"The Arrangement" with Paris Berelc

[TheLW]

The Arrangement
With Paris Berelc
Written by TheLW
Codes: Blowjob, Handjob, Sex Toy
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.

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Nick’s phone buzzed sharply just as he was pacing around his dimly lit living room, the shadows flickering from the TV screen. His heart sped up when he saw Paris’s message: On my way, asshole.

A wicked grin spread across his face. He typed back quickly.

Nick: Already running late. You know what happens to late girls.

Paris: Fifteen minutes, you impatient bastard.

He sank into the couch, pulling out the slim black remote from his pocket, a sleek little device, simple buttons that hid everything it could do to her. His thumb hovered over it as he texted back.

Nick: Make it ten. And that plug better be driving you crazy right now.

Paris: Ugh, you’re such a perv. Feels like everyone can tell I’m wearing it.

A few seconds passed by.

Paris: Fifteen minutes, you impatient bastard.

Nick rolled the remote between his fingers, imagining her in the backseat of that Uber, squirming in her tight jeans, trying to sit normally while the plug teased her with every bump in the road. He smirked, typing…

Nick: Make it ten… and that plug better be in, snug and doing its job.

The reply came almost instantly.

Paris: Ugh. I hate this thing. It’s uncomfortable. Feels like everyone can tell.

He laughed under his breath. She was definitely wearing it. That frustration in her tone? That was real. But not because she wanted to stop, because she didn’t.

Nick: Maybe they can. You soaked yet?

Paris: I hate you. But maybe a little. Smiling way too much right now.

Nick grinned, feeling the heat rise in his chest. He glanced down at the remote, his thumb brushing the power button.

Nick: Good girl.

He didn’t press it. Not yet. Let her sweat.

Minutes passed. His phone buzzed again.

Paris: I’m pulling up now.

Nick’s grin turned downright devilish. He pressed the first button, low intensity. Just enough to give her a jolt the moment she stepped out of the car.

Two seconds later, another text.

Paris: You bastard.

He got up, and opened the door just as Paris walked up the front steps. Her cheeks were flushed, her arms crossed tightly under her chest. That glare on her face wasn’t fooling anyone.

“You buzzed me while I was mid-step,” she hissed, pushing past him.

Nick closed the door behind her. “Seemed like perfect timing.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t fall on my face.”

“Would’ve made the view better.”

Paris rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “You’re such a smug little...”

Nick clicked the remote again, level two.

Paris gasped, one hand flying to the wall for balance. Her legs buckled just slightly, the reaction instant and involuntary.

“Oh my god, you dick,” she hissed, biting her lip.

Nick stepped close, his voice low in her ear. “You can take it. You’re already dripping, aren’t you?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

“Show me,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed. “No.”

“Wrong answer.”

He raised the remote, not pointing it, just letting her see it again. Her lips parted, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she reached for her belt.

“No rush,” he added. “I’ve got all night.”

She glared at him, but her hands moved. Jeans undone. Slowly peeled down. No underwear, of course not. The slim, pink plug sat perfectly between her cheeks, right where he told her it should be.

Nick hummed approvingly. “Look at you… trying so hard to pretend you’re not into this.”

“I hate you,” Paris said softly. But her voice trembled just a little.

He stepped forward, running a hand lightly down her hip, fingers brushing the edge of the plug’s base. “Liar.”

Then... click.

A low hum surged through her. Her knees buckled again, this time harder. Paris caught herself on his chest, breathing in sharply.

“You absolute piece of shit...”

“Careful,” he said, mockingly. “Level three’s next.”

Paris steadied herself, back against the wall, breathing a little harder now. Her eyes locked on Nick’s, defiant but unmistakably flustered.

“You really like messing with me, huh?” she muttered, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

Nick didn’t answer right away. He just held her gaze, that remote still casually in hand.

“I like seeing how much you can take,” he said simply. “You act tough, but your body always tells the truth.”

Paris let out a soft scoff and pushed off the wall, walking past him further into the apartment. “You don’t know everything.”

“I know enough.” He followed her, his voice calm, almost amused. “Like the fact that you showed up anyway. Even when I told you what I expected.”

She dropped her purse on the couch and spun around. “And maybe I came because I like shutting you up.”

Nick smirked. “You haven’t yet.”

Paris stepped forward. The air between them tightened like a stretched wire, ready to snap. “There’s still plenty of time.”

He raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see.”

The remote clicked again.

She flinched. Just barely. But her jaw tightened, her breath catching as she took another step closer. Her face flushed deeper now, though whether from annoyance or anticipation, even she probably wasn’t sure.

Nick set the remote down on the coffee table without a word, letting the silence between them do the work. He didn’t need to press anything else.

She noticed. Her brow twitched.

“You’re done?” she asked, cool but curious.

“For now,” he said. “Thought I’d let you prove whatever you’re here to prove.”

Paris’s smirk returned, slow and dangerous. “Good. Because you’re not the only one who came prepared.”

With that, Paris stepped in close, eyes blazing with intent, her confidence burning hotter than any setting on that little device.

“You think you’re in control tonight?” she said, voice low, with a bite.

