maybe you should've expected that curiosity would indeed kill the cat (your pussy) when you asked your girlfriend to rough you up a little bit in bed with the help of her cursed technique, star rage, but you have absolutely no regrets. in fact, you’d do it again.
⭑.ᐟ content & warnings: MDNI 18+, canon jujutsu universe, wlw, smut, humor, pet names, sorcerer!yuki, sorcerer!reader, reader’s CT has to do with teleportation purely for quicker progression to the smut lol, yuki loves you real bad, muscular yuki agenda, inappropriate use of cursed techniques (yuki uses hers to restrain & manhandle you), service dom!yuki, penetration, use of toys, pegging, prone bone, manhandling, light spanking, chokeholds, praise & degradation
author's note: writing this fic had me 🧱🆙 beyond belief icel… this fic is for my kinktober roster but also for one of my anons that planted this idea in my head a while ago!! let’s all ignore that it’s no longer october… let’s just call this kinkvember atp 💆🏽♀️🚶🏽♀️ but anw i hope u guys enjoy this depravity 🫶🏽 main masterlist.
It’s unfair, really— how someone like Tsukumo Yuki can be both so effortlessly, disarmingly beautiful. Even when she’s just standing there with one hip cocked, sunlight gleaming off her long fanning hair that’s been spun with golden-soaked twine, there’s something magnetic about her that charges the very air you breathe.
Her presence fills a room before her words ever do. It was impossible for her to not draw in eyes, what with her arms carved with the sort of disciplined muscle that could easily carry the world and in the next second shrug it off with an easygoing grin that curves her mouth and honey-brown irises. Her enchanting prettiness is one that doesn’t sneak up on you, but hits you like a force of nature, because Yuki didn’t strike up a fight with genetics in order to be born beautiful; she just is, and she stands out all the more for it.
She’s a hurricane of a woman, one that could snatch you up seamlessly, your struggles to no avail, and you’d get so swept up in staring into the eye of her that you’d forget there was ever any danger to begin with.
The first time you ever laid eyes on her was way back when you were contracted to Kyoto High. You were a sort of free-baller sorceress, not to be confused with the faculty proper, and only really swung by campus to rattle off mission reports before retreating to your personal hole in the wall deep in the concrete jungle of the city.
It figures that your first real encounter with her would be you barreling straight into her in the middle of the campus’ courtyard— because of course someone like Yuki, with her own gravitational pull, would have a way of tugging you right into her orbit.
She apologized, saying she’d make up for your spilled coffee after a quick training session with some kid named Todo, and even said you could come along and spectate before she fulfilled her promise. And suddenly, your plans of bed-rotting after taking down two first-grade curses earlier didn’t seem so urgent anymore.
So, naturally, you followed along and watched her spar with her one and only student.
She made it look like an art form— maybe even a dance, honestly, given that her movements sang with graceful precision and ease. You’ve never seen someone blatantly laughing and having fun between traded blows like fighting was the world’s most entertaining capoeira; an Afro-Brazilian martial arts style that blends elements of dance, acrobatics, and rhythmic kicks, all of which she seemed to be pulling off every time she swept low to the ground to disarm Todo or playfully feinted to sharpen his awareness.
“You were staring pretty hard. You see something you like?” You remember she teased afterwards, all sun-bright skin layered in sweat and warm brown eyes that sparkled when you flinched, caught.
You rolled your eyes at the time, but there was never any hiding it: you were staring. And you’d always find yourself staring from then on.
The first time Yuki nearly made you crumple on the spot was before she and Todo even got into the swing of things; all she did was tie her honeyed hair back into a recklessly swinging ponytail, revealing the play of muscles in her arms, and you nearly dropped your already empty coffee cup again, because holy sleeper build. You had no clue she was packing all of that.
The second time, Yuki had whisked the bottom of her tank top up to wipe the glistening beads of perspiration from her Cupid’s bow, abs bunching below the line of her sports bra in a strained flex that sent a ripple down her torso (making your own stomach coil with something embarrassingly mushy), you had to stop yourself from outright dropping your pants on the field.
And the third time, when she finally called Todo off and slung a bag of heavy supplies over one sturdy shoulder before coming to join you— you had stopped trying to look away at all. In fact, you ogled her a little too blatantly, having given up on any sense of propriety. That’s exactly why she shot that comment your way.
Yuki carries herself with a paradoxical ease that’s equal parts strength and softness as if she’s in control of gravity itself. And in a sense, given her capabilities, she is. Years of discipline and training has carved definition into her; her thighs and biceps are sculpted slabs wrapped in smooth skin. Every line of her underscores that she’s someone who pushes her body as hard as she pushes her mind.
That strength, however, becomes something otherworldly when she invokes her cursed technique: Star Rage. By adding virtual mass to her body, Yuki could make her frame heavier, denser— like pulling a star down to earth and wrapping it in human form. It wasn't just brute force; it was the weight of inevitability, the feeling that resistance was futile because the cosmos itself leaned on her leash.
And the moment Yuki allows a flicker of her technique to bleed through, the ground beneath her always groans and bends as if struggling beneath a giantess. You’re strong yourself, a given in the field of sorcery, but seeing Yuki crush curses into dust without breaking a sweat… that’s something else entirely. You’ve seen her toss curses the size of trucks like they were rag dolls and shatter concrete with a singular blow.
It’s actually fucking insane.
Yet despite all that supernatural prowess that’s earned her the special-grade ranking, she’s still your Yuki: talkative, cheerful, all brawn and brilliance and bright laughter and never quite serious enough for her own good.
And she’s strong on her own, you know that. You’ve seen her fight before, seen the way her blows carry the weight of meteors even without activating her cursed technique, and you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve thought how is she even real? Better yet, how is she even mine?
A very particular thought concerning Star Rage creeps into your mind one lazy afternoon— an afternoon that was no different from any other— while the two of you are lounging in Yuki’s newest hideout, a renovated warehouse turned half-gym, half-living space just outside the city. It’s one of her many spots— she owns property all around Japan and across the country. You’re both killing time on a rare day off, which Yuki treats with the same enthusiasm she reserves for an all-you-can-eat buffet (she always fucks up the chicken burritos whenever you stumble upon said buffets).
The air is humid and humming, making even breathing feel like you’re still wading through the warm waters of the shower you just finished. Shampoo tickles your neck where the spray missed its mark, a faint reminder that you never quite rinsed Yuki’s favorite scent for her hair— crushed wildflowers and mandarin— off of your skin.
The warehouse itself still bears the bones of what it used to be. Steel pillars stand like sentinels between cables snaking across the floor between scattered gym equipment in the corner, the faint thrum of Junko Ohashi playing from a stereo stacked on a mismatched pile of books. It’s spacious, yet not in a way that feels empty; it feels lived in, like the air itself hums with Yuki’s presence.
Her touch has softened it: potted plants cling to the sills, their trailing stems swaying high above the woven mats that cover the scuffed concrete floor almost entirely. A singular cushy sofa is draped with thickly lined quilts with hanging lights strung like constellations just above, and a few steps away from the living space is the door bordering it from the bedroom and adjoining bathroom.
Sunlight filters through the warehouse skylights and the cracked industrial windows in hazy yellow sheets, carrying the buzz of summer cicadas from the swaying trees into the building. It slashes golden stripes across the floor and Yuki’s hair, turning the strands into spun metal. There’s the faint smell of exhaust from Yuki’s motorcycle parked just outside on the gravel path, too, but aside from that, there’s nothing.
It’s comforting to know you’re far away from everything. No curses, no higher-ups, no bigwig glimmering city chattering drunken sins in your ear. You’ve become so fluent with the sounds of the wild that hitting the crowded streets feels like plunging into neon static that your skin doesn’t know how to soak in properly when it's not the sun.
The breeze blanketing the room hauls playfully at her hair like a misbehaving child as Yuki leans back on one hand on the floor, tank top rumpled, steely calves stretched out on the rug. Entirely in her element, she rambles on and on about some new theory of curse evolution from around an absentminded mouthful of a watermelon-flavored sucker.
(She wears her power as casually as her shorts and tank top; like it’s just another thing she happens to have in excess.)
Nearby, you’re sitting cross-legged, chin propped on your palm. You aren’t really listening, even though what your girlfriend was saying was incredibly interesting. You’re mostly content to note how the corded lines of her left arm jumps beneath the guise of her buttery-soft lotioned skin every time she reshifts her weight.
With the calluses on her knuckles and the faint scars that traced her skin, she’s the prettiest woman you’ve ever seen, and would forever be. You harbor a kind of quiet awe for her that’s never really faded, and your pulse picks up to beat a steady hammer at the base of your ridiculously dry throat the longer you observe her.
“So pretty it’s unfair,” you murmur under your breath, mostly to yourself.
Of course, it’s that she catches. Yuki pushes off of her palm to fold her legs in a lazy cross that mirrors your own, elbows perched on her knees. Her fingers idly tap away at her thighs to keep time with the song floating through the warehouse. It’s a languorous kind of motion— unhurried, her body let loose, yet carrying that faint undercurrent of restlessness that always seems to hum beneath her calm exterior.
“Hm?” She tilts her head toward you, her brilliant grin already squinting her eyes together into tiny crescents like she’s heard the murmuring of your heart and she’s about to use it against you. “You say something, lover? Are you trying to butter me up now that I’ve fed you dinner?”
You let your head teeter back enough to rest it on the edge of the couch, attempting to hide your fluster behind a thin veil of nonchalance. “Maybe,” you sigh, an idea beginning to form that probably shouldn’t, “but I was just thinking of something,” you admit, taking a glance at her from beneath your lashes.
Yuki squints at you, suspicious in the way only someone used to your schemes can be. “Uh oh. Well, I know that tone. That’s your ‘I’m about to suggest something stupid’ voice,” she lightheartedly accuses, her lollipop muffling the vowels that roll off her tongue.
“Not stupid,” you counter petulantly.
Her eyes glint, then, golden honey at the edges. “Okaaaay… Should I be worried, then?”
“Only if you’re scared you’ll crush me.” It comes out breathier than intended.
Yuki laughs— full-bodied and bright, her giggles shaking her shoulders. “Oh, so you wanna spar? You know I don’t pull punches, babe.” She winks.
“You already throw me around during sparring sessions. How much worse could it get?” You snicker. You glance up at the high ceiling so that her presence doesn’t fill your senses and drown you in her steady warmth before you can get the words out. “But no, not exactly. I was just thinking, do you think you could throw me around with those?” You nod at Yuki’s jacked arms.
An entirely rhetorical question. You’ve lost count of how many times she’s flung you around during spars (each one a dance you never quite lead, no matter how many times you tell yourself you will).
One second you think you’ve got her, your hand grazing her shoulder, your stance set— and the next you’re soaring over her shoulder, your vision spinning before she drops you flat on a mat hard enough to feel the echo in your teeth. It may bruise your pride a little (and your shoulders and back) when you’re beat, but it all flies out the window when Yuki grins down at you like she’s playing with her best friend and girlfriend rather than fighting.
And every single time, you find yourself staring up at her with that same stupid awe, her musical laughter cutting through the ringing in your ears as she crouches over you, sweat beading along her temple and the smug tilt of victory tugging at her mouth. When she offers you her hand to help you up, the calluses of her palm brushing your fingers, she’s always still smiling— wholly radiant in a way that makes you almost forget how hard she just floored you.
That question gets her attention in the way you expected it to. Yuki stops fiddling with the stick of the lollipop peeking from the corner of her mouth, blinking big brown eyes at you through the sunlight shrouding her vision. Confidence winks in the milky pool of her irises like her very own stars that’ve sunken into the orbit of her pupils. “Yeah, no doubt. I have before,” she says slowly, drawing it out like she’s weighing you for amnesia. “Why?”
You swallow. The easy truth in that doesn’t even wound you; it just makes more warmth puff from your core that’s already long heated from her mouth and fingers that descended on you earlier that not even your shower could wash away. You’re still aptly stretched; dreadfully empty. A glass that’s half full, aching to be tipped, to be filled until the rim quivers and everything spills over in her name.
“Even if it means using your CT? ‘Cause like—“ and you’re suddenly fumbling over the subject like a grandma spilling a carton of eggs— “y’know, the extra mass.”
But what you really wanna say is I want you flip me upside down and top me. You keep that part to yourself for now, though.
Yuki’s plump lips curl into that trademark half-smirk that always means you’re about to playfully squabble as she teases you mercilessly… or you’re gonna fuck. Or both. Either way, you’re more than a little hot between the thighs. “I see how it is now. You wanna see how much stronger your girlfriend can get with the help of Star Rage, huh? You wanna feeeeel iiiiit all up close and intimate?” She singsongs.
“Not like that,” you lie like a goddamned liar immediately, pointing at her as her grin widens. Then, because you’re embarrassed about how badly you actually want it, you deflect. “Don’t make it horny.”
Yuki’s laughter rings through the hollowed space of the warehouse like windchimes hit by a playful gust, the sound all cheery and mischievous. You definitely don’t make moon eyes at her upon being granted an utter blessing— her tank top clings to her ribs and abdomen (and most importantly her boobs) with each shaking chuckle.
The stick of her lollipop clacks satisfactorily between her teeth when she shifts it to rest in the pocket of her cheek to speak without an object in the way of her tongue. Though it makes her sound a little bit like a chipmunk, what with the hard candy puffing one cheek out enough to make every word come out slurry and warped when she does speak, “‘Don’t make it horny,’” she pokes, mimicking your tone with exaggerated dramatics, “says the massive pervert herself right after asking me to use my cursed technique to have my wicked way with her. You hear yourself? You’re either a masochist or you wanna play a little predator and prey, bu-nny.”
She may as well have pushed her thumb over one of those dog clickers for training with how swiftly you push off of the couch and rigidly right your shoulders. “There will be none of that, because that’s not what I said. Or meant. Or—“ You cut yourself off, because the way she’s tucking her hair behind her ear to eye you up makes the spouted falsities trip over each other like a magician’s misbehaving rabbits. Which feels fitting.
“Please, by all means, explain it to me then,” Yuki goads, raising her finely manicured brows like she’s already dismantled your entire defense. “You don’t know this, actually, but I’m secretly a certified scientist. Precision of language matters in my field. Go on, chop chop!”
“Yuki,” you groan, unimpressed by her sarcasm. Her earth-brown irises snapshots the twitch of your fingers where they still point at her, trembling just slightly, before you tuck them into your lap to keep them away from her growing smugness.
“Uh-huh?”
You exhale through your nose, a strangled noise bubbling up in the back of your throat that’s supposed to sound like a scoff but comes out more like a whimper of bashful surrender. “Forget it.”
She doesn’t move closer, just blinks readily at you before lowering her voice enough that it skims over your skin. “God, you’re cute when you dig your own grave. If you wanted me to forget it, princess, you shouldn’t have said it while looking at me like that,” she purrs prettily, rocking back and forth in her cross-legged position like a cat that’s just spotted a particularly juicy-looking mouse.
So you do the only thing you can do— escape.
You push yourself up, palms pressed to the woven mat for a beat longer than necessary— mostly to make sure your knees won’t give out from how flustered you are. You stand, brushing invisible dust from your shorts even though your hands don’t need something to do nearly as much as your dignity does. That slow-blooming warmth crawling up your neck isn’t the summer heat; it’s Yuki’s gaze following you.
“Okay, I’m dipping before you get any ideas,” you mutter to yourself, voice a notch too thin but thankfully pitched quiet enough that your girlfriend doesn’t catch on. You crouch to collect the empty bowls and cups from the low table between you, careful not to meet her eyes lest you fall for her siren-like charms.
The soft clatter of ceramic fills the air as you stack and gather them up a little too carefully, hoping the sound masks the tiny stutter in your movements— the smallest tell that you’re retreating, if only to give your embarrassment somewhere to hide. When you step around the side of the table with your arms full, a stray finger snags in the hem of your shorts to playfully jostle you, and you squeak out a laugh as you bat Yuki’s hand away with a nudge of your hip.
Yuki’s chuckles floats over like a teasing melody as you go darting away, dishes balanced precariously. “You’re a menace!” You call out, feet skittering across the floor a little too fast— definitely not running, definitely not affected. The hum of cicadas fills the space between your footsteps, their rhythm quickening suspiciously in tandem with your heartbeat. You can feel the way your panties cling a tad damply to your skin beneath your shorts.
“Takes one to date one!” She hoots back instantly, and that’s all it takes to shift the simmering playfully challenging tension to something somewhat softer, more intimate.
When you start giggling yourself and shoot a half-hearted glare over your shoulder to further share the good humor with her, you briefly freeze when you find Yuki unfurling from her lioness-like sprawl, rolling up on the balls of her feet. In that split second falter of yours, she tucks her fingers together, extending her arms wide above her head, and tilts her entire body to the side in a wave of falling golden hair with a crisp pop of joints cracking. An exaggerated groan flits from her crimson-glossed lips when she stretches enough that there’s an imperceptible ripple of muscle moving under her tank top.
Fluid and slow, like she’s a predator deliberately giving you time to create some distance knowing damn well that she’ll catch you with ease, eventually— and there’s no escape window here to even open and jump out of in time.
Shit. You’ve started something you won’t win. All you can do is get to the kitchen— which, in truth, is just a section of countertop, a sink that gurgles when it’s overworked, and a mismatched pair of cabinets that Yuki scavenged from a hardware store clearance sale and hammered into the wall— and decide if you’d rather be caught sooner rather than later. That’s the best you’ve got.
You place the dishes in the sink and exhale, biting your lip as if it’ll relieve the aroused throb growing a home in your core. This feels like some strange sort of foreplay, and not even the subtle push and pull kind. Just a very elaborate game of “how long can we pretend this isn’t going exactly where we both know it’s going?” before Yuki comes to collect what’s hers and indulges you in the same breath the moment you stop pretending to be busy.
Not that she gives you much time to even do so.
The sound of her foot pressing the pedal of the trash can at the edge of the kitchen space tells you that she’s already closer than you thought she was. It’s followed by a savory crunch of the lollipop finally splintering between Yuki’s teeth and the soft shhh of the garbage bag catching the stick she tosses in.
Something that doesn’t at all fit in with the natural melody of the warehouse is the sudden creaaaaak of floorboards beneath her feet— they’re bowing to her, as though they’ve become sentient and the floor’s suddenly realized it’s supporting something far beyond human. Even the metal struts of the warehouse give a faint groan in protest of the shift in the air that’s almost imperceptible until it isn’t.
Her cursed energy begins buzzing warmly, equivalent to a July storm steadily rolling in over the sea. There’s a subtle heaviness to it, a pull of gravity doubling, tripling, compressing the air down into a strip thinner than a paper. You sense it vibrate through the floorboards first, subtle but unmistakable, then it spreads like static at your back when she pads closer on graceful toes.
It makes the hair at your nape rise to attention. But what really makes you shiver is when Yuki blows a long breath over the back of your neck, just to amuse herself with the shiver that zings through you.
Her shadow eclipses yours as she swarms in, caging you in your spot. “Caught you,” she preens softly, snaking her arms around you from behind and fanning her hands firmly over the expanse of your midsection. The press of her palms is impossibly heavy as if she’s dragging the invisible weight of the atmosphere itself toward her, and you with it.
It has you teetering a little in place as you try to push against it in the opposite direction, just a token unserious protest. But the second she flexes her fingers and tugs you back enough that your spine meets the warm, plush wall of her breasts and the notch of her hips sliding into place against your ass (you nearly fumble the sponge when you reach for it to run it under the tap water), the density around you tightens. It’s more absolute than an entire fucking solar system.
