Work Text:
The guy who caught your eye was dressed all in black and had a bunch of piercings, and every time his leather jacket slipped a little, you could see colorful tattoos go from his chest over his shoulder, down his arm. He kept looking at you, and you kept looking at him; every time you looked around, he was looking at you. Sometimes when he turned his head to look at you, you were already looking at him. When he slid up next to you at the bar, you saw symbols tattooed on his hand, chains and rings and bracelets, and a pair of sunglasses hanging out of a pocket.
This kind of guy... you know better. But he has a smile that makes him look soft, look like maybe he likes to cuddle and pet dogs and drink cocoa. His eyes are round and big until he smiles and they crinkle up and he's got this cute round nose.
So you let him kiss you next to the bathrooms. A little sloppy, but like he's eager and excited, not like he doesn't care if you enjoy yourself; he gets his fingers under your skirt and inside your panties, and rubs a little at your clit, makes you shiver. But when you offer to take him home, warning him that your roommates might show up, he shakes his head.
Your heart sinks a little until he says, "I have a hotel room."
You don't realize it until you're outside being tugged into a car that a big man dressed all in black had followed you out of the club -- but he gets into the front of the car. Driver? Maybe it's the leather jacket, but you had been expecting a train ride, not some kind of nice car with tinted windows.
"Fancy," you observe while he's clicking his seatbelt on, and he winks at you, holds your hand and taps rhythms on it until you get to his hotel, and then keeps holding your hand while he leads you through the back entrance, and his driver swipes a card to get to one of the top floors. Not the penthouse, but high enough up that you'll be able to see most of the city when you look out.
He kneels down to untie his boots, so you kick off your flats; he's wearing toe socks. Oh, god, how cute is that? He shrugs out of his leather jacket, so you pull off your cropped denim jacket. This will be the test -- the look on his face when he sees your fat upper arms. You're not skinny, but you fancy that you carry your weight pretty well -- and he did hit on you. But you have the fat, saggy arms of all the women in your family, and a lot of people really dislike them, because they're assholes.
This guy doesn't even look at your arms; he's mostly staring at your tits. To be fair, you are wearing a tit-forward shirt, because you were hoping to get laid.
You grin at him and introduce yourself, and he says, without looking away from your tits, "I'm JK."
"Nice to meet you," you say politely, and he meets your eyes and grins again.
"Hungry or thirsty or anything?" he asks, like he was raised well. But his eyes keep darting back to your boobs.
"Is this where I say I'm thirsty for dick?" you ask dryly, and he flushes, and then you think -- oh. "Or... whatever you have in there." You wave at his crotch.
He looks confused for a moment, then says hurriedly, "Oh, no, yes, I have... it... a dick. Um --"
"An attached dick?" You raise your eyebrows, but you're grinning at him. "I don't mind either way," you add. "Whatever you've got, I'm into."
"You're... gay?" He steps closer to you.
"Pan." You tuck a finger in one of the belt loops of his black jeans.
"That's you like everything?" he checks. You nod. "Me too."
"I'm pretty standard issue cis woman," you tell him, "so I'm easy to drive. I won't come unless you pay attention to my clit, though, so keep that in mind."
You use your finger through his belt loop to pull him even closer, until your bodies are pressed together and you can slide your hand into his back pocket.
He dips his head to kiss you and it's just as good as in the club. Eager, wet, sweet. You sigh into it and he pulls you even more tightly against him, and you're off.
It's good. He comes fast once he's inside you, and then asks you to sit on his face and squeeze him with your thighs while eats you out for a long time. When he fucks you again, he lasts longer, gets you off while he's fucking you and kissing you. You're surprised he doesn't go for your tits at all, but then, at the end, once he's off you and stripped off the condom, tossed it onto a towel lying on the floor (amidst a ton of clothes and shoes and tangles of phone chargers and headphones), that's when he goes.
He snuggles up to you -- then sits up and says, "Okay?" and you nod and reply, "I like it" -- and takes a nipple in his mouth and sucks. You definitely can't go again, but he doesn't seem like he wants to?
You run your fingers through his hair -- gorgeous, dark, soft -- and you don't know what exactly comes over you, but you croon, "Oh, are you a sweet baby?" and he groans around your nipple. He brings his hand up to cover your other one -- not to tease, just to hold.
"Yes," you continue in the same voice, one you'd use for a beloved pet, "a good baby, hm? A darling boy?"
