Chris gets home from the show late, long after it’s over. He and his friends have a tradition of going to a certain diner after concerts, which is fine with you. More time for you to stay up late watching true crime shows on Discovery ID and plot.
Your phone pings at about 2:30.
omw just gotta drop these drunk asses off
Perfect. That’s your cue.
It’s been a minute since you surprised him like this. Long enough he probably isn’t expecting it. Then again what else are you supposed to do if he’s going to go out looking like that, wearing his crust punk pants with his tights under his underwear? Nope. You’re just getting even.
By the time you hear his car in the driveway you’re back on the couch again. Waiting. Chris unlocks the door, the heavy tread of his boots loud as he shuts it behind him.
“Hey babe,” Chris calls, dropping his keys into the skeleton hand bowl in the doorway. The clatter is familiar. Comforting.
“On the couch,” you call back. You listen to his footsteps approach till he appears around the side of the couch, looking delightfully exhausted. His makeup is a mess from sweating and his lipstick is gone. He stops dead in his tracks, looking you over. The oversized shirt, his latex gloves, fishnets, and the cock strapped on over them. You lift a boot up, rest it on the edge of the coffee table. He blinks at you.
“Are those my gloves?” Chris asks, because apparently that’s all he can get out.
“They sure are,” you say. “Take your jacket off. C’mere.”
He does. He shakes it off his shoulders and pulls it off, exposing his bare arms and the sides of his ribs where he cut his shirt up. Chris comes closer and you lean forward, grabbing him by the bondage belt.
“Do you want to explain to me why you like to wear your tights under your underwear?” you ask. You hook a finger under the seam of the leg of his boxer briefs through the hole in his pants. You can see the flush in his cheeks under what makeup that’s left.
“Uh,” Chris says. You can already see the zipper of his pants straining.
“Take them off,” you say. “The underwear too. Leave the tights.” Chris nods, unbuckles his belt, pops the button on his jeans. “Actually.” He freezes. “Turn around. Lemme see that cute ass.” He can’t help but smile at that as he turns around, pushes everything down together, exposes his ass through the black tights. You give it a smack when he bends down to unzip his boots.
“Shit,” Chris says, laughing, grabbing the edge of the table for balance. You grin, running your gloved hand over his thigh.
“Were these tights rubbing all over your cock all night?” you ask him, and he stumbles out of his pants, kicks them to the side. “Turn back around. Lemme see.” Chris does, and he’s hard in the tights, straining against them even as they pin his cock down against his thigh. You hum to yourself, grab his dick through the tights, adjust it so it’s upright and you can get to the especially sensitive bits. He’s already leaking through the nylon so you bring your index finger to his head, circle it where his tights are wet. Chris whimpers audibly. “I think you do like how they feel. Did you feel extra slutty, then? Or like a pervert going out with your friends getting off on the scrape of nylon on your cock?”
“Fuck,” Chris grits out, his dick jerking at your touch. You bring your hand up, extend your finger to him.
“Taste it,” you tell him, and he drops his head, sucks your finger into his mouth. Chris makes a soft needy noise, either at the taste of precome or the feel of the latex. Could be both. “C’mere. Knees. Suck my dick.” Chris bites back a grin as he drops down onto the floor, letting you put your boot back up onto the table and pull your shirt up out of the way while he finds his place between your legs. He mouths at the base of the dick, his hands on your thighs. The purple pearlsheen silicone cock lays across his face. “My dick matches your eyeshadow,” you remark, and he laughs.
“Was that on purpose?” Chris asks, his mouth still mushed up against the dick.
“Happy accident,” you say, running your fingers through his hair. The latex tugs a little and Chris’s breath catches. He opens his mouth, takes the cock in, starts sucking. “That’s a good boy,” you murmur, guiding his head a bit. He purrs in response, takes it a little deeper, and you can feel it hit the back of his throat. He forces it down and chokes, gags, pulls back.
“Fuck,” Chris grits out, spitting into his hand. He wraps it around the dick, slicks it over. He jerks you off as he nuzzles into the crease between your thigh and the base of the harness.
“You trying to get down there to eat me out?” you laugh, and you can feel him smile against you, see it where his eyes crease at the corners.
“Not unless you want me to,” he says, laving his tongue up the underside of the cock.
“Maybe I’ll let you if you take my dick like a good boy,” you tell him, holding his jaw in your gloved hand. Chris bites back a grin, nods.
“Fuck my face a little?” he asks, his eyes turned up at you, the look he knows you won’t say no to. You stand up, pull your shirt off entirely, and he’s looking you over even as you sink the cock back into his mouth. Chris moans around it, lets you dick into his throat, his hands braced on your thighs. He’ll tap out if he needs to.
“Watch your teeth, babe,” you murmur, and he makes a little noise in response. He adjusts a little, his eyes watering, a black tear streaking his cheekbone. “Fuck, you look so fucking pretty crying with my dick in your throat—“
“Mhm,” Chris purrs, moving his head even as you're fucking his mouth. He retches and his spine curls in a little so you pull away, let him cough. “I’m good,” he says, spitting throat spit onto the dick.
“You get enough of that deep throat spit on there and I’ll barely have to use any lube to fuck your ass,” you say, and he smiles wide, blinks a few tears from his lashes.
“Yeah?” Chris asks. His voice is fucked out. “Please.”
“You gonna beg for it?” you ask him, and he nods.
