Empire of Dirt: Jody Blythe [older female seducing younger male, oral, vaginal, concent play, drinking]
by the_contessa--- The karaoke bar smelled like stale beer and the kind of desperation that only comes from a Tuesday night when the regulars are just drunk enough to think they can sing. Jody Blythe was perched on
about 22 hours ago
•long read•intense intensity---
The karaoke bar smelled like stale beer and the kind of desperation that only comes from a Tuesday night when the regulars are just drunk enough to think they can sing. Jody Blythe was perched on a barstool, her fingers tracing the rim of a whiskey glass that had long since been empty, her laughter sharp and bright as she heckled some poor sap butchering *Sweet Caroline*. The checkerboard floor beneath her boots was sticky with spilled liquor, and the blue haze from the stage lights cast everything in a sickly, aquatic glow. She liked it here—not because it was good, but because it was *hers*. The bartender knew her tab by heart, the pool sharks knew better than to hustle her, and the regulars knew to either flirt back or get the fuck out of her way.
Then *he* walked in.
Jody didn’t even notice him at first, not until the music cut out and the emcee—some guy with a comb-over and a voice like a deflating balloon—announced, *“Up next, we got a new face! Let’s give it up for Michael!”* She turned just in time to see him step onto the stage, all long limbs and quiet confidence, like a man who knew exactly how much space he took up. His jeans were faded to the point of being almost white at the knees, the hem frayed where they dragged over scuffed boots. The black t-shirt he wore was soft with age, the print of some old country singer—maybe Waylon, maybe not—peeling off in flakes. He looked like the kind of guy who’d fix your car for free and then steal your girlfriend just because he could.
Jody leaned forward, elbows on the bar, chin resting on her fists. *Interesting.*
Michael didn’t say a word to the crowd. He just adjusted the mic stand, pulled a stool up, and slung an acoustic guitar over his shoulder like it was an afterthought. The first notes he played were slow, mournful, the kind of sound that made your chest ache before the lyrics even started. Then he opened his mouth, and Jesus *fuck*, his voice was like whiskey poured over gravel—rough, but smooth where it counted. The song was *Hurt*, but not the way she’d heard it before. He stretched the melody out like taffy, dragging the refrain into something soft and raw, like a confession. And when he hit the line *“I hurt myself today / to see if I still feel*,” Jody’s breath hitched. She wasn’t the only one. The whole bar went quiet, even the drunks.
Then he looked right at her.
*“You can have it all,”* he sang, low and rough, *“my empire of dirt.”*
A shiver ran up her spine, settled between her shoulder blades like a promise. Jody grinned. *Oh, you’re mine now, pretty boy.*
---
By the time Michael launched into *Stand by Me*—because of course he fucking did—Jody was three drinks deep and had already decided she was taking him home. The crowd was into it, clapping along, but she wasn’t interested in the audience. She was interested in the way his throat worked when he sang, the way his fingers moved over the frets, the way his hips shifted just slightly when he hit the high notes. So she did what any self-respecting predator would do: she got on stage with him.
The crowd cheered. Michael didn’t miss a beat, but his eyes flicked to her as she sauntered up behind him, hands sliding over his chest, fingers tracing the lines of his ribs through the thin fabric of his shirt. He was warm. Solid. She pressed herself against his back, buried her face in the crook of his neck, and inhaled. Pine. Wood smoke. Something wild underneath, like the scent of a storm coming in over dry earth.
His back stiffened. His voice didn’t waver, but she felt the way his breath hitched when her lips brushed the shell of his ear. *“You’re trouble,”* he murmured, just for her.
*“You have no idea,”* she purred back.
The song ended. The crowd erupted. Michael turned, guitar still slung over his shoulder, and looked down at her with those dark, tired eyes—like he’d seen too much and didn’t give a damn about any of it. Then he leaned in, close enough that she could feel his breath on her lips, and said, *“Want to get out of here?”*
Jody didn’t need to be asked twice.
---
She left a crumpled hundred on the bar—fuck it, she’d pay the tab later—and dragged Michael out by the hand, her laughter bright and reckless in the parking lot. The night air was cool, the kind of chill that made her nipples tighten under her thin tank top. She could feel his eyes on her as she pulled him toward her car, an old silver Nissan with a bumper held on by duct tape and hope.
Then he stopped.