“Cute,” she coos, then, “I think I get your interest. I mean, Star Rage’s what makes me a special grade sorceress, babes. Can’t just rely on good looks and charm, even though those are my natural assets.”
She’s half teasing still, but the way her voice swoops low— smug, raspier— burrows under your skin and takes up residence there. Every word radiates through the room like it’s carrying a fraction of the earth’s core. It’s dangerous.
“Mmhm,” you manage instead of the agreeable laugh you tried (and failed) to force out, the weak noise barely passing your lips as her body heat radiates over your back and sneaks into every muscle of yours. Suddenly even breathing feels like an effort. Like your lungs have to work harder just to pull air past the virtual mass that’s gathering around you.
Her clever mouth finds your shoulder first, brushing lightly against the slope of it before drifting higher. The kiss that follows lands against the base of your neck, her smile etched into it. You can just imagine Yuki’s face; honey-brown eyes drooped lazily and every fair line of her expression oozing intimate arousal. It makes your fingers flex around the sponge for one useless second before you pump soap over it—
— And you promptly fumble it for the second time when she settles more deliberately, pinning you gently between the counter’s edge and the warmth of her that seeps through your clothes. You’re acutely aware of every tall, pretty inch of the blonde beauty behind you. The state of your wettening panties is pathetic, frankly.
“See, the trick,” she murmurs, her nose brushing along the curve of your ear before she kisses just below it, “isn’t just about stacking weight. It’s about control of all this pressure and knowing how much someone— or something— can take before it breaks.”
That makes your cunt twitch and shudder.
Her hands slide over your curves to your hips, thumbs circling lazily over your hipbones to map the shape of you that she already knows so well. You can’t bite back your instinctual shiver. “It’s something I gotta be careful with, but I’ve learned to be more and more precise with the output over the years.”
“Does that mean that you’re basically holding me with the mass of a small planet right now?” You swallow hard, the sound of it almost embarrassingly loud in the kitchen.
“Mm, not really,” she hums thoughtfully, leaning in so that a strand of her hair brushes over your skin. There, Yuki plants a smooch just behind your jaw, slower this time, lingering enough that her breath warms the spot she leaves behind. “I’m more like a… compact star. Not quite supernova or blackhole material, which is basically what I get when I crank it up to one-hundred percent.”
The fact that she’s not even exerting anything close to her max potential— why does that turn you on? She keeps chattering, barely giving you time to go down a horny spiral, “But you have nothing to be afraid of, lover. Pinky promise.”
Her words sink into the space between your racing heartbeat and the hum of dusk’s life outside. Somehow, you can’t decide if what’s holding you is her cursed technique or the simple fact that you don’t really want to move. You chew your lip harder, scrubbing halfheartedly at the soapy bowl in your hands. “I never said that I didn’t trust you not to crush me,” you say eventually.
Yuki hums again. You feel it more than hear it vibrating where her chest meets your back. “Didn’t say you did, either,” she replies. It’s just shy of laughter, her words brushing over your skin like a breeze through warm air.
You try to focus on the dishes, on the faint squeak of sponge against ceramic, but your grip falters when her mouth opens against your neck again. Her cadence drops to a murmur so sinful it curls straight into your spine, “But I know what you really wanna say. I think it turns you on that I could hold you down and keep you beneath me all night if I wanted to,” Yuki purrs lightly, the words drawn out with a confidence that makes your pulse stumble.
There’s no malice in it— just affection wrapped in the thrill of teasing you, of testing the edge of how close she can get while knowing you explicitly before you push back.
Her tongue traces a slow line along your skin, and your next breath is caught halfway between a surprised noise and something dangerously close to a moan. That alone earns a quietly satisfied chuckle from her that’s almost carried away by the soft hiss of the running tap.
You can’t resist showing her the vulnerable column of your neck like a wild animal turned sweetly docile, head tilting to the side to grant her further passage. Yuki takes it in stride and mouths and nips indulgently at your skin until you’re squirming.
Fruitlessly squirming, might you add, since there’s a very attractive brick wall quite literally preventing you from making a wily escape.
“I plead the fifth,” you rasp, just to fuck with her. You don’t turn around. You just stand there, thighs embarrassingly clamped together to get some friction on your clit and hands still in the sink, pretending that the plate in your grip demands your full concentration even though you’re buzzy with arousal.
“Still pretending you’re not enjoying this?” Yuki teases, studying your reaction as much as she’s savoring it.
Her body finally presses in fully flush against your back, the pull of her cursed energy threading through like gravity’s hands have decided you belong exactly where you are. She grinds her pelvis into your ass, just like that, forcing your stomach further into the cold razor of the sink’s edge. Though you can’t feel an obvious press of her arousal, she sure is making a point to showcase her lecherous intent and interest.
You don’t even realize your fingers have gone slack until the next dish slips from your hands and clinks into the sink, startling you. Water runs in lazy rivulets over your fingers and swirls the pinkish suds down, down, down into the drain, the sound suddenly distant beneath the steady drumbeat filling your ears. You watch it all funnel downwards, distantly comparing your sanity to the disappearing streams.
Yuki’s chuckle is low and pleased, the sound of someone who knows they’ve just proven a point. The warmth of it spills across your skin like sunlight through the half-drawn curtains framing the window that looks out into the field beyond the warehouse. When she presses her lips to your neck again, it’s less of a kiss and more of a bid for attention— a touch that says ‘I’m here. You feel that, don’t you?’
You shakily wipe your hands off on the nearest dishtowel before pressing the digits to the lip of the sink until your knuckles whiten. “Yuki…” you warn, but your voice comes out closer to a softened plea than a protest with any sort of backbone behind it.
(Horny thought: Yuki could break your back anytime.)
“What’s up?” She hums with faux innocence. Boldly, she reaches past you to turn off the running water with an airiness that projects her confidence in knowing she owns the space you occupy.
The faint scent of the watermelon lollipop lingering on her breath and something wild— maybe her shampoo, maybe her— fills your head until you forget what you were trying to say. So you blurt out instinctively, your totally eloquent word choice making it sound as though you’re a child pleading to be carried away for nap time: “Bedtime.”
Yuki’s responding giggle that’s almost girlish in its higher-pitched excitement is the sound of someone who knows they’ve just won. It’s quick and bright, the summer sun incarnate, bringing some levity to the simmering tension.
It makes you almost afraid to look behind you; you know you’ll melt the second you spy Yuki’s signature lopsided beam that’s entirely doglike. The one that adorably scrunches up her nose and blonde brows and crinkles her dusky brown eyes until they’re half moons of umber fire, glowing at their edges where sunlight seeps through her pearly cracks.
“Wanna go to bed, huh? Guess I made quite an impression,” Yuki chirps, clearly enjoying every second of your fluster. Her hands creep up, heavy where they begin blatantly groping your tits in anticipation. Your knees nearly buckle at the pressure over your nipples, which stiffen accordingly.
Before Yuki can take this situation (read: you) into her own hands and sling you over her shoulder like you’re her bride in some deeply chaotic version of a fairytale wedding, you let your cursed energy wink, just once— and the kitchen folds and swirls in on itself in a dizzy whirl of light and sound. In the blink of an eye, you’re being dropped into the wide, open bedroom of the renovated warehouse.
Yuki shimmers into place at your back as intended. She lets out a sputtering snort of laughter that sings through you right before she releases you, allowing you to stumble a few steps forward into the edge of the bed. You don’t get very far from her; it feels like the air around you is threatening to suck you into her all-encompassing void.
Finally, bracing like you’re about to stare at the eternally beautiful Medusa and be frozen in place, you peek over your shoulder. Yuki’s blinking rapidly, standing tall and pressing her palm flat over her heart to steady herself. “Okay, wow,” she says, drinking in the familiar walls of the lofted bedroom, her blonde hair a little frizzed from the jump. “You always do that too fast. Next time, give me a countdown before you whisk me away. I nearly left my stomach back at the sink!”
“I thought you wanted the deluxe package,” you deadpan through your abnormally dry throat, making it extremely obvious that you’re checking her out.
“What does that include?” she asks, arching an eyebrow. She only smiles wider in a pull of her lips that flashes her pearly whites when she catches you; you nearly have to cover your eyes to avoid being blinded by the golden blaze of radiance oozing off of her.
Instead, you give her a playful side-eye. “First-class delivery. Door-to-door service. Occasional pussy and throwing my ass back at you action.”
“Scandalous,” Yuki sighs dreamily, drawing out the word like honey off a spoon and playfully fanning herself as she saunters over to cover the scent distance you put between the two of you. “You sure know how to sweep a girl off her feet.”
Around you, the bedroom feels like the warehouse’s secret heart. It’s less a separate room and more a pocket of warmth carved out of the industrial shell surrounding it, and though it’s not massive, it’s expansive all the same— mostly because of how intentionally Yuki decorated it.
The ceiling beams are exposed, crisscrossing like the ribs of some great creature, and from them hang strings of warm light bulbs and a few dried flowers bundled together in twine— lavender, baby’s breath, something that might’ve been wild roses once, and it subtly perfumes the air without being overpowering. Along one mossy green wall that you recently painted sits a dresser (covered with peeling stickers Yuki’s snagged from souvenir shops from around the world) cluttered with things that belong to you and Yuki.
There’s stray silver and gold rings that missed their designated dishes and hair ties on its surface. A few photo strips from some old booth are pinned to the corner of the mirror hanging above the dresser, housing memories of your smiles that came out blurred from the two of you laughing too hard.
The large window of the opposite wall is cracked open just enough for the afternoon air to sneak through. It carries in the low hum of nature’s breath, distant and lazy, and the rhythmic tapping of a wind chime.
Finally, there’s a bed that dominates the center of the space that calls your name. Beneath the wooden legs of the frame is a thick rug from Morocco, clearly thrifted but loved all the same. The bed itself isn’t precisely made up, but it’s comfortable looking in that careless, sleepily rumpled way, the sheets a pale cream gone a little washed from the sun that spills through the windows in the afternoon. A mountain of mismatched pillows crowds the headboard, patterned with simple lines or embroidered flowers.
Though your curated space is lovely, Yuki’s beauty far surpasses it. Now that you’re not staring pointedly at the dishes that have been abandoned in the sink, you properly take your girlfriend in.
Her body doesn’t look different— she’s still the same lean woman that you love in her tank top and cozy shorts that match your own— but there’s a palpable density to her presence now that Star Rage is active. The layers of invisible weight line Yuki’s edges in a faint shimmering outline that reminds you of heat distortion on concrete, thick and wavery in the air.
You barely have time to note the tightening of muscle before Yuki moves faster than she should be able to for someone who just multiplied her own mass. One second you’re standing upright, the next you’re being tackled backwards as she playfully pounces. “Yuki!” You yelp out with a peal of startled laughter, your body hitting the bed and getting swallowed up by the puffy comforter that absorbs the impact.
Yuki’s shadow falls over you as she leaps atop you in quick succession, knees pressing deep into the blanket on either side of your hips in a comfortable straddle. Taking advantage of your shock, she snatches up your wrists with a triumphant grin and pins them to the pillow above your head with one of her hands.
And oh, you can really feel the difference when you start trying to thrash back despite your giggles that weaken you— the extra mass of her cursed technique grounds her and pins you effortlessly. The substantial weight isn’t crushing but present, and you can tell how carefully she’s balancing that impossible density so she doesn’t hurt you.
Jesus. You’re so turned on that your brain is turning to static.
“Oh my god— what the hell!” You manage between laughter despite yourself. You arch up to shove your shoulders and chest into her without the use of your hands, but Yuki doesn’t budge an inch, laughing so hard herself above you that she nearly loses her balance on her own rather than due to your efforts. “You’re crushing me!”
Her voice rings out from between her glossed lips, bright and unrestrained. “You wanted to see what it was like if I added a little mass!” She crows, starting to tickle you in earnest now, making you shriek bloody murder at the silly race of her fingers across your vulnerable tummy.
“This isn’t ‘a little’ anything! I can’t— move—!”
“Exactly!” Yuki sings, positively delighted. “That’s the point.”
You twist futilely under her, the two of you dissolving into giggles like kids roughhousing on a lazy afternoon as Yuki keeps going, relentless and giddy. Through your mirthful tears that haze your vision, she’s radiant— blonde strands of hair falling loose around her face, framing her face like honeyed corn-silk ready for harvest.
Your girlfriend’s breathless and red-cheeked from the effort, and you’re trying to tell her to (unseriously) fuck off through your chortling that gives way to shallow wheezes toeing the line between hilarity and something more heated. It feels natural, what with how light yet tight-knit your relationship has always been. Getting to horse around with the woman you adore with all of your heart, without all the heavy stuff from the outside world, is… nice.
(Mass joke intended.)
The giggles you share taper off, Yuki still bending down enough that her humored exhales ghost across your mouth. Her fingers slow where they’d been merciless and the grin painting her rosy face softens as she watches you try to catch your breath below. Still, her weight remains firm, her other hand still caging your wrists.
“Is someone ready to tap out already?” Yuki pokes fun the second you slump back, teasingly smug.
“I’m just warming up,” you jest right back even though you’re beyond winded.
“You talk big game,” she murmurs, her tone suddenly too pointed to be more of that joyous play. The air between you feels charged, intoxicatingly so. “Still think you could take me?”
You start to scrounge up a coy answer for that loaded ass innuendo, but the words fumble in your chest when she replies for you— quietly, with her mouth descending over yours.
The corners of Yuki’s lips are still curved where they press into you, tasting sweetly of watermelon-flavored candy and something cinnamon-y. It’s like a dose of addictive, sugary heat poured straight into your lungs, impossible to breathe without wanting more. You’d let her win every time if it meant this. It kills all of your fight and turns you into malleable clay beneath her, dissolving into the easy pull of her affection.
She moves unhurriedly against you, her trail glistening over your mouth. Every time you meet, drawn into each other, there’s a rhythm to it— a glide of lips, a whisper of tongue, a faint scrape of teeth dulled by restraint. The impressions left by your pressed mouths leaves a bloom of gut-twisting warmth behind.
You can’t tamp down the moan that breaks free when Yuki bodily flattens herself atop you, chest to chest (making it a little hard to breathe) and stomach to stomach, and licks heavily into your mouth that bends open until she reaches where she wants. It’s hard to do anything but unconsciously obey— especially when she abruptly frees your wrists and guides your hands up to meet her.
She could take over completely if she wanted to. It’d be laughably easy for her, in all actuality, especially with Star Rage idling beneath her sunkissed skin. But she lets you feel like it’s your choice to stay beneath her, to allow her to guide your own touch— a display of casually confident dominance that sends a shudder through you from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.
Twining your wrists at the back of her neck, you arch into her more readily. Your tongues meet and trace, brushing against teeth, lips, and the roof of each other’s mouths with an intimacy that has every nerve ending humming. It’s lazy at first, then your joining grows with mounting urgency until all that exists is the burn of Yuki’s mouth on yours and the sudden wedge of a knee between your legs.
“Fuck,” you breathlessly curse into her, the word half-tangled by her tongue. Her cursed energy pours more heavily into her concentrated knee, pulsing like a heartbeat against your clothed cunt. Your legs spread, equal parts your own body’s response and the command of Yuki's sheer presence, and you grind into the give of her.
The clothed friction chafes sinfully over your clit— it makes your fingers uselessly curl at her nape. Your second moan, reedier this time, has Yuki peeling her mouth away from yours with a lewd shllick of saliva separating and breaking.
She placates you with a few quick, chaste pecks that allow her to linger a heartbeat longer. She’s propped above you, lips shimmering and kiss-swollen with the evidence of her play. Her brown eyes are half-lidded cups of espresso, scalding and humming with satisfied energy, blonde lashes lowered like the fall of dusk over her eyes. Yuki looks as wrecked as you feel, still needily rolling up into her as if you can’t bring yourself to stop now that she’s where you want her.
“You really are something else,” Yuki murmurs in a rasp that nearly makes you cream on the spot, her hands finding your circling hips to brush her thumbs along your hipbone in a steadying caress as you work against her. “Most people flinch when they feel this kind of pressure. But you like it, huh? Would this count as a violation of the ‘don’t make it horny’ clause?”
Your brain bluescreens for a moment until your earlier declaration of ‘don’t make it horny’ after expressing your interest in her using Star Rage against you pops to mind. You snort, trying to sound casual but failing entirely, “Yeah… I mean, I definitely like being overpowered way more than I probably should. But don’t let it get to your head.”
Yuki tilts her head, hooded eyes alight— you can see yourself in the glassy sheen, splayed out beneath her for the taking, your hair mussed and shirt askew. She chews her wrecked bottom lip, clearly enjoying the sight. “Too late,” she sighs huskily yet lightheartedly, clearly savoring your reaction. The playful heat is still there but it’s tempered just slightly by affection.
She lets her forehead press against yours for a beat before she ducks down, trails teasing kisses down your jaw and to your neck. She gently bites into you the same way she would a tangy and sweet slice of sun-warmed blood orange, pulling a gasp from your quivering throat.
A lazy swipe of Yuki’s tongue somewhat soothes the build-up of a pounding throb right as her once-encouraging hold on your hips grows firmer all of a sudden. Her cursed energy is crushed into her grip, holding you still. Whining a little, you try to buck up against her knee again in a desperate bid for friction, but Yuki only chuckles and pushes down harder, keeping you helplessly pinned. It makes you feel a little bit like you’re a trapped insect that she’s studying.
"You're really struggling now, princess," Yuki mocks teasingly between the kisses and plum-purple hickeys she decorates your neck with. The touch only makes your cunt squeeze harder around nothing and your legs thrash in almost childish frustration, so keyed up you could cry. "But you're not fighting me. You're just grinding under me like a dog in heat. Feels that good, does it?”
You can’t even respond— not when she sits her curved ass back on your thighs to further subdue you as she strips you of your shirt and tosses it to the floor next to the bed before you can blink. The brush of cool air is a startling gust against your sensitive flesh, leaving your skin prickled in its wake. You’re not wearing a bra— why would you in the comfort of the space you share with Yuki?— and she takes advantage of that immediately with a flick of her manicured finger over your springy nipple.
“H-hhhnn,” you hitch when her cursed energy sparks and she uses it to squeeze around your protruding buds. It hurts so good, her fingers steadily rolling them and groping the plush fat of your breasts.
“My girl’s got such pretty tits,” Yuki practically groans as her dark brown eyes dart up and down your body, from the frantically fluttering muscles in your stomach to your heaving chest, “and they’re so reactive, too.”
The slick heat pooling between your thighs and the sore yet pleasant ache in your chest has your brain short-circuiting. Yuki just hums at the way you choke on a sharp gasp at the pressure of her wandering hands, clearly delighted with how completely she’s got you under her thumb— literally, since her thumbs and forefingers give you one last teasing tweak before retreating.
Your body raises of its own accord as much as it can with the sudden addition of her palm splaying firm over your sternum, the titanic mass that she’s added to herself keeping you heeled. Her other hand slyly delves beneath the hem of your shorts and panties to touch inflamed, soaked skin, stirring the pot of your arousal. The sudden clean stroke of her fingertips parting your folds so that her thumb can come down in neat circles over your clit rips a needy cry from your throat, your entire body shaking from the stimulation.
"You're so soaked for me," Yuki whispers appreciatively in an almost cheery lilt, though it does nothing to disguise how she’s breathing just as heavily as you are as if she’s the one being touched. She doesn’t stop watching you thrash and buck into her touch, not once. "All this time, you just wanted me to crush you until you can’t think and use you as much as I want. Ugh, I could just eat you up."
