the euros / baile inolvidable chp. 2
baile inolvidable masterlist
it's been 5 years since the first time you met misa. you've yet to figure out your own mind, and its time for your first euros.
✢ pairing: misa rodriguez x reader, barca femeni x teammate!reader
✢ a/n: set during 2022 euros. pls dont hate me for how long this took...and s/o mani for dealing w my ass
5 years had gone by since that night in Madrid.
You’ve had 5 years to work out your feelings towards that night, and you’ve yet to make any progress.
Mainly because, by the time you think you’ve moved on, or carefully folded up any memory of the Spanish goalkeeper and placed it in an isolated corner of your brain, another Clasico is looming on the horizon. They seemed to multiply in number every season.
It wasn’t uncommon for the two of you to meet up in the years directly following the first night. Recently, though, you were lucky to get a text.
The lack of physical interaction and conversation didn’t make it any easier to see her, though. Phantom touches burned on your neck and thighs, stealing your focus as you watched her adjust her gloves, those few nights stuck in your memory like you were a branded cow. Branded by Misa, by her touch.
No one knew about any of the nights you shared. You had convenient excuses every time you disappeared in Madrid or denied plans after a home Clasico.
And you thanked the stars every chance you got that you had been able to keep the secret.
Jenni liked to tease. Jenni liked to tease you, and even Alexia could only do so much to alleviate it. You once went on a date with a boy you knew from La Masia. It went fine, you think. You don’t remember much of what he talked about, just that he didn’t shut up and you were too focused on not chewing on your straw and keeping your legs from bouncing to listen to any of it. He had dropped you off at your door with a kiss on the cheek. You had closed the door in his face.
The next two weeks at training were relentless, and you hadn’t even kissed that guy. You don’t even want to know what would happen if anyone found out what you’d done, with a Madridista, with Misa of all people.
So, even as you felt her eyes burning in the back of your skull every time you scored on her–which was a lot, you counted your blessings.
Atleast no one else knew.
Atleast you didn’t have to deal with Jenni’s teasing.
Atleast you didn’t have to explain it to your parents.
Your mom was born and raised in the heart of London, as traditional and conservative as they come. Your dad had grown up in Kailua, a coastal town on Oahu. You weren’t sure how your dad ended up in England or how they met. You never asked. Though, even you could see that they didn’t get married because they were in love. You knew that your dad slept in his office most of the time, and that on the rare occasion you spent time with them, they were never around each other for long.
They both worked within the British government. Again, you didn’t ask, and they didn’t talk about it. All you knew is that they made enough money to sign you up for the fanciest academy in London, to send you to all the best personal trainers, and to buy you new boots every Christmas, even if you didn’t like how they always felt different from your old ones.
And when the offer from La Masia came, just a few weeks after your 15th birthday? They couldn’t get you on a plane quick enough.
You were alone, off to a country where you didn’t speak the language, didn’t know a single soul, and your parents were probably at some cocktail party bragging about their daughter playing football in Spain.
It didn’t get easier for a long time.
The football was amazing–of course it was. It was La Masia. It was Barcelona. Barca’s playing style was just an intricate series of the same patterns again and again. You liked it, and you fit in on the pitch fairly easily. Off the pitch, you had a lot more trouble. You didn’t understand anyone. The bed in your dorm didn’t feel right under your back, and the socks they gave you as part of the kit felt wrong inside your boot. Everywhere you turned there was a new person, introducing themselves in a language you didn’t understand, expecting a handshake or atleast a polite greeting. You managed it, because you didn’t want to be an outcast, but it drained you. Some days you could make it back to the dorms and under your covers before you exploded or shut down. A lot of days you barely made it out of the locker room, darting around the building and finding a spot in the back where the grass came up to your knees and you were sure you wouldn’t be seen before letting the dam burst.
No one ever saw you. Or at least that was what you thought.
What you didn’t know yet was that just around the corner from your spot, on the side of the building you didn’t come from, was a walking path that the first team often used to get from their parking lot to some of the farther training pitches.
