the floor.
He was still staring. Not even subtly. His glasses had fogged slightly at the edges from the amount of effort straining his flabby body.
Jen peeled an ice cube from her cleavage and held it between two fingers with the calm dignity of someone removing a stone from a shoe.
"Napkin," she said.
He thrust the whole stack at her.
She took one and pressed it to her sternum. The cheap paper accomplished nothing except flaking off into a wider, wetter smear across her skin.
Jen looked at the soaked fabric clinging to her chest. Looked at the growing audience of spectators. Looked at the man with his remaining napkins and his fogged glasses and his absolute failure to locate her eyes with his own.
Three weekends. Her work. Her craft. Her body and her time. Her feet had been destroying her since nine in the morning, the fourteenth "are you Shadowheart" had stopped being funny around number eleven, and this man—had just tipped her clean over the edge.
So she decided that the only fair thing to do was to take the whole day out on him.
She was also fairly certain he wouldn't mind.
"Follow me," she said.
"I—what?"
But she was already moving, cutting away from the food court toward the service access behind the exhibition booths—a narrow strip of corridor that ran behind the main hall, marked with "Staff Only" signage that nobody was actually enforcing. She'd used it twice before. Useful for escaping queues. Useful for this.
She didn't check if he was following. She knew he was.
The corridor was dim and functional—bare concrete, strip lighting, trolleys stacked with folding chairs and electrical cables, the distant thud of the main stage bass bleeding through the walls. It smelled of dust and extension cords.
At the end, an unmarked door. Jen pushed through it into a storage room: spare chairs stacked six high, lighting rigs leaning against the far wall, a folding table with someone's abandoned coffee on it. A single overhead bulb. The door drifted half-shut behind them.
She turned around.
The man stood two steps inside the door, burger bag still in one hand, napkins in the other, glasses re-fogged from what appeared to be sustained physical and emotional distress.
"I really am—"
"I know." Jen plucked half of the napkins from his hand. "You've mentioned it."
She pressed the stack firmly against her chest and held it there, watching him. The Pepsi had reached her navel. The fabric was sticking. The cold was deeply irritating. None of which she planned to let distract her.
He didn't know where to look. His eyes performed a brief, catastrophic tour of the room—her tits, the wall, her midsection, the folding table, her tits again—and landed nowhere convincingly.
Yeah, she was going to make this one hurt.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Dave."
"Dave." She let it sit. "Dave was not looking where he was going."
"I know, I'm so—"
"Dave was looking at his phone." She pulled the napkins away and pressed fresh ones against the fabric. "What were you checking?"
"The—the Dungeon Master's Craft panel? It's at three and I didn't want to miss—"
"And how's that working out for you?"
Dave closed his mouth.
A faint burst of applause came through the wall from somewhere in the main hall. Jen set down the napkins on the folding table and looked at him properly.
He was a wreck. Sweat at his hairline, hands gripping the burger bag like it owed him something, shirt still bearing a secondary Pepsi splash she doubted he'd noticed. His glasses had given up entirely on transparency. And still—still—those eyes kept sliding south of her face with the helpless predictability of water finding a drain.
It was almost endearing.
"Dave." Her voice dropped half a register. "My eyes are up here."
The effect was instantaneous. His entire face went the color of a health potion.
"I know, I wasn't—I mean, the costume is just very—it's very well made. The fabric—"
"The fabric," she repeated.
"You're beautiful—I mean! I-It's beautiful…" He stopped. Swallowed. "I'm making this worse."
"Very."
Jen pulled the soggy napkins away from her and assessed the damage properly.
The fabric alone had cost her a hundred bucks—silk ribbon, because polyester frayed and she didn't do fraying. The leather was another few hundred. Buttons, thread, the proper "chest" support. She'd spent five days on the stitching.
All in all, roughly a thousand bucks of blood, sweat, and tears, hanging off her body and currently marinating in sugar water.
"I'll pay you back." Dave's voice had gone very small. "Whatever it costs. Cleaning—or r-replacement, if it's—I'll pay all of it, I promise!"
She looked at him.
"I'll—yes. All of it. However much." He gripped the burger bag tighter. "I'm so sorry. I feel terrible."