"Yuki,” you whimper, hands scrabbling uselessly at her strong biceps that are strung taut, “please, please, oh my f-fucking god, please—“
"Please what, lover?" Yuki purrs prettily like a particularly cheshire feline, toying with the swollen button that makes your breath hitch violently, spreading your wetness in a sticky layer that coats her fingers and your already ruined underwear.
“Tell me exactly what you want. If you don’t, I could just keep you here ‘n play with this pretty pussy until she’s crying and making a mess. And fuck—“ she punctuates her words with a sudden crook of three fingers that slide into you all too smooth from being stretched out earlier. Your throat fractures around a wordless sob; it’s as maddeningly pleasurable as it was hours ago. “She’d like that, huh? Your cunt’s always greedy for me.”
Your eyes flutter as fragilely as a butterfly’s wings, tears pricking from the intensity of it all— being petted over, teased, trapped and utterly at your girlfriend’s mercy. Being with a woman like Yuki, who could do this all without breaking a sweat as she practically giggles over your neediness, is exhilarating.
Between stuttering noises that Yuki plucks from you with ease, you manage your best desperate keen, "Just fuck me, Yuki. Please. Need you ‘n your strap, hah, inside.”
That plea makes Yuki's lips perk up in yet another blinding smile. "Good girl, baby." Her fingers work deeper for a moment, curling just right until you're nearly cumming from just the sweet drag of them over your rippling inner walls.
You go bonelessly into the bed when she draws her hand out from your slippery entrance, out from beneath your clothes, and leaves your poor core yawningly empty and primed for more. She manages to make the act of licking and sucking your slickness that coats her fingers a sensual performance that quakes your knees.
Almost woozily, dangling on the edge of delirium, you blink wetly as you watch Yuki draw it in with obvious hunger. The world seems to shrink down to just the sound of her quiet, wet enjoyment, and the following ‘pop’ of her fingers being pulled from the suction of her mouth. It’s all too hot.
Finally clambering off of your lap, Yuki slinks backwards towards the edge of the bed, dragging your shorts and panties down with her descent. She flicks the fabrics aside to join your discarded shirt, meeting your gaze with a heavier one of her own. “You’re pretty every hour of the day, but especially when you’re like this,” she croons sweetly, lashes batting as she looks you over.
Heat rushes over you so quickly that it makes you impossibly more lightheaded. You halfheartedly tuck your legs a little closer to cover up your drooling cunt that’s already threatening to leak all over the sheets, but Yuki’s suddenly cooing that you’re just adorable and she practically flicks your thighs apart with all that wound-up strength, the motion so effortless it’s humbling. A fresh reminder that she could probably crush this entire building if she wanted to.
"Don't hide from me, that’s mean.” Yuki’s tone is half-endeared, half-command. “You’re the most gorgeous trap I’ve ever fallen into. A-woof.”
That startles you into weak laughter that breaks apart your embarrassment at its root, and she practically glows with satisfaction before wasting no second in peeling her own shirt off. Your mouth runs dry. Her tits bounce free, sitting pretty, and she steps off of the bed so that she can shed her bottoms, too. A fine thatch of trimmed blonde hair curls at the apex of her thighs like a veil of temptation.
Yuki does a little theatrical twirl at the end of the bed when she catches you ogling her, her chest swaying hypnotically. She’s all perfectly carved curves that her musculature only enhances, wide hips and bulging forearms and graceful leanness. Holy fuck. She reminds you of a lioness.
“Do you like what you see?” She giggles, fully confident beneath your forthcoming gaze, every bit the woman who knows her dangerously tempting power. Her stormy brown eyes, warm yet unpredictable, coax you in and dares you to bite.
You think your embarrassingly loud swallow as she bends to fish a little box out from beneath the bed is answer enough. Still, you answer as you drape your arm over your forehead to try and catch your breath before she really gets started, “‘Like’ isn’t the word I’d use.”
“Oh, really?” Yuki lilts. She pulls out a harness for her hips with a gold-colored dildo already attached from the last time she ruined you, fake bulging veins underscoring its curve, and tosses the box aside. She steps almost lazily into the harness, taking her sweet time securing the straps of the harness and tugging them just tight enough to hold firm. “What would you say, then?”
You’re already trembling from the way Yuki had wrung you out, hair clinging to your damp forehead, but you swear you nearly shiver out of your skin when she presses a knee to the edge of the cushion. Totally relaxed, she pushes herself back onto the bed so that she can prowl your way on her hands and knees, hips swaying and dildo bobbing in a trance-like rhythm between her thighs.
“I’m obsessed with what I see,” you murmur, almost choking, voice barely audible. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, babe. You’re unreal.”
And oh, isn’t that enough to make the blonde beauty poof up with the arrogance of a peacock as she looms over you again, pearly whites bared in a grin so bright you swear that sunlight glints off of her teeth. “You’re so sweet to me,” she titters. “I know you probably wanna see my face while we fuck, then, and I know I’d loveeee to look into my pretty girl’s eyes as she melts for me in missionary, but—“
Yuki’s hands are on you before you can register the swift movement and the indenting press of her palms against your scalding skin, deceptively gentle fingers finding your shoulders. There’s laughter in her breath as she leans close, and then you feel the sudden shift of weight— her strength coiled and quick as a cat— as she flips you clean onto your stomach so swiftly that it spirals your vision, sending you face-down into the mattress with a soft oof. Cursed energy ripples again, doubling, tripling Yuki’s weight towering above, and she flattens you like a damn pancake.
One hand lightly slaps down between your shoulder blades to keep you from wriggling up— not that you want to, as you’re already mushing your face into the nearest pillow as she singsongs in your ear, “… but, I think I like taking you from the back even more, princess. Isn’t this better?”
“After all, you’ve been working so hard to hold yourself up for ages, bunny.” Yuki shifts, slinking to straddle the backs of your thighs and pressing her weight down enough that you can feel her steady thrum of Star Rage. It feels like the earth itself is embedding itself into the curve of your back, a weight not even Atlas could shoulder, but it’s oddly grounding. “But now you can just relax, breathe, and take it. You don’t have to do anything at all. You're pinned so tight under me, you couldn't move if your life depended on it. Don’t you like that?”
You melt bonelessly into the sheets with a helpless little nod, hips canting up a fraction in an arch the second her palm slides along your ass, the knobs of your spine, and up the back of your neck, pushing a few damp strands of hair aside as if to draw calm back into your body. You barely even flinch when a sudden wad of saliva lashes down between your asscheeks when she spits. Her textured fingers greedily peel apart the globes so she can watch it stream like molasses over both of your clenching holes.
But you do go rigid when a hand, buffed with cursed energy, comes out of nowhere and goes cracking down right over your puffy slit with an almost absentminded ease. It hurts just enough to frazzle and numb. “Yuki,” you whine from between drunk lips and a dumbly tangled tongue, gasping halfway through her name when the next slap passes harder over your ass enough to make the fat jump beneath the stinging slap.
Yuki has developed what can only be described as a professional-level appreciation for your rear end. If you so much as bend to tie your shoes, she’s right there behind you in seconds, tilting her head like an eager canine to better admire you and rubbing over the plush swell as if it’s the most natural place in the world for her touch to land.
She claims your ass is her favorite part of you, always quick to announce it with that little grin that curves like she’s constantly plotting ways to prove her devotion for her favorite vice. You’d be surprised how many times she murmurs for you to walk ahead of her on a random street as if she’s trying to hang back and get a better look at some storefront displays, but really, it’s just so Yuki can watch how your ass sits in your jeans and skirts.
So the fact that she’s squeezing and groping you like a mutt ready to mount is unsurprising, really; you can feel her gaze on the backside of you in this vulnerable position, heated and sultry, like a sunbeam tracing the shape of you just because it has the freedom to bleed wherever it wishes.
Your girl indulges for a moment longer until you start puffing out your impatience, hips giving a wiggle that you barely have the room to perform when she slides easily over your shoulders, her body blanketing yours. Fuck, if you’re not turned on to frankly concerning levels when a sudden cool, blunt press teases your clit.
“S-shit, ri’there,” you slur nonsensically, fingers tensing up the crumpled sheets below.
"Look at you... clenching on nothing already. My needy, needy girl,” Yuki observes in a throaty purr. You can just imagine her curling prettily over you, hips hinged so that she can rub the heavy head of her strap all over your sopping pussy, slicking the silicone up. It nearly slips in, only for her to tilt just right so that the tip indents your core that trembles open and closed for her, sliding wetly past where you’re fighting for it.
Your cunt’s doing all the begging for you at this point; contracting to push out more slick, trying to suck Yuki’s cock in that’s growing sleeker and sleeker with your abundant wetness. You swear, any more of this teasing rutting over your folds in maddening drags, and you’re gonna shrivel up from strap withdrawal and an overwhelming need that’s more harshly crushing than her cursed technique.
Blessedly, the circles she paints your debauched cunt with come to a head at your entrance, which she knocks the tip of the toy on. "Relax," Yuki said, leaning down to kiss your sweaty nape with a softness that made your chest ache despite the need tearing your body asunder. "I'll give you what you want. But you're not moving an inch."
When she finally begins her steady push, your body hungrily devouring the beginnings of her strap past its tight barrier and sinking no more than a centimeter inside, you squeak out a cry. You raise into it as much as the cursed pressure above allows despite her words, hips instinctively straining. You can’t stop yourself, and the helplessness that washes over you when she halts right there with a teasing ‘tut’ sends you deeper into a heated spiral.
“Oh, c’monnn. Is that dumb slutty head of yours not registering a thing I say? I said relax and don’t move—“ She punctuates her brightly chirped command with a sudden fluctuation of her cursed energy, bunched up muscles working as her fingers snag your hips. She bodily shoves you so deep into the bed with the virtual mass, hard enough that the bedframe moans weakly.
While every inch of you is raring to go, eager to throw your ass back into the cradle of her pelvis until her strap is meanly bruising your cervix, there was no way you could possibly accomplish the feat of fighting metric tons of gravity— Yuki holds the reins entirely, just as you wanted her to. That thought alone has you gushing sticky-sweet slick.
Melting into it is a given, so you do, letting your trembly limbs rest limply against the bed. You shiver, spent and weak, unable to do anything but take it exactly as she wants. Yuki coos a faint but undeniably sweet, “such a good girl, I knew you wouldn’t be mean to your Yuki,” while splitting you apart another few inches. Subdued all the while, your senses are entirely attuned to her cock seeping along your walls, which cling desperately to her toy like a sodden glove made of velvet.
The thick fullness of her finally lodges herself to the hilt, Yuki so close to you that you can feel the hanging edges of her blonde hair brushing along your shoulders like they’re strands of whispering wisteria. Your body being adhered flat to the mattress grants Yuki deeper reach, so snug within you that you swear you can feel her cock carving out a space in your guts.
You chew up and spit out a strangled cry, delirious with the pleasurable stretch of your weeping, engorged cunt around Yuki’s strap. "T-too much, it’s so fuckin’ deep, Yuki,” you moan into the silken pillowcase that steadily dampens with your pooling saliva.
“Shh, I’ve got you. Let it take you, princess," Yuki manages breathlessly, sweet as sin despite how unwaveringly she dangles your loss of control between her fingers. “You can handle it. My pretty girl always does."
Your breath wavers at the praise. Her weight withdraws a fraction as she rears her hips back in a slow, steady draw, savoring the sight of your folds convulsing around the toy. She pulls back enough that she threatens to slip free even with how fiercely your cunt wrings in rhythmic pulses to keep her close, then snaps her hips forward firmly enough that you swear she nearly breaks the bed.
This time, the air is punched out of you for an entirely different reason. Your wet gasp fractures into a moan that vibrates your lungs as Yuki rocks her hips down and forward, driving into you with steady strokes that carve you inside out. She’s deliciously entwined with you, her heat seeping into your own.
Each slick, impaling rut is only amplified by the sheer force she exerts to keep you pinned while tempering her output enough to keep the compression from fracturing your body. Her control over her cursed energy, even when she’s fucking into you like she’s got something to prove, makes you more frazzled with arousal— if that were even possible.
The prodding of her thick strap finally nails that spongy tightness inside you that makes your cunt instantly rush a fresh wave of wetness around and down the intrusion. Squealing desperately, you bite down hard into the plush give of the pillow to try and muffle the deranged litany of sounds starting to spill out of you to salvage even an ounce of dignity. But the effort dies halfway through.
“Right there, bunny? You’re, hah, squeezing so hard that it’s difficult to push forward— loosen up so I can reach, ‘kay?” Yuki croons summer-sticky instructions, patting your hips as if it’ll jostle you into following through. Trembling so hard your teeth grind together in their grip, you force your cunt to unspool a fraction, inner muscles releasing their tension.
Then you promptly shriek out a keening whimper when Yuki angles her hips and punches her firm cockhead right into the desired spot.
“Good girl, baby, you’re so cute obeying me so eagerly,” she grunts, sliding her hands up to capture the indent of your waist as she starts really fucking into you at a faster pace. Her fingers press hard into your skin, bruises threatening to bloom like ink on paper— she’ll kiss every single one later when she’s not busy demolishing every inch of you on her cock and drawing out those sweet moans that are a symphony to her soul.
“Feel that?” Yuki’s rolling her hips steadily, sweaty golden skin clapping filthily against your skin every time the globes of your ass round right into her upon rejoining with each other completely. She’s consistently kissing her mark without fail, the pointed pounds of her cock striking true sending you higher. “That deep enough for you?”
“Yes, y-yes, god yes, babe,” you reedily sob out, voice warbling with the thrusts that shake your body to and fro. You’re slipping over the sheets with how sweat-drenched you are, being driven closer and closer to the slamming headboard. “Right there, right there, dun’ stop.”
Her cursed energy rolls outward in response— the heaviness recalibrating, then narrowing down to the drive of her hips and the strap as another extension of her body. Increasing pressure from Star Rage strengthens her thrusts, making you wail loud enough to cover up the obscene shhlicks of your cunt hungrily slobbering down her strap. There’s no doubt that Yuki’s entirely in control of the current, you and even gravity itself bending to her will.
Yuki takes pride in knowing you this intimately and being the only one to render you to this state. She’s memorized the exactness of your every twitch and breath, how you get so overwhelmed sometimes that you start trying to skitter away like a particularly cute mouse fleeing a lion. There’s been countless times where she’s had to wrangle your flailing limbs as her tongue slurps over your clit, your body overloading so intensely because the edge of bliss is so sharp that your body forgets what to do with itself.
And there’s nothing more she loves than watching you fall apart as you struggle to handle her generous, giving endeavors in the realm of pleasure.
So when you claw harder at the sheets with a sudden burst of desperation, tendons straining and sweat slicking off your fingers that fruitlessly try to get a good enough grip that’ll maybe allow you to haul yourself away, she laughs like this is a fun chase for her, endeared and delighted and overflowing with cuteness aggression all at once, and wrenches you back.
You babble out a string of nonsense curses when Yuki claps a hand down over your unbruised asscheek; the other swells a fine, glossy red from her earlier spank, like the blush of a fresh June strawberry. The swat of her hand stings pins and needles into your rear, molten lava coiling hard beneath your skin and in your gut.
(If you weren’t slightly embarrassed at the thought of your friends and fellow sorcerers seeing your puffed up skin, you’d be asking her to direct that controlled force on more visible stretches of your body. Purely so you can press on them tomorrow when they’re more tender and feel the aching burn of pleasure-pain that takes you right back to this moment— stuffed full and entirely at Yuki’s mercy.)
"Awww, where do you think you’re trying to go? You’re adorable, bunny, but this isn’t, h-heh, how this works,” Yuki crows, dripping fondness and mockery all at once. Her raspy voice thrumming over the back of your ear as she cranes impossibly closer makes your brain fizzle out. "You wanted to know how strong I was, so you’re gonna stay caged under me juuust like this. You’re not leaving until I let you; hell, I know you don't even want to."
She nails you right in the head with that correct observation, making you moan helplessly— the sound edged with something dangerously close to a sob. But it’s too much, the drive of her strap in and out of your convulsing walls that eagerly drip your nectar for her too good, a maelstrom of debauchery that has you slurring mewls, has Yuki puffing and groaning when the base of the strap presses deliciously against her own clit.
Before your body can forget what resistance of the overwhelming buzz of bliss even means, you writhe like a bucking bronco, cheeks tight with flushed heat and eyes spinning in their sockets from pleasure. No matter how hard you twist, though, there’s no budging the cursed mass that’s more restraining than iron shackles.
In a blink Yuki’s suddenly dropping like a barbell over your rippling back muscles, letting just enough of that crippling force— a force no normal body could possibly hope to generate— pour into the hold to keep you helpless in the sweetest way. The sultry lines of her body mold to her own and her breasts squish into your back, swaying in place as she cants her hips forward over and over again with the might of a star. You swear you’re so close that your ribs entangle, the bones getting caught on each other’s.
The strength behind it makes your cunt quiver around her hefty, fat cock in a needy rhythm— it weeps thicker, too, when one of Yuki’s strong arms curls around your chest, hauling you neatly back against her. The other slides up, her forearm bracketing just beneath your jaw until the crook of her elbow rests snugly at your throat and tightens in a hugging embrace.
Her chokehold’s not suffocating, just firm enough to remind you who’s got you and who’s most definitely not letting you scamper away without an orgasm beneath your belt.
With her new grip, she gently tugs up and urges your face out from the pillow you’ve been crying and dribbling globs of saliva into so she can hear every pretty little noise as she wrecks you thoroughly. She could patiently listen to you babble nonsense all day, a dreamy beam curving her lips all the while— hell, she has before. Yuki swears up and down that your voice is the loveliest sound in the world, especially when you're barely stringing sentences together because of her cock.
You wheeze out a high, needy noise that sounds more animal than human, more from surprised arousal than shortness of breath. Her breath fans hot against your cheek as she leans in closer, chin catching on your jostling shoulder, “Caught you again,” she chuckles in a wrecked, scratchy rumble, her grin audible in her tone, “you really are my favorite little escape artist.”
You can feel her heartbeat buzzing against your back, wild in its thump thump thumps, and bizarrely it’s that— more than the restraint— that makes you stop fighting the bliss she’s drumming into the marrow of you. Her strength curls around you like a living tether, a comforting tether in the face of the swirling, distorted flecks beginning to blot your vision.
You’re trapped between two black holes; the ecstasy and Yuki herself, all wound up with her cursed technique that rushes like prickling lightning over you. You don’t know which spot of blackness you want to sink into more, but your quavering voice sings your answer for you— “Yuki, Yuki, y’r fucking me so good, Yuki,” you cry out.
With your body molded and pressed exactly where Yuki wants you, cunt soaking the sheets, your thighs and Yuki’s, paired with the near-punishing slaps of her hips into your smarting ass as she buries her thick strap inside of you in a relentless mantra, she tugs your head back to face her a little better, whispering, “lemme see my bunny cry f’me.” There, she spills her honey-sweetness into your awaiting orifice— praise, praise, golden and good praise.
"You're perfect, princess. Such a good fucking girl," Yuki damn near whines out, still drilling in and out of you at a pace that screams she’s an athlete trying to win an Olympic fucking gold for fucking you. Each bump ‘n sway sends her clit pressing into the harness holding her strap, friction washing over her hard. “My strong, stunning girl pinned under me… s-shit, ‘m obsessed with you. Take my cock, baby, juuuust like that. Doing so well for me.”
