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You weren't sure how it ended up like this—one moment discussing how to pilot a Freighter such as the Tulpar, the next moment you were feeling the rough texture of his fingertips against your collarbone. Your clothes puddled on the floor, skin now gooseflesh as he cradled you gently. The metallic clink of his belt buckle hitting the floor punctuated the silence between your shallow breaths as you found yourself perched on his lap, the heat of his thighs burning through to your skin. His hands were a landscape of their own—rougher than you'd ever imagined, calloused at the fingertips like craggy cliffs, but soft everywhere else, like worn velvet. The rhythmic bounce of his knees under you was the only thing keeping you anchored to his lap.
“Gentle—” You heard yourself say, a word half-formed and already dissolving on your tongue. He must have felt the flutter, the tremor in your limbs, because his grip loosened immediately. His touch became a cradle, not a cage, and he rocked you gently, the motion like a lullaby in a language both of them knew but neither could speak. You felt your body sink, felt his body open beneath you, felt the world shrink to the Venn diagram overlap of their two bodies, a space small enough to hold in the cup of his callused hand.
With his bulk pressed against your chest, his chest rising and falling in slow, tectonic shifts. He moved your body, not with brute force, but with the certainty of a man who understood leverage, balance, and gravity. He guided you down, pausing at every micro-movement, waiting for you to nod, to breathe, to lean in.
When you felt his cock in your entrance—just the head, not even the shaft—you were already half gone. It was impossible, the way he stretched you out, more than any plug or toy or finger, yet your body responded, opened for him, a slow bloom of ache and heat. He made a sound, a low groan, you felt it vibrate all the way through your body, a tuning fork striking bone. Your own voice, soft and breathless, came out in a rush. “Oh—oh my god,” You cried out, body trembling like a leaf.
“Shh, shh.. Easy, honey,” He soothed, his voice a warm blanket enveloping you as he slowly wiggled his hips upward, sinking into you like a stone into water. Soon the head was in, and the rest came fairly well.
“You like that, princess?” His voice was a low, hot breath on your neck, his hands wandering your hips, groping and grabbing at the soft, tender flesh of your love handles as you rode him. Your eyes welled up, hands shaking like leaves in a gale as they clung onto whatever they could find.
He was so gentle, yet so thick. It felt like he was going to split you open, a tree trunk cleaving the earth.
“Yes- Yes,” You cried out, a bird song in the night, only to be hushed by Curly’s tongue, hot and heavy on your mouth as he moaned softly, a lion purring over its meal.
“Fuck, you feel amazing,” He whimpered, his head rolling back against the headrest of his chair like a king on his throne. You took him, every inch. It was agonising how bad you wanted him, but to be riding him on his own seat, his shirt tucked over his head and his belly rubbing against yours—it was a decadent feast, more than anything you could've ever dreamed.
He made small thrusts, which caused your body to spasm into him, a marionette on strings. Taking every inch was the easy part, but his movements, his muscles, they tightened beneath you like a predator ready to pounce. “Good girl, taking everything…” He whined, his voice a plea, a prayer. “Just, just a little more…”
“God, you're so… deep…” You sobbed, feeling your body slowly and carefully take everything he had, right down to his crotch. Once he was fully inside you, it felt like all it would take was one slight movement, and you would completely come undone, a house of cards in a breeze.
And then he started thrusting again, keeping a tight and heavy grip on your waist, his hands a branding iron, marking you as his own. All he could focus on was moving, giving you undivided attention, a maestro conducting his symphony. “Mhm god,” He huffed, his jumpsuit hanging low at his elbows. He thrust slow and hard, a relentless piston. “That's it, does—” he grunted, his hands shakily gripping your waist, digging his thumbs into your abdomen like a sculptor with his clay. “Does that feel good? Tell me, baby, tell me,” He asked, moaning sweetly behind every syllable, a siren's song, bouncing you on his lap like a rag doll.
“Yes, yes, yes — oh god!” You replied feverishly, moving your hands to his shoulders, carving your nails into him like a cat marking its territory. The room spun, the world narrowed, and there was only this, only him, only you, two stars colliding in the vast emptiness of space. Your body thrummed with delight, deep red with a blush, as his strong arms kept you still and tight.
He moaned in approval to yours, a deep rumble that vibrated through his chest and into your bones. He scooted forward slightly, the chair creaking beneath your combined weight, and planted his feet flat on the floor. The muscles in his thighs tensed like steel cables beneath your legs as he gripped your hips tighter, using this new leverage to drive himself deeper into you with slow, deliberate thrusts that made your vision blur at the edges.
He held onto your waist as if he was afraid you might slip from him, fingers digging in so deeply that you could feel the memory of his touch burning into your bones. The tips of his thumbs pressed into your lower belly, guiding your movements with a subtle tyranny, sculpting a response to the tempo of his need. When he thrust up into your body, it wasn't just penetration; it was a claiming, a tattooing of his shape onto every inch of your interior, brain included. The sounds he made were low and tremulous, somewhere between a whimper and a growl, but always softened by the tender way he coaxed you down onto him, hands never bruising, only holding, guiding, cherishing. Soon the thrusting became easier, and he moved quicker, tantamount to his desires
His breath came in sharp gasps, mixing with the soft, yearning sounds that spilled from your own lips, creating a symphony of intimacy that vibrated through the air. Each exhale mingled with the scent of skin, warm and intoxicating, making your head swim with desire. You could taste the salt of his own sweat, the tang of exhilaration that danced on your tongue.
