Work Text:
You snatched a flute filled with middleclass champagne from one of the waiters making their busy way around the chattering high society. You were stupid enough to have actually looked forward to the exhibition, for one thing because you really were into the weirder side of your literature studies, and for another thing because George told you it would be an exclusive, upscale event with versed people, expensive drinks and a fancy dinner to let the evening slowly come to an end.
So of course, you accepted his invitation, only to stand in the middle of the tiny saloon with alcohol too cheap to get a pleasant buzz out of it.
George was mingling, probably to butter the most famous looking people up – he still was on the hunt for a publisher who was indifferent enough to publish his writing in the long term. He only managed to get a few editions out here and there, but never enough to make a living, and so he had to bartend most nights at your favorite club when you had a few coins more to spare.
You secretly thought that was the reason he got his hands on the invitations, although he fiercely argued that he indeed had a standing as an acquainted author.
Either way, it didn't change the fact that you were standing in front of an obscenely strident quote of Franz Kafka, dressed to the nines and bored out of your mind. Not that you took no interest in Kafka's writings and his life, quite the opposite, but the things they displayed were not only distastefully arranged, no, they were straight up half-assed Wikipedia knowledge.
You let out an exasperated sigh and nipped on your champagne. Oh, you were in for a long, long night.
Kafka stared right back at you, his comically wide eyes almost creepily following you when you moved back and forth, lips curled into a demonic grin, the painting downright insulting to the Jewish, genius writer. Your head moved like a snake dancing to the hypnotizing melody of a flute, trying to flee his spooky gaze, but alas, to no avail.
"I'm not a very good painter myself, but I think this is one of the worst portraits I've ever seen."
You stopped in your tipsy tracks and turned around. The owner of the warm, amused voice smirked at you with a slightly drawn eyebrow, a tumbler of whiskey in his left hand. The golden liquid moved peacefully as he drew closer to you.
Your eyes took in the sight before you, slightly narrowed, but attentive, because hallelujah, he was one fine specimen of a man. His obvious British charm gave not only his voice, but also his cheeky smile and his elegant grey suit an air of nonchalant sexiness, the few opened buttons on his dress shirt revealed soft, blond, borderline greyish hair and slightly tanned skin, but his eyes – oh, his eyes, they were a jar of dark, liquid honey, two amber stones glimmering mischievously through dark lashes.
You drew in a deep breath, feeling a dull, pulsing throb in your cunt. He was fucking hot.
"Why, damn right you are", you answered with a scoff, but sent him a brief smirk and turned back around to the portrait.
"I came hoping for some mind-bending conversations or analyses, but here I am, getting drunk off cheap-ass champagne and staring at a fucked-up painting", you muttered, blinking at the similarly fed-up looking grimace on the canvas.
The man behind you laughed deeply, his rich, dark voice flowing through you like vibrations of someone plucking an expensive contrabass, and he slid beside you, offering you his tumbler to toast.
"Let's get drunk together then, shall we?"
You raised your almost empty flute and let the glasses sing in a high-pitched clink, then turned your head a little to face the British gentleman.
"To a pleasant turn of events, Mister...?"
He mirrored your sly smile, and bowed his head a little, letting short strands of silver hair fall into his face.
"Rickman. But do call me Alan."
You took another stroll around the exhibition, only this time with much more vigor and actual interest. Alan turned out to be an exceptionally intelligent, very funny, and very handsome conversational partner, handsome being the operative word. The more alcohol you consumed, the harder it was to stop yourself from drooling over the man.
"So, Alan, what brings you to this most terrific event?", you asked him, sarcasm dripping from your words when you passed a particularly kitschy, older couple.
"Oh, I'm only here to draw more visitors. I don't know shit about literature", he stated in earnest and you side-eyed him. If he hadn't just raved about the expressionist movement during the 20th century and the way he loved doing stage plays of this epoch, the roguish twinkle in his eyes would have given him away. You snorted. A few heads turned your way in annoyance, but shit, you couldn't care less about these people.
