Work Text:
Everything is dry in Jakku. Ben can sense it through the window, even through the blasting air conditioning of the rental car, from the ugly, too-bright yellows of everything outside. From how the people on the streets he’s passing move, slow and tired. When he steps outside to get gas, it feels like every ray of the sun is directed toward his black sweater, like all the moisture in his body has evaporated.
What a shithole.
On his way in, he stops at a place that advertises specialty coffee, which turns out to mean they have fourteen different types of Monin syrup, which all look gummed up around the edges. “Aw, just plain?” the bleached blond barista asked him, which turns out to be a warning of how undrinkable the coffee is.
At the grocery store where he buys bananas and Clif Bars, every guy is wearing a mesh snapback, some slightly too-tight tactical material pants, their face reddened by outdoor work. The size of this town and demographics of the factory workers ensure that most of them will be fired by Ben tomorrow. In line, one guy his age with dirty workboots, nods that Ben should go in front of him, even though they have the same amount of stuff. It makes Ben feels like a soft and useless city boy, and he wants badly to get back to his room.
When he does, after the too-cheerful greeting of front desk woman at this not-that-nice Ramanda he puts his bag down and sits on the bed. He unbuttons his pants.
Sometimes, driving three plus hours makes Ben depressed. (About himself, the existence of carnivals, America as a concept.) Other times, it makes him weirdly horny. Today is one of those days. He’d spent the last half hour of the drive aware of his body and tensed, his knee jiggling and hitting the steering wheel of his rental Mazda.
He gives himself a few starting tugs. For a second, it feels normal, like before. Thank God. But then, his dick — like it has so many times recently — decides to just give up. Irritated, he tries again, tugging himself with faster strokes.
Ben hates watching porn on his phone. It makes him feel like a perverse child, and he can’t se shit, which makes him feel old. But he’s getting desperate, so he pulls out his phone, trying to ignore the too-bright sunlight streaming into the room, highlighting every piece of dirt on the carpet. He suffers through three minutes of the first thing he can find, a mewly stepbrother no that he’s not opposed to in theory but today just serves to make him more depressed. And he’s still fucking soft.
He tries once more, his hand too fast, too rough. Still doesn’t work. He lets his stupid soft dick flop uselessly against his thigh and flops down on the bed. He’s older now. Maybe it’s biology, something slowing down. Or maybe it’s just preference, sharpened by years of experience (not like he’s ever been that open-minded, anyway.) Either way, he can’t masturbate without lube these days. It’s like one day his body, in a fit of pique, decided to make things more difficult for him for no fucking reason.
He smacks his fist down into the plasticky comforter. He’s still turned on, his body twitchy and aware, but he knows he won’t be able to come unless he has lube.
It’s in his medicine cabinet of his apartment in the city. He didn’t think it was a necessity. This trip had been a quick turnaround, a call from his boss Snoke, a gig no one else wanted, the promise of impressing Snoke on the other side.
Fuck it. He should be allowed to come. He’s 38 years old without a partner or kids, traveling for work in one of the state’s worst towns, the air conditioning viciously cold. He’s already pathetic. The least he can do is jerk off and make it a little better.
On the way into town, there was a sign, he suddenly remembers, Right off the freeway, depressing as shit. Pleasures, in a curling pink font, outdated and obvious. Ben sits up, grabbing his phone. Whatever. It’s not like his day can get any worse
Of course the door has a bell. Loud, too. Like everyone needs to be aware that Ben Solo — and he normally doesn’t think of himself as Ben Solo, with all the attendant baggage, but when he’s really depressed, sometimes he gets a sick thrill of remembering who he is, a self-narrativizing bruise: Ben Solo, eternally passed over for promotion, politician's estranged son Ben, Ben Solo, who had such great potential — is so desperate, he’s stepping into a grimy sex store at 2:34 p.m. on a Wednesday afternoon.
It’s retro. Not in a vampy 60s Playboy way, but in the way that’s just dated and depressing. It’s weirdly dark, the walls covered with lingerie ads of girls with early 2000s tans and tits. One, two other men, shuffling, cell phones on their hips, buying porn DVDs and cheap-looking leather harnesses. There’s a baseball bat visibly leaned behind the counter and for some godforsaken reason, there’s a sign advertising an arcade in the back. The whole thing is like an advertisement for internet shopping, and Ben wants to spend as little time here as possible.
The lube section at every sex store Ben has been to — the worker-owned one in the city where they’d recommended the brand that became his favorite, the one he went to with an ex before she’d dumped him for being too depressing — has been huge. Here, it’s barren. There are the huge jugs of it, but he really doesn’t want to spend $60 on a vat of the cheapest lube. There are multiple scented options, which also make him depressed. In the back, behind a pile of condoms, there’s one normal-looking bottle, with a label that makes it seem semirespectable, so he grabs it.
“That one gave people rashes,” he hears a voice call.
He turns, finds a woman suddenly next to him. “Excuse me?”
She has a name tag, so he’s assuming she works here. “We got three returns on it in the last month.”
