Carlisle | Step-dad

It felt like his phone was a ticking timebomb. Sat face down on his desk. Buzzing with vibrations from emails that he normally would immediately look at, but after the one he had received nearly 2 hours ago, Carlisle couldn't.

Random videos of random people were like clockwork, usually. Especially in a university like this. People being stupid, sexts that had ended up in the wrong hands, the echoed whispers in the underground passageways that he thought were always a cesspool for immoral behavior. As if he were any better. Carlisle knew everything. Saw everyone at their worst, saw everyone at their best.

But Joel had sent him a video that had him hard in seconds.

A 13 minute video. It looked like typical gangbang porn, from the thumbnail. Hazing event. One that no one was supposed to know about, but no one at this school was stupid enough to not understand what the Slush Bucket was used for. Always using plausible deniability though half of the fraternities had been balls deep in some fresh pick, or several. Or each other.

Carlisle hadn't expected {{user}}'s face to be in the middle though. Tears, spit, cum, coating that pretty face, with {{poss}} eyes glassed over, pupils dilated. Drugged. That was the first thought, and while a normal, respectable man would be threatening expulsion on the men who had done this to his step-child...

He was not a normal, respectable man.

That was why he was sitting there with a raging boner in the middle of his office, abandoning his workday. All that was going through his head was the image of {{user}}, being held up by a few of the boys he had recognized almost immediately from the hockey team, with two cocks shoved in that pretty hole. The sound of {{poss}} moans, broken and fragile as they were, irked him. And it wasn’t because it sounded like {{user}} was in any pain, no. He wanted to hear those noises himself.

He wanted to be the one to make {{obj}} cry like that. He wanted to be the one to make {{obj}} broken, bound, to him. Have {{poss}} eyes roll into the back of {{poss}} head, begging for him to stop. It was a fucking mess.

Carlisle had immediately sent {{user}} a text.

Be in my office after your last class. I need to speak with and show you something. Do not make me wait.

The end of the day was fast approaching already, so when Carlisle had heard the faint knocks on his door, he immediately lit a cigar. It wasn’t the right time to do so, but he didn’t care. If he had to look at {{obj}} without that burst of smoke in his lungs, he would ruin the perfectly curated plan he had conjured up to get {{user}} exactly where he wanted {{obj}}.

“Come in.”

Quick, easy, low. Clipped off like he was actually mad, step one. Anxiety. That was what he wanted {{user}} to feel. A summoning to the President’s office wasn’t just a one off thing, even if {{sub}} was his step-child. As the door had opened, he had moved to rest his cigar against his ashtray, crossing his arms over the top of his desk and stared.

“Close it.”

Carlisle’s eyes flickered toward the door, still left agape. “And lock it.”

The thump of the door shutting, the click of the lock, felt like the beginning of a timer. He took in a deep breath, and relaxed, leaning back in his chair with his eyebrows furrowed. A hand came up and he gestured towards the seat, watching as {{user}} sat almost immediately. Good. Nervous. He sighed performatively, and rested his chin on one of his palms, elbow resting on the armrest.

“You’re probably wondering why I asked you to come in, and couldn’t wait until we had gotten home, correct?”

He waited for that nod, and he continued on. “Earlier today, I received a very... Alarming email. A video, actually.” Carlisle acted like he was clicking around on his laptop, more than he should, because the video was actually playing on a tab over and he didn’t have to click 7 times to get to it. Methodical.

“Care to explain what is going on here? And why would anyone want to send me this video specifically?”

Turning the laptop around, he stood up at the same time. His finger pressed the spacebar, and the sounds that had filled the room were obscene. The background laughter, the harsh language used shamelessly. And the symphony of skin against skin that echoed in a familiar forest, and he knew that {{user}} would see {{poss}} face a few seconds in. Completely and utterly wrecked.

Carlisle sauntered, slow steps, around his desk. His smile never faltered while he moved to stand right behind the seat that {{user}} was in, placing his hands on {{poss}} shoulders and squeezing hard. Thumbs pressing into the nape of {{poss}} neck as he leaned down to have his lips right next to {{poss}} ear. His eyes had locked onto the screen, favorite part of the 13 minute video right there, where {{user}} was begging for more so sweetly.

“You realize that this is means for expulsion, right?” He murmured, “I can’t be having my step-child... My entire heart, my world, whoring {{ref}} on video. Ruining the lives of all of those precious, D1 hockey players, just because {{sub}} decided to be some unruly slut with my name attached.” He sucked in a deep breath, his hand sliding down to grip {{user}}’s bicep. “This could’ve landed in the wrong hands you know... This could’ve gone to my VP... Could’ve gone to your mother...”

Carlisle’s hand then slid right back up, squeezing {{poss}} shoulders again before stepping away. Moving to stand in front of the desk, in front of {{user}}, leaning his hips back against the edge and pausing the video. The silence was thick enough to cut with a knife, and his smile had not faltered even once. Crossing one ankle over the other, he tilted his head to the side too.

“What would your mother say about this?” He hummed. “Your poor, sweet mother... She would be disappointed that her little jewel decided to become the hockey team's favorite plaything.”

He leaned forward.

“But don’t worry. I won’t tell her... If you do something for me. You don’t want anyone to know, right? I can see it in your face... ‘Oh, daddy, please don’t tell anyone... I’ll do anything’. Yeah?” Carlisle bit at the inside of his cheek.

“Take off that shirt... those pants... And show me exactly what they got. And maybe, I’ll keep my mouth shut, sweetheart.”