"Of course, you really don't know anything about the fine arts", you answered drily, earning yourself a grin from the handsome man beside you. He stepped a bit closer to you, and you could smell the full composition of his perfume for the first time – it almost swept you off your feet. If his polished, but effortlessly alluring presence hadn't already floored you, his perfume would have. It was everything dark and musky, but with hints of linen, jasmine, and pistachio. An extraordinary fragrance.
Heat rose to your cheeks, making you flush with attraction so sudden you struggled to hear the words that rolled of his tongue next.
"You know, these shallow, pretentious people know less about art than children but wear themselves as if they met Wilde in person."
You laughed and shook your head.
"Yeah, well, I'm praying to Jane Austen every night to talk some sense and actual good taste into their big heads."
Alan chuckled.
"That must be a sight for sore eyes. You'd look good on your knees."
You choked on your champagne at his words, but Alan gave you a cheeky smile and strolled along as if he didn't just made your panties a lot wetter than they already were before. You took the last gulp of your champagne, scrunched up your too tight dress and hurried after him as good as you could in those killer high heels.
"Wait", you panted when you reached him, and he turned around with an expectant look on his face, a cheeky smile playing around his lips ever so slightly.
"Yes?", he drawled, hands tucked away in the pockets of his trousers, and he looked so fucking edible under this light that you briefly forgot how to speak – being under the influence didn't help you carrying it off well, but nonetheless, you straightened your back, let one last, long look travel over his body, then fixed your eyes back on his equality attractive face. Damn, this man didn't make it easy for you.
"Besides from being the celebrity bait, what are you really doing here?", you asked, still slightly, embarrassingly out of breath, and you could stop yourself from poking his biceps with an accusing finger only just.
Alan raised his hands in teasing defense at your sharp tone, and you gulped and took a step back as you realized how drunk you really were. Blood rushed to your cheeks in bashfulness, but he just chuckled and gently pulled you along through the saloon again, a short grazing of his fingers on your elbow, and you waddled along in tipsy humbleness.
"Well", Alan hummed as you crossed the ugly painting, "I honestly am into the works of Kafka, believe it or not."
You laughed, steadily regaining your confidence again, not least because of the small, accidental touches you and him started to share – hands bumping together, arms brushing against each other, and fleeting looks darting over the other's face.
"Normally, people find Kafka too weird, too askew – you're the first one to openly admit taking a liking to him, so I have to ask for proof, I'm afraid."
His grin bared his white teeth and their slightest, charming crookedness on the bottom.
"That's only fair", Alan agreed with playful seriousness, and quickly snatched two full glasses of champagne from one of the waiters that hurried past the pair of you. The bubbles shimmered in the golden light of the chandeliers when he offered you one of the flutes, but your eyes fell onto the other gleaming illumination you haven't seen before – a wedding ring.
Of course, he's married. Of fucking course – but the throb in your cunt intensified at the new revelation, unfortunately. You always had a thing for the forbidden fruit.
The clink of your classes shook you out of your thoughts, and you threw Alan a sweet smile, urging him to go on with his explanation.
He cleared his throat excessively, and you rolled your eyes at his teasing, but couldn't bite back your smirk.
"A toast to new, exciting acquaintances", he rumbled solemnly, a glint in his eyes, "that I would like to describe using the late, great Franz Kafka: Women have a lot of power. Show the examining judge a woman in the distance and he'll run right over the desk, and the accused, just to get to her as soon as he can. Cheers."
You raised your glass with an amused eyebrow raise. You didn't expect him to quote the most detested work of him, but then again, he seemed to be a man full of pleasant surprises, and you enjoyed yourself immensely.
"The Trial, huh?", you inquired, letting your eyes wander once again over his handsome figure. "Seems like you're not only dressed to impress tonight."
The answering laugh, so deep and rumbly, let your body shiver with delight and arousal. Oh, the things he could whisper into your ear with that voice...
