Every story begins with a question, and Jay’s begins with the biggest one of all: who is he when he’s no longer living in Steven’s shadow? For years, Jay has moved through the world shaped by someone else’s swagger, desires, and worldview. Now, as the cracks in that borrowed identity begin to show, he’s forced to confront the truth he’s avoided. This is the moment where imitation ends and self‑discovery begins.
Hello everyone — it’s been far too long. After a much‑needed pause, I’ve finally rediscovered that familiar pull to sit down and write again. It feels only right to return to where it all began: What Would Steven Do?
And for those wondering — yes, What a Difference a Summer Makes will be back as well. I’m giving myself the space to complete a few chapters before sharing anything new, so that when it returns, it does so with the momentum it deserves.
Life has slowed down in the best possible way lately, giving me the time and clarity to sit at my computer and let these ideas spill out of my head and onto the page. It feels good to be back.
Without further ado I present:
What Would Steven Do?
Prologue – Fifth Floor Confessions
The shit I do to get pussy. That was the first thought pounding in my head as I dragged my sore-ass leg up the fifth floor of Angela’s walk-up. No elevator. Old-school Lower East Side building with more stairs than common sense, and after pulling a calf muscle yesterday playing ball? This climb felt like hell with a hard-on. But pussy? Pussy always wins. Every damn time.
Angela’s door swung open before I could even knock twice, and there she stood, all legs and attitude in a barely-there silk robe that might’ve been tied once in another life. The heat hit me instantly—and not from the hallway.
Inside, she was already moaning, already bent over the couch like she’d been waiting hours, ass high and glistening under the dim lights. Her voice rang out, breathless and hungry, crying out for it like she’d summoned me from her core. Harder… please… Jay, this is your pussy…
And it was.
Fucking Angela always hit different. Thirty-three, white, petite frame, A-cup tits—but that ass? Thick and sculpted like a goddamn blessing. Her face? Soft brown eyes, pouty lips. That mix of librarian beauty and hardcore porn imagination. Angela didn’t fuck—she performed. She gave scenes. She gave awards. She gave a damn. Out in public, she could pass for a faculty member at NYU. In private? She was full-blown, certified filth. My kind of woman.
Between strokes, she gasped as I pulled her close, licking the sweat that trickled down her spine. Her skin tasted like sin. “This pussy’s mine,” I growled against her ear, my hips slamming forward.
She nodded, lost in it. “All yours, Daddy. Yours.”
Wasn’t into that ‘Daddy’ shit at first, but like I said—pretty face, filthy mouth, and an ass like that? You learn to adapt.
She turned, eyes wide and glossy, and slid down to her knees in one practiced motion, slow and sweet. Her lips found the head of my dick, just teasing at first, letting her tongue swirl before whispering, Does Daddy want me to put it all in?
I didn’t even answer. Didn’t have to. Her mascara was running before I knew it, her throat working like it had clocked in for overtime. My hand gripped her hair, guiding, pressing, testing her limits. She gagged a little, eyes still on mine, and pulled back with a smile.
“You like when your white slut takes it all, don’t you?” she murmured, saliva painting my cock, her breath ragged.
I loved this woman. The way she knew exactly how to push me right to the edge. The way she smiled like a giddy schoolgirl with her lips wrapped around something so nasty. Her mouth wasn’t just talented—it was strategic. Strategic warfare.
“Keep going,” I muttered, lifting one leg up onto the bed and letting her go to work on my balls. The slurping sounds were so obscene I almost laughed. But there was nothing funny about the load building up inside me.
“What do good girls want, baby?” I asked, barely able to speak. “What do they need?”
She looked up, finger pointed straight to her mouth. “Cum, Daddy. Give me all of it. Right here.”
That was it. I exploded like a goddamn water main. She took it all. Didn’t flinch. Swallowed and smiled, lips still glistening, mouth empty. She even opened wide to show off her clean tongue, proud like a kid with straight A’s. “BYEEE!” she squealed, collapsing onto the bed with me like she hadn’t just drained my soul.
She laid her head on my chest, breath slowing, one hand still casually wrapped around my now-floppy dick like it was hers. “I wish you could stay tonight,” she said, stroking it idly.
I smirked, still catching my breath. “You talking to me, or my dick?”
She rolled her eyes. “Shut up.”
“I wish I could, babe. But your husband’s due back tonight, remember? And I’ve got a shift.”
She pouted but knew the drill. “I know, I know…”
I stood, stretching, grabbing my scrubs from the floor. “I’ll text you later.”
“You better,” she said, and just before I could walk away, she slid two fingers into her pussy, dipped them in deep, and smeared them across my lips before pulling me into a kiss.
Yeah. I fucking loved this woman. Dirty in the right ways, and dangerous in the best ones.
I was stepping into the shower when her voice came floating from the bedroom.
“So, who you working with tonight?”
I called back over the water. “Dr. Robinson, I think. Nurses are Helen, Liz, Robert, Vicky—same crew.”
Her footsteps padded up behind me, and before I could react, she slipped in under the spray. “Liz? That bitch usually isn’t on Thursdays.”
I turned, confused. “What’s with the hate? She’s sharp. Picks up fast. And she likes you.”