You were having a particularly bad day, chest heaving and hands shaking as the emotional and mental exhaustion of masking hit you with full force.
“Ale, escuchas eso?” [Ale, do you hear that?]
“Parece que alguien está… llorando? Espera aquí!” [It sounds like someone’s…crying? Back here, wait!]
Jenni peered around the side of the building and saw you, crouched down in the tall grass, training top still on, sobbing into your hands. Her heart shattered, immediately.
“Qué pasa?” [What’s going on?]
“Shhh! Es una de las chicas de Masia… pobrecita.” [Shh! It’s one of the Masia kids…poor thing.]
“Cuál? Estaba viendo un vídeo de la sub-16 y-” [Which one? I was watching some film from the under-16s and-]
“Ale, shhh! Creo que es una nueva internacional inglesa. La delantera?” [Ale, shh! I think she’s a new international from England. The striker?]
“Oh, es muy talentosa! Recuerdo haberla visto. La ayudamos?” [Oh, she’s really talented, I remember seeing her. Should we help?]
Jenni knew she probably shouldn’t disturb you, but she just felt horrible. She couldn’t imagine being so young, practically a baby, being so far away from home, and still being expected to perform well.
Your head whipped up, your feet immediately moving to try and run away, but the overload of cortisol and adrenaline had you stumbling instead.
“Wait, it’s okay!” Jenni waded into the grass and weeds, trying to look as unintimidating as possible.
“I- uh-” You racked your head for any Spanish word to say, but you got nothing. It only made another sob rip from your chest.
“Nena, it’s okay. Come here?”
You stopped trying to get away, because even mid-panic attack, you were inclined to listen when Jenni Hermoso asked you to do something. Tentatively, you took a step closer, eyes downcast, arms wrapped around your torso, trying to control your breathing and quiet your hiccups; the distraction had temporarily distracted your overactive nervous system.
“That’s good, it’s okay. Do you want a hug?”
You shook your head no. Jenni chuckled to herself.
“Okay, that’s okay. Let’s breath together, si?”
She made a show of taking a deep breath in, holding for a few seconds, and breathing out.
“In for 8 seconds, vale?”
You nodded. In for 8 seconds, out for 8 seconds. It was nice, and it calmed you down alot. Whether it was the eights or the breathing, you weren’t sure. Either way, it worked. You managed to look up, make eye contact for a few seconds before focusing back on the ground. There was a bee on one of the weeds and you watched it.
“That’s better, good job nena. Do you want to talk about what happened?”
You shrugged. “T-tough day…that’s all.” You tried to make your accent less obvious; you already felt enoguh like an outsider without even opening your mouth.
“I get that, I’m sorry. You train with La Masia, si?”
Your tongue wanted to say no, wanted to explain that you played for an academy based in London, the same one you always had. But that wasn’t the crest on your shirt anymore. You weren’t even in the right country. So, even though it felt all sorts of wrong, you nodded.
“I heard you were new. It’s really tough, moving away from home. Have you talked to your mami recently?”
“On Sunday.” That was the rule your mother had decided on. One call per week. Every Sunday afternoon, right after church. You liked the routine of it all, so you did it.
“Sunday? That was 4 days ago. Why don’t you call her tonight? It might make you feel better.”
“Can’t,” you shook your head, “Only on Sundays.”
Jenni was more than perplexed, but she didn’t want to argue with you. “Oh…okay then. Well, have you had dinner? Me and Ale were just headed to grab something, neither of us feel like cooking tonight.”
You played with the hem of your top, twisting and untwisting again and again. You usually went to the cafeteria, sat at the same table.
“It won’t take too long! We’ll have you back in your dorm with plenty of time before curfew.”
You weighed your options, but you ended up nodding. Jenni was nice, and she was speaking English.
That dinner was the first time you had properly laughed since you touched down in Spain. Alexia’s English wasn’t great, and it made for some funny moments. Jenni didn’t stop talking the entire time, whether it was translating or telling some insane story, and she had you constantly laughing into your bowl of outrageously spicy curry.