She’s driving you crazy. “You’re so deep, oh fuck— god, yes yes y-yes, ah!” You manage through your constricting throat. It’s so hard to keep up with Yuki when she’s fallen into a frenzy that orbits around servicing you, fucking you so thoroughly that you can’t tell left from right.
She bites her lips— still just barely smooth with her gloss that you all but mauled off of her and the remnants of your saliva and her saliva combined— as she observes the play of your face. Your tongue lolls helplessly from between your hinging maw. Eyes prettily rolled back and their edges brimming with moisture, saliva racing down her bunched, corded arm, you’re the most sinful sight she’s ever seen.
How could she not be addicted to ruining you?
"I can tell you’re gonna cum soon,” Yuki rasps out, tossing her sweat-heavy blonde strands back with a purposeful tilt of her head. “You really love being pinned, stuffed, and used, don’tcha? Cuuute. You wanna let go for me, baby? Wanna make a mess of your Yuki’s cock?”
Your high-pitched keens and whines that thread from between your teeth in a shivering string is answer enough. The waves of sensation leaves you weaker, more undone, while Yuki's strength never wavers, holding you completely in place.
Yuki laves hotly at your cheek, swiping up your tears that finally leak free with her tongue, before dipping her face into your neck. "That's my girl," she pants from exertion and the pleasure of crumbling you like this. Her voice is softer now but no less commanding.
She kisses, licks, and gently nips at your throat even as she pounds you mercilessly into the squeaking mattress, murmuring against your skin, "So beautiful like this... letting me ruin you sweet. You don’t even realize how gorgeous you are when you give in and let me fuck you the way you deserve. You have no idea what that does to me.”
The contrast of pounding force sawing through your quivering channel, the blunt tip of her strap bullying your cervix with how deep she is, mixed with her earnest words— it unravels you entirely. You cling to Yuki's words, trembling hands hanging weakly onto her biceps at the same time as your body snaps clean under the dual weight of cursed energy and overwhelming pleasure.
You convulse— your thrashing muffled by Yuki’s stagnant power— as release tears through your nerves and blots out everything except for Yuki, Yuki, Yuki, your voice entirely raw and frayed as you sob out whiny noises between panting breaths. You can barely moan, just breathing out whatever you can like you’re fighting to hold on. The dizziness of the slight asphyxiation from her arm snaked around your throat makes your haze of pleasure impossibly more staggering.
And still, your girlfriend doesn’t let up. Though she slows considerably to let you ride it out, she grinds as deep as she can get, milking you for every measly pulse of your cunt, for every rush of slick, cloyingly sweet stickiness. Her lips ghost over the place where your pulse flutters hardest in a flurry of gentle-touched kisses.
"That's it, baby," Yuki rasps in an almost singsongy manner, bright as a clear sky with satisfaction. “Shake for me, fall apart again,” she whispers huskily in your ear, finally slackening her hold around your throat and chest.
Without her support, you tremble weakly, dazed and entirely fucked out and so glad that you brought up Star Rage that you barely register what she’s saying until she continues, “You've still got more in you— l know you.”
You hiccup out a laugh, going bonelessly with the flow as she pulls her strap out and languidly rolls you over. Your entire body is sore from being trapped in place, thighs smeared with release and your vision curling in a dreamy haze of heat.
Above you, Yuki kneels between your legs. A few strands of blonde hair are plastered to her flushed face. Her body, still faintly ringed golden with Star Rage’s activation, is flushed pink with pleasure and exertion. Lean muscle tumbles under her skin like lazily fluttering lightning peeking out from behind a storm-slick sky when she leans in, her grin blinding. “Ready for round two?”
You’re gonna be here all night.
a/n: i need to write more of yuki so bad brah... writing this made me feel deranged in the best way possible
part 2 as promised 😚 and on everyones soul i will be writing more cowgirl!abby i’m obsessed. not proofread yet so it might be rough in some spots
cross-posted on ao3
cw (r!receiving for all unless specified): porn with a plot, some fluff, dirty talk, pet names, banter, teasing, slut shaming, light degradation, praise kink, ab riding (r! rides a!), face sitting, pussy eating, fingering, strapping, ass play if you squint, strap sucking (a!receiving), slight dom/sub (both vers tho), they basically just go at it like animals tbh, manhandling, strap referred to as dick and cock, masturbation, spitting, rough sex, spanking, squirting, edging, implications of sex, implications of becoming fuck buddies
word count: 3.7k
!!men dni!!
Abby’s steady hand stays on the small of your back the entire time both of you veer towards the doors of the bar. As you exit, the cool night air kisses your skin sending a soft shiver down your spine. Abby guides you through the dusty parking lot towards a beat up red truck. “Here w’go,” her voice low in your ear while she ushers you towards the passenger’s side, body behind yours as she almost pins you to the rear door.
Her left hand unhooks the carabiner from her belt loop, passing it off to her right and then it immediately finds your waist again. The key sliding into the door, unlocking it with a click. “‘F ya change your mind at any point, I’ll turn around ‘nd drive back. No hard feelins,” her voice gentle. “I can assure you that will not be happenin’.” your right arm going to open the passenger door for yourself but gets cut short by Abby’s sturdy hand, which pushes your arm back into place followed by the door being opened for you; “I might be tryin’ to get in your pants, but I still got some class.”
The inside of the truck is nicer than you expected: softly worn brown leather covering the bench-style seating, steering wheel and dash covered in a tortoise shell enamel. The lack of seat belts is slightly nerve-racking as she drives down the bumpy gravel road, but it also gives you an idea. You slide off your boots, swinging your legs up and resting your feet on the bench—knees falling open as you do so.
Abby’s breath catches in her throat, eyes briefly flicking down to the growing dark patch on your lacy pink thong. She clears her throat and focuses back to driving. “Y’tryna veer us off the road sweetheart?” her voice pitches down. With eyes back on the highway, her hand grabs your calf, pulling you towards her, legs now across hers. You bite your lip at how easily she dos so; “Just showin’ you what you’re in for.”
Abby hums in response, hand trailing up your leg, resting high on your inner thigh and pinky—ever so slightly—brushing your clit through the fabric. A whine escapes from you when the truck hits a pothole, Abby’s pinky pressing hard against the nerves. “You put that on thinkin’ bout easy access or somethin’?” she asks, hand still firmly planted just by your core. “It was more of me knowing ’ it looked hot.” Abby nods, briefly turning her head towards you and squeezing your thigh, “Ain’t no denyin’ that part.”
_________________________________
The truck is filled with lust and tension by the time the wheels crunch on the gravel of Abby’s driveway. As soon as she puts it in park and turns off the ignition, you climb onto her lap straddling her. Your lips clash against hers and your tongue works its way into her mouth, tasting her and swallowing the whines that leave her throat. Breaking apart, your hands trail up over her wife pleaser, feeling her shoulders as you help her shrug off the green flannel she has on overtop. She tosses it into the backseat, grabbing your face and kissing you once more. Hands are everywhere; caressing waists, squeezing tits, running down arms, trailing up abs. “Anyone ever ridden these before?” you murmur against her lips, middle finger running along the muscles, twitching under your touch. Abby bites your bottom lip, she pulls away, “No, but if you beg I might let you.”
“Oh baby, I don’t beg.” You reach down and pull a lever on the side of the bench, Abby falling with it as it lays flat, meeting the edge of the backseat. “Take off your shirt.” you command, her face stunned and irises almost completely taken over by black. Your gaze gets hungrier as she softly grunts sitting up and pulling her shirt off, muscles rippling, making your already soaked cunt even wetter. You place your fingers underneath the band of her sports bra, looking at her before going further. “Please,” Abby’s voice needy, the pads of your thumbs graze her hardened nipples before you pull the bra off. Your eyes immediately fall to the gorgeous set of small tits in front of you. “So fuckin’ pretty.” A hand pushes her back down so she’s laying flat, and you pull your own top over your head.
Your nipples graze hers when you bend over to kiss her again, both of you letting a soft sound into the other’s mouth. Abby holds onto your hips, sliding you onto her stomach and she slowly guides them into a rocking motion. “Fuuck y’re s’wet,” she groans, “Bet those pretty panties are ruined.” Her hands trail up your stomach, taking squeezing the fat of your tits and pinching your nipples— your clit pulses, causing you grind down harder as you chase the feeling. You take her hands off of you and pin them above her head, chest spilling in her face. A groan comes from the blonde underneath you, sucking marks into the skin of your breast and her tongue circling your perked nipples.
“God, look atcha,” you gasp as you roll your hips, “Could so easily overpower me but you’re lettin’ me use you like a fucktoy instead.” Abby’s mouth is immediately unlatched from your skin, clearly taking your words as a challenge. She easily unpins herself from your grasp, seeing your shocked expression she quips: “What? Ya didn’t think I’d actually letcha win, did ya baby?” her hands push you down and off of her stomach, your slick leaving it gleaming in the moonlight. “Y’talk a lot of game for someone who’s just gonna a be hole for me to use in a few minutes.” you attempt to rut against her belt buckle, clit twitching at the dirty words leaving the woman underneath you. Abby holds your hips still, a low chuckle coming from her: “Thought ya said y’weren’t an easy lay.” her left arm reaching over to open the driver’s door before lifting you out. “I haven’t fucked no one for over a year,” you feel the need to justify your reaction. “Then I’ll just hafta do an extra good job wearin’ y’out.” Abby swings you over her shoulder fireman style, kicking the truck closed.
_________________________________
“Oh Goddamn.” gasps fall from Abby as you lick her abs clean of your slick, siren eyes staring back up at her. You lick one long stripe from underneath her bellybutton up to the column of her hickey-covered throat, your hands kneading her perfect tits and pinching her rosy nipples. You get on your tip toes to kiss her properly, her hands scooping under your ass and lifting you up. She walks forward for quite a few strides, mouth still on yours and puts you down on her couch.
Her lips trail down your neck and chest, leaving deep purple bruises before soothing then over with her tongue. “‘M dyin’ to get a taste of this pussy darlin’.” Abby looks up at you with hungry eyes, hands resting on the button of your miniskirt. You lift up your hips to let her slip the rest of your clothing off. Your legs falling apart as she takes her thumbs and spreads the lips apart, “Oh God,” your groan coming from deep within, the lack of sex in the past year clearly making you more sensitive than you thought. “So pretty.” Abby coos, still holding your folds open for her. She spits on your clit (completely unnecessary as you’re dripping down your thighs) and the feeling of the warmth hitting your twitching clit elicits a whimper from your lips. Her thumb lazily grazing circles around the nerves.
“Tell me what ya want.” Abby’s tone turns commanding, a warmth jolting in your core and your pussy leaks more. “I w-want t’be eaten out.”
“Yeah? Who d’ya wanna get eaten out by? Tell me baby.”
“You,” hips bucking towards her mouth, which pulls away from your core ever so slightly. You whine, “Abbyyy fuckin’ do it already.”
“Say please.” a smug grin taking over her face when she looks up at you, resulting in an eyeroll from you, begrudgingly complying; “Please Abby, need m’ pussy eaten so bad.”
“There we go, good girl.” she murmurs almost against your slick folds. Licking a long stripe from your hold to your clit before hooking her arms around your thighs. Your hand flies down, tangling in her hair as your soft moans fill the room. Abby circles your clit with her tongue, sucking it in between her lips and flicking it, all while resting a finger against the bottom of your hole. “Need you inside,” you moan as Abby repeats the motions in a beautiful rhythm. Her thick middle finger sliding into you, Abby moans into your cunt as your walls suck her in, your eyes rolling back at the vibration. She pumps the digit in and out, tongue now just flicking your clit— jolts of pleasure travelling up your body each time tongue lashes against flesh. Abby’s index finger joins her middle, spreading and stretching you open. When she finally curls the fingers up onto your G-spot your back arches off the couch and you cry out. “Yes! Fuck right there!” Abby, being the good listener she is, hits that spot over and over.
The coil in your lower abdomen is on the verge of snapping now, moans falling from you and filling the room. You’ve discovered that tugging the blonde braid up to get her closer makes her moan, Abby’s own hums only adding to the stimulation. “‘M g’na cuuum, ‘m so-oo close fuuuck.” your pussy clenches around Abby’s fingers, legs beginning to shake. And then you’re empty, her fingers pulling out with a wet pop.
“W- The fuck was at for?” you scowl down at the blonde, pulling the braid her hair is pulled into, “Mmmh relax pretty, jus’ wanna see ya cummin’ on my dick.” You can’t hell the desperate sound that comes out of you.
_________________________________
Your eyes water as you gag on Abby’s thick 8 inch clear dildo hitting the back of your throat, “Fuck y’look so good like this,” her tone low and breathy as the base of the strap grinds against her clit. She hasn’t even bothered taking her jeans off. There was no need, with the harness on underneath the entire night all she had to do was quickly attach the silicone dick. Her high whines have you soaked, one of your hands letting go of the fabric covering her ass and sneaking between your own legs. Abby’s bottom lip is raw from how much she’s bitten it, “Mhh, y’get turned on suckin’ my cock?” she asks, voice husky. You sink down onto two of you digits easily, eyes rolling back as the plastic dick muffles your moan. “Y-yeah ride y’fingers f’mee, fuck ‘m g’na cum.” Abby’s hand grasping your hair as she shudders with a soft cry, pulling the strap out of your mouth.
Abby’s muscled arms bend you over the edge of her bed, a feral groan coming from her as she spreads your cheeks apart, weeping pussy fluttering around nothing. “Fuck,” she groans, you hear her spit and feel it trickling down your ass. Abby teases around your pussy, “Quit it. Fuck me already,” you almost snap, voice strained and high. A chuckle comes from the woman behind you, she lines the tip up with your entrance. “Y’sure you can handle it? I ain’t goin’ easy on y-“ You don’t say anything and just push back onto the strap, which easily slides in. A strangled moan leaves your lips when Abby meets your movement with a thrust of her own, bottoming out. Her hips are against your thighs, not moving yet. Your arms get pinned behind your back, and you feel yourself fluttering around the dick. Abby leans over to whisper in your ear, the toy hitting your cervix and you cry out. “So eager huh? Just want me to use you don’t ya?”
Without even thinking you feel yourself wiggling your hips, trying to get some stimulation. “Be patient.” Abby tells you, words dripping with enjoyment. When she finally starts fucking into you, your eyes roll back and your moans fall from you uncontrollably. Your legs fall out from underneath you while Abby’s movements hit every spot you need, you’re drooling onto her bed before you can even register. She lets go of your hands which immediately grasp onto the sheets as your cries get louder. “Ab- Abby ‘m gonna- ahhh!” You feel one of her calloused hands pushing down on your back, which makes the feeling of your walls being hit by all the ridges of her strap more stimulating. “Oh my God! ‘m cummin’!” you almost scream, your legs off the floor as your knees bend. “Fuuuck.” Abby groans, “Y’look like such a slut when y’cum for me baby.”
_________________________________
Lying back on the bed as you begin lowering yourself on her strap again, Abby’s eyes are heavy and her mouth is slightly agape. Pussy still sensitive, you whimper when you bottom out, leaning forward and grasping Abby’s strong shoulders while you start rocking your hips slowly to ease yourself into another round. Your soft gasps fill the room, Abby’s hungry voice joining it, “C’mon baby, ride like you mean it.” It’s impossible not to listen to her needy tone. Your hips roll with more urgency, and you grasp your breasts with a hand, squeezing one while the other bounces. That, along with the wet sound of the strap getting sucked in and out you making Abby’s neck strain back, a vein popping and a gasp leaving her at the visual and audial stimulation. “Yeah,” the whimper comes from her without constraint.
“You like watchin’ me ride this dick baby?” You coo, thumb brushing her lips as she nods frantically, hips grinding up into you evoking a loud moan as you grind down, pushing two of your fingers into her mouth. The feeling of her throat relaxing and the warm muscle of her tongue wrapping around your digits is what sends you buckling over on top of her with a cry, legs shaking. Abby’s strong hands grab your ass and holds you down as she fucks up into you, chasing her own release. She squeezes the fat as she arches, her own orgasm hitting her. The two of you gasp in tandem, hair sticking to foreheads as the room fills with the smell of salt and sex. “Needa see what your ass looks like when you’re ridin’ baby.” Abby pants after a few moments, helping you slide off the strap. “So you were thinkin’ about that when I was on the bull?” a smile forming on your face, “Shut up,” Abby’s already flushed cheeks darkening as if her fantasizing is dirtier than anything the two of you have been up to all night.
Soon enough you find yourself in reverse cowgirl, the strap hitting spots deeper than before. Abby’s moans now join yours, as she sees the inside of your pussy through the clear of the strap, pulling your ass apart to get a better look, “Oh my God y’re soakin’ me,” her hips undulating against your own grinds. “Fuuuck, yes,” your eyes roll back as you feel the sensations reverberating deep inside you, shooting up your body—Abby’s palming of your backside only tightening the knot getting made low in your gut. “Slap it.” your words come out a strained beg. Abby’s hand comes down on your ass, your hips buck forwards, one of the ridges of the strap catching a spot inside you, “harder.” Again. And again, and again. “Oh God ‘m close,” you call out, and feel a thumb run down the seam of your ass, “This okay?” You swallow harshly before your voice wobbles “Yeah.” The tight circles against the hole have your legs shaking, the squelching sounds coming from your pussy increase. When the knot finally snaps, you feel a gush coming from you, “O-ohhh” Abby shudders from underneath you.
Climbing off and laying beside her, your eyes notice the absolute mess on her jeans and the bed, “Oh my God I’m so sorry-“
“Don’t apologize pretty,” a strong arm wrapping around you, “It was hot as hell.”
_________________________________
Bzzzzt. Bzzzzt. Bzzzzzt
You groan, opening your eyes which allows the brightness of the room to cause your head to pound. Abby is asleep next to you, her expression much softer than that of the one she has while awake. Less harsh. Your arm reaches over to the nightstand Abby insisted you charge your phone on after your activities ended last night. The screen far too bright when you squint and bring it to your face. “Oh shit,”
dinaaa: 14 missed FaceTime calls - now
dinaaa: what time r u coming home? - Today, 8:37am
dinaaa: do u even have service out there? - Today, 8:15am
dinaaa: kk going to bed, call me asap - Today, 2:44am
dinaaa: let me know where you end up - Today, 12:07am
ellie: text dina back she’s being paranoid - Today, 12:03am
dinaaa: r u coming back in or going home w her???? - Yesterday, 11:46pm
You read the messages, knowing how paranoid she can be about her friends going home with strangers, a small pang of guilt flashes through your chest for not even bothering to check your phone or let her know anything before you fell asleep. In your defence, you were absolutely drained, and for a good reason too. As you sit up from the bed, the sheets fall down from your naked body and cool morning air envelopes your top half. Abby stirs and mumbles something that you don’t quite catch, hand lazily reaching over to you.
“What?”
“Said don’t leave yet.” she looks at you with sleepy eyes, her voice has a slight whine in it. “I ain’t leavin’ don’t worry. Just gotta answer the phone.” which is now on the foot of the bed, continuously buzzing. You know Dina won’t give up until you answer. “Where’s my shirt,” you mumble, feet padding on the hardwood beneath, searching the room. The truck. Your shirt is in the truck. A frustrated groan leaves you when you remember. You are absolutely not going outside in nothing when it’s still this cold and early. “Borrow one of mine,” the blonde offers, “Oh,” you smile over at her, “Thank you.” Abby slips out of bed, her breasts and abs littered with dark purple marks—you don’t even want to see what your own look like. She hands you a soft cotton tee, plain and black.