Jody turned, still grinning, keys jingling in her hand. *“What’s the—”*
*“You’re not driving,”* he said, and there was something almost *sweet* about the way he said it, like he was embarrassed to have to point it out.
She waved a hand. *“Relax, *baby*, I’m fine. You can drive me—”*
He caught the keys when she tossed them, but instead of unlocking the car, he pocketed them. *“Can’t. Don’t have a license.”*
Jody blinked. *“You’re kidding.”*
*“Nope.”*
She groaned, throwing her hands up. *“So what, you want to *walk* to my place? Because I am *not* waiting for a fucking Uber.”*
Michael didn’t answer. Instead, he looked past her, toward the dark stretch of land across the street. The playground was just a shadow in the moonlight, the jungle gym a skeletal outline against the sky.
Jody followed his gaze. Then she smirked. *“Oh. *Kinky.*”*
---
The playground was deserted, the swings creaking softly in the breeze, the slide cold under Jody’s palms as she climbed up it just to slide down again, giggling like a goddamn teenager. Michael watched her, arms crossed, a half-smile playing on his lips.
*“You’re ridiculous,”* he said.
*“And you love it,”* she shot back, jumping off the slide and landing in front of him. She didn’t give him time to respond before she kissed him, hard and hungry, her hands fisting in his shirt. He tasted like mint and something darker, something that made her head spin.
He kissed her back just as fiercely, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her flush against him. She could feel the heat of him through his jeans, the way his cock was already hardening, pressing against her stomach. *Fuck yes.*
Jody broke the kiss just long enough to drag him toward the grassy mound at the edge of the playground, the one spot where the streetlights didn’t quite reach. She pushed him down onto the cool earth, straddling his lap, her fingers working at the buttons of his fly.
*“Wait,”* he said, catching her wrists.
She paused, breath coming fast. *“What?”*
*“I want you to be mine.”* His voice was rough, almost a growl. *“Body and soul.”*
Jody blinked. Then she laughed. *“Yeah, okay, *sure*—”*
*“No.”* His grip tightened. *“I need you to *mean* it.”*
She rolled her eyes. *“Oh, come *on*—”*
*“Say it.”*
She huffed, but the way he was looking at her—like he’d devour her if she gave him half a chance—made her pulse jump. *“Fine. I’m *yours*, okay? Happy?”*
*“Not yet.”*
Before she could react, he flipped her onto her back, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. His other hand slid up her thigh, under her skirt, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her panties. *“You’re gonna *beg* for it,”* he murmured, his breath hot against her ear.
Jody’s breath hitched. *“Make me.”*
Michael grinned. And then he *changed.*
One second, he was just a man—beautiful, sure, but still just flesh and bone. The next, his skin darkened, roughened, his fingers elongating into something more *claw-like*, his legs shifting, bending backward at the knees. Horns curled from his temples, and when he leaned down, his eyes glowed amber in the dark.
Jody’s mouth went dry. *“What the *fuck*—”*
*“Satyr,”* he said, his voice deeper now, rougher. *“And you, *darling*, are about to get exactly what you asked for.”*
---
He didn’t just tear her clothes off. He *shredded* them. Her tank top went first, his claws slicing through the fabric like it was paper, then her bra, the straps snapping under his grip. Her skirt followed, the sound of rending fabric loud in the quiet night. Jody should’ve been pissed. Should’ve been *scared*. But the way he looked at her—like she was the only thing in the world worth hunger, worth sin—made her wetter than she’d been in years.
*“Fuck,”* she gasped as his mouth closed over one nipple, his tongue hot and wet, his teeth grazing just enough to make her arch off the ground. His hands were *everywhere*—palming her breasts, sliding between her thighs, his fingers parting her folds, teasing her clit until she was trembling.
*“You’re *soaked*,”* he murmured against her skin, his breath sending another wave of heat through her. *“Already *begging* for it, aren’t you?”*
*“Fuck you,”* she panted, but her hips rocked up, chasing his touch.
He chuckled, low and dark, before his mouth moved lower, his tongue dragging over her stomach, dipping into her navel, then lower still. When his lips closed over her pussy, Jody cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair—*what the hell even was his hair now?*—thick and coarse, like a animal’s pelt. His tongue was *longer* than it should’ve been, stroking her from entrance to clit in one slow, deliberate lap.
*“Oh *god*—”*
He didn’t let up. His fingers joined in, two of them sliding inside her, curling just right, hitting that spot that made her see stars. She was *dripping*, her thighs slick with it, her breath coming in ragged gasps as he worked her over, his mouth and fingers in perfect, ruthless sync.
