MARTINA

[https-prettycunt]

   𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒂. 20s. bisexual. uk bimbo. lit ho. gin slut. cum scholar. lipstick dom. lana del girl. vera farmiga. girls that kill. haunted & horny. morticia addams. melissa schemmenti. catherine zeta-jones. lorraine warren. taylor swift. sabrina carpenter. fleetwood mac. bdsm. cigarette kisses. red nails. cum on lace. girls with knives. philosophical brats. ruined men. overstimulation. mascara tears.

ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ- masterlist • taglist • about me • ko-fi

[pattique]

⋆｡ﾟ HOLD STILL, PRINCESS - jennifer jareau - 10k

she told you to behave. you didn’t. now she’s quiet, calm, unrelenting. dragging it out until you’re soaked, breathless, and begging to be touched. she doesn’t let you finish. not until your voice breaks and your legs won’t stop shaking.

no plot • g!p jj • soft dom!jj • sub!reader • dominance & submission • rough sex • overstimulation • size kink • throatfucking • fingering in public (referenced) • creampie • pussy worship • begging & obedience • choking (consensual) • praise kink • degradation kink • power imbalance • nipple slapping • breast play • multiple orgasms • face sitting (implied) • reader cries from pleasure • intense eye contact • post-orgasm denial • aftercare • emotional ruin

𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐎-𝐅𝐈

The Behavioral Analysis Unit is always silent at this hour, but tonight feels heavier. The halls are cold and hushed, humming with that quiet electronic buzz of machines left in sleep mode, monitors blinking soft amber in the dark.

The echo of your footsteps fades quickly over the carpet, swallowed up by the weight of the building. You pass the case board and it’s half-disassembled, half-lit by the security lighting above, crime scene photos and suspect timelines already curling at the edges. The air smells faintly like burned coffee and the citrusy sharpness of industrial cleaner.

All the overhead fluorescents are off except the ones on the edge of the bullpen, where JJ’s office glows in that low amber warmth that always makes her space look like it belongs in another world. You can see her silhouette through the glass, tall and still, one hand resting on her hip like she owns the silence around her. Her door is cracked just enough to hear your boots stop in front of it. She doesn’t turn to look. She knows it’s you. She always knows.

Her office smells like her perfume and old leather and the inside of a locked drawer. Everything is deliberate. Her files are aligned. Her pens are capped in even rows. The blinds are mostly closed but tilted just enough that anyone outside could still see your shape if they looked closely enough. Her chair is pushed slightly back from her desk like she’s been waiting for you.

Your heart jumps when you see the glint of her belt buckle. The tension in your chest hasn’t eased since that night in the hotel, since the first time she kissed you, since the first time she backed you against a door and pulled her cock out like it was a weapon she’d been meaning to use for years.

You’d had a crush on her since the first week. It was pathetic. It was constant. And it burned out of control the second she put her mouth on your throat and pressed the length of her cock into your belly like she was daring you to beg for it.

You remember that night in terrifying, perfect clarity. Her hotel room was dim and smelled like rain and whiskey. You had been tipsy, her voice rough from laughter, your breath uneven from something unspoken stretching tight between you. She shut the door and locked it without asking.

Then she grabbed your hips and walked you back until your spine hit the wall. You tried to speak. She kissed you hard enough to swallow the sound. Her hands were cold from the rain and moved with sharp purpose, dragging your shirt over your head, popping the button of your jeans without hesitation.

You felt her cock through her slacks, already hard and pressed hot to your stomach. You looked down and saw the thick outline of it pushing tight under the fabric, no harness, no adjustment straps. Just her. Real. Heavy. Hard. When she unzipped, you gasped.

The head flushed deep pink, already wet, ridged and slightly curved, long and girthy and absolutely nothing like what you’d expected. It hung heavy between her thighs as she stroked it once, watching your face.

“You okay?” she murmured, voice dark and steady. You nodded like your life depended on it. “Good,” she whispered. “Get on the bed.”

The bed was too soft. Your body trembled the second your back hit it. She climbed over you with her shirt still half-buttoned and her pants open, cock swinging with the slow roll of her hips. You felt small beneath her.

She grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand, the other wrapping around the base of her cock and dragging the tip through your soaked folds like she already knew exactly what you needed.

“You’re dripping,” she whispered against your cheek. “You’ve wanted this for how long?” You whimpered something that sounded like her name. She pressed the head to your entrance and didn’t wait. She pushed in slowly, inch by inch, thick and deep and endless.

Your cunt stretched tight, trembling, the walls fluttering around her in protest. She didn’t stop until her hips pressed flush to yours and your legs kicked weakly around her waist. “Fuck,” she breathed.

“You’re so warm like this. You’re so fucking tight.” You couldn’t answer. Her cock filled you to the point of tears, burning, perfect, too much. She kissed the side of your mouth and said, “Breathe through it. I’m not pulling out.”

And she didn’t. She rocked into you like she’d been waiting forever, slow and grinding, using her hips to force you open inch by inch. You felt her everywhere. The blunt head of her cock nudged up against your cervix with every deep press, her weight pinning you to the mattress like gravity itself belonged to her.

Your arms strained under her hold. Your legs ached from how wide she kept them spread. Her voice turned low and possessive in your ear. “That’s it. Take it. You’re taking all of me, baby.”

She shifted deeper and you cried out into her throat, your pussy convulsing around her, slick pouring down the insides of your thighs. Her cock twitched inside you and she held herself there, buried, breath rough, body tight.

“This pussy is mine now,” she growled. “You understand me?” You nodded, dizzy, tears on your lashes. “Say it.”

You choked the words out, and she rewarded you by fucking you so hard the headboard slammed once against the wall and the picture frame on the desk cracked. You came sobbing, and she didn’t stop until you did it again.

The memory fades slowly, like steam off glass, and you find yourself right where you started — trembling in her lap, impaled on her cock, with her hand cupping the back of your neck like she owns the bones there. The room is warmer than it was twenty minutes ago, heavy with the scent of sweat and your slick dripping down the inside of her thighs.

JJ hasn’t moved, not really.

She’s still seated in her chair with her shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, one hand curled around your lower back, her legs spread wide so she can keep you stuffed full and helpless. Your skirt is pushed around your waist.

Your panties are somewhere near the door. Her cock is deep inside you, twitching occasionally, thick and impossibly hot, the same cock that ruined you in that hotel bed months ago and still ruins you now.

You’re not allowed to ride. You’re not allowed to grind. You’re not allowed to speak. You’re just supposed to sit. Warm and wet and obedient.

She’s staring straight ahead, her face composed and professional like she isn’t seated balls-deep inside you. Her cock fills you completely, stretching your cunt around every impossible inch. You can feel the way the thick head nudges your cervix with each slight adjustment of your hips, how the ridge of it scrapes lightly against the tender front of your walls when you even breathe too hard.

Your clit is swollen and throbbing where it rests against the neatly trimmed hair at the base of her cock, and your inner thighs are slick with how wet you’ve been since the second she bent you over her desk and forced you down on her with one firm push.

Your hands tremble where they clutch at her shoulders. You don’t dare move them. She hasn’t given you permission. Not since she tapped her speakerphone and greeted Garcia like she wasn’t breaking you open in silence.

You’d tried. God, you really tried. You stayed still through the first half of the call. Bit your tongue. Focused on your breathing. Focused on the case details. But then she’d shifted her hips, just slightly, and her cock had dragged forward just enough to grind against your clit. You gasped before you could stop it.

A soft little sound, high and sharp in your throat. The kind of sound that doesn’t go unnoticed. The kind of sound that earns you exactly what you’re about to get.

The call ends. The room goes quiet again.

JJ doesn’t say anything. She just reaches forward and taps the speakerphone off with one finger, then leans back slowly in her chair and stares at you.

You’re straddling her like a mess, your pussy stretched wide around her cock, slick pooling beneath you, your lip bitten red from trying not to cry from how close you are. She raises one eyebrow, cool and calm.

“You couldn’t make it five minutes,” she says softly. “I asked you for one thing.”

Your chest seizes. You try to speak, but she slides her palm up your spine and grabs the base of your neck hard enough to make your breath catch.

“Shhh,” she says. “No excuses.”

Her other hand slides down to your waist. She lifts you, slowly, smoothly, until just the tip of her cock is left inside you. You whimper. Your cunt clenches hard, clinging to the head of her cock like it doesn’t want to let go. She holds you there, trembling, stretched, ruined.

“I want you to feel every inch of what you almost lost,” JJ murmurs.

Then she slams you down.

The impact knocks a gasp from your lungs. Her cock drives back in all at once, thick and brutal and deep, splitting you open like your body was made to take her.

Her hands tighten, guiding your hips, dragging you forward and down again. She doesn’t let you ride. She uses you. She forces your hips up, then down again, her cock punching deep into your cunt over and over until you’re moaning helplessly, legs shaking, arms clinging around her neck like it’s the only way to stay grounded.

“You thought I wouldn’t fuck you for that?” JJ hisses into your ear. “You thought you could get away with making noise like a needy little slut on my cock while I’m on a call?”

You sob something that sounds like her name. She growls.

“This pussy’s mine,” she snaps. “You only get to cum when I say. Not when your greedy little cunt decides it’s time.”

Her cock presses deep again, grinding, dragging hard along your walls. You cry out, your whole body going tight. You’re so close it’s unbearable. She feels it. Of course she does.

“Don’t you dare,” she growls. “Hold it.”

You nod frantically, tears spilling down your cheeks. Your clit is on fire, your cunt stretched tight around her, soaking her cock with every thrust. You’ve never needed anything so badly.

JJ’s breath is rough in your ear now, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your ass as she slams up into you harder. The desk chair creaks beneath you. Your moans echo through the office. The lights flicker above, flicking shadows across the blinds.

“Cum when I say,” she growls again.

And then she stops.

Her cock stays deep, her hips frozen, her breath warm against your neck.

“You want to finish?” she whispers. “You want to cum for me, baby?”

You nod so hard your whole body shakes.

“Then get off and on your knees. Right now.”

Your knees sink into the carpet the way your body sinks into submission. It’s immediate. It’s automatic. You barely register the way the cold fibres burn against your bare skin or how the muscles in your legs already scream from tension. You just fall. Fall from her lap, fall into her hands, fall into place.

JJ guides you down like it’s nothing, like it’s instinct for her to turn you pliant with one command. She doesn’t yank you or shove you. She just presses a steady palm to your shoulder, lets her fingers tighten until you’re kneeling in front of her, breath shaky, your whole body trembling from the shock of being emptied so suddenly after sitting so full.

Her cock hangs hard and flushed between her thighs, glossy with your slick, the tip still wet and twitching, veins ridged, the base thick where it connects to her body. You stare at it, pupils wide, lips parted. You feel dazed, dizzy, humiliated, and so fucking hungry.

She leans back in her chair and spreads her thighs just slightly wider, her slacks open but still half on, her belt dangling undone on one side like she’d never planned to finish getting undressed. It’s a power move. Always is. She never strips for you unless she’s planning to ruin you slow.

You can see the shadow of her abs beneath the tight stretch of her blouse, the way the fabric sticks slightly to her skin from the heat of holding you earlier. Her hair’s still perfect. Her expression is still calm. But her eyes? They’re fucking molten. She watches you from above like she’s not just in control of your orgasm but your breath, your name, your mind.

Her cock twitches once. Your body responds like a livewire — a pulse through your cunt, a clench of your thighs, a sound in your throat that isn’t even language. You’re panting without meaning to. Begging with your body. She notices. She always does.

“Go on,” she says softly, her voice thick like honey and venom. “Show me how sorry you are.”

The words melt through your spine. You don’t even think. Your hands move first, settling on her thighs for balance, fingertips curling into the fabric of her pants like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. You inch forward, breath catching, the scent of her cock hitting you in a wave — clean skin and sweat and sex.

Your mouth opens before you reach her, lips parted, tongue twitching slightly, like you’re starving. You start with the base. Slow. Devotional. You press your tongue flat to the underside and drag it up the thick curve of her shaft, tasting yourself, dragging every drop of slick she stole from your cunt back onto your lips.

You moan against her. Her cock jumps. You keep going. You mouth along the side, tongue flicking around the crown, then back to the slit to suck gently. She’s soaked there. You lap her up like it’s communion.

JJ exhales through her nose. “You’re so desperate for it,” she murmurs. “You gonna cry if I don’t let you choke on it?”

You nod. You don’t even pretend you’re not already crying.

Her hand sinks into your hair, not rough, just firm. A leash without the rope. She guides you to the tip again, and you open wide, lips stretched, jaw aching before you even take her in. The head of her cock presses past your teeth, hot and swollen. You hum around it, tongue licking at the underside as she pushes deeper, filling your mouth inch by inch.

The thickness of her, the weight, it makes your eyes water. You gag softly. She stops. Lets you breathe. Her fingers tighten just slightly, and you ease forward again, taking more. She grits her teeth.

“Just like that,” she rasps. “Take my cock. You love it, don’t you?”

You nod while she’s inside you. It’s pathetic. It’s perfect. Your cunt is weeping. You can feel your slick running down your thighs, soaking the inside of your boots. Your clit pulses. Your jaw throbs. You suck harder.

You pull back slowly, then take her in again, dragging your tongue over the head on the way down. You hollow your cheeks and stroke her with your mouth, sloppy and reverent, every noise echoing between the office walls.

You hear the wetness. You hear your own gasps. You hear her sighs, quiet and tense, like she’s just barely holding herself back.

JJ doesn’t fuck your face. She lets you do the work. Lets you show how badly you want it. How much you’ve learned. How well you’ve memorized her shape, her rhythm, the way her cock curves just slightly to the left when she’s throbbing for you.

You kiss the tip. You whisper against her slit. You drag your tongue around the ridge and nuzzle your cheek to the base, begging, silently, not for her cum, but for her praise. Your own orgasm is gone from your mind. All that matters is the way she looks at you when she’s satisfied.

But then she says it.

“Stop.”

You freeze, lips barely grazing her shaft. Your stomach drops.

“Sit back,” JJ says, voice low and calm. “Hands behind your back.”

You do it. Knees wide. Cunt leaking. Throat raw. You sit back on your heels with your arms tucked behind you, spine straight like you’re being inspected.

She strokes herself slowly in front of you. The tip leaks. She doesn’t finish. She watches you squirm.

“I told you we’re going home frustrated,” she says. “That wasn’t a threat. That was a promise.”

You whimper, lips trembling. Your pussy clenches so tight it hurts.

She tucks her cock back into her slacks, zips up, buckles her belt. Cold. Clinical. Like you’re not on the floor with your mascara ruined and your thighs shaking. She adjusts her sleeves. Fixes her collar. Not one piece of her is out of place. You can’t say the same.

“Get up,” she says as she turns toward the door.

You do. You follow her out without a word.

She doesn’t speak again until you’re both in the elevator. Then she presses you to the wall, grabs your chin, and says:

“When I finally let you cum, you’ll be begging me to stop.”

And you already are.

You pout the whole way out of the building, and you know she sees it. In the elevator, you press your back against the wall, arms crossed like a child, lip jutted out just enough to make a point. JJ doesn’t say a word. Her arms are at her sides, hands in her pockets, body relaxed like none of this touches her.

When the elevator dings, she steps out first, heels echoing in the quiet of the nearly empty garage. You trail behind her, boots hitting the concrete harder than necessary, your skirt sticking to your thighs from how soaked you still are.

Her SUV waits at the far end. The headlights flash once when she hits the key fob. She opens the passenger door for you, silent as ever. You slide in with a heavy sigh, thighs clenched, heart still racing. Every inch of you feels full of need.

JJ gets into the driver’s seat and closes the door with that same quiet control, her posture perfect even now. The interior lights dim and the dash glows faint blue, casting shadows across her cheekbones as she fastens her seatbelt.

She doesn’t speak, doesn’t even look at you as she shifts the car into reverse and pulls out smoothly. Her silence gnaws at your nerves. You look over at her, hoping for softness, for anything, and find nothing but composure.

“That wasn’t fair,” you say finally, voice small, arms crossed again as you turn your face toward the window.

She glances at you, then back to the road. Her tone is even, disinterested. “You moved.”

“I couldn’t help it,” you mumble, already squirming slightly in your seat. “You shifted and your cock hit my—”

“My what?” she asks, cutting you off, her voice still calm, but with a thread of steel running through it.

You look down, your cheeks burning. “My clit.”

“That’s not what you call it when you’re crying for it,” she says flatly. “Try again.”

You swallow. Your voice catches. “My pussy.”

She doesn’t nod. She doesn’t praise you. She just returns her eyes to the road and steers the car into the next lane, changing gears like this is any other Thursday night. Then her right hand lifts from the wheel and drops slowly between your thighs. You gasp audibly the second her palm brushes the inside of your leg.

Your skirt is still hiked up, your panties soaked, your cunt aching. She slides her fingers higher until they press directly against the warm, slick centre of you, her touch light but deliberate, the heat of her skin sinking through the thin cotton. She doesn’t even need to part your legs — they fall open all on their own.

She strokes slow, perfect circles over your clit through the fabric, rubbing gently, steadily, like it’s nothing. Her fingers are warm, controlled. Her touch is so precise it almost hurts. Your hips twitch. Your thighs shake. Her other hand never leaves the wheel.

“Still dripping for me,” JJ murmurs, voice quiet, lazy. “Pathetic.”

Your breath shudders. You try to keep still, try not to move your hips or grind down into her hand, but it’s already happening. You bite your lip. Your eyes shut tight. Her fingers press down harder, slipping the fabric aside, finding your clit bare and swollen and trembling beneath her touch. You nearly cry.

“Don’t you dare grind,” she warns, her tone sharp now. “I’m driving. You’ll sit still and take what I give you.”

You nod frantically, fighting every instinct your body has. The pressure is unbearable. Her fingers move so slowly, teasing over your clit with maddening softness, your slick coating them immediately.

Your whole pussy clenches and flutters, desperate to be filled, your legs trembling from how empty you are. You spread them wider and try to breathe through it. Her knuckle brushes your entrance, and you choke on your own moan.

“Please let me cum,” you whisper. “Please, JJ, I’m so close.”

Her thumb flicks once over your clit. She hums like she’s almost considering it. “I know.”

You whimper. You reach for her wrist, desperate. She smacks your hand away without a second thought, her fingers never missing a beat against your cunt.

“No touching,” she snaps. “You’ll cum when I tell you. Not a second before.”

Your eyes fill. Your pussy pulses hard under her hand. You feel your orgasm crawling up your spine, tightening your chest, flooding your gut. But she keeps you right at the edge. You’re shaking. Clenching. Whining in the seat next to her while she drives like nothing’s happening.

“Please,” you beg. “I can’t take it.”

“You should be grateful I’m even touching you,” she says.

“I am,” you cry. “I am, I swear.”

JJ presses down harder, once. Direct and cruel. It’s perfect. It makes your back arch and your hips buck without meaning to. You whimper loudly, your whole body locking up.

“Don’t,” she says again, and you hear the warning under it this time. “Not one drop. Or I’ll stop the car and leave you in the backseat for the rest of the night.”

You’re sobbing now. Not from sadness. From the pressure. From the ache. From how painfully close you are. You hold your breath and tense your whole body, trying not to move. Your clit throbs under her fingers. You feel soaked. You feel ruined. And then, she stops.

JJ pulls her hand away and returns it to the wheel. She doesn’t wipe it. She doesn’t say a word. She just drives, steady and silent, her cock still stiff under her slacks, your panties pushed to the side, your cunt still twitching in the wet heat of your seat.