“Well, why do you sell it then?”
She gives him a slight frown at his tone. “Because corporate sends it to us. I’m just trying to give you information.”
“Right.” Just then, something brushes Ben’s ankle. He jerks his leg, avoiding the wet nose of a lumbering corgi. “Jesus Christ.”
“Hey, BB,” the worker croons. She’s wearing basketball shorts and a sawed-off tank top, her hair puffing out from a bun. She looks at the ugly dog with a lot more respect than Ben, a theoretically paying customer. “Are you a little anxious? It’s just a new customer. We can get you another pill if you need.”
The feeling returns, like he’s about to snap. He needs to get control of the humiliating situation, somehow. “Is that dog allowed to be here?”
The girl frowns. A line forms between her eyebrows. “Yes. It’s BB.”
“Like, with all this — intimate stuff around? And the carpet? Did you guys really okay that with the city?”
He needs her, anyone, to recognize that he is here, and he is important. The way that this girl, that this city, that everyone responds to him, like he’s useless. He’s older than her, he’s richer, and he’s fucking bigger and more important.
But all she does is look pissed. “I said, it’s fine.”
The dog snuffles the rug in front of Ben. Fuck this place, fuck everything.
“Are there any other options? Like in the back.” He’s never worked retail, but people always say that.
“No.” She straightens. “There’s the raspberry —”
“I don’t want that.”
“Well, okay.” She turns to straighten something. Ben might be bigger and scarier and worthy of a little goddamn respect, but her ass, it turns out, is surprisingly fat.
“You’re a sex store that doesn’t sell lube?”
She shrugs, but something in his tone makes her look at him a little closer, like she’s intrigued. More interested than the dog, who wanders away. “I’m sorry?”
He needs to come. He feels it, the tenseness that needs a release. The gym is closed, he’s stopped drinking because it made him actively worse, and he already sucks. Jerking off is one of his healthiest coping mechanisms, even if it leads him to places like this. He feels like a pervert standing here, arguing in front of this tragic lube section, while this angry girl and barred-out idiot dog stares up at him. “I need it.”
“You need it?” she asks, sounding annoyingly perplexed.
“Yeah, do you want a play by play?”
“Our sister store in Monroeville has some. Maybe you or your partner could —”
“It’s not — it’s for me. And I— I need it.”
“You’re out of luck, then. Sorry.”
“You keep saying that. Why, you offering to help?”
Fuck, why did he say that? She’s back to frowning, but there’s a new consideration, like she can see inside him.
“There’s a glory hole in the back,” she says finally. Thank fuck she doesn’t seem like she’ll sue him. Maybe her considering look is worse, though. “But it’s mainly Dave, and I've heard mixed reviews.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“I mean, a lot of them are positive. But he’s at work until the factory gets off for the day around six.”
He looks at her, knowing that he looks helpless, and not intimidating at all.
“Is there — anything?”
She tilts her head. Then blinks. Rears back. Oh, god. She’s going to sue him. Or hit him.
“It’s for you?” she says, tilting her head, looking at him. “Just — for you?”
Maybe things don’t exist here in Jakku. At least, they don’t exist for Ben Solo here. “Yeah. I just really need — and I need. That feeling.”
Maybe she’s looking at arm. His muscles? Probably his paleness. Everyone in this town is so fucking tan.
“I could maybe help you,” she says eventually. “In some ways.”
He’s never paid for sex before. Never needed to. But he’s desperate, and there’s something cute about her, pragmatic but embarrassed. And life doesn’t exist for Ben Solo, here, right?
“Some ways — that might be nice.” He nods, channeling some of the emotionless detachment he’ll use tomorrow at the factory. “If you could — I could also help out out.”
The girl considers him, her cheeks pink. His dick stirs, curious if they’d be pink while she’s sucking his dick. For some reason, Ben holds his breath. Then she turns, her sloppy bun tumbling out of its hair tie. “Megan!” she yells, “I’m going on my lunch. I’ll meet you outside in a second,” she tells him.
He smiles at her, like it’s normal. “Perfect.”
When she comes outside, she stands in front of the passenger side door in a way that blocks out the sun. Ben hadn’t known if he should wait for her right outside, but that felt weirdly prom, and there’s an angry-sounding stray cat that kept following him around the parking lot and then he realized he should think about how much to pay her. Googling it felt weird, so he sat in the car and thought about it: $50? $100? The COL in this town, he knew from his work’s research was pretty infinitesimal, so she’d probably be impressed by anything. $75, he’d settled on proudly, when she appeared in his eye line, blotting out everything.
“Hey,” he says, opening his door and managing not to hit her with it. He considered walking around and opening the door for her, but she’s already opening the back seat door.
He climbs in with her. “This — okay?”
“Yeah. I’m not going with you anywhere.”
She says it like a challenge. It vaults him from anxious to annoyed. “Excuse me?”
“I talked to Kaydel.” The girl — should he find out her name? — settles into the seat next to him. “She does this kind of thing a lot and she gave me some safety tips.”