Angela gave me that deadpan stare, the kind that said you really are that dumb, huh? “She wants your dick, Jay.”
Then she grabbed it—hard.
“This,” she whispered. “She wants this.”
Her hand was already working it like she was testing blood pressure. I groaned. “Angela… come on. I gotta go.”
“Doctor’s orders,” she said sweetly. “And you can stop me anytime.”
Spoiler: I didn’t.
She dropped again, lips locking around me with surgical precision. Her deep throat game was hall-of-fame level. Like I said, sometimes I’d take the blowjob and skip the sex. That mouth was THAT good.
I could feel the end coming again. “On your face,” I growled.
She pulled off with a pop and nodded eagerly.
Three shots—one on her forehead, one across her left eye, and one trailing across her cheek. She rubbed it in under the water like it was high-end serum. A sight to behold. One for the books.
As she rinsed, she kissed me gently. “Now go, before you’re late.”
I smacked her ass on my way out. She jumped and yelped, towel barely clinging to her hips. I hit the stairs, only to remember—I forgot my damn keys.
Back inside, there she was again, holding them up, grinning.
“You always forget something,” she teased. “And remember—I’m on call tonight. If Robinson gets swamped. And don’t you DARE flirt with Liz.”
I leaned in, kissed her forehead. “Yes, ma’am.”
Angela Brand. Doctor. Director. Head bitch in charge. She was brilliant. Ruthless. Stunning. And mine—at least in this secret little world we built behind closed doors.
Let me backtrack properly now.
My name’s Jason Kevin Bridgewater. RN. 39 years old. My friends call me Jay. Or JB. The full name just sounds regal—sue me. I’m 6’0”, 220, Cuban-Jamaican mix, and if you need a visual? Think Laz Alonso in scrubs with a filthy mind.
And I’m living the dream.
On the road, I kill the radio and let the silence sink in. You ever do that? Let the tires and engine talk while you just… breathe?
At a red light, I spot this young Latina—barely sixteen, but built like sin. Bubble butt, long curls, braces. Jailbait. But damn. Then I spot the boy trailing behind her, maybe her age, trying to muster the balls to say hello.
I smile.
“I used to be you, kid.”
And then the light turns green.
This life I live? It could’ve gone so differently. But I had good people, smart choices, a little luck… and a silent mentor.
Steven St. Croix. Porn legend. Swagger specialist. The man who didn’t just fuck—he finessed.
Never met him. But he taught me more than any guidance counselor ever could.
Every time I faced a choice, I asked myself one thing:
What would Steven do?
This is my story.
Hope you’re ready.
Part 1 – The Shift
Finally—peace.
It had taken the better part of five hours, three Code Blues, and one meth addict trying to fight a vending machine, but I was finally at the nurse’s station, logged into the computer, updating charts, and praying for ten minutes of silence.
Working in the E.R. is like juggling chainsaws while someone sets your pants on fire—thrilling, chaotic, and exhausting. I only do this part-time now, thank God. Ten years full-time will burn the soul out of anyone. Multiply that shit by two if you’re in New York City.
And don’t forget—I had already cum twice before I even clocked in. Angela had drained me like a pro athlete's Gatorade bottle. I definitely should’ve grabbed that Red Bull.
I chuckled at the memory, lips twitching into a smirk as I typed in a discharge note. My dick was still tired. My legs were still sore. But I couldn’t wipe that smile off my face. I was thinking about Angela’s mouth—when—
“What are you smiling about, mister?”
The voice pulled me out of my head like a needle skip on a record. I glanced over.
Liz.
Yep. That Liz.
Chocolate skin that shimmered under fluorescent lighting like it was made for it. 5’7”, legs for days, and teeth so white it looked like she bleached them between patients. Her smile could convince a priest to sin.
I blinked. “Huh? What?”
“I saw you smirking like you just won the lottery. So, what were you thinking about?” she asked, raising a brow.
My brain scrambled for something clever. All I managed was, “Nothing. Just… something earlier.”
She wasn’t letting it go. “Something... what?”
Persistent little thing.
Now, normally when someone gets all nosy like that, you hit ’em with a ‘mind your damn business’ and move on. But Liz? Liz wasn’t just anyone.
“Well, if you must know, Miss Nosy…” I leaned in slightly, flashing her a grin, “I was thinking about you.”
That eyebrow of hers crept higher, like a cat that just caught a mouse pretending to be a lion. “Oh really? And what about me had you smiling like that?”
Time to step it up.
“I was wondering where you were gonna take me after this shift. You know… a man’s gotta eat.”
She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Why do I have to be the one taking you out?”
“Because I know the perfect spot. Great ambiance. Amazing prices. Five-star experience.” I winked. “All it needs… is you.”
She looked at me with those eyes—half challenge, half curiosity. Then smiled. “I’m in.”
She turned back to her charting.
I turned back to mine… trying desperately to think about anything other than Liz bent over my kitchen counter. My dick had no chill. It was standing at full salute, testing the stretch limit of my scrubs.
Angela wasn’t wrong to be jealous. Liz Montgomery was fire. A fucking dime. And she didn’t even know how bad she was.