The silence is worse than anything. You sit there, ruined, broken open, your orgasm still pulsing deep inside you like a ghost.

Then she speaks.

“We’ll be home in ten minutes,” JJ says. “If you’re still behaving, I’ll let you kneel again.”

The weight of her cock has been a steady throb beneath her slacks the whole drive. Every beat of her pulse presses against the unforgiving fabric, swollen and slick at the head, your voice from earlier still replaying behind her eyes. She keeps her hand on the wheel, the other clenched in her lap now, fingers twitching with restraint. She can still feel the heat of your cunt on her knuckles.

Can still smell you on her skin. Her cock aches, thick and angry, pulsing with every breath she takes as the house comes into view at the end of the road. The headlights sweep the driveway, catching on brick and shrubs and the curve of the porch rail. When she pulls in, it’s smooth. Controlled.

She turns the engine off with a calculated exhale, jaw set, her thighs tight from how hard she’s had to clench just to keep from unzipping herself in the car. Her eyes finally slide toward you — flushed, wrecked, twitching in your seat, and her voice is low, unbothered. “Inside. Strip. On the bed. Head over the edge. Don’t speak.” Then she opens the door and leaves you there.

You’re already fumbling for the handle as she shuts hers. The air hits your bare thighs the second you stumble out, and your soaked panties cling worse with every step toward the front door. Her neighbourhood is quiet, lit only by porch lamps and slanted moonlight.

The key’s already in your hand, you grabbed it from the centre console without thinking and the lock clicks open like it’s been waiting for you. You push into her house fast, cheeks burning, skin hot, thighs soaked.

The scent of her hits you instantly. That faint musk of cologne and dryer sheets and worn leather and something warmer underneath. You kick your boots off at the threshold and nearly trip over yourself as you walk deeper in, trying to unbutton your blouse at the same time.

The house is perfectly clean, as always — dark floors, navy walls, silver-framed photographs, the soft sound of the HVAC humming somewhere in the walls.

You pass the entry table, the basket of Henry’s school supplies, the chair where JJ tosses her holster when she’s home late. Your fingers shake on the last button. You’re already breathless.

You yank the blouse off hard, your arms goose-bumped in the cool air. Your bra digs into your back as you struggle with the clasp, your breasts flushed and heavy and aching when the fabric falls away. You don’t stop. You can’t.

You unzip your skirt with both hands, push it down your hips, and let it crumple at your feet. Your panties are soaked. Completely useless. They cling between your lips and the fabric is sheer from how wet it’s gotten — you whimper as you peel them down and feel how your slick strings between your thighs.

Your clit pulses the second it’s exposed to the air. You’re naked in her living room now, gasping, trembling, already ruined. You don’t bother to cover yourself.

Her bedroom is in the back corner of the house, just off the hall. The carpet muffles your steps as you rush toward it, bare skin brushing against cool walls when you nearly stumble into a picture frame. The door is already ajar.

The lights are dimmed. Her bed dominates the room — king-sized, deep blue sheets, heavy pillows, the faint smell of her shampoo still clinging to the duvet.

You obey without thought. You drop to your knees at the edge of the bed and crawl up, tits swaying with every movement, thighs damp against the cotton.

You lie down on your back, exactly how she told you, your head tilted back over the edge of the mattress so your throat is exposed, your chest lifted. The position stretches you out like an offering.

Your hair spills down like silk toward the floor. Your nipples are hard, aching, pointed straight up toward the ceiling fan above. Your cunt is soaked, your inner thighs tacky, your folds swollen and twitching every time the air hits them.

You’re shaking. Not just from the cold. From the weight of it. The anticipation. The position. The ache. You don’t speak. You don’t dare. You stare up at the ceiling and try to breathe through it. One hand flinches like it wants to cover yourself. You stop it. She told you to wait like this. So you do.

You hear her footsteps finally — the front door clicking shut, her coat rustling as she slips it off, the slow pace of her shoes over the hardwood. She isn’t rushing. She never rushes. You can feel her presence moving closer down the hall, a gravitational pull that makes your belly clench and your mouth go dry.

You want to close your legs. You want to hide. You want to beg. But all you do is lie still, head tipped back, throat bare, chest heaving. Her cock is what you picture — stiff, veiny, thick enough to stretch your jaw, leaking just from the sight of you, her slacks tented as she steps into the room.

She stops at the edge of the bed and looks down at you like something she owns.

“Just like that,” she says. “Keep your mouth open.”

You do.

She stands over you with her slacks already unzipped, the sound of her belt sliding free still ringing in your ears as she lets it hang open. Her cock is thick, flushed dark, curved slightly upward, already leaking at the tip.

You can see how veined it is, how heavy it hangs before it starts to rise higher just from the sight of your face tilted back. Her knuckles drag along the shaft once, slow, almost lazy, spreading her own precum along the ridge of the head as she steps closer to the bed.

She doesn’t need to say a word. Your lips part automatically. Your chest rises with anticipation, your throat exposed, your whole body humming from how badly you need her inside you, anywhere, anything, just to soothe the burn. Her cock rests on your bottom lip, and the weight of it makes your breath catch.

You moan before she even pushes forward. The scent of her hits you hard, deep and musky, mixed with the faintest trace of you still clinging to her. You stare up past her cock to her face, but her eyes are on your mouth, her expression unreadable.

She feeds in slowly, the blunt head parting your lips with precision, your tongue flattening beneath her without instruction. You feel the stretch immediately. She’s wide. Too wide to take comfortably at this angle, but your jaw opens anyway, aching around the pressure.

Her cock slides over your tongue in slow, inching thrusts, deeper each time, your throat already starting to flutter before she’s even halfway in.

Your eyes water. Your hands clutch the edge of the mattress above you.

She groans once, deep in her chest, as she bottoms out. Her cock sinks into your throat until your nose brushes her pelvis, her scent overwhelming, her skin warm against your chin. Your gag reflex kicks once and she doesn’t let up. She just holds you there, one hand fisting in your hair, the other braced on the mattress beside your head.

Your eyes squeeze shut. Your throat flutters around her cock as your body adjusts to the intrusion. You can feel every vein. Every pulse. Your mouth is filled, stuffed, stretched so wide you can barely breathe. She doesn’t speak. She just begins to move.

She fucks your throat in slow, practiced motions, hips rolling forward as your mouth takes her over and over. Each thrust drags along your tongue and sinks into the back of your throat with heavy precision.

Her cock feels hot and alive inside you, twitching every time you moan or choke or suck harder to keep up. Your lips stretch wetly around her girth, spit slipping down the sides of your mouth and dripping over your cheeks.

She grunts quietly above you, one hand still tangled in your hair, keeping you in place. You feel dizzy. Floaty. Owned. Your pussy clenches with every thrust.

You’re soaking the sheets. Your cunt aches with need, clit swollen, folds slick and parted where your thighs fall open. You can feel the way you throb with every sound she makes, every wordless groan from above as your throat spasms around her.

Your pussy flutters each time she presses deeper, your walls gripping nothing, empty and desperate. You grind against the mattress slowly, barely, not enough to cum, but enough to feel something. Your slick smears against the sheets. Your hips twitch. You’re dripping down your thighs.

She pulls out with a wet sound and you gasp, spit clinging to your lips and chin, strands of it still connecting your mouth to her cock. You cough once, chest heaving. She strokes her cock twice, slow and tight, watching your face twitch as you try to catch your breath.

You’re still upside down. The blood rushes to your head. Her cock twitches again, so close to your mouth you can taste the salt of her still on your tongue. You moan and open your mouth again, greedy, ruined.

“Say thank you,” she says quietly, her tone unreadable. “You’re lucky I didn’t fuck your face in the car.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice hoarse, lips swollen. “Please. More.”

She smiles, just barely, and slides back in.

You take her deeper this time. You don’t gag. You just moan.

Her cock slides back in without hesitation this time. You’ve already been stretched open, your throat broken in for her, your spit wet and stringing across your chin. She doesn’t need to go slow anymore. Her hips rock forward and her cock disappears inch by inch past your lips, thick and pulsing, the heavy weight of it pressing into your throat until your eyes water.

She holds your head steady with one hand, fingers tight in your hair, and begins to move in slow, deep thrusts that make your chest jerk. Every glide of her cock over your tongue drags warmth up your spine.

You moan around her, not because you want to — because you have to. Her taste floods your mouth. Precum leaks salty and hot over the back of your tongue. You suck harder, hollow your cheeks, drool freely down your neck.

She groans low and quiet above you, not indulgent — restrained. She watches you closely, her hips angling slightly each time she presses deeper, adjusting to the perfect rhythm that makes your throat tighten just right. Her free hand lifts to her chest, fingers sliding under the hem of her shirt, dragging it up slowly to expose her toned stomach.

She doesn’t rush. She pushes the fabric up until her tits are bared, and then she cups one in her palm. Her nipple is already hard. She squeezes it between her fingers, rolling it idly while she watches you gag on her cock. Her gaze flickers between your swollen lips and your flushed chest, your nipples stiff in the air, your legs twitching uselessly.

You whimper at the sight of her playing with herself and moan even louder around her cock, the vibration making her hiss through her teeth.

Your jaw aches. Your throat burns. But you want more. You pull back slowly, her cock slipping wetly from your mouth, spit glistening across your lips and chin. You breathe heavily for a second, nose brushing her skin, and then you tilt your head further, mouth parting again.

You nuzzle beneath her shaft, your lips dragging softly over the skin there, and you let your tongue trace the warm line of her balls. She twitches immediately. You hum softly, reverently, and suck one into your mouth, slow and gentle, cradling it on your tongue. Her hand tightens in your hair.

She lets out a sound she rarely makes — raw, low, almost a growl. Her thighs tense. You suck deeper, easing both into your mouth, your tongue massaging them with steady pressure while her cock rests heavily against your cheek.

“Fuck,” she mutters, voice thick, hand sliding from her breast back to your head. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

You moan again, the sound muffled by the fullness in your mouth. Your tongue works gently, rhythmically, laving them in spit, your lips closing around them with slow pressure as her breathing grows heavier above you. Her cock twitches against your skin.

She’s so hard it almost aches to look at her. You feel soaked between your thighs, your pussy clenching desperately, your folds parted, your clit throbbing with every sound she makes. You press your thighs together uselessly.

You can’t touch yourself. You wouldn’t dare. But you feel like you might cum just from this, just from the taste of her in your mouth, her hands on her tits, the weight of her cock against your face while she uses you to unwind.

She pulls back suddenly, her grip tightening as she guides you up by the hair. Her cock is soaked with spit, glistening in the low light. Your lips are swollen, your chin slick, your throat raw.

You blink up at her through tears and saliva, and she just looks at you for a long moment. Her chest rises and falls slowly. Her fingers slide down her own stomach, back to her cock, where she strokes herself once, twice, slow and steady.

“Back on the bed,” she says. “Legs spread. Hands behind your head. You're not getting to cum yet, but I want to look at what’s mine.”

Your pussy clenches hard at the sound of it. You move instantly.

You scramble back onto the bed as soon as she tells you, legs trembling as you shift into position. Your head rests against the pillows now, not hanging off the edge, and your thighs fall open in obedience, flushed and slick, your skin hot against the cool sheets.

You clasp your hands behind your head just like she said, elbows bent, arms lifting your breasts slightly. Your nipples are tight, tingling, your chest rising and falling quickly as you try to regulate your breathing.

The mattress dips under her weight as she climbs onto the bed beside you, and you feel the shift of it beneath your back, the springs creaking softly.

The room smells like sex — like sweat, like spit, like arousal — thick and humid, with the air just slightly too warm now. JJ's cock hangs hard between her thighs, flushed and glistening, heavy and perfect. She doesn't speak as she settles between your legs. She just watches you.

Her hand moves slowly over her shaft once, smearing more of her precum along the thick vein that runs up the underside. She doesn’t stroke to get off — she strokes to tease, to make you watch. She brings the head of her cock to your pussy, just resting it there, not pressing in.

The contact makes you whimper immediately, your clit pulsing from the anticipation, the denial, the burn of needing something inside you. Your folds are soaked, your slick dripping down to the sheets, your body trembling with need.

Her cock brushes over your entrance, then up again to your clit, slow and warm and cruelly patient. You buck your hips instinctively, but she places one firm hand on your stomach, holding you down.

The bed frame squeaks again when she leans in closer, the weight of her body settling over yours without fully pinning you. Her shirt is still on, unbuttoned and damp now with sweat at the collar. Her hair sticks slightly to her neck. You can feel her breath against your cheek.

Her tits are flushed, nipples hard, rising and falling with her breath as she holds herself just over you. Her cock teases your pussy again, dragging through the slick folds, gathering your wetness. You’re clenching around nothing, eyes wide, mouth open, the heat between your thighs unbearable.

She pushes in slowly, finally, and your head falls back with a cry. Her cock stretches you open in one smooth glide, filling you deep and thick, the pressure perfect, the angle just right to drag along every sensitive spot inside you.

You sob through it, overwhelmed by the fullness, by the sudden weight of her finally inside you. Her hips press forward until she bottoms out, her pelvis flush against yours, and then she holds there. You can hear both of you breathing — hers steady and deep, yours ragged and high-pitched.

Sweat beads at your temple. Your skin is hot. The bed rocks gently under you, every inch of the mattress creaking with the tension between your bodies.

She doesn’t move yet. She just stays there, cock buried deep in your pussy, her hand still on your stomach, her eyes locked on your face. You feel the heat of her, the pulse of her cock inside you, the way your body tightens around her automatically. Your pussy throbs, desperate, fluttering around her.

Her gaze trails down to your chest, to your tits bouncing with every shallow breath, your nipples stiff and flushed. She brings one hand up, palms your breast, and squeezes — slow, deliberate — then lets it fall again. Her thumb drags across your nipple and you moan. Then she starts to move.

She fucks you slow at first. Long strokes, smooth and deep, her hips grinding against yours with practiced control. The bed creaks rhythmically beneath you, wood flexing beneath the weight, the headboard thudding softly against the wall.

Every time she pulls out, your cunt clenches down, chasing her, trying to keep her inside. Every time she thrusts back in, the pressure in your belly coils tighter.

Her cock drags against your walls perfectly, swollen and hot and so thick it feels like too much. Your thighs fall wider apart. You grip your own wrists tighter behind your head. Your body starts to tremble beneath her.

You’re soaked. Her pelvis slaps wetly against yours with every thrust. Your slick shines on her skin. Sweat rolls slowly down your sternum, down the valley between your breasts, pooling where her chest nearly brushes yours.

Her pace stays slow, steady, just enough to drive you mad. Your tits bounce slightly each time her hips rock forward, soft slaps filling the air between you, and she watches every movement like she’s memorizing it.

Her hand moves from your stomach to your thigh, pushing it even further open, exposing the soft, messy swell of your pussy where her cock disappears with every stroke. You want to cry. You want to beg. But all you can do is pant.

“Close?” she murmurs. Her voice is quiet, low, sweat-slick.

You nod frantically, unable to form words. Your body tenses all over. Your clit is throbbing against her skin. You can feel the orgasm building fast, coiling up your spine, making your back arch off the mattress.

“Say it,” she demands. Her hand tightens on your thigh. “Tell me who’s making you cum.”

“You,” you gasp. “JJ, please— I need— I’m gonna—”

She pulls out almost completely, just the tip left inside you, and then drives her cock back in with one sharp thrust that knocks the air out of you. Your orgasm hits instantly. You sob through it, body locking up, pussy spasming around her cock in wet, pulsing waves.

Your legs kick, your stomach clenches, your hands fly to her shoulders. The bed creaks loud beneath you. Your voice is raw with how loud you cry her name.

JJ fucks you through it, eyes never leaving your face, her cock gliding in and out while your cunt milks her desperately, even though she doesn’t let herself cum yet.

You fall apart beneath her, body trembling, sweat shining over your chest and belly, nipples still stiff and bouncing with every movement. Your legs twitch. Your back arches. Your throat is raw.

And she’s still hard inside you, still moving, slow again now, watching you ride it out, owning every second of how ruined you are beneath her.

She smirks.

“I didn’t say you could stop.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before she’s moving again. JJ doesn’t pull out. Her cock stays buried deep in your pussy, the fullness still making your thighs twitch as aftershocks ripple through your overstimulated body. Her hands are firm on your waist, slick with sweat, her grip unyielding as she shifts beneath you.

The mattress dips under her controlled movement, her thighs flexing, her hips adjusting. You gasp when her cock drags slightly along your inner walls with the motion, thick and still hard inside you, rubbing against your most sensitive spots.

You’re still fluttering around her, your pussy swollen and soaked, clenching down in instinctive pulses every time your body thinks she might start fucking you again. She doesn’t — not yet.

She just sits up slowly, her back resting against the headboard now, dragging your body up with her like you weigh nothing. Her arms guide you, wordless, until you're straddling her lap, legs spread across her hips, your chest pressed to hers.

The air is hot and heavy between your bodies. Your skin sticks to hers, sweat-slick and flushed, your nipples brushing against her chest as you try to balance. Her cock shifts inside you from the new angle and you cry out, your head falling against her shoulder as your cunt tightens sharply around her.

You feel everything now. The stretch. The pressure. The weight. You’re stuffed to the brim, unable to move, impaled on her cock and trembling from how deeply it hits you in this position. She lets you squirm a little, lets you settle your knees around her thighs, lets you find your breath before her voice cuts through the silence, low and steady.

“Ride me.”

You shudder. Her command settles into your body like heat, coiling down your spine and pooling in your belly. You lift your head slowly, arms still shaky, your hair clinging to your damp forehead. Her hands move from your waist to your hips, then trail up your sides to cup your tits in both palms.

Her thumbs brush over your nipples once — soft, almost gentle — and then she slaps your left breast with a sharp snap of her wrist. The sound echoes through the room, sudden and stinging. You gasp, your pussy tightening hard around her cock, and her grin is almost lazy as she squeezes the flesh she just struck.

“Again,” she says, and slaps the other one. Your breath catches. Your thighs flex against her. She watches your tits bounce with each impact, her eyes heavy and hungry. “That's better. Now move.”

You start to roll your hips, slow and cautious, the motion awkward at first as you try to find rhythm while still clenching from your first orgasm. Her cock drags against your insides perfectly, your cunt squelching with each movement, your slick leaking down her shaft and pooling where your bodies meet.

The pressure is deep and constant. You bite your lip, moaning every time you drop your weight fully down onto her lap and feel her cock bottom out inside you.

Her hands return to your hips, guiding you now, making you grind in slow, deliberate circles. The bed begins to creak again, rhythmic and low, wood protesting beneath the steady build of motion.

Sweat rolls down your back. Your thighs shake. Your tits bounce freely in front of her with every stroke, and her hands alternate between slapping and squeezing them, groaning quietly when your body clenches in response.

Your clit rubs against her pelvis now, every grind bringing sparks of pleasure up through your core. The sound of your bodies is obscene, wet, messy, constant. Her cock feels even thicker inside you at this angle, every inch pressing against your sweetest spot, making your eyes roll back. You try to speed up, but her hands tighten again, pulling you down hard onto her lap, forcing you to take her cock even deeper.

“You ride when I say,” she murmurs, her voice close to your ear now. “Not when you want to cum.”

You nod, tears prickling at your lashes again. You’re soaked. Shaking. Ruined. But you don’t stop. You ride her the way she taught you to, slow, controlled, full weight grinding on her cock, back arched, hands clutching her shoulders now as you struggle to keep your rhythm.