“This kind of thing?” What, are they all sex workers on the side? Christ, this town in bleak. And yet, Ben is still half hard.
“Sex with a much older dude.”
Oh, is that the polite way they refer to it? Also — “What do you mean, old, how—”
“The rings around your eyes. Like a tree,” she explains, drawing an air circle around her face. “So. Yeah. We’re staying here.”
“Well, great. Luckily I don’t want you to do anything except suck my dick. Right here.”
She gives him a half frown. It has something else in it, some nervousness or curiosity. Maybe she’s the new girl, he thinks meanly as she takes off her baggy sweatshirt. Underneath, she has on some thin tank top. Her tits are small, and he can see the nipples through the fabric. There’s some tattoo across her chest, words he can’t make out.
He leans back against the door, trying to angle himself to her. It’s awkward. He’s too big, too old for this. Part of him wants to make her do the awkward part of unbuttoning and getting himself out. But she’s waiting for him, so he takes himself out, trying not to fumble in the too-small space.
“Right.” He nods down to his dick. “Well?”
A blush climbs up her cheeks. She pauses. Like she’s waiting for something.
He wanted to end on that line, make her kind of intimidated, for her to stop looking at him with that pissy expression. To remind her that he’s the scary asshole, that he’s in charge. But maybe there’s some payment etiquette doesn’t get here. “And then after — I’ll get you.” That’s enough, right? He’s spending all of tomorrow explaining basic business concepts. He doesn’t want to really bring it into his personal life, more than it already impacts him.
After a beat, she nods. Bends her head. Which is stupid, since she should really ask for half up front.
“Yeah?” he asks, because still wants something from her. Some kind of acknowledgement, or admission, some kind of wow your dick is big that he thought came included. But if he’s being honest, he can probably survive without it, because all of him is tensed, his cock hard, ready for the wet heat of her mouth.
Her first lick is tentative. Immediately, he wants to grab her hair and force her to take more. He hasn’t felt desperate like this in a long time. It’s embarrassing, the lack of control he feels at these kitten licks at the tip of his cock, and he grabs the fabric of the seat next to him so he doesn’t do anything stupid.
He’s too worked up, for this inevitably disappointing blowjob that’s not going to go the way he wants, because nothing ever does. He looks past her head bent over his lap, trying to calm himself, noticing the Kohl’s and the Kratom here liquor store in his eyeline. God, this is a new low.
She scoots forward, somehow graceful in the confines of the car, even though she’s not a small woman. Then—finally — she opens her mouth around him.
“Oh, fuck.”
In every other area of his life, Ben is tidy. Three suits, three shirts. The same three dollar sign first date place with similarly successful women with neat shoulder length hair. A toiletry bag back at the Ramada packed like a Tetris game.
It’s embarrassing, realizing how much wetness he needs to come these days. Undignified, messy. He used to be normal, efficient and clean. But this random girl in this shitty town: somehow, she sucks his dick in exactly the way he needs.
She’s sloppy. It’s perfect. Dribbling down her cheek. So much spit — is she the most well hydrated person in this town — that it drips down his oversensitive inner thighs, some of it landing on his balls. He is used to wet. Needs wet. But the tightness, the heat, how her mouth hollows around him, like she’s — greedy, and at that thought, his cock swells, pushing deeper into her willing — willing! — throat.
It’s warm. His heartbeat is in his ears. He’s not going to make her choke, she already looks like she’s struggling — she’s a bit too squirmy — but this. This is bliss, this is the feeling. It throws him into another level of pleasure, his body feeling like it’s come online, and he knows, despite all the very embarrassing elements of this, despite her imperfect technique, that he’s going to come faster than he has in months.
He should delay it. So he doesn’t totally humiliate himself. “What’s your name?”
“Rey,” she pants out, lispy from his cock. “With an e.”
“Cool,” he pants, his hips pushing forward. “I’m Ben.”
She nods, the movement somehow taking him deeper. And since he knows her name now, he feels entitled to put a hand in her hair, running his fingers through the strands to cup the back of her neck, her hair spilling through his fingers.
She makes a noise that he thinks is a gag. Fuck, he doesn’t want to stop, can’t she just fucking take it like he needs — but despite being an asshole, he can’t quite convince himself that he’s entitled to choke her just because he’s paying $100, so he looks down to check she’s okay.
She doesn’t look upset. Sure, her eyes are watery, but they’re also dark and interested, her pupils big. Fuck, does she like this?
His head drops back, hitting the window. Sunlight beams across his face, and he knows he’s going to get a sunburn.
“Rey.” He pulls her hair mindlessly, slouching back, his hips pushing. “Rey. Take off your shirt.”
She looks embarrassed again. But then — she does it, and she’s not wearing a bra. Her tan goes almost all the way down to her pink nipples. Her tits are small and perfect, her nipples taut.
