𖹭 sam didn't even know he was into little bows on lingerie until he saw you in them. the first time you slipped into something with a dainty satin bow, he froze mid-sentence. his gaze locked onto it, the rest of you nearly forgotten for a second. he had no idea such a tiny detail could completely undo him. after that, every time he caught even a glimpse of one, his hands itched to touch it and claim it, to see how many ways he could play with it.
𖹭 sam loves how innocent they look— the way something so delicate is sitting right where he wants to be filthy. to him, bows look soft, girlish, almost sweet, but they sit right at your tits, right over your pussy— places he has no intention of treating sweetly. and the contrast makes him lose it. he'll murmur about how you look too pretty for what he's about to do, his fingers tugging the bow just enough to make it strain before he ruins you beneath it.
𖹭 on bras, he'll spend so long just... "making out" with the bow. he doesn't just glance at the bow between your breasts— he treats it like it deserves as much attention as your mouth. he leans in, lips brushing over the little bow, kissing it slow and wet like he's savoring it. his nose nudges against the fabric, breath hot, and then he opens his mouth, sucking at it like it's your skin beneath.
his tongue flicks at the ribbon, sloppy and hungry, as if the bow itself is what's making him hard. he keeps you pinned down while he works at it, low hums vibrating against your chest. it’s ridiculous, but it's him, and by the time he finally pulls back, the ribbon is damp with spit and his mouth glossy.
𖹭 the bows on your panties are deserving of worship. he drops down to his knees, big hands on your hips, but before anything else he leans in and plants a slow, reverent kiss right on the little bow at your waistband. sometimes he lingers there, mouthing at it, teasing like it’s his warm-up.
then, he presses his mouth right over your pussy, through the fabric, kissing you through it like he's starved. slow, open-mouthed kisses that get wetter and messier until the thin material is sticking to you. his tongue drags over the cotton, tracing the outline of your pussy, savoring the taste that seeps through. he groans into it, gripping your thighs tighter because he can’t get enough.
when you're practically shaking from the tease, that's when he finally hooks a finger into the fabric, tugging it just enough to the side. he doesn't even peel them all the way down— he wants the bow to stay right there, perched prettily while his tongue goes messy between your thighs.
𖹭 if your panties have bows on the sides to tie them? he'll untie them with his teeth. it becomes a whole ritual— him sinking to his knees, grinning up at you with wicked eyes while his teeth worry at the knot. he takes his time, pulling slow, dragging the ribbon free like he's unwrapping the best present he's ever gotten. half the time he doesn't even wait for both sides— he'll get one untied and then tug them down enough to get his mouth on you, the bow dangling loose while he devours you.
𖹭 even when his huge dick is going in and out of you, he doesn't forget about the bow. even when he's buried in you, hips moving slow and deep, one of his big hands is fixed low, thumbing at the tiny bow stitched on your panties that are bunched down around your thighs. he doesn't even need to think about it— he just toys with it compulsively, tugging, rubbing, twisting the ribbon between his fingers while he drives his hips into you.
at the same time, his mouth is on your chest, lips locked around the little satin bow between your tits. teeth scraping, tongue flicking until the ribbon is wet and shiny with his spit. with every thrust, he groans into that bow, the vibrations running through your chest, while his fingers tighten possessively on the one below, like he's anchoring himself in you through those delicate little ribbons. it’s messy and obsessive— like he can’t choose between worshipping you and worshipping the bows, so he does both at once, drunk on the mix of soft fabric and your body clenching around him.
the vought suite that ben brought you into smelled of whiskey and weed, cigarette. there's a record player in the corner, needle buzzing out something heavy and distorted— zeppelin, sabbath, you don't care. what matters is the man sprawled across the bed like he owns the whole filthy decade.
soldier boy. the soldier boy. star-spangled relic of the war, america's golden boy. he's coked-up swagger and charming grins, his dog tag chain bites against your back every time you move.
you're in his lap, straddling him backwards, thighs burning, cunt stretched around him as you sink down hard. he's thick, brutal, filling you until your body can't help but tremble. his palm smacks against your ass, leaving a sting.
"christ, sweetheart," he groans, voice gravelly from whiskey and smoke. "you're fuckin' sloppy back here. thought you knew how to ride a cock."
your lips part to form a retort, but he doesn't give you the chance. his hand fists in your hair, jerks your head back, and two fingers are shoved between your lips. they taste of tobacco and salt and faint traces of gun oil.