“Great job tonight, everyone,” came Dr. Robinson’s voice as he strolled over to the nurse’s station. “Seriously. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
The nurses all turned to listen, nodding and smiling. Robert chimed in, loudest as always. “No problemo, Doc. We got your back.”
Robert Mercado—head nurse, Puerto Rican, 35 years in the game, and tougher than boiled leather. The kind of guy who could reset a shoulder while sipping coffee and cracking jokes. Angela trusted him with the E.R., which meant something. Because Angela didn’t trust easily.
And speaking of trust...
When she asked earlier who I was working with, I now realized something. She already knew Liz was on tonight. Of course she did. Angela remembered everything. Eidetic memory. Her brain was a steel trap. She didn’t ask to confirm the schedule—she was checking me. Testing to see if I’d lie. And I didn’t.
Which is why she rewarded me… in the shower. She was big on honesty. Especially when her husband wasn’t around.
“Get some sleep, everyone,” Dr. Robinson added before heading off.
“He’s a good guy,” Helen said, leaning toward me.
“And fine as hell,” Vicky added, voice low. “Mmm-mm. I’d ride his D-train all the way to Harlem.”
Helen nearly choked on her water. “Girl, you too much!”
Vicky didn’t miss a beat. “Come on, Helen. You’re telling me you wouldn’t hop on that ride if it pulled into your station?”
I shook my head, grinning. “Y’all are wild.”
Vicky pointed at me. “Oh please, JB. Don’t act innocent. We saw you getting all fucky-fucky with Liz earlier.”
I just turned back to my screen, blushing a little.
“Leave him alone,” Helen said, swatting Vicky’s arm. “Let Jay be. What he and Miss Liz do off-shift is their business.”
Vicky cackled. “Alright, alright. I’ll hush.”
Helen and Vicky were lifers—twenty-five years in the E.R., best friends, train buddies, and comedic relief. Like the Oprah and Gayle of St. Michaels Medical Center.
Then Robert came striding back toward us, eyebrows raised.
“Hey, hey—what’s all the laughing? Finish up your notes so you can clock out. HR’s been on my ass, and I don’t got much ass left to give.”
“Still got a little back there, Rob,” I called out with a smirk.
He turned, half-laughed, half-scowled, flipped me the bird and kept walking.
I saluted. “Aye aye, Captain.”
Helen burst out laughing. “Boy, you’re insane.”
“Only because I’ve been hanging out with y’all too long.”
We got back to wrapping up our notes, the night winding down.
As I checked my locker, grabbing my wallet and stethoscope, I remembered something. My phone! Fuck. Angela.
Five unread messages. Two were pictures.
First one? A close-up of her pussy, spread wide open. Caption: Don’t you want to put your tongue in this?
Second? Her fingers buried inside, captioned: This isn’t enough. I need Daddy’s dick.
Goddamn.
I was in the middle of staring when someone poked me in the ribs.
“Ready, hot stuff?”
I damn near jumped.
It was Liz.
“Sorry, Jay,” she said, eyes wide. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Oh nah, you’re good. I was just… checking emails.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Uh huh. That’s twice today you’ve zoned out on me.”
My brain snapped back into gear. Quick, Jay, pivot.
“Yeah, just… forgot a bill I needed to pay. You know how it is.”
She smiled. “Well, you’ve got my full attention now.”
“And you’ve got mine.”
I tucked the phone away, locking Angela back behind the screen for now. She’d understand.
“Just need to grab my backpack. Then breakfast is on you, right?”
“You wish,” Liz laughed.
But she was still smiling.
And I was already thinking: This is going to be one hell of a meal.
Part 2 – D-Trains and Double Lives
The E.R. was winding down, fluorescent lights dimmed just slightly, the kind of stillness that hangs in the air after chaos. Patients tucked in or discharged, machines humming quietly in the background. The calm after the storm.
I leaned against my locker, shooting off a quick text to Angela.
Me: Sorry sexy, we got slammed tonight. And yes—I want my tongue and dick all over that pussy. But you know what I really want? You’re ass is still scared of it… no pun intended. You know what—pun intended. LOL. Miss you. You coming over tonight?
I slipped the phone back into my scrubs pocket, just as Liz walked up, her smile soft, almost innocent—if I didn’t already know better.
“You ready?” she asked, her eyes sparkling.
Yeah. Backpack, keys, libido. Got everything.
We made our way toward the elevator when I spotted Helen and Vicky heading the same direction. Of course. Those two were always side-by-side, like E.R. chaperones.
“Man, this shift took the life outta me,” Helen groaned, stretching.
“You ain’t lying,” Liz said, still walking beside me.
“I just wanna get on that D-train and melt into the seat,” Vicky added, shooting me a sidelong smirk.
Liz blinked. “D-train?”
Helen immediately choked on her coffee and jabbed Vicky in the ribs. I turned my head slowly toward her with the look.
Vicky didn’t flinch. “Ahem—don’t you take the D-train home? Like us?”
Nice save. Barely.
Liz laughed. “Oh, no. I’m a Brooklyn girl. I take the B.”
“Really? Brooklyn?” Helen echoed, eyebrows raised.
“Y’all act like that’s another planet,” Liz said, pretending to be offended.