The light cuts against her face and she looks freckly and young, somehow adorable and pretty in a way he can’t categorize. A beautiful slut, he thinks, like the shitty poetry he tried to write in high school, before he realized he could lean into being an asholole, and money and pussy would follow.
He moves his hand without realizing, stroking her cheek. The fucking freckles across her nose, the line between her eyebrows, like his dick is the most important thing to focus on.
Then he notices her tattoo, the lines across her chest: petrichor, in badly tattooed script. God, that’s stupid, he thinks, right as she bends to take him in her mouth again.
“Can I —” He’s going to ask her if he can come in her mouth. He’ll pay any amount of money, he’s already decided, and that stupid, important thought puffs away, because no, he has something else he needs, more than anything, even if her tattoo is maybe the stupidest he’s seen. “Actually, sorry, can I —Wait, can you stop, please —”
She pulls away, the wet smack of it loud and messy. She licks her lips, looking curiously up at him. Fuck, he wants to see that look a million times over, the curiosity of her about his cock, squirming to take it all despite his surprising size, the suprise of his come hitting her face.
Then the line returns. More of her attitude — no, like she’s worried? Like she did it wrong?
He can’t find the words to tell her how wrong she is. All he can do is grab his dick, pant out another desperate: “Can I?”
She nods slowly, eyes on his cock. Her eyes are almost crossed, her cheeks red. Fuck, her freckles. His hand fumble, overcome with the need to rub his cock over her wet mouth, spread it over his cheek, spread the evidence of him, of her work over her cheek. She turns toward it, like she wants him back in her mouth, like she wants to drool all over him again, like she wants to finish the job, and because he’s an asshole, he cups her chin with one hand and lightly, lightly — he’s an asshole, but he’s not stupid, he doesn’t want her to get the bat — slaps his wet cock against her pink cheeks. Once, twice. Her eyes widening in surprise, her mouth opening, and, Ben, deliriously horny and slightly worried she’s going to yell at him, shoves his cock back into her mouth.
This time she gags. But only for a second. Her eyes shut, and she swallows furiously, and there’s a small scratch of her teeth — which he probably deserves and doesn’t necessarily turn him off — as she swallows him down, impressively fast, her eyes open to flash at him as she hollows out her mouth.
“Fuck, fuck!” His knee jolts up. Her hands come up, pressing him firmly down into the seat.
His balls tighten. Her thumb, pressing down into his thigh to keep him in place, is close enough to his taint that if he just shifted, maybe he could get her —
Fuck, why is she moving?
“I know you said just a blowjob.” She turns, sucks the tip like she needs it, almost — nuzzling, and no one has done anything approaching nuzzling to Ben in at least a decade — “But. “Do you want to. Like. Have sex?”
“I mean, yeah.” He fumbles, slow, wondering if he should be pulling out his wallet. “And I can like — whatever more you want. I can do it.”
He’d hand her the login to his Chase account right now, but settles for instead reaching out a hand to her, to help her up. To then seat her on his dick, or lay her out in the Mazda backseat and then push into her. But then she just stares at his hand, and right as he’s getting self concious — is his hand too soft and big, like a fucking loser — she shakes his head.
“Actually, no. I can’t. Sorry.”
“Wait, what?” He blinks, becoming aware that his dick is out, stupidly wet and red, between them. “Please, can I— I really want to fuck you.”
“I can’t. Not here.”
“You were just blowing me — what?”
“Yeah, but.” She looks away. There’s still wetness arcing from his mouth out to her cheek. He wants to lick it, add to it. “Sex is different.”
Of course it fucking is. Before, he thought he just needed a well-lubed jerkoff. Now, he doesn’t think he can survive without her squirming on his cock. “What’s the problem?”
“I don’t want to lose my job.”
“You were literally sucking my dick a second ago.”
“There's more movement,” she says, voice strident instead of sexily hoarse. “And MEgan could see it, and that’s embarrassing.”
“Okay, so. Want to come to my hotel room?”
“I don't know you. You could kill me.”
“Jesus. No,” he barks. “But okay, your place.”
“No. My landlord lives on the property.”
Well, that’s weird. “So how do you normally do this?”
Her face colors. Why is that that embarrassing? “None of your fucking business.”
Somehow, incredibly he’s still hard. Despite her frown, despite the heat of the car, despite the sounds of what sounds to be a fight in front of the liquor store. “So what now?”
She’s frowning, but now at his dick. Like she can’t help herself. He reaches down, wraps a hand around my dick, logic combing back to him.
“Let’s just finish.” she says, bending back toward him. “Whatever. Let’s do it.”
Even though she’s agreeing, it feels like Ben is losing somehow. And because he’s an asshole, he wants to deny her. Because how dare she make him feel so good, give him the best blowjob, dangle sex, the possibility of seeing her ass and then just turn around — again. Doesn’t she realize who she is in relation to him?
“Actually, I don’t know.” He tugs himself one, slowly. Her eyes follow the movement. “I don’t know if I’m into this anymore.”
“What?” The word is so loud, her mouth so close some spit lands on his dick. He rubs it in with his thumb.