From then on, Jenni and Alexia made sure you were okay. Jenni helped with the language barrier, speaking in a weird kind of Spanglish that helped the words feel more familiar in your head. Alexia helped in other ways, making sure you always had food or offering to have a kick about after training.
They became something familiar, safe, and constant in a world where nothing seemed certain to you anymore. Football got easier as well; your teammates seemed like nice people, though you weren’t sure you would call any of them your friends yet. Except maybe Ona. She sat with you during lunch and didn’t talk, just let you exist in silence. It was nice, and you sat with her again the next day too.
A few Sundays after the first time you met Alexia and Jenni, you mentioned them to your mom on the phone.
“And I went to Alexia and Jenni’s place and-“
“Alexia and Jenni? Who are they?”
“They play for the first team. They’re really nice.”
“So they’re adults? And they’re roommates?”
“Well, they’re roommates technically, but they’re dating.”
“What? You’re hanging out with lesbians?”
“Isla, do I need to bring you back home? I didn’t know they had lesbians in Spain..”
“No, mum, it’s fine. I- I won’t talk to them anymore, okay? I’m sorry.”
“You better not, young lady.”
That was the last time you mentioned any of your new teammates to your mom.
You didn’t mention your drunk night out in Madrid to your parents. You didn’t mention your text chains with the keeper. You definitely didn’t ever mention your plans after a Clasico. Your conversations were kept to football, match results and training milestones you hit. Not that she really cared about any of that, just that you were doing well in training and not embarrassing her and the family name.
But you remembered that one conversation with your mother, low in your chest, whenever you were with Alexia and Jenni, or listened to Ona talk about the girl she had went on a date with.
The pressure of her words made it hard to breathe when you thought too long about what you were doing with Misa.
The mechanical whirring of the recovery boots filled the air of the room, inflating and deflating in a perfectly recurrent cycle. You counted 8 runs, then 8 more. The Lioness crest was plastered on the wall behind you, on your shirt, on everyone’s shirt, actually. You felt the weight of it, right over your heart where the decal was placed on the vest top.
You played your first ever European Championship Quarterfinal tomorrow. After a light session in the morning, everyone had been ordered to recover their bodies as much as possible; for you, that meant the boots. Every other recovery tool was a stimulatory nightmare, but the encompassing pressure of the boots was a sensation you were actually quite fond of. It ever-so-slightly quieted the anxiety that had been ever-present since you were named to the roster. England was set to play Spain, and everyone knew it wasn’t going to be an easy match, even with the absence of Alexia Putellas courtesy of her ACL. For you, it was eerily familiar and extremely terrifying. You knew better than most how good most of those players were. Though, your experiences gave your team a much deeper insight than any scouting report could ever provide.
You knew from hours of finishing practice how Pina angled her hips slightly differently when going for a high-driven shot, giving the England keepers an extra half-second to get a jump on it. You could teach them the Catalan terms for different things, so they were all on the same page when Irene dictated play out of the back line.
You could also tell them how their backup keeper’s fingers felt inside of you, what she smells like after sex, and what scent of shampoo she uses, but you kept that to yourself.
Well, she was their backup keeper.
“Keke, translate this, will you?”
You had a second to react before Ella Toone’s phone was flying into your lap. On the screen was an Instagram story from Spain’s account. Medical Release.
It took you a few seconds to read over and translate, then another few to process what you had read.
“What’s it say kid?” Leah was interested now. You shook yourself out of it to answer your skipper.
“Um, Paños is out. Ankle injury in training.”
“No shot, their keeper is injured? Now?”
“This is good for us, hope she’s not too badly injured though..”
Your teammates voiced their opinions, wondering out loud how this would effect our game plan for the next day, and what this meant for Spain’s defense. Your thinking was done inside your head, though. Because now all you could think about was that you were going to have to face Misa.
You had never played each other at the senior national level. Misa had just recently broken into the senior team, and had only made a few appearances. You knew it had to piss her off, always being on the bench, but you also knew that being a goalkeeper demanded a kind of patience and acceptance of second place that you didn’t possess.