"shut it," he snaps, watching your spit shine across his knuckles as he pumps them in and out. "there you go. that mouth's good for one thing— sucking me like the filthy whore you are.."
you gag, drool sliding down your chin, but the sound only makes him laugh— low, cruel, filthy. his hips slam up, forcing you to jolt forward, then down again, cock driving so deep you see stars.
"fuck, look at you. bouncin' on me like a fuckin' champ, choking on my fingers like a good girl. you were made for this. f'me," his words slur with arrogance, every syllable laced with cruel amusement.
Your nails dig into his thighs for balance, but he doesn’t care. He just thrusts harder, hand leaving your hip long enough to slap your ass, the sharp sound echoing in the smoke-hazed room.
"bet you're gonna cum just from this, huh?" he growls, grinding up inside you. "just from sittin' on my cock and gaggin' on my hand. pathetic. filthy little fucktoy."
your body gives out before your pride does—climax ripping through you, thighs quivering, your moans spilling helplessly around his fingers. ben's laugh is sharp, mocking, delighted.
"yeah, that's it. that's my slut. drippin' all over me, makin' a mess like the dirty girl you are." he curls his fingers deeper into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue until you choke again, until your vision blurs. "juuust how i like it. wrecked. ruined. fuckin' mine."
and when he finally thrusts up hard enough to spill inside you, he bites down on the back of your neck like he wants to leave his mark carved into your skin forever.
you were just trying to be playful. a little surprise after a long hunt. you'd kicked off your jeans, crawled onto the motel bed in nothing but those ridiculous black lace panties and glittery x shaped nipple pasties you bought for fun two towns ago.
you expected him to laugh. maybe smirk. tease you a little. what you didn’t expect was for dean winchester to stop in the doorway, jaw going slack like you just broke his brain.
"..what the hell are you wearing?"
you blink innocently. "you don't like 'em?"
you twist your hips slightly, letting the motel lamp catch on the glittery pasties. your nipples are hard under them, peeking through the thin edges of the material. dean swallows— hard. "no, i mean— i do— jesus."
he drops his duffel like it weighs nothing and crosses the room in three long strides. the look in his eyes is somewhere between awe and absolute carnal desperation.
"y'tryna kill me, sweetheart?"
you hum, dragging a hand up your stomach. "figured you'd appreciate the effort."
he grabs your chin and tilts your face up, gaze flicking between your eyes and the little x's on your tits. "oh, i appreciate it," his voice is low. "i just didn't know i'd come home to a goddamn fantasy."
his hands are already on your thighs, pushing them apart as he kneels in front of the bed. "you know what these are?" he murmurs, lips brushing the inside of your knee.
"what?" you breathe.
"targets."
you giggle— until he sucks one pastie-covered nipple into his mouth, hard. you yelp, thighs twitching around him, and he smirks. "thought i'd be cute, huh?" he drags his teeth along the edge, tongue flicking the peak through the material. "thought i'd be able to handle this?"
his other hand's already slipping into your panties, fingers rough and greedy. "newsflash, sweetheart: you wear something like this, im not gonna fuck you gentle."
he looks down at your tits, those stupid, sparkly pasties still covering your nipples like a challenge— and then he grins. "y'know what?" he pants, mouth brushing your collarbone. "you wear shit like this.. you deserve to be ruined."
he dips his head low— and tears one pastie off with his teeth, slow, like he's unwrapping a gift. tongue flicking under it, teeth scraping. you gasp, your back arching as he mouths over the now exposed nipple, sucking until it's red and wet with spit. then he moves to the other one. "bet you thought i'd be sweet, huh? take it nice 'and 'n slow."
he bites gently, then pulls the pastie clean off with his teeth, watching your chest shudder under him. "nah. you want that? go find a boy. i'm not here to cuddle."
you barely have time to moan before he slams into you, thick and deep and unforgiving. "you want it rough?"
his hand wraps around your throat, not tight, just firm, grounding you as he pounds into you hard enough to shake the headboard. "then take it, sweetheart. take every fuckin' inch."
the pasties are crumpled somewhere on the floor. Your voice is wrecked from moaning. and dean? dean is feral.