He's getting hard again, humping your thigh a little, moaning against you.
"That's it," you encourage. "Be a good boy for me, be my good baby..."
You keep going until he comes all over your leg. You'd thought he was at least early thirties, but three times in one night? Maybe the leather jacket and club lighting threw you off and he's like twenty, damn.
He slumps against you, tucking his face into your neck, and you keep stroking his hair and praising him in a low voice -- that was so good, you're so pretty like this, you're such a good baby, you're so sweet. It all has the benefit of being true -- it was good, he is sweet, he kind of is a baby.
You like it.
"Stay for breakfast?" he mumbles, and licks your neck a little.
"Mm," you say. "I will, let me just pee."
No toothbrush, no clean panties, walk of shame... well, won't be the first time, or even the tenth, and you'd been hoping for something like this anyway.
He grunts but lets you slide out of bed to take care of your necessaries. You scoop up your clothes from the floor, but don't put them back on, just hang them over the desk chair in the living area so they can air out for tomorrow.
You check your phone, then turn it off so you can keep the 50% battery where it is, and tuck it back into the inside pocket of your jacket.
His hotel room is huge, a suite, but there's nothing in it except his clothes all over the bedroom and a laptop and phone on the desk. Not the same as the phone he had pulled out on your way out of the club to type quickly. You amend your guess of his age to mid-twenties; maybe he's in finance? A little young to be a lawyer or... who else travels around? He's pretty (and ripped) enough to be a model, but you don't recognize him.
Doesn't matter. What matters is that when you slip back into his bed, he immediately pulls you close and cuddles up. When you wake up -- with no idea of the time since the curtains are pulled -- he's the little spoon.
"A babyyyy," you yawn, and he pulls a pillow over his head. You scratch your fingernails gently over his arm, to his back, and he rolls onto his stomach, so you keep going, continuing to scratch gently. He doesn't have any dermographia -- the scratches don't even pinken. He's got gorgeous skin, golden, stretched taut over muscle and muscle and muscle.
Finally he says, "What time?" and you look around.
"No clock, baby," you tell him. You're not really a pet name person, but there's something about him that brings it out of you. "Want me to check your phone?"
He groans, so you toss the covers back and go for the phone on the desk. You click the screen on. His lock screen is some anime character you don't recognize -- it's no one from Naruto or Ranma 1/2.
"It's almost noon," you tell him, and he groans again. You sit on the edge of the bed and squeeze his toes. "Come on, feed me, sweet thing, and I'll be on my way."
He moves the pillow so he can look at you out of a single eye, and you waggle the toe you're holding. His voice is rough and his accent is heavy when he says, "Me -- out in an hour, ok? Or -- not hour." He sounds frustrated, like he can't put his finger on the time in English.
"You don't really have to feed me, I can just go now," you offer, and he shakes his head.
"Order what you like? I want oatmeal, yogurt, fruit."
With that he pulls the pillow back over his head. You laugh a little, and waggle his toe again, then go out to the main living space and find a house phone to make the call on. You don't bother with a menu, just ask for eggs and toast and bacon for you, oatmeal and yogurt and fruit for him. After a thoughtful moment, you ask them to double that -- he's huge. He probably needs more food than you do. Plus tea and coffee.
("Send lots of sugar," you beg, and the voice on the other end laughs, but promises.)
You shower off, get dressed in last night's clothes, and by the time the food comes, he's starting to come alive. You can hear him rolling out of bed and shuffling around while you set the food out on the table. You're more of an eat on the couch while watching tv person, but the couch looks expensive.
The bacon is perfect, so you crunch on it while he comes out in sweats, still half asleep. He's carrying shirts with him but isn't wearing any, and that's pretty delightful. Nice to look at.
Like this, sleepy, out of his leather and black, hair hanging in his face, he looks round and young. Not too young, not with those tattoos curling everywhere, but definitely not in his thirties like you'd originally thought.
"Morning, JK," you say, not bother to suppress your grin. "Oatmeal, fruit, yogurt."
He sits down and stirs the oatmeal. Doesn't add sugar, just shovels it in. You tilt your head and watch. You guess if you had a body like that, you'd want to eat the right stuff to keep it looking like that... or maybe if you cared to eat things like oatmeal for breakfast, you'd have a body like that? How many hours does he spend in the gym anyway?
He gets through most of the oatmeal like that, and but then does put just so much sugar in his coffee, just like you. Once he finishes the cup, he finally looks like he might be awake.