*“Please—”* she whimpered, her body coiling tight, her orgasm just out of reach.
*“Please *what*?”* His voice was a growl against her thigh.
*“Fuck me,”* she sobbed. *“*Please*, fuck me—”*
He didn’t make her ask again.
In one smooth motion, he flipped her onto her stomach, yanking her up onto her knees. The cool air hit her exposed pussy, her ass, but she barely registered it before she felt him—*hot* and *hard*—pressing against her.
*“You sure?”* he murmured, his claws tracing up her spine, his cock teasing her entrance.
Jody laughed, breathless. *“Since when do you give a shit about *sure*?”*
His answer was a snarl—and then he *slammed* into her.
---
Jody *screamed*.
He was *huge*—thicker than any man had a right to be, stretching her open in a way that should’ve hurt, but all she felt was *full*, so *fucking* full, her body clenching around him, trying to take more. His hands gripped her hips, his claws pricking her skin just enough to sting, and then he was *moving*, pounding into her with a rhythm that was almost *feral*.
*“You take me *so well*,”* he groaned, his voice rough, his breath hot against her neck. *“Like you were *made* for this.”*
Jody could only moan in response, her fingers digging into the earth, her body rocking back to meet every thrust. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the night, wet and obscene, her own arousal dripping down her thighs. She could feel her orgasm building again, coiling tighter this time, her muscles locking up—
*“Come for me,”* he commanded, his teeth grazing her shoulder. *“*Now.*”*
And she *shattered*.
Her cry was raw, torn from her throat as her pussy clenched around him, her body convulsing with the force of it. Michael didn’t stop. He *couldn’t* stop, his hips snapping against her ass, his cock swelling inside her as his own release hit him with a guttural groan.
*“Mine,”* he growled, his claws digging in as he came, *hard*, filling her up until she could feel it dripping out of her.
Jody collapsed onto the grass, boneless, her chest heaving. Michael followed, his body covering hers, his weight pressing her into the earth. She could feel his heart pounding against her back, his breath hot on her skin.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Jody laughed, weak and breathless. *“Well. That was *new*.”*
Michael chuckled, his lips brushing her ear. *“Stick with me, *darling*. You haven’t seen *anything* yet.”*
She grinned.
*Game on.*
The karaoke bar smelled like stale beer and the kind of desperation that only comes from a Tuesday night when the regulars are just drunk enough to think they can sing. Jody Blythe was perched on a barstool, her fingers tracing the rim of a whiskey glass that had long since been empty, her laughter sharp and bright as she heckled some poor sap butchering *Sweet Caroline*. The checkerboard floor beneath her boots was sticky with spilled liquor, and the blue haze from the stage lights cast everything in a sickly, aquatic glow. She liked it here—not because it was good, but because it was *hers*. The bartender knew her tab by heart, the pool sharks knew better than to hustle her, and the regulars knew to either flirt back or get the fuck out of her way.
Then *he* walked in.
Jody didn’t even notice him at first, not until the music cut out and the emcee—some guy with a comb-over and a voice like a deflating balloon—announced, *“Up next, we got a new face! Let’s give it up for Michael!”* She turned just in time to see him step onto the stage, all long limbs and quiet confidence, like a man who knew exactly how much space he took up. His jeans were faded to the point of being almost white at the knees, the hem frayed where they dragged over scuffed boots. The black t-shirt he wore was soft with age, the print of some old country singer—maybe Waylon, maybe not—peeling off in flakes. He looked like the kind of guy who’d fix your car for free and then steal your girlfriend just because he could.
Jody leaned forward, elbows on the bar, chin resting on her fists. *Interesting.*
Michael didn’t say a word to the crowd. He just adjusted the mic stand, pulled a stool up, and slung an acoustic guitar over his shoulder like it was an afterthought. The first notes he played were slow, mournful, the kind of sound that made your chest ache before the lyrics even started. Then he opened his mouth, and Jesus *fuck*, his voice was like whiskey poured over gravel—rough, but smooth where it counted. The song was *Hurt*, but not the way she’d heard it before. He stretched the melody out like taffy, dragging the refrain into something soft and raw, like a confession. And when he hit the line *“I hurt myself today / to see if I still feel*,” Jody’s breath hitched. She wasn’t the only one. The whole bar went quiet, even the drunks.