Her mouth brushes your jaw. Her tongue flicks against your throat. And still her cock stays deep, unrelenting, swollen inside you like it belongs there.

You start to fall apart again. The second orgasm hits harder — sharper — and you cry out, your whole body seizing in her lap as your pussy clenches in wild spasms around her cock. You sob her name. Your body trembles violently.

Your back arches, tits pressed up against her chest as she holds you in place and lets you cum, watching every twitch, every broken sound that escapes your lips. The bed rocks harder now, your thighs slipping against hers, her cock twitching inside you but never releasing. She doesn’t cum. She stays hard, steady, waiting for you to finish.

She strokes your back as your body collapses against hers, your cunt still pulsing weakly, your voice reduced to quiet whimpers. You’re wrecked. Fully owned. And she hasn’t even started using you properly yet.

“Good girl,” she whispers against your ear, one hand fisting your hair as she tilts your head. “But I’m not finished with you.”

Your body barely has time to settle before she moves again. You’re still shaking in her lap, your pussy clenching in the aftermath of your second orgasm, when her hands grip your waist hard and lift you off her cock with a wet, obscene sound.

You whimper at the sudden emptiness, your inner walls fluttering around nothing, your slick dripping down your thighs, the heat between your legs aching from how much she’s stretched you. She lays you flat on your stomach for a second, pressing one hand to the small of your back, letting her cock rest against your ass while she catches her breath.

Then she grabs your hips and flips you with one sharp pull, dragging you up until you're on your hands and knees in front of her, face in the pillows, ass up, cunt still dripping and pulsing, wide open for her.

The position hits hard. You’re fully exposed, your thighs parted, your pussy flushed and glistening, folds swollen and twitching from the brutal stretch of her cock. The cool air hits your clit and makes you flinch.

Your knees dig into the mattress, arms trembling under your weight, sweat rolling down your back and gathering at the crease of your spine. Your breasts hang heavy and sore, nipples hard, brushing the sheets with every shallow breath you take.

Behind you, JJ kneels upright, her cock stiff and flushed, glistening with your slick. She grabs your ass with both hands, thumbs spreading you wider, and groans low at the sight of your cunt, raw and leaking and still clenching from how badly you need to be filled again.

She lines herself up and pushes in without warning. One long, hard thrust — no teasing — just her cock driving into your pussy like she owns it, filling you completely, hips slapping against your ass with a wet smack.

You scream into the pillow, your back arching, arms buckling under the sudden depth of it. She doesn’t pause. She starts fucking you immediately, hard and fast, her thighs slamming into yours, the mattress rocking beneath you, the bed frame creaking with every brutal thrust.

Her hands grab your hips and use them like handles, dragging you back onto her cock over and over. You sob with every stroke, your cunt stretched wide, her cock pounding into you so deep it knocks the air out of your lungs.

Sweat drips from your body, your hair sticking to your neck, your breasts bouncing wildly with every impact. You can feel everything — the weight of her behind you, the slap of her skin against yours, the drag of her cock along your inner walls, the way she hits your cervix with every thrust.

You cry out her name over and over, your voice breaking. Your arms collapse and your chest sinks into the bed, your ass still high in the air, taking everything she gives you. You’re drooling into the sheets. You’re shaking violently. You’re soaked — every thrust makes a slick, loud sound, your juices running down your legs, coating her thighs.

JJ growls low behind you, fucking you harder, faster, like she’s been holding herself back all night. Her cock twitches inside you, thick and hot, and she drives it deeper, the angle brutal, unforgiving.

One hand wraps around your throat, pulling you back slightly, arching your spine until you’re keening. Her other hand slips under you, finding your clit, rubbing tight, vicious circles that make your whole body convulse.

You can’t hold it. You can't even pretend to. Your pussy clamps down on her cock, milking her, sucking her in deeper, your orgasm building sharp and fast.

“Beg,” she growls. “You want me to fill you? Say it.”

“Please,” you sob, voice cracked and hoarse. “Please, JJ. Cum in me. Please — I need it. I want it. Please breed me.”

Her rhythm stutters. Her hand tightens on your throat. She slams into you one more time, burying her cock to the hilt, and then she cums hard, deep inside your spasming pussy. You feel the heat of it flood you, thick spurts of cum coating your walls, leaking out around her shaft as you convulse beneath her.

The warmth spreads instantly, and the thought of her filling you — her cum dripping from your cunt — sends you into a third, brutal orgasm. You scream her name into the pillows, body writhing, pussy pulsing wildly around her cock as she stays buried inside you, holding your hips tight, riding it out with you.

She stays there, cock deep in your pussy, both of you panting, dripping with sweat. Her cum seeps out of you slowly, thick and hot, pooling between your thighs.

Your arms give out entirely. Your body collapses onto the mattress. She leans over you, her breath hot against your ear, her chest slick against your back.

“You’re mine now,” she whispers. “Every drop. Every inch. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, trembling. “All of me.”

“Good girl,” she murmurs, her cock still twitching inside you. “Now lie still. Let it all stay inside.”

JJ watches your body twitch beneath her, her cock still buried inside you, the soft aftershocks of your orgasm pulsing around her. Your back rises and falls as you try to breathe through it, face pressed to the sheets, your thighs shaking violently. She doesn’t move. Not at first. She stays deep, her hands heavy on your hips, her jaw tight, her body locked in place while your pussy flutters and leaks around her.

You’re whining softly now, the sound muffled in the pillow, half-broken and desperate. She listens to it for a while, eyes glazed, chest heaving. Then, finally, she slides out, slow and deliberate, her cock dragging slickly through your pulsing walls until the head slips free with a thick, wet sound.

You mewl at the loss, thighs trembling, body limp. She barely gives you time to react before she flips you onto your back, gripping your waist with both hands and rolling you effortlessly beneath her.

You cry out the moment your shoulders hit the mattress, your legs falling open instinctively even though every inch of your cunt is overstimulated and slick. Her cum starts to leak out immediately, thick and warm, pooling at the base of your pussy and running in slow rivulets down the crease of your ass.

JJ kneels between your legs, panting, cock still stiff and glistening, her eyes locked on the mess she made. She drags her hands down your inner thighs, pushing them farther apart, thumbs spreading your lips until your pussy is on full display for her — flushed, raw, slick with your own cum and hers.

You whimper again, high-pitched and wrecked. Your hands twitch at your sides. Your nipples are stiff, your chest damp with sweat, your face flushed and glowing under the soft bedroom light.

“Look at this,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you. “Look what I did to you.”

She doesn’t wait. She leans in slow, lowering her face to your cunt like it’s something sacred. You moan the second you feel her breath ghost over your clit, your hips flinching upward before she pins them down with one firm hand.

Her other arm hooks under your thigh, lifting your leg to drape over her shoulder. Then her mouth finds you — her tongue dragging through the mess, hot and wet and slow. You cry out instantly, your back arching off the mattress, fingers scrambling to find something to hold.

Her tongue laps through your folds with filthy precision, spreading your slick and her own release back into your pussy, licking it up only to spit it back out, pressing her mouth tighter as you sob into the air.

Your hands finally thread into her hair, fingers tangling, tugging, nails digging into her scalp as her tongue flicks over your entrance again and again.

“J-JJ,” you whimper, voice shaky and thin, your thighs trembling on either side of her head. “It’s too much.”

She groans low into your pussy, the sound vibrating through your whole body. She doesn’t stop. She licks deeper, slower, her tongue dipping into your cunt in steady strokes, gathering everything leaking from you.

Her mouth is hot and greedy, her lips dragging over your clit on the way back down, her tongue pressing in again, fucking her cum back into you with deliberate pressure. Your hands tighten in her hair and you moan sharply, head falling back against the pillow, breath catching in your throat.

She flicks her tongue once inside you and your pussy clenches around the intrusion, fluttering hard, fresh slick spilling out to mix with the rest of the mess between your thighs.

“You taste like heaven,” JJ growls into your cunt, her voice muffled by your skin. “So fucking good with my cum in you. So full. I could eat this pussy for hours.”

You sob at her words, your body twitching under her, another high whimper breaking free from your chest. Your hips jerk involuntarily, trying to lift off the bed, but her grip is like iron. She flattens her hand over your stomach, holding you down as her tongue fucks into you harder now, mouth open, spit mixing with cum, your body shaking uncontrollably.

You try to speak. You try to beg. All that comes out are breathy, broken sounds, your fingers curling tighter in her hair, pulling her in, even when it feels like too much. Even when your clit starts to throb violently and the pressure in your belly coils again.

She groans again, louder this time, sucking your clit into her mouth briefly before diving back down. Her cock presses against the sheets as she grinds against the mattress, fully hard again, but she ignores it. Her focus is on you. On the way your pussy pulses. On how good you sound. On the taste of herself inside you.

Her tongue works deeper, faster, more intense, fucking into you until you’re crying for her, a wet, messy chant of her name spilling from your lips. She pulls you open with both hands now, spreading your lips wide and dragging her tongue through your entrance in long, endless strokes.

You cum again with a sharp cry, your whole body locking up, thighs clenching tight around her head, your hands gripping her hair like a lifeline. Your pussy spasms wildly against her mouth, wet and pulsing, and she licks you through it, drinking every drop, never letting up. Her name tumbles out of your mouth again and again, each one louder, messier, more desperate than the last.

Your voice breaks. Your hips buck. Your clit pulses wildly and she sucks it one more time, just enough to send sparks through your spine. Your orgasm crashes over you, harder than the last, and she holds you still through every wave of it, her mouth locked to your cunt, tongue still moving, still fucking, still claiming you.

And she doesn’t stop.

JJ pulls back slowly, her face glistening with spit and slick, her jaw wet, her cheeks flushed, her chest rising and falling with steady control. Your body is still twitching, limbs useless, mouth slack, eyes closed and lashes wet. You don’t speak. You can’t. Your breathing is shallow, your chest trembling with every inhale, and your thighs are still parted, too wide to close, your pussy red and soaked, clenching around nothing now.

She stays kneeling between your legs for a few seconds longer, just watching — the way you breathe, the way your lips move in silent whimpers, the way your cunt pulses involuntarily, pushing out another slow leak of her cum onto the sheets. She sees it. Watches it. Doesn’t wipe it away yet. You’re still open for her. Still leaking. Still aching.

When she leans in again, it’s not to keep going. She plants one hand beside your hip on the mattress, the other sliding beneath your thigh, and she climbs slowly up over your body, easing her weight down like she’s sealing you beneath her.

Her cock is heavy against your thigh now, still wet and flushed, but softened slightly. Her bare chest brushes against yours. Her lips hover above your shoulder. Her skin is warm, sticky with sweat, flushed from exertion.

She exhales deeply, like she’s releasing every last ounce of restraint she’s held through the night. You make a soft sound, half a sob, half a moan, and she hushes you quietly, sliding one hand up your ribs to rest between your breasts.

“Breathe,” she murmurs. “You did so good for me.”

You twitch at the sound of her voice. Your hands finally move, slow and weak, wrapping around her shoulders like you’re clinging to something solid. JJ closes her eyes and presses a kiss to your collarbone, her mouth open and warm. You’re still trembling. Still so raw.

Your pussy’s still pulsing, and every few seconds another wet drip of cum slides from your entrance and smears against her sheets. She feels it. She knows you’ll feel it too when you come back into your body fully — the stickiness, the openness, the soreness.

She wants you to. She wants you to know you’re still full of her. That you’re hers. That even now, even limp and ruined and speechless, you’re still held in her hands.

She shifts her weight just enough to roll slightly to the side, guiding you with her so you’re resting against her chest now, your legs tangled with hers, your back pressed to her front. One arm wraps tightly around your middle, holding you close.

The other moves down between your thighs, slow and deliberate. You flinch, but she doesn’t touch your clit, doesn’t push back inside. She just cups your pussy gently, palm resting over the mess she made. Her fingers part your lips again, careful this time, and she presses softly, watching more of her cum spill out onto her hand.

“Still dripping,” she whispers, more to herself than you. “Perfect fucking pussy.”

Your head tilts against her neck, a tiny, breathless moan escaping your mouth. She kisses your temple. Her hand moves away from your cunt and returns a moment later with a warm cloth — she’d grabbed it without you noticing, always two steps ahead.

She doesn’t rush. She cleans you softly, slowly, the warm fabric dragging across your inner thighs, wiping away the slick, the stickiness, the smears of cum down your legs.

You twitch when it brushes your folds, too sensitive to bear much, but you don’t stop her. She takes her time. Not just to soothe you but to claim the act of cleaning as much as the act of ruining.

When she’s done, she tosses the cloth over the side of the bed and pulls the blanket over both of you. You’re still facing away, curled into her chest now, arms pressed close to your body, legs trembling occasionally.

She wraps herself around you, one arm slung over your waist, one leg hooked between yours, her chest to your back. Her cock rests against your ass, soft now but still warm, still wet, still there. The bed smells like sweat and sex. The sheets are damp beneath you. The room is heavy with silence.

She presses her mouth to the back of your neck.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she says quietly. “I want you waking up sore.”

You let out the smallest breath of a laugh. It sounds wrecked. Grateful.

She doesn’t let go.

[https-prettycunt]

omg @fantasyfan25, you might lke this

[jacktism-deactivated20260219]

⋆｡ﾟ WHEN YOU SEE ME - emily prentiss - 12k

you notice emily quietly growing ashamed of her aging body, flinching from her reflection and your touch, so you take her to the mirror and worship every part of her until she sees herself the way you do — beautiful, wanted, and still entirely yours.

aging insecurity • body image issues • mirror sex • emotional vulnerability • fingering • pussy worship • praise kink • soft dom!reader • gentle aftercare • crying during sex • deep emotional intimacy

𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐎-𝐅𝐈

The sky outside your window is dulled to a pale grey, heavy clouds hanging low and still, the kind that make the morning feel slower before it’s even properly begun. It’s the kind of quiet that settles over everything like a blanket, where nothing feels urgent and the world feels tucked away.

You’re warm beneath the covers, wrapped in a quilt that smells like fabric softener and her skin, limbs tangled together in the same familiar way you always wake, her body draped lazily across yours, her leg hooked between your thighs, the weight of her arm snug around your waist.

The bedroom is dark and cool, but her breath is warm on your neck, steady and deep as she sleeps. There’s a softness to her in these moments, something unguarded, her features slack and peaceful, mouth slightly open, brows unknotted for once.

Moose is curled at your feet again, all eighteen pounds of ginger fur purring thunderously, his tail flicking against your ankle every so often like a soft reminder that you aren’t allowed to move without permission. The other cats are somewhere nearby, you can hear faint rustling at the window ledge where Poppy likes to stretch herself long in the morning light, and Gremlin is likely stalking something that doesn’t exist in the hallway, already awake and full of attitude.

You don’t shift yet. You just lie there, letting your eyes trace the ceiling and listening to the creaks of the old floorboards as the house settles around you. The home you share with Emily is modest, nestled just outside the edge of the city where the noise dulls to birdsong and the roads are lined with trees that burn gold and orange in the fall.

You bought it together almost two years ago, after months of navigating schedules and learning the rhythm of each other's mornings. The house isn’t big, but it breathes. Wide windows, old bones, creaky stairs, and a fireplace that you both swore you’d learn how to use but never got around to.

You painted the kitchen that soft sage green she liked, filled the walls with framed photos and shared art, and let the furniture slowly mismatch in a way that feels like both of you.

Your bookshelf spans an entire wall in the living room, sagging under the weight of novels and case files, vintage records, and ceramic rabbit figurines that Emily pretends to hate but has never moved.

You got the first cat six months into dating, Gremlin, a half-blind black rescue with a torn ear and a permanent scowl, found at a gas station during a case Emily was working out in Maryland. She brought him home tucked inside her jacket, muttering that it was a one-time thing, but you caught her whispering to him that first night as he curled up on the couch.

Poppy showed up next, maybe a year later, soaked to the bone under your car during a rainstorm. You dried her with one of Emily’s t-shirts and fed her tuna from the fridge while Emily stared like she couldn’t decide whether to scold you or fall in love with you again. She never said no.

And then came Moose, found by you, shivering on the concrete steps outside Quantico, barely weaned and crying so loud you couldn’t leave him. He was sick and stubborn, and Emily let him sleep on her chest that night while pretending she was allergic. You called her out. She ignored you and tucked him in under her chin.

The bunny was harder to win. Mr. Peaches, as he’s now dramatically known, was a result of your best campaign work: laminated charts, emotional appeals, one suspiciously professional PowerPoint with bullet points titled "Emotional Growth Through Rabbits."

Emily laughed so hard she snorted, but you saw the corners of her mouth soften when you mentioned companionship. You found him at a small rescue centre just outside the city, small and soft with a single bent ear and a twitchy nose that went wild the second you held him.

She was reluctant at first, insisted she wouldn’t be cleaning hay or trimming claws, but you caught her on more than one occasion hand-feeding him banana slices and letting him hop up into her lap during movie nights.

His enclosure takes up the entire corner of the reading nook, complete with fleece tunnels, hideouts, and a nameplate you ordered with glittery script. Every night he escapes it anyway, roaming the living room like a tiny prince, leaving tufts of fur and nibbled corners in his wake.

Emily sighs softly against your skin, shifting slightly, her fingers brushing the hem of your sleep shirt as she begins to wake. You glance down and smile, brushing your knuckles down the side of her face. She grumbles at the interruption, buries her face into your shoulder, and murmurs, “Tell the cats to stop multiplying.”

Her voice is hoarse, sleep-wrecked, rich with the kind of intimacy that makes your chest ache. “They love you,” you whisper, and she makes a sound like a groan, but her arm tightens around your waist and she noses into your collarbone. “They’re using me for warmth,” she mumbles. “I’m just a glorified body pillow.”

You laugh softly and stroke her back beneath the covers. Her skin is warm, soft despite the muscle underneath. She’s always so solid beneath your hands, even when she’s tired. Even when you can tell she doesn’t feel that way about herself.

That’s been the hardest part lately, watching her drift inward. It started subtly. A week or two at first, maybe. A few longer silences. A few quiet mornings where she lingered in the shower a little too long. At first, you didn’t think much of it. The BAU takes its toll. She’s always carried stress like a second skin. But this was different.

There’s a heaviness in her now. A self-consciousness. A distance. She pulls away from the mirror quickly when she catches her reflection. She changes in the closet with her back to you. And she wears long-sleeved shirts to bed even though it’s the middle of June and the fan whirs steadily all night to keep the air cool. When you brush her stomach during sex, she flinches. Not violently. Not dramatically. Just enough. Just enough that you notice.

You’ve tried to ask her. Gently. Softly. In passing. She always waves you off. “Just tired,” she says, flashing a smile that’s a few degrees too tight to be real. “Nothing’s wrong.”

But you see the way her eyes drift when you undress in front of her. Not with hunger, not always, but with something else. Hesitation. Regret. Longing. She’s been holding herself like something about her body isn’t hers anymore. Like she’s waiting for you to notice the changes she already hates.

She’s been pulling her hair back more often, avoiding tight clothes, pretending not to care when the buttons don’t close as easily as they used to. You see it. Every moment she thinks you aren’t looking. You see it in how fast she turns away from compliments now.

In how she ducks her head and scoffs when you tell her she’s beautiful. “You have to say that,” she muttered once, brushing past you on her way to the laundry room. “You’re contractually obligated.”

Now you sit up slowly, detangling yourself from her, and she lets you go with a soft grumble and a squeeze to your hip. “Where are you going,” she mumbles, not opening her eyes. “To make coffee,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Want toast?” “Want sleep,” she replies flatly, face half-buried in the pillow.

