They think I’m the quiet one.
I’ve got top grades, clean shoes, polite nods.
I let them think that. Makes everything easier.
I study Law. My parents are lawyers. Big ones.
People say I’ll be “just like them.”
Cute.
They have no idea I’ve sucked the cocks of my parents’ colleagues in courthouse bathrooms.
I’m the girl mothers warn their sons about. And they’re right to.
I used to think something was wrong with me.
That passed.
Now I just think everyone else is boring.
They say I look young. Fragile.
That’s the first mistake.
My nipples stay hard for hours.
I don’t know why.
I think my body just likes being ready.
Sometimes I imagine someone seeing me like this — no bra, thin top, the outline of me showing through.
Not by accident. Never by accident.
I dress like this because I know who’s watching.
And I want them to know that I know.
If they look long enough, I get wet.
I’m not here to follow the rules.
I’m here to find the ones who fantasize about breaking them.
My tits are barely there.
But they’re enough. Just enough to tease, not enough to comfort.
My stomach’s flat — like a lie told well.
My ribs show. I kinda like that.
Looks like there’s not much to protect.
Which makes people want to fill me.
My hips don’t lie. They fucking scream.
And my ass — thank God for genetics. I didn’t work for it. I just own it.
I look innocent. That’s the trick.
This face gets doors opened.
This mouth gets zipped open.
And no one sees it coming.
I know exactly what I look like.
I study myself like I study case law — from every angle, every weakness, every hidden clause.
My tits are barely there.
But they’re enough. Just enough to tease, not enough to comfort.
My stomach’s flat — like a lie told well.
My ribs show. I kinda like that.
Looks like there’s not much to protect.
Which makes people want to fill me.
My hips don’t lie. They fucking scream.
And my ass — thank God for genetics. I didn’t work for it. I just own it.
I look innocent. That’s the trick.
This face gets doors opened.
This mouth gets zipped open.
And no one sees it coming.
I know exactly what I look like.
I study myself like I study case law — from every angle, every weakness, every hidden clause.
If I walk past your boyfriend, I won’t touch him.
I’ll just smile.
And later, he’ll jerk off thinking about me — hating himself for it.
That’s power. Quiet. Clean. Total.
I wasn’t even supposed to go.
It was just drinks.
A few of Dad’s colleagues. Older men in suits. Harmless — on paper.
But the second I saw the name on the invite, I knew I’d be there.
I didn’t hesitate. I just asked what time.
I could’ve worn jeans. Something low-key.
But why waste the chance?
What if he shows up?
What if he sees me?
I know what this dress does.
The slit goes too high.
The top’s too tight.
And the fabric — fuck — it moves like skin when I walk.
I want them to stare.
I want them to wonder how old I am.
And if they’re going to Hell for what they’re thinking.
That’s the part I like best.
I wonder if he’ll notice my thighs brushing when I sit.
I wonder if his eyes will pause for a second too long.
I wonder if he’ll say anything.
Or just keep drinking, harder.
And God…
If he fucking watches me?
If I catch his eyes on me from across the room, dark and silent and burning —
I’ll have to excuse myself.
To the bathroom.
Or under the table.
Or his lap.
My dad doesn’t need to know.
But if he ever did…
Would he be angry?
Or just jealous?
I wear this dress for me.
But I picked it… for them.
Because no matter what they tell themselves, the second I walk in —
I’m the only thing they’ll fucking see.
The music’s loud enough to hide how quiet they get when I walk past.
I sip slow. Let them look.
Some glance. Some stare.
Some pretend they’re not watching — the worst liars of all.
I know who they are.
Men with titles. Men with wives.
Men who say things like “your father speaks highly of you.”
They don’t say what they think of me.
But it’s obvious in their eyes.
My dress is perfect.
Just enough fabric to call it elegant.
Just enough slit to make them wonder if I’m wearing anything underneath.
I know Dad’s uncomfortable.
He hides it well.
But not well enough.
He can’t say a word — it’s too tasteful, too precise.
He raised me to be articulate, confident, presentable.
This is that — weaponized.
I watch him from across the room.
He won’t meet my eyes.
Maybe he’s ashamed.
Or maybe he’s scared of what he’d feel if he really looked.
One of his colleagues touched my lower back when he said hello.
I didn’t flinch. I smiled.
He felt the heat of my skin.
I felt his hand wanting to linger.
I wonder if any of them are hard right now.
I wonder if any of them are fantasizing about taking me home —
then realizing whose daughter I am mid-thrust.
Would they stop?
Would he stop?
I hope not.
He was standing behind me before I even turned.
I could feel it — that familiar heat men carry when they want something they’re not supposed to want.
Dad’s colleague. I’d seen him before in our living room. Suit, ring, firm handshake. The kind that smells like power and aftershave.
“You look different outside the courtroom,” he said.
His voice was low. Curious. Hungry in disguise.
I smiled. Not sweetly.
“You should see me outside everything.”
He laughed, polite, but his eyes dropped — chest, waist, thighs.
He tried to hide it. Failed.
“You here with your father?”
“I came alone.”
He nodded. Too many things crossed his mind at once, I could tell. He looked around like someone was watching, then stepped closer —
and that’s when it happened.
He leaned in — maybe to say something. Maybe not.
And I felt it.
Not his hand.