"It's actually my favorite from him- I know, I know, don't look at me like that. I stopped questioning my weird taste", he chuckled, then looked deeply into your eyes. "Although I seem to have done something right tonight."
Blood rushed to your cheeks and to your core, and it was almost painful to keep yourself from rubbing your thighs together, but the intense look in his honeyed eyes told you that he knew.
His hand came down to your waist to gently pull you closer, and you softly gasped when his touch burned your skin through the satin of your dress, gripping his arm to steady yourself. Fuck, he felt so good.
His lips seemed so close, so kissable as his tongue briefly wetted his bottom lip, and you just couldn't help but stare, hypnotized by the soft sweep. He bowed his head down to yours, closer, closer, until his lips brushed against your earlobe, and he whispered, voice rough, low, delicious: "Why are you here, though? Daddy issues?"
You choked on air, a half-moaned gasp left your lips at his salaciously whispered words, and you gripped his arm tighter, just as his hand left your hips with a last, almost promising squeeze, and he untangled himself from your touch with a satisfied smirk playing around those delectable lips.
"See you later", he purred, and slipped past you, a whiff of his sense-melting perfume clawing its way into you, fogging your mind and warming your wet cunt.
That smooth motherfucker.
It took you a few seconds to find your composure again for that silver fox of a man left you weak in your knees and too flushed to look appropriate for social contact, but eventually, you downed your champagne (again), promised yourself to only drink water during the remaining evening, and stepped out of the little niche Alan pulled you in earlier.
Putting on a brave face was one of your better abilities, luckily, and so you continued your solitary stroll around the area once more, relishing the pronounced, bittersweet ache between your thighs.
You tried looking out for George during your walk, but apparently, he had prematurely left, leaving you, once again, alone at an event he wanted to attend, but tonight you couldn't have been more thankful for that – and for the hot mystery Alan Rickman was.
Over the next hour, your ways crossed a few times, air almost prickling, charged with tension every time his hand grazed your lower back when he passed you, and his eyes undressing you in front of the blissfully unaware guests, leaving you with uncomfortably drenched panties.
Soon enough, the bell rung for dinner, and the chattering mob rushed, as elegantly as they could of course, towards the double-leaved door at the back end of the saloon. Based on their blathering that grew even livelier over the evening, they all had worked up an appetite and were glad to make up for the missing canapés and the compensatory amounts of alcohol they used to fill their stomach instead. You let out a relieved breath. You weren't the only one on the verge of borderline embarrassing tipsiness, and so you followed the masses into the dining room, an expectant hue of pink coloring your cheeks.
The lusciously laid table left you saucer-eyed and speechless, a sheer unbelievable number of delicacies, far too much for the few people attending dinner.
"Welcome to the land of Cockaigne", a familiar baritone breathed into your ear, and you turned around to lock eyes with Alan.
"I'm literally starving so I'm ranting about the insanity of that food waste later", you answered with a small, playful pout and bit your lips teasingly. Alan hummed in agreement, his hazel eyes dropping down to your lips. He didn't even try to hide the hunger in his eyes, and it made you crazy.
"Starving indeed", he muttered ambiguously as he placed an arm around your hips and led you to your seats.
The little white cards in front of every plate held the names of the attendants in pretty, cursive writing, but when you spotted your name, disappointment flooded your body. Alan wasn't seated beside you.
You turned to him, mouth beginning to open to say something, but he was already speaking to an older, white-haired, and lined gentleman whose eyes were trained on your face with a curious expression.
You gave him a clumsy smile and a half-wave, but immediately stopped and wanted to slap yourself, sinking down on your seat. Why were you so fucking awkward when drunk?
The creaking of the chair beside you made you flinch, but you immediately relaxed when your favorite attendant of the evening sat beside you, a charming grin on his lips.
"You didn't just shoo that poor man away from his place, did you?"