I chimed in, deadpan. “Past 145th Street? That’s just wasteland, baby. I figured after the bridge it was all dragons and fog.”
All of us cracked up. Even Liz, who rolled her eyes and gave me that sideways look—the one that said I see you, Jay. I see how you move.
The elevator doors opened. We stepped in, Helen and Vicky still giggling behind us. I caught Vicky throw me one last wink before the doors closed.
Liz glanced at me. “You really love those two, huh?”
“Yeah. They’re like family. Loud, nosy, inappropriate family. But the best kind.”
She smiled again—genuine, that time. “That’s sweet. I like working with them. This whole team’s good.”
I studied her face for a second. Under the flirting and sass, Liz had a quiet fire. Ambitious. Observant. There was more going on beneath the surface than she let on. Most people would see the pretty smile and the perfect skin and think that’s all there was. They’d be wrong.
And I was curious.
Outside, the air was sharp. One of those New York mornings where the cold bites just enough to remind you you’re alive. I unlocked my ride and popped the passenger side door open for her.
“Nice car,” Liz said, sliding in.
“I saved all my pennies. And sold half my soul.”
As we rolled onto the West Side Highway, I let her playlist the ride. We passed the skyline like it was background noise, and the conversation came easy. Too easy.
She loved the Knicks—which was tragic, but I respected it. Loyalty is rare. Her favorite movies were all Disney classics. Mine? The Sound of Music. She laughed so hard she nearly snorted.
“Don’t hate,” I told her. “It’s a masterpiece. Julie Andrews is that chick.”
“Oh, I’m not judging,” she said. “Just adjusting my expectations.”
We talked about growing up. Our neighborhoods. Why she went into nursing.
“It wasn’t about the money,” she said. “Though I’m not mad at it. But I like the chaos. Like… you show up, and you don’t know what’s coming through that door next. That kind of adrenaline? I feed off it.”
I nodded, impressed. “So you’re addicted to disaster.”
“Maybe.” She smirked. “Maybe I just like saving people.”
There it was again—that depth. Hidden just beneath the flirty comebacks and glossy lipstick.
“You ever save someone and regret it?” I asked, glancing at her briefly.
She didn’t answer right away. “Only once,” she said, softly.
Didn’t push. Some stories tell themselves when they’re ready.
Eventually, she noticed we were no longer in Manhattan.
“Uh… Jay?” she asked, brow furrowing. “Where are we going?”
“I told you. Best breakfast spot in the city. New Rochelle.”
She looked hesitant. I caught it in her body language—the subtle lean back, the quick glance out the window. Not fear. Just the sudden realization of Oh shit. This might not be brunch after all. I pulled into my building’s parking lot and got out, walking around to open her door. She didn’t move right away. Then I held my hand out. Looked her in the eye. “Do you trust me?”
Her expression softened just slightly. “What did you say?”
I smiled. “Do you trust me?”
Took her a second. Then it clicked. Aladdin reference. Smart girl.
She grinned. “Cheeky bastard.” But she took my hand.
We walked in together.
Upstairs, I unlocked my apartment, stepped aside like a gentleman. Liz walked in slow, eyes scanning everything—hardwood floors, open kitchen, chrome appliances, soft lighting, clean layout.
“This… is not what I expected,” she said, stunned.
“Let me guess. You assumed bachelor pad disaster? Socks everywhere, funky smell, maybe a lava lamp?”
“You damn right,” she admitted. “But this? This is… grown-man shit.”
“I only bring special guests here,” I said, walking behind her. My hand gently found her shoulder. “You just made the cut.”
I leaned down and kissed her cheek. She didn’t pull away.
Her eyes found mine.
“Get comfortable,” I told her. “I’m making French toast.”
Her face lit up. “Say less. Let me go freshen up.”
As she disappeared into the bathroom, I pulled out the brioche, eggs, and cinnamon. Set the pan to low. Cooking was my therapy. That and sex. Ideally both in the same day.
The kitchen filled with warmth and the scent of vanilla. When Liz returned, barefoot and glowing, I handed her a plate. She moaned after the first bite.
“This is sinful,” she said with her mouth full. “How are you single?”
“I’m difficult,” I replied.
“I can see that.”
We talked. About everything and nothing. The kind of conversation that had no agenda. Just flow.
And I forgot about the time. Until I remembered Angela.
I excused myself to the bathroom, pulled out my phone.
Three new messages.
First: a pic of Angela, naked in front of her mirror. Caption: Thinking about you. Do you like?
Second: No panties, like Daddy asked. My pussy’s soaked.
Third: Richard has a business dinner. I have to go. I’ll try to come later. Love you.
I texted back:
Don’t stress. Be a good wife. Go be seen with your man. Just make sure there’s nothing between your pussy and that dress. Daddy’s watching. Love you too.
I stared at the message for a moment before locking my phone again.
Love. With Angela, it was like passing notes in class—fun, fleeting, understood.
When I returned, Liz was lounging on the couch.
“You one of those guys who eats and shits right after?” she teased.
I deadpanned. “Wow. You insult my digestive system after I fed you?”
She burst out laughing. “You’re too much, Jay.”
We both laughed. Then the air shifted. That moment—the one where time slows, and the question of what happens next lingers.
“I guess I should—” she started.