“It’s kind of messy.” He shrugs.
“Yeah.” She nods like he’s an idiot. She should be freaking out about losing a client right now. “Isn’t that what you’re into?”
She noticed? “I just mean, I’m going to come a lot.”
She nods impatiently. “Okay?”
“And I kind of want to come on your tits.” All over that stupid fucking tattoo.
Her blush deepens. But she’s still pissed.
It’s hard to act blase with his dick throbbing under her gaze, but he needs to make a point. He wants to see her fucking beg for it. “But this is a rental. That my work pays for. If there’s jizz on the fabric, it’s a cleaning fee.”
“What the fuck? You were the one who suggested this —”
“Actually it was you, and you demanded the car —”
“And, what? You could clean the jizz.”
Well, no. He’d rather eat the fee. “Whatever. The point is—”
She keeps fucking interrupting him. No one interrupts him. “So you’re just — not going to come.”
“No.” He nods. He should put his dick away. He will. In a second.
After a second, and one last look at his dick that’s almost longing — she’s really good at the fake enthusiasm part of sex work — she shrugs. “Um, okay. Well, see you.”
She sits up, pulling on her tank top from the floor. She doesn’t seem embarrassed, just pragmatic, but Ben wants to slap her hands away, to keep her tits in his view. He never even got to lick his come off of them, a thing he's literally never wanted to do in his life, but now it feels like she, personally, is responsible for his entire happiness. “Okay, whatever.”
“Jesus. I’m right here. You don’t need to yell.” She puts her sweatshirt on. “What?”
“Let’s just finish it. Suck my dick right here, or whatever.”
She regards him in a way he doesn't like. Wasn’t she just drooling over his dick? Should he offer to pay double? Yeah, maybe —
“Give me your ID.”
For some reason, he hands over his entire wallet. She rifles through it, ignoring the cash, and fishes out his ID. After taking a picture with it — her phone has multiple cracks — she tosses it back to him, then opens the door and hops out of the car.
The sudden influx of warm air makes him realize his dick is still out. He sits up, tucking himself back into his briefs, wondering what the fuck is going on. He can hear the gravel crunch of Rey behind the car, the shutter noise of her phone (who leaves the shutter noise on?) and her walking back around. She opens the front seat passenger door and looks back at him. “Let’s go to your hotel room. But can we go to Target first?”
He drives her to Target, not entirely sure what’s going on. “The bus doesn’t really come here,” she explains when they pull in. “I mean, it does, but it drops you off at the Five Below, and it’s kind of a pain to walk.”
“Right,” he says, confused, following her inside.
She picks a prescription from the pharmacy inside. He wanders around the tampon and allergy section while she pays, overhears her confirming that her insurance was applied, that they’re sure it’s $73? She gets distracted by the notebooks, and buys one from the dollar section. They detour to the pet section. (“Is that for the cat?” he asks, remembering, as she bends to get some of the Target brand kibble. “Yep,” she says, grinning up at him from the floor, like this is a normal situation. “Isn’t he so sweet?”) They wait in a long line for a cashier (“They got rid of the self-checkout because there was a lot of shoplifting,” she informs him, while they wait behind a bickering father and a college aged daughter that Ben hopes they don’t resemble.)
“How old are you?” he asks suddenly when they get back into the car.
“21,” she says, peering at the prescription receipt. He thinks about it as he drives back to the hotel. God, he was going to do his usual pre-presentation routine tonight. Some high-protein salad from the healthy section of whatever bumfuck fake-fancy chain, an hour in the gym to calm his mind, get him in the right headspace. Practicing what he’s going to say in the mirror, the calm detachment in the face of any angry comments, psyching himself up until he almost looks forward to it.
Instead, he’s going to pay to fuck this girl 17 years younger than him. He feels kind of bad about it now, but in a way that’s kept his dick half-hard as they wandered through the Target airconditioning, remembering that he knows what her nipples look like.
Tomorrow, he’ll probably feel actually bad about it, and it’ll get added to his list of proof-I’m-an-asshole that he circles through when he’s alone, between his relationship with his parents and the one crying worker at the last layoffs he did. But right now, he’s in the creaky elevator, silently traveling up with Rey, her basketball shorts on, her plastic Target bag dangling from her hands.
“So I texted Megan all your info,” she says briskly inside his room, after she’s dumped all her stuff into a pile on the ground. “So don’t be a fucking weirdo, okay?”
He nods. Maybe he could get her to put her stuff on the desk? That would be less depressing. But then she’s taking off her sweatshirt, then her shirt, then her shorts, then her turquoise underwear, and then climbing onto the bed.
“Right to it?”
She sits back on her ankles, almost polite as he takes his clothes off. He looks at her pussy, hidden behind a thatch of curly hair. “Yeah. That’s what I’m here for, right?”
He walks over, cock thickening against his thigh. “Gonna get me ready? We don’t have lube, remember.”