He blinks pretty round brown eyes at you. "Hi," he says, and covers his mouth when he yawns.
"Hi. Finally awake?"
"Kind of." He makes a wry expression. "Mornings... I'm not good."
"Good thing it's the afternoon?" you tease and he laughs.
"I'm not... from here," he says. You do not say duh, the hotel room is a clue, just let him keep going. "But sometimes I come for work... Can I..." He blushes, and you get a clue.
"Want my number?" you guess, and he nods, and looks away from your face.
"Definitely. Text me when you're back in town and we'll hook up." You open a blank contact and slide your phone from next to your plate across the table to him.
JK has to check his own phone first -- for the number? Before he types anything, you say, "If you have an international number, I have Whatsapp, if that's better for you?"
He looks a little relieved. "That's better," he says, like he's confessing something, and gives you your phone back so you can open Whatsapp. When he hands the phone back, you see his country code is 82 -- you'll have to look that up. When he said he wasn't from here, you'd thought maybe the other side of the country or something, not the other side of the world.
He's messaged himself with your name and city, and when you look up at him he's taking a selfie with his own phone, and then you buzz: he's sent it to you with "JK" in the text.
You grin at him. "You're pretty unforgettable, but thanks."
He flushes. "It was okay? Last night?"
"I loved all of it," you assure him. "I had a great time. You did too?"
"It was so good," he mumbles to his yogurt. You kick his foot under the table and smile when he looks up at you.
"I'll see you next time you're in town," you tell him. "Text me any time, ok?"
You've still got his round eyes and blushing cheeks in your mind when you head out. There's a man standing outside his hotel room door, just kind of lounging there, drinking a cup of coffee. The car driver. He nods at you and you nod back -- weird. Maybe JK is a model, if he has some kind of manager/bodyguard just hanging out in the hall.
Later, but before you even unlock your apartment door, you have a text from him -- a picture of him sweaty, wearing a long sleeved shirt and a beanie, jogging on a treadmill. Someone has clearly taken this picture for him -- guy from the hallway maybe?
You're not exactly sure what to send back but you end up on your bed, curled up, tits out, hand positioned over one so that he can see your nipple and the way your breast swells over and around your fingers.
It takes a while but he eventually reacts with a sweat droplet. It makes you laugh, and one of your roommates asks what's so funny, since you're watching the news together. Well, he's watching the news. You're scrolling until it's your turn with the big tv so you can watch a movie while you cross stitch.
This kid is so cute, you're looking forward to the next time he's in town.
It happens much sooner than you think it will -- just a couple of weeks later and he texts you the address of a hotel and a room number, and adds, "Can't go out sorry".
You work out a time and then, just as you're heading out, emergency toothbrush and pair of panties in your bag, he adds, "stay the weekend?"
It is not the weekend, it is a Tuesday.
You slump against the door and write, "you mean stay the next few days?"
Here until Wednesday, stay?
Tomorrow, or next week?
Next week.
You bite your lip and look up at the ceiling.
"I have to work," you write carefully, "but I can come back to the hotel every night if you like. I'd enjoy that."
"I like," he replies quickly. Then: "Please?"
You finish sucking on your lower lip and thinking. When you met him in the club, you'd judged him quickly -- top, probably wants to hold you down, rough, not a lot of kissing, no cuddling, home by one am. But you'd been so wrong; once that leather jacket was off and he was in bed... He definitely liked fucking you, but he was more than a little subby, and the way he acted when you let him suck on your nipple was... the way he responded to being called sweet and good and a baby was... And he'd said he was pan...
You type, "Should I bring my strap? You like that?"
He wants to know what a strap is. You're pretty sure the issue is the English slang, not the object itself, so you go back to your room and take a picture of your harness -- the leather one, you think he'll like that the best -- and a few of your dildos. You have a bunch, because partners like to buy their favorites for you to use on them, and then when you split, they usually don't want to take them. Plus you have your own favorites, like the one with all the nubs and the one that has a really sharp curve.
While you wait for his answer, you pack. Work clothes, slutty clothes, one nice dress that you usually wear out for dinner with your parents just in case. You debate pajamas, and decide to take a set, but he's bigger than you, so you can wear one of his shirts if you end up needing something extra. His waist is not bigger than yours, so you won't be able to borrow pants or shorts, but who cares.
