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The first time she said it was in a whirlwind of frustration after yet another pointless parade of her abilities, orchestrated by Palpatine.
“Sometimes I just wish I was stupid!”
She collapsed face first on her bed while he lingered in the doorway.
“You don’t mean that, Rey.” His shiny black shoes, toe scuffing at the edge where hardwood turned to carpet, that invisible barrier between theirs and hers . Scuff. Scuff. Scratch. Always testing the line.
She was tired of lines, even then.
Body of fifteen, mind of Einstein.
And he, her Copernicus; she is the sun at the center of his universe. A new idea, hotly contested, dangerous. Controversial.
And true. Indisputably true.
Too much intellect for one room to handle, she thought back then, as his shoe tapped out a rhythm she instinctively tried to decipher.
She resents her mind sometimes (often), making connections and leaps without her consent.
She wanted the thoughts to stop, or pause, a brief reprieve from the weight of intellect.
The closest her mind ever comes to slowing down is when she looks at him.
When their fingers brush.
When she catches him looking where a grown woman would be soft and curved, where she has only just begun to round out over previously protruding bones.
Palpatine had found her at ten, when she was stealing college textbooks from the library for something to occupy her mind, outpacing all those around her. An orphan with aptitude, he embraced her as his long lost granddaughter. She got a math degree at twelve, a doctorate at fourteen.
She was his child prodigy.
His cash cow.
And Ben, the former genius gone rogue, the only one smart enough to train her.
Teach her.
Help her blossom.
And help her, he has.
Sometimes in her studies of the world.
And occasionally, finally, the study of her body.
It took convincing and coaxing and several months after that first admission and still, every time his touch turns from friendly to fiery, she watches guilt and lust battle in his eyes.
But who else could it be, besides him?
Who else would teach her from books both ancient and new and allow her to crawl into his lap, to spread her legs around one warm, muscled thigh, and distract herself when it all became too much? Who else would tuck her head beneath his chin and stroke her hair and tell her to take what you need, sweet girl, just like that while she ground herself to completion?
Sometimes she wishes she was stupid, yes.
But she is smart enough to play pretend.
And today, she lounges in an armchair, body heavy with the weight of adult expectations on a child, and she needs him.
He can always tell.
He shuts the textbook he’s been reading, leaves it on the coffee table and crosses the room and sinks to his knees before her, resting his chin on the red linen covered stomach of her dress, buttons all the way down the front. The top few are open in what she hopes is an alluring tease, though she has little to offer his mouth but the slightly raised peaks of her nipples, still just barely hidden.
“What is it, Rey?”
She wants to be nothing.
In an instant she can skim her memories, recall the first time her need was expressed not in a tone of frustration, but want. When she told him that sometimes she dreamed of being small and cute and (most shameful and quiet of all) stupid.
When he indulged her, instantly knowing what she, for once, was unsure how to articulate.
When he held her and shushed her and painted his fingers with her sticky sweet want and finally made her head full of nothing but static.
She craves it, craves him, more often than either of them would like to admit.
But they are left alone so often, the geniuses.
How much can she really learn each day that can be taught by a book?
He is all that remains capable enough to teach her.
And so she looks at him, eyes wide and sweet and imploring.
Help me forget
Let me be free
Please
She begs silently, watches each stone of his resolve crack and crumble. There is always a fight, silent and enrapturing, but he can never refuse her for long.
“What’s two times two, Rey?”
Their code.
“Hmm.”
She bites her lip, his hair soft beneath her hand as she runs her fingers from root to tip, then cradling his jaw, her hand barely spanning the width.
“I’m not sure.”
His eyes go dark, pupils swallowing her whole.
“Okay, baby.”
Their little game where everyone wins.
He undoes one more button, and this time the edge of her nipple falls into view, soon disappearing under his mouth, gentle lips softly sweeping over the tip. He lets the plush warmth coax her to a stiff peak, met by his tongue. She shivers, some sort of direct connection between her breast and her—cunt. Her cunt. He taught her that word. The first time, she said vulva, and he taught her that proper does not always mean right. Some words are just for fun.
She does not know much fun besides this.
Besides him.
He is all she needs, and he gives her everything—
Well, almost everything.