Tomorrow would be a different form of the same rivalry that had always defined your relationship with Misa. The kits would be different, but it was all the same in what mattered. You needed to score on her, and score on her alot. You needed to make sure this match ended just like it always did when you faced eachother: Misa full of rage, and your name on the scoresheet.
You suppose the stakes were a bit higher than usual this time, the Eurocup being a bit bigger deal than the Spanish Supercopa. Although every Clasico felt the same to you, if not more intense each time you played one. Alexia said it was the Culer in you growing to take up more space in your brain, but you knew it was actually Misa squirming her way into every free crevice of your body.
“Well, Keke knows her pretty well, don’t you?”
Georgia snapped you out of your thoughts and back into the real world.
“I said you know Misa well, you’ve played against her a bunch, right?”
“Oh, um, yeah I guess I have.”
“Yeah, and she’s scored on her like a million times!” Lucy and Keira high-fived from the ice bath.
“You’ve scored in every El Clasico you’ve ever played in,” Beth added from the massage table.
“I have? How do you know that? Why do you know that?”
“Alright, alright. Keke, you know how to score on Misa, right?”
You shrugged at your captain, but you suppose your record spoke for yourself.
“Good enough. Strikers, get together tonight and get Keke to share her notes on her, alright?”
A resounding chorus of “yes ma’am”s sounded among the room, and the pit in your stomach grew. Now you were responsible for the entire attack unit? Having to recall every detail of your teammates’ lives in earlier meetings was bad enough, and now you’re tasked with deconstructing the playing style and forming the offensive strategies against your…Misa…
You weren’t one to ignore an instruction from your captain, though, so you complied, pulling a whiteboard into one of the lounge rooms and sketching notes and diagrams. It wasn’t difficult; all you ever thought about was football, and you’d spent a considerable amount of time analyzing Misa, whether in a productive manner or otherwise. So you spat out your jumbled thoughts onto the board, offering haphazard explanations when your teammates couldn’t decipher your handwriting.
“I thought your handwriting was good, Keke? It was always neat in your film notebook.”
“Brain’s going too fast, my hand is too slow.”
Alessia shut up, having learned quickly to not try to understand your brain too much. You preferred it that way, usually. You wished Lucy was in the striker’s group. She always understood your football brain. And your brain in general. It was refreshing.
You talked about her tendencies in the box, how she set up her defense for a free kick, how she moved during a corner. You broke apart the way she created play out of the back. You even spent some time discussing her tendency to be a hot head, and how you could use that to your advantage.
Misa was on your mind when you went to sleep, when you woke up, while you ate breakfast.
You took your pre-match walk, taking a few minutes to say hi to your teammates and friends, made eye contact with Misa once, twice, three times before you went off on your own, music blasting loud enough in your headphones to block out the rest of the world.
Like most game days, pregame and warm ups were a blur of the same routine it always was. Suddenly you were at center pitch and the referee’s whistle pierced through the air, signaling the start of 90 minutes of your personal hell.
The match was everything you expected. Heated, fast-paced, high level football between two world class teams with too much personal interconnection.
Halftime came with no score, not without a lack of trying on your end. You, Beth, Hempo, Lessie, all had been doing everything you could to break through Spain’s defense. You had gotten a few shots off, but nothing that Misa couldn’t handle. You were impressed that she was able to keep a clean sheet thus far, but you knew you couldn’t let her keep it. You knew you needed to find another gear and send them home.
10 minutes into the second half, Esther Gonzalez opened the scoring for the match. It shook the squad, a stark reminder of how easily things could go. To you, it doubled your expectations for yourself.
Deep breaths, 8 in and 8 out as you walked back to center position, and you were ready to go. Ready to break through Spain’s press, through their backline and right through their keeper. At this point, it wasn’t personal. It wasn’t your friends, teammates, mentors, or your…Misa…on the other side of the pitch. It was just your enemy.
It took until the 84th minute for Ella Toone to make it happen. And it took you 10 more minutes to cement your name in history as well.