Before he could answer, Paris shoved him back onto the couch. He fell into the cushions with a soft grunt, more amused than surprised, hands braced at his sides.

Paris didn’t waste a second.

With that said, Paris dropped to her knees in front of Nick, and unzipped his jeans, and pulled his cock out, before spitting on it. She strokes him slow, fingers slick with her spit and deliberate now, her movements are clean and efficient like a craftsman taking pride. Nick can’t look away from her face, the black strands of hair breaking loose, the precise arch of her brow, the way her tongue flashes to wet her lower lip as she watches him twitch in her fist.

Paris lets her grip slip a little, palm dragging against the ridged skin, then lets her thumb circle the head, slowly, savoring the shiver it sent through Nick. She laughed under her breath, a tiny, mocking sound, then cupped her palm to his balls, tugging with just enough pressure to make his hips jerk.

“You’re jumpy,” she said, not looking up.

Nick tried to laugh, but her palm squeezed carefully and mean until the sound broke off into a grunt. “Not jumpy. Just reactive.”

Paris shook her head, glossy strands of hair falling into her eyes. She flicked them away with a practiced motion, never letting up her pace, the meticulous slide and jerk of her hand.

Her tongue darted out again, this time to wet her thumb, which she brought back to the head and rolled slowly, like she was polishing something precious and delicate, and not just teasing him to madness. Nick’s hips twitched, a reflex he couldn’t control, and she laughed again.

Nick’s eyes locked onto the silver chain at her neck, the butterfly winking against her skin.

“Don’t be shy now,” she whispered.

Nick rested his head back, let the TV’s half-glow spill across the room and watched Paris do her thing. Paris’s hands looked small on him, careful, but each rise and twist of her grip was precise and greedy. She wanted to see him lose it, to pull the satisfaction through his teeth like a confession.

He reached for the remote, grabbing it off of the coffee table, fingers curling tight around the black device. Paris watched him, lashes low, mouth slack with her smirk, never losing rhythm, her grip just wet enough as she spit on Nick’s shaft, as she pumped up and down.

He pressed a button. The effect on Paris was instant, her whole frame tightened, the flush creeping further up her jaw, her hand squeezing just a touch harder, then slacking off again, a little shiver passing through her that translated into a tremor along his cock.

She didn’t slow. She barely skipped a beat. But her exhale was deeper now, chest heaving in the fuggy half-light, and Nick felt a pulse of satisfaction square in his chest.

Nick flipped the setting higher.

Paris hissed, sharp, then fixed her gaze back on what she was doing, stroking him harder now, knuckles whitening, rhythm gone rougher. Nick watched a tremor ripple through her, watching her thighs clench tight. She tried to laugh, but it came out as a shudder, the sound buried in the crook of his thigh where her cheek rested. He gave the dial a playful flick, nothing drastic but enough to make her whole body twitch, and she dug her nails into his skin, a warning.

Paris pivoted and, without hesitation, took him in. The wet heat of her mouth was immediate, her lips sealing him in with a confidence that said she didn’t intend to play gently. Nick’s breath stuttered. She set a rhythm fast, nothing coy: down, tongue curling, suction drawing him in deeper than her hand ever had.

He watched her. The angle of her jaw, the concentration in her furrowed brow, black lashes fanned against cheeks going red from effort. Sometimes she looked up, made sure he was watching, holding eye contact. Paris gripped the base, guiding each pass, spit pooling at the corners of her mouth, slickening him more with every bob. The muscles of her throat flexed around his rock hard cock.

Nick wondered if she’d practiced for this, or if it simply came natural, something hungry and ingrained in her.

He pressed the remote again, sly. Her shoulder stiffened, and she gagged a little around him, her nails digging into his thigh. Paris pulled back, coughed, then glared up at him with eyes wet and wild.

“Motherfucker,” she rasped, wiping her lip.

She set a hard, steady pace, using her hands for leverage but mostly relying on her mouth, a deep, slick suction, then slow drag back, the corners of her lips stretched taut with focus. Every now and then she’d pop, then buried almost half his cock in her mouth, gagging wetly and metallic at the back of her throat, not slowing or flinching but pushing all the way through until her nose pressed tight against his pelvis.

The sight of her, hair snagged messily in his fist, face shining now, doing her best to never break eye contact, sent a wild charge through him.

He let the remote fall between his knees and gripped her head with both hands, thumb tracing her jaw. Paris drew back slowly, the wet length of his shaft exposed inch by inch, then she dove again, faster this time, like she was chasing something down. Every time he twitched, her tongue skimmed the frenulum, precise and cruel.

Paris pushed three, four, five strokes before coming up for air, lips glossed and parted, saliva stringing between her chin and the base of his cock. Nick could hear the wetness slap of each bob, the guttural drag as she struggled to breathe through her nose, and it only made him harder.

“Ugh, so good!”

Nick loved the sight before him, Paris went too deep and gagged, and he loved that she kept going, always one stroke rougher than seems possible, always wanting more. Her hair was coming loose in thick, tangled ropes, some strands sticking to the side of her cheek and to her butterfly necklace, which had slipped sideways and now dangled just above his lap.