She pressed the last dry napkin against her sternum and held it, watching him sweat under the single overhead bulb with the patience of someone who had not yet decided what she wanted from this situation.
Jen looked at Dave—at the desperate sincerity in his fogged glasses, at the white-knuckled grip on his burger bag—and felt something quietly crystallize.
Pay her back. How sweet.
Something like this would have floored sixteen-year-old Jen, the one who'd saved birthday money for three months to afford a store-bought costume that didn't fit. That girl would have been grateful. That girl would have apologized for being in the way.
She wasn't that girl.
The teaser alone on her story had already generated forty-seven new subs. By tomorrow, the subscription bump would comfortably cover the fabric and then some.
The costume wasn't an expense. It was business.
Dave stood there with his napkins and his guilt, genuinely believing he'd ruined something. Genuinely believing she needed rescuing.
This version of Jen didn't need rescuing.
This one had an OnlyFans.
"Yeah you fucking will," Jen said.
Dave blinked. "I—sorry?"
"You said you'd pay me back." She set the useless napkin down. "So you're gonna pay me back."
"Right, yes—if you have a receipt for the materials, or even an estimate—"
"Dave..." She tilted her chin down. "I'm not talking about money."
Dave's mouth opened and shut like a man trying to remember a language he'd never spoken.
Jen let him flounder.
This was her favorite part—the precise moment the penny began its slow, inevitable drop. She could see it happening behind his fogged glasses. The recalibration. The dawning, terrible suspicion that this situation had stopped being about Pepsi some time ago.
She'd had this power since she was nineteen and had only gotten better at using it. Now, she was thriving off it—the way a man's entire personality could be reduced to a single variable when she looked at him the right way. Dave was a textbook case.
She took one slow step toward him.
He took half a step back and hit a stack of folding chairs.
"The thing about Shar," she said, keeping her voice low and even, the character sliding over her like a second skin, "is that she doesn't want payment."
She let the silence do the work.
"She wants tribute."
His glasses stopped fogging.
"T-Tribute?" he repeated.
"W-What?"
"On your knees, Dave." She pointed. "Now."
He looked at the floor. Looked at her. Looked at the door behind him with the expression of a man trying to pretend he didn't want this.
"I can't—I mean, I don't—we've just met—"
"And yet here you are." She gestured at the storage room. "You followed me."
"You told me to!"
"And you came." She arched an eyebrow. "Like a good little bitch."
His breath hitched.
Then his eyes dropped. Not to her chest this time, but down and to the left, the universal direction of a man suddenly trying to hide something a little too late.
Jen caught it immediately.
Her smile went sharp.
"Oh." She let the syllable land like a verdict. "Oh, Dave."
"No—it's not—"
"You're enjoying this." She traced a finger down his neck. Beads of sweat formed and trailed downwards, absorbing into his shirt. "I call you a bitch and you enjoy it."
"I don't—"
Without warning, she shot her hand down and grabbed him—hard, fingers wrapping around the base of him through the shin-length mesh shorts with zero gentleness—and Dave's sentence died somewhere in his throat, replaced by a sound that wasn't quite a word and wasn't quite a breath. "Look at you. One mean word from a woman you've known for five minutes and you're—" she glanced down pointedly, "—standing at attention."
Jen released him.
Dave made a sound like he'd just been unplugged.
"Relax." She wiped her hand off on his shirt with the casual efficiency of someone cleaning a paintbrush. "I don't blame you. How long has it been since a woman touched you? Voluntarily I mean?"
Dave said nothing. His face had gone from red to a deeper, more ashamed red.
"That's what I thought." She crossed her arms. "Here's the truth, Dave. You're fat. You're ugly as shit. And outside of this room?" She gestured vaguely toward the convention floor. "You go home alone. Every time."
He looked at the floor.
"But right now—" she let her voice drop, "—right now you're in a room with me. And I'm telling you exactly what to do." She pointed at the concrete. "So here's your math. You do what I say, and this is the best day of your miserable little life." She tilted her head. "Or you don't."
She left the alternative to his imagination.
"So, chop-chop, Dave." Her finger still pointed at the floor. "Last time I'll ask. Are you going to serve your cleric or not?"
