The air in Freddie's apartment is thick with the scent of old paper and stale coffee, dust motes dancing in the single shaft of light from his grimy window. Sam kicks the door shut, the sound echoing in the cramped space. She shrugs off her leather jacket, letting it fall onto his stack of tech manuals—a deliberate mess on his pristine floor. Freddie doesn't even flinch. He just watches her, his expression unreadable as he leans against his desk, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on the keyboard.
He pushes his glasses up his nose. "Carly called."
Sam freezes for half a second. Then she grins, a sharp, dangerous thing. "Good for her."
She crosses the room in three strides, her movements fluid and predatory. She doesn't wait for an invitation, just crowds him against the desk, her hands flat on his chest. His breath hitches. This is their language—a collision of need and denial, a physical argument they never win. He grabs her hips, pulling her closer, his grip hard enough to bruise. It's not love. It's a fix. An addiction they both feed.
His mouth crashes against hers, all teeth and desperation. She bites his lower lip, tasting copper. He groans, his hands sliding under her shirt, his palms rough against her skin. The desk digs into her back. She doesn't care. This is the one place they don't have to pretend. This is the one truth they share. Heat. Hunger. Nothing more.
They break apart, gasping. Freddie's glasses are completely fogged. He shoves them onto his desk, not caring where they land. No words. Just a desperate scramble toward the bedroom, hands grabbing and pulling, bodies stumbling over discarded shoes and cables. Efficiency. That's Freddie's specialty.
He doesn't bother with buttons. He grips the collar of Sam's shirt and rips. The fabric tears. She laughs, a harsh, excited sound. Then he shoves her. She falls back onto his unmade bed, the sheets smelling like him—like detergent and something else, something uniquely Freddie. The leather skirt she only wears for him flutters up, revealing everything. Nothing. She came prepared.
His movements are frantic. He strips off his own shirt, kicks away his jeans. His boxers are tight, dark gray, a thin barrier of dry-fit fabric. Half an inch. That's all that separates his hard cock from her wet heat. He stands there for a second, just looking. His chest heaves.
Sam spreads her legs wider, a silent challenge. Her eyes are dark, fixed on the impressive strain against his boxers. "What are you waiting for, Benson?" Her voice is low, rough. "Scared?"
Instead of answering, Freddie just smirks. It's that stupid, arrogant Benson smirk that makes Sam want to either punch him or fuck him senseless. Usually both. He grabs her hips, his grip surprisingly strong, and flips her over. The move is practiced, efficient. Sam lands face-down in his mattress, the scent of his laundry detergent filling her lungs. Her leather skirt is bunched around her waist, her bare ass completely exposed to the cool air of his room.
She hears the scrape of a desk drawer opening. A drawer she's never been allowed to open. Curiosity wars with the heat pooling between her legs. Then she hears the click of a cap. Lube. Definitely lube. Something cool and slick presses against her ass. Not his finger. Something harder, shaped. She tenses.
Relax. The word is unspoken, but she hears it in the gentle, persistent pressure. He works it in slow, inch by inch. It's bigger than she expected, stretching her just enough to make her gasp into the pillow. The base settles snugly against her. She feels full. Possessed. Then she feels it—a faint, buzzing hum. The iCarly logo on the base lights up, casting a soft orange glow on the sheets.
Perfect.
His hand comes down. Hard. The sound echoes in the small room. A sharp smack of skin on skin. Sam jerks forward, the plug shifting inside her, sending a jolt straight to her clit. A tiny moan escapes her lips. Uncontrollable. Freddie hears it. She knows he hears it. His hand comes down again, on the other cheek. The impact vibrates through her, the plug humming its secret rhythm against her walls. Another moan. Louder this time. He's not just fucking her. He's playing her.
The tearing sound cuts through the air—sharp, definitive. A condom. Freddie's hand rests on her reddened ass cheek, the heat of his palm a stark contrast to the lingering sting. He doesn't say a word. Words would ruin it. He just shifts his weight, and she feels the hot, heavy weight of his cock slide against her skin, leaving a damp trail. The plug inside her hums, a constant, maddening reminder of how full she already is. How much more she can take.
Then he's there. No warning. No slow stretch to prepare her. Just one brutal, deep thrust that shoves her face-first into the mattress. She cries out, the sound muffled by his pillow. It's not pain. Not exactly. It's too much, too fast, a complete invasion that steals her breath. He buries himself to the hilt, his hips flush against her ass, the base of the plug digging into both of them. He pauses, letting her adjust, letting her feel every thick inch of him pulsing inside her slick, tight heat.
