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A lot of the time your boyfriend’s dad was the only one acting out all of his possessive and protective tendencies onto you, as opposed to his own son when it came to anything of the sort. His son and as you’ve known him, your actual boyfriend.
Tonight, Joel’s son was passed out downstairs from smoking bowls of indica while he watched mindless cartoons. You both took the opportunity the minute it was given to you, sneaking upstairs to hurry getting started while he cluelessly snored deep in his sleep on the couch.
Nothing like that would stop you from drawing it out and teasing him, though. Like dangling your panties in your hand just above his head when he crashed you both onto his bed, snorting a laugh when Joel tries to bite it right out of your hands. When you fling them at his face he stops when he finally gets a hold of them and smothers his face in the fabric.
After that he pins you down and fucks you ruthlessly, heavily reliant on your judgement that his son was out like a light, incapable of even hearing a thing. Sounds of a rhythmic beat of the headboard jabbing into the wall gave little to imagination of what was going on behind the closed door. Along with the distant muffled sounds of soft dirty talk whispered in each other’s neck and collarbones.
While he’s stilled all the way inside you, clawing down your back and resisting the urge to litter you in hickies, he tells you that he’s never felt like this before.
Words beyond swearing and Joel! and daddy, yes, please! weren’t an option for you anymore. Hips too busy slamming down with every wet bounce while you whine and cry at every spot he hits. But if you could speak words that didn’t come out as slurred gibberish, you’d tell him I’ve never felt this way either.
He ambushed the last of your efforts to get him to cum first, slipping himself out regretfully only to flip you over like a rag doll as he watches your pussy gape open from the brief loss. Joel is nothing short of smug when his head breaches your warm entrance again, delighted by the crudely dripping mess you’ve made together.
Evidence splashed in dollops all over the ins of your thighs and your pussy. You take him back in almost immediately, gliding yourself back down and tightening around him. Testing him, how he’d react the more you took charge running the show.
“Baby… you’re squeezin’ me so goddamn hard,” he pants, sweat building up on his temple, slowly dripping down. Another sweat even breaks out on his chest, glistening. His palms rake down your sides, desperate to get ahold of you somewhere.
Unrelenting, you continue on and let him struggle to keep up with your pace.
“Am I hearing any complaints?” you grin.
Joel swallows and wipes his forehead, staring down like a man hypnotized as you grind up onto him.
He can’t help but roll his eyes up at you though.
“Fuck’s sake, no. I like it. Like it too… too damn much—“
You take the liberty to squeeze and slide up onto him again, watching his jaw go slack and his eyelids threaten to drift closed.
You scoff and gloat. “S’cause I know what I’m doing, and I know what drives you crazy. C’mon, lay back down. Let me ride you again.”
And fuck if Joel wasn’t going to replay this memory again and again in his head for years to come, regardless of the messy consequences, regardless of the taboo nature of it all. Of fucking his son’s girl in the same home, just a staircase away from him.
When he remembers, he can’t help the sudden ego check he pulls every time. Needs to know that he’s your favorite, needs to hear it.
“He doesn’t fill you up like this, does he?” Joel murmurs.
You never have qualms with telling him the truth. That he really is the only one that gives this to you.
“Never, he n-never fills me up like this,” you heave.
He holds onto your hips with brutal force, his grunts and cries gradually upping in volume and you feared a single wall and a closed door in between wouldn’t be enough to drown out the noise ringing out of him.
In the high off the endorphins and the adrenaline, Joel whines like he’s in pain when you speed up on his cock, sliding side to side. Giving him the fuck of his life when his length twitches inside you. He rushes to yank a pillow from the side and stuffs it over his head, muffling the helpless rough grunts that crawl out of his chest. Hugging it for dear life, you watch the veins in his throat and in his arms bulge from his body’s release.
The mess he makes smears between your lips and eventually trickled down your inner thighs, squelching as you simultaneously finish all around him.
Joel takes a good minute until he trusts himself to remove the pillow, drunk and boneless beneath you.
When you move to situate yourself up to pull him out, he stops you with a little wait with a warm hand on your chest.
Like night and day, Joel’s possessive tendencies act up again and now his brows are tense, nostrils almost flaring when he fumbles in the drawer of his night stand and sneaks out a sharpie of all things.
He locks you under his unforgiving white-knuckled grip, still sheathed inside as he maneuvers you to stay sitting up again on top of him. Holds onto you tight for support, knowing how you fall apart after you finish on him.
“What’s that for?” you nod over at the marker he’s uncapping with his teeth, now spitting out the lid to carelessly land on the ground.
“To write anyone else a little reminder,” Joel remarks, pointedly chastising his son. His fingernails, short as they are, still manage to dig crescent marks into your thighs as he keeps you wide open on his lap. His usually warm brown eyes are swallowed up again by lust, gazing back at you and your legs with black pupils. He continues on. “…of who this pussy really belongs to.”
Looks like that’s the only explanation you’ll get before he’s finished.
The tip of the sharpie is pointy and somewhat cold, dragging across your skin and staining it with every stroke of his wrist. You can feel him draw it out longer than it needed to be, emphasizing each and every letter in all capitals.
He chews his lower lip with his teeth, tossing the marker to the side before nodding his head.
“All done baby. Go ‘head. Take a look.”
You can’t help but laugh before finally peaking down at what he’s written on you, noticing it just below your navel right above where he’s still stuffed to the brim inside.
In black ink, the words DADDYS PROPERTY in Joel’s handwriting is sprawled out. It’s placed strategically that it’d be pointless to attempt to hide it with a regular pair of panties. Your heart swells in your chest as your eyes follow down to where he’d drawn a dainty little heart underneath.
“Hold on, wait, stay still—I wanna get a photo of this,” he murmurs.
It melts you to watch him commit the moment into a memory on his camera, palming the skin of your back with smooth swift circles while he gets every angle he wants.
Pulling you down to his level after he’s done with his own curated photo shoot, he brings your face in by the chin and swirls his tongue along yours while wrestling your lips with his. Shows off his favorite photograph he took of you on top of him, artificially tattooed. Disheveled and indecent.
While you’re looking at it, he sneaks a few more sly kisses down the side of your jaw, whispering more animalistic praise of you’re mine. this is mine. this is all fucking mine.
The next day, you didn’t know if it hurt more to shamefully scrub all the stubborn black ink off in the shower, or the fact that your boyfriend didn’t care enough to even notice it was there in the first place.
It was something you’ve pondered before, how a man you couldn’t have wanted you so bad it hurt him — all the while a boy with full access to you didn’t bat an eye when you disappeared for hours. Didn’t wonder where you were all the time, didn’t fuck you like he meant it (or fuck you at all), didn’t draw a physical reminder directly on your skin that you’re his property.
At least it wouldn’t be long until he was bored with you or distracted by something else, leaving you to be showered and deluged with his father’s undying attention and affection once again.