mdni. a continuation of this pussy slapping post. cw: impact play, condescension, dacryphilia. an: insert your f/o who is a bit mean after, perhaps, putting up with your bratty nonsense all day...
It’s humiliating, being touched like this.
Your lover lounges comfortably on the couch while you’re spread out between his legs—completely nude, sweat-slick back flush with his now-dampened shirt. Resting his chin on your right shoulder, his hot breath caresses the arch of your neck, goose flesh rising in its wake. One hand hovers between your thighs while the other is occupied with your mouth.
Two long digits press down on your smart tongue, drool pooling on your palate and dribbling down your chin. Unshed tears sparkle in your eyes; you’re determined not to give in, no matter how achingly thorough the consequences.
“You were saying?” he drawls, middle finger teasing your swollen clit, featherlight, coaxing a whine from your throat. The cushion beneath your bent legs is a mess of your own making: a heady mixture of sweat, slick, and squirt.
“I thaid thad I—ough, fuck!”
Your would-be comeback morphs into a shriek as his heavy hand comes down on your cunt with a wet plap. Droplets of your arousal glitter in the air from the impact. As your head tips back in bone-deep exhaustion, he seizes the opportunity to squeeze another finger between your lips, simultaneously rubbing soothing circles on your burning pussy.
“Aw, couldn’t hear you, baby. Wanna try again?”
Raising your head from its lust-polluted haze, you look up at the smug man, shooting him the sourest glare you can muster. Your pitiful scowl, however, does nothing but encourage him. His lips stretch into a wolfish grin as he slaps your pussy again. This time, you gift him with both a wail and a pathetic gush of clear liquid.
He clicks his tongue. “Tsk. You can do better than that, I’m sure...”
Before your pleasure-steeped mind can process his words, his palm comes down in harsh, measured beats: plap plap plap plap plap plap plap plap plap plap.
Thus your resolve crumbles.
Writhing and sobbing beneath him, you babble something akin to an apology and orgasm, your squirt splashing each time his hand makes contact with your overstimulated cunt. Even when his barrage ceases and he softly pets your sodden, abused flesh, you continue to ramble about how sorry you are around his fingers. Scorching tears burn rivulets down your cheeks, and he staunches the salty flow with his tongue.
“Mmmm. There’s my sweet thing. You can take a few more, yeah? Let’s make it a real apology.”