The shirt falls to your upper middle thigh, essentially a minidress and you grab the phone, waiting for Dina’s FaceTime to call again. “I’ll just take a step outside,” you tell Abby, who nods as she slips back into the warm bed. When the phone buzzes to life, you finally answer. Dina and Ellie in the kitchen of your apartment, phone probably propped up on some ingredient bin. “Oh, bless the Lord.” Dina’s face relaxes and her tone is relieved, “I told ya that y’were worryin’ about nothing. She was just busy getting railed,” Ellie tells her as she shovels a pancake into her mouth. “Okay but ya never know. They could have been stopped or kidnapped or-“ You interject, “Okay so I’m very, very much alive and very, very much in need of more sleep.”
Dina’s eyes widen and she steps closer to the phone, “Oh. My. God.” She looks over you, hair a mess, hickeys scattered across your neck, and makeup smeared. “You need to tell us everythin’ when you get home later,” she orders, “How was it though? Better have been good, I've been worried.” You can’t help the smile that makes its way onto your face, “Oh it was the best sex. And I’m sorry I totally should’ve updated ya before I went to bed, but I was real worn out.” A smirk forms on your best friend’s face: “Yeah, bet y’were reaaal tired.” This earns an eyeroll from you, “I’m gonna go back to bed, I’ll letcha know when I’m on my way home.”
Once the call finishes, your eyes fall over to Abby’s couch, in the light you can see it is a nice forest green colour, your hot pink panties littered in the arm of the couch juxtaposing the cosiness you would have otherwise associated with the shade. Your muscles ache as you head back into Abby’s bedroom, joining her in the bed once more. Her arms pulling you closer as the both of you drift off again.
_________________________________
“We should take a shower,” Abby suggests when the two of you wake up again in the early afternoon, “You can go first,” you yawn, and Abby raises an eyebrow: “I was thinkin’ more along the lines of showerin’ together.”
The warm water encapsulates both of you, Abby’s braid undone, her hair long and flowing down the expanse of her broad back. It is strangely intimate for what is supposed to be a one night stand. “You do this with all your hookups?” you ask, taking a pump of shampoo and massaging it into your scalp. Abby turns around, the height difference beautiful in the sense that you’re just above eye level of her breasts, but also inconvenient during a moment where your eyes should probably focus on hers. “Only ‘f I like ‘em enough.” Your cheeks flush at the implication, and you hope it can be explained by the steam rather than her words. After the shower, which was quiet in a pleasant way, you bring your skirt and panties from the night before into her room. As you begin to pull on the wrecked pair, Abby interjects, “No, no, just borrow somethin’ o’ mine to change into.”
“Are you sure? It really isn’t a big deal-“
“Oh don’t start. I insist. Plus it’ll give me a reason to see ya again.” She winks at you, grabbing a t-shirt and basketball shorts, bringing them over to you, “Only ‘f that’s sum’n you’d like of course,”
“Abby, you just gave me the best sex of my life, whaddya think my answer is gonna be.” Her blue eyes look down at you, folded clothes in her hand, as she steps close, “That neither of us’re gettin’ fucked by anyone else for the foreseeable future,” her eyes are hungry again, staring at your lips, “I like that idea.” The change of clothes she brought over for you are forgotten on the floor as your lips meet, shower quickly becoming ineffective as you fall apart on her fingers once more.
a/n: wow so like this might be the most intense thing i’ve written.
synopsis: after being cheated on over a year ago, and being hung up on it for way too long, your friends finally convince you to hit the town with them. you end up at a dive bar, meeting abby, and end up going home with her - 2 parter.
cw: this is just a plot for porn, mentions of past cheating, sensual content, teasing, making out, dirty talk, pet names, innuendos, grinding, dry humping, abby calls reader a slut, thinking about sex, mischaracterizes vi for the plot
word count: 4.1k
!!men dni!!
“Dina, I really don’t wanna come with y’all tonight.” you call from your bed as you see the girl walking towards your door, drawing a sad "I didn’t even say anythin’ yet!” from your best friend. For the past several months, your entire friend group has been insistent on you joining them on their nights out to the dive bar just out of the city, despite your many protests.
“Oh come on, you don’t even have to drink just come out ‘n have fun. You’ve been depriving yourself from a good time over what? Vi, it’s been like a year girl.”
“She has a point,” Dina’s girlfriend now joining her in your doorway. “You’re only sidin’ with her ‘cause you’re datin’.”
Ellie looks at you, offended. “Excuse you, I have my own opinions, they just usually align with hers. You need to out yourself back out there and quit bein’ so gloomy. You could meet your wife tonight!”
“Oh please, This ain’t some romance story Ellie, I’ll get there and immediately wanna go home. Besides, the bar y’all go to is where we saw it happen.”
Concern etches across Dina's face and she gently nudges Ellie to go back outside so she can have a one on one with you. The door closing with a soft click behind her as she enters the room fully, sitting next to you on your bedspread;
“Look, I know you saw Vi makin’ out with that one chick on the dance floor. And I know how much it destroyed you, but it’s been well over a year. Fuck Vi, she ain’t a part of your life no more. You can’t let her control it.” she gives you a genuine smile, squeezing your hand tightly, “You know I’m doin’ this cuz I hate seein’ you all mopey, right?”
“I know Dina. I really do appreciate it, truly.” you give your best friend a hug, “I’ll consider it. I mean you’re right, 'bout the whole Vi thing. Fuck her and that blue haired bitch.”
“‘Course I am. Plus they have a mechanical bull with a ‘best times’ board now.” That might be just what wins you over; “You serious?”
“Hell yes I am. Girl I know you did rodeos as a kid, you need to show all of us how to do it the right way.”
“Well help me find somethin’ to wear!” you exclaim, standing up from your bed.
_________________________________
The Uber drops the three of you off in a dusty parking lot of a worn down looking building, country music seeping from the doors. You step out of the sleek black civic—which looks insanely out of place as people slam the doors of rusty trucks and dingy cars from the ranchers pull into the already full lot. You take a deep breath, calming both your nerves and the threat of your heart beating out of your chest.
“C’mon, let’s get in there, Cat ‘n the rest of ‘em are at a table.” Dina smiles, walking hand in hand with Ellie, the two of then sickeningly sweet. Ellie calls your name as you stay put behind them, “You comin’ or standing out here all night?”
You look down at your much-too-clean cowboy boots, any rancher in the joint will know you’re from the city. Your miniskirt and belt suddenly don’t seem as cute as they were when you put them on. “I look like I don’t belong in there,” the protest falls flat on your friends’ ears. Dina rolls her eyes and walks over to you, “We’re basically regulars, an’ we all look a bit too polished for this place anyways.” she hooks her arm in yours, “Don’t be nervous, you’ll have fun tonight, I promise.”
Ellie holds the door open for you both, and you file into the dimly-lit bar. Your eyes scan the place trying to find everyone, which proves difficult given that it’s a Friday night and all the tables are filled with groups of people around your age.
“‘Scuse me darlin’.” You hear a soft, unfamiliar voice and a warm hand finds itself on your shoulder as a woman and man pass behind you. You can't help it when your eyes follow them, both in worn out hats, flannels, and boots. The woman’s long blonde hair pulled back in a braid, and her voice definitely doesn’t match her appearance. This woman is built. When she finds her table, she swiftly takes her hat off for a moment, veins in her hand popping as she holds the crown of it. Her bicep bulges as she places it back on her head. You find yourself biting your lip, and then you see her side profile, she’s absolutely gorgeous. Your heart flutters, and she looks at you. Flushing, you quickly avert your gaze.
“Hey, you okay?” Dina's voice tinged with worry, her hand resting on your arm. You turn around, cheeks a bit hot, “What? Yeah no I’m fine.” Dina’s face changes from concern to curiosity, she looks past your shoulder to the pair that just walked in. She looks back at you, a grin forming on her face, “Oh you horny bitch. The first girl you see in here gives you attention and you’re all hot.” she nudges you playfully. “Ugh don’t make it a thing. I can think someone’s attractive and not want to sleep with them. And she just walked past, there was no attention.” your objection only digging yourself a deeper hole.
"Oh don't you lie, she's the definition of your type," she shakes her head, “and she was totally eyeing your ass when you turned to me.” She drags you over to where Ellie is now seated with the rest of your group.
Many variations of ‘never thought i’d see you in a bar again’ are thrown around as you and Dina slide into the booth. Once settled in, you casually look over at the bar to see what you want to drink. You never end up looking at the menu, instead, you notice the same woman staring at you and this time it’s her that looks away, cheeks pink. Ellie kicks your shin, mocking you: “‘My life ain’t a romance novel’ my ass.”
_________________________________
A few drinks in, you’re feeling a light buzz as the conversations overlap at your table. Your eyes glance past the bar to the mechanical bull Dina was telling you about earlier, landing on a shabby chalkboard nailed into the wall—the 5 columns in ascending order from 17 seconds to well over a minute. You nudge your best friend, gesturing to the number at the top of the board:
Best Times:
1:27 - Abby
“There ain't no way someone’s stayed on that long.”
“I’ve never seen anyone beat that score. But I reckon she comes on a different night than us. We all came in recently and it was there already. But your eye candy’s come real close to it.”
“Oh shush” you swat at the brunette’s shoulder, slightly embarrassed. “Bet i could beat that seventeen on the bottom though.” Naturally, when someone finally suggests that the group head to the back and get in line for the bull, you’re practically the first to your feet. The talking continues as the group of you walk to the back of the bar, in order to get to the bull, you and the others pass that woman’s table. You overhear a quick and strained, “y’all shut up, don’t even think about it,” from the same voice as earlier and her table falls strangely quiet. You can't help but hope she was talking about you.
A mix of ranchers and a few city folks make up the decently sized line that wraps around the barrier of the ring. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the blonde woman and a couple friends standing up and joining, ending up a few people down the line from you. The excitement in the room builds as everyone attempts to stay on the machine. To absolutely no one’s surprise, most of your group wipes out in under ten seconds, making you all the more determined to stay on for over seventeen. You're the last of your group to go, cheers coming from your friends who have found themselves in a nearby booth.
With a wave of confidence you swing yourself onto the bull, not at all graceful but you don’t care that much. Your forearm flexes as you grab the rein, looping it around your hand. The bull starts rocking, your hips and thighs tensing to keep yourself upright. After a few moments, you get the hang of it, moving with the rhythm of the bull. Ten seconds in, your friends' cheers get louder and you get a bit cocky as you notice that woman’s eyes watching you intensely.
You decide to put on a bit of a show; your back arching much more than necessary, exaggerating the bounce of your hips on the saddle. At sixteen seconds you’re bucked off the machine and land on the padded surface, a soft huff escaping your lungs from the impact, as well as from frustration at your time. “It was hot ‘til ya toppled over. ‘S all in the thighs darlin'. Gotta ride it like you mean it.” You tilt your head upwards, seeing the blonde woman leaning casually against the barrier, her braid falls across her shoulder as she looks down at you, expression smug. Her accent is deeper, with much more of a drawl than that of your friends or your own.
“Just gonna lecture me or are ya gonna help me get up?” you prop yourself up on your elbows and tug your black tube top up a bit, earning you a chuckle. “Can’t get up by yourself?” her hand reaches down and you take it. One arm easily pulling you off the padding. You hold eye contact with her, noticing how blue her eyes are. “You’re irritatin’.” you bite back playfully. A staff member shoos you out of the ring, cutting the conversation short. You pass the woman as you walk towards your friends, her voice stopping you;
“Y’think i’m irritatin’ cuz ya know I can do better than ya or cuz y’think I’m hot?”
“So she’s a total ass.” you sit down and lean onto the table your friends now occupy, sounding a bit exasperated but you'd be lying if you said you hated the banter. “That’s not what it looked like. At all.” Dina’s tone blunt yet teasing, Ellie nods her head and Cat adds “there was chemistry” before she begins standing up along with the rest of the group, although Dina stays seated with you.
“Where’re y’all goin’?” your brow furrows, “Back t’our table…” Ellie looks at you like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, your eyes flicker over her shoulder and you get a glimpse of that blonde woman’s blue eyes watching you once again.
“Why don’t we jus’ stay here?” you suggest, your eyes trailing down the woman’s body, noticing her thick, muscular thighs. Heat spreads throughout your centre as you imagine those thighs around your head. You quickly wet your bottom lip as your eyes travel back to your friends, who are all looking at you with knowing gleams in their eyes; “What? it’s closer to the dance floor. And the bar. And someone’s probably taken it already.” Ellie’s eyes narrow as she sits back down, “Mhm you keep tellin’ yourself that.” You look back over and see the woman shrugging her flannel off before getting into the ring, handing the worn green shirt to her friend. Her muscles now fully shown off in her wife pleaser, your throat dries up.
With one strong arm she grabs the reins, swinging her leg over the bull with practiced ease, boots slipping into the stirrups. Her free hand holds the crown of her hat as the machine jolts to life. You bite the inside of your cheek, eyes focused on the movement of her hips and he ttensing of her arm muscles. She catches you staring with your mouth somewhat agape and smirks, taking her hat off to let it wave with her free arm. Stray hairs that never made it into the braid fall in front of her eyes and you desperately want to push them out of the way. When she does so herself, still looking at your table, you bite your lip at the stretch of her tricep.
The machine swings her so her back is towards you now, lats flexing as she holds onto the bull. It’s been about thirty seconds now and she begins showing off, overly exaggerating the roll of her hips. Your mind wanders but you feign annoyance to your friends once it goes on for longer than needed.
“Ugh, it’s like a male bird.” you scoff lightly, still watching the woman. “As if you haven’t been eye fuckin’ her. Whatever she’s doin’, it’s clearly workin’ on you,” Cat is smirking as she speaks, the remark causes you some degree of embarrassment. “I have not been eye fuckin’ her,”
“Really?” Dina begins, adding on to Cat's comment, “'Cause it looked like you were gonna cum on the spot." Your cheeks flush; “It’s just impressive. And she’s like ripped. Plus she’s been on the thing for too damn long.”
“You’re only mad 'cause she’s been on it longer than you,” Dina points out, and she’s not wrong, everyone knows you’ve got a competitive streak. “That too.” you shrug.
As your friends persist with the comments, your embarassment increases by a tenfold and you desperately hope for a change in topic;
“Y’all want shots? I’ll buy.” That does the trick, everyone agreeing and you head over to the bar.
_________________________________
As the night progresses, the music goes from country to club, the dance floor getting more and more packed. Dina and you decide it’s probably a good time to join the floor. You turn to Cat, who usually ends up being your designated dance partner, to see if she’s down. Dina tries getting her girlfriend to come with the three of you as you get up to dance, Ellie reluctantly caves in and the four of you head over to the dance floor.
The tune of Gasolina fills the room, the boom sending vibrations through the floor. You and Dina look at each other and smile, pulling the other two women onto the floor with you. Voices sing along, bodies bump into bodies, and eyes meet eyes. You grind on Cat as she cheers you on, holding your hips as laughter falls from both of your lips.
The same blue eyes that have been following you around all night meet yours, the woman leaning against the wall opposite to the dance floor. There’s heat behind this gaze, it’s unwavering. Your movements slowing under it. She licks her lips before the moment is interrupted by excited bodies slamming into each other as the song transitions.
You turn towards your friends as Low booms through the speakers, everyone now yelling the lyrics. When the feeling of eyes on you hits again. This time you don’t even check if the blonde is watching, you just start twerking to the beat of the song, both friends and other patrons around you cheering.
After a couple songs, you’re breathing hard and thirsty as hell. “I’m g’na go grab some water.” you let your friends know before slipping off to the corner of the bar by the wall, a cooler and glasses available for those who need—you fill a glass and lean against the wall, the cool liquid feeling pleasant as it passes your lips. A now familiar figure appears in the corner of your eye.
“Was’at your first time?” the woman asks as she steps in front of you, one hand resting on the wall next to your head. Her other is grabbing a glass and pressing the lever on the cooler with her index finger, a low thrum returning to your core as you watch the ease with which she performs the action. “What?” you ask, looking at her amused face, her hand drops from where it’s at on the wall, brushing your arm before returning to her side. “Ridin’ a bull?” she clarifies, the two of you moving out of the way of the cooler, now facing each other on the wall a few feet down, just on the outskirts of the dance floor.
“Yeah, but I did rodeo as a kid.”
“Mm, that don’t prepare you for bulls sweetheart. They’re a bit rough.”
You take a step towards her, placing your hand on her forearm, running it up to her bicep, thumb brushing across the muscle. Your heart pounds hard against your chest and you pray she can’t see it. Your nerves building as you decide to go all in.
“What makes you think I can’t handle a rough ride?” your voice getting sultry and you see her eyes darken, black pupils now overtaking the blue that was there moments prior. “Y’should really let us cowgirls handle that kinda riding or you’ll hurt yourself.” she feigns self control, but her voice is marginally more gruff than before. “I could be a cowgirl for all ya know.” you state matter-of-factly, running your middle finger back down her arm, tracing a vein to her hand.
“Oh please, I bet the only cowgirl y’ever been is reverse,” she quips, grabbing your wrist as her blue eyes appraise you, almost as though she’s sizing you up. It sends a rush through your body, knowing she’s thought of you like that. “Mhm ‘n I bet that’s exactly what you were thinking when I was on that damn bull,” your fingers brushing the inside of her forearm. Her smug expression staggering, it’s clear she’s trying her best to keep her composure. She takes a shaky breath, “Barely. Y’can’t even ride that thing properly.”
“Maybe…” you pull your hand away, crossing your arms. Her eyes now looking shamelessly at your tits, “I just need ridin’ lessons.” Your voice now challenging, which brings a smirk to the woman’s face. She bites her lip softly, shaking her head with a chuckle as she leans in close enough for you to smell her, pine and musk filling the air. Her voice is low when she speaks;
“Talkin’ like this to me ‘n i don’t even know y’damn name.”
You give it to her, “Do I get to know yours too, or do I just have to call ya cowgirl all night?” you ask as you wrap your arms around her neck, her own holding your hips. “Name’s Abby.”She tests your name on her tongue, “How high’re my chances of gettin’ ya in my bed tonight?” your cheeks feel hot for a moment, and your eyes flick down to her plump pretty lips, “They’d be higher if you danced with me, Abby.” She pauses for a beat, as if considering other options. “Y’did put on quite the show back there, pretty. It’d be a shame for me to miss out.”
_________________________________
With the bass pumping, yours and Abby’s bodies sway, bump, and grind. You find your thighs slotted together, brushing against each other’s cunts. Abby spins you around, holding your hips to meet your back to her front. You gasp as you feel her tits press against your back. Leaning forward, you start shaking your ass on her, arms reaching back and taking her hat, placing it on your head. Her hips push forwards into your movements as you twerk, your pussy fluttering.
Abby’s warm, callused hands trail up your sides, making you stand more upright again. You place your own on top of hers and guide them up to your tits. Hearing the quiet, strangled sound that leaves her mouth, you quickly turn around to face her, Abby’s hands are immediately back on your hips and yours resting on her shoulders. She leans down, “This a preview for later or sum’n?” she murmurs into your ear, hands now grabbing your ass.
“Oh you’ll have to work for it. I ain’t openin’ my legs for just anyone.” her eyebrows raise in surprise, “Y’seem pretty easy t’me.” Abby’s nose is brushing yours, her breath fanning your lips, eyes focussed on your glossy pout. “And what gives you that impression baby?”