He starts to move. Hard. Fast. There's no rhythm, no technique, just a desperate, punishing pace. His hands grip her hips, holding her in place as he fucks her. Each thrust drives the plug deeper, the vibrations sending shockwaves through her clit. She's completely at his mercy, pinned and filled, her body nothing but a conduit for their mutual need. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, a raw, primal rhythm that drowns out everything else.
She pushes back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust. This isn't about love or tenderness. It's about sweat and desperation and the frantic need to forget. To feel something other than the ache that lives in their chests. He reaches around, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing in tight, punishing circles. The dual sensation is too much. Her body tightens, her muscles clamping down around his cock, around the plug. She's close. So close.
He feels it. His movements become erratic, more desperate. "Come for me, Sam," he groans, his voice ragged. And she does. Her orgasm rips through her, a violent, shattering wave that leaves her trembling and breathless. He follows her over the edge with a guttural cry, his hips jerking as he finds his release. For a moment, they just lie there, a tangled, sweaty mess of limbs and raw emotion. Then he pulls out, leaving her empty and aching. The silence that follows is heavier than any words they could speak.
Freddie's mind races, a single thought cutting through the haze. My cock may be spent, but I want more. He shifts, maneuvering his body until he's lying flat on his back, his head between her thighs. His hands grip her hips, strong and sure, and he tugs her downward. Sam gasps as her dripping, quivering pussy aligns with his mouth, her knees bracketing his head. The scent of her—musk and sweat and sex—fills his lungs. He wants to drown in it.
He doesn't hesitate. His tongue flattens, licking a broad, wet stripe from her entrance to her clit. Sam shudders above him, a raw, broken sound escaping her lips. He does it again. And again. His mouth works her with a desperate, single-minded focus. He sucks her swollen folds into his mouth, his teeth grazing them gently. His tongue circles her clit, then flicks it rapidly. Her thighs tremble against his ears. He can feel her muscles clenching, her body winding tighter and tighter.
She starts to grind against his face, chasing the pleasure he's giving her. He lets her take control, his hands still holding her hips, guiding her movements. He can feel her getting closer, her breath coming in ragged pants. But it's not enough. He wants more. He needs to break her completely. He slides one hand from her hip, his fingers finding her entrance. He curls them upward, finding that spot inside her that makes her see stars. He presses hard as he sucks her clit into his mouth.
Something inside Sam snaps. A dam breaks. A cry tears from her throat, raw and primal. Her entire body convulses, a violent, shuddering wave that starts deep in her core and radiates outward. And then it happens. A gush of hot liquid floods his mouth, his chin, his chest. She's squirting. All over his face. Just like he wanted. He keeps going, licking and sucking, drawing out every last drop of her release until she collapses beside him, a boneless, trembling mess.
He wipes his face with the back of his hand, a smirk playing on his lips. He did that. He broke her. And in breaking her, he feels whole. For now.
Sam’s chest heaves, the air thick in Freddie’s cramped bedroom. The scent of their sweat, of her release, hangs heavy. But she’s not done. Humiliation burns hot, familiar, and she refuses to let it settle. She pushes herself up, her muscles protesting, and reaches for him. Her fingers close around his cock, soft and spent. For a second. Then she feels it—a twitch, a throb of life returning to her touch. A slow, predatory grin spreads across her face.
His eyes widen. A flicker of something—fear? excitement?—crosses his face. Good. She tightens her grip, stroking him from base to tip, feeling him harden completely in her palm. "You're gonna cum for me on my terms now, Benson," she says, her voice a low growl. She leans down, her tongue darting out to lick the bead of moisture from his tip. The taste is salt, musk, and power. His sharp intake of breath is all the confirmation she needs.
She watches his face, a canvas of conflict. The concern wars with the raw intrigue in his eyes. He loves this. Hates this. Needs this. Sam swirls her tongue around the head, slow and deliberate, memorizing the way his jaw clenches. Her free hand comes up to cup his balls, rolling them gently. He’s completely at her mercy now, and the feeling is intoxicating. Better than any orgasm he could give her. This is control.
"Look at me," she commands, her voice dropping to a whisper against his heated skin. She takes him into her mouth, just the tip at first, sucking softly before pulling back with a wet pop. His hips jerk off the bed, a silent plea. She smiles again, a genuine, wicked smile this time. The game has changed. The player is now the one calling the shots.
"Fuck, Sam," Freddie gasps, his hips bucking involuntarily as her tongue swirls faster around his tip. Her mouth is hot, wet, a perfect vacuum that makes his toes curl. She takes him deeper, her throat relaxing, swallowing around him. The sight—his cock disappearing between her lips, her blonde hair a messy curtain across her thighs—makes him dizzy. He fists the sheets, the cheap cotton twisting in his grip. This is his undoing. Every time.