Dave's jaw worked silently for a moment, trying desperately to hold on to any sense of control he had left.
"O-Okay…"
He sank down to his knees—first one, then the other, slowly and deliberately. The picture of a man watching himself do something he couldn't quite believe. He looked up at her from the floor.
The shame was right there on his face, naked and obvious. But beneath it, barely hidden, that other thing. The thing he couldn't help.
Jen looked down at him for a long moment.
"Good boy."
Something moved across his expression—a flinch, or maybe its opposite. His hands rested on his thighs and his glasses had finally cleared enough for her to see his eyes properly. Wide. Earnest. Hungry.
She circled him once, slowly, boots scraping against the concrete. He tracked the sound without turning his head. Disciplined already. Interesting.
She stopped in front of him.
"You want to know something, Dave?" She crouched, bringing herself to eye level. This close she could see the sweat on his upper lip and his eyes trying very hard to stay pointing up. "I don't think we met by accident."
He blinked.
"Out of everyone here—" she gestured loosely toward the wall and the convention beyond it, "—the staff, the photographers, the thousands of other fat, sweaty nerds staring a little too long—" she let her eyes travel over him slowly, top to bottom, the way someone reads a receipt, "—I ran into you."
Dave said nothing. His throat moved.
"Want to know why?"
A small nod.
Jen leaned in, close enough that his body odor burned her nose.
"Because Shar put you there. In my fucking way." She kept her voice low and even. "The way your eyes went everywhere they weren't supposed to. The way you kept apologizing like if you said it enough times it would cancel out the fact that you were staring." She tilted her head. "I knew exactly what you were."
She held his gaze.
"A sick… little… fuck…" She cupped his jaw with her hand. "That's what you are. And sick little fucks—" she tapped two fingers lightly under his chin, tilting his face up another inch, "—need to be taught a lesson."
She straightened up.
CRACK
The slap rippled across his cheek with the flat of her palm—loud, sharp, the sound swallowed immediately by the brick walls. Dave's head snapped sideways. The skin went white for one suspended second, then flooded back to red.
He turned back slowly.
Jen looked at the mark her hand had left.
"Start cleaning me up."
Dave's hands came up reflexively, still clutching the burger bag's napkins.
She slapped him again. Same cheek. Harder.
The napkins fluttered to the floor.
"Did I say use those?" Her voice was perfectly level. "You're a fat fucking pig, Dave." She looked down at him, at the reddening cheek, the watering eyes behind the fogged glasses. "Fat pigs don't use napkins."
He stared up at her.
"Use your mouth."
The words landed. She watched them land—watched his expression do its slow, complicated work. The shame cycling around and around and finding nowhere to go.
"Go on." She gestured at the sticky sheen across her bare stomach, the splotch of dark syrup staining her hips. "You know you want to."
Dave leaned forward on his knees.
His tongue touched the curve of her stomach just below her ribs, tentative, almost apologetic.
"Mmm… you're going to have to do better than that." She didn't look at him. She examined her nails. "I don't feel anything."
He pressed closer. His hands found her hips—
"Hands behind your back."
They dropped immediately.
He licked the Pepsi from her midriff in slow strokes, his breath warm against her skin. She kept her expression neutral, looking at a point on the far wall with the bored patience of a woman waiting for a bus.
"Higher."
He worked his way up. Traced the line of soda up her sternum, following the path it had taken on the way down. His glasses bumped against her skin and she reached down without looking and ripped them off his face, sending them scattering across the floor.
"You missed a spot." She pointed.
He found it.
She let him work for another moment. Then:
"You know what's sad, Dave?" She finally looked down at him, at the crown of his thinning hair. "You're actually grateful for this. Grateful to be treated like dirt."
He didn't deny it.
Something warm spread through Jen's chest—not desire exactly, but adjacent to it. Something cleaner and more electric. The feeling of a dial turning past a threshold she hadn't known existed until she'd found it.
She looked down at the top of his head and felt enormous.
This man had a job. A car, probably. An apartment somewhere with a gaming chair and too many monitors. He paid taxes. He had argued with other dorks on Reddit about the best DnD editions. And right now he was on his knees, cleaning Pepsi off her stomach with his tongue because she had told him to.