You grab your toiletries kit, birth control pills, whatever, all the stuff you need, and by the time your bag is packed for a week, he's replied:
will u
u like it like that ? ?
"I really do," you reply, and grab three different sizes, condoms, lube. He probably has, but just in case.
yes please.
please.
"What a good boy you are," you type. "I'm on my way."
"Do you want me to send a car?" he asks -- his first message with perfect grammar and punctuation, so you wonder if he used a translator -- and you laugh and tell him you'll take the metro.
When you get off the train and walk toward the hotel -- another high end one, but this one is downtown, not uptown, so it's kind of cooler, not just a tall ugly skyscraper -- you have another message, one with a picture of the guy who you think was the one from the hallway last time. A note that he will meet you in the lobby and bring you up.
Maybe a foreign movie star? Or some kind of dignitary's kid? Is there oil in East Asia the way there is in West Asia, could he be some oil baron's kid? Do they call them barons in Asia the way they do in Alberta or whatever?
You are so curious, but you tamp it down. Either he'll tell you about himself or he won't. You haven't told him anything about yourself either.
There is a split second, on the elevator with the security guy, where you think wildly -- oh no, I forgot about human trafficking! -- and then you squeeze your eyes shut because that is so stupid. No, you don't usually go to the hotel room of a guy you don't know, but you have pretty good instincts for this kind of thing, and JK's sloppy puppy kisses are a pretty good indicator that this isn't something he's faking to manipulate you into something.
And no one fakes the nipple sucking - good boy - sweet baby thing he has going on.
No one fakes being curled up on the couch in layers and layers, knees to chin, staring at nothing, rocking back and forth a little. He's chewing on his lip rings.
"Hey, sweetheart," you say, once the security guy has shut the door behind you.
He looks up at you with wide, round eyes, his hair in his face. He looks damp, like he's just showered, and he's covered completely, even in black socks -- that you realize, when he moves, have the little toes again. You kick off your sneakers and drop your bag by the door, toss your jacket over a chair, and sit down next to him on the couch, pull his feet into your lap.
"Miss me?" you ask, and he nods furiously.
"I really liked meeting you," he says, almost shyly. "I'm glad you could come."
It sounds like he might have memorized that to say; it comes out perfectly, the way he says things he maybe learned to say all at once instead of learning grammar and stuff. Which is fine with you. It just sounds different, and in this case it's like he put effort into learning to say something just for you.
You squeeze his big toe tightly and wiggle it a little, and his whole body wiggles.
"Have you been a good boy?" you ask, feeling a little sly, and then incredibly satisfied when he sucks in a breath and then nods just as furiously as when you'd asked if he'd missed you. "I'm glad to hear that."
You are going to have a week-long sex fest with this beautiful man, and by the end he's going to be moaning your name and begging... although, given how round his eyes are when he looks at you, probably you could have him moaning your name and begging before the end of the night.
"I..." you start, and then pause. He cocks his head and looks at you, and presses his toes into your thigh. You make sure to speak slowly and enunciate, because you want to make sure he understands what you're going to say, since it's not just, like, fuck me, more, harder, good boy.
"Usually I don't play around with power," you tell him.
"Oh, I -- I'm not powerful," he says, like he's assuring you of something, and you blink at him.
"I mean with sex," you clarify. "I don't care if you are powerful in real life. I don't even know what you do."
"I'm --" He stops, and looks away guiltily.
"You don't have to tell me. Do you care that I'm a broke receptionist? No." He's still watching your face with his pretty eyes. "I mean I don't usually play around with dom/sub stuff in bed, you know? Do you?"
"No?" he says, like he isn't sure.
"Do you get what I'm saying?" you ask, squeezing his little toes. "Like, BDSM?"
"We don't do BDSM." He looks confused.
"Good boy? Sweet boy? Nursing?" You raise your eyebrows at him. "That's all sorts of BDSM. Where I have power and you submit to me."
You've been thinking about this since you left him last time. Not really because you thought he would text you to hook up again -- because you really hadn't -- but because you'd liked it. You hadn't ever thought of yourself as someone who enjoyed BDSM, but you had loved telling him he was a good baby and letting him be kind of a baby like that with you, a little subby boy who just wanted to be praised and petted. More like pet play than age play -- you know about both, since just because you don't really do it doesn't mean you don't enjoy the odd BDSM erotic romance or six. Or ten.