Sam feels him tensing, the familiar pulse against her tongue. She pulls back, just enough to speak, her voice husky from use. "Not yet." Her hand replaces her mouth, stroking him with a firm, twisting motion that she knows drives him insane. His eyes are squeezed shut, his face a mask of pleasured agony. She loves it. Loves having this power, this control over the one person who thinks he has everything figured out. She leans down again, this time to gently bite his inner thigh, right where the skin is softest.
He yelps, a sharp, undignified sound that makes her grin. "Sam, what the—" His words cut off in a choked moan as she takes his balls into her mouth, one at a time, sucking gently. Her hand never stops moving on his shaft, a steady, maddening rhythm. The room is filled with the sounds of his ragged breathing, the wet slide of her mouth, the faint squeak of his bedframe. This is their language. Not words, but this. This frantic, desperate need to consume and be consumed.
"Look at me," she demands again, her voice soft but sharp as a razor. He forces his eyes open, and what she sees in them is raw. Vulnerable. Addicted. She knows that look. She sees it in the mirror every morning. She gives him one last, hard stroke, then positions herself over him, her knees on either side of his hips. She sinks down onto his cock in one slow, deliberate movement, taking every inch. They both groan as she settles, her hips flush with his. This is where they belong. Not in love, not in some storybook ending, but here. In this tangled, sweaty mess of need and denial.
She pauses fully seated, clenching around him to draw out his desperate moan. The sound is better than music, better than the stupid jingles he writes for his tech reviews. It's raw. Real. Sam rocks her hips, a slow, deliberate grind that makes his eyes roll back in his head. His hands fly to her waist, fingers digging into her skin hard enough to bruise. Good. She wants him to carry the marks of this, of her, when he goes back to pretending he's a good boy who just happens to date the town's bad girl.
"You're thinking about her, aren't you?" Sam's voice is low, a dangerous purr that cuts through the haze of their breathing. Freddie's eyes snap open, a flash of panic in their depths. He doesn't have to ask who she means. Carly. It's always Carly. She leans forward, her blonde hair tickling his chest, her nipples brushing against his skin. The movement sends a jolt through both of them. "It's okay, Benson. You can think about her while you're fucking me. But you're gonna be screaming my name when you cum."
She starts to move in earnest then, a brutal, punishing rhythm that steals the air from his lungs. The cheap headboard slams against the wall in time with her thrusts, a frantic, percussive beat that drowns out everything else. This isn't making love. It's a fight. A war fought with skin and sweat and teeth. She leans down and bites his collarbone, hard. He cries out, a mix of pain and pleasure, his hips bucking up to meet her. He's trying to take back control, but it's useless. She's the one in the driver's seat now, and she's driving them straight off a cliff.
Sam feels him getting close, the frantic, jerky movements, the way his breath hitches in his throat. She slows down, torturing him, drawing it out. His hands grip her ass, trying to force her to move faster, but she just laughs, a low, throaty sound. "Not yet," she whispers, her lips brushing against his ear. "I want you to remember this. Remember who's making you feel this good." She clenches around him again, a slow, deliberate squeeze that makes him whimper. He's completely at her mercy, and the power of it is a heady drug, better than anything she's ever tasted.
Sam quickens her rhythm without warning, the punishing slap of their bodies echoing in the cramped room. The cheap bedframe groans in protest, a frantic percussion against the wall. Freddie's hands grip her ass, his knuckles white, his mind a blur of sensation. He's so close. Right there. The edge.
"Scream my name now, Benson," she whispers, her voice a low, guttural command against his ear. The words are a key turning in a lock. He shatters. A raw, broken sound tears from his throat—her name, a curse, a prayer all at once. His back arches off the mattress, a bowstring drawn too tight, finally snapping. Pulse after pulse of heat floods her, and she keeps moving, drawing it out, milking him for everything he's worth.
He collapses beneath her, boneless and spent, his chest heaving. Sam slows, then stops, remaining fully seated, feeling his heartbeat throb inside her. The air is thick, heavy with the scent of them. Sweat. Sex. Victory. She leans forward, bracing her hands on his shoulders, her hair a curtain around their faces. His eyes are closed, his face slack with release.
She watches him for a moment, a strange, hollow ache blooming in her chest. This is the part she hates. The quiet after. When the power fades and all that's left is the mess. She lifts herself off him, the sudden emptiness a jarring contrast to the fullness seconds before. Without a word, she swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands up, her muscles trembling slightly. The game is over. For tonight.
Freddie's eyes flutter open, tracking her as she walks toward the pile of her clothes on the floor. He watches her pull on her leggings that she always brings to his place. He knows better than to ask her to stay. Knows this is how it works. The addiction, the release, the retreat. He just lies there, listening to the sound of her jacket zipper, a final, definitive sound in the sudden silence.