When he’s making her see stars with his fingers and tongue or she’s making a little damp patch on his thigh as he reads to her aloud and she grips his cock, long and thick and warm and tries feebly to guide it to her entrance with fingers not quite wrapped all the way around—
“Ben, please, please, just try—”
“No,” he says, a modicum less sure each time.
Almost everything.
Patience does not come easily to those who have no limit of understanding.
But no sometimes means not yet. This, she taught herself.
And so she understands one day he will give her this, too. Just not today.
Today, she remembers that his hair is in her hands and his mouth is at her breast, teasing and coaxing and making her panties slick as she stays slumped in her favorite armchair with her favorite man between her legs, trying, always trying to help her.
They’re both so smart. It makes her run even hotter, that he is willing to do something so stupid.
One of his hands comes to encircle her thigh beneath her dress, nearly covering it all. She sucks in a tiny breath at the feeling, added sensation, and then—
“So pretty,” he murmurs into her chest. “Pretty little thing.”
She is a thing to him. An object, not of intellect, but of desire.
Her underwear sticks to the mouth of her cunt, slippery lips bookending desire, waiting to be parted.
“My sweet girl,” he muses, not even truly speaking to her. Her presence is a coincidence to his musings.
And then his nose nudges the top of her dress further apart, her other breast free for his mouth at the same moment his thumb brushes the edge of her panties.
She whimpers, spreads her legs wider to make more room for him, as if he has not already taken up every inch of her very being. She loses her grip on his hair, hands coming to press indents into the armrests at her sides.
His other hand comes to her mouth, thumb begging entrance past her lips, and she grants it, just as he traces her other lips, still teasing over cotton.
She has half a mind to berate him for teasing.
Half a mind is still too much.
So she tries very hard to slip into static, to let him overwhelm her even in this, this soft, stretchy moment of before.
“So sweet, baby. All for me.”
She sucks at his thumb, feeling every ridge of his fingerprint pressed against her tongue. If there is anything she is willing to commit to memory, it is this.
The only thing she has to be, here and now, is his.
She continues to lave at him as he slips his fingers up to the waistband of her underwear, the swipe of his skin against hers doing more to erase her worries than anything else. She tilts her hips up, granting permission already implied, and he slips the fabric down her legs, until nothing but her dress separates her from the leather of the chair.
He looks at her, down there, between her legs. He always looks. Sometimes, she thinks he looks at her cunt more than her eyes. Soothing, in its own way, to be reduced to such a thing in these precious, fragile moments.
And then, his finger spreads her open to spill the want she has collected for him in this perfect afternoon.
Her suction on his thumb tightens, mimicking her grip as he slowly works his way inside her.
He makes a little noise of his own. He sounds pleased.
And then his thumb is no longer in her mouth, because he needs that hand to spread her open further, bringing her thighs further apart to watch his finger work its way in and out.
She misses the weight on her tongue.
It was keeping the world at bay. She needs more, more of him, the way he fills up every nook and cranny of her universe, forcing out the weight of expectation with his own heft.
Perhaps this creeping fear is to blame, then, for her following insistence.
“Let me take you to bed,” he whispers, chancing a glance upward.
“No.” She grips his wrist, keeps his hand between her legs, his finger inside of her. “Here.”
He tuts, self control oozing into the noise just as she feels a stain begin to form under her ass.
“Your grandfather will notice,” he whispers, but makes no effort to stop. The edge of fear in his voice makes her hungry.
“He notices nothing,” she whispers, clenching around his finger purely for the pleasure of making a bigger mess. She can feel the dribble of arousal sneak out past his digit, soaking deeper into the linen underneath. Soon, it will not be able to contain her. Especially not if he uses his mouth.
He usually uses his mouth.
“Baby, you’re gonna make a mess.”
“Yes. I’m messy.” His eyes go darker at that, at her simpering admission. At her challenge.
He accepts.
“Oh?” He keeps his hand where it is, but somehow he feels bigger, looming, overwhelming. He sits up higher, dwarfing her beneath him. “You’re messy?” Something in his tone makes her shiver. Whimper.
She grips the armrests once more.
“What’s wrong, baby?” He curls his finger into her front wall, and she shivers again, whole body twitching as he keeps her pinned with his gaze.
“Are you cold?” He kisses over the goosebumps on her shoulder.
“N—no,” she denies, blood boiling hot.
“Then why are you shaking?”
He’s so good to her, so good at this. She slips back under.