"you fuckin' ask me not to be gentle again," he grits, cock twitching deep inside you, "and i'll keep you like this all goddamn night."
the clock set on dean's life is running out, and sam is unraveling by the hour. while dean disappears for a night of reckless denial, sam is left alone in a cheap motel room with nothing but his fear, his anger, and the deafening tick of a clock counting down his brother's life. every second pushes him closer to the edge, until the panic twisting inside him finally breaks.
the motel room is dim, the neon sign outside flashing red and blue against the threadbare curtains. sam's pacing like a caged animal, fists clenching and unclenching, hair tugged tight in frustration. every tick of the clock, every second that passes without dean by his side feels like a hammer pounding into his chest. dean had gone out, insisting he wanted to "live it up" before the deal pulls him under, and sam… sam is trapped in helplessness, spinning in the cyclone of what he can't control.
he mutters dean's name under his breath, voice tight, ragged. he kicks a chair in anger, letting the wood scrape across the floor. his chest rises and falls too fast, heart hammering, every muscle taut. he's tried every trick, every lore but it's never enough. his hands shake as he grabs at his hair, raking through it again and again as if pulling out his frustration could somehow solve this nightmare.
you watch quietly, trying to step closer, but he's a storm in human form. hazel eyes blazing, jaw tight, every motion sharp. he mutters curses under his breath, pacing the room in tight, rapid circles. sometimes he stops, staring at the floor or the cracked wall, jaw trembling, breathing ragged, and for a moment you see the fear— the raw, unfiltered panic that he can't protect the one person he loves above all else.
he slams his palms into the mattress of the bed, bending over it like he's trying to force the answers out of the sheets. "i can't.. i can't do this. i can't—" his voice cracks, and for the first time, he collapses onto the bed, pressing his face into the pillow as though the pressure can keep him grounded.
then he sits up abruptly, hands pressed to his temples, muttering incoherently. his breathing is uneven, shallow, and you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves. every so often, he swears, mutters dean's name, kicks the floor, or grips the bed frame until his knuckles turn white. it’s a storm, a tornado of anxiety, helplessness, and frustration— all pent up energy that has nowhere to go.
and that's when his eyes snap to you. for a brief moment, the storm finds a new outlet. the wild, desperate energy that’s been spinning inside him looks at you— hungry, sharp, raw— and you realize that this isn't going to stop with words.
sam's eyes lock on you, full of a storm you can almost feel radiating off him. his chest rises and falls fast, fists still clenched, jaw tight, every muscle taut with the tension he can't release anywhere else. "i… i just…" he mutters, voice rough and low, barely forming the words before they get swallowed in the panic that’s been building for hours.
without warning, he grabs your hips, pulling you toward the bed. his grip is firm, sharp, demanding, a physical extension of the frustration and helplessness burning through him. there's no hesitation, no soft build-up. just the raw, urgent need to vent, and you're caught under it.
his fingers slip inside you first, fast, mean, pressing and curling in ways that leave you gasping. each stroke is sharp and impatient, a tangible release for the stress that's been gnawing at him. he groans low, face pressed near yours, voice rough as he mutters, "god, i need.. i need this." his fingers dig in harder, and the urgency only increases.
then his hand comes down, smacking your pussy sharply. again. and again. each slap punctuates the intensity, the anger, the helplessness, and it makes you cry out under him. his hazel eyes glint with frustration as he leans down, pressing his chest against yours, holding you still, and riding the tension he’s been carrying all day. you can feel the raw, jagged edge of his need— frustration, helplessness, desperation, all pointed directly at you. you're gasping, moaning, shivering under him, but sam doesn't relent. this is his storm, and you're right in the middle of it.
every thrust of his fingers, every slap, every grip and press of his hands is charged with panic, fear, and the maddening helplessness of knowing dean is out there, unprotected, and time is slipping away. the room is filled with ragged breaths, gasps, and sharp groans as sam lets the storm inside him pour onto you in the only way he can.
his hands grip your thighs, bending them, pressing them down into the mattress, holding you in place like he can't trust you— or himself— not to move.
he thrusts against you roughly, hips snapping, each motion jagged and sharp, fueled by the panic and frustration that's been building for months. his eyes burn with a mixture of anger, need, and helplessness. every sharp thrust is him venting everything he can't say out loud— dean's looming death, the fear gnawing at him, the helplessness eating at his chest— and it lands hard, messy, relentless.
he presses down harder on your legs, holding them against the mattress. his cock moves faster inside you, hands still slapping, mouth biting at your earlobe, claiming you in ways that leave you breathless and aching.
then his other hand moves to your throat, fingers curling lightly, just enough to make your breaths hitch. it's rough, yes, but instinctive, caught up in the moment— the raw intensity of his storm poured into your body. you gasp around the pressure, moaning as his hips drive harder, every jagged motion leaving marks, leaving memory, leaving chaos in its wake.