Bossing other people around doesn't appeal in general -- too much like work. And listening to someone else boss you around? Too much like your actual job. But telling this sweetheart that he's a good baby? That's easy; that's only natural. Look at him! He's clearly a good boy and a lovely sweetheart. No effort necessary.
You had been thinking about trying to find another good, sweet boy to praise, but... well... that seemed like so much effort... And now here's JK, back in your city.
"Hm," he says, and pulls his feet off your lap, tugs his legs closer to his chest.
"I liked it," you say frankly. "I told you I did and I meant it. And if you liked it, we can keep doing it, but then I need to know what's okay and what's not. Do you wanna be a good pup? Or a good baby? Do you want to act more like a baby or a little kid? You have to tell me so I don't hurt you. Plus I don't want to be called mommy or daddy something, okay?"
He makes a face. "I don't want mommy," he says, skipping everything else. "And I like to be good. I like to be... baby. But not -- not real baby?"
"Not real baby," you repeat. "But my good boy, hm?" You move closer to him and pull his feet onto your lap again. "Don't be embarrassed or ashamed with me, okay? It's all right, we're..." You search for the right phrase. "Sex friends."
He laughs. "Sex friends. Yes." He looks at you from under his eyelashes. "I like to be your good boy."
Oof. Deadly. But you can give as good as you get.
"I like when you're my good boy," you tell him, and move your hand up from his toes to the inside of his knee, and onto his thigh. He spreads his legs for you, bites his lip while he watches. Those eyelashes. You squeeze the inside of his thigh, and he sighs and lets his legs open.
"I'm your good boy," he says, and his head tilts back. There we go, perfect.
And you tell him so. Perfect baby, good boy, doing so well, that's it, just let go, just be here, just let you take care of everything. So beautiful, such a good baby.
He melts right into it, twists you both so he's on top -- but not so he's on top. He sprawls on you, right there on the couch, and brings his arm up so he can tuck his face right into the side of your boob. He gnaws on it a little while you praise him and just tell him over and over that he's good and wonderful and lovely and a baby, and you run your hand through his soft hair. You hadn't bothered with a bra, so you just tug down your shirt and let him suck your nipple right into his mouth.
JK goes for it, sucks hard, and before you can do or say anything, he's got his hand between your legs, fingers rubbing at your clit until you come. Only then does he get his dick out and fuck into you, humping you like a puppy while you croon, "Good boy, good boy, I feel so good, what a good baby," over and over until he chokes on his breath when he comes.
It's so weird and like nothing you've ever done before except with him, and you love it.
You can feel his come dripping out of you. A strange feeling that you're not used to, but you kind of like it. Maybe he will need to be punished for coming inside you without permission (and without his test results... and without finding out if you're on birth control...) -- but you don't know how he would react to that. He's so invested in being a good boy. What would he do if you said he was bad and needed to be punished?
Definitely you would not be able to handle it if he cried.
You change directions in your head and say, "Wanna clean me up, puppy?" and put a hand on his shoulder. You don't even have to push -- he goes right down and pants against your pussy and eagerly, sloppily, eats his come out of you. He licks you all over after that, still sloppy, tongue everywhere -- asshole, thighs, the crease of your groin, inside your cunt, up onto your pubis, into your belly button, back down again.
JK finally collapses onto you, panting, and you realize he's still in his sweatshirt. He had just pulled his dick out of the sweatpants and shoved it in, hadn't gotten undressed at all.
"Take your clothes off," you murmur to him, and tug at the hem of his sweatshirt. It feels like he's wearing at least one or two shirts under it, too. He pulls it all off at the same time and tosses the pile on the floor, then pushes down his sweatpants -- freeballing, nice -- and is finally naked against you, back at your tits, face buried in them. You pull off your shirt, and don't even bother to try to move him, just wriggle your skirt up too, and over your head. The benefits of your slutty stretch knit club clothes.
"You came," he says, and sighs as he settles down on top of you.
"I didn't think you would be back so soon. But I'm glad you are." You stroke your fingers through his hair.
"Thank you for..." He hesitates, but you wait for him to put his thoughts into order and translate them into English for you. "Thank you for not being a stranger."
God, what a sweetheart. You're not sure exactly what he means -- if he's referencing the English idiom, or if he means something... deeper. "I'm not a stranger anymore," you allow.
"I kept looking at you in that club." He sighs, and squeezes you. "I'll get to know you."
Ahhh, something deeper. "Yeah," you agree. "We'll get to know each other this week. And we'll see each other again the next time you're around."