"Well, I just couldn't let such a beautiful, young lady leave my side. Perks of being a celebrity", Alan shrugged sweetly, and moved his chair closer to the table and, although you could have easily missed it, a bit closer to you as well, leaving little space between your almost touching legs.
His thighs looked exquisitely toned in his grey suit pants, practically screaming for your hand to run over the soft fabric and feel the muscles flexing under your touch, feel the warmth radiating off his skin and perhaps, feel his growing erection straining against his zipper-
"Wine?"
The object of your lusty thoughts, very much flesh and blood beside you, interrupted your naughty little drift off with a dancing wine glass in front of your face.
You softly cleared your throat and took a deep breath to calm your beating cunt, calm your racing mind, but the shivers that run down your spine oh so deliciously didn't stop.
"I'm way too drunk", you answered slowly, although the selection of herby lamb roasts, grilled potatoes and expensive, golden cheese begged to be accompanied by a rich, dark wine, and Alan seemed to agree with the food when he put your glass down, filled with deep red, lazy slushing liquid.
"Who isn't?", Alan whispered under his breath for your ears only, and drew a challenging eyebrow. You sighed, your resistance next to non-existent around this man, and took a swift sip of your red wine. It was earthy, but sweet, and heavy with the taste of cherries and pears. Delectable.
You smacked your lips in appreciation.
"Okay, I'm convinced." You gave him a crooked smile, and he laughed and hinted a toast with his own glass before swallowing a fair amount of wine.
Your eyes involuntarily dropped to the movement of his Adam's apple bopping up and down, and your cheeks flushed pink for the umpteenth time this evening. You were absolutely, desperately, hopelessly in lust for the man.
As the evening progressed, the wine flowed freely and so did your pussy juices, making you wish to just drop your ruined panties. You wiggled around in your chair, listening to the chatter around you with only half an ear, too fixed on the pulsing fire in your lower stomach to really pay attention, but you perked up when you heard that deep, sexy voice speaking up beside you.
Alan was mid-conversation with an Italian Gentleman about one of his newest projects in the Italian movie industry when the man beside him joined in.
"My sincerest apologies for my interruption, Alan, but I must ask! How is your dear wife? I haven't seen her in so long."
The wife. You nearly forgot that little detail. You leaned back into your chair and listened intently, curious about what came next – it wasn't what you expected, though.
His left hand landed gently on your thigh, splayed fingers and soft pressure on your satin-clad skin, and you shot him a secret, surprised look but he didn't even look your way, face expressionless except for a polite smile on his lips.
"Ah, Charles, no need to apologize." His thumb began to draw a soft pattern on your skin, and your breath hitched slightly. The man across you chuckled jovially.
"I missed her this evening, how is she?", Charles asked. Alan's hand slipped through the high cut slit and under the fabric of your dress, resting on your bare thigh, while he answered calmly: "She is well, but busy tonight, I'm afraid."
He suddenly grabbed your flesh tightly, and you had to mask your gasp with a cough and quickly poured some more wine down your throat, seeing a pleased smirk grazing Alan's lip out of the corner of your eye.
"I'm sure she would have loved to see you again though, my dearest Charles."
The soft pads of his fingertips travelled up your leg in circling motions, so gently yet prying that your legs fell open at their own accord, granting him access where you'd wanted him since the first words you've exchanged.
"Oh, do give her my warmest regards, Alan."
His ring finger followed the seam of your drenched lace panties, the cool metal of his wedding ring making you shiver with perverse excitement, a delicious contrast to the heat of your beating, wanton cunt. His fingertips edged closer to your clit, agonizingly slow, still snaking along the edge of your underwear, and you let out a breathy moan before you could stop yourself.
"Of course, I will, Charles. I'm almost certain you'll be expecting a call very soon."
Charles' rumbling laugh chimed through the room just in time to drown out a sudden, needy sob that poured out of your mouth when Alan's thumb pressed down on your clit, hard.
