Poison Ivy X Male Reader Novels & Stories

IRIS He was looking at me like I was sick or something. "Who is Ivy?" I asked again. I heard her name mentioned when all this started and I wanted to know who she was. Why she had something to do with all of this? "She was my last sub before I moved out of the city." He said subconsciously looking around the room. She must have been here with him at some point. "Is that who sent me the note?" I asked quietly feeling like I was interrupting his memory. "No, it wasn't Ivy," he said with a sudden look of sadness on his face. "Are you sure? The message sounded like it came from a woman?" I said, thinking the message sounded very personal. "I can tell you for certain, your note didn't come from I

Because it wasn't Ivy? I wasn't disgusted when Ivy called me that a few minutes ago, was I? No. I also wasn't disgusted when she spread her legs wide, her pink hair tangled on the pillows, telling me to rub against her wet heat. I came all over her stomach and still wanted to bury myself deeper inside her. Another woman says the exact same word, and my body rejects it like poison. I drag a rough hand down my face. You're done, Christian. Completely done for.

IVY What the hell is wrong with you, Ivy Lane? You came here to find a way to sort your life out. Turn around and get out, right now. But I can’t. I don’t. “Ivy,” he grunts, and his fingers tighten around his cock. My name sounds like sin in his mouth, and it dampens my panties. “Fucking Ivy.” His strokes become faster, crueler. My hand slips into my denim trousers. Watching him is… I like sex. I’ve always liked sex more than the average person, more than what’s probably healthy or normal. That therapist I saw first year had a word for it.

Her numbers tick upward like a taunt. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The hardwood floor is cool against my bare feet. I shuffle to the kitchen. The tiles shock my soles with icy bite. I flick on the coffee maker. It gurgles to life. Dark roast scent blooms and curls around me. I pour a mug. The first sip scalds my tongue. The bitterness grounds me. I lean against the counter and open Ivy’s blog on my phone. Her newest post is titled “Beneath the Desk.” It is a filthy office fantasy. Every detail is razor sharp. The comments explode beneath it. Readers call it “insanely hot” and “way steamier than Lily’s last drop.” My stomach knots. Pride and panic twist together.