his thrusts are unrelenting, sharp and messy, and he's all chaos and need, caught up in the moment of release he’s been denying himself all day. fingers digging, slaps raining down, hand lightly on your throat, legs bent and pressed, body pressed against yours.
he groans deep, low, unsteady, his panic and desperation mixing with the raw need to feel control somewhere— anywhere— before dean is gone. every thrust, every slap, every rough curve of his body against yours is messy, urgent, alive. and then.. the first tremors of release hit him. the storm reaches its peak, body shaking against yours, hands loosening just slightly but still gripping you tight, thrusts still hard, still jagged, still messy. He’s lost in the heat, lost in the chaos, lost in you.
sam's body trembles, muscles loose and shaking as he collapses against you, chest pressed to yours, forehead resting in the crook of your neck. His breaths are ragged, uneven, shaky— every exhale trembling with the release of tension he's been carrying all day.
he clings to you like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground, hands gripping your arms, shoulders, anything close. "i'm sorry," he chokes out, voice breaking. "i'm sorry.. i was rough.." his lips press into your skin, hot tears streaking down his face, mingling with sweat. "i didn't mean to.. i just—" his chest shudders against you, the words catching in his throat.
"i can't.. i can't lose him," he whispers, voice cracking, trembling with raw, unfiltered fear. his sobs are quiet but deep, each one wrung from the core of him, as if all the panic, helplessness, and anger he’s carried for hours is spilling out at once. "dean.. he.. he can't— he can't go. not like this. not because he did this for me."
you hold him, letting him bury himself in you, feel his warmth, feel the weight of his chaos, and hear the broken, frantic confessions he can't say to anyone else. his hands clutch you tighter as his body shakes, trembling from the intensity of both the rough and the emotional release.
"i just, i needed.. i needed this," he rasps, voice muffled against your neck, "and i.. i couldn't stop it.. i couldn't stop him from going.. i can't—" he buries his face further, sobs wracking him, tears soaking you both.
and in that motel room, sweat-slicked, messy, and raw, you hold sam winchester— the storm, the frustration, the panic, and the absolute heartbreak of a brother terrified of losing the one person he can’t live without— all wrapped into one trembling, sobbing, human mess in your arms.
the collar's new. black leather, cold buckle, a silver ring at the throat. sam didn't ask if you wanted it— just dropped it on the bed one morning, eyes flicking up from where he was loading his gun.
"put it on. don't make me tell you twice."
and you did. you wore it under your clothes all day, damp between your skin and the fabric. maybe it was a claim. a gesture. something he might care about. because he hasn't been himself for months.
but you knew better. this sam doesn't care. he uses. he owns. he fucks. and tonight, you get all three.
he's already got you on all fours by the time he grabs the leash— thick black nylon, the same kind you'd use on a dog. the click of the clasp is loud in the quiet motel room, sharp and final when it locks onto the ring at your throat.
"good girl," he murmurs, almost like praise. except it isn't. it's condescension, smooth and dry, like he's talking to something lesser than him. he stands behind you, one hand on the leash, the other gripping your hip.
"you know what i like about this?" he asks, cock dragging against your soaked slit like he's teasing himself more than you. "makes it easier to steer you."
then he slams into you. with no warning. no care. just one brutal thrust that punches a moan out of your chest and makes your elbows buckle under you.
you barely manage to stay up, scrambling to brace on your trembling elbows— but he's already yanking the leash back, dragging your head up like he's showing you off to an invisible crowd.
he fucks you hard. like you're a toy he picked up on the side of the road and hasn't bothered to name. and every time your hips falter, every time your moans get louder, he just pulls on the leash again— tighter. meaner.
"this is all you're good for, huh? getting fucked. getting used?" he chuckled cruelly. "does that collar make you feel safe, sweetheart? make you feel like someone wants you?"
you nod— or you try to— but the leash keeps you held tight, trembling, gasping for breath as he slams into you again and again. your thighs are shaking. your arms are useless. and all that heat pooling low in your belly is so humiliatingly sharp it hurts.
your body is wrecked— your throat's raw, your mouth is slack, you're desperate and teary as the leash digs into your neck like the only thing keeping you grounded.
"beg," he whispers, bending down. "beg me to ruin you. come on. tell me you're just a needy little fucktoy who lives for this."
and god, you do. you mean it. because you are. you're nothing but a wet, wrecked mess of need, held up by a leash and the sheer, feral hunger to be his. and when you finally break— sobbing, shuddering, coming so hard you see white— he doesn't slow down. doesn't kiss you. doesn't offer a whisper of comfort.
he just groans, yanks the leash tight, and finishes inside you like that's all you were made for.
and when you collapse, face-down, used, with the collar digging into your throat like a brand, while he just stands behind you, breath steadying, zip already halfway up.
