Sweet on Sydney
With Sydney Sweeney
Written by TheLW
Codes: MF, Rimjob, Rough Sex, Titty Play
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only
(https://thumbs2.imgbox.com/b2/16/uztFNWUA_t.jpg) (https://imgbox.com/uztFNWUA)
The idea had taken shape in the recycled air of a Tuesday morning strategy meeting, one of those long corporate gatherings where the clock seemed to tick slower out of spite. I sat midway down the polished glass conference table at Inspire Brands headquarters, my notebook open, my pen untouched, enduring a series of slides on growth forecasts and franchise engagement metrics. The Baskin-Robbins rebrand initiative, however, briefly stirred the room awake. Someone proposed a celebrity partnership. Another brainstormed “fresh, youthful energy.” Recognition mattered, they insisted. Star power sold.
Names began to ricochet across the room like bright-colored gumballs spilling out of a machine. Jessica Alba. Margot Robbie. A rising pop singer whose name half the team mispronounced. I hadn’t intended to speak, I rarely did in these high-volume ideation sessions. Yet, as the others volleyed their suggestions, a single name floated into my mind, unexpected but oddly fitting. I had barely registered lifting my head before the words slipped out.
“What about Sydney Sweeney?”
For a moment, the room paused. Not in resistance, but in recalibration. Sydney Sweeney was current. She was sharp, versatile, magnetically visible. She had the sort of screen presence that made people pay attention, even when all she was doing was eating ice cream on a bench.
The head of marketing tapped her pen against her notebook, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Sydney Sweeney... actually... that could work.”
Markers squeaked against the whiteboard. Someone drew circling arrows of enthusiasm. The idea that I had tossed out like a pebble suddenly swelled into the centerpiece of the room. I wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but by the end of that meeting, I found myself listed as the internal point of contact responsible for starting conversations with Sydney’s representation.
I walked out clutching my notebook a little too tightly, wondering if I should feel proud or foolish.
The next two weeks dissolved into a blur of emails, calls, and awkwardly formal negotiation scripts. I corresponded with Sydney’s agent first, an impeccably efficient person who answered messages with the precision of a metronome. We discussed availability windows, compensation ranges, exclusivity clauses, and ad concepts. I learned the going rate for a Hollywood star of Sydney’s caliber, a number that made me swallow hard before assuring the executive team that, yes, this was still within reason.
Then came the email I reread twice to make sure I hadn’t imagined it.
It was from Sydney herself.
She wanted to go over the creative direction directly, she said. She liked understanding a project from the people actually building it, not just the handlers shielding it. She was finishing another shoot but planned to be in Los Angeles the following week. She suggested meeting in person to iron out the final details before anything greenlit officially.
I stared at the message long enough that my computer screen dimmed.
The day before filming, I adjusted my navy-blue suit as I stepped into the quiet Baskin-Robbins at 3516 Sunset Boulevard. The scent of freshly cleaned floors and the faint sweetness of waffle cones filled the air. It was early, an hour or two before opening, so the shop was empty, a private little world of pastel tiles and glass display cases. Perfect for a last-minute run-through.
I heard the soft click of the door behind him and looked up. Sydney Sweeney leaned against the counter, her casual white blouse tucked into high-waisted blue jeans, hair loose around her shoulders. She gave him a slow, teasing smile.
“Max Jacobs,” she said, her voice lilting with amusement. “You brought the suit. Trying to impress me, or just the ice cream?”
“Maybe both,” I said, offering a small, nervous grin. “I like to look professional… and apparently, I like to make a good impression on you.” I realized halfway through that it sounded clumsy, but her laugh made it worth it.
“Professional... and awkward,” she said, stepping closer so her hand lightly brushed his as she reached for a display sample. “That’s dangerously cute, you know.”
I swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the distance between us shrinking. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said, my voice a little rougher than intended. “So, last rundown before tomorrow, right here, in your domain.” I gestured around the empty shop.
“Domain?” she teased, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “I like the sound of that. Makes me feel... powerful.” She leaned a fraction closer.
I pulled out my notes, trying to stay on track. “Right. The commercial opens with the storefront shot, then moves inside, focusing on the new flavors at the counter. We want it to be fun, inviting...”
“Mmm, fun and inviting,” Sydney murmured, leaning slightly over the counter, making me glance down at her lips for a fraction too long. “Kind of like someone I’m getting to know...”