“Y’ve been dancin’ like a slut all night, twerkin’ on me like y’need t’get fucked hard n’ deep.” You can feel her lips brushing yours as she talks, her words drawing a small whimper from your mouth. Both of your gazes flicking between the other’s eyes and lips, the tension strung tighter than it has been all night. Both of you waiting to see who breaks first. Your tongue darts out of your mouth, quick as ever, brushing your bottom lip and grazing Abby’s. She exhales through her nose before slamming her lips against yours.
There's a fire that ignites deep in your gut, a soft hum escaping you. You keep an arm thrown over her shoulder, the other hand snaking down to hold her neck. Your lips messily slotting together, tongues meeting tongues, teeth clashing. Abby’s left hand holds her hat on your head, the right grasping your waist. Your tongue is in her mouth, flattening against hers before swirling around it. As you pull away, you bite her lower lip. A higher pitched gasp leaving her as she leans down more, a soft whimper escaping her as you pull back. The hungry sound and heavy eyes are all you need to drag her off the dance floor.
_________________________________
Abby lets you pull her by the hand in the direction of the washrooms, the urgency in both of your paces obvious. You pass Ellie and Dina, who are in their own world until the sight of you with Abby pulls them out of it. Your mind is so focussed on getting Abby into that washroom, you barely even notice them.
As you finally the see old wood Restrooms sign above the hall you make a beeline. The two of you rushing down the corridor, frantic in your attempt to find an open stall. You pin Abby to the first door with the vacant lock, leg between hers as you turn the knob, shoving her inside. She immediately flips the both of you, her turn to push you against the door. Abby grabs her hat off your head, hanging it on the hook, “Y’have any clue how sexy y’are?” she breathes, a thick, jean clad thigh between your legs as she knees the door shut. You just roll your hips on the leg, head tilting back and gasping at the pressure hitting your clit:
“Fuck-"
Her mouth immediately finds its place on the column of your throat, sucking a mark against the skin. Abby drags her lips up to your own, planting a hot, teasing kiss before gliding her lips over to your ear, licking it. Goosebumps cover your entire body as she nips the lobe. Her hips roll on your thigh and she moans softly against your skin, your core aching at the sound. Your mouths meet again, Abby lifts you and places you on the sink, your legs spreading apart naturally. A grin comes from her, “What happened to ya not openin’ these pretty legs for just anyone?” Her thumbs rub circles into your thighs, you open your mouth to say something but she slips a leg between yours once more, effectively keeping you quiet. She runs two digits just under the hem of your miniskirt. “I knew it. Y’are a slut.” You push your knee against her pussy as a protest to her statement, her mouth hangs open, letting a moan out. She sinks lower onto your leg.
“Ya don’t look like you’d be a girl who moans all pretty, but here we are.”
“Shut up,” Abby’s voice is still on the higher side as you move your knee side to side. “Make me,” You challenge her as you lean in, the both of you breathing heavy.
The doorknob rattles, “Almost done in here?” a drunk, unfamiliar voice slurs out. The heavy air between you fizzles out and Abby begins to talk: “Yes, yes jus’ a m-“ You press your knee against the seam of her jeans, she bites her lip, stifling a whine, “Moment.” Abby finishes the sentence, shooting a glare at you.
Both of you compose yourselves, you straighten your skirt and fix your hair quickly. Abby’s smoothing over her wife pleaser and flannel. She places her hat back on you, “It’ll help with the hair.” You pull your tube of lip gloss from your front pocket, bending over the sink to reapply. Abby’s face goes back to being hungry, the ogling apparent. You smirk, arching your back more. “Now that’s wholly unnecessary darlin’,” her lip between her teeth, “Especially when we got someone waitin’ on us.”
“Your face tells me a different story,” you stand back up and Abby opens the door, a hand on your waist as she steers you back down the hallway, voice in your ear: “We oughtta take this back to my place.”
“You got a ride?”
part 2!!
an: first time posting in over a year… i’m actually going to try and be more consistent because i forgot how fun it is to write and had a pretty interesting 2025 (toxic relationships am i right😍), im back fr this time. i might turn this into a series where they date or smt, not sure yet. or write more cowgirl abby stuff. part two w the actual smut should be out within the next few days to a week depending on how quickly i finish my assignments for uni. anyways thanks for readinggg!
“What do you get out of this ? I mean… does that even feel good for you ?” You question Natasha as she secures the harness on her hips.
Looking down at you, her lips quirk up in a smile, one hand coming to rub your thigh affectionately.
“I get to see you cry on my cock, and that alone feels fucking great for me, sweetheart.”
The way she was referring to the plastic dildo in between her legs as hers had your stomach, and something way lower, flutter desperately.
“Also, the front of the harness is rubbing on my clit, but that’s just an added bonus,” she winks at you.
She nudges the tip of her strap at your entrance. Natasha had spent one long hour thoroughly preparing you to take her and the need was burning hotter than ever. Your hips buck lightly, trying to take more of her.
“Be patient, baby,” she soothes, a hand rubbing your hip tenderly, “I don’t wanna hurt you.”
“You’re not gonna hurt me,” you said, growing even more restless with the way Natasha was rubbing the tip of her strap on your puffy clit, “please just put it in.”
She flashes a cocky smirk at you before slowly pushing inside of you. You frown a bit at the stretch but the strain quickly turns into pleasure when Natasha buries herself to the hilt, her hips flush against yours. She stays still for a minute, allowing you to get accustomed to the size.
“How does it feel ?” She asks, her voice all breathy from the sight of you full of her.
Your walls flutter around the strap, “good, really good…” you exhale shakily, “it’s a good length, I’m glad we chose that one.”
Natasha’s hips begin to slowly grind against yours, not even thrusting yet, just a languid roll that has you moaning out in pure delight, your hips bucking up to meet hers.
“Nat, more,” you pout, the desire, the need, for her to fuck into you is getting stronger and more desperate every second she refuses to give into you.
She leans in, licking over your bottom lip, “yeah ? You need me to pound into you, baby ? Need me to fuck you hard and deep ?”
All you can do is nod desperately as she finally gives you what you want. Natasha is almost completely lying on top of you as her hips hit yours with a force you didn’t know she was capable of, her breasts move in tandem with yours, your nipples rubbing against each other with every thrust.
“Oh fuck, you feel so good, fucking me so good !” You cry out as the tip of her dildo hit that spot deep inside of you that makes you see stars.
She is almost putting you in a mating press with the way she is positioned above you, she feels so fucking deep inside of you, and you feel so so full of her, the sensation is setting your insides on fire.
Her head is in the crook of your neck, plastering open mouthed and wet kisses on the thin skin.
“You like that, baby ? Like how deep I am inside of you ?” One of her hand leaves your hips to snake its way on your lower stomach and she presses slightly, making you moan out, “I’m right here, you feel me sweet thing ?”
“Yes, yes yes yes,” you chant, half delirious on pleasure.
She leaves the confines of your neck, straightening back up, taking one of your hands with her. Her eyes are boring into yours as she takes your middle and ring fingers in her mouth, her tongue circling them and coating them in her spit.
“Touch yourself for me, pretty girl. Make that clit feel good while I fuck you.”
Your pussy clenches hard at her words and the obscene show she is putting on for you as your body obeys her on its own. Your slick fingers leave her mouth and trace down her body, squeezing one of her nipples on the way down before arriving at your messy cunt. Your neglected clit twitches hard when your hand finally makes contact, rubbing quick circles on it, your moans only become louder and louder.
“Fuck, Nat, ‘m so close, I’m gonna cum so fucking hard…”
Your pussy flutters desperately around Natasha as she smirks above you, keeping the delicious pace that’s slowly bringing you to your high.
“Do you feel good ?” You asked in between whimpers, “does that feel good for you ? Please Nat…”
“Awww, my sweet angel,” she coos squeezing your breasts affectionately, “yes it does, it feels so good watching you take my cock like a good girl.”
Her words spur you on, the fingers on your clit picking up the pace.
“That’s it, baby, cum for me, rub that pretty clit.” Her words are punctuated with those heavenly hard thrusts that fill you to the brim every time.
And before you know it, your pussy clenches down hard on the strap, practically locking Natasha in place as you ride out your high. Your back arches, tits pushing out into her hands as violent tremors shake your body. An obscene amount of slick is being pushed out of you, forming a white ring at the base of Natasha’s strap.
When you come back down, Natasha is still in you, rubbing your thighs appreciatively.
“You did so good, sweetheart, took me so well, I’m proud of you.”
Your stomach flips at the praise.
“Was it… good for you ? Did you cum, I mean ?” You question, out of breath and feeling a bit sheepish under her prying gaze.
A grin pulls at her pretty pink lips, “I did, it felt so good to fuck you like that, baby.”
Her words have you clench helplessly around the strap.
“Well… you must be pretty messy under that then, no ?” You point to the harness sitting on her hips.
Her eyes flick to you with a predatory glint.
“What do you say about me cleaning you up ?” You ask, your hands coming up to move the strap out of you and slowly take the harness off her, revealing her slick folds and puffy clit from rubbing against the material.
She smirks as she watches you trail kisses down her body, all the way to the place she needs you the most.
“I’d say you you better get to work, baby.”
Author's note : Currently struggling to finish my Jake fic so please accept this Natasha Drabble as an apology.
I have so many more Drabble ideas for her and they are all smut😭 need her so bad😔
As always, sorry if the smut is bad, I never had sex with a woman.
hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii have you seen the mel renaissance fair clip yet? from the interview? do you think she’d be into role play 🤔
✉️ you can see how long ago this was submitted cause the 2nd season wasn't even out yet lol, but I apologize for taking this long, nonie! quick answer: yes, definitely. long answer: keep reading
demure! mentions of overstimulating environment, implied doctor!reader, roleplay, dom-ish!mel, doctor kink, medical examination kink (?), pretend pelvic exam, breast exam, slight nipple play, fingering (r!receiving), uterus pressing, squirting wc 1.3k 18+ MEN & MDNI
‘Doctor and patient’ is the first one she ever suggests to you. Mel figured that it was the best option out of the growing list of fantasies that seemed to fester in her neural pathways. Because 1) it wouldn’t take much effort for you to slip into the role, it was part of the everyday routine, after all; and 2) she has to clench her hands into fists whenever you refer to her as Doctor, like the action will counteract the flushing of her neck. She tells you both of these things and has a few more reasons sketched out in preparation for the (rare) instance you would reject one of her sex concepts (what you’d been calling them recently)–but you agree. With a tiny laugh and the tilt of your head that Mel correlates with suspicion, but you agree.
It’s clumsy and a little awkward at first. You’re worried about how, technically, after clocking out you’re supposed to separate your work life from home. An agreement the two of you had since the ER somehow knew the days when to just be all the more overstimulating. You’re worried, and you’re not as into it as Mel. It’s clear in the way you keep pressing your lips together to stop from smiling, the way your face turns a shade darker when you have to stumble through ‘Why you came in today’. At least you both decided to forego any kind of related clothing (you were not going to go through the embarrassment of putting on a patient gown). The only thing that was hospital-adjacent was the latex gloves on Mel’s hands.
Much to Mel’s relief, though, you get comfortable as soon as she gets said hands on you.
Breast exam was the first thing that came to your lips when Mel asked what she could do for you. Naturally. The heat begins to build in your stomach when she requests for you to remove your shirt. And the arousal courses through the rest of your body, coming to settle between your thighs, as she stares at your tits. You think that she could maybe see your heartbeat as she asks about when your last period was and if there was any soreness. (“Yeah, my girlfriend–” *only time you manage to get her to break character, btw*).
And when she actually manages to start the manual palpation, your cunt flutters as she feels up your tits with circular motions, pressure varying. Harder as she nears the areola before she pinches your nipple just a bit too roughly to be simply medical. The first time she does it, it makes you shudder. The second, the moan slips out. And apparently, you feel the need to slap a hand over your mouth and mumble: “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”
“Perfectly normal reaction to nipple stimulation,” Mel says, but you can hear the tiny smirk in her voice. “And no discharge.” Because she has to make it accurate.
There’s one point, when you’re lying down as she repeats the palpation process, when the doctor in you slips through, and you ask if she checked the armpit area as well.
“Are you the doctor or am I?” Which shuts you up right away, thighs pressing together.
Not great for when she moves onto the pelvic exam.
Because the first words that leave her are: “Do you usually produce this much lubrication, or is this a result of previous stimulation?”
You almost kick her shoulder with your foot. Almost remind her that she sees you like this practically every night. But then you have to suck in a deep breath and remind yourself–roleplay.
That she was having way too much fun with.
“Previous stimulation,” you mumble, pressing an arm over your eyes as one of her thumbs moves to gently trace over your vulva, a string of your wetness trailing along with it. The touch is feather-light, barely there, and it shouldn’t have you reacting in the way it does–teeth chewing on your bottom lip as you let out a shaky breath and feel the way your hole clenches around nothing.
She continues the gentle brushes of her thumbs over your pussy lips. Spreading them open, watching wetness collect around your opening. “No abnormalities,” Mel finally says, her own voice a little shaky. It’s enough to assure you that she’s affected by the teasing too. “The vulva and clitoris are swollen from arousal.”
Again, you debate kicking her.
Which, that urge instantly evaporates (along with the rest of your thoughts) when two of her fingers position themselves at your entrance. Just sitting there, feeling the way you flutter and pulse to try and suck them in as Mel retrieves lube from your bedside table. Which you probably didn’t even need, but she was Dr. King right now and everything she medically advised went.
“I’ll just be checking your uterus and ovaries. No cervix check today.” Her words almost make you chuckle, if it weren't for the sensation of her squeezing a generous amount of lube onto her gloved fingers, trailing the bottle just a bit too far up to have the cold liquid hitting your clit. A small whimper leaves you. “The lubricant might be a little cold,” she says after hearing the catch of breath.
You can’t really find it in yourself to care when she eases those two fingers into your waiting cunt, though.
The slight stretch has you sighing softly in relief, walls embracing the digits they’d practically be crying for, considering how wet you’d gotten. Mel pushes the heel of her other hand against your uterus, the pressure making you cry out a little as you squeeze your eyes shut, arm falling away from your face.
“No masses… Slight tenderness due to sensitivity–”
“Mel,” you try, whining softly as you tilt your hips up. An attempt to get her fingers to move or curl or something other than just sit.
“Dr. King, please,” she interjects, voice irritatingly steady.
A small scoff leaves you–a mix of desperation and annoyance as you peek your eyes open at her. Her own eyes flick between where you’re swallowing her fingers and your face. “You’re so–”
She crooks her middle and pointer finger just slightly, pressing against that sensitive spot inside of you as her palm rubs in a circular motion over your lower abdomen that has your pussy clenching.
“Dr. King,” you gasp out before you can stop yourself.
Before your eyes roll back, you see the way her tongue pokes against the side of her cheek.
Then: slow, deep curls of her fingers that you aren’t sure can even qualify as thrusts, but they feel unreal. Mel’s thumb never nears your clit, only two gloved fingers working the sensitive spots along your walls and the other massaging your lower tummy.
“Pelvic pressure can trigger endorphins, did you know that?” Mel asks above the sound of your squelching cunt. She finally pulls her fingers out to the first knuckle before easing them back in, changing the angle in a way that has the coil of heat in your gut tightening. “It can relax tight muscles and increase blood flow. If I press right–” She presses the heel of her palm down toward your cunt, making you squeal. “I can stimulate deep nerve endings like the cervix.”
“Dr. King,” you repeat breathlessly, head fuzzy and solely focused on cumming.
Mel just watches, beginning to pump her fingers shallowly enough to provide some friction.
“Dr. King– Please– Kiss, pleasepleaseplease–”
Your girlfriend leans closer, giving you a small peck on the lips before settling her forehead on yours. Instinctively, your eyes find hers–watery as you feel your high begin to approach with an intensity that would probably have you wetting the bed.
“You always do this same pulsing rhythm right before you cum–”
A long moan leaves you at the comment, pushing you right over the edge into an orgasm that has you squirting around her fingers.
Mel can’t refer to herself as Dr. King for a week after that.
I also think that she would be a big fan of professor/student & (if she could get you in the costume) some kind of like lady/maid situation, but I wrote more than I originally planned for the doctor/patient LOL
CW: depictions of sex work (sex in exchange for money), reader feels shame over SW, men mentioned for the plot, financial stress and instability, reader has a backstory, reader wears a dress and makeup, mention of alcohol use (including unhealthy habits), emotionally unavailable!Yolanda, financially desperate!reader, smut (explicit sexual content), cunnilingus (both!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), strap usage (r!receiving), a severe lack of fluff for a chapter that contains smut
WC: 8.2k
Read Part I here
A/N: thank you to everyone who’s been so patient since I’ve started slowing down, and shown appreciation for my work. There’s so much love from me to all of you, I wish I had a better way of showing it 💛 Hope this lives up to expectations!
──────── UNDEFINED TERMS ────────
You met Yolanda Garcia eight months ago.
But this story doesn’t start with her. It’s not about her, at least not yet.
No, it starts with a house. It’s always the house.
It’s the same one you’ve lived in since you were a child. It has the same creaky step (the second one below the landing), the same dent in the hallway from when you fell against the wall too hard when you were running from your dad while playing, and the same kitchen table with the uneven leg your dad swore he’d fix but never quite got around to. Instead, he just stuck a wooden brick underneath it and called it good. Your childhood home has always reflected stability for your family, it was never something you really thought too much about.
Except now it’s all you think about.
The HVAC system went first, right in the middle of winter. The heat stopped overnight, and by the morning the house was freezing cold in that bone-deep way that requires a steaming shower to warm you back up. Your dad spent two days trying to fix it himself before he gave in and called someone. Those two days really sucked.
The number they quoted might as well be impossible, $11,000, but you managed to pay it anyways because you had to. What else were you going to do?
Then the roof started leaking, because when it rains, it pours. It wasn’t bad enough to collapse, but it was a slow, steady drip that stained the ceiling and spreads out a little more every time it rains. At first, your mom set a bucket underneath it for when it dripped to the floor, and then another, until you were forced to stop pretending that was a solution.
That was another bill, but that time you had to take out a loan because there was no way you could afford it, it just wasn’t happening.
And then there was the car. Not yours, you don’t actually have a car of your own, you take the bus. But the family one. The one your mom would use to drive your dad to work, and then go to her first part-time job, then her second, then drive to pick him up, and then drive home. It broke down on the side of the road, in the dark, after a shift your dad couldn’t afford to miss.
That loan wasn’t optional either.
None of this was, just one thing after another. Every fix turned into a bill, every bill turned into a balance you can’t catch up to, and suddenly the word mortgage started feeling very dangerous. It loomed over your heads like a dark cloud, because suddenly the house wasn’t just your childhood, it was something that could be taken away.
Your dad is working more than full-time. He picks up whatever extra hours he can get. Your mom has two part-time jobs, one in the morning and one in the late afternoon, she’s barely home long enough to sit down before she’s out the door again, or in bed.
And you?
You work retail.
It’s a job that pays just enough to feel like you’re contributing but not enough to actually make a difference. Long shifts on your feet, customers who treat you like shit, and a manager who schedules you just barely under full-time so they don’t have to give you any benefits.
Your paycheck isn’t yours anymore. It goes straight into groceries, or into whatever bill is most urgent when your paycheck hits. Sometimes it goes into things your parents don’t even ask you for, but you see the way that your mom hesitates at the grocery store, putting things back and doing math in her head.
So you hand it all over, even when there isn’t much to give.
Dinner is cheap. There are nights when it’s just pasta or canned soup. Once you ate bread with gravy for three days right before payday. You can’t remember the last time you ate out, even fast food. You’ve stopped buying anything that isn’t necessary, and stopped thinking about things you want.