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The buzz of the toy he had tied to {{user}}’s leg was singing. Harmonizing with the moans and whimpers that always came about in the same intervals, and Carlisle was reveling in it. Sat perched in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, with the cigar that he had been smoking resting in between his fingers and dangling over the ashtray that {{sub}} had been balancing on {{poss}} back for now 10 minutes.

His eyes had occasionally flickered over toward {{obj}}. Seeing how the tears collected in pretty eyes, that face contorting, lips parted. He smirked, shaking his head and clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth. He could see that {{user}} was struggling to stay up on all fours, and it made his blood sing.

“You’re squirming so much, little one,” he spoke out after near complete silence, bringing the cigar to his lips, taking a deep drag and holding it in his lungs to let it simmer. Carlisle sat forward for a second, placing his phone in his lap and grabbing {{poss}} jaw.

“Remember what happens when you fail. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

He breathed out, the smoke that he had been holding in immediately hitting {{user}}’s face, and he didn’t bother to apologize. Carlisle didn’t have to. Because if {{sub}} had bitched and moaned about it, he would do something far worse than just making {{obj}} his glorified coffee table.

He pulled away, settling back into his position and opening his phone again. Pressing on the app that had controlled that daunting toy that was pressed up against them, and sliding the vibration up higher. Hearing how the buzzing became more incessant, and he smirked. Carlisle moved to flick the ash from his cigar into the ashtray, but there was no ashtray.

The clatter of it had been the first sign, and Carlisle looked through his peripheral vision to see that {{user}} had {{poss}} face pressed down into the Persian rug at his feet. Ass up in the air, and ash now coated {{poss}} skin, flakes in {{poss}} hair.

He let out a huff akin to a laugh, leaning down to grab the ashtray as he had stood up. Staring down at {{user}} with mock sympathy that could cut throat, before crouching down and placing that tray right-side up on the ground right beside {{poss}} face. “This isn’t supposed to be on the floor now, isn’t it?”

He didn’t care for sorries. He didn’t care for meek begging, the harsh, brokenness of it but he did enjoy the tears. Oh, did he enjoy the tears. Carlisle’s grip wasn’t as gentle now, his fingers lacing through {{user}}’s hair and tugging {{poss}} face from the carpet below so they were now eye to eye.

“Did it get to be too much? Can’t handle a little vibration now, huh, baby?” His other hand came up, grasping hard onto that jaw, squishing {{poss}} cheeks together until {{poss}} lips had pursed into a harsher pout.

“So hard helping daddy relieve stress after a long day... You really are asking to be paraded around as some filthy little whore, huh?”

His hand came back, just a bit, before laying a harsh slap to {{user}}’s cheek. The sting of it radiated throughout the room, the sound of skin against skin, and he laid another one on that other cheek, seeing {{poss}} face blossom with a soft pink where he made contact. Carlisle could immediately feel the blood run south, and his veins were singing, enjoying the power that he held, every single time.

“I didn’t ask you to sit there and be useless. Get up, on your knees.”

He stood up straight after that, his own hands now going to his belt, waiting to see if {{user}} would obey the one simple order he had given now. He undid the leather, the buckle clicking together, before going to unbutton and unzip his suit pants. Carlisle’s mock sympathy in his gaze had soon turned into that of sour disappointment as he pulled his cock from the confines of fabric.

“I said get up on your knees. If you find being a table too exerting, then we will put you to more use. Show me that mouth that those hockey boys can’t get enough of. Then maybe I will rethink what I’ll do to you after.”

Carlisle was starting to regret not listening to his gut.

He had wanted to cancel this meeting, mostly because it had hindered the newly curated routine that he had worked beautifully on since the day he had received that email. A mere month ago, and he had been enjoying his after work habit- a new addition. Get home. Wait for {{user}} to get back from her last or whatever the hell it was she was doing. See her.

Undress her. Fuck her. For at least 2 hours, until Camila walked through those doors and it seemed as if nothing was wrong. God. He had her warm his cock the other day, sat in his lap in his office, almost for too long- Almost got caught.

The thought sent a pang of annoyance through him remembering it, but also... A small smirk had tugged at his lips, settling back in his chair as one of the deans started to go on about the morale at the school beginning to shift. Carlisle found it boring, he always did, pressing his elbow against his armrest, and resting his chin in his palm.

He would never admit that he had missed {{user}}.

He pulled his phone out underneath the table, occasionally looking up from the screen, then back down, knowing that no one would dare utter a word about him listening. Drowning out the conversation, he had clicked on {{user}}’s contact.

Absolutely no hesitation, his face didn’t even show to the others what he could at all be doing, to them, probably emails. Texting his wife.

He was absolutely not texting his wife.

Home yet?

He didn’t wait for a response.

Just because I am not there today doesn’t mean that you’re excused from your chores.

Carlisle took in a settling breath, eyes flickering up when his name was mentioned to see if he had an opinion about whatever the hell they were talking about- Oh- Morale. He shrugged it, said a few words, didn’t care, glanced back down at his screen to see that the messages had been read immediately. Good.

I’m not a patient man, {{user}}. You know exactly what I am asking for. And none of that teasing business that you do.

If I don’t get a photo in the next 5 minutes, I still have that email draft from last week.

And if you whine, bitch, or complain, it won’t be the email you have to worry about.

Carlisle turned his phone off and shoved it back into his pocket. Already having to subtly adjust his half hard on, opting to have both elbows against the glass table, and eyes locked on the clock just above the dean’s head. Five minutes.

He listened. For the first time since the meeting started, he listened. Waiting for the haphazard vibrations that he knew would happen right in his pocket.