I blinked. “Uh... yeah. Totally. Fun and inviting. That’s the goal.” My flustered tone made her laugh again, and it was a sound that wrapped around me like warm syrup over ice cream.
She stepped closer still, tilting her head. “You know, I think you’re adorable when you’re trying to act all serious. That tie, that suit... but you get all awkward the second I flirt back.”
I laughed nervously, scratching my neck. “Maybe I like awkwardness,” I said, trying to recover some dignity. “Maybe it’s... part of my charm?”
“Hmm,” she said, leaning on the counter so we were almost shoulder to shoulder. “I might have to test that theory tomorrow on set.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and I felt the heat rise into my cheeks.
We spent the next hour running through the commercial, Sydney tossing flirtatious comments between takes of dialogue and blocking, and me trying not to lose focus while feeling completely captivated. By the time they wrapped, the pastel shop was bathed in the golden morning light, and the intimacy of the empty store left me thinking this project would be unforgettable, for more reasons than just ice cream.
I was mid-sentence, pointing to a note about camera angles, when Sydney suddenly leaned in. Before I could fully process what was happening, her lips met mine in a brief, teasing kiss. My hand briefly froze in the air, the pen still poised over my notes, heart hammering in my chest.
Then she pulled back just slightly, just enough to let me catch my breath, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’ve been wanting to do that since the first time we met,” she said, her voice low and velvety, almost a purr. “Ever since that first coffee shop meeting a couple of weeks ago.”
I blinked, a rush of warmth spreading through me. “You... you have?” I stammered, trying to collect myself while feeling entirely uncollected.
“Mm-hmm,” she said, leaning casually against the counter again, giving me that sly, playful smile that made it impossible to look away. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since. Figured... why not now?”
I ran a hand through my hair, nervously tugging at my tie. “Well... okay. Now seems like a... very good time,” I managed, my voice breaking just a fraction, but she only laughed, a sound that wrapped around me and made the world feel smaller.
We stood there for a moment, the shop around us making it feel like the world had shrunk down to just the two of us, pastel tiles and all. I knew that tomorrow’s commercial would be memorable, but right now, this moment, unexpected, bold, and entirely Sydney, was unforgettable in its own way.
Sydney leaned casually against the counter, her eyes glinting with mischief. “You know,” she said, her voice low and teasing, “we’re here all alone, we’ve got these sprinkles and strawberry syrup... and I’ve got a lot of naughty thoughts running through my head.”
I felt a shiver run down my spine, a mix of excitement and nerves. “Oh yeah? Like what?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, though the playful glint in her eyes made me doubt every word.
Before I could even think to brace myself, Sydney reached up, grabbed the lapel of my suit jacket, and pulled me in close. Her lips met mine again, this kiss deeper, more insistent, and completely catching me off guard. My hands froze at my sides, my heart hammering, caught somewhere between surprise and exhilaration.
Sydney still had her fingers curled in my collar, her breath warm against my mouth as the kiss deepened. The empty Baskin-Robbins around us felt like it was holding its breath. My free hand lifted almost on instinct, my palm brushing the soft fabric of her blouse near her collarbone, feeling her lean into the touch.
She made a quiet, pleased sound, and their kiss grew hungrier, less cautious. Sydney’s tongue grazed mine, playful at first, then bolder, as if she were testing how far she could push me before I completely unraveled.
I wasn’t sure that I was still breathing. All I knew was the warmth of her, the taste of mint from the tea she’d been sipping earlier, the way her fingers curled tighter against my jacket like she didn’t want me going anywhere.
Her lips broke from mine just long enough for her to look at me. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes bright and unguarded.
“You’re trouble,” she murmured, sliding her thumb along my jaw. “I didn’t think you’d kiss me back like that.”
I let out a shaky breath, trying, and failing, to keep my voice even. “You started it.”
“Mm,” she said, brushing her lips against mine again, barely a whisper of a touch. “And you’re not complaining.”
A few moments later, Sydney’s fingers were already at the buttons of her blouse, flicking them open one by one. The fabric fell away, shoulders first, then the sweet, sloping line of her chest, bra barely containing her tits. I hadn’t meant for it to go this far, at least, not here, not with the cartoonish blue-and-pink decor glowing around us and the fluorescent overheads like stadium lights.
She shrugged out of the blouse and let it pool on the countertop. “That tie is still a crime,” she murmured, catching it in her fist and using it to yank me forward, bodies colliding hard enough that I exhaled into the hollow of her throat. She smelled like vanilla.