Your fingers softly clawed at the fabric of your dress, as if you were in search of an anchor to keep you grounded, keep you from exploding in white-hot stars, but his thumb rubbed lazy circles over your lace, and the sweet, sweet friction of your wet underwear almost made you come undone then and there.
He was a god – an irresistible force, his scent, his chuckle, his low voice all around you, drowning, melting inside of you, and you closed your eyes in abandon when his fingertips swept through your wetness in punishing, slow strokes, flicking your clit in delicate and then hard motions until you almost screamed, all while he chatted with his acquaintances in indifferent friendliness.
And that cool façade was what almost broke you. One desperate, wanton look in his eyes, one tiny little smirk, almost arrogant on his sinful lips, knowing you were utterly at his mercy, and you would have tumbled over the edge – but his fingers withdrew mere seconds before your delicious relief, and instead of a mind shattering orgasm, he slid a plate of lemon cake over to you, smiling with sweet, cruel, penetrating eyes.
"Pudding?", he asked.
You stared at him. Little harsh puffs of air did a waltz on your swollen lips, your heart beating a rhythm your cunt desperately needed to follow, desperately wanted to flutter around his finger, his tongue, his cock; it didn't matter.
You needed him, not a fucking piece of cake, and he knew it with a disgusting pretentiousness, with an absolute certainty that one slow raising of his brow made you whine in a silent plea.
You loved a good, teasing game, but oh, he was playing with you like a cat with its food, unforgiving, merciless, and planning to let you suffer until you completely surrendered yourself to his touch, and gods in heaven, you just couldn't care anymore. You needed him. You needed his cock so deep inside of you that you'd feel his own heartbeat in your cunt, and your hunger punched the air out of your lungs and set your skin ablaze. The glossy, creamy, picture-fucking-perfect lemon tarte on your plate looked like a measly little pebble in comparison of his silk-wrapped, unholy cock, and you gripped your fork in frantic despair.
You barely even caught the expressions of gratitude the host started to throw around while everyone dug into their dessert, addressing his guests in sickly sweet joviality, while you floated on a cloud of numb, brain munching lust.
"Not hungry?"
His dark, husky voice brutally ripped you out of your trance, the whisper hit your neck so hotly you shivered in sizzling delight, and your fork fell to the ground, the clattering swallowed by hushed laughter and the monologuing host.
You yanked your head around so hard your locks fell into your face, and ultimately, your frustration was on the cusp of red, climactic anger; when he bared his teeth in a small smile and his hand slipped back on your thigh, you huffed out.
"Drop it", you hissed, his hand falling from your leg when you began to kneel in search of your fork, and an amused, almost joyful laugh swam through the buzzing of people chatting and directly into your chest, tightening your throat in an overwhelming surge of devotion.
The tablecloth fell back into place behind you, engulfing you in calming gloom that allowed you to catch your breath.
Alan was your downfall and your ascending, destructive and reviving, resurrecting your flesh into blissful sanctity, a man so overwhelmingly divine he bruised your soul, and you needed a taste of his own flesh or you'd crumble away and perish into utter condemnation.
Your body was a churning sea, and he was your beacon. You were drawn to him like a moth to the flame, and so you turned around, fork forgotten, sanity euthanized, and you surged forward like a starving animal.
Your hands clutched the soft fabric of his trousers in hungry craving, pushing his legs apart, letting your body snake between them, and you buried your face into his trousers.
Your mouth left sloppy kisses along his inner thighs, wet and needy in quest of only one, true destination, and you felt like a blessed when your lips finally brushed over his hot, pulsing erection, sweet like honeydew, hard as steel.
Your tongue lapped and rubbed and squeezed, his hands came down to bury them in your hair, and he gripped your locks and pushed your lecherous mouth hard against his cock, fucking your face to the rhythm of his snapping, precise hip thrusts, hidden under the expensive tablecloth, but your need laid bare before his very eyes.