Extra time was ticking down, and no one wanted to go into overtime. A last ditch effort, a final run, and a shot that contained all the power left in your exhausted body.
You weren’t going to celebrate, but you were thrown around so much by everyone else’s chaos that you didn’t even need to try. And maybe a smile grew on your face for a second or two, but you didn’t know anything about that.
Although your happiness was short lived. It killed you to see the teammates that had become your family so gutted about being eliminated. You made your rounds, skipping out on the celebrations with your team to make sure your people were okay. You pulled Ona and Laia up from the grass, tackled Aitana in one of your rare hugs that she loved, and let Leila ruffle your hair without complaining. And then you ended up face to face with Misa.
“Buen partido.” [Good game.]
“Eres un peligro.” [You’re a menace.]
“Lo siento. Que tengas que volver a casa.” [I’m sorry. That you have to go home.]
Misa scoffed, and fought the urge to roll her eyes. “De todas formas, el clima es mejor allí.” [The weather is better there anyways.]
You nodded. That was true, even if it was summer in England.
Misa’s eyes held onto yours. The eye contact lasted longer than you could usually handle and then stretched another few seconds. You didn’t feel the pull to look away like you always did.
You both got pulled away by your respective teammates, and you weren’t even 20 feet away before you felt the pit in your stomach and the weight on your chest.
After successfully bypassing media and getting back into the changing room, your hands moved without input from your brain, tapping her contact and typing without thinking.
Can I see you before you go back to Spain?
Celebrations raged around you. You had just won the Euros, after all. Sprays of champagne and beer splashing your face, screaming on someone’s Instagram livestream, sweaty bodies of your teammates constantly in contact with your skin in hugs and arms thrown around shoulders–it was all mud in your brain though, every neural connection leading back to the goalkeeper that has infested your mind.
You checked your phone ever 5 minutes for the next three days to see if she would text you back.
You didn’t. She had left you on read.
You were a European Champion.
You lifted the trophy on your home soil, taken all the pictures, watched everyone get too drunk at the afterparty, and yet all you could think about was the Read on 7/20/2022 in your text thread with Misa.
Moreso, you couldn’t stop thinking about why you couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Why the pit in your stomach hadn’t gone away since you had broken eye contact after the match.
Why her eyes haunted your dreams and woke you up in the middle of the night, keeping you awake until you satisfied the ache she left behind yourself, soft whimpers of her name escaping into the darkness of your room.
The lingering craving kept steady through your summer break, although you wouldn’t exactly count it as much of a break. You didn’t like to take vacations. You were forced to spend a few days with teammates in Ibiza before gratefully settling back into a routine in London for the few free weeks you had before preseason.
You trained with Lucy–who you were thrilled would be joining you in Spain, by the way–and whoever else you could convince to join you, took long walks around the city, and avoiding your mother at all costs.
“You know, I think it’s time we start looking for a husband for you, dear.”
“What? You’re not getting any younger, and your father and I have received plenty of offers from our friends. There are lots of nice boys willing to court you, even with the football nonsense you insist on.”
“Mom, I- I don’t want to be sold off like a cow.”
“You aren’t being sold, dear. You get to pick.”
“I don’t want any of them,” you mumbled, standing up and making sure to push in your chair before storming out of the dining room.
You wanted to throw up at the mere thought of the boys you had grown up around, snooty and spoiled and used to getting everything they wanted–including women and their bodies.
It was the unfortunate reality of higher society. Assault, rape, harrasment, it was all disturbingly normal behavior both for the business and politicians who ran the state and their sons that you shared a school with.
Thankfully, your interest in football and clear disinterest in any of them had deterred them for most of your life, although there had been an increase in attempts once you became a professional athlete.
Even the thought of those boys was enough to make your stomach turn most days. The thought of being made to marry one though? It made your skin crawl.
That was a truth. Well, part of the truth.
Your nausea didn’t just have to do with the idea of being used as a wife to a rich London boy. It had everything to do with the image of Misa’s face that crossed your mind every time your mother mentioned a boyfriend or a husband. You checked your messages again. Still on read.