Sydney let go of my tie and reached behind herself, arching so her hair spilled like a banner over her exposed shoulders. Her bra, a simple, shell-pink confection with a bow between the cups, seemed more ornamental than functional. I wanted it gone but didn’t trust my hands not to tremble. Instead, I found myself reaching past her, to the stainless-steel prep shelf behind the counter. I closed my hand around a squeeze bottle as if I'd always intended it.
Sydney’s eyebrows went up, her mouth forming a half-smile, equal parts challenge and dare. I twisted open the bottle, sticky strawberry syrup forming a red bead at the nozzle. She watched the arc of movement, her look hungry, not even blinking, as I moved the bottle over her chest.
“Max,” she said, voice low with warning and anticipation, “you’re about to make a mess.”
The compliment in that statement nearly undid me. I squeezed. A crimson ribbon fell and then she dipped her chin, peering at the bottle in my hand. “What’s that for, exactly? You're going to top me like a sundae?”
That wrecked me. The line, the look, the way she angled her body so the perfume of her skin gathered between us, sweet with a tang of audacity.
I could barely hear myself say, “Thought you liked things... fun,” and even though it felt too forward, not at all like me.
She shivered, shoulders rolling back, the movement nearly spilling her out of the bra. Without thinking, I leaned in and ran my tongue along the line of strawberry syrup, tasting salt and sugar and something richer.
“You made a mess,” Sydney whispered, eyes shining. She shrugged off the bra, freeing her tits so they bounced, sticky and flushed, and she didn’t give me a second to gawk, she closed both hands on the sides of my face and shoved my face downwards, like she’d been planning this all day. Soft skin, warm and slick, sweet with sugar.
I tried to keep some semblance of poise but tasted her, couldn’t help himself, couldn’t think through the sensation of her nipple tight against my tongue and the syrup sticky in the hollow between her breasts. I let out a gasp, she clamped her thighs around my hips and arched so hard that the edge of the counter pressed stark lines into her ass.
My hands were everywhere, but I couldn’t get enough of her taste, the way the syrup clung and dripped in a tacky line down her cleavage. Her skin was warm beneath the chill of the Baskin-Robbins AC, her nipple practically begging my mouth to bite. I did, just enough for her to gasp, nails digging into me.
I laved at her with long strokes, tongue sweeping beneath her breasts to catch every stripe of red. I heard her moan, felt her thighs clamp tighter. She ground against my hips, knocking aside the pen in my jacket pocket. The sudden movement jostled the prep shelf behind her, rattling a jar of rainbow sprinkles until it rolled to the edge and toppled onto the counter by her elbow.
My hand shot out, old instincts, office reflexes, and snagged the pink-capped bottle before it could clatter to the floor. I looked up. Saw her flushed, wild, impossibly beautiful. And because her tits were still sticky, and because she’d said “fun,” I gripped the bottle and twisted it open.
Sydney grinned, wicked and unguarded. “You wouldn’t.
I did. I pressed the bottle to her chest and let the rainbow sprinkles rush out in a thick, colorful blanket, sticking to the syrup and her skin alike. She made a small surprised noise, almost a giggle, then immediately reached up, scooping a mound of sprinkles in her palm and smearing them over my cheek and jaw.
I felt the sugar grit and the press of her hand and then her mouth was on my face, licking a bold line from my jaw to my lip. I lost the thread of everything except the lust inside me and the impossible fact that I was here, in a Baskin-Robbins, with Sydney Sweeney, eating syrup off her skin. It didn’t feel real.
It was like she’d awoken something reckless inside me. I reached for her, seized her hips, spun her around so her palms thudded onto the counter and the hem of her jeans jacketed up. I didn’t remember deciding this, just the sensation, my body, her body, the radiating heat, the fact that no one else would come in for hours. Sydney arched her back and looked over her shoulder.
I ran my hands over the curve of her ass, thumbs hooking into the waistband of her jeans, gliding them down until gravity took over and dragged them to her knees. No pretense of carefulness, just the quick, hungry exposure of her. The backs of her thighs pressing into cold stainless steel, the cotton of her panties between my teeth as I yanked them aside. Sydney gripped the edge of the countertop, knuckles whitening, her breath a punctured series of gasps.
Her skin was soft, goose fleshed from shop AC, and I bit at the lower curve of her ass, marking her, the sweet and sweat and strawberry syrup stinging my lips. She pushed her hips back into me, the motion blunt and needy, prompting me on. I smacked her ass, once, hard enough to echo, and felt a jolt run up my own arm from the force of it.