“I don’t—I don’t know.”
He tuts, dragging his finger almost all the way out before slipping it back in, noise obscene enough that she tries to hide from it, an arm over her eyes out of instinct. She never expects how easily he is able to overwhelm her. She often forgets—they are not always so evenly matched.
“You don’t know?” His free hand removes her protection from the full weight of his gaze, forcing her to perceive her own ruin. The devastation she needs. The decimation she begs for at his hands.
She shakes her head, still shivering.
“That’s okay,” he soothes, another thrust of his finger making her eyes roll back in her head. “Silly little girls don’t need to know anything.” That’s her—she’s the silly little girl.
“I’ll make it all better, baby. I promise.”
The assurance washes over her, transforming into gratitude.
“Th—thank you, Ben.”
He smiles through the darkness.
“You’re welcome, baby.”
He always makes good on his promises.
He undoes each and every button, until her dress is a mere mockery of clothing, just fabric fanned out beneath her, a thin barrier between her and the chair. The afternoon sun streams in and warms her body, and his eyes sparkle as he looks up at her in wonder.
And in that moment, she is not a child prodigy. She is one of those women whose sole purpose is being beautiful, to arouse and allure and demand attention with nothing but their bodies. An empty head and a full existence.
“Look at you,” he whispers, in awe. He slips his thumb back into her mouth, still damp, though some of her spit has soaked into the fabric next to each undone button. “My perfect girl. Perfect set of pretty, wet holes.”
She sucks harder and clenches all at once, proving him right.
“This is all you’re good for, isn’t it, baby?”
This time, her cunt clenches of its own accord, pleased. She moans around his thumb in agreement, and he smiles.
“A mouth, and tits, and a warm, wet little cunt. All for me.”
She nods, doe eyes only slightly exaggerated.
But her mouth goes unused, save for his fingers and, once—when he was truly beyond rationality, moving too slow to prevent her from getting a taste from the source—the head of his cock. She’s never tasted those plush lips, the ones she spent her early teens imagining against hers as she discovered the other uses of her body besides thinking.
When she discovered feeling.
When her mind conjured up fantasy instead of reason.
Almost everything.
He looks into her eyes again as he moves his finger, perfectly curled, thrusting in and out of her at a languid pace, enough to keep her on edge, needy, incapable of rational thought beyond wanting.
“Please, Ben,” she murmurs, muffled by his thumb on her tongue.
His smile makes her wetter.
“You’re so good at begging, sweet girl. The only thing you’re good at.” And then his thumb brushes her clit, and her hips twitch. “Well, that, and coming.”
She’s so much closer to the edge than she realized.
She should have known from the very first time they did anything like this that he would approach it with the single minded determination borne of prestige followed by ruin. He is talented and smart and he lost his way, and with her he seems to have found it once more. Or, at least, a new way.
He sees her potential. Every single facet.
And now, he presses his thumb to the edge of her clit and rubs in that perfect pattern that he created, foolproof and ruthless in its efficiency to push her over the edge. Her jaw hangs open, his thumb falling free as she yelps and whines and pants. The surprise deepens the pleasure, sensory overload shooting through her body until nothing remains but good him yes.
This blissful emptiness is the closest she ever gets to what she imagines normal people must feel like.
She twitches through the aftershocks, whimpers as his hand recedes, and moans when he gives nothing but her the briefest of reprieves before licking up the mess.
“Ben,” she sighs.
He looks up, eyes wide with feigned innocence even as he keeps his gaze locked on hers while he licks an obscene, slow stripe up the seam of her.
“Ben.” The only word left in her vocabulary, so it seems.
He smiles against he cunt, and he licks again.
“That’s a good girl,” he murmurs into her folds. “Just lay there and take it. Probably all you can do, isn’t that right?”
She nods, still free from the pressure to produce any real words. All she has to do is agree. She is his plaything and nothing more and god does she love to play.
She loves him, too, but she is smart enough to keep that to herself.
But not smart enough to avoid such a feeling.
His nose bumps against her clit, partially hidden by the slight dusting of dampened hair over her mound, sparse and soft and barely there. She shaved, once, after this thing between them began, and he seemed almost pained as he touched her that night, unable to look at her cunt or into her eyes.
And later, he whispered that she didn’t have to do that, not for him.
So she stopped.
Besides, there is hardly anything to remove.
