When you’re finally ready to try penetration in the new position, Simon goes all out to make sure you cum once—if not more.
The spreader bar strapped around your ankles shakes in time with your trembling muscles, body heaving with exertion. It’s been too long already, that inevitable crest just barely out of reach.
Meanwhile, Simon’s been edging for what feels like HOURS, moaning every time your pussy clenched.
Every time, he thinks you’ll finally cum, only for the waves to recede once more.
He’s nearly cum four times now. But, hell, if a man won’t get his woman off first.
When he has to force himself to pull out, he doesn’t leave you high and dry. No, he just drips his head between your bound legs, ravenously prodding at your hole with his tongue like a man starved.
At this point, there wasn’t an inch of his jawline not coated in slick.
By the fifth time he almost climaxes, it takes all his strength to pull out and wrap a hand around his base to stop himself from cumming, groaning long and loud as you whimper and whine beneath him.
You’re good and desperate now. Simon just knows you’re almost there.
With a dark, wolfish look in his eye, he yanks his shirt over his head. Every inch of his pale skin is red and coated in sweat. The bedroom smells like sex and exertion, and you’re so wound up, you’re hardly thinking of the position when he wrenches his hands around your thighs to drag you closer.
The buckles of spreader bar rattle when he settles your knees over his shoulders.
His swollen cock pulses against your stomach while he tiredly fumbles to line himself up.
“C’mon, darling,” he pants loudly, barely able to speak, “We’ll be here all night if we have to.”
Simon knows his girl struggles to get there sometimes. It has nothing to do with her state of mind, the stimulation, her arousal—or even his, for that matter. It has everything to do with position.
The first time they fucked and she didn’t cum, Simon was adamant to know why. For nearly twenty minutes afterwards, he’d pestered her (none too kindly) to just fess up what he’d done wrong and get it over with. After a hissy, nude fight between the two of them, he’d finally crossed his arms and laid his hand bare.
“Show me, then,” he’d grunted, “If you’re too scared to tell me.”
She’d stared at him with her best approximation of a ruthless (adorable) glare, before finally conceding. She was able to bring herself off in less than ten minutes, writhing amongst his bed sheets, voice edging with desperation from the need he hadn’t been able to satisfy.
It’s only when she goes stock still, legs clenched together with all her might, that she manages to cum.
And thus, the problem is presented. No matter how hard he fucks, how tenderly he strokes her clit, or how badly she begs him for it, she can’t cum—at least not without squeezing her legs together so hard a single finger (let alone the width of his hips) could fit between her thighs.
After some much more mature (and eloquent) conversations than that first time together, Simon finally helps you gather the courage to try and solve the problem once and for all. Naturally, you’re quite nervous. You’ve tried a hundred times before and never managed it.
But Simon? Well, he’s not backing down without a fight.
He helps you into his bed, settles you down amongst the pillows, before arming himself with your very extensive (and very pricey) collection of vibrators.
“Bend your legs ‘n let ‘em fall to the bed, love,” he watches, “Keep your feet together—Good girl.”
You flush as his fingers pet over your thigh, eyes fully focused on the task at hand. Already, there’s a proud tent in his sweatpants, but he doesn’t make to touch himself.
“Simon, just—just don’t get your hopes up,” you plead.
“My hopes are just fine right where they are, love,” he tuts as he flips the fibrator on, “But thanks for the concern.”
Before you can say another word, he pins the vibrator against your pussy with his palm, swallowing you in a wash of vibration. You yelp at the sensation and slap a hand to your mouth to muffle the noise.
“Nuh-uh, pretty girl. None o’ that,” he yanks your hand away and pins it at your side, “We’re gonna be here quite awhile. Might as well get comfortable.”
You look up at his steely blue eyes, already panting, struggling against his ruthless hold on your wrists. It takes every ounce of concentration not to close your legs around the vibrator.
For what feels like nearly an hour, Simon kneels over you, fully clothed, watching you moan and tear up while he holds the vibrator to your cunt.
He massages your tits, bites hickeys into your neck, and keeps your hands resolutely pinned to the mattress no matter how wildly you buck and writhe in his hold.
After nearly forty-five minutes of torture, something pulls in your stomach.
“Simon—Simon, I—“ you absolutely mewl, “I think that—something’s gonna come out—“
You don’t manage to finish the sentence. By now, you’re drenched in sweat, frustrated beyond all belief, with a pussy so wet Simon’s got black slick stains all over the front of his grey sweatpants.
The fear in your voice is palpable, and Simon releases a hand to grab onto your chin, forcing you look him in the eye.
“That’s it, baby, c’mon,” he whispers, adding more pressure, “S’just you ‘n me here. You can do it. You’ll be fine.”
“Si—Simon…” you moan, tears cascading down your cheeks when the threatening sensation creeps up once again.
Your legs jump on the mattress, threatening to close, but Simon pins your thigh to the bed using his knee before you can get there.
“Thaaat’s it, that’s a good girl,” he croons, watching as you careen over the edge, “C’mon, pretty girl. Come for me.”
You fall over the edge with a loud, adrenaline-fueled moan, legs jumping beneath Simon’s weight as you struggle through the aftershocks.
All the while, Simon kisses down the front of your body, cooing over how cute you look with tears running down your face. It’s only after the sheer pleasure falls away that you can finally think clearly.
Needless to say, you’ll be doing it again soon. And, if you make enough progress…well, Simon’s already got extravagant plans for just how, exactly, he’ll go about rewarding you.