“Come here,” I said softly.
“I don’t know…” she hesitated, but I reached for her hand again.
She let me.
We were face-to-face now. Her eyes locked onto mine, curious and cautious.
“There’s something I’ve wanted to do for weeks,” I whispered. “Just needed the courage.”
Total bullshit. But sometimes, a little theater helps.
I leaned in. Pressed my lips to hers.
Soft. Warm. Honest.
And then she was on me. Straddling my lap, kissing hard, grinding. Her body heat, her perfume, her need—it crashed into me like a wave.
Game on.
Part 3 – First Taste
The first kiss was soft—too soft for how badly I’d wanted it.
Liz melted into me, warm and slow, her lips tasting faintly of cinnamon and French toast. My hands slid to her hips, pulling her just enough to feel the pressure of her weight on my lap. Her breath caught, just a little, and her fingers curled into my shirt like she wasn’t sure whether to hold on or push away.
She didn’t push away.
I deepened the kiss. Still gentle. Still teasing. You don’t come in heavy on the first makeout. You read her pace. You match her heat. You let her burn slow.
And Liz was burning.
She shifted in my lap, that subtle grind every man prays for. My cock responded immediately, pressing against the front of my sweats. I could feel her body tense when she felt it—then she rolled her hips again, slower this time, deliberate.
“Is that for me?” she whispered against my lips.
I kept my voice low, teasing. “Why don’t you unwrap the present and find out?”
She smirked, reached down, and palmed me through my pants. The pressure of her hand made me exhale through my teeth.
“You’re a bad man, Jay Bridgewater,” she murmured. “What kind of game are you playing?”
“The kind you’re about to lose,” I told her, already lifting her up in my arms.
She laughed as her legs wrapped around my waist, her arms draped around my shoulders like we’d done this before. I carried her down the hall, past the kitchen, past the echo of Ed Sheeran still playing faintly in the background, and straight into the master bathroom.
Because let’s be honest—twelve-hour E.R. shifts and back-to-back sex? A shower had to be part of the plan.
I set her down gently and reached for the hem of her top. She didn’t hesitate—just raised her arms, letting me peel it off. Beneath it, smooth dark skin glowed under the bathroom lights. Her breasts were full and natural, the kind that made you grateful for evolution.
Her pants slid off with ease, and my brain froze for a second.
Goddamn.
I’d suspected her body was hiding something under those scrubs, but seeing it? That was confirmation from the universe that God had favorites. Her ass was insane—round, high, and soft-looking enough to sleep on.
She caught me staring and laughed. “You just gonna gawk, or you taking your clothes off too?”
I raised my hands in surrender. “Sorry. Just appreciating art.”
She stepped into the shower first, and I followed.
The warm water hit us as our bodies collided again—this time slick, hot, and hungry. We lathered each other up, but every touch was more than cleaning. It was exploring. Learning each other's rhythm. My hands mapped her curves with reverence, and hers made sure I was fully “revived.”
She reached down, grinned, and wrapped a soapy hand around my cock.
“Someone’s alert and oriented,” she teased.
“You know it,” I said, stepping in closer. “Vital signs are strong. Dick is responsive to stimulation. Any recommendations, Nurse Montgomery?”
She got on her knees without a word, lathered up her hands one last time, then let them fall away as she took me in her mouth.
No hands. Just lips, tongue, and throat.
My head tipped back as her mouth swallowed inch after inch until her nose was at my base. She held there, breathing through her nose, then slid back slowly, her eyes locked on mine the whole time.
Then she did something I’d never seen in person—while still deepthroating me, she stuck her tongue out… and licked my balls.
My knees almost gave out.
“Oh my,” I muttered, grabbing the tile wall for balance. My abs were locking up like I was doing crunches. I’d had good head before—but this?
This was evil.
I pulled her off gently, her lips wet, eyes gleaming.
“You trying to end me?” I asked.
She smiled. “I felt a pulse. Thought he needed reviving.”
I kissed her hard, unable to hold back anymore. Her body melted against mine as I turned her toward the shower wall, hands bracing her. I dropped to my knees behind her and spread her cheeks gently.
Liz looked back, breath shallow. Then moaned as my tongue slid between her folds.
Her taste hit instantly—sweet, clean, electric. I devoured her, slow at first, teasing her clit with the tip of my tongue, then dipping in deeper. She started grinding back into my face, little gasps echoing off the tile.
“Oh fuck, Jay… your tongue… oh my goodness…”
I buried my face in her like I was starving.
She trembled, legs shaking, hands splayed against the wall. “I’m gonna cum… oh FUCK, I’m gonna—”
She came with a full-body quake, her thighs clamping around my face, her moans turning into incoherent cries. I didn’t stop until she sagged against the wall, breathless.
I stood, wrapped my arms around her from behind to keep her steady. Her skin was flushed, her lips parted in a dazed smile.
“You okay?” I asked softly.
Liz nodded. “I’m… more than okay.”
We kissed again—slower this time. Deep. Grateful.
Then I lifted her into my arms, carried her to the bedroom, and laid her across the bed like she was something precious.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t want to just fuck a woman.
I wanted to experience her.