His cock.
Hard. Pressed gently, almost strategically, against the side of my hip.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t pull back.
I turned my head just enough so he’d see my profile, see the little smirk that curved at the corner of my lips.
“Is that your cock,” I said, “or just a really enthusiastic greeting?”
His breath caught. Just for a second.
“I didn’t mean—”
I cut him off.
“Don’t lie. I liked it.”
He said nothing. His jaw tightened.
I leaned in.
“There’s a restroom. End of the hallway. You’ve got three minutes.”
He hesitated. Eyes flicked toward the table where my father was sitting, glass in hand, laughing with some judge.
“Your father’s here,” he said.
I met his eyes full on this time. Calm. Clear. Unbothered.
“That’s exactly what makes it hot.”
I took a sip of my drink. Turned.
Walked slow.
Didn’t check if he followed.
I knew he would.
The door clicked behind us.
Just the two of us now. Four tile walls, flickering light, and silence that vibrated louder than the club outside.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t move at first.
Just looked down at me like he couldn’t believe I was real.
I dropped to my knees without asking.
Without hesitation.
I’d heard rumors. Whispers around the firm. Girls that giggled after meetings. Passing mentions of “too big,” of “he knows what he’s doing.”
I thought they were exaggerating.
They weren’t.
The moment he lowered his zipper, the air shifted. The smell — sharp, raw, unapologetic — hit me first. Like sweat, like skin, like something purely male.
My pulse spiked.
My mouth watered.
He was already hard.
Already leaking.
I looked up at him. Met his eyes as my fingers wrapped around him.
No teasing. No slow build. This wasn’t about seduction.
It was about surrender — on my terms.
I used everything I had.
Breath, pressure, rhythm, sound.
I could hear myself.
Could hear him try not to.
He gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white.
His breath hitched every time I did something he wasn’t ready for.
I liked that.
He looked down again — wide-eyed, almost reverent — just as the first taste hit my tongue.
He knew what was happening.
He just couldn’t stop it.
Neither could I.
The porcelain was cold under my belly.
My palms were flat against the tank, pressed hard, like they were holding up the whole room.
I could hear his breathing — raw, heavy, close.
I could feel the weight of him behind me, the heat of his decision crawling up the backs of my thighs.
His hands were on my hips now.
No ceremony.
No words.
Just the kind of grip that says this isn’t love.
This is need.
There was no protection.
And no pause.
He pushed in like he owned the fucking courthouse.
Like I was part of the floorplan.
My knees buckled. I held on tighter.
“You want me to fuck a baby into you?” he muttered, voice breaking between thrusts.
My head dropped forward. My cheek pressed to the lid.
I smiled.
He hovered behind me, hard as stone, brain flickering between guilt and hunger.
There was no condom.
He knew it.
I knew it.
And I wanted him inside that knowledge — deep.
I arched my back, planting my palms on the cold porcelain, like I was bracing for sin.
Because I was.
“You don’t need protection,” I whispered, tilting my hips just enough to brush his tip with my heat.
His jaw clenched.
I felt his cock twitch against me.
Another inch. Another breath.
“I want to feel full when I walk back to the table. I want to leak your cum into lace panties while my father thanks you for a lovely evening.”
He groaned — quiet, guttural, pathetic.
I didn’t stop.
I looked over my shoulder, locked eyes with him.
“Mark me.”
“Breed me.”
“Ruin me.”
And if you’re gonna fuck me raw —
you’d better fuck me like I’m yours now.
Because I will be.
He snapped.
No more hesitation.
No more conscience.
Only instinct.
His grip locked on my hips like a man possessed.
He pulled me back — hard, deeper, flush — burying himself so far inside I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t care.
And then I felt it.
The first pulse.
Violent.
Hot.
It hit me like a slap from the inside.
Thick, wet, relentless.
He came hard.
Harder than I think he ever has.
Each spasm fired another rope of him deep into me, every shot claiming space, filling corners I didn’t even know I had.
I stayed still — on purpose.
Let my body milk him.
Let my womb take it all in.
But I wasn’t passive.
I pushed back against him.
Sank deeper onto him as he emptied himself, like I wanted to dare biology to do its worst.
“Fuck,” he gasped, forehead crashing into the nape of my neck.
But I didn’t let him go.
I stayed impaled.
Because this wasn’t just about release.
It was about consequence.
Let him stew in it.
I walked back to the table like nothing happened.
The bass from the club still throbbed under my heels, but it was nothing compared to the pulse still echoing between my legs.
My lips were slick.
Still warm.
Still tasting of what he gave me.
I didn’t wipe them.
My father looked up from his drink, mid-conversation, smiling as if I were still his little girl.
“Having fun?” he asked.
I leaned in.
Let my hair fall just so.
And kissed him on the cheek.
Soft.
Lingering.
Enough to leave a trace of someone else’s sin.
Then I turned — just slightly — to make eye contact with the man who had just poured himself inside me.
His face was pale.
His lips parted like he couldn’t breathe.
I held the stare.
Just for a second.
He knew.
I knew.
And now he’d have to sit across from my father, smile through the guilt, sip his drink while my body slowly absorbed everything he left behind.
The room went back to noise and light.
But he was silent now.
Because while he was still recovering—
I was already planning who I’d break next.
HarleKink 
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