But it’s never enough. That feels like the worst part: you’re doing everything right, everyone is, and it still isn’t enough.
The house is old. It needs things that cost money that you don’t have. You notice things you never paid attention to before, like the draft near the windows and the way you have to shut the front door just right in order for it to latch. You wonder how long it’ll be before something else breaks. You wonder how much longer you have left before the bank takes it.
The mortgage is past due, way past due. You co-signed on loans with the agreement that those get paid first so that your credit doesn’t go in the toilet before you’ve had the chance to really live. That means sometimes the mortgage gets skipped when there isn’t enough left over.
It’s at least two months past due on the evening you get desperate.
You’re on Charlie’s couch with your legs tucked under you and a blanket thrown over your lap. The TV is quiet enough to talk over for when you feel like it, but loud enough to hear the dialogue of Law and Order without needing subtitles. The episodes have been playing back-to-back for hours now, the familiar dun dun starting to sound like a broken record.
There’s a bowl of popcorn between you, buttered and salty. You haven’t had popcorn in…god, you don’t even remember how long. You can’t spare the $4 for a box at the grocery store. You don’t say anything about it, but it’s heaven every time you pop a handful into your mouth.
Charlie notices your desperation over the snack, but she doesn’t say anything about it.
On-screen, a woman in a skimpy dress is mid-argument, heels loud on the floor as she paces in front of an undercover detective.
“I told you what my terms were,” she argues. “Five thousand a week, non-negotiable.”
You let out an incredulous laugh, accompanied by a shake of your head. “Yeah, okay.”
Charlie turns to you with a confused look. “What?”
“Five thousand a week?” you repeat, nodding your head toward the screen. “For that? That’s so unrealistic.”
“It’s not that unrealistic,” Charlie says with a shrug of her shoulders.
“You cannot be serious.”
“Totally serious,” she says, reaching for the popcorn bucket. “People really do pay that much.”
“No they don’t.”
“They do,” she insists. “Sugar babies. It’s, like, a whole thing for rich guys.”
You snort. “Yeah, on tv.”
Charlie rolls her eyes. “No, like in real life. There are actual websites.”
You pause mid-reach, fingers barely closed around an absurdly sized fistful of popcorn. “…you’re kidding.”
“I’m not!” She sits up, grabbing her phone from the arm of the couch. “Hold on, I’ll show you.”
“Charlie -”
She’s not listening, tapping away on the screen. “I had a coworker who used one,” she says. “She paid off, like, half her student loans in a year.”
“That’s not real,” you say, even though your voice is losing some of it’s certainty at the conviction in Charlie’s voice.
“It is,” she insists again. “Look.” She turns her phone toward you and you hesitate a little before leaning in to look.
On the screen is exactly what she said would be. Profiles with clean layouts and pictures that don’t include full faces. Bios with words like arrangement and discreet and mutually beneficial in them like it’s no big deal, like this is just something people…do.
You’re dumbfounded. People really have money they can just…throw away because a girl is pretty?
“No way people are making that kind of money just for - for dating someone.”
“It’s not just dating,” Charlie says with a shrug. “It’s like…an arrangement. Like friends with benefits, except the benefits aren’t just sex, you know?”
“I’m just saying, it’s not realistic,” you say quietly.
“Maybe not for everyone.”
The Law and Order episode keeps playing in the background, voices rising and someone winding up arrested, but you’re not really listening to it now. Your eyes keep drifting back to her phone where she’s set it down between you.
Five thousand a week.
You sign up for that website less than six hours later.
In the dark of your bedroom, when the rest of the house is fast asleep and there’s nobody to catch you in the act.
You hesitate, because this is where it stops being something you’re just looking at and becomes real. You’re uncomfortable with even just the thought, wondering if this is the right move for you.
Then you think about the house. And then the past due notices sitting on the counter, and about your mom putting things back in the grocery store and your dad on the side of the road.
And you sign up.
You fill in the blank fields asking you for your name, your email, a username. You’re careful not to use anything identifying. And when it asks for photos, you hesitate again. You choose photos that don’t show your face - the same thing you’d seen in profiles when Charlie was showing you them on her phone. Your body, your silhouette, a hint of you instead of anything that could concretely tie you to the photos. It could be anyone, that’s the point.
Anonymity.
The bio takes you a bit longer. You don’t know what to say at first, so you open another internet tab and type sugar baby profile tips. The internet has more suggestions than your brain does. You skim articles and forums alike, your eyes catching on things like know your worth and define your boundaries. Some articles talk about contracts, like actual contracts. Some mention NDA’s and Terms and Conditions. What’s allowed and what isn’t.
It's more formal than you expected, a semblance of structure, like a real job. You latch onto that thought because it makes you feel less dirty.
You swipe back over to the tab that holds your bio and begin to type, doing your best to sound like someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone that belongs here, even if you’re not actually sure you do.
The first message comes less than an hour after you finish your profile, and you don’t answer it right away. You instead just stare at the notification with an uncomfortable feeling in your stomach. Someone saw you and clicked on your profile and decided that you were worth messaging.
Eventually you open it and then wish you hadn’t.
The next few weeks are a blur of work and sifting through messages. It feels like that’s all you ever do anymore.
It’s not one bad experience, no, it’s a pattern. A steady stream of messages that all begin to look the same the longer you scroll through them.
Some of them are way too blunt. There’s no introduction or conversation, instead just expectations laid out like you’re a product they’re trying to order. Numbers thrown out without context and requests that make your face burn with shame.
Others try to be charming. Those are sometimes worse because they start normal, and you almost start to relax. But then they always start to change, with an underlying assumption that your time and attention and body belong to them already. That the “arrangement” part of this doesn’t need to be discussed because it’s implied. Why else would you be here?
But then there are a few that are normal enough that you try.
The first time you meet someone, it’s for coffee. In a public place, during the day, and you sit across from him for twenty minutes before you realize he’s not listening to a word you’re saying. He talks over you about himself, and it’s clear that you’re just supposed to fall into line with whatever he “usually expects” from arrangements like this.
Your second date (with someone else, because you never saw that asshole again) is even worse. It’s dinner this time, and you naively let yourself think that meant that it would be more serious, but it’s not.
He’s too comfortable before food even arrives; he sits too close, speaks too low to try and get you to lean in to hear him, acting like you’ve already agreed to things you haven’t even talked about. When you try to steer conversation back to expectation and terms, he laughs at you like you’re being difficult.
He doesn’t offer to pay and you leave before dessert and refuse to let him walk you to the car your dad let you borrow for “work.”
After that, it starts to feel the same: different names but the same conversations.
Eventually the sinking realization hits that this isn’t what you thought it would be. It feels like you’re trying to force something to work that just…doesn’t. You were naïve to think that you could be like that girl on tv.
You don’t even actually like men, and you’re torturing yourself with them just for money. You didn’t delude yourself into thinking that there were women looking for company this way.
This is just like every other app you’ve ever used, only with higher numbers and worse expectations attached. Like Tinder with money.
You think about deleting your profile entirely and cutting your losses. This was a bad idea from the start, this isn’t something that works for people like you. Instead, you spend your last few dollars on some wine coolers from the gas station up the street and drink until you’re unconscious in your bed, the first real reprieve from your own thoughts in months.
──────── UNDEFINED TERMS ────────
One morning, you wake to a message sent at 3:07am.
You frown at that, blinking rapidly to rid your eyes of the sleep as you sit up in bed. You get a lot of messages in the middle of the night, that isn’t what has you stunned. It’s the fact that it’s from a woman.
Her profile picture is the only thing you can see next to the New Message notification, and it’s very intentionally cropped. There’s no face, just an angular jaw at the top of the photo, clothing that gives very expensive vibes, and a watch that probably costs more than the mortgage on your house.
It’s enough to make you open the message.
I like your profile. If you’re still looking for an arrangement, I’d be interested in discussing terms.
That’s it. It doesn’t even seem like she’s trying to convince you, like she could take or leave your response.
You click on her profile, taking note of her username: Dr.G_Consult.
Like, a real doctor?
You scroll a little further down, past her listed occupation that confirms the title. Her Bio is just as straightforward as her message to you:
Busy professional. Limited availability. Clear expectations. Discretion required. Not interested in emotional entanglement.
Between her tone and her intimidating profession, you feel like you’ve been evaluated without her even seeing you. You wonder if her messaging you at 3am is the result of insomnia or some drunken middle-of-the-night impulse.
Either way, you message her back. And she answers again.
There’s no small talk or drawn-out conversation. She moves straight into inviting you out to dinner, already with a time and place.
You understand the implication without her having to say it outright. She doesn’t have the time to waste, and with what she’s offering, you’re expected to meet her where she is.
On the day-of, you take longer to get ready than you have in a very long time.
You have this dress, a green one that you haven’t worn in years because you haven’t had a reason to. It’s too nice for any events in your real life. It’s fitted and doesn’t match your current situation at all. This dress doesn’t scream overdue bills and $0.29 in your bank account.
It’s perfect.
You take time doing your hair and makeup. You’re careful about the makeup, stretching out uses because you can’t afford to replace the products yet. You change yourself so drastically that you barely recognize the woman in the mirror. It’s been a long time since you’ve tried this hard.
The ride there is the part you think about too much. Opening the Uber app and selecting the credit card that you only use in case of an emergency.
Just this once, you tell yourself. If this doesn’t work, if it turns out like everything else, you’re done. You’ll delete the profile and forget the whole thing ever happened.
You lean your head back against the seat as the car pulls away from your street, focusing on the passing blur of the streetlights. The city fades from familiarity into something else entirely, something that feels cleaner, more expensive. You can feel it before you even arrive at the restaurant, you can see the way things like different when money is involved.
You smooth your hands over your dress as the car slows to a stop in front of the restaurant. Your heart is beating so hard in your chest that you can feel it, adrenaline setting your nerves on fire as you step out and thank the driver.
Your heels click against pavement that doesn’t have any cracks or holes.
The doors to the restaurant are heavy, but that’s okay because it’s the kind of place with a doorman to open them for you. That’s his whole job.
The inside of the restaurant is muted. Nobody is talking loudly, there are no glasses clinking. It’s polished, like even sound knows better than to draw attention to itself.
It makes you stop just inside the entrance, looking around in wonder. Everyone here looks effortlessly cool, from the waitstaff to the patrons. They wear tailored clothes and look relaxed, and the laughs you hear sound rich, like you’d hear them on a golf course or a yacht somewhere.
And as you catch sight of your reflection in the window as you approach the hostess station, you realize that you don’t look that different. You blend in, you could pass for one of these people. But it doesn’t feel the same because you know what it took just to get you here, you don’t belong the way they do.
“Hello.” The hostess’ voice pulls you out of it.
You snap back to reality, realizing you’ve been standing in front of her for a little too long to be normal.
“Do you have a reservation?”
“Oh -” You start, caught off guard. “Um -” Your mind blanks because what do you even say? Yes, but not under your name. No, but you’re meeting someone. You’re here for a date that’s not really a date. You’re here for something you can’t say out loud with dignity.
“I’m meeting someone,” you say weakly, feeling your cheeks heat.
“Name?”
You start to give her your name before realizing that’s not what she wants, she’s asking for the name your reservation is under, and you don’t know. You only know her username, it’s not like she’s making the reservation under Dr. G.
“There you are.” A voice behind you undercuts your panic.
You turn around, back toward the front doors, and find a woman standing from the padded benches there. You hadn’t noticed her before, hiding behind you the whole time, stepping in when you’re at your least comfortable.
She wears tailored slacks and a deep green button-down with the sleeves rolled up just enough to expose her forearms. Her dark hair is pulled back with intention, not a strand out of place, but even in the low lighting of the restaurant you can see it’s curly.
You love curls.
You don’t need to have seen pictures of her face to recognize her. Aside from the similar posture, the definition of her jaw is familiar, having been almost the only part of her you’ve seen until now. Her deep brown eyes are beautiful, but not in a way that feels warm. No, she’s not warm at all. She’s intelligent and clinical, even now you feel like you’re being analyzed despite the smile on her face.
She crosses the space between you in a few easy steps, and her hand finds your lower back comfortably as she turns to the hostess. “She’s with me.”
The hostess nods in acknowledgement and she picks up two menu’s from her station before gesturing toward the interior. “Of course,” she says, “right this way.”
You follow the hostess with the smallest nudge of your date’s hand. You’re increasingly aware of how the atmosphere seems to change around you in ways that are subtle enough to miss if you aren’t paying exactly the right attention. But it’s impossible to ignore once you are, everything from the soft dip in conversation as you pass tables to the way everyone except you seems to feel completely at ease here.
Your date doesn’t look out of place one bit. She walks like the air around her owes her something, like nothing here is unfamiliar or intimidating or even noteworthy, except you. She hasn’t taken her eyes off you the entire time, you can see it out of the corner of your eye.
The hostess leads you to a table that’s set slightly apart from the main flow of the room. It’s positioned in a way that gives you privacy - no doubt a request from your date who’s profile made it very clear she values discretion.
You’ve barely settled into your seat when the hostess leaves, and you’re suddenly alone with your date.
There’s silence for a moment, the kind that comes from first meetings and is awkward until you’re the first to break it with your name.
“Yolanda,” she introduces in return, leaning back in her chair. It makes you wonder if everything she does will intimidate you like this. “Why don’t we start with you telling me what you’re looking for.”
It’s direct enough that you look around for prying ears before you answer.
“I’m - I’m not very good at this part,” you admit with a sheepish smile.
That gets you a small, amused smile, breaking the tension of her otherwise-stoic face. “You’ve never done this before,” she says. She’s not asking.
“I’ve talked to people,” you reply. “It just hasn’t gone beyond that yet.”
“Because you don’t know what you want,” Yolanda supplies. “Most people who use that site either don’t know what they want or think they want things that they don’t.”
You watch her carefully, confused on where she’s going with it. “And you know what you want?”
“I know what I don’t want,” she says. “And I can usually tell within the first five minutes whether someone is going to be a problem or not.”
You open your mouth before you can think twice. “Am I a problem?” you ask, and it sounds more curious than defensive to Yolanda.
Her lips curl upward further, more a smirk than a smile now. “Not yet.”
You smile as well and shake your head. “You’re very direct.”
“I have to be,” she says as she raises a hand to flag down a waiter. One - not yours - stops by the table, and she points to something on the wine list. Wordlessly, the waiter nods and disappears. “I’ve done this before,” she says, turning back to you and snapping the wine list shut.
Your hands are folded in your lap and you’re silent as you wait for her to continue.
“A couple of times,” she goes on, tilting her head like she’s gauging your reaction. “Nothing too long-term.”
That piques your curiosity. “Why didn’t they last?” you ask, leaning forward as you brace your elbows on the table.
She’s quiet as she chooses her words, but even in her own pondering, you can tell she’s still assessing you. Like she’s noticed your engagement and is still figuring out what to do with it.
“…because they couldn’t follow the rules,” she says simply.
The conversation lingers in the wake of the mention of rules. The word sits between you and creates a tension that’s almost awkward as you try to pivot to change the subject.
“You said you’re busy,” you try. “What do you actually do?”
The waiter returns with empty wine glasses and a bottle, uncorking it and pouring you both glasses as Yolanda speaks.
“I’m a surgeon.” She doesn’t say it with arrogance, but it still comes off cocky.
“Well obviously,” you say with a little huff. “Your profile already said that. I meant what kind?”
Yolanda thumbs the stem of her wine glass, lifting and swirling it. “Trauma.”
You take in her rolled sleeves and steady hands, her controlled posture now making more sense. “That seems like it would suit you.”
She shrugs her shoulders as she takes a sip. “And you?” she asks as she swallows.
“What about me?”
“Have you always been taken care of?”
The question catches you off-guard, but not because it’s confusing. You’re on a sugar baby website, it’s filled with spoiled women who want to be taken care of in exchange for sex. But it’s too direct, too close to home for you to answer realistically.
Because the answer is no. Painfully, and obviously no.
You think about the house. About your mom counting dollars at the kitchen table to see how far she can stretch your last $10.About how none of this would be happening if things were different. You wouldn’t be here, with her, in this dress, if you had another choice.
You feel disgusting.
And the last thing you’re going to do is hand a stranger something they could use against you.
So you lift your gaze back to hers, smoothing your facial expression into neutrality. “Yeah.” The word comes out steadier than you feel saying it. “For the most part.”
Yolanda hums as you pick up your own wine glass, desperate to play the part. “Then this will be an adjustment.”
Your face crumples in confusion. “Why?”
“Because I don’t allow passiveness,” she replies calmly, still swirling her wine glass. “You don’t just receive from me, you participate.”
It’s an accusation disguised as clarity. Like she’s used to spoiled little girls expecting money in exchange for the bare minimum. Your mind wanders to her past arrangements, wondering what kind of rules they couldn’t follow.
You take a sip of your wine, almost immediately beginning to feel the pleasant tingling in your toes that accompanies intoxication, and it reminds you that you haven’t eaten all day. You turn your attention to the menu in front of you.
You already know you’re not going to pick something easily. The prices alone make that clear. Even now, sitting here, and even knowing logically that you aren’t the one paying tonight, there’s still a level of discomfort in your chest when your eyes land on the numbers next to each dish. Calculation of money you don’t have that you can’t turn off.
You don’t want to misstep.
Play your cards right and this could change your life.
You can only imagine how much money a surgeon makes. Enough to take girls like you out to fancy restaurants on first dates.
You glance up at Yolanda and then back down again at the menu, your fingers resting against the edge of the laminated page as a thought comes to you. A test.
You lift your gaze again. “Will you order for me?”
She stops mid-sip at the question. She returns your gaze, though her eyes narrow a little. “That’s a new one,” she says, her voice edged with curiosity. “What kind of game is this?”
You press your lips together to keep from smiling. “No games. I’d just like your opinion.”
She watches you, trying to figure out if you’re telling the truth, and you can almost see the moment she decides to believe you. “…alright,” she says finally. She sets her own menu aside without looking at it and then leans forward. “Do you have any food allergies?”
“Walnuts,” you say immediately. “No other type of nuts though.”
She nods, taking that in. “What about strong dislikes?”
“No,” you say with a shake of your head. “I’m not picky.”
“Good.”
The waiter returns not long after and Yolanda orders for you both without hesitation, assured as she names dishes you didn’t even look far enough into the menu to consider. She asks one or two questions about preparation before confirming your order.
You watch her, analyzing her level of comfort with total control. You’ve seen enough Greys Anatomy to know that surgeons have a reputation for being control freaks, and Yolanda fits the stereotype from what you’ve seen.
You almost miss the way her attention turns back on you, until she speaks. “You’re overthinking this.”
You let out a small laugh. “I usually am.”
“I can tell.”
There’s no bite to her words. If anything, it sounds…teasing?
Tilting your head, you ask, “Is that a problem?”
Yolanda sucks her teeth and then purses her lips, considering it. “No,” she eventually says. “Not if you learn when to stop.”
You lift a brow. “And this is one of those times?”
“Yeah.”
You ponder that for a moment before taking a deep breath and relaxing your shoulders. You don’t fully slouch, but you’re not as rigid as you were before.
Food arrives not long after, carried out in measured timing by two servers rather than just by one, your plates set down quietly and without a word from the staff other than the question of anything else needed.
Your food looks…intimidating. Not in portion, but presentation. A perfectly seared piece of fish rests over a bed of something green and glossy, dotted with small bright elements you can’t name. There’s a citrusy scent, something fresh that you can smell over the richness.