You chuckle as you slide out of bed, tugging on the oversized cardigan she always steals first, wrapping yourself in the familiar fabric before stepping into the hall. The floor creaks beneath your steps.

The house hums with its usual morning noise, Gremlin batting something under the couch, Poppy leaping off the counter she isn’t supposed to be on, Mr. Peaches knocking over his hay rack because it’s not fresh enough for his royal standards. You love it. All of it. The chaos, the noise, the life you’ve built.

But your heart stays back in the bedroom. With her. Curled under the blankets, arms tucked around a body she’s slowly stopped believing in. And as the coffee begins to brew and the kettle starts to hum, you wonder again how to make her see what you see.

How to remind her she is still that woman, strong, devastating, desired, without making her retreat further. Without making her feel like a problem to be fixed. You want to reach her. You want her to let herself be loved again. You want her to stop hiding. Not from you. Not from the mirror. Not from herself.

Emily stays in bed longer than she should, curled into your side of the mattress even after you slip away, her face pressed into the pillow where your scent still lingers. The room is dim and cool, the air smelling faintly of lavender and your shampoo, and she clings to that small comfort while the morning filters in around her. She can hear the house waking.

The floorboards creak beneath your steps in the hallway. The water runs. The kettle clicks on. Mr. Peaches thumps against the side of his enclosure in protest of something, and Gremlin yowls with his usual dramatic flair before the tell-tale sound of kibble hitting a ceramic dish silences him.

The quiet routine of it all, your quiet, sacred rhythm, should soothe her, and part of her wants it to. But another part of her lies still, staring at the ceiling, letting the silence fill the space inside her that she can’t quite name.

She knows she’s been distant. She isn’t blind to it. She can see how your eyes follow her more carefully now, how your voice softens when you ask if she’s okay, how you reach for her like you’re afraid she might slip away entirely.

And God, she wants to reach back. She wants to give you the version of herself you fell in love with — the sharp, magnetic, composed woman who held you against her chest like you were something precious. She wants to be that woman again. But she isn’t sure she knows how anymore.

Something’s shifted. Quietly. Slowly. Deep beneath her skin, like rot in the walls of a house that once felt indestructible. And now, every time she catches her reflection, she doesn’t recognize the woman staring back.

It’s the body, mostly. That’s what started it. The curve of her stomach where there wasn’t one before. The stretch of her thighs, the way her bra fits tighter than it used to. She’s never been vain, she’s always scoffed at the idea of chasing youth, of clinging to the impossible standards set by people who’ve never faced real life.

But something about the way her skin softens, the way her age finally starts to show in ways she can’t hide, feels like a betrayal. It’s not just getting older. It’s the fear that you’ll notice. That you’ll see what she sees. That the awe in your eyes will falter one day, just enough for her to catch it. And then she’ll know it’s over.

She hears you hum in the kitchen, that quiet little sound you make when you’re distracted, puttering through drawers, clicking mugs together, setting up the coffee maker like it’s a ritual you were born knowing.

That’s what you are, she thinks. Ritual. Warmth. Home. And she hates that her insecurities are creating distance from that. From you. She hates that she can’t look at her own stomach without flinching. Hates that when you tell her she’s beautiful, she doubts it before she even hears the words.

She used to be so sure of herself. She used to walk into rooms and command attention without a second thought. Now, she barely wants to be seen with the lights on.

She rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling, fingers tugging the sheet up to her chest like that will shield her from the ache curling in her ribs.

She thinks about last night, how you’d curled into her on the couch and kissed the soft skin beneath her ear, whispering something about how good she looked in her t-shirt. And she’d smiled.

She’d touched your knee. She’d leaned in. But later, in the bathroom, she stood under the overhead light and stared at herself too long. Not picking anything apart. Just... observing. Quiet. Detached. Like she was trying to find pieces of the woman you fell in love with under the version standing in front of her now.

The coffee smell drifts down the hallway, sharp and grounding, and she breathes it in like it might pull her out of this. You’re singing now, something quiet and stupid and perfect, and she feels the sting behind her eyes at how easy you make it all look. Loving. Living. Belonging in your skin.

She’s always admired that about you. The way you take up space without apology. She used to be like that. She wonders if you notice she isn’t anymore. She wonders if that hurts you.

She throws the covers off and swings her legs over the edge of the bed, sitting there for a moment, grounding herself in the floor beneath her feet, in the chill of the hardwood and the softness of your cardigan draped over the end of the bed. She shrugs it on, pulls it around her, and stands. Her knees pop. Her hip twinges. She doesn’t wince, but she notices. She always notices now.

As she pads quietly toward the kitchen, passing the bunny dozing dramatically on a stack of blankets he dragged from his enclosure, she rehearses what she might say. Maybe she’ll admit it, just a little. Maybe she’ll joke. Tease. Ease into it sideways the way she always does.

Maybe she’ll take your hand, kiss your wrist, and say something stupid like you really like this version of me, huh? And maybe, if she’s lucky, you’ll just wrap your arms around her and say always. Maybe she’ll believe you this time. Maybe that will be enough.

She stops at the edge of the kitchen, just outside the doorway, where the light is low and warm from the little pendant bulb hanging over the sink. It casts you in gold, soft-edged and glowing, like something out of a memory she doesn’t want to lose.

You’re barefoot, still in your sleep shirt — hers, actually, one of the older FBI shirts she’d let you steal so long ago that it’s stretched at the neck and threadbare at the hem. It hangs off your shoulder, exposing the slope of your collarbone, the smooth stretch of your back as you reach up into the cabinet for two mugs.

She watches the way your body moves, slow and certain, like the kitchen is yours, like the house is yours, like she is yours. You hum quietly under your breath, hips swaying slightly with the rhythm of it, unaware or maybe just unbothered by her eyes on you. It takes her breath a little, the way you exist like you belong in every corner of this life together, like you aren’t afraid of being seen.

She doesn’t say anything at first. She just watches. One hand wrapped in her opposite sleeve, tugging at the end of it like she doesn’t know what to do with herself. There’s coffee brewing now, the smell of it curling through the air like something gentle and familiar.

You turn, just a little, enough for her to catch the profile of your face as you stir something on the stove. Your expression is soft. Focused. You tap the spoon twice on the side of the pot and then lick a bit off the tip of your thumb, frowning thoughtfully before reaching for the salt. Her chest tightens. You’re here, alive, radiant in a way she can’t explain. And all she can think is don’t look at me yet.

She wraps the cardigan tighter around her middle and leans against the doorframe, not ready to step into the light, not ready to let you look at her with those eyes she’s never quite learned to handle. She used to love being watched. There was power in it. Presence. She could command a room with her shoulders back and her voice low.

But this is different. This is you. This is intimacy. This is the terrifying, sacred truth of being seen. And lately, it’s been harder. Her body feels like it's betraying her in increments. The weight she can't shake. The loose skin that folds at her waist when she bends over. The way gravity has changed her, made her softer in places she never asked to be soft. She’s painfully aware of it now, standing just out of reach, one breath away from your hands.

You finally notice her in the doorway. She knows the exact moment it happens, your shoulders lift, your head turns, and then your eyes meet hers like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like you’ve been waiting for her. And there’s that look again, the one that kills her.

The one that says you’re beautiful without a single word. She wants to believe it. She really, really does. But something in her shrinks instead. Her fingers tighten around her sleeve. Her mouth opens and closes.

She gives you a small smile and steps halfway into the kitchen, letting the light hit her, letting you see her bare legs, the outline of her body under the cardigan. It isn’t flattering. She knows it isn’t. But you’re still looking at her like she hung the stars.

“You didn’t have to make breakfast,” she says softly, her voice still gravel-edged from sleep. It’s something safe. Something neutral. She doesn’t want to talk about the way her stomach feels like it’s twisting.

Doesn’t want to talk about the way her thighs look in the morning light. You smile like you know exactly what she’s doing. “You say that every time,” you reply, lifting the spatula as if to prove a point. “And I do it every time anyway.”

She moves toward the counter slowly, brushing past you just close enough to inhale your scent, coffee, skin, warmth, that barely-there floral from the lotion you use before bed. Her hand brushes your back as she opens the cabinet behind you. She doesn’t need anything from it. She just wants to touch you. To anchor herself.

But even that makes her flinch a little. Not from you. From herself. From the fear that one day, this will change. That one day, you’ll stop feeling that soft heat in your eyes when you look at her. That one day, you’ll notice the parts of her she’s been trying to hide.

You plate the eggs in silence and pour the coffee. You don’t push her. You never do. And that might be what undoes her most. You let her be quiet. You let her have her silence.

You hand her a mug with both hands and press a kiss to the side of her head like it’s instinct, like it’s not even a question, and she closes her eyes and lets it happen. Lets herself have that moment. That touch. That tether.

She doesn’t say it, but she’s grateful. She’s terrified. She’s completely undone. And she’s more in love with you than she’s ever known what to do with.

You hand her the mug gently, both hands around it, like offering something sacred. Her fingers graze yours as she takes it, and you don’t miss the way she pulls her sleeves down even further before wrapping them around the ceramic like a shield. You kiss her temple anyway. Soft, slow.

You feel the tension in her shoulders the second your lips touch her skin, tight, reluctant, humming beneath the surface like static. She doesn’t flinch, not exactly, but you feel the way her body locks into itself, like she’s holding back from you without meaning to. You don’t mention it.

You just hover a little longer, eyes lingering on the curve of her cheek, the way her lashes lower as she stares into her coffee like it’s something she can disappear inside. You want to reach for her again, press your mouth to her neck, her shoulder, that hollow just above her chest, but you don’t. Not yet. She’s barely letting herself be here.

The sun filters in through the kitchen window, casting long streaks of pale gold across the floor. Gremlin jumps up on the table, despite the fact that he’s not supposed to, and Emily doesn’t scold him.

She just reaches out and lets him headbutt her hand, scratching absently behind his ears with a half-smile you haven’t seen in days. Mr. Peaches flops dramatically in front of the fridge, waiting for attention. Poppy slinks between your legs.

The kitchen feels full of life, full of warmth, full of everything you’ve built together. But the woman standing in front of you still feels a little out of place. Like she’s here and not here. Like she’s only half in her own body.

You pass her a plate of eggs and toast and watch the way her fingers hesitate over the fork, like she’s deciding whether or not she deserves to eat. You sit beside her instead of across from her, legs brushing, letting your thigh rest against hers. Not to trap her. Just to remind her that she isn’t alone in her skin. That you’re right here.

You say nothing at first, just eat quietly, clinking your fork softly against your plate, sipping your coffee, waiting for her to come back to you on her own terms. You don’t push. You never have. You learned early with Emily that love is a slow, patient thing, and sometimes the best way to hold her is by not reaching too hard.

Still, you ache. Ache for the way she used to let herself exist in front of you without hesitation. Ache for the nights she would strip down in the soft lamp light and crawl into your lap, letting you see her, all of her, without apology.

You ache for the way she used to stretch in the morning, arms overhead, unbothered by the way her shirt rode up, how she’d laugh when you grabbed at her waist. Now she tugs her sleeves down before she even sits. She keeps her thighs pressed together. She bites the inside of her cheek when she thinks you aren’t looking.

“You’re quiet this morning,” you say softly, your hand resting lightly on her knee under the table. Not pushing. Just offering. She doesn’t look at you. She just swirls her toast through the yolk and mumbles, “Didn’t sleep great.” You nod. You don’t believe her. Not really. But you nod. You rub slow circles into her knee. She doesn’t pull away.

You turn your face toward her, voice gentler now. “You don’t have to talk about it. But I see you.” Her eyes flick up to yours then, fast, startled, like you’ve pulled a thread she wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

You smile, but your chest hurts. “I see how you curl away from me when you think I’m asleep. How you change with the door closed. How you look at yourself like there’s something wrong.” Her jaw tightens, and for a second, you think she might get up. But she doesn’t. She just swallows hard and stares at her plate.

“I’m still me,” she says, after a long silence. Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I know,” you say. “You’re always you. That’s why I love you.”

She exhales then. Not a full breath. Just a crack in the armor. Just enough to let the light in.

You lean in, brushing her hair back, your forehead against her temple. “But if you’re hiding from me, I can’t hold you the way you need. And I want to, Em. I always want to.”

Her hand reaches for yours under the table then, tentative and small, her fingers cold and slightly shaking. She twines them with yours slowly, like she’s afraid she might break. You squeeze gently. She doesn’t let go. Not this time.

You sit there for a while longer, the coffee cooling in your mugs, the cats sprawled out in puddles of sunlight. The day stretches ahead of you, still quiet, still yours. You don’t say anything else. You don’t have to. She’s still holding your hand. That’s enough for now.

Emily climbs the stairs quietly, her hand trailing along the railing as if she needs the grounding. She hears you downstairs running the tap, humming again as you wash the breakfast dishes, the soft clatter of ceramic drifting up through the old walls. It’s comforting. It’s familiar. And it somehow makes the tightness in her chest worse.

She pushes open the bedroom door and steps inside, closing it behind her with a soft click before leaning back against it for a moment, eyes shut, breath held. She tells herself she’s just getting dressed. Just changing for the day.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing emotional. But she knows exactly what she’s walking toward. The mirror stands across from the bed, tall, unflinching, impossible to avoid once she moves into the centre of the room.

She pulls the cardigan off first, fingers trembling slightly as she drapes it over the edge of the bed. The room feels colder without it, the air brushing against her bare thighs and raising goosebumps along her skin. She stands for a moment in just her t-shirt and panties, staring at her reflection with a stillness that feels sharp.

Then she grips the hem of the shirt and lifts it slowly over her head, letting the fabric fall to the floor. Her breath catches when she looks up again.

Her torso is lean but softer than it used to be, her stomach no longer flat but curved gently outward in a way she tries desperately not to hate. She runs her hand over it, the skin warm and pliant, the faint stretch marks pale against her complexion.

There’s a swell to her hips now, wider, heavier, a fullness she used to consider powerful but now only sees as something time has settled into her without permission. Her breasts have changed too.

Still full, still beautiful, still sensitive in ways you adore, but the skin is thinner now, the curve less high, the softness more noticeable. She knows you love them. She knows it. But she cannot stop seeing the difference.

She hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and pushes them down, stepping out of them one leg at a time. They pool on the floor beside her shirt. She forces herself not to look away as she stands fully naked in front of the mirror, shoulders back, jaw set.

Her thighs press together automatically, as if hiding themselves, and she curses herself silently before making the conscious effort to part them again. Her gaze drops lower.

Her pubic hair has always been neatly trimmed, something she maintained with ritualistic precision for most of her adult life. Now, as she looks at it under the morning light, she sees the soft streaks of grey threaded through the dark hair, subtle but unmistakable.

It hits her harder than she expects. A tiny shift. A biological whisper. Aging, even here. Even in the most intimate part of her. She swallows, throat tight, the shame blooming low in her belly like heat.

She steps closer to the mirror. Too close. Close enough to see every small detail she has been avoiding. The faint looseness of the skin at her hips. The softness where muscle once sat sharp beneath her skin. The fine lines around her mouth and eyes. The gentle sag at the outer curve of her breasts. The grey in her pubic hair.

It should not matter. She knows it should not matter. She knows she is still desired, still touched, still held like something beautiful and sacred every time your hands are on her. But here, alone, with the truth of her body reflected back at her, she cannot silence the fear that coils up inside her.

She thinks of you downstairs, washing dishes, humming that same off-key song you always hum in the mornings. She thinks of the way you looked at her when she walked into the kitchen, like she was sunlight. She thinks of the warmth in your voice when you told her you saw her. Really saw her. And still, she cannot help but imagine you seeing her like this.

Every flaw. Every shift. Every mark of time. She imagines your hands touching the softness of her stomach, your lips brushing the grey at her pubic hair, your eyes not flinching from any part of her. The thought makes her knees weaken. It terrifies her. It moves her. It makes her want to hide and fall into your arms at the same time.

She exhales shakily, bracing her palms against the dresser as she leans forward, studying her own eyes in the mirror. She looks older. She looks tired. But she also looks like someone who has survived everything life has thrown at her.

Someone who has been loved fiercely. Someone who is loved still. And though that truth is fragile, trembling, barely holding its weight inside her, she lets herself breathe it in. Just for a moment. Just long enough to stand back up straight.

Downstairs, you open a cabinet. A pan clatters. You laugh softly at yourself.

Emily closes her eyes, naked in front of her reflection, and whispers, “Get it together.” Then she inhales, gathers her hair back with one hand, and forces herself to turn toward the closet.

You finish drying your hands on the towel by the sink, lingering there for a moment as the silence upstairs stretches a little too long. You glance toward the hallway, your chest tightening with that quiet, familiar tug of concern that’s been building more and more lately.

She’s been upstairs for longer than it takes to change, and you know her rhythms, know the way she hesitates when something internal is pulling her under. You don’t want to crowd her. You don’t want to hover. But something in you won’t let it sit.

So you wipe your hands one more time, check that the stove is off, and walk through the hall on bare feet, taking each step slowly, carefully, the way you always do when she’s in a mood she hasn’t named aloud.

The bedroom door is cracked open. The house is quiet. Mr. Peaches has flopped near the stairs and flicks an ear as you pass, but doesn’t move otherwise. When you reach the doorway, you pause, leaning your shoulder against the frame, your body caught between hesitation and instinct.

Emily doesn’t see you at first. She’s facing the closet, her back to the mirror, arms folded over her middle like she’s trying to hold herself together from the outside in. She’s completely nude, her posture rigid, toes curling into the carpet.

Her hair is pulled back into a loose, messy knot like she didn’t think twice about it. Her spine is drawn straight, shoulders hunched forward, hips angled like she wants to disappear inside herself but refuses to give herself the grace to walk away. You swallow, breath catching low in your throat as you take her in. Not in lust. Not in heat. But in reverence.

You’ve seen her naked more times than you can count. You’ve kissed every inch of her, tasted her, memorized the terrain of her body until it feels like a second language. But this is different. This is her alone with herself. This is her looking without armour. This is the woman you love confronting the version of herself she thinks you’ll eventually stop loving.

And it hurts. God, it hurts. Because you know exactly what she’s seeing. You know what she’s picking apart. The curve of her stomach. The stretch of her hips. The softened slope of her breasts. The greying patch of neatly kept hair between her legs that you find absolutely, unspeakably beautiful.

She doesn’t know. She couldn’t possibly know what it does to you. How much you want to drop to your knees right there and press your mouth between her thighs until she forgets what shame even feels like.

She turns then, slow and unsure, and catches herself in the mirror again. Her eyes flick away immediately. Her arms rise on instinct, folding across her chest, one hand covering her belly as if it’s offensive. She winces, almost imperceptibly, like the sight of herself is too much.

You step into the room quietly, not rushing, not startling her. She doesn’t hear you at first. Her focus is internal. Trapped in the places her insecurities have carved out like bruises. You see her jaw clench. Her eyes glass slightly.

And that’s when she senses you, her body tensing as your reflection appears behind hers in the mirror. Her eyes meet yours and widen, panic flickering behind them as if she’s just been caught doing something shameful.

But you don’t flinch. You don’t stop walking. You cross the room without saying a word and stop behind her, close enough that your warmth touches her spine but not close enough to trap her. Her eyes stay locked on yours in the mirror. She doesn’t say anything. Her breath is shallow.

Her hands begin to lift again to cover herself, and that’s when you reach forward, slowly, deliberately, and take her wrists in yours. You guide her hands down, not harsh, not forceful, but firm enough to say don’t hide from me.