You sighed, falling back onto your bed and covering your face with your hands, only fantasizing Misa’s long, thick fingers spread over your skin instead.
It wasn’t until November that you saw Misa again.
You were over it, atleast that’s what you told yourself.
Even you, and your very limited knowledge of healthy relationships, knew that whatever was going on wasn’t sustainable or healthy. Especially after the months of radio silence between the two of you.
And the fact you hadn’t stopped dreaming about her.
So you were done with her. And there was no reason in particular that the air before the first Clasico of the season seemed extra charged. You couldn’t have been more excited to score on her. And you did, along with Patri, Aitana, and Frido.
Needless to say, Misa was thoroughly frustrated by the ending whistle.
Post-match formalities ensued as usual. You weren’t planning on talking to Misa, but she found you in the tunnel, pulling you away from your conversation with Pina.
“My place, tonight. You still have the address?”
It took your brain a few seconds to catch up to the whispered words. Once it did, you didn’t hesitate. You nodded once and walked away.
“What was that all about?”
“Stupid banter. I hate Madrid.”
Your leg bounced uncontrollably as the Uber took you closer to the address that you couldn’t help but remember.
The team had started the drive back to Barcelona that night. You made some bullshit excuse about having a last minute sponsership meeting in Madrid the next morning, and promised to catch a flight that would have you home in time for the late afternoon recovery session. No one asked too many questions.
You didn’t need to knock. Misa was already at the door when you arrived.
Without a second spared to exchange casualties, her lips were up against yours. Her perfume invaded the air around you, making you drunk off her scent. She was everywhere, all at once. Her lips, incessant on yours. Her hands, mapping your curves like she was trying to quickly reacquaint herself with your body. Her breath, her weight, her heat. The thump of her heartbeat against your chest.
All your senses, consumed entirely by Misa Rodriguez.
She seemed determined tonight to ruin you, if her unforgiving grip on your hips was anything to go by. Stumbling, she blindly led you back to her bedroom, her lips never ceasing their attack on your face. Your fingers found the nape of her neck, trying desperating to keep yourself grounded. You were ridiculously turned on, the slick, uncomfortable feelings between your thighs already threatening to pull you out of the moment.
Luckily, Misa’s apartment wasn’t huge and before you knew it, your back was connecting with the plush comforter that covered her bed. She was on top of you immediately, hands pushing underneath your t-shirt and quickly removing the offensive article of clothing.
You pulled away from her hungry mouth, only because you felt faint from lack of air, and helped her in removing the rest of your clothes. Only when you were bare did you remember that Misa needed to be undressed too, and you hurried to correct that.
The sigh you let out at seeing her body didn’t go unnoticed by either of you, based on the cocky smirk that took over Misa’s face.
“Missed me, Keke?” she murmured, close enough for you to feel her breath on your lips, but not closing the gap.
You didn’t trust your words, so you pulled her down by the back of her neck and tried to show her how much you missed her.
Her wandering hands didn’t stop, moving to carefully knead the flesh of your breasts. She shifted her weight so her thigh slotted carefully between yours. The first touch of friction against your soaked cunt was electric, sending sparks through your body. Your strangled gasp made Misa smile against your mouth, as you fumbled to keep your hold on her shoulders.
Your hips worked in tandem to match the gentle rocking motion she set. She flexed her quad and the pleasure multiplied; your kisses became sloppy as you struggled to split your focus. The victorious spark was obvious in her eyes when she pulled away. It seemed that she had achieved her goal of taking you apart, and you had only been here for, what, 20 minutes?
“Mari-” you choked out, feeling the now-familair tightening in your lower belly. You whined when she pulled away.
“Come on, superestrella, we both know you don’t like to come like that. And how many times I gotta ask you to call me Misa?”
You had to admit she was right, the one time you had come grinding on her ridiculously sculpted thighs hadn’t been a great orgasm, even if it was hot. As for the other thing, you shook your head. You liked Maria Isabel just fine.
All you could do was pout as she shifted from being on top to the side.