His free hands move to her breasts now, warm and comforting weights as he feasts on her, as if the answers to the questions of the universe live inside her cunt, and perhaps if he probes deeply enough with his tongue, he will be able to taste them.
She moans freely, as she always does, sounds echoing in their lavish prison. He has never requested anything different from her. They are always honest with each other.
Almost always.
She loves the way he looks between her legs. He is at home there, bringing her pleasures unknown, ravishing, teasing, reminding her that there can be good here, with them, goodness untainted by the outside world.
He pinches both of her nipples at once, stiff little sensitive peaks and she can feel a bolt of lightning straight to her clit, now throbbing and needy and—
“Please. Ben, please, I need—”
“Shh,” he soothes, the sound vibrating against her entrance. “ I know what my sweet girl needs.” And then he gently sucks her clit between his lips, a preview of what’s to come. “ You don’t know anything.”
At that, she can feel a fresh wave of want course through her entire body, centering in her cunt which now overflows with arousal. The linen beneath her skin is surely soaked through, squelch of the leather louder than her moan as her hips twitch against his face, now ravenously yanking her toward another peak. She absentmindedly wonders what is wetter, her cunt or his mouth?
That is the only thought there is room for before there is no room left for anything at all. Her thighs clamp down around his head, but he never complains or tries to break free, though she knows he could. He is so much bigger than her. He probably goes to the gym, has easily lifted her with a single arm beneath her ass to lay her on a bed. Surely the strength of her tiny thighs is no match for him, but he lets himself be trapped all the same.
In the aftershocks, he slips his finger back into her, walls still contracting, prolonging the pleasure and making use of her need. He barely gives her a break before he is sucking on her clit again.
After all, how can she think if she’s busy coming?
His other hand trails all over her body now, as if he is having trouble deciding what he wants to touch most. A squeeze of her hip, a pinch to her nipple, a teasing drag of his fingertip up her inner thigh. All of it is so much, too much, not enough, perfectly overflowing her nerves until they spill over into ecstasy.
She groans deeper than she thought possible when his tongue trails down to lick at where he penetrates her, filthy and obscene and perfect. He licks around his finger, slow, careful, savoring the taste of her yielding to him.
“Ben,” she gasps when his free hand now comes to trace circles over her neglected clit, both hands and every single ounce of focus and attention he possibly has aimed directly at her cunt. And then he uses the river of want pouring from her, soaking the leather, to work a second finger inside of her and the stretch of two digits and the tease of his tongue at where she is newly spread open and the pad of his thumb working tirelessly against her and it's too much too much it’s exactly what she needs and the vibration of his moan against her is what makes her drown out his noise with her own tenfold, shattering her as he goes, relentless and debauched, and she feels full to the brink as she clamps down once more, plagued with thoughts of how much thicker his cock is than those two fingers, an edge of anger searing into her that perhaps his refusal to take her virginity has been justified so far.
Anger heightens her pleasure, just as many other emotions at odds with the good seem to do. She imagines Ben must wrestle with things that she does not, but they do not stop him from wanting, from feeling.
From coming.
And come she does, for what feels like forever, and he never relents, only slows, noting every clue her body gives him and deciphering it so sharply she could almost be scared that no one will ever know her like he does—perhaps not even herself.
“B—Ben,” she groans, when his licks turn just past the edge of pleasure. “I think—”
His hand clamps over her mouth, and she can faintly taste her own cunt. Proof of what little she is, in this moment.
“If you can still think, then we’re not done, are we?”
He keeps his hand there as he continues to fuck her with two fingers, her oversensitive clit immediately sucked back between his lips.
“Oh!” she gasps against his palm, further gone than she can ever remember being. She can’t remember much of anything right now, present only in this moment where she can feel the slight creep of his five o’clock shadow against her inner thighs, a most pleasant sting, almost grounding as the rest of her body clashes, desire against refusal. Surely, she cannot bear more?
But she can. She can bear more, for him, and Ben makes good on his promise, because she can no longer think as his fingers increase in speed, stretch and squelch and suddenly, an unfamiliar feeling, one that lances panic through her chest. Ben seems unperturbed, continuing his ministrations, coaxing something from her body that she didn’t know could be real.
A small gush of fluid escapes her, coupled with an anguished cry so loud that it forces his hand away from her mouth as she reaches a peak previously unknown. The orgasm rips through her as if by force, and she shakes so violently that she nearly topples out of the chair.