You wrap your arms around her waist from behind and rest your cheek on her shoulder, pressing your lips to her skin like she’s breakable. She exhales shakily, her body trembling slightly, not from cold but from something deeper, something exposed.

“Don’t,” she whispers, barely audible. Her voice cracks on the word. “Don’t look at me like this.”

You close your eyes, hold her tighter, let your mouth hover just beneath her ear. “Like what?” you murmur softly. “Like you’re mine?” Her breath catches.

You press your palm to her stomach, right where she hates it most, and let it rest there. Not gripping. Not proving anything. Just holding. “You are so goddamn beautiful, Emily. Every part of you. Every line. Every soft place. Every change.”

She tries to pull away slightly, instinctive, her shame rearing up like a tide. “You don’t have to say that,” she mutters. “I’m not— I’m not what I used to be.”

Your heart breaks clean in your chest, splinters sharp and slow. You turn her in your arms so you can look at her, really look at her, your hands settling on her bare hips, your thumbs brushing gentle circles there.

You keep your gaze steady on hers. “You’re more,” you say. “You’ve lived. You’ve carried so much. You’ve survived things that would’ve broken anyone else. And your body… your body tells that story.”

Her throat works around the sob she won’t let out. Her eyes shimmer but she won’t let them fall. You reach up and cradle her jaw in your hand, brushing your thumb along her cheekbone.

“You think I don’t see the grey?” you whisper. “I see it. I love it. You think I don’t notice the way your skin’s changed? I notice. And I want you. I want this you. Not some version of you that lived in the past.”

She blinks hard, her lips trembling slightly. “I feel like I’m disappearing,” she says, voice breaking now, finally cracking through. “Like one day I’ll wake up and be someone you can’t recognize.”

You pull her close then, wrap your arms around her so tightly she gasps softly against your neck. “Then I’ll spend every morning memorizing you again,” you breathe into her hair. “Every inch. Every shift. I’ll never let you disappear.”

She’s silent for a long moment. Then, finally, finally, her arms come around your waist. She melts into you. Fully. No more hesitation. No more armour. Just skin against skin, heart against heart, breath mingling in the still air of your bedroom. And for the first time in weeks, you feel her let go. Just a little. Just enough.

You don't move quickly. You don't rush her. You just press in a little closer, your front flush with her back now, your arms slowly wrapping around her waist as you feel her bare skin warm beneath your palms. Her breath catches when you touch her, but she doesn’t step away.

She doesn’t flinch. She just goes still. She watches you in the mirror as your arms encircle her, as you pull her gently into your body, hands finding her hips and resting there like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And it is. It always has been. You bend slightly to whisper against her ear, your voice low and reverent, “Stay with me, baby. Just like this. Let me show you what I see.”

You tilt your head, your lips brushing the curve of her neck, and your eyes trail down the length of her body through the reflection. “I want you to look,” you murmur, your tone firmer now, protective, sacred.

“Not to judge. Not to compare. Just to see. This body? This is mine. And I’m never going to let you hate it in front of me.”

Your hands slide up slowly, cupping her breasts from behind with a gentleness that makes her tremble. You take your time, feeling the weight of them in your palms, thumbs brushing softly over her nipples as they harden beneath your touch.

You watch the way her mouth parts in the mirror, the faint quiver in her jaw. “God, I love these,” you breathe. “They’re heavy and warm and soft and real.

When I have you like this, when I suck them into my mouth, you make these sounds — low and broken and needy — and I swear it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

You feel her shifting subtly in your arms, her back arching just a little as if her body is beginning to respond even while her mind still clings to hesitation.

Your palms flatten and slide down her ribs slowly, tracing every inch of her. “These little stretch marks here,” you whisper, dragging your fingertips across the pale lines just beneath her breasts,

“I love them. They’re like your skin’s own memory. Of time. Of change. Of everything you’ve lived through and carried and survived.”

Your fingers trail down to her stomach and you hear her breath catch sharply, feel her body try to pull away just slightly. But you press her firmly back to your chest, one arm tight around her waist, your other hand splaying across her belly with purpose.

“No. Stay with me, sweetheart. Please,” you whisper, grounding her with your voice. “Right here. This is what you keep trying to hide from me, and it’s the part I want most. This softness—” you run your palm slowly across the curve of her belly, dipping lower toward her pelvis “—this is where I hold you when you cry.

Where I rest my head when I’m curled into you. Where I kiss you before I go to sleep. I’ve mapped this part of you in the dark, baby, and it’s sacred to me. It’s part of who you are. It’s part of what makes you feel like home.”

She makes a small, broken sound in her throat. Her hands grip your wrists lightly as if to anchor herself. But she doesn’t try to stop you.

You shift your touch again, sliding your hands to her hips. You drag your thumbs along the curve where her torso flares outward and down into that perfect arch.

“These hips,” you murmur, nuzzling into her neck, “they’ve gotten fuller. You think I don’t notice, but I do. And I love it. I love the way they move when you walk across the room in just a t-shirt. I love the way they grind down when you’re riding me. I love digging my fingers into them while I fuck you slow enough to feel your whole body ripple under me. These hips are the anchor of my obsession.”

She shudders against you, her head tipping slightly to the side. Her breathing is uneven now. Her nipples are tight. Her thighs are pressed together.

You don’t stop.

You let your hands travel lower, smoothing down the tops of her thighs, sinking to your knees behind her with infinite patience. You press your face to the small of her back, holding her steady, kissing her spine. Then your hands move forward, tracing the soft inner curves of her legs, where the skin is warm and sensitive.

“You always try to close off down here when you feel like this,” you murmur, your voice quieter now, reverent. “But you’re perfect here. So perfect. The shape of your thighs. The skin. The weight of them wrapped around my head when you cum.”

You gently nudge her legs apart and watch her reflection tremble. Your hands slide between them. You cup her pussy from behind, not with heat, not yet, but with reverence.

Your middle and ring finger part her lips slowly, letting her see it—every inch, in the mirror. Her folds are flushed and pink, delicate and wet already, and the sight makes your mouth water.

“This,” you whisper, rubbing your thumb gently over her clit, just once, “is mine. This pussy is mine, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Look at how your lips part for me. Look how soft you are. Look at the grey in your hair here, baby—do you see it? That streak of silver? I want to fall to my knees for it. I want to kiss every strand. I want to lick you until you’re shaking, until you forget how to be ashamed.”

She stares, chest heaving, eyes wide, tears at the edge. But she watches. For the first time in a long time, she doesn’t look away. You press two fingers inside her slowly, just enough to feel her flutter around the intrusion, and she gasps. Her knees wobble and her hand flies back to grip your hair.

“You feel that?” you breathe against her spine. “That’s how you welcome me. That’s what your body does for me. Even when your mind is scared. Even when your heart is hurting. You still open up. You still let me in.”

You press a kiss to her lower back as your fingers stroke gently inside her, your palm cradling her sex with adoration. “This isn’t about sex. This is about worship. This is about showing you what I already know. That you’re still hers. That you’re still mine. That you are still Emily fucking Prentiss, and nothing about this body could ever make me want you less.”

She breaks. Softly, beautifully, silently. Her body sinks into yours, and she begins to cry, not from shame, not from disgust, but from something deeper. From being seen. From being known. From being loved exactly as she is.

And you never look away. Not even once.

You never look away. Not even once. Not when her eyes brim with tears. Not when her thighs begin to tremble from holding too much at once. Not when her reflection starts to blur under the weight of everything she’s tried to suppress.

You keep her grounded with your touch, your chest pressed firm to her back, your arm tight around her waist, your fingers resting between her legs like a vow. Her body feels hot now, warmer than before, like her skin is waking up to itself again. You can feel the pulse of her clit beneath your palm, the way her slick is spreading as you cradle her sex, the way her hips start to twitch so subtly toward your hand even though she doesn’t realize she’s doing it.

You watch her watching you, eyes wide in the mirror, lips parted and wet, her throat working around a breath she can’t quite release. You whisper it again, softer this time, like you’re speaking straight into the fragile edge of her belief.

“I’ve got you, baby. I’ve always got you.” Her knees wobble again and you pull her tighter to your body, holding her upright as her head tips back against your shoulder and her eyes squeeze shut like it’s too much. Not the pleasure. Not the pressure of your touch. But the unbearable relief of being seen and still wanted.

You start again at her hips, dragging your hands up the curves you love so much, gripping her just enough to feel her weight settle into your palms. “This,” you whisper against her temple, your breath hot and even, “this right here is everything I want. I don’t want younger. I don’t want tighter. I want this. I want you.”

She breathes in through her nose like she’s trying not to cry, her chest rising and falling sharply as you move one hand slowly down the front of her body. You kiss the shell of her ear and murmur, “I want to talk to you about your pussy, Emily. I want you to hear what I see when I look at you here.”

She jerks slightly in your arms, more from the rawness of your tone than the words themselves, but she doesn’t stop you. She doesn’t tell you no. You slip your hand back between her thighs, slow and deliberate, fingers moving with a reverence that makes her whole body tighten.

She’s wet now. Wet in a way that shines in the mirror, glistening across the soft, full lips of her cunt, that faint grey streak in the trimmed patch of hair above catching the light like something mythic.

“Look at you, baby,” you whisper, dragging your middle and ring finger through her folds and parting them gently, just enough for her to see herself open. “You see how soft you are? How swollen? You’re aching for me and I’ve barely touched you.”

Your fingers stroke lower, slow and patient, coating themselves in her slick before dragging upward again to press lightly over her clit. She gasps, sharp and shaky, her hand flying back to grab at your hip as her knees buckle just slightly again. You catch her. You always do. You hold her upright with your arm around her belly, your lips never leaving her skin.

“That’s it,” you murmur, “feel it. Don’t hide from it. Don’t run. Just feel what I do to you when I’m showing you how good you already are.” You press two fingers inside her with a gentle push, her heat wrapping around you tight and perfect, and she groans like it rips out of her from somewhere too deep to name.

You slide in slow and stay there, your palm grinding softly against her clit, your other hand stroking her waist in long, grounding motions.

“You’re holding me so tight,” you breathe, “so warm, baby, you’re dripping onto my hand. And it’s not because I’m doing anything special. It’s because you’re built to want. Built to be touched. Built to be loved like this.”

She looks at herself now. Really looks. Her eyes are glassy, her lips wet, her skin flushed pink down to her chest. Her breasts are moving with every breath, nipples peaked and sensitive, thighs tensed as you fill her.

She watches the way your hand disappears between her legs, the way your knuckles press against the slick curve of her cunt, the way your fingers stroke deep and slow inside her while your palm works her clit with perfect, reverent pressure. She watches her body responding to love instead of punishment. To touch that worships instead of evaluates.

To hands that praise instead of pick apart. And for the first time, she doesn’t look away. Her hips begin to move, just slightly, a hesitant roll forward that presses her harder into your palm.

“That’s it,” you say gently, your mouth against the curve of her shoulder, “let her talk to me, baby. Let her guide us. Your pussy knows what she wants. Let her show you.”

She moans then, soft and low, her voice catching as her thighs tense tighter. Her head falls back again, but her eyes stay open. She’s panting now. Needy. Raw.

You adjust your grip just slightly, pressing your fingers deeper inside her, curling them up into the soft swell at the front of her body that makes her hips jerk and her breath punch out of her lungs.

“Right there,” you say softly, “this spot. You know how I found it? Not from a textbook. Not from practice. I found it by listening to you. By learning how you sounded when I made you feel good. I found it by loving you with my whole fucking body.”

Your hand doesn’t stop moving. It never loses rhythm. She’s shaking now, trembling hard, her moans getting louder, rougher, and your name falls from her lips like a prayer.

“I’m here,” you say, kissing her cheek, her jaw, her shoulder, your voice getting ragged now too. “I’m right here, baby. I’m not letting go. You can fall. You can break. You can cum all over my hand and cry and lose yourself and I’ll still be here holding you through all of it.”

Her body starts to tighten. You feel it everywhere. In the flutter of her walls. In the twitch of her thighs. In the desperate roll of her hips against your palm. She’s close. Not just to orgasm. But to something deeper. To trust. To surrender. To finally seeing herself through your eyes.

You watch her in the mirror, flushed and overwhelmed and unravelling, and when you whisper, “Let go, baby. Let me love you all the way through this,” she sobs once, soft and broken and beautiful and then she falls apart.

You hold her the entire time. You never stop touching her. You never stop speaking to her. You whisper every word she needs to hear while her body jerks and trembles and rides your hand until she’s left breathless, messy, wet, and utterly undone.

And when it’s over, when her legs give out completely, you carry her to the bed without letting her go.

You carry her to the bed like she weighs nothing at all, like her trembling doesn’t frighten you, like her softness isn’t something she has to apologize for. Her body is heavy with release, skin damp and flushed, her breathing still uneven, chest rising and falling in shallow pulls as you guide her down onto the cool sheets.

She tries to say something, maybe to thank you, maybe to explain what just broke open inside her, but the words never make it past her lips. Instead, she exhales shakily, her thighs still twitching, her hand gripping your wrist as if she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go.

You kneel beside her, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead, kissing her cheek with infinite patience as she blinks up at the ceiling like she doesn’t recognize the ceiling, like her entire body feels strange now that it’s no longer full of tension and shame. You don’t rush her. You don’t speak. You wait.

The bedroom is quiet, lit only by the soft grey spill of morning through the window and the subtle golden warmth from the hallway. One of the cats paws at the door, but neither of you moves to open it.

Her skin is flushed in patches—along her chest, her thighs, the soft round of her stomach and her legs are still parted slightly, her sex wet and swollen and glistening in the low light. You see the slick smeared down her inner thighs, the way her clit still twitches in the aftermath, and it takes everything in you not to climb onto the bed and start again.

Not to spread her legs wider, not to kiss her open and taste the way she gave herself to you. But you don’t. Not yet. This is not about your hunger. This is about hers. About her remembering that she is still wanted, still powerful, still sacred in the eyes of someone who’s learned her body like scripture.

You press your palm flat against her belly and feel her flinch again—less now from shame and more from sensitivity. You rub slow, grounding circles there, eyes never leaving hers, and when she finally turns her head to look at you, really look, it’s like watching the clouds shift after weeks of rain.

Her face is pink and damp, her lashes clumped with tears, her lips parted like she’s still trying to remember how to breathe. You dip your head to kiss her ribs, soft and slow, reverent, your lips brushing over the damp skin like she’s something you’re not supposed to touch without permission.

She doesn’t stop you. Her hand reaches up, trembling fingers sliding into your hair, not to pull you closer, not to guide you, but just to anchor herself to something that still feels solid. Her stomach rises beneath your hand as she exhales, and this time she doesn’t flinch. She lets you touch her. She lets you stay.

You kiss lower, slow and patient, your mouth dragging over the curve of her belly, the stretch marks she tries to hide, the soft warmth of a body that has carried decades of strength and silence and pain and power.

You kiss just below her navel, then lower, into the soft crease where her thigh meets her pelvis, until your breath fans hot against her cunt. She gasps, hips jerking slightly, thighs trying to close out of habit, but you slide your hands between them, firm and calming.

“Shh,” you whisper, your voice low and grounded. “I’m not going to take anything from you. I’m just going to stay here. I want to see you. I want to taste how much you trust me.”

Her legs part again. Tentative. Shaking. But open.

You lean in and kiss her there, slow and deep, letting your tongue slide between her folds, tasting her slowly, methodically, like she’s something rich and forbidden and yours. She’s slick and warm and still pulsing from the orgasm she barely survived in front of the mirror.

Her clit is swollen and sensitive, twitching under the flat drag of your tongue, and she cries out, both hands flying to your hair as her hips roll upward before she can stop them. “Please,” she breathes, the word barely a sound.

“I can’t— I’m still—” You groan softly against her, dragging your tongue lower to soothe her, to lick through the wet heat of her slit until she moans again, softer this time, letting herself fall back against the mattress as her thighs twitch around your head. You don’t push for more. You let her feel it slowly. You let her fall into it.

You kiss her cunt like it’s sacred. You lick her folds, tongue tracing every line of her, every swollen curve, letting your nose nudge gently against her mound where the grey in her hair is most visible. You love it. You kiss it.

You moan into her just to feel the way she trembles. Her hips lift again, more desperate now, and you flatten your tongue and lick her from bottom to top, slow and thick, then circle her clit with deliberate care, never fast, never rough, just constant. Just certain.

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” you whisper between strokes. “The way you taste. The way your pussy opens up for me. You don’t even know what you’re giving me right now, do you?”

She shakes her head, lips parted, panting, her back arching as the muscles in her thighs twitch violently. “I see everything. I feel everything. You don’t have to hide anything from me ever again.”

She whimpers, raw and unguarded, and you push two fingers back inside her slowly, curling them as you suck her clit into your mouth, flicking your tongue over the tip until she’s sobbing again, her hands fisting in your hair as her body starts to lock up.

Her pussy clenches around your fingers, her thighs snap tighter around your head, and you hold her there, grinding your mouth against her as she starts to come again, harder this time, deeper, longer, her whole body rippling under the force of it.

She cries your name, voice high and wrecked, and you don’t stop until her hands go slack and her thighs fall open, spent and twitching, her cunt still fluttering around your fingers even after the wave has passed.

You kiss her there once more. Soft. Wet. Loving. Then you pull back and look up at her, resting your cheek against her thigh as you wait for her to come back down to earth.

Her chest is rising and falling fast, her eyes glazed, her lips parted. She looks completely unravelled. Unmade. And she’s never looked more beautiful.

You let your cheek rest on her thigh for a moment longer, feeling the way her muscles still twitch under your skin, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest as she starts to come back to herself.

Her pussy’s still slick and flushed, folds parted and glistening with your spit and her own cum, her clit swollen and pink, twitching with aftershocks even though she’s barely hanging on.

You press one more kiss right to the centre of her, dragging your tongue up through the mess you made, just to make her hips jolt again.

Then you sit up, licking your lips, and you look at her, really look, at the way her body’s spread out across the bed like she’s been ruined. Like she has no defences left. And fuck, she’s gorgeous like this. Wrecked. Bare. Shining with sweat and soaked between her legs.

Your hand slides back up her thigh and moves slowly across her mound, fingers dragging gently through that neat patch of pubic hair you’ve loved for years — soft, trimmed, dark at the base with silver laced right through it now.

You let your fingers play there, twisting a few strands gently between them, tugging just enough to make her gasp again and look down at you with glassy, dazed eyes.

“God, baby,” you murmur as you tug again, watching the way her stomach flinches, “this grey is so fucking hot. You don’t even know what this does to me. I wanna bury my face in it every goddamn day.”

She laughs weakly, breathless, eyes still wide and stunned from what you just did to her. But her smile wavers, like she still doesn’t know if you mean it.

You lean over her slowly, hand still resting right over her pussy, your body hovering above hers as you trail your mouth up her belly, kissing gently, licking a slow stripe up through the sweat-slick dip of her navel, up toward her chest.

Her breasts rise up to meet you before you even get there, full and heavy, flushed from the heat and need, nipples already tight and aching without you even touching them yet. You kiss the underside of one first, slow and open-mouthed, sucking gently just enough to leave a trace of your tongue behind.

“These tits,” you murmur into her skin, dragging your lips across to the other side, “fuck, Emily. These are fucking perfect.”

You bring both hands up to cup them, squeezing gently, watching how they spill between your fingers. Her nipples are so hard they practically beg for your mouth. You lower your head and suck one in slowly, not teasing, not playing — just taking it deep into your mouth and holding it there, flicking your tongue across the tip until she moans, high and helpless.