Part 3b – Round One
She lay back on my bed, hair damp, skin still glistening from the shower. One arm draped over her stomach, the other resting above her head. She wasn’t posing—but she didn’t have to. Liz was art without effort. And right then, she looked like a sin I wanted to commit again and again.
I took a beat—just watching her breathe. Watching her eyes track me as I walked over to the nightstand, grabbed my phone.
She sat up a little. “Jay… you’re not gonna—”
“No pictures,” I cut in, smiling. “Relax. Just setting the mood.”
I tapped my playlist, and the speaker system across the room lit up.
The bass thumped low, soft. Erotic without trying too hard.
Liz sank back onto the bed, eyes following me as I climbed in next to her.
“I thought you were cocky before,” she said.
“Not cocky,” I corrected, leaning in. “Confident.”
I kissed her again—no rush, no fireworks. Just lips. Connection. Heat that didn’t need to prove anything. My hand slid between her thighs and found her soaked, still pulsing.
She moaned into my mouth.
“I want you inside me,” she whispered.
I lined myself up and eased in slow, one inch at a time.
The look on her face…
Her mouth parted, a silent breath escaping, eyes locked on mine like she was trying to memorize the feeling. And goddamn did she feel good. Like her body was made for mine. Every inch of her wrapped around me perfectly—tight, warm, welcoming.
I bottomed out, staying there for a second, letting her adjust. Letting me not cum immediately.
Because this was new pussy.
And new pussy, when it hits like this, will rob a man of his dignity real quick.
We started moving together—rhythm slow, synced with the music. Her moans rising with each stroke, each grind of hips.
She clawed gently at my back. “Jay… oh fuck… fuck me…”
“Say it again,” I growled, my thrusts getting deeper.
“Fuck me, baby… fuck me harder…”
I rose up into a squat, knees planted, pulling her legs over my shoulders for better leverage. I wanted her to feel everything. Now I was pounding her slow and deep—watching her face, her tits bouncing with each motion. She was gripping the sheets, biting her lip, trying to hold back.
“Let it go,” I told her. “Cum on this dick, Liz. Squeeze it.”
“Jay—oh my god—I’m gonna—”
“Do it. Milk this dick. Give me that cum.”
Her eyes rolled back, and her whole body tensed as she exploded again, her pussy gripping me like a vice. I could feel every pulse. Every spasm.
And I wasn’t far behind.
I dropped one leg from my shoulder, leaned in closer, wrapped a hand around her throat—not tight, just enough pressure to claim her—and kissed her hard as I started to lose control.
“You want my cum?” I whispered against her lips.
“Yes—yes—give it to me, baby—inside me—please—”
And with a groan that came from my fucking soul, I let go. My orgasm hit like a freight train. It felt like I emptied gallons into her. My entire body locked up as I filled her, hips jerking, muscles twitching. I stayed buried inside, holding her, heart hammering in sync with hers. Eventually, I collapsed beside her, both of us drenched in sweat, breathing like we’d just run suicides. She rolled toward me, laid her head on my chest.
“Gawd…” she murmured.
“Yeah,” I said, voice hoarse. “That was…”
She looked up. “That was round one, right?”
I stared at her. She grinned.
And I laughed—deep and honest. “You little devil.”
I tickled her side, and she shrieked, kicking under the sheets, trying to escape.
We rolled around like kids, play-fighting, laughing, lips occasionally colliding between the teasing. It was soft. It was chaotic. It was… nice. Eventually, we passed out tangled together, her leg thrown over mine, my hand resting lazily on her ass. I woke up to the soft glow of moonlight slipping through the blinds. The clock read 10:02 PM. And Liz was still asleep, naked and gorgeous, her face pressed into my chest like she’d always belonged there. I slid out from under her carefully, threw on a pair of flannel pajama pants, grabbed my phone and toothbrush, and slipped into the bathroom.
As I brushed, I checked my messages. Three from the group chat—my boys planning drinks this weekend. Two from women I hadn’t seen in weeks asking when we were “catching up again.”
And four from Angela.
I opened hers in order:
First: a mirror selfie. Tight black dress. Caption: Thinking about you. Do you like?
Second: I’m not wearing any panties like Daddy insisted. My pussy is so wet right now.
Third: I’m trying to get out of here. I’m bored. What are you doing?
Fourth: I’m about to leave. Can I come over?
Timestamp: 9:30 PM. I exhaled through my nose. Dodged a bullet there.
Quickly, I replied:
Me: Hey babe, sorry. Long day. I just woke up. Gonna grab a bite and crash. Can we link tomorrow? I’ll pick you up. Got a surprise for you.
Within seconds:
Angela: Goodie! You know I love surprises. And I miss my Daddy.
Me: Daddy misses you too. How wet are you right now?
Angela: Don’t start what you can’t finish. You know I’ll come show you in person.
Me: LOL. Okay, okay. See you tomorrow. Wear something sexy. And remember—no panties.
Angela: Whatever Daddy wants. Night.
Crisis avoided.
One more minute and I might’ve had two women in my apartment and a Lifetime movie in real life. Back in the kitchen, I started pulling ingredients from the fridge. Rotisserie chicken. Leftover fried rice. Maybe I’d whip up a quick stir-fry. I connected my phone to the speakers and hit play on Pandora.