With a harsh, sudden pull of your hair, he stopped your obscene little play abruptly, coaxing a coarse gasp from your lips that got lost in the heavy fabric of the cloth, and with another sharp tug, Alan motioned you to take your seat again.
You scrambled to your feet when you emerged from under the table, but nearly dropped to your knees when his eyes met yours – lusty desire had tinged his caramel eyes to dark, lucious taffy, and he gripped your wrist and pulled you close to him when you fell onto your chair with a shaky exhale.
"I fucking knew you would be good on your knees", he purred into your ear, and you breathed out softly, not yet a moan. "I'll make sure you feel even better when you're riding my cock in a second."
Alan dropped your wrist, one last, pleased look flickering down to the red marks he left, and then he stood up and left the room.
You took a deep, long breath. What the hell were you thinking? You didn't recognize yourself, that little stunt you pulled under the table wasn't you. You never were so foolish, so daring, so dumb to fuck someone you barely knew, no matter how devilishly attractive they were, and neither would you tonight.
Your eyes darted to the door through which Alan had left, and back down to your plate.
No, you wouldn't. You couldn't.
Your eyes went back to the door.
No, you thought. You wanted to enjoy the art, not another man. Then again, Alan wasn't just another man. But you surely wouldn't...?
Your hand was on the doorknob before you finished that thought.
The rhythmic clicking of your heels echoed through the dim saloon, the chandeliers switched off, lulling the room in eerie gloaming, running an uncomfortable shiver down your spine, and you shook your head in annoyance that you fell right into his stupid, little trap. You should have just enjoyed your pudding and then left, instead you wandered the halls without the faintest idea where Alan waited – hell, if he even waited for you.
You were just about to turn on your heels when a rich baritone filled the quietness of the empty room.
"Why, don't you look pretty all on your own?"
You carefully stepped closer towards the voice. You didn't see where he kept himself hidden, but the closer you came, the easier you could make out his shape in the shadows. Alan leaned against a wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his right foot propped up on one of the steps that lead upstairs to the private rooms of the host – and he looked awfully sexy. An air of danger surrounded him, the dark figure in the shadows, luring an innocent girl from the safety of the crowd to take her with force, to drag her out into the darkness until she became darkness herself – it made your knees weak with want.
"I'm not on my own anymore", you answered him in a hushed voice, almost hesitant to step into his personal space, but he pushed his body from the wall and stalked towards you, lazily, threatening, a lion on the hunt, and you being the prey he'd be pouncing on any second.
Your heart leapt into your throat, thumbing like mad when he circled you slowly. With his perfume fatefully in the heavy air, his breath hit your neck so sudden you winced under his overwhelming presence.
"That's right, darling", he purred right beside your ear, his nose brushed your locks before he swept them away to one side, baring your flushed neck. You shivered, feeling utterly vulnerable and so turned on that you forgot to breath, nerves strung to breaking point in fervent anticipation.
His lips grazed your earlobe softly, and you whimpered when his hands run up your legs, pushing up your dress teasingly.
"It's only me who hears you scream."
Your shaky breath turned into a needy, raspy moan as his lips plunged down onto your hot skin, your neck and shoulder pounced on by his teeth and tongue in a stingy duet, and every moan he drew from your lips, he planted as a dark bruise back on your skin.
Your need was a bickering flame deep between your legs, flaring up with every heated kiss he trailed down your neck, and you didn't notice that your pliant body was led to the stairs until your heels hit the first step.
"Alan", you gasped, startled at the touch, slightly stumbling, but he growled into the nape of your neck, grabbing your arms hard, and turned you around against his chest.
His burning, almost umber eyes captured yours, blown with lust and parching thirst.
"Shh", he whispered, and his command alone made your eyes roll back in sudden, overwhelming submission.
"Be a good girl for me, will you?"
Gods. Your cunt fluttered, gripping in desperate need as sticky arousal flooded your lace, and you nodded like a dumb little puppy.