She rolls her eyes but obediently takes him into her mouth. It’s nicer like this, him standing, not cramped in the car. A better view of her face, closed in concentration, the way she looks like she wants to get all of him in her mouth, her tits close enough to grope.
Which he takes full advantage of, reaching a hand down. It seems to startle her, making her mmph pleasantly around his cock, so he does it again, and she pauses, panting, her cock hovering in her open mouth, looking a bit shocked. Which is strange, and he’s curious about her reaction. But he’s also curious about feeling her pussy around him, so he grabs the back of her head and gently hauls her back to his cock.
It’s embarrassing, how quick he gets there. Or, how quick she gets him there. He grunts, but she ignores him, so he needs to take a handful of her hair to yank her away to get her attention. She blinks up at him, mouth wet and twisting in irritation.
Fuck, he needs to come. He kneels over her on the bed, kissing her tits, then licking them. Her stupid tattoo, he bites, and she curls under him, her hips pressing up against him, desperate. He slides a hand between them, switching to her other tit as he checks to see if she’s wet. Just that small brush over her folds has her jerking again and he frowns against her chest. Is she reacting because she thinks he needs the validation? He parts her, one finger pressing gently, finding more wetness than he thought.
He sucks her nipple, then takes it between his teeth, pulling gently. She jerks again. Okay, maybe her outsize reactions are doing it for him, a little. He likes knowing he can make her body react, like feeling this young scrappy girl shudder underneath him.
“Yeah, you like that?” he says, lifting up. He pulls his hand from between her legs and shows it to her, grinning at her red cheeks. Fuck, he hasn’t even done anyting.
“Just fuck me or whatever.”
“Don’t be embarrassed," he coos at her, taking his cock and lining it up with her entrance. He pushes in slowly, wondering idly if he should teach her a lesson by making her come first — a lesson about what, he’s not quite sure, but it feels important — and then he bottoms out and everything falls out of his brain.
Because, jesus. Her cunt is hot and wet, all the obvious things, but there’s something about it, and he wants to know it, know what exactly it is about her, so he can replicate it, again and again. Because this feels like nothing else. And it’s not just that his main form of sexual experience has been fucking his well-lubed hand lately, but there’s something, something about her, and he wants to fuck her until she confesses what it is.
Exhale, he reminds himself. It comes out like a groan, and she looks up at him, a little confused. By his response or — no, that pink-cheek daze, her squirming around his cock. It’s the feeling of being fucked better than you anticipated, which Ben knows because he’s feeling it right now.
He should revel in it. Store up the feeling, the smugness for tomorrow, let it drive him. Instead, he pulls out — she makes a protesting sound — and then pushes back in.
He’s not going to last, he realizes suddenly. She pushes back against every thrust, and she's eager, all of her freckled and flushed red, her cunt warm and tight around him, seemingly wanting this as much as he does.
“Turn around,” he pants, withdrawing, ignoring her yowl of protest. Sulkily, she rolls over. Fuck, the round swell of her ass. “No, your — Ass. Higher.”
She obeys, looking over her shoulder at him. “You’re going to come already?”
God damn it. He shoves into her, quick enough to make her squawk, the smug smile from her face melting into dazed pleasure. He wants to fuck her hard enough to see her ass bounce, so he does, zoning out on the movement of her tan, plump ass jiggling wildly. He’s too proud of how fast he’s fucking him, proud of how in shape he keeps himself, how he can keep up with her, how he might be old he can still be a surprise.
She’s making these noises, louder than before, and looks down, to see her trying to grind her pussy against the comforter. Part of him wants to see her struggle, her stubborn effort, but more than that, he wants to feel her come around his cock.
He hunches, moving one hand on her clit, circling. Again, she seems surprised, jerking back and fucking herself against him, startled in an ego stroking way that he’ll tip her for. Her motions are inexpert and hungry, and he continues playing with her, wanting more of the feeling of her humping his hand arrhythmically, her low groan.
She comes gratifyingly quickly, both of her hands clutching the hand of his between her legs, yelping, almost kicking him. The feeling of her clenching almost sends him over the edge, but the awkwardness of the position, his need to mercilessly fuck her through the aftershocks, saves him.
She collapses, limp against the comforter, shoving her ass back at him. An obvious invitation: as hard as he needs. He takes it, aware from the first brutal thrust (god, her tired yelping groan) that he’s not going to last. Not like this. Not with everything this hot and wet, everything slippery. He grabs a handful of her tits because he can, wants to make her suck on his fingers, wants to touch her, every hole she’ll allow. He wants to make her wet, feel it on him. He wants to slick her up with lube and fuck her ass to see if it makes her pussy wet, feel her drip onto his dick.
She blinks and turns her head toward him, maybe to tell him to stop biting her neck like a dog. He wants to kiss her mouth when it opens, her voice bleary, her face flushed pink from the orgasm, the one he gave her. If she falls asleep that’s fine he just needs to know —
“Want to come inside me?”
Jesus fucking Christ. His cock throbs at that so much it almost hurts, and he snaps back: “That’s a terrible idea.”
