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“Oh shit. Oh fuck, baby… sweetheart… I can’t…” Vincent’s desperate groans are music to your ears as you palm the tent poking through the front of his dark grey slacks.
Your boyfriend’s breath escapes his lips in desperate, hot huffs as you keep him pinned tightly against the wall, your knee keeping his legs propped open, your breasts pressed firmly against his torso. His glasses are crooked, the lenses fogged.
“We can’t do this here. It’s not- not safe,” he chokes. There is some truth to his words. The dressing room you have cornered him in is not private. Vincent has only recently started his position as a junior weatherman. In relation to the other personalities the station employs, he is at the bottom of the food chain- not yet important enough to have any personal rooms. Instead, he is forced to share this dressing room with everyone else at the bottom of the station’s social ladder. Someone could walk in at any moment.
The risk is what makes it so delicious. For you, anyways.
Vincent squirms against you, feebly attempting to escape your grip, and the torturous, addicting friction against his groin. But he fails. He always does.
He is weak for you, and though half-hearted protests still escape his lips, you know there is nowhere else he would rather be.
“It’s alright, Vinny,” you coo into his ear. A nip at his earlobe makes him shudder.
“Everyone else is on air right now. We have time.” You give his erection a squeeze and he lets out a beautiful whimper.
“Can’t, doll,” he whines, still attempting to deny your advances even as his hips begin to rut forward, grinding needily against the motions of your hand.
“Someone could still walk in. An assistant… a crew member… a- oh, shit. S-slow down,” Vincent begs as you jerk him off through the multiple layers of clothing. A small wet spot is already beginning to form on the front of his pants, the tip of his cock leaking like a faucet into the fabric of his briefs.
“We don’t… have… don’t have any rubbers…” he adds, humping desperately against your palm.
You giggle and lick a thick stripe down his neck, causing him to moan and shiver, his hips canting forward with increasing force.
“Don’t be silly, Vinny. We don’t need a rubber,” you purr.
Vincent chokes on his own breath, his erection jumping under your fingers as he imagines taking you without any kind of barrier.
“What?” He gasps, scandalized and yet needier than ever at your brazen proposition. His pupils are blown wide with lust, all but swallowing his mismatched irises.
“Can’t… can’t take you without one, doll… Could get you pregnant…” He tries to appear against it, but you know the idea secretly excites him. He would love to have you tied to him forever. Unfortunately for him, that is not your intention.
"We don't have to worry about a baby, silly," you respond. Vincent's brow furrows in confusion.
"We… we don't?" He pants, a soft whine escaping his throat. He looks thoroughly debauched, and ever so slightly disappointed.
"We don't," you confirm.
"'Cause you're not going in my pussy. You're going in my mouth, Vinny. I'm gonna get down on my knees and suck you off, right here." You bat your eyelashes at him.
"You won't have to pull out or anything. You'll get to cum down my throat. I'll swallow your whole load. Right here, right now. No risk. No mess. Doesn't that sound nice?"
"You'd- oh shit… Fuck. Fuck, fuck- fuck!" The promise is too much for your poor weatherboy. The image of having you on your knees for him makes Vincent's eyes roll back. He bucks frantically into your hand, his clothed bulge twitching under your fingers as the wet spot on his slacks rapidly expands. His head falls back against the dressing room wall with a loud thump and he moans oh so prettily for you, his pale skin flushed a lovely shade of red.
Vincent ruts against you a few more times, gasping for breath as you hungrily observe him.
"Fucking… Christ," he hisses, humiliation sinking in as his orgasm recedes. He quickly adjusts his glasses and his tie, trying to fix his appearance and make himself presentable before anyone else enters the dressing room, possibly drawn by his moans.
But there is no quick fix for the stain on the front of his pants, where beads of fresh semen are continuing to leak through.
"You made me… in my… in my fucking pants! Like a teenager!" Vincent pushes you back. He is angry at you, blaming you for his lapse in control, and his soiled clothes. You grin salaciously at him, not cowed in the slightest by his display of temper.
"No I didn't," you deny, crossing your arms in front of your chest.
"I was going to get on my knees and suck your dick. I was just getting you ready first. It's not my fault you couldn't hold it, Vinny. How was I supposed to know you'd blow your load before I could even get your cock ou-"
"Shut up," Vincent snarls, surging forward to grab you by the front of your blouse. "Just…. just shut the fuck up! This is- I'm not… you- you used some kind of trick on me, to make me… to make me do that," he accuses, only letting you go when he remembers that you are still in a semi-public location. His eyes dart from one end of the dressing room to the other, searching for any potential audience.
"I need… I need to get fixed up. Shit, my weather segment is in…" One glance at the room’s singular analogue clock sends him into a frenzy.
"Four fucking minutes!" Vincent scrambles around the room like a headless chicken, swiping a pair of ill-fitting but clean pants to replace his own, cursing the whole time.
"Whittman! Get off your ass and get out here!" By the time the set manager bellows out his name, Vincent is presentable, if only just.
"Hold your damn horses, Anderson! I'm coming!" He yells back.
You grin, but before you can make a tongue in cheek comment about your boyfriend's choice in words, he pins you against the wall.
"Not a single fucking word out of you, doll," he threatens.
Vincent presses a brief and surprisingly sweet kiss to your lips before heading out the door.
"You're gonna regret what you did to me today," he tells you, looking back only to make sure your eyes are following him as he heads off, surely plotting some kind of revenge for the way you made him finish in his pants.
You lick your lips, curious to know what your weatherboy has in store for you in the future.