“Please,” he repeats. “Please fuck me—“
“Beg with my dick in your mouth,” you say, pushing back in, and he struggles to get the words out around it. Drools on himself.
“—eez,” Chris pleads. It’s broken but you can still understand him. “—uck ee, eez—“
“Yeah, alright,” you say, pulling his head back. “Get on the couch and get that ass up in the air.” As Chris climbs up you can see where his tights are absolutely drenched with precome. He gets onto all fours, arches his ass up. You pull the lube bottle out from where it’s disappeared in between the couch cushions.
“Should I pull the tights down?” Chris asks. You drag a latex gloved hand up his spine to the back of his neck.
“Nah,” you say. “Rip the ass open for me.” Chris laughs, waits for you to sit back onto your boots so you can see as he reaches back, digs his fingers into the black nylon, pulls it taut enough to break through. He gets his fingers in the tear and rips it open, exposing his hole. “Fuck yeah,” you say, popping the cap off the lube bottle. “God, I am so gonna fuck you into this stupid couch—“
“Yeah?” Chris asks, holding himself open as you thumb against him, feeling the heat off his skin through the latex. He sighs a soft moan when you sink a finger in. It goes so easily you push the second in too and Chris pushes back at it, braces his forearm along the arm of the couch. “Fuck—“
“You just open right up for me, huh,” you murmur, your other hand holding his ass open. Chris nods quickly.
“Yeah, please—“ he gasps out, “please just fuck me. I can take it—“
“God, you fuckin’ slut,” you say from between your teeth, bringing your free hand down hard on his ass. He yelps at the sting. “Alright, fine, it’s your ass,” you remark, and Chris laughs even as you’re pulling your fingers out, thumbing the head of the dick into him, sinking in home as he moans long and low in his throat.
“Fuck,” Chris mumbles, gasping as you grab onto his hips, pull him back onto your cock. You watch as it disappears into him, reappears as you withdraw, then disappears again. Chris keens, kicks his leg against the couch. “Please, fuckin’ — give it to me good; I need it—“
“You need it so bad you gonna beg for it?” you ask, leaning over him a bit. Planting a hand on his shoulder blade. Pinning him to the couch.
“Please,” Chris chokes out, grinding back so hard you can feel the pressure even through the padding on the harness. He whines your name, desperate. “I need you to fuck me so hard I can’t even talk — need you to make me come without ever getting my dick out—“
“Fuck yeah, I can do that,” you say, pulling Chris’s ass up into a harder arch and increasing your pace. You readjust and bring a boot up to plant it into the couch so you can really fucking go for it, pounding into him, his legs shaking under you as he moans hard every time you fuck into him. Chris sobs, his fingers digging into the couch.
“Oh, fuck,” he whimpers. The leather of the harness is smacking loud against his lubed ass, and thinking about how much his cock must be drooling where it’s trapped in his tights has you purring back at him, aching for him.
“If you come on my cock you better not get it on my fuckin’ couch,” you pant out, smiling, and Chris still manages to laugh. “You catch it in your hand and you’re gonna eat it, understand?”
“Yeah, fuck — anything you want,” Chris says, breathless, his hand disappearing below him.
“Don’t even think about touching your dick through those tights,” you say, still just railing him into the fucking couch. Chris nods quickly. “If you think they feel so fuckin’ good on your dick then it better make you come—“
“Fuck,” Chris keens, rutting back onto the cock, “please, let me come—“
“You gonna come from getting fucked like a slut?” you ask, but it’s not mean. It’s fond. Watching Chris lose it underneath you just makes you adore him even more.
“Yeah,” Chris chokes out, and he whines hard, right on the edge. You smack his ass again and that seems to do it — he practically collapses against the couch, and you hold his hips up as he comes undone, crying out your name in a broken moan. You keep fucking him through it just as hard till he’s just a shuddering mess, bringing his hand up to his mouth. You don’t even see it before he’s licking the last of it from between his fingers as you’re pulling out, hurriedly unbuckling your harness.
“Come here,” you say, as you throw the harness to the floor, cock still fastened into it. You sit back against the other arm of the couch and Chris looks back at you just in time to see you rip open the gusset of your fishnets. Chris practically scrambles to turn around, rip them open even wider, and bury his face between your legs. He wraps one arm around your thigh and the other hand is in your cunt, three long fingers deep, and it’s enough to get you to gasp and squirm away a little, too intense — Chris stills his fingers inside you, his mouth closed over your clit, nose in the hair above your pussy, eyes glazed over, fucking blissed out on it. His fingers curl into you and you shudder and moan sharply. “Fuck, Chris—“
“Mhm,” he hums into you, and you fist your gloved hand in his hair, surely pulling at his scalp, but you’re too close to the edge to care. Besides, it’s not like he minds. He fucks his fingers into you and sucks and that about does it. You come hard around his fingers, nearly forcing him out, but he fingers you through it anyway, his tongue on you licking into you feeling blindingly hot. You must grey out for a moment because when you look down he’s got his head rested on your thigh like it’s a pillow, sucking on his fingers again.
“Jesus Christ,” you mumble.
“Same,” Chris says quietly, his voice raw.
It’s quiet for a moment except for the TV, which you’d apparently neglected to shut off, and both of you still struggling to catch your breath.
“How was the show?” you ask, finally. Chris huffs a laugh.
“Let’s go shower and I’ll tell you all about it,” he says, sitting up. You grab your harness off the floor on the way upstairs just in case you’ll need it again later.