The power from it was intoxicating.
And to think she normally got to charge for this.
"Yeah." His voice came out rough, stripped of every defense he'd walked in with. "I am."
"What was that?"
"I said—yes."
Jen let the silence stretch. Then she reached down and caught a fistful of his hair, pulling his head back until he was looking up at her—eyes watering slightly, jaw slack.
"That's not how you address me."
He blinked, confused and desperate in equal measure.
"Try again." Her grip tightened. "Say it properly."
Something moved across his face. Calculation. Surrender.
"Y-Yes… mommy."
Jen smiled and released his hair. She'd heard them all before. Mistress, goddess, empress, domme, alpha… but she had always been partial to mommy.
She smoothed his hair back almost gently, a gesture of deliberate condescension.
"Better." She straightened. "See? Was that so hard?"
He shook his head.
"Good." She studied him for a moment—the red cheek, the bare, squinting face without the glasses, the hands clasped behind his back exactly where she'd put them. "Are you still thirsty?"
The question sat between them.
Dave's throat worked. His eyes moved over her face, checking, recalculating, deciding whether he was actually reading this correctly.
He nodded.
Jen tilted her head back slightly, working her mouth, gathering slowly. Then she looked back down at him with the cool detachment of someone performing a perfectly ordinary task.
"Open up."
His lips parted.
She leaned forward and let it fall—a slow, silvery strand—straight onto his waiting tongue.
Then immediately after, she pulled back and spat another juicy wad directly onto his cheek.
THWAP
It ran down toward his jaw. He didn't wipe it. Didn't squirm. Just swallowed everything that had landed in his mouth, his throat working in one slow, deliberate movement.
Jen watched him do it.
The overhead bulb threw a flat, unflattering light across the whole scene—Dave on his knees, her spit trailing down his face, his hands still locked behind his back exactly where she'd placed them. He hadn't moved them once.
She raised her boot.
The sole landed square on his crotch—not hard, just firmly, the full weight of the gesture rather than the force of it. She felt him twitch beneath the rubber and pressed down a fraction more.
His breath caught.
"Untie it."
His eyes moved to the laces. Back to her face.
"My boot, Dave." She pressed again. "Unless you'd rather I leave it on. But I have a feeling you're one of those guys too."
"Yes mommy," he replied with zero hesitation.
His hands came forward from behind his back and found the laces—clumsy at first, fumbling with the knot while his concentration was split between the task and the boot currently occupying his full attention.
The laces came loose and Dave worked the boot open with the careful attention of someone defusing something.
Jen watched him and felt the warmth spread lower, pooling somewhere beneath her navel. She could feel herself getting wet with a frankness that surprised even her. Not at Dave, specifically. Definitely not. Not at the thinning hair or the patchy beard or the sweat darkening his collar. At this. At the precise geometry of the situation—him below her, her above, the absolute uncontested nature of who was in charge of this room.
She didn't often lose the clinical edge mid-scene.
Dave peeled the boot open and looked up.
"Take it off."
He cupped the heel in both palms and eased it away. Her foot slid free into the storage room's stale air—bare, slightly damp from five hours in leather, the nails painted in sharp, glossy black. She flexed her toes once, feeling the air.
Dave's eyes dropped to her foot and stayed there.
She watched something happen to his face.
"Oh." The word came out of Jen before she could arrange it into something cooler. Not from surprise—she'd had foot guys before and knew how to clock them—but it was the immediacy of it. The helpless, unguarded way his expression dissolved the second her bare foot appeared.
She pressed her sole flat against his chest and pushed.
He rocked back on his heels but caught himself, hands flying to the floor. He didn't look away from her foot.
"I knew you were into this shit," she said softly.
She could feel her own heartbeat now, low and insistent. The throb of it pulled at her focus and she let it, feeding it the image in front of her—this grown man, breathless, staring at her foot like it was the most significant thing he had ever been allowed to see.
She curled her toes against his sternum.
"Disgusting," she said. The word came out warm. "You know that?"
He nodded.