"stay," he says flatly. "i'll clean you up later."
there's no softness. no praise. just the leash, still clipped on. and you? you stay. because you're his. and maybe that's enough.
rafe's voice is warm, measured, and so damn steady— at least to the person on the other end of the line. you're kneeling under his desk, tucked between the dark wood and the fabric of his suit pants, your hands braced on his thighs. his phone's pressed to his ear, carrying the soft, domestic chatter of his wife's voice feebly.
you can feel him flex his leg beneath your hand that's bracwd on his knees for support. you drag your tongue up the underside of his cock, slow and deliberate. his hand twitches against the armrest, but his tone doesn't falter.
"mm, yeah… no, i'll be home late again tonight. there's a.. meeting i can't skip."
you sink down around him, swallowing until your nose brushes the base. his fingers find your hair in a loose grip— not pulling, not pushing, just holding like it's the only thing keeping him steady. his breath catches for half a second before he forces it out in a quiet chuckle for her.
"yeah, i know. i miss you too."
you bob your head, tongue swirling at the sensitive spot just under his crown. his thighs tighten under your hands, the muscle shifting hard. he tips his head back against the chair and blinks at the ceiling like it's going to help him keep his composure. his voice comes out just a touch rougher, rough at the edges only you can hear.
"mhm.. dinner sounds great. you've been cooking a lot lately, huh?"
you hum around him, watching his knuckles go white where he grips the phone. the vibration in your throat makes his hips jerk— just a little— and his free hand digs into your hair harder. he's so close, you can feel the tension in him like a drawn bowstring.
his wife laughs softly through the speaker. rafe laughs back, short and tight, almost a groan before he swallows it down.
"sorry— someone just.. sent me a report. yeah, nothing serious."
you take him deeper, cheeks hollowing, and that's it— his breath hitches sharp enough to be audible. He covers it with a cough, murmurs a quick, "uh-huh.. okay.." while his cock twitches hot against your tongue.
the hand in your hair trembles. his voice goes low and slow, each word bitten off between shallow thrusts into your mouth.
"yeah, baby.. i'll.. see you tonight."
he ends the call just as he cums, groaning into the empty office, head dropping forward, eyes squeezed shut while you swallow around him. his hand stays tangled in your hair, petting it almost absent mindedly now, the weight of what he's just done settling in.
and yet.. his breathing is still unsteady. his thumb brushes your cheek.
"fuck.. you're trouble, you know that?"
he's still flushed when the call ends, his phone hitting the desk with a dull thud. he stares at you for a beat, his jaw tight, breathing through his nose like he's trying to decide whether to kiss you or destroy you.
"up," he orders, pushing his chair back. you start to stand, but he's already on his feet, gripping your chin and tilting your face up to his. his eyes are darker now. "what the hell was that, huh? thought it'd be funny to make me choke on my own words?"
you try to smirk, but he squeezes your jaw until your lips part. "say it. tell me what you were doing while i was talking to my wife."
"i was—" you swallow, heat curling in your stomach, "—sucking your cock, sir."
he drags you around the desk, pushing you until your hips meet the edge. "bend over. now."
you do, and he's already flipping your skirt up, hooking his fingers in your panties and yanking them to your knees. he doesnt bother taking off his pants all the way— just letting it stay where it had been when you were sucking him off— cock in hand, still slick from your mouth, and pushes in hard enough to make you gasp and grip the desk for balance.
he sets a bruising pace right away, his hands locking around your hips to keep you where he wants you. the sound of his hips hitting yours is loud in the office, sharp against the quiet hum of electronics.
each thrust is harder than the last, making pens rattle in their holder. he leans over you, chest against your back, voice a low growl in your ear. "had to pretend nothing was happening. had to lie to her while you were under there—" he punctuates it with a brutal thrust "—and you just kept going."
you moan, and his hand snakes up to the back of your neck, pinning you down against the desk's polished surface. "gonna fuck you until you remember not to pull that shit again."
the angle is deep, dragging sounds from your throat you can’t bite back. his breathing gets rougher, hips jerking as his control starts to fray. "you like this, don't you? getting fucked like a little slut right after i talk to her?"
"yes—" your voice breaks, "—yes, sir."