Then he looked right at her.
*“You can have it all,”* he sang, low and rough, *“my empire of dirt.”*
A shiver ran up her spine, settled between her shoulder blades like a promise. Jody grinned. *Oh, you’re mine now, pretty boy.*
---
By the time Michael launched into *Stand by Me*—because of course he fucking did—Jody was three drinks deep and had already decided she was taking him home. The crowd was into it, clapping along, but she wasn’t interested in the audience. She was interested in the way his throat worked when he sang, the way his fingers moved over the frets, the way his hips shifted just slightly when he hit the high notes. So she did what any self-respecting predator would do: she got on stage with him.
The crowd cheered. Michael didn’t miss a beat, but his eyes flicked to her as she sauntered up behind him, hands sliding over his chest, fingers tracing the lines of his ribs through the thin fabric of his shirt. He was warm. Solid. She pressed herself against his back, buried her face in the crook of his neck, and inhaled. Pine. Wood smoke. Something wild underneath, like the scent of a storm coming in over dry earth.
His back stiffened. His voice didn’t waver, but she felt the way his breath hitched when her lips brushed the shell of his ear. *“You’re trouble,”* he murmured, just for her.
*“You have no idea,”* she purred back.
The song ended. The crowd erupted. Michael turned, guitar still slung over his shoulder, and looked down at her with those dark, tired eyes—like he’d seen too much and didn’t give a damn about any of it. Then he leaned in, close enough that she could feel his breath on her lips, and said, *“Want to get out of here?”*
Jody didn’t need to be asked twice.
---
She left a crumpled hundred on the bar—fuck it, she’d pay the tab later—and dragged Michael out by the hand, her laughter bright and reckless in the parking lot. The night air was cool, the kind of chill that made her nipples tighten under her thin tank top. She could feel his eyes on her as she pulled him toward her car, an old silver Nissan with a bumper held on by duct tape and hope.
Then he stopped.
Jody turned, still grinning, keys jingling in her hand. *“What’s the—”*
*“You’re not driving,”* he said, and there was something almost *sweet* about the way he said it, like he was embarrassed to have to point it out.
She waved a hand. *“Relax, *baby*, I’m fine. You can drive me—”*
He caught the keys when she tossed them, but instead of unlocking the car, he pocketed them. *“Can’t. Don’t have a license.”*
Jody blinked. *“You’re kidding.”*
*“Nope.”*
She groaned, throwing her hands up. *“So what, you want to *walk* to my place? Because I am *not* waiting for a fucking Uber.”*
Michael didn’t answer. Instead, he looked past her, toward the dark stretch of land across the street. The playground was just a shadow in the moonlight, the jungle gym a skeletal outline against the sky.
Jody followed his gaze. Then she smirked. *“Oh. *Kinky.*”*
---
The playground was deserted, the swings creaking softly in the breeze, the slide cold under Jody’s palms as she climbed up it just to slide down again, giggling like a goddamn teenager. Michael watched her, arms crossed, a half-smile playing on his lips.
*“You’re ridiculous,”* he said.
*“And you love it,”* she shot back, jumping off the slide and landing in front of him. She didn’t give him time to respond before she kissed him, hard and hungry, her hands fisting in his shirt. He tasted like mint and something darker, something that made her head spin.
He kissed her back just as fiercely, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her flush against him. She could feel the heat of him through his jeans, the way his cock was already hardening, pressing against her stomach. *Fuck yes.*
Jody broke the kiss just long enough to drag him toward the grassy mound at the edge of the playground, the one spot where the streetlights didn’t quite reach. She pushed him down onto the cool earth, straddling his lap, her fingers working at the buttons of his fly.
*“Wait,”* he said, catching her wrists.
She paused, breath coming fast. *“What?”*
*“I want you to be mine.”* His voice was rough, almost a growl. *“Body and soul.”*
Jody blinked. Then she laughed. *“Yeah, okay, *sure*—”*
*“No.”* His grip tightened. *“I need you to *mean* it.”*
She rolled her eyes. *“Oh, come *on*—”*
*“Say it.”*
She huffed, but the way he was looking at her—like he’d devour her if she gave him half a chance—made her pulse jump. *“Fine. I’m *yours*, okay? Happy?”*
*“Not yet.”*
Before she could react, he flipped her onto her back, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. His other hand slid up her thigh, under her skirt, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her panties. *“You’re gonna *beg* for it,”* he murmured, his breath hot against her ear.