“Don’t look like such a kicked puppy, bebe. You know I’m going to make you come.”
“I better? Who told you you could start ordering me around?”
“Maria,” you whined, leaning over to kiss her, immediately allowing her tongue into your mouth to resume its explorations.
“Shh, I know,” she pulled away, far too soon for your liking, but the serious look on her face had you sitting up slightly. It was different than you had ever seen her. Her normal intense, confident gaze had fallen away, and she seemed almost nervous?
“Yeah…yeah, all good. I want to try something tonight, thought. You can say no, of course, but I’d really like to fuck you with my strap.”
You had yet to get used to Misa’s crude mouth, and you were left speechless for a few moments. Misa misread your surprise as hesitation, and immediately started again.
“If you aren’t comfortable with it, we don’t have to do it, obviously. I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable, Keke, never-”
You nodded. Sure, it would be your first time with something like that, but the mental image of Misa on top of you, snapping her hips and keeping herself up on her forearms, breathing heavily and never breaking eye contact, overruled any reluctance you may have had.
“Shit, okay. I wasn’t expecting you to say yes, honestly.”
Misa shrugged, swinging her legs off the bed and heading for the closet. In the few minutes it took her to strap up, your mind wandered a bit, some of the initial doubt creeping back in. It had been months since you had last seen her, and yet it felt like no time had passed. You two seemed to have this natural rhythm whenever you were together. Everything felt correct, and you didn’t remember to panic like usual. You breathed in and out for 8 seconds, getting through 2 rounds before Misa returned.
You couldn’t stop your eyes from bugging out of your head at the sight before you. The harness seemed to accentuate the chiseled lines of her abdomen, drawing your eyes to her groin and the ridiculous piece of silicone attached to her hips.
“See something you like?”
Even in the dim light of the room you could see her amused smile as she approached the bed again.
She crawled onto the bed, gently pressing back your shoulder so you were laying against the pillows and she could crawl on top of you. Her lips found yours, then your cheek and your jaw. They lingered, contemplating, before retreating. No marks allowed.
You jolted at the first swipe of her fingers through your folds, the amount of accumulated slick bordering on ridiculous.
Misa’s ring and middle fingers slid in without resistance, immediately setting a considerable pace and curling forward, searching.
You stuttered out her name, hand shooting down to her wrist, not to stop her, but to try and ground yourself.
“You wanna come before I fuck you?”
How inconsiderate of her to ask you a question while putting you in this state, but alas you managed an answer.
“N-no, no wanna c-come on you-”
“Wanna come on my cock, superestrella?”
All you could do was nod, her fingers only speeding up. Your mewl was her warning to pull out, ripping a whine from your throat before you could stop it.
“I got you Keke, breath for me, okay? In, and out. Good, again. In, and-”
On your exhale, she lined up the plastic sunk in just the tip. You cursed, already feeling more of a stretch than Misa’s fingers had ever been capable of.
It was agonizing, how long Misa took, pushing in just an inch at a time. She just wanted to make sure you were comfortable, she said, but your brain was fried with anticipation after Misa had already edged you twice that night. All you felt was a deep, animalistic urge for Misa to fuck you until your brain leaked out of your pussy.
As soon as she bottomed out, she looked you in the eyes, searching for signs of discomfort, but all she saw was hunger. She knew she had been a little mean with the edging, and knew it was time to give you what you wanted.
Being a professional athlete came with plenty of perks that you were already familiar with. You learned a new one that night: Misa’s stamina with a strap.
She clearly knew was she was doing. She wealded the silicone like a professional, ramming the tip into your sweet spot over and over, overloading your brain with pleasure.
You came apart, your vaginal muscles spasming around the silicone no less than 3 times before you both tapped out. You managed to give Misa one of her own with your tongue before collapsing into the blankets wrapped around her, the sun already peaking above the horizon.
“That was awesome,” the keeper breathed out, gently tracing patterns on your bare back.
“I have a flight at noon,” you managed to croak out before succumbing to sleep, head pillowed on Misa’s lap and at the most peace you’d felt in months.