As I danced quietly at the stove, I felt her. Arms sliding around my waist from behind. Warm skin pressing into my back. Her voice, soft and sleepy.
“Mmm… you smell good.”
I turned.
Liz stood there in nothing but one of my white button-downs. Hair messy. Eyes heavy-lidded. Smile lazy.
“The food woke me up,” she murmured. “But this song? This song’s my shit.”
I twirled her once, pulled her into me, and started moving with the beat. She giggled, letting me lead. Our bodies swayed in sync, bare feet sliding against the hardwood. We sang to each other under our breath, hips brushing, lips brushing more. When the song faded and the pan sizzled behind me, she didn’t step away.
She leaned close and whispered, “You know what I’m really hungry for?”
And then she opened her legs—just enough for me to see what was back on the menu.
I smiled.
I fucking love my life.
Part 4 – Morning Clarity, Evening Ghosts
The first thing I noticed was the weight of her leg draped across mine.
The second was the way the sunlight cut through the blinds and hit her skin like it was searching for gold. Liz was still asleep, curled into me like she'd been there for years instead of just one long, sinful day. Her breathing was soft, even. The kind of peaceful that makes you wonder what someone’s dreaming about—and if you’re in it.
I didn’t move right away.
There’s something rare about waking up next to a woman who didn’t just rock your world, but slipped into it like she belonged. I’d fucked a lot of women. But Liz? Liz stayed. Not just physically. Her scent was still on my sheets, in my beard, under my skin.
And damn if that wasn’t a little dangerous.
I gently untangled from her and slid out of bed. Pajama pants on. Bathroom. Toothbrush. Cold water splash. Basic reset.
I checked my phone—nothing from Angela yet.
Last night, she was full throttle. No panties. Late night temptations. That one missed visit that could’ve turned everything into a nuclear disaster. I got lucky. But this situation with Liz… it was getting complicated fast. I wasn’t looking for complicated. But maybe complicated found me.
Back in the kitchen, I started prepping breakfast. Eggs, toast, coffee. Something simple, grounding. I was humming low to myself, the Bluetooth speaker playing some smooth R&B, when I heard the softest voice behind me.
“Mmm… is this going to be a habit?”
I turned.
Liz was standing there in nothing but my white dress shirt again. Bed-hair, sleepy eyes, bare legs. She looked like a walking reason to never leave home.
“Depends,” I said, cracking an egg into the pan. “You planning on staying the night again?”
She stepped closer, arms wrapping around my waist. “Depends,” she echoed. “You planning on making breakfast again?”
I tilted my head. “That’s what we’re doing now? Trading services?”
She smirked. “Worked yesterday.”
“True. But yesterday, you weren’t walking funny.”
She jabbed me in the ribs. “Asshole.”
“Facts,” I said, flipping the eggs. “But a thoughtful asshole. That’s rare.”
She leaned against the counter and watched me cook. And for a while, we just… talked. No sex. No tension. Just vibing. She told me about her mom. About the apartment she was trying to get out of. About how nursing had become her armor.
And I listened.
I told her about growing up between two cultures—my father’s Cuban discipline, my mother’s Jamaican passion. How the E.R. kept me sane. How I never really trusted people who didn’t curse, sweat, or fight for something.
We finished breakfast and moved to the couch. Ate side by side, feet propped up, music still drifting in the background.
“You always like this?” she asked suddenly.
“Like what?”
“Easy. Confident. Smooth.”
I grinned. “Is that what you think I am?”
She didn’t look away. “No. I think that’s what you show people. But you’re layered. Got control issues. Probably keep things neat to distract from the mess you keep locked up.”
Damn.
I took a bite of toast to stall. “You psychoanalyzing me, Nurse Montgomery?”
She leaned in, kissed the corner of my mouth. “Only a little.”
And just like that—her hand found my thigh. Crawling higher. Familiar territory, but now it felt different. Not just a morning quickie. Not just a "one more before we go."
No. This was a claiming. And I let her.
Round four wasn’t as loud or fast as the others.
It was slower. Closer.
Face to face. Eye to eye.
Like we were asking questions with our bodies we didn’t want answered out loud.
She came first, again—soft cries against my shoulder, fingernails in my back. I followed right after, my orgasm crashing into me with less fire and more depth. Like I wasn’t just emptying into her, I was giving her something.
When it ended, we didn’t say much. Just held each other, soaked in sweat and silence. Eventually, we got up, cleaned up, dressed. Liz moved around my apartment like she belonged. Picking up dishes. Fixing the shirt on her body. Brushing her teeth with a spare toothbrush like she’d done it before.
And I didn’t hate it.
She stood by the door with her coat half-zipped, bag slung over one shoulder. “Thanks for breakfast. And the cardio.”
I smirked. “Anytime. You coming straight from work tomorrow?”
She paused. “Maybe. Depends on how sore I am.”
She leaned in for one more kiss—quick, but real.
Then she was gone. The moment the door clicked shut, reality slipped back in like a tide I couldn’t hold back. I grabbed my phone. Messages now waiting.
Angela:
“Last night was hell. That dinner dragged forever.”
“I was so wet thinking about you the whole time.”