"My feet have been in that boot since seven this morning." She pressed down slightly. "But that makes it even better doesn't it?"
He was already leaning in.
"Nuh-uh."
She shoved her foot into his chest and Dave went over backwards with a crash, his spine hitting the concrete, the breath leaving him in one punched-out grunt.
He lay there, blinking at the ceiling.
Jen stepped over him, bare foot on one side of his hip, booted foot on the other, and looked down at him from above. The overhead bulb backlit her, dark hair falling forward, the ruined costume catching the light.
"Look at you." She clicked her tongue. "On the dirty fucking floor. Is that where you spend most of your time, Dave? Like the piece of human trash that you are?"
He said nothing. His chest heaved.
She hooked the toes of her bare foot into the waistband of his shorts—the elastic stretched easily, her sole pressing warm against the soft flesh beneath—and tugged. Not enough to pull them down, just enough to drag the fabric sideways and expose the pale strip of his stomach below his shirt.
"Fuck." She tugged again. The waistband snapped back against his gut. "Do you even own a mirror, Dave? How can you live with yourself?"
Dave's face had gone completely scarlet.
She plucked the waistband again, stretching it out and releasing it.
Snap.
"Pasty." Snap. "Soft." Snap. "Pathetic." She let the elastic go and regarded him with the detached interest of someone examining something they found mildly revolting. "And somehow, somehow you thought you deserved to look at me."
"I—" He began sitting up.
"Don't." She pressed the ball of her foot flat against his sternum. "I didn't say you could get up."
She could feel him shaking through the sole of her foot. The faint, involuntary tremor of a man who had completely run out of armor and didn't know what to do without it.
"You're going to take those off." She pressed down. "Those raggedy little shorts. And whatever shit-smeared catastrophe you've got underneath them."
He stared up at her.
"Now, Dave." She ground her heel into him, slow and deliberate. "Before I change my mind."
His hands moved to the waistband and froze there.
"I'm waiting."
He looked away and closed his eyes like he was about to step off a diving board he'd already climbed too high to back down from. His jaw tightened. His hands moved.
The shorts came down.
Then the boxers.
Jen looked down.
A moment passed. Then another.
Oh brother.
A cackle burst out of her. Not a polite little giggle or a knowing smirk. A full, bright, helpless laugh that bounced off the brick walls and the stacked folding chairs and filled the entire storage room with the specific, devastating sound of genuine amusement.
"No fucking way!" She pressed a hand over her mouth, which did absolutely nothing. "Dave."
He still had his eyes closed.
"Dave…" She crouched, bringing herself level with the situation, and the laugh ripped through her again. "You absolute disaster."
His face scrunched tight. As though not being able to see it made it not real.
"Open your eyes." She tapped his cheek. "Come on. Look at me."
He opened them.
"I've seen bigger clits." She crouched again, tilting her head as if studying something that barely warranted the effort. "Is it cold in here? Are you nervous?" She looked up at his face. "Or is this just it?"
He stared at a point on the wall somewhere past her shoulder.
"This is just it," she concluded.
She pressed her lips together and the laugh escaped again anyway.
"Okay." She wiped the corner of her eye with one finger and exhaled. "I can't even be angry. I'm not sure what I expected."
His lip quivered.
"Alrighty then." Jen clapped her hands together once, businesslike. "Here's what's going to happen."
She looked down at him sprawled across the concrete, shorts around his ankles, eyes wide, waiting.
Thing was, Jen wasn't going to leave this room without getting off. She'd been through too much shit today not to. Five hours in lines, three grand in flights and hotels, one ruined costume, plus… Dave… The least the universe owed her was an orgasm.
"You're going to lie there." She reached under her skirt and hooked her underwear down in one practiced motion, stepping free of it. "And I'm going to ride your stupid fucking face."
Dave made a sound akin to a whimper.
"And while you're doing that—" she pointed a finger toward him, watching it twitch pathetically at the mention, "—I'm going to see if I can find something useful for this to do."
She settled over him without ceremony, knees bracketing his head against the concrete floor, and looked down.
"Are we clear?"
Dave's view of the world had reduced to the dark fabric of her skirt falling around his face and the pale inside of her thighs bracketing his skull.