“Jesus,” Sydney breathed, her voice ragged as a ripped seam, “do that again.”
I obeyed, a sharper smack this time, my hand leaving hot welts on the curve of her. She shuddered and pressed herself harder into the counter, thighs all muscle and tension and syrup-slicked skin. I could hardly parse where my hunger ended and hers began.
Her panties were wedged to one side, Sydney’s cunt was already wet, glistening, slick as the melted fudge behind the glass. I ran a finger through her folds, slow at first, testing, then faster as her hips jerked into my touch like a caught breath.
I freed myself from the suit pants, belt yanked loose, zipper stuck halfway until I gave up and shoved my hand down, cock springing hard. Nothing had ever made me this desperate, not caffeine, not deadlines, not even campus one-night stands in my twenties.
I pressed my mouth to the small of her back, grazing her with my teeth and tongue. I knelt, letting her push her hips up, her ass flush and round, like a child’s forbidden bakery fantasy. Every part of my rational brain told me this was insane, that anyone could walk in, that I’d lose his job, maybe my entire future, but I was past the point of caring. The only future I could picture was this, my mouth open, her taste on my tongue, her gasping, unfiltered.
I spread her with both hands, thumbs working her ass apart in a way I’d never even fantasized about before, and tongued a thick, slow stripe from her cunt up to her rim. The taste of her, made my head swim. She bucked against me, making a noise that was almost a sob, and I felt her fingers clawing for purchase on the laminate countertop, leaving streaks in the fogged glass of the display.
I flicked my tongue around her, gentle at first, then firmer, not shy about the mess. I parted her more, pushed my mouth against her ass, wet and messy. I heard, above me, the breathless sound of a giggle turned into a moan as I pressed my tongue harder, flattening it, teasing her rim in slick, methodical circles.
Sydney made a sound, low and vibrating, that vibrated right through my own spine. I kept going. I used both thumbs to spread her wider, exposing her completely, her skin flushed pink, the bouquet of warm vanilla and body and the lingering scent of fake strawberry. I sucked, gentle and wet, first just the edge, then going deeper with the tip of my tongue, fucking her with it, getting bolder with every shiver that passed through her. She rocked back, meeting me, with every motion a wordless instruction.
I lost count of how many times I licked her, how many seconds she hovered on the edge of it before pushing herself back, impatient for more. A whole world narrowed down to the rippling tension beneath my hands and the desperate, shameless noises she couldn't stifle. She’d gone quiet, save for the sharp little breaths and the occasional, hoarse fuck that shot from her mouth whenever I went a little harder, a little deeper.
I felt nearly drunk, high on her, on the feeling of her straining under my tongue, the way she lost composure and let go. I pulled away, mouth wet and chin sticky with everything she’d offered. I wanted her so badly I wasn’t sure if I could walk it back, if we could ever go back to “professional” after this. I hoped not.
Sydney glanced over her shoulder, still panting, her hair wild and clinging to her cheek with sweat and syrup. “Holy shit, Max,” she whispered, voice breaking on my name. Her body shivered, and the sight of her naked, flush against the counter, made me somehow harder.
I rose, letting my hands linger on her hips, then her waist. She pushed herself upright, just enough to reach back, and found my cock, hard and leaking against her thigh. She stroked me once, twice with a grip so confident and casual I nearly came from the surprise alone. I steadied myself on the cool edge of the counter, breath shuddering as her hand pumped at me, hard and fast, no patience for ceremony or preamble. The brush of her knuckles was sugar-grit and sudden heat, the friction maddening. I bucked gently into her fist, unable to stop my hips from chasing each pull.
She didn’t even look back, not yet, just kept me in her grip as she bent at the waist, resting her elbows on the sticky countertop. Her ass arched up toward the cold fluorescent light, the faint pink handprint of my earlier slap already blooming on her skin. I’d never seen something so obscene and so perfect at the same time.
Sydney wiggled her hips, impatient, and I needed no more prompting. I lined myself up with a hand on her waist, the other guiding my cock to her entrance. She’d soaked herself, and I could already smell her, sharp and unmistakably aroused. I nudged the head of my cock against her, slick and hot sex hole, and Sydney pushed back with a small, greedy sound.