You suck harder, letting it pop out of your mouth with a wet sound before licking slow, deliberate circles around the areola, your fingers pinching the other gently. “You feel that?” you whisper, mouth hot against her skin.

“How fucking good you taste? How perfect your nipples get when you’re turned on like this? I swear I could spend hours right here. Just sucking on these and watching you fall apart.”

She arches into you, still sensitive, still riding the edge of being overwhelmed, but she doesn’t push you away. Her hands slide into your hair again, pulling gently as you move back and forth between her breasts, licking and sucking, switching sides, letting your mouth move slow and deep over her chest until she’s gasping again, her thighs shifting restlessly beneath you. Her pussy’s still dripping. Her skin’s on fire. And you’re not anywhere near done with her yet.

Your lips pull away from her breast with a wet sound, and for a moment, all you can do is hover there, breath hot and uneven, the taste of her sweat and skin still on your tongue. Your thighs are shaking now too, your pussy aching from being so close to her, your clit throbbing between your legs from the way she moaned under your mouth, the way her cunt clenched on your fingers, from the way you’ve been grinding against the bed and holding back every needy sound building inside you.

You pull back just enough to kneel above her, chest heaving, your nipples tight, your thighs slick from how wet you’ve gotten just from taking her apart. Your panties are soaked through — completely ruined — the thin cotton pulled tight to your cunt, sticking between your folds and clinging to the swollen curve of your lips.

You reach down with one hand, hook your thumb into the waistband, and tug them off in one swift motion, dragging them down your thighs and tossing them to the side without breaking eye contact.

Emily watches you, dazed and flushed, eyes wide and blown black with arousal. Her mouth parts when she sees you, really sees you, bare and dripping, your cunt glistening in the low light, folds puffy and wet, inner lips slick and parted slightly from the pressure of your arousal.

There’s a clear sheen on your thighs from how much she’s turned you on, wetness strung between your lips and glistening at your entrance, a visible mess you made just from worshipping her body. You reach down and slide two fingers slowly through your folds, not to tease, not to cum, just to show her how soaked you are.

You moan softly at the contact, and then bring your fingers to her thigh, pressing them right against her skin so she can feel it — how slippery you are, how fucking soaked she’s made you.

“Feel that?” you whisper, breathless, voice shaking. “That’s what you do to me, baby. Just from touching you. Just from hearing you fall apart. That’s all you.”

She groans, her head falling back into the pillow, one hand fisting the sheets beside her, the other reaching for your hip like she needs to anchor herself to something before she shatters again.

You move slow at first, one knee pressing between her legs, then the other, nudging her thighs apart with care, reverence, need. You straddle her thigh, your pussy hovering just above hers, and your breath catches in your throat at how flushed she still is, how wet her folds are, how her clit twitches visibly when the air hits her again.

You take your time aligning your bodies, lowering yourself down inch by inch, until the heat of her pussy brushes yours, slick meeting slick, swollen lips parting around each other.

The contact is electric — raw and wet and searing — and you both cry out at the same time, voices tangled and breathless, your bodies jerking toward each other instinctively.

You roll your hips slowly, letting your cunt slide against hers, your folds slipping into hers, your clits grinding together with no space left between you. The friction is slow and deep and messy, everything about it soaked and swollen and needy.

You both gasp, both stutter, both moan as the rhythm builds, your thighs flexing, her hips lifting, your hands gripping her waist while she digs her nails into your back and pleads under her breath. “Fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop—” she whispers, and you don't.

You grind down harder, clit catching hers again and again, your pussy so slick it sounds obscene, wet and hot and perfect between your bodies.

“Just like that,” you pant, forehead falling to hers, your mouths brushing but not kissing, “you feel that, baby? Feel how fucking wet we are? This is how I want us. Messy. Shaking. Wrapped up in each other. I want to cum all over your pussy. I want you to cum with me. I want us to soak the sheets.”

Her legs wrap around you tighter, and she thrusts up into you, cunt catching yours at just the right angle, and you both cry out again, louder this time, raw, desperate, filthy, the kind of sound that only comes from being completely overwhelmed.

Your clits grind perfectly, slick smearing between you, heat building with every slow, pulsing thrust. You’re so wet now that it’s dripping down onto the sheets, your hips working faster, needier, chasing the edge together as your hands cling to each other and your bodies lock up in rhythm, soaked and shuddering and perfect.

Your breath is still caught in your throat, tight and trembling, your thighs soaked and twitching as you grind against her, your cunt slick and swollen, flush to hers.

The sound of it fills the room — wet and raw, bodies slapping softly together with every press of your hips. Her pussy is just as messy as yours, flushed and sticky, her folds slippery against your own, her clit swollen and catching yours perfectly with every roll of your body.

You both pant into each other’s mouths, lips brushing, foreheads sticking together with sweat. Her breath mixes with yours, hot and desperate, every gasp and moan shared between your mouths before it even escapes.

Her hands are locked around your waist now, holding you down, keeping you close, her nails digging in just enough to make you gasp as your hips stutter forward and your cunt slips perfectly into hers again.

You don’t kiss her at first. You just breathe her in, nose brushing hers, lips barely touching, your exhales pouring into her mouth as her lips tremble from the intensity.

But then she turns her head and captures your mouth, open and wanting, dragging her tongue over yours like she’s starved for the taste of you. It’s messy, immediate, a wet grind of lips and tongue and shared breath that has you both gasping into it.

She sucks on your tongue hard, unexpected and filthy, and your whole body jolts as you moan into her mouth, your cunt clenching up with the need to grind harder into her.

You can feel how soaked she is, how slick your lips are as they slip together — the heat between your thighs spreading everywhere, your clits catching over and over until neither of you can stop the rhythm.

She moans into your mouth, high and broken, and you swallow it greedily, kissing her deeper, tongues sliding and curling, mouths wide open and shameless. Her teeth catch your bottom lip and you groan, rocking harder now, chasing that friction, cunt to cunt, the mess of both of you getting slicker and louder, your thighs burning from how hard you're riding her.

“Fuck, Emily,” you whisper against her mouth, panting now, every word ragged. “Feel how wet I am for you. Feel what you do to me.”

She whimpers, pulling your face back down to hers, her tongue sliding deep into your mouth again as her hips start to move beneath you, meeting every grind with another desperate press of her own.

Your noses bump, your breaths mix, you’re both panting too hard to kiss properly but neither of you stops. It’s just mouths open, lips slipping, tongues rubbing, teeth dragging, sloppy and hot and desperate, your clits grinding together in soaked rhythm as your hands clutch at each other like you’ll fall apart without it.

“I’m so close,” she gasps into your mouth, barely able to get the words out. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Please.”

You nod, your forehead pressed to hers, grinding harder now, cunt to cunt, the wet drag of your bodies making you shudder. “I won’t,” you promise. “We’re gonna cum together. Just like this.”

And you do. You fall apart against each other, mouths still tangled, thighs shaking, the sound of your soaked bodies grinding loud and hot between you as your orgasms tear through you at the same time.

She cries out into your mouth and you moan into hers, both of you gasping, shaking, hips twitching as your clits pulse together through it, the mess between you slick and hot and endless. You don’t stop kissing her. You kiss her all the way through it, sloppy and panting, until you’re both too wrecked to move and too full of each other to speak.

Emily can barely catch her breath. Her chest rises unevenly, lungs still dragging in short, shallow gasps that tremble in her throat. Her thighs are still shaking.

Her cunt is still pulsing. Her arms are wrapped tight around your back, her palms splayed flat against your slick skin, like if she lets go for even a second she’ll float away. She doesn’t speak at first.

She couldn’t, even if she wanted to. Her whole body feels loose, wrecked, like every nerve ending has been used up and rewired into something soft and new. She can still feel your pussy pressed flush to hers, the hot slick mess of it, the way your clits had ground together until you both came so hard the room blurred around the edges.

The wetness is everywhere. Between her legs, on her thighs, on your skin, soaking into the sheets below. And she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care that she’s shaking or sensitive or speechless. She only cares that you’re still there, warm and trembling and real against her chest.

You’re still panting above her. Still making that soft, broken sound in your throat every time your breath catches. She feels it ghost across her cheek. You’re pressed so close that she can feel your heartbeat against her ribs.

And when she shifts even slightly, your cunt slides wetly against hers again, and the noise it makes is obscene. A slow, messy drag of soaked skin and swollen folds. Her hips jerk and she groans low in her throat, startled by how sensitive she still is. You moan too, not from pressure, but from the contact itself.

You whisper something into her skin, something that sounds like her name, and then you kiss her again. Messy. Full. Open-mouthed and slow. Like you don’t care how wet your faces are. Like you don’t care how flushed or ruined she looks. You kiss her like you still need her. Like you still want her.

When you pull back, your lips are glossy with her. Your mouth is trembling but your eyes are so goddamn soft it makes her breath hitch again. You bring your hand up to her face, brushing her damp hair away from her cheek, and whisper, “Are you okay?”

Emily lets out a rough breath, something that might be a laugh or a sob. She shakes her head slightly. “I don’t know,” she says, voice hoarse and cracked. “I think I forgot what okay feels like.”

You press your forehead to hers and kiss the corner of her mouth, soft and lingering. “You don’t have to figure it out right now,” you say quietly. “Just stay here. Stay with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers.

“Good,” you murmur, “because I’m not done loving you yet.”

Emily’s eyes flutter closed and she exhales through her nose. Her thighs twitch again as you shift your weight, and she groans softly. “Jesus, I can still feel you. I can feel everything.”

You tilt your hips, not to tease, but to remind her of the truth. Your pussies are still pressed together, soaked and hot and slippery, lips parted and clits swollen, the mess of your orgasms smeared between you. “You feel how wet we are?” you whisper. “You feel how perfect you fit against me?”

She shudders beneath you, tears brimming in her eyes again. “It’s too much,” she says. “It’s too good. I don’t know how to hold all of this.”

“You don’t have to hold it,” you say gently. “You just have to let me.”

Her hand slides up your back, fingers curling into your hair, pulling you down again until your mouth meets hers. This kiss is different. It’s slower, deeper.

Your tongues move together in lazy, open licks. There’s no rhythm. No pressure. Just mouths sliding and tasting and breathing each other in. Her lips are still trembling and your breath still stutters every time your bodies shift, but neither of you stops.

You kiss until your jaws ache. Until your mouths are slick and sore. Until her legs wrap back around your waist and her heels press lightly into your ass, not to start again, just to keep you there. Just to keep you close.

When you finally break the kiss, your mouth hovers close to hers, and you whisper, “You’re still mine. Do you know that?”

Emily’s throat tightens. “I know,” she says, eyes wet. “I just… I don’t always feel like I’m allowed to be.”

You shake your head. “You don’t need permission to be loved. Not with me. Not in this body. Not with the way you look at me. Not with the way you taste. Not with the way you fall apart in my hands and beg me not to stop. That is yours. That is always yours.”

She presses her face into your neck and lets out a sound that splits her open again. It’s not a sob, not quite. It’s something softer. More whole. Her hands grip your back like you’re the last thing tethering her to herself.

And for the first time in longer than she can admit, she lets herself believe you. She lets herself believe that she is still wanted. Still seen. Still worthy of being kissed like this, held like this, loved like this.

You kiss her again, and this time she kisses you back like she means it. Like she’s choosing it. Like she’s choosing you.

[https-prettycunt]

𓇻 CLAIRVOYANT CONSUMPTION ⭑.ᐟ

blurb ⋆ psychic!reader ⋆ dom/sub dynamics (consensual) ⋆ pussy eating (f receiving) ⋆ fingering ⋆ begging ⋆ multiple orgasms ⋆ mild restraint (pinning wrists) ⋆ emotional intensity ⋆ power imbalance (consensual) ⋆ explicit sexual content ⋆ 1.5k

ko-fi

The motel room hums with low, golden light, shadows folding over the worn floral bedspread and dusty blinds, and you can feel her before she even touches you. Dana stands with her arms crossed, pretending to look unimpressed, but you taste the crackle of her hunger on your tongue like metal in the air before lightning strikes. Her eyes flick over your body like she's cataloguing evidence, her lips parted just slightly, and you know she wants you to press her against the door and kiss her until she gasps into your mouth. You can feel it so clearly, that secret pulse she won’t speak aloud — the image of your mouth between her thighs, your fingers knuckle-deep in her cunt, her knees trembling against your shoulders as she tries not to beg. “You want me,” you murmur softly, watching the way her brow twitches, her mouth pressing tighter. “You want me to fuck you senseless, Agent Scully.”

She scoffs, but her legs shift slightly, her stance widening like she's already bracing for you. “You're projecting,” she says, but the lie rings hollow, the arousal beneath her skin practically vibrating. You take a step forward, slow and sure, until your chest nearly brushes hers, and she’s forced to look up at you from under her lashes. Her pulse flutters visibly at her throat, and you smile, tilting your head as your fingers trace lightly up her arm. “You were thinking about kissing me the second I walked through the door,” you whisper, voice low and sure. “And now you're picturing me spreading your legs. Telling you what a good girl you’ll be when I make you come.” Her breath catches, and you feel the heat in her core throb like a heartbeat, slick already blooming between her thighs.

You press your mouth to hers before she can deny it again, and the sound she makes is low, startled, broken. She kisses like she’s starved — like her logic has finally collapsed under the weight of craving — and her hands fly to your shirt, tugging at the hem like she needs skin. You let her struggle a moment, let her try to take control, before gripping her wrists and pinning them gently back against the door. She moans into the kiss, a soft, wanton sound you feel straight between your legs, and you pull away just enough to murmur, “Tell me what you want.” Her lips are swollen, eyes dazed and glassy, but she doesn’t answer — so you slide your knee between her thighs, press up, and repeat, slower, firmer, “Tell me.”

She shudders against you, breath hitching as her cunt grinds down involuntarily. “I want your mouth,” she whispers, almost angry with how badly she needs it. “I want your hands on me. I want you to make me forget everything.” You smile, soft and reverent, and kiss her once more, this time gentle. “I already know,” you whisper into her mouth, “but I like hearing you say it.” When you back her toward the bed, she follows without protest, her knees hitting the mattress as you guide her down, her body pliant under your hands. You kneel in front of her, drag your palms up her thighs, and watch as she leans back on her elbows, breath shallow, eyes fixed to your lips like they’re the source of God.

You peel her slacks down slowly, dragging the fabric over her hips, exposing soft skin and soaked black panties that cling to her like a second mouth. Her clit is already swollen, the damp patch blooming wide, and you hum with satisfaction as you press your lips to the cotton. “You’re so wet for me, Dana,” you whisper, licking a slow stripe through the fabric, tasting her through it. “You want it that bad?” Her hips buck slightly, and you don’t wait — you hook your fingers into her waistband and pull the panties down, revealing glistening folds, pink and flushed, her inner thighs already sticky. “So fucking pretty,” you murmur as you spread her open with your thumbs, watching her flutter and drip.

Your tongue meets her clit with slow, deliberate pressure, and she cries out, her back arching as her hands tangle in the bedspread. You moan into her, letting the vibrations buzz through her core, and the sound she makes is desperate, near feral. “Oh my god,” she whispers, breathless, thighs twitching around your shoulders. “Fuck—don’t stop.” You don’t plan to. You lick her like a woman possessed, mouth messy, face wet, her slick coating your chin as you suck and swirl and tease. She falls apart so easily under your tongue, her body writhing in time with your rhythm, her cunt pulsing with every lap like she’s begging silently for more.

You slide two fingers into her without warning, and her whole body jolts like you shocked her. “Fuck!” she gasps, voice raw, legs falling open wider as you curl them just right, finding that soft, spongy spot inside. Her walls clench hard around you, and you can feel her getting close already, can feel the orgasm threatening like a storm just beyond her spine. “Please,” she whimpers, not even knowing what she’s begging for. “Please, I—” You press your lips to her clit again and suck, hard, and she screams, thighs locking around your ears as her pussy clenches and gushes around your fingers, soaking your hand and the sheets beneath.

You don’t stop. Not even when she tries to squirm away. You hold her down, fingers still pumping, tongue still flicking, chasing that second orgasm with a ruthlessness that makes her sob. “Too much,” she cries, but her hips are grinding down, betraying her. “It’s—fuck—don’t stop.” You don’t. You fuck her through it, mouth messy, wrist aching, until she comes again with a hoarse scream, shaking and crying and coming undone. When you finally pull back, her cunt is puffy, red, dripping, and you wipe your mouth slowly, deliberately, watching her chest heave as she tries to catch her breath.

You crawl up her body and kiss her, slow and soft and filthy, letting her taste herself on your tongue. She moans into your mouth, her hands finally finding yours, clutching them weakly like she’s grounding herself. “You saw it,” she whispers, dazed. “Before I even said anything.” You nod, forehead resting against hers, your voice low and tender. “You showed me everything,” you whisper. “Your mind, your need. How badly you wanted someone to take control.” She closes her eyes and swallows, her breath hitching again, and you smile. “I want more,” she murmurs, barely audible. “I want all of you.”

You roll her gently, ease her onto her stomach, and press kisses down her spine, watching the goosebumps rise under your lips. Her hips lift instinctively, her thighs parting again, and you settle behind her, hands gripping her ass as you admire the glistening mess between her legs. “You’re going to let me fuck you properly now,” you murmur, and she nods, nearly delirious. “You’re going to take it until you cry again. Until there’s nothing left in your head but me.” You slide your fingers back into her from behind, pumping deep and slow, curling them with every thrust as your other hand cups her clit.

She sobs into the pillow, hips rocking back, and the sound is nothing short of divine. You don’t let up. You fuck her slow, grinding your palm into her clit every few thrusts, murmuring praise between kisses on her back. “Good girl,” you whisper. “So tight, so wet, you’re taking it so well for me.” She moans with every word, her cunt fluttering, her whole body arching. “That’s it, baby. Give it to me again. Show me how badly you need me.” When she comes a third time, it’s quiet, shaking, her body collapsing forward like she’s unraveling at the seams. You hold her through it, hand never leaving her cunt, even as she trembles and sobs into the sheets.

You ease her down, kiss her shoulder, pull your fingers out slowly and watch her whimper at the loss. You lick them clean, every drop, eyes never leaving hers. She watches you with something close to worship, red-cheeked and open, her legs still spread like she’s offering herself. You crawl up beside her and pull her into your arms, brushing her damp hair back. “You saw all that in me?” she whispers against your chest. “Before I even knew I needed it?” You nod, pressing your lips to her temple. “I didn’t just see it,” you whisper, hand stroking down her spine. “I felt it. Like fate.”

She exhales shakily, clinging to you like the last thing she believes in. “What else do you see?” she asks. “Right now?” You smile, tilting her chin up. “You’ll beg for it again tomorrow,” you whisper. “And next time, I’ll make you come with nothing but my mind.” She shudders, her eyes fluttering closed as she melts against you. “Good,” she murmurs. “I want to drown in you.” You pull the blanket over her shoulders, kiss the corner of her mouth, and hold her as the quiet settles. Her body hums with the aftermath, still warm, still wet, and you close your eyes, already sensing the next vision. She’ll wake up aching. And you’ll be right there.