"Yes, Mommy." Muffled. Earnest.
"Good." She reached down and gripped his hair—not gently—angling him exactly where she wanted him. "Because if you do a bad job, I walk out of here and you spend the rest of the convention thinking about what could have been." She tightened her fingers. "And I will find every single of your nerd friends and tell them what I found under those shorts."
A groan from below.
"But if you do a good job—" she settled her weight down incrementally, feeling the warmth of his breath against her, "—I might let you finish."
She felt him swallow.
"Might," she repeated.
She looked down at the pitiful twitch of him, at his hands flat on the floor at his sides, waiting for permission he hadn't been given and probably wouldn't be. The overhead bulb threw everything in that flat, unforgiving light.
"Now." She pressed down the last inch. "Get to work. Just try your best, I know it's your first time seeing a real puss—"
Dave's tongue found her immediately. No hesitation, no fumbling around like a man reading a map upside down. Jen's breath left her in one sharp hiss.
Oh.
She hadn't expected that.
Her grip tightened in his hair reflexively, fingers curling against his scalp. He worked with a slow, deliberate pressure that suggested this was not, in fact, his first rodeo. The flat of his tongue dragged upward and her thighs twitched involuntarily, squeezing against his temples.
"Hm." She forced her voice back to neutral. Mostly succeeded.
He did it again.
The jolt of it ran straight up her spine and she had to press her free hand against the nearest chair stack to keep her balance. Her knuckles went white against the metal frame.
Well. She looked down at the crown of his thinning head, visible where her skirt pooled around him. Every useless creature has one skill.
Apparently Dave's was this.
He found a rhythm—patient, unhurried, the kind of focused attention he clearly couldn't manage while walking through a food court—and Jen exhaled slowly through her nose, letting the pleasure settle into something she could work with.
"Fine," she said, mostly to herself. "You're not completely hopeless."
She looked down at him—at the pitiful little thing standing at attention between his soft thighs—and her amusement curdled into something sharper.
He was already leaking. A thin, glistening bead had collected at the tip, trembling with each stuttered breath he drew against her.
"Oh! Look at that." She tilted her head. "You're dripping."
A twitch.
"Like a broken tap." Another. "In a doll's house."
She laughed, short and bright, and felt his tongue falter for half a second before redoubling its effort—apologetic, desperate.
"The head's bigger than the shaft, Dave. Did you know that?" She peered down with the clinical interest of someone inspecting faulty merchandise. "It looks like a little mushroom that got rained on."
Twitch. Twitch.
More leaking now, a thin thread pulling toward his stomach.
"Oh, it likes that." She ground down against his face, rewarding the tongue that hadn't stopped working. "You filthy little thing. I call it a mushroom and it practically claps."
She reached down and flicked it. Once. Hard.
"Pathetic."
She leaned forward, shifting her weight, and pinched him between her index finger and thumb—because that was genuinely all that fit—and began to move.
The stroke was slow. Lazy, even. The kind of effort you'd give something that didn't quite warrant more.
"There we go." She worked him in small, unhurried pulls, her wrist barely moving. "Barely a handful. Less than a handful." She glanced down. "A pinchful, Dave."
His groan vibrated against her and she felt it everywhere it needed to be felt.
Her grip tightened slightly and she quickened the pace by the smallest increment. Below her, Dave's hips stuttered upward.
"Don't." She pressed her bare foot flat against his hip bone and pushed him back to the floor. "Slaves don't move. They just take it."
He went still.
"Good mushroom." She patted the tip with one finger. Felt him twitch. "Tiny, pathetic, dripping little mushroom."
The tongue below her found something precise and Jen's breath hitched in her throat, her thighs pressing inward without her permission. She kept her strokes even, kept her expression level, but her free hand had found the edge of the chair stack again and she was gripping it hard.
Oh, he was good at this. Annoyingly, infuriatingly good. The kind of good that came from a lot of experience consuming slop.
"You're—" She swallowed. "You're compensating." The stroke shortened, tightened. "Won't work." Her voice came out thinner than she intended. "Still pathetic."
He worked harder.