“Yeah, no shit,” she mumbles back at him, pushing her ass back at him. She clenches around him in retribution and he swears over the sloppy noise of him fucking her.
“Oh, god.” Fuck his wisdom, fuck his pride. It’s the stupidest thing in the world to fuck this much-younger girl without protection for any of the obvious reasons — she probably sees him as her ticket out of this bumfuck town — but right now, all of Ben’s gifted-classes-private-school-age-and-wisdom are gone, replaced by the sole need of coming. More specifically: inside this irritating, too-young, perfect-pussy, perfect-assed girl underneath him, squeezing her cunt around him, making little noises like his unraveling might just make her come again.
“Fuck. Fuck,” he babbles. “Yeah. Target had Plan B. You going to let me come in you?” He slams into her, jostling her, rubbing her clit without finesse. If he’s paying he should get what he wants from it? “Let me come. Please,” he slurs, biting her ear.
“Yeah, Ben, come on,” she says, impatient, shoving back against him. And the feel of his halls slapping against her, the sight of his cock disappearing between the globes of her perfect ass, the feel of his balls jammed up against it. Her plump ass bounces as he thrusts, and he can’t get over the desperate noises she’s making now, like she’s needy for his come, and with a final thrust, he comes, flooding her cunt. It’s so much that he startles with the aftershocks.
Not her, though. She just wiggles back happily, making him twitch and then collapse on top of her.
He can barely process anything after the blinding orgasm. But eventually he realizes that the movement he’s feeling is Rey, underneath him, rubbing her clit frantically.
“Yeah, you like the feeling of my come?” he asks tiredly, mouthing the back of her neck again. “You like being all filled up?”
Jesus what is he saying?
“Don’t say that.” She sounds angry, but he’s pretty sure her hand is moving faster. “You’re the pervert who can’t come without lube.”
This was the problem of masturbation versus sex. The fantasy talking back. Ben moves his hand to paw her tit then pinch the nipple. “You like feeling it drip down? You like knowing I never, ever do that?” Maybe he shouldn't have said that — he doesn’t need to give her any ammo. To distract them both, he slaps her ass once. “You like it dripping down your thighs? I almost pulled out and came on your ass, would you have liked that?”
She does, apparently, and comes in a whiny huff. But now it’s later, both of their breathing back to normal, awareness seeping in. Ben rolls off her, then reaches for his wallet. In the mirror, he catches a glimpse of himself, the embarrassingly mottled red flush too-apparant against his pale skin. Even from this far, he can see the gray strands in his hair.
He leans to hand her the money, suddenly tired and awkward. “Here you go.”
She looks at the $200. “What the fuck?”
He looks at her, uncomprehending. Was it not enough?
She shoves him in the chest, hard. “Do you think I’m a — what the fuck!”
Her second shove hurts. He scrambles up to a sitting position, putting some distance between them. He wishes he wasn’t naked. “No, what? You said — you offered to help out!”
“I was being — flirty or whatever!”
“And then, I said — very obviously —”
“I thought you meant like, making me come!”
His mind races. “You said — your coworker or whatever gave you advice?”
She’s standing now, still naked, her hands on her hips as she yells at him. “She meant for fucking sketchy older guys. Not like, sex work.”
“Then — why’d you go with me if I wasn't paying you?”
"I don't know." She looks away. "Maybe I wanted to try — maybe I wanted to fuck someone I hadn't known since kindergarten."
"No, come on. Tell me." This new information, her wanting him? He he needs to know. In as granular detail as possible. "What made you want to fuck me?"
"God, you're so —" She turns back to him, that annoyed line between her eyes visible again. She waves a dismissive hand at his body. "Occam's fucking razor."
The hot twenty-something, this — no, pissed, suspicious Rey thinks he's hot. It might just be enough to get his dick hard again. (In a reasonable amount of time, of course.) "Occam's razor, yeah." He grins at her. "Dd you learn that in your Philosophy 1A class?"
"I mean, yes? Why are you so fucking rude?"
She frowns at him again. Ben’s mind circles through everything: her perfect mouth. How startled she’d been at his baseline level efforts to give her some pleasure. Her perfect pussy. How there’s nothing here for either of them in this shit town. “Come with me to Monroeville on Tuesday."
She rears back. “You’re insane. Did you bring me here to murder me after all?”
He shrugs. “I mean, no. Obviously. Just — you’re young. Live a little.”
She sniffs at him. “I have work. And homework. What do you even do?”
His stomach lurches guilty for a half second, then flits to the visual of her frowning over an Econ test, squirming on his dick while he tutored her about game theory. “You can do it online, right? I’m in — automation.”
“So you fire people? Is that what that paperwork about the factory is for? That’s so evil! And then you’re going to Monroeville to do it there, too? —”
“Or visit me,” he says, talking over her. “Come on, this place is so fucking depressing. Also. It rains there.”
“Oh, whatever. I also have other stuff I need to do here. And this place sucks, but you’re not allowed to shit talk it.”