His hands, calloused from years of manual labour, gripped your flesh with a hunger that would leave violet-blue shadows by morning—a constellation of fingerprints mapping where he'd been. The crack of his palm against the curve of your ass echoed in the small room, sending a jolt through your spine that made your toes curl and your breath catch. He grunted, a primal sound torn from deep in his chest, while his fingers dug into the soft hollows of your hips, anchoring you to him as though you were the only solid thing in a world spinning out of control.
Your eyes shot open, pupils blown wide and dark as midnight, body crumbling forwards into his like a wave breaking against jagged cliffs. The orgasm tore through you with such force that your spine arched, every muscle seizing in ecstatic surrender. "Oh fuck— fuck!" You cried out, voice cracking on the second word, the sound raw and unfiltered. He gasped in response, his breath hot against your collarbone, fingers digging crescents into the flesh of your hips.
"So-" He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly beneath the flushed skin of his throat, a thin sheen of sweat making him glisten in the half-light. His carefully constructed demeanour was cracking at the edges, control slipping through his fingers like fine sand. "So vulgar..." he whispered, the words half-reproach, half-reverence.
His hips thrusted upward with increasing urgency, the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing through the room like summer thunder. Each time he smacked your ass, his fingers lingered just long enough to feel the heat bloom beneath his palm before striking again, leaving constellations of pink handprints across your skin. His lips parted, breath ragged and uneven, eyes dark with hunger as they remained fixed on the hypnotic sight of himself disappearing into you—over and over, relentless and precise as a machine, but with a desperate human need. He wanted to fill you, fill you whole of himself.
When he smacked you again, it was almost gentle, more a punctuation than a punishment, and the echo of it reverberated in your bones long after his hand retreated. This time, his palm lingered, spreading your flesh, as if he wanted to see how you swallowed him, see how you stretched and accommodated and yielded to him. You felt more than heard his next words, “So hungry for it, aren’t you?” His breath was a ragged stutter against your ear, but the note of awe—the utter belief that you were the best thing he’d ever had, maybe the best thing in the world—was unmistakable.
He thrust up hard, driving the air from your lungs, and you felt him shudder from the effort it took not to cum instantly. The tempo was wild now, a race with no finish line, a contest to see who would break first. You felt yourself tip forward, forehead pressed to his, and all the sweat and spit and tears mingled in the hollow between your faces. There was nothing polite left, no choreography, only the raw piston of need and the pure, animalistic urge to devour the person in front of you. Each time his cock slid out in his motions, your vision flared white, your thighs shaking uncontrollably. You could feel the building collapse inside yourself, something momentous and seismic that threatened to take you both under.
You didn’t know if you were sobbing or laughing or both, the noises tumbling out of your mouth wild and ungovernable. His hands clamped down on your hips again, and you could feel the obscene, slick glide where your bodies met. He looked down, groaned at the sight, then looked up at you with eyes swimming in disbelief. “Look at us. Fucking hell, look at me,” he muttered. You followed his every command. “You want more? Can you take more?” His breath was heavy, laced with desire as he continued. A knot building in his stomach, his chest, his lungs twisting and contorting as he used everything he had not to fill you right then and there with everything he had.
You nodded, frantic, and he rewarded you with an even deeper thrust, one that made your whole body shudder and break. He ground into you, holding you impaled, and rotated his hips in a slow, brutal circle. Your clit caught on the coarse hair at the base of his cock with every pass, the friction sending shocks through your system. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing, too, because he did it again, harder, then started fucking you in short, brutal pulses that made your brain short-circuit. You felt your stomach hollow out, your chest cave in, your heart stutter and restart with every thrust.
You were crying out now, helpless, the words stripped of their meanings and turned into pure animal sounds. “Fuck, oh—fuck—please—” you bleated, body bouncing with each piston. He reached down between your bodies, thumb finding your clit and rubbing it with savage, unpracticed circles, more pressure than precision, but it didn’t matter; it was more than enough. You felt your orgasm rising, a tidal wave cresting, and you gripped his biceps hard enough to bruise, riding the tremor all the way to the top.
He saw it coming, felt your body clamp down on him, and his face contorted in something between joy and agony. Curly opened his mouth to speak, to acknowledge your orgasm but he lost the thread, words sputtering out as he came. He slammed into you, once, twice, then buried himself to the hilt, arms shaking with the effort. You heard him bark out your name, voice breaking, and then warmth flooded your insides, thick and shuddering and endless.
For a moment, neither of you moved, strung out and trembling, skin fused together by sweat and want. You sagged against him, body limp, breath hitching in small, wet gasps. His arms wrapped around you, gathering you in, hands drawing gentle circles on your ruined skin. He pressed his forehead to your temple and just breathed, chest heaving as he tried to come down from the ledge.
It took a minute—maybe several—for the world to recondense from white static into solid shapes and colours. He kept you anchored to his lap, one hand splayed possessively across the small of your back, the other tangled in your damp hair, held tight against his thundering heartbeat as if afraid you'd vanish like morning mist if he let go. Finally, when he felt you start to stir, all it took was a slight shift of your hips to send another moan through your body, the flutter of eyelashes against his neck—he nuzzled against your ear, his stubble scraping deliciously against your oversensitive skin, and he whispered, "Good girl,"