Yolanda notices your stare. “Branzino,” she says like she’s answering a question you didn’t ask. “Lean protein, it’s easy to digest.”
You glance up at her, then back down at the plate. It looks expensive.
“It is.”
Shit, did you say that out loud?
You let out an awkward chuckle as you pick up your fork. “Good to know.”
Hesitating as you take the first bite, you relax fully once you do. It’s good, really good. Clean but not bland, rich without feeling heavy. You take another bite. Across from you, Yolanda is watching your reaction.
“Well?” she asks.
You glance up mid-bite and swallow quickly. “It’s really good,” you admit. “I haven’t eaten anything this healthy in a while.”
“Oh?”
“I’m usually more of a whatever I can find at midnight kind of person,” you say honestly. “I basically live on black coffee.”
There’s a brief pause that you don’t even notice because you’re taking another bite.
“That might have to change.”
You look up from your plate again to find Yolanda casually cutting into her own dish. Her expression is relaxed, but the lift of her eyebrows suggests more sternness than she’s letting on.
“I can’t have you running on processed junk and caffeine,” she continues, “if this is going to work out between us.”
You blink. “If this -”
She’s watching your reaction with that same critical gaze, and you realize the implication of her words.
She’s interested, even if she hasn’t said it aloud.
Your mouth curves up at the win. “Are you going to be monitoring everything that goes into my body?”
Yolanda takes a bite of her own food, chewing thoroughly and then swallowing before answering you. “If necessary.”
“And is that something that would be in writing?” you tease with a smile.
“It probably needs to be,” she says with a returning, teasing lilt.
You take another bite, the discomfort in your stomach that never seems to go away these days actually easing a little bit for once.
Taking another sip of her wine, Yolanda sets the glass down carefully and returns her attention to you. “You adapt quickly.”
You’re caught off guard once more by what you assume is a compliment. “I’m trying to keep up,” you admit.
“If you’re unsure about how this works,” she continues, “there’s an easier way to figure it out.”
“How?”
She opts to watch you instead of answering, as if she’s giving you time to realize what she’s suggesting before she actually says it out loud. When you don’t respond, she sighs exaggeratedly, like she’s being dramatic on purpose for the effect. “I don’t usually extend this kind of an offer,” she says. “But it might be useful in your case.”
You shift nervously in your seat. “What kind of offer?”
“A trial,” she says. “An opportunity to see if this is something that actually works for you instead of trying to decide based on a conversation.”
She’s not offering - no way.
Your fingers tighten around your fork and knife. “You mean -”
“Yes.” She didn’t even let you finish the question. The implication is clear. “You’re free to say no, it isn’t a requirement.”
You look down at your plate while your thoughts catch up to you. You don’t do this, you’ve never gone home with someone on the first date, especially someone you don’t know.
And it’s hypocritical to even consider it. You would’ve never gone home with any of the others you’ve met from that godforsaken website. But Yolanda isn’t making you uncomfortable; she isn’t being pushy, or rude, or only talking about herself.
And it doesn’t hurt that she’s devastatingly beautiful.
You glance back up at her and she’s watching you patiently. “What…what would that entail?”
Yolanda has to contain the smirk that threatens to consume her expression. Because she knows now, she has you. You started this date so uncertain and nervous, but now, even though you’re still sitting there with the same hint of anxiety, it’s mixed with something else. Curiosity. A willingness to take the next step even when you don’t fully understand where you’re stepping. And that’s way more fun than confidence.
Because most of the women who sit across from her try too hard. They perform and play up to her ego to get what they want from her. You’re not doing that, at least not that she’s seen.
Yolanda’s tongue darts out to wet her lips, her smirk deepening when she catches your eyes tracking the movement.
It’s dangerously appealing.
There’s something almost indulgent about you, about the way your uncertainty presents itself, not as a weakness but as untouched, unshapen by this world she’s so familiar with. You’re someone she could teach.
“A test drive.”
When the check comes, she doesn’t even look at you to see if you’ll offer to pay for your own meal. You’re not supposed to, and Yolanda is nothing if not a gentlewoman. She picks it up and slides her card in without even looking at the total. And when the receipt is provided, she again doesn’t look at it, sliding her card back into her wallet, and her wallet back into her bag.
She guides you out of the restaurant with your hand fit snugly in hers, like you could be any other couple, you trailing behind her as she leads the way outside, and when you step out, a black car is already waiting at the curb for you both.
Yolanda steps forward and opens the back door. “After you.” It’s directive, not chivalrous.
The interior is dim with cool leather beneath your legs. Yolanda follows a second later and shuts the door behind her. You don’t bother asking where you’re going, you already know.
Your dress sits slightly higher on your thighs from the way you slid into the seat, and her hand settles hot on your skin.
She turns her head slowly, leaning in until she’s close enough that you can feel her breath on your neck when she speaks. “You can still change your mind.”
You keep your head straight, looking forward between the front seats and out the windshield, trying desperately to ignore the rapid thud of your heart beating in your chest. Your own fingers curl around Yolanda’s wrist at your thigh, but you don’t pull her away, instead running them lazily over her bare forearms.
“I know,” you whisper.
She leans even closer at that and you can feel the smirk on her mouth as her lips press against your neck, jut under your ear. Goosebumps erupt over your skin and you unconsciously tilt your head a little to give her better access. The hand that was on your thigh closest to her reaches to your other, fingers digging into your skin as she pulls you closer to her, still mouthing at your neck.
You never take your eyes off the road in front of you, and you catch the eye of the driver in the rear view mirror.
Shame fills your gut, curling like steam and igniting your skin as your cheeks flame. Hot, your whole body feels hot, and you’re not sure if it’s the eyes of the driver or Yolanda alternating between kissing and biting the skin on your neck.
The car stops in front of a building that looks like it costs more per square foot than your whole house.
The lobby inside made of polished stone and expensive light fixtures. The doorman nods as you pass him, though it’s directed at Yolanda and definitely not you, and she returns it with the same motion.
The elevator ride up is quiet and she stands beside you without touching you now, her hands at her sides and her gaze forward. If you didn’t know better, you could almost gaslight yourself into thinking the car ride never happened at all and you don’t know this woman. At her floor, she leads the way down the hallway with her keys in hand.
But the moment you step inside, the tone changes so sharply it almost gives you whiplash. She closes the door, and then she’s on you.
One hand fists the front of your dress right above your navel while the other slams flat against the wall beside your head, caging you in. Her mouth crashes into yours, hot and demanding and all slick tongue. There’s no gentleness to it, which doesn’t surprise you since you can still feel the ghost of her teeth on your neck. Her teeth scrape over your lower lip and you can’t help the little moan that slips out of your mouth and vibrates between you two.
Your hands slide down her button-up, pulling it to untuck from the waistband of her pants and allowing you to reach her skin underneath. Your palms meet warm, smooth skin that stretches tight over lean muscle. And as you breathe through your nose, you can smell the sandalwood cologne that screams expensive.
She breaks away from your mouth and yanks your dress up and over your head in one unexpected motion, and cool air hits your skin as you’re left in nothing but your heels and panties. Then she pulls on her own shirt, not even bothering to undo the buttons, opting instead to yank her shirt off over her head. It exposes the black lace of her bra, so see-through that your mouth waters at the sight of her nipples through the fabric.
The contrast makes your clit throb; she’s barely undressed, still in her bra and slacks and you can already feel the dampening fabric of your panties becoming uncomfortably slick.
Yolanda drops to her knees right there on the hardwood of her entryway, so fluid it steals your breath. Her hands grip your thighs, spreading them wide enough that the cool air hits your soaked cunt and makes you shiver. There are no teasing strokes, no soft kisses up your inner thigh. No, she leans in and drags her tongue flat up your slit in one long and intentional lick. The wet heat of her mouth stuns you, velvet and pressure all at once. You gasp, your hips jerking forward seeking her mouth, but her hold on your thighs pins you to the wall.
Fuck, she’s good. She circles your clit with the flat of her tongue and then sucks it hard between her lips, the suction bordering on painful and pulling a cry from your throat. She lifts one thigh over her shoulder so you’re balanced on one foot, using her for leverage to keep you upright. Two fingers push into you without warning, thick and insistent, curling immediately against the inside of your walls. The stretch burns and you clench around her, the slick sounds of your pleasure filling the entryway as she pumps her fingers quickly in and out of you.
She doesn’t bother with filthy words to ramp you up. Instead, she works the same way you imagine she performs surgery: with precision and a kind of total domination. You would do anything, say anything, be anything to keep feeling the way she’s making you feel. Her tongue never stops it’s relentless rhythm, flicking and sucking while her free hand holds your hip in an iron grip.
Your thigh trembles against her shoulders. She’s not even looking up to see your reactions, like she knows what she’s doing, knows she’s so good at this that she doesn’t need to check in. And she’s right. The pressure inside you builds fast, coiling tight in your belly until it snaps almost without warning.
You cum with a loud moan, your pussy fluttering hard around her fingers and a rush of wet heat flooding her tongue. She doesn’t slow down, fucking you through it and drawing it out until your legs threaten to give. Only then does she pull back, licking her glistening mouth with her tongue like it’s nothing more than a reward for a job well done.
She rises, her eyes dark with want but still cool and intimidating, and grabs your wrist. “Bedroom,” she says, her voice rough from effort, and she tugs you after her.
The bedroom is just as precise as the rest of her: silk sheets pulled tight over a king mattress, no decorative pillows and a single lamp casting a yellow glow.
She shoves you onto the bed on your back and the cool of the silk shocks your overheated skin.
You watch, breath shallow, as she strips the rest of the way: slacks sliding down long, toned legs, bra unhooked and tossed aside. Her body is made out of sharp lines, her nipples are already tight from the cool air. From the nightstand she retrieves a harness and a thick, veined black strip, the silicone both realistic and heavy-looking. She squeezes lube onto it with a wet squelch and then steps into the harness, buckling it around her hips efficiently.
“Hands and knees,” she orders.
You scramble into position, ass up and chest pressed to the mattress, your knees spread wide to make room for her. Anticipation coils in your stomach like a live wire as she climbs over you, one palm smoothing over the curve of your ass before gripping your hip hard.
The blunt head of the strap nudges your entrance, pausing there before she pushes in. It’s slow at first, splitting you open nice and easy, and you wonder if it’s for your benefit or if Yolanda is simply cherishing the moment. The burn is exquisite, the fullness is overwhelming. When she bottoms out, hips flush against your ass, you let out a shaky sigh.
She barely gives you time to adjust. She pulls back out slowly and slams in again, setting an immediate and brutal pace. The slap of her hips against your ass echoes obscenely, mixed with the filthy wet sound of the strap driving into your soaked cunt. One hand snakes around your body to rub perfect little circles over your clit while the other fists your hair, yanking your head back enough to arch your spine.
“Take it,” she grows above you. “That’s it, gooood girl.”
The praise lands like gasoline on the fire already raging inside you, but there’s no softness or affection to it - just the satisfaction of watching you fall apart on her cock. The strap nudges against your g-spot perfectly with every thrust, the harness pressing against her own clit and you can feel her hips stutter when it hits just right. You cum again, harder this time, loud moans falling from your tongue as your vision whites out and your cunt spasms against the silicone.
She rides you through it, her pace refusing to falter, until your arms give out and you collapse forward. Only then does she pull out with a wet pop, leaving you empty and throbbing in time with your heartbeat. She flips you over onto your back like you weigh nothing, the strap still jutting from her hips, now slick with your cum.
She unbuckles it fast, leather straps whispering as they fall away, and tosses the toy aside. Then she’s climbing up your body until her thighs bracket your head, the heat of her pussy hovering inches from your mouth. You can smell her, musky and wet from how turned on she’s clearly been the whole time she was fucking you.
“My turn,” she says, rough with restraint as she lowers herself onto your waiting tongue.
You’ve barely had a second to recover from your own orgasm, yet you still dive in without hesitation, eager to return the favor. You lick a broad stripe up her slit, tasting the flood of her arousal. She’s dripping, slick coating your lips and chin as you circle her swollen clit with the tip of your tongue before sucking it into your mouth. She tastes so fucking good, and it’s been so long since you’ve wanted and been wanted in this way.
She grinds down on your tongue roughly, dominance emanating off her despite receiving instead of giving now. You push your tongue inside her, fucking her with it while your hands grip the muscle of her ass, pulling her down harder. She rides your face with the same intensity she fucked you with, her hips rolling in circles to retain some semblance of control, chasing what she wants. Her thighs shake against your ears but she’s nearly silent, only low groans and the occasional sharp gasp escaping her.
She grips your hair so tight it nearly pulls from your head as she cums. It’s sudden and intense, her walls fluttering around your tongue, her essence flooding your mouth as her hips jerk, riding it out on your face before she stills above you.
Her breath comes deep as she climbs off and collapses to your right on the bed. You lie there, your chest heaving and body buzzing with aftershocks, your own thighs still sticky and trembling.
The silence that follows isn’t heavy. For a minute, you can pretend that this was just a regular hook-up, a run-of-the-mill romp with a woman you met at a bar. But as your body catches up, your thoughts lag behind.
Yolanda moves first, rolling onto her side with an arm bent under her head as she stares at the ceiling for a moment like she’s returning to her baseline. Then she turns to you.
“You should drink some water,” she says with the same commanding edge to her voice that she seems to say everything with.
A giggle escapes you. “Is that part of the rules too?” you ask, still a little breathless.
“It will be if you don’t do it yourself.”
Oh my god, that almost sounds like humor.
She sits up just a bit as she reaches for her phone, fishing it from the pocket of her slacks from earlier. She taps the bright screen a couple of times before setting it face-down.
A second later, your own phone buzzes and you reach for it without thinking. The screen lights up with a payment notification.
$3,000
What the fuck. What the actual fuck. This has to be a mistake, she couldn’t have meant to -
“Get out of your head.”
Your head snaps up to find Yolanda looking at you, her head propped up on her hand.
“You thought this was just a trial for me?” she chuckles, almost condescendingly as she runs her free hand along your cheek. “That’s sweet.” She pushes up off the bed fully, standing to get dressed. “We can talk about next steps later.”
And as she moves to leave you alone in the bedroom to retrieve water, she stops in the doorway. “If you still want to.”
She doesn’t look at you when she says it, because she doesn’t have to. Yolanda is an expert at reading the human body, call it a byproduct of her profession that’s practically second nature by now. Call it whatever you want.
But it sat there on the couch beside you like it knew—screen dark, silent, holding entirely too much power over your mood for something so small.
“Mommy, watch this!”
You turned just in time to see one of your daughters dramatically jump off the bottom stair, arms flailing like she’d just performed an Olympic-level stunt.
You gasped, playing along. “Oh my goodness! Are you okay?!”
“I’m okay,” she said proudly, already climbing back up to do it again.
Of course she was.
Three-year-olds were apparently indestructible.
“Alright, no more jumping,” you added, softer this time. “Feet stay on the floor.”
“Yes, Mommy,” they both chorused—already not listening.
Your gaze flicked back to your phone.
Still nothing.
You told yourself it didn’t matter.
People had lives. Jobs. Responsibilities.
She was a doctor, for God’s sake.
That thought lingered.
Emergency medicine.
Long shifts. Chaos. No breaks.
It made sense she hadn’t replied yet.
Still…
Your stomach twisted anyway.
“Mommy,” the other twin said, crawling into your lap again. “You sad?”
You blinked, caught off guard. “What? No, baby. I’m not sad.”
She studied you in that unnervingly perceptive way kids had. “You sure?”
“I’m sure,” you said, brushing her hair back gently. “Just tired.”
That, at least, wasn’t a lie.
---
Dinner came and went in its usual blur—negotiating bites, wiping spills, reminding them that crayons were not for the table.
Bath time followed.
Then pajamas.
Then stories.
Then water.
Then another story because apparently one was never enough.
By the time you finally got them into bed—again—you felt like collapsing right there on the floor.
Instead, you made your way back to the living room, sinking onto the couch with a long exhale.
Your phone lit up.
Your heart jumped.
You grabbed it so fast you almost dropped it.
A notification.
From Tinder.
Your pulse picked up as you unlocked the screen.
A message.
From—
Melissa King
You stared at it for a second before opening it, your breath catching slightly.
Melissa: Hey 🙂 Sorry—long shift. Just saw this. Hi.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
She answered.
She actually answered.
And somehow, that felt bigger than it should’ve.
You read the message again.
Long shift.
Of course.
You leaned back into the couch, staring at the screen, your mind suddenly blank.
What were you supposed to say now?
You’d gotten this far on impulse.
Now it felt… real.
“Okay,” you muttered under your breath. “You can do this.”
You typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Deleted again.
“Seriously?” you whispered to yourself.
You were a grown woman.
You handled toddlers, bills, work, life—
and yet one message had you completely spiraling.
Your phone buzzed again.
You froze.
Another message.
From her.
Melissa: How’s your night going?
You blinked.
A second message.
She didn’t just reply—she kept the conversation going.
Something in your chest eased.
Maybe this didn’t have to be so complicated.
Maybe it could just be… talking.
You swallowed, then started typing again.
You: It’s been busy lol. Just got my twins to bed.
You hesitated for half a second.
Then hit send.
There it was.
No hiding it. No easing into it later.
Just the truth.
You watched the screen like it might disappear.
The little typing bubble appeared almost immediately.
Your heart jumped again.
Melissa: Twins?
You huffed a quiet laugh.
You: Yeah. 3 years old. They’re a handful.
The typing bubble came back.
Melissa: I can imagine. I barely survive a shift in the ER—I don’t know how you do that every day.
You blinked at the screen.
Then read it again.
Because… that wasn’t judgment.
It wasn’t hesitation.
It wasn’t the usual awkward silence that came after mentioning your kids.
It was… respect.
Understanding.
You felt something warm settle in your chest.
You: Honestly? Some days I don’t 😂
A pause.
Then—
Melissa: That’s fair.
You smiled.
Actually smiled.
Your shoulders relaxed without you realizing it, the tension from earlier slowly slipping away.
For a while, the conversation stayed easy.
Simple.
You learned she worked nights more often than not. That she ran on caffeine and stubbornness. That she had a dry sense of humor that caught you off guard in the best way.
And she asked about you.
Not in a polite, surface-level way.
In a way that felt like she actually wanted to know.
Time slipped by without you noticing.
Until—
“Mommy?”
You turned, startled, as one of your daughters stood in the hallway again, rubbing her eyes.
“I can’t sleep.”
You softened immediately, setting your phone down.
“Hey, it’s okay,” you said, standing and walking over. “Come on.”
She wrapped her arms around your leg, clinging.
You picked her up, settling her against your hip.
“Stay with me?” she mumbled.
“Always,” you murmured.
You carried her back to the couch, sitting down carefully as she curled into you, already drifting off again.
Your phone buzzed softly beside you.
You glanced at it.
Another message from Melissa.
You hesitated this time.
Not because you didn’t want to answer.
But because… this mattered now.
More than it had an hour ago.
You picked up your phone, careful not to wake your daughter, and opened the message.
Melissa: I’d like to keep talking, if that’s okay.
Your breath caught slightly.
Simple words.
But they landed heavy.
Intentional.
Real.
You looked down at your daughter sleeping against you.
i saw a tiktok comment awhile ago that said “the lesbians on tumblr do not play about mel king” and i feel like that sentence holds cultural significance and i think about it very frequently .
i saw a tiktok comment awhile ago that said “the lesbians on tumblr do not play about mel king” and i feel like that sentence holds cultural significance and i think about it very frequently .
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