Jody’s breath hitched. *“Make me.”*
Michael grinned. And then he *changed.*
One second, he was just a man—beautiful, sure, but still just flesh and bone. The next, his skin darkened, roughened, his fingers elongating into something more *claw-like*, his legs shifting, bending backward at the knees. Horns curled from his temples, and when he leaned down, his eyes glowed amber in the dark.
Jody’s mouth went dry. *“What the *fuck*—”*
*“Satyr,”* he said, his voice deeper now, rougher. *“And you, *darling*, are about to get exactly what you asked for.”*
---
He didn’t just tear her clothes off. He *shredded* them. Her tank top went first, his claws slicing through the fabric like it was paper, then her bra, the straps snapping under his grip. Her skirt followed, the sound of rending fabric loud in the quiet night. Jody should’ve been pissed. Should’ve been *scared*. But the way he looked at her—like she was the only thing in the world worth hunger, worth sin—made her wetter than she’d been in years.
*“Fuck,”* she gasped as his mouth closed over one nipple, his tongue hot and wet, his teeth grazing just enough to make her arch off the ground. His hands were *everywhere*—palming her breasts, sliding between her thighs, his fingers parting her folds, teasing her clit until she was trembling.
*“You’re *soaked*,”* he murmured against her skin, his breath sending another wave of heat through her. *“Already *begging* for it, aren’t you?”*
*“Fuck you,”* she panted, but her hips rocked up, chasing his touch.
He chuckled, low and dark, before his mouth moved lower, his tongue dragging over her stomach, dipping into her navel, then lower still. When his lips closed over her pussy, Jody cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair—*what the hell even was his hair now?*—thick and coarse, like a animal’s pelt. His tongue was *longer* than it should’ve been, stroking her from entrance to clit in one slow, deliberate lap.
*“Oh *god*—”*
He didn’t let up. His fingers joined in, two of them sliding inside her, curling just right, hitting that spot that made her see stars. She was *dripping*, her thighs slick with it, her breath coming in ragged gasps as he worked her over, his mouth and fingers in perfect, ruthless sync.
*“Please—”* she whimpered, her body coiling tight, her orgasm just out of reach.
*“Please *what*?”* His voice was a growl against her thigh.
*“Fuck me,”* she sobbed. *“*Please*, fuck me—”*
He didn’t make her ask again.
In one smooth motion, he flipped her onto her stomach, yanking her up onto her knees. The cool air hit her exposed pussy, her ass, but she barely registered it before she felt him—*hot* and *hard*—pressing against her.
*“You sure?”* he murmured, his claws tracing up her spine, his cock teasing her entrance.
Jody laughed, breathless. *“Since when do you give a shit about *sure*?”*
His answer was a snarl—and then he *slammed* into her.
---
Jody *screamed*.
He was *huge*—thicker than any man had a right to be, stretching her open in a way that should’ve hurt, but all she felt was *full*, so *fucking* full, her body clenching around him, trying to take more. His hands gripped her hips, his claws pricking her skin just enough to sting, and then he was *moving*, pounding into her with a rhythm that was almost *feral*.
*“You take me *so well*,”* he groaned, his voice rough, his breath hot against her neck. *“Like you were *made* for this.”*
Jody could only moan in response, her fingers digging into the earth, her body rocking back to meet every thrust. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the night, wet and obscene, her own arousal dripping down her thighs. She could feel her orgasm building again, coiling tighter this time, her muscles locking up—
*“Come for me,”* he commanded, his teeth grazing her shoulder. *“*Now.*”*
And she *shattered*.
Her cry was raw, torn from her throat as her pussy clenched around him, her body convulsing with the force of it. Michael didn’t stop. He *couldn’t* stop, his hips snapping against her ass, his cock swelling inside her as his own release hit him with a guttural groan.
*“Mine,”* he growled, his claws digging in as he came, *hard*, filling her up until she could feel it dripping out of her.
Jody collapsed onto the grass, boneless, her chest heaving. Michael followed, his body covering hers, his weight pressing her into the earth. She could feel his heart pounding against her back, his breath hot on her skin.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Jody laughed, weak and breathless. *“Well. That was *new*.”*
Michael chuckled, his lips brushing her ear. *“Stick with me, *darling*. You haven’t seen *anything* yet.”*
She grinned.
*Game on.*