“Tell me you’re free tonight. I need your tongue. And your cock. In that order.”
There it was. That familiar pull. That heat. That danger.
Angela Brand—head doctor, married woman, chaos incarnate. She knew how to fuck me. She also knew how to haunt me.
I typed slowly.
Me: I got you tonight. Come through. 9pm. No panties. Like always.
She responded instantly.
Angela: Whatever Daddy wants.
I stared at the screen for a beat.
Then looked back at the empty space where Liz had just stood minutes ago. And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t sure if I wanted what I asked for.
Part 5 – Lines, Layers, and Lust
Today, I had a session with Dr. Malek.
Yes, I see a shrink. And no, it’s not because I’m crazy—it’s because I’m aware enough to know I might be.
Dr. Nin Malek is the hottest psychiatrist I’ve ever seen. Moroccan. Mid-40s. Chestnut eyes. Built like temptation in heels. I used to talk to her cleavage by accident. Now I do it on purpose—but with subtlety. Growth.
She’s brilliant though. Actually helped me unpack a lot. She doesn’t pull punches, which is what I need. Because let’s be honest—my whole life is a performance. She’s one of the few who sees behind the curtain.
I walked into her office—slim grey stretch jeans, crisp white shirt, black blazer, and those half-black, half-white custom AF1 mids—I looked like I was about to seduce trouble.
And trouble answered the door in a pleated sheath dress named Brittany. Colombian. Mid-20s. Built like a workout fantasy. Voice like warm honey.
She walked me back, ass swaying with weaponized rhythm, and opened the door to Dr. Malek’s office.
Dr. Malek didn’t even look up at first. She was writing something in her leather-bound journal of truth and psychological ass-whuppings.
“James, nice to see you again,” she said without missing a beat.
“Same, Doc.”
In that session, I told her everything. Liz. Angela. My thirst. My habits. My hustle. The way I move through the world like I’m always in a scene—lights, camera, conquest.
She listened. Nodded. Then hit me with the sniper shot:
“James, when you’re with these women… are you really you? Or are you playing out some fantasy? Are you… performing?”
That question shut me up. She stood. Led me to the mirror.
“Tell me what you see.”
I gave her the usual—style, swag, control.
She gave me the truth:
“You only feel safe when you’re performing. You’ve turned yourself into a character. Steven St. Croix with better shoes. You don’t know how to turn it off.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Even now, replaying Liz’s throat skills. Flirting with Brittany. Planning Angela’s return like a scene in a film.
I was always on. And maybe that was the problem.
Dr. Malek gave me a challenge: three days. No seduction. No games. Just talk to women without trying to conquer them.
I nodded my head in agreement. Pretended I had the discipline, the restraint, the willpower. But somewhere beneath all that bravado, I knew I was lying. Desire wasn’t a habit for me — it was hardwired, stitched into my instincts, etched into the architecture of my mind.
She raised a brow. “Don’t hurt Brittany.”
I laughed. “What do you mean?”
But she didn’t answer. Just kept typing. Psychic. Beautiful. Dangerous. I liked her more than I should’ve.
I passed Brittany on the way out. She smiled. Asked about my session.
I told her, “It was hard to concentrate. You were on my mind the whole time.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Estoy deseando verte los lunes para poder solucionar ese problema tuyo.”
I didn’t know the words.
But my dick did.
By the time I got back home, showered, hit the gym, and laid out the Italian food, I felt… centered. Or as centered as a man with a dick this hard can be.
Angela was on her way. Angela—the chaos. The addiction. The married one.
She arrived in a trench coat and nothing else. I opened the door and said nothing. She dropped the coat. Crotchless panties. Garters. Black sheer lingerie. Blood-red lips. Emerald butt plug. And a smile that promised everything. I slammed her against the door. Kissed her like I’d been starving.
She moaned. “Shouldn’t we go inside?”
“No.”
I didn’t care. I dropped to my knees. Tongue-fucked her ass like it owed me rent. Her moans echoed in the hallway.
Then: “Ahem.”
I looked up.
Mr. White, my seventy-year-old neighbor, stood outside his apartment, eyes half-shocked, half-impressed.
“James… my wife almost came out. You gonna have to keep that freaky shit indoors, son.”
“Yes, sir,” I muttered, wiping my mouth.
He grinned. “But I ain’t mad at it. Carry on.”
Angela giggled so hard she almost lost her balance. I pulled her inside, slammed the door, and said:
“Put that plug back in. Get on your knees. Suck my dick.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
She obeyed instantly, slowly reinserting the plug while moaning, then opened wide and took me in like she missed the taste.
I face-fucked her like she was mine. Because, in some twisted way, she was. When I pulled her up and kissed her deeply, she broke character—tears streaked through her smeared mascara.
“I love you, James.”
I paused.
“I fucking love you too.”
And just like that… another line blurred. Another layer peeled back. And I had no idea what came next.
Author’s Note:
Thank you for spending a little time with this story — I hope it gave you something to enjoy. There’s much more ahead, and I’ll be releasing new installments every few days to keep the momentum going. I always appreciate thoughtful feedback, and I do read and respond to your comments. Your insight helps shape the journey.
Thanks again for being here. More soon. Take care.