But Ben is there to catch her, like always. He helps her ride out the aftershocks with an arm over her chest, his broad form still between her legs, keeping her propped up in her seat.
And when she can finally breathe again, she looks down past her meager chest, tiny puddles collecting beneath and around her on the leather and his face is even more soaked than usual and his eyes are so dark that a small part of her brain tells her to run.
But she doesn’t run, pinned by fascination and curiosity.
And then he’s scrambling for his belt with the hand not still in her cunt, freeing the cock she has yet to feel inside of her. And then he withdraws, and she gives one last tired twitch and watches as he uses the hand soaked in her release to stroke his cock, hard and red and leaking.
“Fuck, baby. You’ve never done that before, have you?”
She shakes her head no, still in a delicious daze. Finally, something she truly doesn’t understand. Another reason to love him.
“So fucking good for me,” he growls, a step past gone.
It is scarcely ten strokes; in return for her offering, he covers her body in release of his own. Ropes land over her breasts, her collarbone, down to her stomach, his personal canvas as he shudders above her, letting out one prolonged groan as he comes.
And then, silence. As always. And the world comes creeping back in, but slowly. More dulled. That is enough for her.
She makes no move, waiting to see what he prefers. A small kindness, she thinks, in these moments. He has more to wrestle with in the aftermath.
He tucks himself back into his slacks, wiping his wet hand on the inside of her dress.
And then, he gently buttons her back up, bottom to top, over her now shiny skin, some of his cum seeping into the fabric as it clings back against her body.
“Are you okay, Rey?” He always asks.
“Better,” she replies. The constant truth.
The chair is still wet as he offers her a hand, helping her to stand on shaky limbs. Today was more than usual, unfamiliar in a delightful way, but she can hardly hold herself up.
And so he scoops her into his arms and carries her to their desk, perching her on his lap so she may rest her head against his chest.
She stays that way, his mark soaked into her as they pour over her latest publication, due for revisions. She sits in his lap as they argue over the merits of telling the editor he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, whether that graph really needs to be adjusted, whether he can still smell her cunt on his fingers when he taps his lip in concentration.
He can.
No one is due back for at least a few more hours. A few more hours to pretend this is all okay.
Like she is okay.
Like they are okay.
(But he never tries to pretend that he alone is okay. She sometimes wonders if he ever was.)
————
She wakes up for a reason she can’t decipher, clock reading almost two in the morning.
And then, she hears it. A small noise, from the living room.
She puts on her pink fuzzy slippers to combat the chill of the hardwood, somehow even in the heat of summer. Her grandfather must have gone to bed already. And so must have—
Oh.
Ben is on his knees in front of her chair once more, a bottle of cleaning solution at his side, cloth clutched tightly in his hand as if it were in danger of running away.
His shoulders shake, and the tiny noises that woke her are now identifiable as sobs.
A tumbler with the dregs of amber liquid is loosely gripped in his other hand. She wonders how many refills she missed as she dreamt of him. Well, a version of him. Perhaps a less tortured one.
“Ben?” she whispers. He doesn’t turn around, but the noises pause.
And she approaches him, slowly, cautiously.
She lays a hand on his shoulder, hoping to comfort. Desperate to do so, in fact.
It has never worked before, but maybe this time it will.
Maybe.
And then, a whisper, trembling.
“You deserve more. Better.”
Hairline fractures continue to build.
“I don’t want it.”
“I’m damaged,” he admits.
“Yes.” She knew that already, before, from the start.
“I was like you.”
“True,” she admits. “But you had no one. I have you.”
“I’m worse than no one.” He still won’t look at her.
“No,” she bites, far fiercer than the rest of her answers. Everything he’s said has been indisputably true, except for this. “You're everything.”
“I’m going to ruin you,” he says, almost a gasp, as if the confession was torn from him, waiting too long to escape.
She steps around him, between his body and the leather, into his line of sight. And she looks deeply into a tortured soul.
“Yes.” She confirms his fear, an inevitability. “And I want you to,” she whispers.
And this time, when she sits down in her favorite chair, the wetness comes not from her body, but his, fat tears soaking her pajama bottoms as he sobs into her lap, his very own form of release.
Ben helps her, yes.
But she helps him, too.