The warmth was building fast now, spreading from the base of her spine outward in slow, insistent waves. She tried to breathe through it. Failed. Her hips rolled forward of their own accord, chasing him, her whole body tipping toward the edge of something that had been building since the moment she'd shoved him to the floor.
"I hate you," she told him conversationally, through a clenched jaw.
He made a sound against her that she felt rather than heard.
Two fingers. Slow strokes. Dave's thinning hair crushed in her fist.
Close.
Her grip on his hair went white-knuckled and her strokes shortened to something frantic, the lazy pinch becoming a tight, rapid flutter that she couldn't quite keep controlled anymore.
"Fuck—"
The orgasm wracked her body.
Her thighs clamped against his skull, shaking, the thick flesh of them pressing his face deeper as her whole body curled forward—one hand still fused to the chair stack, the other finally releasing his hair to grab at nothing. Her abs clenched in hard ripples, sweat-slick in the overhead light, the dark fabric of her skirt pooling around her waist. Her chest heaved, tits pressing against the soaked bodice, breath coming out in one long, ragged sound.
She shook. Properly shook—thighs trembling around him, the fat of her ass dimpling where her weight bore down, her whole body lit up and spasming through it while Dave's tongue worked her in long, steady strokes like he was taking his time with something that deserved it.
The sound of it was wet and obscene and she did not care even slightly.
The waves rolled through her in long, slow pulses, each one dropping her further, her forehead tipping forward until it nearly touched his stomach. Sweat rolled down the valley of her spine and onto Dave's forehead. Her abs twitched with each aftershock.
Then Dave made a sound.
Low. Guttural. A groan that built fast into something urgent and undignified—
Jen blinked, her gaze blocked by her hair coming down around her head.
The groan built further.
She looked up.
His cock had gone an alarming shade of red, standing at trembling attention, hips locked flat to the floor—
SPLURRRT
A thick rope of cum launched off the tip, arced through the air, and landed on the concrete with an audible splat.
Then another.
Desperately shooting off into nothing from zero stimulation at all.
Jen giggled.
High, helpless, completely uncontrolled giggling that shook her whole body—still perched over his face, still catching her breath, laughing so hard her eyes watered. That was a first even for her.
"Dave." She pressed both hands to her mouth. "I wasn't even touching you."
He made a small, broken sound beneath her skirt.
"You came on the floor." Another laugh ripped out of her. "Like a filthy animal."
Jen lifted herself off him in one fluid motion, strands breaking sequentially—a thin web of her and Dave stretching and snapping across his upturned face, catching on his chin, his lips, the bridge of his nose where his glasses no longer sat.
She stood over him and looked down.
He stared at the ceiling, chest heaving, glasses-less and wrecked, face glistening under the flat overhead bulb. A man who had been thoroughly used and thoroughly enjoyed it.
Jen looked at the floor beside him.
The concrete was marked with three distinct white ropes, each one cooling in the thankfully air-conditioned air.
"Oh, Dave…" She clicked her tongue. "You've made another mess."
He closed his eyes.
"Two in one day." She crouched briefly, examining the splatter with the detached interest of a crime scene investigator. "At least the Pepsi wasn't yours." She straightened. "This one is."
"I'm sorry—"
"I know you're sorry, but that's not good enough. So, you're going to clean it up."
He blinked and lifted his head.
"That's right! The same way you cleaned me up." She gestured at the floor. "Go on."
His head dropped back to the concrete. "What? No, I can't—"
Jen stepped over his hip and placed her bare foot at the edge of the nearest puddle.
The warmth hit her sole immediately. Thick and tacky, the way it clung was deeply, specifically revolting and she felt her toes curl slightly against the texture before she controlled it. She pressed down slowly, gathering it against the ball of her foot, feeling it spread between her toes in a way that made her jaw tighten.
She looked at it. Looked at him.
Then she lifted her foot and held it over his face.
The mess clung to her sole in a pale, glistening smear—strung between her toes, pooled in the arch, one slow bead threatening the edge of her heel.
"What was that?" She held it steady. "You wanna repeat it?"
Dave stared up at her foot hanging above his face. Something moved through his expression—want and revulsion circling each other, neither one winning.