She clamped him at the base with her fist, then took him in deep again, holding him there, throat flattening as she tried to swallow him in. Each greedy gulp was worse than the last, more desperate, more determined. She’d stop only to breathe in short, harsh bursts through her nose, fingers anchoring at his thighs.

Tight and trembling, nose mashed into his groin as she forced herself to swallow and breathe around him. Nick felt the spasm in her throat, the desperate clutch of her hands on his thighs, he knew she was fighting to hold him all the way in. Her effort stoked something deep and mean in him, something that wanted her to fail and try again, again, until neither of them could remember who started this.

“Just like that.”

That was when Nick lost whatever intention he’d had to play it gently, to let her set the tempo and maintain her little charade of control. He grabbed a tumble of her hair in one fist, wrapped it up taut, and pulled her head back an inch, watching her choke a breath and blink hard. Paris’s trembling, glistening mouth hung open, lips slick and stretched with spit and need.

Nick held Paris there, cuffed by her own hair, and thrust back into her face. Once, then again, then establishing a rhythm. Not cruel, not punishing, just relentless, like he’d been thinking about this moment all week and it was finally time to cash in.

He loved the way she tried to keep her composure, even now, hands curled against his thighs but not fighting him, maybe bracing herself for each drive forward. Every push met resistance, the slick heat of her mouth, the stubborn arch of her pride. Paris looked up at him for a second through a lace of hair and spit and pure fuck-you determination.

Paris gaze dropped to the floor as she redoubled her focus, lips straining to accommodate each push. Her hands had gone slack, then found his hips and held on. Nick let out a sound that was almost a laugh and almost a groan, and rocked into her mouth with another crisp, deliberate thrust.

She gagged, messy and beautiful, the sound raw, and Nick was sure he wouldn’t last, was seconds away from coming down her throat, but he wanted to make her fight for it. He wanted to hear her defeat, or victory, in the last breath before he finished. Nate palmed the back of her head, thumb grazing her cheek, and muttered.

“You’re not gonna choke, are you?”

Paris, still pinned by her hair, tried to shake her head and glared up at him with a look that screamed just you fucking wait. He forced himself down her throat again, and this time she coughed hard. Paris wasn’t about to quit, she choked it down, breath hissing through flared nostrils, spitting up a mess of saliva that coated his cock and dripped onto her hand.

She jerked the base as she worked him, and he nearly lost it, biting down hard on a groan, whole body tensing. Paris, down on her knees, eyes brimming, refusing to let go, burned itself into his mind for keeps. Nick loosened the grip on her hair, easing her head back. She gasped, panting, eyes narrowed, and with a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Then without a word she dove forward again, caught him off balance, swallowing him with even more determination than before, sucking hard, jaw working overtime. It was less technique, more animalistic now, a straight-up need to have him inside her, not even trying to impress or dominate, just to feel the throat-stretch. The butterfly chain had slipped all the way down, the little pendant slapping wetly into his thigh with every plunge of her head.

“That mouth of yours, is amazing.”

He could feel himself starting to lose it, the build in his groin all night snapping taut, the sweat prickling at the small of his back. Paris felt it too, ramping her grip, the suction strong enough to hollow her cheeks each time she pulled back. Her other hand braced at his hip, drawing him closer, urging him deep as her breath battered his skin.

Nick tried to say something, maybe a warning, maybe nothing at all, but she just upped the ante, shifting her jaw and swallowing him all the way again, until there was nothing left outside but her lips tight at the base. Nick groaned, a raw, involuntary sound, and let the pressure take over, hips bucking. Paris rode the movement, let him fuck her mouth, always matching his rhythm, never giving up that unbroken eye contact.

He came hard. Paris didn’t flinch, didn’t let go when he throbbed in her mouth, and that almost made him spill right there on the spot. She kept him in as he jerked, every throb milked, the slow retraction of her lips a final, wet caress. He groaned, sagging, every muscle blown open. Paris drew back, swallowing, her chin wet and proud. She wiped her mouth, ran her fist up and down a last time, squeezing him dry, and shot him a victorious, bloodshot glance.

Paris stood, unfolded herself with weird grace considering her knees had to be burning, and loomed over him, the glimmer of the butterfly shifting above the deep V of her jacket. Her breath was loud in the room, her chest rising with every inhalation, and she took a second to find her composure. Nick watched her, chest tight, not even pretending to hide the admiration on his face.

Nick leaned back, catching his breath, the remote completely forgotten about. Paris looked up at him with a smirk still curling her lips. She slowly rose, brushing her hair back behind her ears as she sauntered toward him with that same confident sway in her hips.

“That was only day nineteen, you know,” Nick said, voice rough.

Paris raised a brow, licking her lips. “Twelve more days to go?”

“Exactly.” He gave her a knowing look. “And I’ve got plans.”

“Oh?” she purred, draping herself on the couch. “Let me guess, you’re having some friends over?”

Nick nodded, his grin widening. “This weekend.”

Paris narrowed her eyes playfully. “And you want me to entertain them?”

“Something like that,” he replied, not bothering to hide the anticipation in his tone.

She laughed softly, biting her bottom lip as she slid into his lap. “I hope they’re ready.”

The End