Working an office job will truly make you have the wildest enemies, bc why is my nemesis rn a woman I’ve never met and who exclusively haunts me by sending diabolical emails, and also a specific guy who left my company before I even worked here and made the system so fuckass that it ruined procedures for like a year
Yesterday my nemesis (woman I’ve never met and whose face I’ve never seen) sent my office an email so rude, basically saying we had fucked up every project she ever ordered from us, one of the worst emails I’ve ever read in my life.
And it pissed me off so badly that I spent the ENTIRE WORK DAY today compiling evidence from every project my team has ever done for her, pulling past emails she’d sent us, putting together an entire case proving that she had been the problem all along. That she got projects mixed up, that she’d made requests that were nonsensical, literally everything you could possibly imagine. Screenshots of emails, reports we’d submitted, EVERYTHING.
This woman in particular has been terrorizing my team for years, her name is almost a slur in my office, I had simply had ENOUGH of her.
I put all of this evidence together and sent it to all of my bosses at 4:30pm. Then I took a long break to eat a sweet treat and drink some tea.
After my break, my bosses all called in an emergency meeting with me and they said they read my report and fucking loved it. And I sat on a teams call with my boss’ boss as she wrote my nemesis the scathing email I had always fantasized about sending, using the evidence I’d compiled, and hit send.
It was the most satisfying workday I’ve had since I got hired.
notes: i used terminology from omiai for this but it is in fact run very differently from omiai, which i am hand-waving by virtue of sorcery clans doing things differently, which i have Thoughts about.
warnings: 18+ for allusions/mentions of smut. one brief pov change, naoya is his own warning, misogyny, arranged marriages & (failed) arranged marriage negotiations, parental death from a vague illness & a brief non-explicit deathbed scene, borderline dubcon kissing(?) and a brief moment of dubcon touching, pregnancy mentions/mild descriptions throughout.
“She’s old,” Naoya drawls, tossing the rirekisho aside. “Thought ya were supposed to be good at this.”
“Zen’in-sama,” the nakōdo says, wincing, “she’s not that much older than you a—”
“Ya deaf? She’s old. Next one.”
The nakōdo hands over the next rirekisho silently.
Naoya slides the picture out first; pretty is the most basic of his requirements.
And you are pretty. There’s a hazy familiarity to you, too, especially with the way the silk of your hōmongi drapes over your form. The understated wisteria motif sweeps over your shoulder like a path, and he follows the soft cascade of flowers to the swell of your breasts. Perfectly accented, perfectly framed.
But it’s the sweet timidity to the tilt of your lips that snares his attention.
It’s easy to imagine you wide-eyed in his bed, being molded to his touch, his wants, his needs. He can shape you as a sculptor does clay.
Because Naoya knows you’re malleable. The promise of it is in the elegant positioning of your hands, the downward tilt of your shining eyes. He can press you into easy compliance, leave his fingerprints on more than just your skin.
A video from 4 years ago today. Since then they had to remove this bridge for safety reasons but for those last couple years it had begun to look like something from a fantasy story.
You tried it exactly once, fake moaning for simon, head tossed back and all breathy. A real convincing act in your opinion.
"....what the fock was tha'?" Ghost freezes above you mid-thrust. Forearm braced above your head, breath hot against the curve of your neck.
Ghost is the space between a pulled trigger and the target it hits, the breathe of every soldier on a battle field. You should know nothing gets past him. You whine, low and needy and intentional, squeeze around his cock and push at his chest "c'mon si...why did you stop?"
Ghost narrows his eyes, fully sits up until he's resting on his heels, arms crossed and thighs keeping your legs spread open. "Stop that. Fuckin– stop it."
You twist in the sheets like a trapped animal, try to entice him to keep moving. Using all those tricks because you know he likes it from the way his cock twitches—
"I. Said. Stop." Two large hands pin you down, and when you finally meet ghost's eyes he looks furious "thought I wouldn't notice that fake shit? Fuckin' mocking me?"
Your stomach twists when he thrusts in, slow and deep, studying your every expression. "You think i can't make you scream? Can't please you?"
"You do! Si– you do please me–" you try to plead, clenching tight at the next thrust. "It's not because of that! You feel good, I promise–"
"Then what? Huh?" Another, deeper thrust that has your mind nearly shutting off from pleasure. His whole body rolls into it, more consciously putting on a performance for you now.
"It's...I...I don't make noise, si. I'm not loud." You whisper, face pinched. "I didn't want you to think I'm not enjoying it..."
For a moment, ghost just stares at you.
He lowers himself down, muscles moving under skin like a predator stalking prey. Full of potential to ruin you. His arms cage you in until all you can focus on is ghost.
"I want to hear you. Got it? Don't care what it sounds like so long as 's you." He grumbles, really settles his weight back into you.
Tentatively, you nod.
"Good. See? Wasn't so hard, now was it?" He pulls nearly all the way out, tucks back into your neck, and fucks you like he's trying to prove a point.
Quiet gasps, small whimpers and nothing more falls from your lips. Your orgasm is silent only in voice when you rake your hands along his back hard enough to break skin. When you have to bite into his shoulder after the second.
Later, ghost will wear the wounds like a badge of honor. He does need fake moans when he's got all the proof of your pleasure burned into his skin.
Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Little Mermaid” illustrated by contemporary Russian artist Nadezhda Illarionova ~ https://www.artstation.com/nillarionova
We report: the sky speaks of vanishing patterns, past conditions of humidity and wind shear. They only remain in washed up waves of cirrocumulus. Lately, we find it difficult to interpret the movements of the clouds as we usually would. Signs of change instead induce stillness.
In The Sky With Diamonds @daisy-rain-geneva - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
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