[https-prettycunt]

𓇻 FEDERALLY OBSESSED ⭑.ᐟ

headcanons ⋆ weapon tension ⋆ dom!emily ⋆ con!reader ⋆ strap-on sex ⋆ pussy detail ⋆ overstimulation ⋆ hand on throat ⋆ spit ⋆ cum play ⋆ cockdrunk!reader ⋆ rough sex ⋆ restraints ⋆ power imbalance ⋆ manipulation ⋆ sweat ⋆ 2.5k

ko-fi

emily first sees you in a file, not a room, and somehow that makes you more dangerous. your picture is still, grainy, a photo of you in sunglasses stepping out of a penthouse with someone else's name on your ID and someone else's keycard in your hand. your posture is too confident, your smile too clean, and she hates how beautiful you are in black and white. she reads your history twice — dead names, forged signatures, impossible timing — and feels her stomach clench the same way it does when she knows someone’s already halfway out the door. you specialize in manipulation without blood, theft without trace, lies without ever raising your voice. the team doesn’t understand why emily stays late reviewing your movements. but she does — because something about the way you disappear makes her want to find out what it would take to make you stay.

you don’t get careless, you get intimate — and that’s why you stay ahead of her. she doesn’t know you’re watching her until the first drink arrives at her table, neat whiskey, no note. she drinks it anyway. a week later, your initials show up on a condo lease across from her favorite coffee shop. it’s not the crime that gets her attention. it’s the handwriting — it matches hers. and the worst part is, she doesn’t report it.

you like leaving her reminders — not as threats, but as invitations. you call it foreplay, even if she’d never use the word. a forged signature in a ledge she’s the only one reading. a photo of you in profile, knowing the camera is there. you leave her little clues that aren’t clues, just touches — intimate, useless, coded. the heel of your shoe visible in a press photo from an embassy she just briefed two weeks earlier. her perfume on a stranger’s jacket. a fake ID left on a table with her mother’s maiden name on it.

she doesn’t admit what’s happening until the night she slams a file shut and says your name under her breath like a curse. she closes her office door, sits down hard, and exhales through her teeth like she’s just been caught lying. you’ve left another mark — a fake passport processed in a country she swore you’d never enter. her eyes narrow as she stares at your latest profile, at the edges of your smirk, at the part of your mouth that always curves higher when you know you’re about to get away. she should assign another agent to you. she should be smarter than this. but she’s not. because no matter how many names you use, the only one that haunts her is hers — on your lips.

you come to her door on a tuesday night, wearing a coat and nothing else. you don’t knock at first. you let the buzzer go cold. when she opens the door, she doesn’t move — doesn’t speak, doesn’t aim, doesn’t ask. her mouth is tight and her eyes are tired, and when she sees you — bare legs, wet lashes, no smile — something fractures behind her chest. “you shouldn’t be here,” she says. but her hand stays off her holster. and you step over the threshold without asking.

you don’t say a word — not until the door clicks shut behind you and you can hear her breathing change. you walk past her like you’ve lived here before, like the hallway remembers you, like the air bends for you. she doesn’t stop you — doesn’t grab you, doesn’t restrain you — just watches the curve of your back as you peel the coat off your shoulders and let it fall to the floor. your skin is bare. your collarbone is wet. and her name leaves your lips like a verdict.

“so what happens now?” you ask, soft and still, facing her like you’re ready to be read your rights or ruined. she doesn’t answer. she crosses the room in silence, stands so close you feel her breath against your cheek, and you close your eyes like you’re bracing for violence that never comes. her hand lifts — slow, deliberate — and finds your jaw, thumb resting just beneath your lip. her other hand ghosts over your hip, not claiming, not warning, just hovering. “you think I won’t put you on your knees right here?” she whispers. you smile. “i think you already did.”

you don’t flinch when she grabs you by the jaw and backs you into the nearest wall, and that makes it worse. her hand is warm and firm under your chin, tilting your face up until your lips part from the tension, her thigh sliding between yours like it’s been waiting all year to slot into place. your cunt is already wet — warm, flushed, swollen from nothing but the sound of her voice, your slick sticking to the inside of your thighs as you grind down against her leg, desperate to be seen. emily exhales like she’s furious, like you’ve beaten her to something she swore she’d never give you, and her mouth crashes into yours with bruising heat. your nipples drag against her blouse, your chest rising into hers as your arms fall open like you want to be frisked. “this is insane,” she mutters into your mouth, but her hand’s already cupping your tit, thumb brushing your nipple until it stiffens under her palm. you moan into the kiss, soft and pathetic, and she grits out, “you planned this.” you smile — because you did.

she breaks the kiss just to shove your coat down your arms and toss it to the floor, her eyes raking over your bare chest, your trembling thighs, your wet cunt glistening in the low light. “you’re dripping,” she growls, the words barely human, her hand sliding down your stomach like a promise and pausing just above your mound. her fingers drag through the slick between your legs, knuckles brushing your clit, and you gasp, head tipping back against the wall as your knees threaten to buckle. your pussy clenches around nothing — open, aching, swollen from how badly you need her inside you, her touch making your hips jerk forward with every second of delay. “you’re disgusting,” she hisses, but her voice is thick with want, her pupils blown wide, her cock already straining in her slacks as she drops to her knees in front of you. you grab her shoulder, moaning helplessly as her breath ghosts over your cunt, the heat of her mouth making your legs shake. “then make me worse,” you whisper. and she does.

her tongue slides up your pussy in one long stroke, collecting slick and spit and heat all at once, and your whole body spasms against the wall. you cry out — loud, cracked, desperate — your hands flying to her hair as she buries her mouth between your legs, tongue fucking into your cunt like she’s claiming territory, her nose grinding up against your clit with every stroke. your thighs tremble violently, your hips bucking forward, and she groans into your pussy like she’s starving, like she’s angry she didn’t do this the moment she saw your file. “fuck — fuck, emily —” you sob, your head thudding against the drywall, your back arching hard as her tongue curls inside you, hitting every swollen, sensitive spot that’s been pulsing for her since you walked through her door. she moans when you clench, sucking hard at your clit until you whimper, knees going soft, cunt squeezing around nothing and leaking down her chin. “messy,” she murmurs, voice thick with spit, lips still pressed to your pussy. “you’re going to make a mess all over my floor, aren’t you?”

she slides two fingers into your pussy without warning, and you scream. your cunt stretches wide around her knuckles, soaking wet and tight, sucking her in with a wet, obscene sound that echoes through the room as she thrusts deep. “tight little hole,” she mutters, her breath hot against your mound, her tongue flicking your clit with every stroke of her fingers, her free hand gripping your hip to keep you still as you start to break apart. “you wanted this,” she growls. “you showed up to my fucking house, bare and dripping, and now look at you.” you sob her name, nails digging into her shoulder, your pussy convulsing wildly around her hand as your orgasm builds too fast, too hard, too much. her fingers curl perfectly inside you and you can’t stop — your hips roll, your moans turn to gasps, your legs shake. and when she adds a third finger, pushing in deep until she hits the spot that makes your whole body jerk, you cum so hard you nearly collapse on top of her.

you squirt for her — full-body, legs trembling, cunt gushing, throat raw from the scream you can’t hold in. emily groans as she feels the rush of it, her mouth locking onto your clit, tongue flicking in quick, brutal strokes while your slick spills onto her hand and down her wrist, soaking her sleeves, making a mess across the floor just like she said. “goddamn,” she whispers, eyes flicking up to watch your face as you ride out every pulsing wave, your pussy clenching and fluttering and leaking down her arm. your body twitches, hips stuttering forward, stomach clenching hard as she keeps fucking you through it, lips wrapped around your clit, sucking hard like she’s drinking straight from the source. “so fucking wet,” she murmurs, licking your slit like it’s her last meal. “this little pussy’s obsessed with me.” and you are — because even when you beg for her to stop, your hips never stop chasing her mouth.

when she finally pulls away, her mouth is soaked, her fingers shining, and your pussy is still pulsing like it’s begging to be filled again. she stands slow, towering over you, her hand sliding from your cunt to your jaw, gripping it as she leans in and whispers, “open your mouth.” you do — instantly, obediently, already drooling — and she shoves her fingers inside, making you taste yourself while her eyes stay locked on yours. you moan around them, lips stretched, tongue lapping at the slick and spit and cum on her skin like you’ve lost all control. “you look better like this,” she says softly. “filthy. ruined. not running anymore.” and when she pulls her fingers out and slaps your cheek with the wet mess of them, you thank her for it.

you don’t ask to ride her — she just leans back against the headboard, cock already strapped in, thighs wide, chest heaving, and tells you, “now.” her gun rests on the nightstand for one second — just long enough for her to check the chamber — before she picks it back up and holds it loosely in her right hand, barrel angled down beside her thigh as if she might use it or drop it depending on how well you behave. your legs straddle her hips, your cunt soaked and twitching, clenching around nothing while you lower yourself down, your inner walls fluttering the moment the head of her cock presses against your entrance. “take it slow,” she mutters, and you try, but your pussy’s already fluttering around the tip, desperate, too needy to follow orders. you cry out the moment you sink onto her, your thighs shaking, your cunt stretched wide and full, the pressure making your breath catch in your chest as you bottom out. she doesn’t even flinch — just watches you impale yourself, her hand tightening on the grip of the gun while her left hand slides up your belly to rest lightly at your throat. “look at you,” she whispers. “you’re not even trying to be good.”

you bounce in her lap with the desperation of someone trying to outrun a second orgasm, but it’s no use — she’s too deep, too thick, too patient, and her fingers are already tightening around your throat. her cock grinds up against the soft spot inside you on every thrust, her hips lifting slow and precise while you whimper and rock down on her, your breasts bouncing, sweat dripping from your skin as you fuck yourself stupid. “needy little hole,” she murmurs, not even pretending to be gentle, her thumb pressing just under your jaw while her other hand shifts slightly — gun still in her palm, elbow rested on her thigh like she’s completely at ease with the weight of you. you moan louder the tighter she holds your neck, your vision starting to swim, your mouth slack and open, your pussy fluttering around the strap buried inside you like it’s the only thing keeping you conscious. “say thank you,” she says calmly, even as your cunt clenches around her, your nails digging into her shoulders like you’ll die if you stop moving. “say thank you for the cock you begged for.” you try to speak — try to form the words — but all that comes out is a choked moan and the twitch of your hips as you start to cum again. “that’s what I thought.”

when you start to fall forward, dizzy and wrecked, she catches you with her forearm and flips you onto your back so fast the world tilts. your legs spread automatically, cunt dripping, thighs trembling, the shape of her cock glistening with your slick as she moves between them again — and the gun’s still in her hand, resting beside your head on the pillow, cold and close enough to make your pulse spike. “don’t stop now,” she murmurs, leaning in close, sweat dripping from her neck, her hair sticking to her jaw as she thrusts back in hard enough to knock a sob from your throat. “you want danger?” she growls. “you want to fuck a federal agent with a gun in her hand?” you nod fast, your hands grabbing at the sheets, your cunt soaked, your clit throbbing as her strap starts to slam into you with punishing rhythm. “then take it,” she spits. “take all of it.”

she fucks you hard now — loud, fast, filthy — the mattress rocking, your body shaking, your pussy completely ruined as the bed creaks and the headboard slams against the wall. your moans are raw and high-pitched, your legs spread wide as she holds them open with one knee, the strap driving deep with every stroke, her cock dragging perfectly against your swollen walls while her fingers squeeze your throat tighter. “you’re such a mess,” she hisses, teeth bared, her hand sliding down to slap your clit once, then again, making you buck and cry out and beg for her to finish it. you cum the second she presses her thumb there, your whole body locking up, your cunt spasming wildly, your back arching so hard off the bed that the gun nearly slips from her hand. she grins through it, fucking you harder, faster, until you’re sobbing under her, screaming her name, soaking the sheets with another gush of slick you didn’t even feel coming. “there it is,” she groans. “fucking drench me.” and you do — over and over.

[https-prettycunt]

OMG just scrolling through your Lorraine works and you WRITE EMILY TOO!? I think I’m in love with your blog

I love them both so muchhh and ofc, you!

[https-prettycunt]

Happily.

ANYWAYS, the way you write Lorraine UGH chefs kiss. I hope you know I’m at your mercy.

oh i love having a good girl at my mercy

[https-prettycunt]

𓇻 SPOILED LITTLE THING ⭑.ᐟ

sugar mommy!larissa ⭑ hotel suite ⭑ oral (fem receiving and giving) ⭑ face sitting ⭑ orgasm denial ⭑ luxury kink ⭑ silk bondage ⭑ praise kink ⭑ lap sitting ⭑ dom!larissa ⭑ 1.8k

ko-fi

She flies you out in the middle of the week like it’s nothing. Business class, direct, a private car waiting at the curb the moment your heels hit the tarmac. She doesn’t text to check in — she sends the concierge instead. They escort you upstairs with a key card tucked into a velvet envelope, and when you push open the suite doors, your first breath is already sweet with roses and champagne. The lights are low. The bed is huge. A wide mirror stretches across the ceiling. The linens are all white, starched and pressed and waiting for a body to ruin them. On the nightstand, two glasses of something pale and bubbling sit next to a silver plate of strawberries already glistening with sugar. She’s not in the room yet. That’s part of the game. You take off your coat. You peel off your dress. You wait on the bed in her favorite lingerie with your knees pulled under you, slick already pooling between your thighs. You are trembling by the time you hear the elevator ding.

Larissa enters like she owns the floor — because she does. Tall, elegant, marble-cool in her long cream coat and silk blouse, her gloves pulled off finger by finger as she stalks into the suite without even glancing at you. You sit perfectly still. Her heels click against the wood. She pours herself a drink, takes a single strawberry, and finally turns. Her eyes drag over you like a slow curse. You feel it everywhere. Her stare lands on your breasts, your thighs, the soft tension in your shoulders. She smiles like she’s pleased. “I see you followed directions,” she says softly, voice thick with reward. “My good girl.” She approaches with the champagne glass in one hand and the strawberry in the other, and when she reaches the edge of the bed, she brushes the berry across your lips before pressing it inside your mouth. She watches you suck the juice from your fingers. She sets the glass down. And then she kisses you with a hunger that makes you whimper.

You expect her to let you touch. She doesn’t. Larissa gently presses your wrists to the mattress, whispers a warning into your throat, and produces a bundle of silk scarves from her coat pocket like she packed them just for this. One by one, she ties your wrists to the headboard, slow and careful, the silk knotting tight. Then she sits back and looks at you. Legs parted. Chest heaving. Pussy already glistening. She hums like she’s admiring art. Her hands trail down your thighs, her nails dragging lightly across your skin until your hips twitch. “You’ve been needing this,” she murmurs. “I can tell.” She strips in front of you without rushing, her blouse sliding down her arms, her trousers undone with a slow flick of her fingers. The harness is already buckled underneath — sleek, black, solid between her thighs — and her cunt is bare beneath it. You moan at the sight. She climbs onto the bed and straddles your chest.

When she lowers herself onto your face, it’s not a question. Her cunt is wet and swollen, lips flushed and soft as they press over your mouth, her thighs strong and tight around your head. Her weight is deliberate. Her rhythm brutal. You moan into her folds, licking deep, tongue circling her clit, hands uselessly clenched in their restraints. She rides your face like it belongs to her — because it does. Her fingers twist in your hair. She pulls tight and says, “Breathe through your nose, sweetheart. I’m not done.” Her slick coats your chin. You choke slightly, overwhelmed and wet and helpless beneath her, and when she cums, it’s with her whole body shaking against your mouth.

But she doesn’t let you finish.

Not yet.

You’re soaked. Your pussy’s throbbing, clit pulsing under the heat of her body, and all she does is kiss you slowly afterward and say, “Not tonight.” You cry a little. She holds your face and tells you how pretty you are when you suffer for her. She makes you sleep with your wrists still tied. She makes you grind against her thigh until you’re weeping with need, and still she doesn’t let you finish. You wake up the next morning with her fingers between your legs but no permission. You beg her. You tell her she’s cruel. She only laughs and says, “You don’t cum in this hotel unless it’s in my lap.”

You believe her.

You keep your legs closed all day.

By the second night, you’re half-feral. Your thighs won’t stop trembling. Your nipples are sore. You can’t speak without panting. Larissa watches you eat dinner across the suite table, her strap-on hidden beneath her robe, her eyes locked on your mouth like it’s a promise. When she finally pulls you into her lap that night, you nearly sob. She sits in the wide armchair with you straddling her thighs, the mirror above you catching the shine of your sweat-slick skin, her fingers working your clit in slow, tight circles. You rock against her lap like your life depends on it. You grind down on her cock but she doesn’t let you take it in. She holds it pressed between your folds, lets it rub your clit as she strokes and praises and whispers, “That’s it, baby. That’s it. My spoiled little thing. So fucking desperate, aren’t you? Look how needy this pussy is. You’d do anything for me.”

You cum shaking, sobbing, soaking her lap as her fingers stay tight against your clit, her voice the only thing anchoring you in the room. She kisses you through it, slow and deep. She tells you you’re perfect. And when you finally go limp in her arms, she lifts the champagne glass to your lips and makes you drink — still sitting on her cock, still throbbing, still hers.

The car pulls up to the private terminal just after noon, sunlight spilling across the pavement in soft gold that turns her silver hair almost white. You are sore in the way only Larissa can make you sore, thighs trembling when you step out of the car, breath catching at the memory of her hands gripping your hips the night before. She notices immediately. She places her palm at the small of your back, steady, warm, proprietary, guiding you toward the jet as if every inch of you belongs to her. Your body responds before your mind does, spine straightening, breath softening, that familiar heaviness settling in your chest. You can still smell traces of her perfume on your neck. You feel like the weekend is written on your skin in invisible ink only she can read.

Inside the cabin, everything is velvet-quiet and polished to a shine. Cream leather seats. Soft lighting. A single vase of orchids on the table beside a pair of untouched champagne flutes. Larissa removes her coat with slow precision, draping it over the seat before settling in with the kind of poise that makes even a private jet look like a throne room. You sink into the seat beside her, legs pressed close, still aware of the tender ache between them. She glances down, takes in the way you shift, and smirks gently. “Comfortable, sweetheart?” she asks, her voice dipped in that velvety amusement that always makes your stomach tighten. You nod even though you are not. Especially because you are not. Her fingers graze your knee, barely there, but enough to make your breath catch. “Good. I like you remembering me.”

The plane lifts, slow and smooth. The view outside turns into clouds. Larissa pours the champagne and hands you a glass, her fingers brushing yours longer than necessary. You take a sip. It is cool, bright, fizzy. She watches your mouth when you drink. You feel your pulse quicken under her gaze. She sits angled toward you, one leg crossed over the other, her posture relaxed yet commanding. “You were very good this weekend,” she says, her voice low enough that it feels private even in the empty cabin. “Better than I expected. Better than you know.” Your chest warms at the praise. You swallow slowly. She studies the way the movement travels down your throat, eyes darkening, and you feel your face grow warm.

At cruising altitude, Larissa reaches into her bag and pulls out a small black velvet box. Your heart stops. She opens it and inside is a delicate necklace, thin chain, a small pearl set in gold at the center. Elegant. Expensive. Understated. “For you,” she says, tone soft but firm, like the decision was never truly yours to make. You let her fasten it around your neck, her fingers brushing the back of your skin. The touch makes goosebumps rise along your arms. She smooths your hair afterward. She looks at you in a way that feels like being chosen. “A reminder,” she murmurs. “That you belong somewhere. That you belong to someone.”

The attendants bring lunch, but Larissa barely touches hers. She is too focused on you. On the flush of your cheeks, the way you sit with your knees drawn slightly inward, trying not to wince at the soreness she left behind. She leans close enough for you to feel her breath warm against your ear. “You will rest when you’re home,” she murmurs. “You will drink water. You will treat yourself gently.” Her hand settles over your thigh, thumb stroking once, slow and steady. “I take care of my girls. Even when I’m not touching them.” You swallow, unable to speak. Her closeness is too much and not enough.