His eyes tracked the slow bead threatening the edge of her heel, dangling precariously in the air.
"I can't—that's—"
"Disgusting?" She tilted her foot slightly, letting the bead stretch. "That's rich coming from the single most disgusting person on the planet."
He swallowed.
"Open up, Dave. Time for your meal."
His lips pressed together. The first real resistance since the kneeling.
Interesting.
Jen held her foot perfectly still and watched him wrestle with himself. She wondered, distantly—the way she sometimes got mid-scene when something genuinely surprised her—how far this actually went. She'd pushed men before. Plenty of them. She knew where the edges usually were.
Dave's edges, she was beginning to suspect, were somewhere she hadn't found yet.
"I mean… it's your mess," she said pleasantly. "If you don't want to, I can just leave…"
"No! Please—"
"Please, who?"
His throat moved. "Please, Mommy."
"Better." She lowered her foot another inch. "Come on then, tongue out."
His tongue appeared. Reluctant. Barely.
"Further… further…"
It extended another fraction.
The bead on her heel dropped and caught the tip of his tongue.
Dave flinched like he'd been electrocuted. His entire body recoiled before stopping halfway because her foot was right there, an inch from his face, and there was nowhere for him to go.
"Oopsies!" Jen tilted her head and watched him work through it and felt nothing but a cold, bright amusement.
They produced it. They were proud of it. And the moment it was their problem to deal with, suddenly it warranted that face.
Remarkable creatures.
She'd had this exact conversation with herself before—in bed, in the shower, once at brunch with two glasses of wine in her—the fundamental hypocrisy of it. Every man she'd ever been with had produced the same expectant look afterward. As if swallowing was simply a courtesy, like holding a door. Something a woman did without being asked and certainly without making a face about it.
Jen watched the conflict play out across every visible feature.
How far? she thought. How many times can I make him do the thing he won't do?
She pressed her sole flat against his mouth.
"Now, lick."
A long pause. The longest since they'd come in here.
Then, slowly… with the defeated resignation of a man who was already in for a penny… he went for the pound.
His tongue moved against her arch.
There it is.
She watched the top of his head, his jaw working, the small, humiliated sounds he was making into the ball of her foot.
"Goooood joooob," she cooed softly. "Didn't even need the threat this time."
Dave's tongue worked its way across her sole in slow, mortified strokes. The feeling alone caused a giggle to build again.
She tried pressing her lips together but failed completely.
"I cannot believe—" The laugh escaped. "You're actually doing it!" She shook her head, looking down at him with the bright, helpless amusement of someone watching a nature documentary take an unexpected turn. "Dave. Do you understand how pathetic and gross this is? That shit looks vile."
He made a sound against her arch.
"Oh, thanks be to Shar!" she exclaimed, to no one in particular. "Shadowheart would be absolutely—" she gestured vaguely with her free hand, "—I mean, this is completely in character. Shar demands this. Call it a little bit of fan service."
His tongue found the webbing between her toes.
"Oh, how the Nightsong weeps for you…" she told him solemnly.
Jen twisted her foot slightly, presenting a new angle, watching his eyes close with the concentration of a man at work. The overhead bulb threw his shadow long across the concrete. The folding chairs loomed. Someone's abandoned coffee had gone completely cold.
She found herself strangely fascinated.
She'd expected resistance. She'd expected the hard stop, the moment he'd reach the limit of whatever humiliation he could absorb and bounce back with some last shred of dignity. She'd been wrong.
Dave had no floor.
That was—honestly?—impressive. In its own horrible way.
She checked her sole. Clean. She checked between her toes with the critical eye of someone inspecting freshly washed dishes, tilting her foot in the light.
Satisfied.
"That'll do. Now, up," she said.
He blinked up at her.
"Get up." She stepped back, giving him room.
Dave gathered himself off the concrete in stages—knees first, then upright—shorts still bunched at his ankles, face a catastrophe of flush and glisten. He stood there, swaying slightly.
Jen circled him once. Slowly.
She had one more idea.
"Good boy." She stopped behind him. Her hand found his shoulder and pushed, bending him forward over the folding table. His palms slapped flat against the surface.
"Now, stay just like that…"