I slid in slowly, her cunt so wet it felt like I was being swallowed whole. The first push, tight, quivering, impossibly snug, made my knees want to buckle. I gripped her hips to steady myself, fingers digging just above the curve of her ass, trying to pace the need to just slam all the way in. She was writhing for more. God, I’d never seen anyone want it so badly.
Sydney looked back then, her hair in her eyes, mouth open with sweet, startled “oh” sounds as I fed myself into her, inch by inch. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, her face, her body, the way she arched back to meet me when I bottomed out, my hips pressed tight against the round of her ass.
“Fuck, Max...” and her voice strangled off as I started to move.
I set a rhythmic pace, slow at first, I wanted to make it last, to memorize the way she felt wrapped around me, the obscene squelch of every in and out, the sticky collision of skin where the syrup still clung. She was a messy, perfect, unrepentant disaster under my hands. She matched me, thighs flexing, ass slapping up to meet each thrust with increasing impatience. The sound of our bodies together, the staccato clap of skin and the wet squelch of her cunt, filled the pastel-colored air, echoing far louder than it should in the dead, morning-quiet shop.
I braced her with one hand on her lower back, pushing her down so her tits spread against the sticky countertop. Her cheek pressed into the cold laminate, smearing a bright streak of pink and red across it. The sight of her, helpless and all-in, made me a little meaner than I’d meant to be. I slammed into her with sharp, staccato bursts, loving the way her body jolted, the groan that broke out of her with each thrust.
I yanked her head up by her hair, a move so out of character I barely recognized myself, tilting her mouth back so I could suck at her neck, biting down hard enough to promise a bruise. Her gasps turned to desperate little whimpers, each one a confession, proof that she wanted this as much as I did.
“Fuck me,” she begged, an edge of disbelief in her voice, like she couldn’t believe how good it felt.
Sydney urged me faster, pushing her hips back so hard I had to brace a hand on her lower back to keep them steady. Her ass bounced with each thrust, those rainbow sprinkles half-melted across the upper curve, streaking color in sticky rivulets down her thighs. I wanted to lick her clean again, but I wanted to keep fucking her more.
She started to talk, interrupted by her own panting. “Harder. Don’t you dare stop.” I answered by burying myself to the hilt and grinding, drawing out a whimper that ricocheted around the empty store and holding. Sydney’s arms trembled on the countertop. She clamped down, her pussy squeezing me so hard I had to grit my teeth. I lost the thread of the script in my head, lost everything but the raw sensation of fucking her so deep it felt almost forbidden.
I let go of her hair and grabbed the back of her neck, holding her down for leverage. She sobbed out a “yes” and I slammed forward, hips pistoning, abdomen slapping her ass with slick, reckless abandon. Her whole body shook. The sound of me, the scent of us, sex and sugar and sweetness, was all I could register. I had the animalistic urge to claim her, to mark her, to pour every drop of the last couple of weeks’ anticipation into her.
Sydney started to scream out in pleasure, as I hit the place inside her that made her clamp even tighter. She writhed, tried to twist away, but I grabbed her hip, holding her still while I fucked her through it, all the way through the wild arch of her orgasm and into the shaking aftershocks. The noise alone undid me. I tried, uselessly, to hold back, but she felt so goddamn good, so desperate, I could only last a few more ragged seconds, then I was cumming, sharp and hot, flooding her inner walls and painting everything inside with my seed. I stayed buried, hips flexing as I throbbed through the aftershocks, my hands locked on her, gripping to stay anchored in the moment, her breathless laughter ringing in my ears.
I let out a low, broken groan, forehead pressed to the sticky line of her spine. I was still inside her, the press of my cock root-deep and twitching as the last pulses faded. Under my hand, her back rose and fell with shallow, high breaths, her skin tacky with syrup and sweat.
I couldn’t move, not at first. There was the urge to collapse, to give up all pretense and slide down her body to the floor, to just sit and let the world rotate back into focus. But Sydney arched her back and twisted her shoulders around, and when her eyes met mine they were sharp and distractingly alive.
She bit her bottom lip, then let out a snort of laughter, all bright and satisfied. “Oh my god,” she said, “I can’t believe you actually did the sprinkles.”
I slid out, slow, hissing at the hypersensitivity as her muscles clenched around me. The air felt colder now, and the sticky air nearly singed my bare skin, cooled only by a draft from the overhead vent. A streak of blue frosting slid down the counter, landing with an anticlimactic plop on the tile. I caught it, dizzy with post-orgasm clarity and the unmistakable rush of shame spiked with satisfaction.
The End