"good," he groans, pounding into you faster, his grip bruising at your hips. his pace turns messy, almost frantic, and then he's pushing in deep, grinding against you as his cock throbs, spilling hot inside you. he stays buried, holding you there while his cum leaks down your thighs.
he drags your skirt and panties back up, trapping the mess inside you. "don't go cleaning up," he says, voice calm again but eyes still dark. "you're gonna sit at your desk and think about exactly what you did."
note : this is a repost from my previous account (@wwvvii). also, i do not condone cheating irl, so don't come for me.
you're already warm under him, sprawled across the bed while he looms over you— the smell of whiskey clinging to his breath, his hair mussed from your fingers. ben's pupils are blown wide, his grin lazy and smug, and you know he’s been drinking enough to get mean about it.
his big hands grip your thighs and shove them apart like you weigh nothing, the sound of your gasp making him chuckle low in his chest.
"c'mere, sweetheart.. lemme check on her."
he doesn't mean you. you've learned that by now. when he's drunk like this, you are just the delivery system for the only part of you he gives a damn about.
he noses down into the soft heat between your legs, dragging his stubble along your skin until you're arching. then his tongue flattens, wide and slow, painting over you in a way that's filthy and reverent all at once. he drags it up again, then again, and you realize— he's actually tracing a sloppy b against your folds.
"that's for her. she's been good for me, huh? all soft n' needy.."
your hips twitch and he pins them hard to the mattress, mean grin cutting across his face.
"don't run from me, doll. not when she’s lookin' at me like that."
the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth on you fill the room. every lap is a little messier, his grip a little tighter, until you're squirming under the pressure of it. he's sloppy, spit mixing with your slick, and every so often he pulls back to look— thumb sliding between your folds, parting them so he can watch the way you clench.
"christ on a cross.. she's workin' overtime. just for me."
it's too much, and he knows it. he pushes you over once, twice, doesn't even let you catch your breath before his mouth is on you again. you're gasping, begging, fingers in his hair, and it only makes him meaner.
"yeah, that's it— give it to me, sweetheart. c'mon, she's not done yet."
when you try to push him away, he laughs, drunk and rough, holding you open wider. his tongue circles in tight, relentless flicks, and he groans into you like he’s the one getting off.
"ohhh, she likes that. look at her twitchin'. pretty little thing's gonna squeeze every drop outta you for me."
your thighs tremble, overstimulation sparking through you, but he's not stopping— not when you're dripping, not when your voice breaks, not when you're practically sobbing into the air. "nah, sweetheart.. i'm still hungry."
and the worst part? he means it.
you don't even get the chance to come down from that last orgasm before his hands are under you, flipping you like you weigh nothing. your cheek hits the pillow, your knees shoved apart, hips pulled back into the air by his grip on your waist.
"yeah.. that's the view. goddamn."
you can hear him breathing hard, voice thick with whiskey and greed. he kneels between your legs, palms spreading you open from behind, thumbs pressing into the soft give of your ass until you feel exposed down to your bones.
then he dives back in. his mouth is hot and wet against you, the angle letting him bury his face deeper, tongue fucking into you in short, hungry thrusts. he moans into you like he’s tasting something he's been craving for weeks, the sound vibrating straight through you.
"mm.. she's even prettier from back here. all swollen n' drippin' for me."
you whimper, trying to hold yourself up, but his hands are gripping so tight you can't move— not away, not closer, nothing but take it. he drags his tongue up, circles your clit, then drops back down to fuck you with it again, over and over until your arms are shaking from holding yourself up.
"c'mon, doll.. gimme 'nother. she's beggin'."
your hips twitch and he growls, sucking your clit hard before letting it go with a wet pop. his fingers replace his tongue for a moment, two thick digits curling inside you while he licks around them like he's cleaning you up for his own use. the stretch is deep, relentless, and you feel yourself clenching helplessly around him.
"that's it.. squeeze my fingers. make her show me what she's got."
the overstimulation's sharp now, teetering on painful, and you gasp out his name, but that only makes him meaner. he pumps his fingers faster, tongue working your clit in messy, desperate laps. he's drunk enough that his rhythm is erratic— sometimes too fast, sometimes unbearably slow— but it keeps you on the edge until you're choking on a cry and falling apart again.
you slump forward, but he yanks you back by the hips, lips still pressed to you, licking through every aftershock like he's wringing you dry.
"oh no, sweetheart.. you don't tap out on me. not 'til i'm done with her."
he means it. you can feel it in the way he keeps going, sloppy and drunk, until you're half-collapsed in his grip, your whole body shivering.
note : this is a repost/revamp from my old account (@wwvvii)
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