Alan gripped your chin softly and slid his thumb over your full bottom lip in almost proud appreciation, coaxing another whimper out of you at the gentle touch, before he took a step back and sat down on the third, cushioned step, legs sinfully spread, and your gaze dropped to his prominent, delicious bulge straining his trousers.
He patted his thighs.
"Take a seat, darling."
That was the cue that reduced you to a mindless, fuzzy brained fucktoy. You scrambled over to him, drooling at the sight, at your thoughts, at your answered prayers, and your legs trapped his hips, silken fabric pooling at your hips.
His hands almost immediately landed on your waist, roughly, desirously, and you couldn't even try to think straight again before he forced your cunt down on his cock.
The moans that filled the space around you were downright obscene.
You gasped hard against him, your slick heat almost bared on his lap, the flimsy lace rubbing you just in the right way for seconds when he growled: "I'm going to fuck you now."
His large hands dropped from guiding your hips down to his belt, opening his trousers just enough that he could free his cock, and your cunt screamed at the sight of his perfect, thick erection, and you knew you were meant to be like this – being fucked by him until you leaked all over the stairs, and gods, you couldn't wait any longer.
His hands flew back to your hips, but then immediately under your dress, and Alan ripped your lacy string with one forceful yank off your body.
"Ride me, darling. Make yourself feel good on my cock. Let's see how much you need me inside of you", he purred, then pushed your hips down, and you sank onto his cock with a blissed-out, freed cry.
Your hands laid flat on his hard chest, buried in his shirt while you grinded on his velvety steel, eyes half-closed, shivering in boundless pleasure as your clit rubbed steadily against the fabric of his trousers, and your orgasm was an unstoppable, sudden force that rolled towards you.
"That's fucking good, darling, keep going", Alan rasped, his grip on your hips keeping you steady, guiding you while you were a dumb, drooling puppet just needing to get fucked by him, and you gasped in answer.
"Take me, Alan, please, fuck me harder", you begged, sinking down deeper, impossible so, whimpering at his magnificent size that filled you to the brim, but still needing more of him, more. His moan set your cunt ablaze, and his hands ran through your hair in erratic, mindless motions before he yanked you close to his face.
"I want you to watch me while I fuck you", he whispered roughly. "Can you do that for me?"
You whimpered softly, the pleasure his words brought over you so intense you had to force your eyes open again, and you nodded weakly.
"Just- fuck me. Make me cum", you pleaded breathlessly, and he growled.
"Your wish is my command."
And oh, that it was. His hips bucked up into you right when you dropped down onto his cock, and the precise force of his strokes made you cry out in desire.
"Let me hear you, darling", he panted, hips snapping up, dominating you, controlling you, and he owned your cunt with his punishing, rewarding, divine thrusts.
It didn't take long before you felt hundreds of sparklers igniting in your cunt, and your joined rhythm stuttered when your face dropped down on his chest, feeling your whole body tense up, but he continued fucking you, praising you until you screamed out his name into the empty saloon when your orgasm knocked the air out of your lungs.
"That's right", he groaned. "Let them know who fucked you like this. Let them know."
And he forced you down again, two, three times before he filled you, hot and thick, low moans in your ear that almost made you cum again if you weren't this spent and stuffed, full of him in every way possible, and you harmonized with him in soft, little moans until both of you eventually stopped, your bodies joined in an exhausted embrace, the gentle grinding of your hips dying down until you were quiet, calm, weary.
The only noises were your gentle breathing and the occasional ruffling of your clothes, and you basked in your afterglow until you felt your legs going numb, but a few more minutes passed before you finally raised your tired face from his chest to look at him.
You shared a gentle smile, his was ever so playful, and only then his lips slid gently against yours in an unhurried kiss.
"Hey", he murmured against your mouth, and you nipped at his bottom lip.
"Hi", you whispered, and smiled again. "Nice to meet you."
On the other side of the room, the dreadful painting stared at you in its full, awful, absurd glory.