The sky outside turns lavender as the hours pass. Shadows stretch across the cabin. Larissa reclines her seat slightly and nods for you to come closer. You shift into her side, curling into her warmth, your head resting on her shoulder. She wraps an arm around you and holds you like something precious. Something she intends to keep. Her hand rubs slow circles on your arm, the rhythm lulling, soothing, intimate in a way that makes your chest ache. The weekend left you wrung out in the best possible way, and now she is giving you softness like a second gift. You relax against her tentatively, then fully, breath syncing with hers.

She brushes her lips to your hairline. Just once. Just soft. “Good girl,” she whispers. The words settle into your bones, warm and heavy. You feel small. Safe. Wanted. Claimed. The hum of the engines blends with your heartbeat. You close your eyes. Larissa’s hand rests over your thigh, not possessive, just steady, reminding you she is there and she is not done with you. When the lights dim for landing, she squeezes your hand gently and tells you, “Next time, pack lighter. I plan to keep you in bed longer.”

The plane descends. The city lights bloom beneath you. She kisses the side of your temple again and smooths your hair with care, not letting go of your hand until the wheels touch the ground.

[https-prettycunt]

𓇻 CURTAIN CALL, BABY ⭑.ᐟ

blurb ⭑ director!agatha ⭑ actress!reader ⭑ strap-on sex ⭑ performance kink ⭑ worship kink ⭑ clit grinding ⭑ oral (fem receiving & giving) ⭑ overstimulation ⭑ possessive language ⭑ filthy talk ⭑ semi-public setting ⭑ 1k

ko-fi

The theater is empty except for the two of you. All the crew has gone. The house lights are off. Only one spotlight glows now, trained directly on you at center stage, its warmth soft on your bare shoulders as you stand frozen in the cone of light. The silence around you is almost sacred. It carries the echo of lines spoken, steps danced, breath held in rehearsal. The wooden floor creaks under your feet when you shift. Dust dances in the glow, suspended in air so quiet you can hear the rise and fall of your own chest.

Agatha sits in the director’s chair in the front row like a judge on her throne, her knees spread comfortably, one arm hooked over the armrest, the other lazily stroking the length of the strap-on between her legs. The leather harness is tight against her hips, black and thick, the cock jutting up proudly from her pelvis. The base is broad and pressed snug against her cunt. Every idle shift of her hips rolls it upward against her clit, and she’s not hiding how much she likes that. You can see the flex of her thighs. You can see the tension in her jaw. Her blouse is unbuttoned enough to show the top swell of her chest, her sleeves rolled halfway, and the shadows crawl across her face like reverence.

She crooks two fingers in your direction and says one word.

“Perform.”

You step out of your heels. You let your dress slip from your shoulders, the straps gliding over your skin like they’ve done it before. It puddles on the stage behind you. You are fully bare under the spotlight now, nipples hard in the warm air, thighs trembling, the heat of your own slick already clinging between your legs. You lower yourself to your knees with purpose. You crawl toward her, slow and hungry, your palms dragging across the scuffed hardwood, your breath quickening with every foot you close between you. You don’t look at her face. You keep your eyes on the strap-on.

It gleams faintly in the low light, thick and curved, glistening at the tip with lube she must have already stroked on in anticipation of using you. Your mouth opens without thought. Your lips part around the shaft as she shifts forward slightly, letting the base grind right up against her clit. You feel the way her hips twitch when your mouth closes over the head. She sucks in a breath. Your tongue circles the tip slowly before you take her deeper, both hands gripping the base as your jaw stretches open. The silicone fills your mouth, weighty and smooth, and you begin to bob your head, slow and worshipful, your spit already coating it.

Agatha’s hand slides into your hair, her fingers curling tight, guiding your pace. The base of the strap grinds against her with every movement of your head, and you can hear the low groan that slips through her lips as she starts to roll her hips forward, fucking herself against the pressure. You moan around her cock. The vibration makes her curse softly. “Such a good mouth,” she murmurs. “You know how to make a woman lose her composure. You’re going to do it again tonight, aren’t you?”

You nod without pulling off. Your eyes water slightly from the stretch, from the depth, but you don’t stop. You lick down the underside, stroke the shaft with your hand, kiss the base. You rest your cheek against her thigh and press soft kisses to the leather strap, trembling slightly as the scent of her sweat and perfume fills your lungs. She lifts her boot and nudges it between your legs, pressing the toe to your cunt. You gasp. Your pussy clenches hard. You’re already dripping, your clit throbbing.

“You want to cum on my shoe?” she asks.

You nod again, eyes fluttering.

She lets you ride it. She doesn't move her foot. She makes you do the work. You rock your hips down over her boot, grinding your soaked cunt along the leather, clit dragging over the toe. You whimper. You gasp. The slick sound is filthy. You’re already making a mess. She watches you with her hand wrapped around the cock, stroking it slowly. Her face is flushed. Her thighs are tight. You can tell the base is grinding perfectly over her clit with every stroke. Her breath stutters. Her eyes close for half a second.

Then she stands.

She walks up the steps to the stage slowly, the strap swaying between her thighs, glistening in the light. She grabs you by the throat and kisses you hard. You taste your own slick on her tongue. Her hands push you back onto your spine and pull your legs open. Your pussy is soaked, folds puffy and slick, clit twitching. She kneels between your thighs and drags the cock over your cunt, letting the head tap your clit once. You cry out. Your hips buck.

She lines up and pushes in slow. Inch by inch, until you’re stretched wide and moaning under her. Your pussy swallows her strap. The stretch is thick. Full. Your walls pulse around it. She starts to move, rocking into you, and the base rolls right over her clit again and again. She moans low, fucking you harder, snapping her hips forward until the slap of her pelvis against your cunt fills the stage. “So tight,” she growls. “So wet. I’m going to fuck you until you forget your lines.”

You sob, legs shaking, hands reaching for her as her cock pounds into you. Every thrust hits deep. Every drag out feels like your cunt is trying to suck her back in. Your clit is throbbing. Your slick runs down your thighs. She grabs your face. Kisses you again. Then whispers against your mouth, “Now cum.”

You scream.

You cum clenching around her cock, crying into her shoulder, your pussy gushing wet and desperate. She fucks you through it. Her own thighs tremble. Her moans get louder. She rides your orgasm until you're shaking, soaked, and collapsing under her.

And when you go limp in her arms, sweat slicked and fucked out under the theater lights, she kisses your cheek and murmurs, “Curtain call, baby.”

[https-prettycunt]

Wowowow, everything you write is VERY good!! I love everything you've written, And Lorraine's one-shots have me obsessed. They're incredible, I really love them! I hope you have more of Larissa Weems in the future too.

i'm busy writing one atm! almost finished!! tysm baby <3

[https-prettycunt]

i'm obsessed with how much detail you put into constructing lorraine as an authority figure (specifically with regard to the way she dresses, the religious symbols that she carries, her confidence and control in the bedroom etc.) because i feel like "tough mean lady that's only soft for you <3 <3" is such a popular trope and i love this reverse idea of "gentle, somewhat withdrawn lady that's only strict and exacting with you." because they're both a form of trust!! an outlet for emotions and desires that she can't show anyone else!! idk the idea of lorraine as like a sweet soft-spoken bible study leader that secretly has her controversially young gf in a chastity belt 24/7 is just so compelling to me lol🔒

no because the duality makes me insane. she’s out there giving communion with soft eyes and a bible in her hands, meanwhile she’s got you at home dripping into a soaked-up towel because she hasn’t been allowed to cum in over a week.

you know she’d be so gentle with everyone else — brushing hair back, offering scripture, carrying herself like the picture of grace but with you, she’s got her hand locked around your throat, whispering that you don’t deserve release until you’ve prayed with your mouth full.

the chastity belt isn’t just for control, it’s punishment. it’s how she keeps you desperate, stuffing her fingers inside you and dragging them out slowly just to feel how soaked you are, how ruined she’s made you, before slapping your thigh and telling you to thank her for your suffering.

she makes you kneel for her, not just to suck her off, but to beg, to admit how badly you need to cum, how sore and swollen your pussy feels inside that belt, how much you ache just to hump the mattress. and when she finally lets you, maybe lets you, it’s only on her strap, and only while you’re crying, your wrists cuffed and her rosary dangling between your tits, bouncing every time she thrusts deeper. and after, she cleans you up with those same soft hands, buttons your blouse, and tells you sweetly to be quiet about it in church.

ANYWAYYY LMAO

[https-prettycunt]

The way you write Lorraine makes me want to cry /pos

The aftercare after the charity belt must be insane bro I felt funny just after reading it 😭😭

hmm, a good funny, i hope

[https-prettycunt]

That was hot af thank you for writing

You're welcome baby

[https-prettycunt]

lmaooo i love that you called it terminal lockdown… now i feel like i need to give myself an emoji 🔒

AHHHH yes - you're stuck with me now.

[https-prettycunt]

𓇻 THY WILL BE DONE ⭑.ᐟ

blurb ⭑ punishment sex ⭑ strap-on ⭑ religious corruption ⭑ spanking ⭑ orgasm control ⭑ bondage ⭑ crying from pleasure ⭑ filthy worship ⭑ complete control ⭑ 1k

She wasn’t supposed to be home for another hour. You knew that. But your skin felt too tight, your pussy was aching, and you couldn’t take the waiting anymore. You laid yourself out across the center of the bed like an offering — wrists tied with her white prayer silk, ankles parted just enough for her to see the slick mess clinging to your inner thighs. You were already flushed and leaking, your clit swollen from teasing yourself against the sheets all morning, and your mouth parted in anticipation. You wanted her to walk in and see it. You wanted to feel her snap. Her rules were clear, but you wanted to be caught breaking them. You wanted to be punished.

When the front door opened, you held your breath. When it closed — soft, careful — your whole body went still. Footsteps. Slow. Measured. Then silence outside the bedroom. She didn’t come in right away. She stood there. Listening. Letting the moment swell like thunder. When Lorraine finally pushed open the door, the light from the hallway cut across her face and froze there. She was still wearing her coat. Her gloves. And she didn’t blink.

Her eyes swept over your body like judgment. From your flushed chest, to your bound wrists, to the way your cunt glistened between your parted thighs. Her mouth didn’t move. Her breathing did. She shut the door behind her with a soft click and took three slow steps inside. You stayed still, trying to play brave, but your nipples were hard and your hips trembled against the sheets.

“You tied yourself up,” she said flatly, voice like static under the skin. “You touched what belongs to me. And now you want to be rewarded for it?”

You bit your lip. “I thought I’d save you time,” you whispered, tugging lightly at the silk restraints. “Be good. Be ready.”

She stepped closer. She slapped your thigh hard — open palm, wet skin — loud enough to echo. Your hips jerked but you didn’t cry out. She did it again, harder. Then again. Your thigh bloomed red under her hand. “You don’t know what good is,” she snapped. “You don’t get to offer yourself up like that. That’s my decision. Not yours.” She reached for the hem of her coat and shrugged it off slowly, her eyes never leaving yours. Her blouse followed, her bra next. Her body was all soft power — pale, strong, maternal, terrifying. The rosary still hung around her neck.

The harness was already strapped between her thighs. Thick black leather. A wide, curved cock jutting forward, already slick where she’d tested it earlier. She saw your eyes drop to it. Saw your cunt twitch. She climbed onto the bed and straddled your thighs, the strap brushing over your belly, your clit, making your breath catch. “You made a decision that wasn’t yours to make,” she said, voice quieter now, almost reverent. “And now I’m going to take my control back.”

She grabbed your chin. Kissed you hard. Her tongue didn’t ask — it claimed. She bit your lip, kissed your jaw, then licked her way down your throat while her fingers slid between your thighs. When she reached your pussy, she slapped it once — light but sharp — and you cried out, slick spraying against her wrist. “Soaked,” she muttered. “You got this wet all by yourself? With no permission?” She dragged two fingers through your folds, smearing the mess over your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles until you sobbed under her. “You don’t even deserve to cum. But I’m going to let you beg.”

She slid down between your thighs, arms hooked under your knees, her mouth lowering onto your cunt like she was kneeling to the cross. Her tongue flattened and dragged up your folds, then flicked fast against your clit, sloppy and wet. She sucked it. Spit on it. Licked it again. You screamed her name, hips thrashing, held down by the ropes and her mouth. She didn’t stop until your whole pussy was twitching. Then she shoved two fingers deep inside you and growled into your clit, “Cum and I’ll lock you up for a week.”

You held it. Barely. Your whole body shook. She pulled away just before you fell over the edge. Her mouth glistened with spit and slick. She wiped her lips on her wrist and climbed up again, grabbing the base of the strap. “Now I’m going to fuck you,” she said, tapping it against your clit. “And you’re going to thank me for correcting you.”

She lined the cock up to your entrance and pushed in slow. Thick. Stretching. You gasped, your walls clenching around it, already soaked enough to let it slide deep without resistance. She bottomed out with a grunt, hands on your thighs, eyes locked on the way your pussy swallowed her strap. Then she fucked you — hard, deep, punishing. Your wrists yanked at the silk restraints with every thrust. Your tits bounced. Your whole body rocked beneath her.

The strap hit just right — the curve dragging against your walls, the base grinding your clit. You were already sobbing. Already begging. “Please,” you gasped. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll wait next time—”

“You will wait,” she snapped, snapping her hips harder. “You’ll kneel at the end of the bed until I tell you to speak. You’ll pray for my attention. And you won’t even breathe until I say so.”

You were so close. Too close. She saw it in your face and slapped your tit hard enough to make you scream. Then again. “Not yet,” she hissed. “You don’t get to cum without my forgiveness.”

“Please,” you sobbed. “Lorraine—ma’am—please—”

She grabbed your throat. Not tight. Just enough. Just a reminder. Just possession.

She leaned over you, still pounding into you, the strap slamming inside you with wet, vicious sounds. Her voice was in your ear when she finally said it. “Now.”

And you shattered.

You came screaming. Clenching. Crying. Gushing down your thighs. You soaked the strap. You soaked her. You soaked the fucking sheets.

And she didn’t stop.

She fucked you through it until your legs went numb. Until your hands fell limp in the bindings. Until your pussy pulsed empty, fucked raw, body humming with spent sin.

And then she kissed your forehead.

“You’ll never do that again,” she whispered. “Not unless you want worse.”

And the worst part was — you did.

You really, really did.

[https-prettycunt]

𓇻 TERMINAL LOCKDOWN ⭑.ᐟ

blurb⭑ dom!lorraine ⭑ chastity kink ⭑ spiritual control ⭑ orgasm denial ⭑ religious corruption ⭑ strap-on sex ⭑ begging ⭑ sacred submission ⭑ overstimulation ⭑ spanking ⭑ oral (fem receiving) ⭑ crying from pleasure ⭑ creaming on command ⭑ post-orgasmic worship ⭑ 0.9k

ko-fi

for the anon who i need to talk to about lorraine more often!!

She locks you up on Sundays. Always on Sundays. While the morning bells are still echoing through the sky and your knees are sore from mass, she brings you into the bedroom and sits you down on the edge of the mattress like a little lamb. Her voice is gentle. Her touch is reverent. But her eyes are unforgiving. She reaches under your skirt, eases your panties down past your thighs, and runs a single finger through your folds with holy inspection. You’re already wet. Already needy. That’s enough for her to sigh with disappointment.

“You’re still thinking with your body,” Lorraine murmurs, brushing your clit with the pad of her finger until you shudder. “This is why we fast, darling. This is why we cage desire.”

She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to. She lifts the stainless-steel chastity cage from her bedside table — polished clean, cold, blessed — and holds it between two fingers like it’s sacred. She spreads your legs wider, opens your lips gently, and fits the curved band between them, pressing the base against your dripping entrance. The secondary ring locks against your mound, the device covering your clit completely. You whimper the moment the click sounds. It seals your pleasure away like a punishment and a promise.

Lorraine adjusts it for comfort. She always does. It’s never about cruelty. It’s about control. Her fingers wipe your slick from the rim and smear it across your lower belly, like oil before a ritual. She kisses your cheek. Tucks the little brass key into a velvet pouch and strings it onto her rosary. She drapes it around her neck and smiles. “You’ll stay locked until I say otherwise,” she whispers. “Until I decide your body is worthy of receiving mine again.”

The week is hell. Every night you sleep alone in her bed while she reads psalms with her hand between her thighs, moaning soft and righteous while you grind against the sheets with nothing but frustration in your bones. Your clit swells against the cage. The metal presses too tight. You ache, soaked and dripping through your panties by morning, but she never even glances at you. She holds the key. She holds your release. And she pretends like she doesn't see the tears in your lashes during prayer.

By Friday, you’re twitching. Your thighs can’t stay still. You can’t stop staring at her wrists, her mouth, the soft curve of her throat when she tips her head back and drinks wine with supper. She smiles knowingly every time you squirm in your seat. She knows you’re close to breaking. And that’s when she decides it’s time.

She takes you by the wrist and brings you to her bedroom. She lights a candle. Closes the blinds. Makes you kneel on the rug while she undresses slowly. Her body is pale, soft, full beneath her blouse, and when she unclasps her bra, your breath catches from the ache between your legs. “You’ve been patient,” she says gently. “But your thoughts have not been pure. You’ve sinned, haven’t you?”

You nod, shaking, eyes already welling with tears.

She steps closer and runs a thumb down your cheek, then presses the cold brass key into your mouth. “Keep it there,” she says. “I want you to feel it on your tongue while I decide if you deserve to be touched.”

She kneels behind you and unlocks the cage slowly, reverently. The moment the final hinge lifts, your clit pulses hard, twitching in the open air, so swollen you can barely breathe through the throbbing. Slick rushes down your thighs. You can’t stop it. Your whole pussy is flushed, your lips sticky and red and twitching. You nearly sob when she touches you — two fingers stroking the slick seam, slow and merciless.

“So wet for me,” Lorraine says, eyes half-lidded. “What a dirty little soul you’ve been hiding under all that innocence.”

She pulls you onto the bed and spreads you open. Your pussy is wrecked. Soaked. Pulsing. She parts your lips and hums in approval. Her mouth hovers over your cunt, breath hot, tongue dragging along the inner fold with slow, deliberate reverence. Her nose brushes your clit and you cry out, hips jerking, legs shaking from how long it’s been. She holds you still, kissing your mound, your inner thighs, your twitching clit like she’s praying.

You cum the first time with a scream. Her tongue never stops moving. She moans into your pussy like she’s tasting divinity, like your cum is wine she hasn’t had in years. You’re sobbing. Begging. Shaking. She kisses your clit through every spasm and whispers sweet nothings into the mess she’s making of you. Her fingers push inside next, slow and precise, curling against the soft spot that makes your legs jerk.

When she slides the strap-on into place, she looks like a preacher in silk. The harness is black. Her thighs are bare. The cross around her neck glints as she mounts you.

“You will not ask for permission,” she murmurs, cock dragging through your folds. “You will cum when I say.” She thrusts in slow and deep, her body moving like smoke, and you arch beneath her with a sob as she fills you to the hilt.

The bed creaks. The candles flicker. And you cum again when she leans down and says, “You were made for this.”

[https-prettycunt]

sorry to be out of control abt lorraine but also for the record she would absolutely implement terminal lockdown chastity rules for whenever you’re not with her. she says it’s “””to keep you from sinning before god””” but mostly she likes how crazy it makes you when she finally has time to give you some attention

OMG STOP, I HAVE A BLURB SOMEWHERE ABOUT THIS