Frustrated, he sits up, prepared to keep making his case. But he sees her eyes dart, almost involuntarily, to his dick again. Which is soft, because he’s almost 40 and needs a little god damn time, but now he’s noticing how his come is slowly dripping out of her pussy as she stands there lecturing him. He leans forward, putting his hands around her hips and hauls her toward him.
“Hey! What are you doing!”
He takes a second to answer, squeezing and plumping her ass in his hand. “Just — be quiet. Please.”
“You can fucking shut up —” she starts, but then he’s pulling her on top of him, onto his face. Like he guessed, she goes buckwild, screaming and bucking against his face — surprised and careful and then completely uncareful, grinding herself against his mouth, his noise — and he licks up the mess of her come and his. Much more neatly than she did, for the record.
Afterward, she springs off him, looking like she wants to kiss him but nervous and then her gaze flits to his dick, which is valiantly trying to get hard again.
“Come on,” she growls, slapping it gently.
“Now don’t do that,” he says with a groan, taking himself in hand. But she slaps his hand away to, bending over and — jesus christ, did she fucking spit on his dick? — and jerking him a bit too recklessly for a man of his age and general stature.
He ends up taking over, kneeling over her and — at her encouragement — jerking himself off. When she raises herself up to lap at his balls, he grunts, loud and unflattering and very almost-40, and shoves her back down, coming all over her cute tits and awful tattoo.
“Arent you too old such a for big fucking load?” she says it in a way that emphasizes the crassness, like she knows it’ll piss him off. She grins at him, swiping at the come with a finger and sucking it into her mouth while he wheezes, hands on his thighs.
“Come to dinner with me, then,” he says, still panting a little. “In Monroeville.”
She regards him. “It’s a lot of gas money.”
He leans over, grabbing the cash from his wallet again. He sticks two $100 bills on Rey’s come-covered chest. “How’s that?”
“Fuck you,” she tells him mildly as he stands, looking for a tissue. Then her expression changes.
“Jesus, dude — watch out!”
“Dude?” He looks down. Some of his come has dripped onto the carpet. “Whoops.”
She makes a frustrated noise then sits up.
“You love my come,” he says, swiping some more up with his thumb and offering it to her. She frowns and he shoves it gently into her mouth, which she allows, still frowning and marking a garbled noise.
“Huh?” He can still do his routine. He can still get into his detached asshole mindset, just from a different path.
“We need to clean it up.”
He looks at the not insignificant sized come stain on the carpet. “Really?”
She’s already crossing the room to the bathroom, returning with a wet towel. “Yeah. I know the girl Katie who does the cleaning here.”
He kneels next to her, feeling awkward and too large for the movement. “Is she like…your friend?”
“No. She’s a fucking cunt.” Rey bends and spits on the stain, scrubbing furiously. “But I’m still not that kind of asshole.”
Who are you, Ben wonders, looking at her. He thinks about driving away, how much of an asshole he’s been to her. He thinks about how Rey would tell the story to her coworker at the sex shop later, him being an older rich guy asshole, unthinking of her feelings, possibly — fuck — traumatized by his inherent, valuable-to-the-corporate-world asshole-ness.
“Hey,” Rey says sharply, continuing to scrub. She doesn’t look traumatized. Just mildly annoyed. “Can you like, help? It’s your come.”
So he hauls himself up and while he should be doing his whole routine. “What’s the nicest restaurant here?” he asks while he scrubs, wondering if they should shower together before he starts the rest of his routine.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, okay. One you’ve wanted to go to?”
She considers. “I haven’t really thought about it,” she says, scrubbing harder. “But I guess Cheesecake Factory? I heard they have this crazy big menu.”
Ben’s heart sinks, a little. Really? An Olive Garden he could stomach, but Cheesecake Factory? He needs to start worrying about his heart health, probably. But he continues scrubbing, trying not to spook her. “Is it nearby?”
She scrubs faster than she needs to. “There’s one. In…Monroeville.”
“Perfect.” He reaches over, takes her rag. “That’s good enough. See, I have all this cash now, that I thought I had to spend fucking you. But it’s probably more than enough for a nice dinner at Cheesecake Factory next week.”
Rey pinkens, then looks over at the bed, where she’d thrown the cum-covered bills. “You’d better clean those before you give them to anyone.”
He sets the rags on the ground, and cups her chin, turning it so she’s forced to look at him. “So that’s a yes?”
The next day, Ben fires 70% of the factory staff. He doesn’t feel as fine with it as he normally does, probably because he didn’t do his routine.
Cheesecake Factory Friday night? he texts Rey as he drives out of town the next morning, the sun already high and scorching.
Stop texting me you soulless capitalistic demon i’m busyworking rn Rey responds, along with several angry emojis, that arrive right as he gets to the highway entrance.
He grins as he gets on the highway, leaving Jakku. Maybe, unfortunately, Ben Solo does exist in Jakku. Because that town — that depressing, shitty, sepia-dry town — has Rey in it.