My Roommate's A Camgirl!
(Camgirl! Megan Skiendiel x Fem Reader!)
- By day, Megan is your chaotic, innocent gamer roommate; by night, she transforms into someone else entirely, a secret cam girl putting on filthy, loaded shows — always hinting straight at you. When you finally uncover her double life, the simmering, thick tension explodes into an exclusive, raw private encore… meant only just.for.you.
●(fluff)
●(smut)
__ __ __ __
______
It started just like any common roommate hunt.
You were broke, you can't afford living alone, so you searched for any good studio apartment that would somehow not drain your wallet and college funds.
And after looking past the creepy and suspicious ones and doing a thorough background check so you won't potentially end up having a roommate that's a serial killer on Craigslist.
You found Megan.
Specifically because the listing screamed:
2 BED, 2 BATH, FULLY SEPARATE — PRIVACY GUARANTEED. NO WEIRD SHARED LIVING.
It was perfect.
Too perfect, for you.
No awkward late‑night run‑ins, no hearing every breath your roommate takes, no boundaries getting blurred. Just rent split in half, two doors with working locks, and a normal, easy arrangement.
God, were you naive.
Because from the very first week that you had moved in, Megan treats "boundaries" like a fun little suggestion she's allowed to break whenever she feels like it — which is always.
Daytime Megan is pure, unapologetic sunshine wrapped in chao. Messy high ponytail slipping down her neck, glittery purple headset askew, yelling so loud through Adopt Me and Roblox obbys that your neighbors have taped three progressively more passive‑aggressive sticky notes to your front door:
"We love joy! But please… lower the volume."
But even these loud, silly moments hum with a strange, growing tension you can't place. When she leans over your shoulder to watch you build your house in Minecraft, her chest presses firm and warm against your back, her chin resting right on your shoulder, breath fanning slow and hot against your neck.
It was crazy.
When you bicker over snacks, she'll reach across you to grab the last Pocky stick, letting her arm drag deliberately slow over your chest, eyes locking straight onto yours, dark and glinting like she's daring you to say something.
Absolutely crazy.
Once, you caught her staring at you while you were curled up watching a movie — her gaze heavy, lingering on your mouth, then lower, throat bobbing like she was holding back words she shouldn't say, and the second you looked up properly, she just grinned all innocently, stealing a friendly kiss on your jaw while leaving your heart hammering and skin prickling like you’d been caught in something filthy.
On normal days, though, yes, that's now your new definition of normal, she bursts into your room at 2 AM without knocking, arms loaded with instant noodles and soda, flopping face‑first onto your duvet like she owns the place, which she partially does.
"WAKE UP, ROOMIE — I JUST GOT A NEON DRAGON AND IT'S THE COOLEST THING YOU'LL EVER SEE IN YOUR LIFE. CRY WITH ME."
She also steals your favorite fuzzy socks straight from your dresser drawer, wears your oversized band tees as nightgowns — the hem riding high up her bare thighs every time she stretches. She'd hum 'Let It Go' off‑key while brushing her teeth so loud you can hear it through two closed doors and a bathroom wall. And when you catch her red‑handed eating the last of your matcha Pocky, she'd blink those big, warm brown eyes all wide and innocent, tilt her head, and pout, stepping closer until she was crowding you back against the counter, body brushing yours:
"Would I do that? I'm an angel. A literal angel. You're imagining things."
You'd just roll your eyes, shove her playfully, but your hands would linger too long on her waist, and she would always, always lean into the touch every single time, her smiling secret and knowing.
That was how your everyday life looked like with Megan. It was chaotic, sometimes too much, but at the same time, you were content with it.
Until 9 PM hits.
Every Tuesday. Thursday. Saturday. Exact same time, no exceptions.
That's when the switch flips.
Megan tucks her game controller away, smooths down her hair, and gives you that cheeky, secret little grin — the one that crinkles the corners of her eyes and makes something low in your stomach twist tight and hot. She saunters past you, swaying her hips slower than usual, and whispers low enough only you can hear:
"Alright, I'm clocking out! Private study time starts now — and before you ask? No, you can't borrow my charger. No, I won't share my fries later. And absolutely no knocking on my door — even if the building catches fire. Got it? Break the rules… and you buy me fancy boba for a whole month. Extra pearls."
She winks, spins on her heel, locks herself firmly into her bedroom, yanks her heavy blackout curtains shut so tight that not a sliver of light leaks out, and cranks white noise so loud the walls practically thrum.
For the first two weeks, you buy it completely.
You didn't think much of it, you have your own privacy breaks too.
Until the clues start trickling in— slow, small, impossible to ignore — planting the first seeds of curiosity that will grow into something all‑consuming.
______
It starts with Amazon.
You're grabbing the mail from the lobby one rainy Tuesday afternoon, sorting through bills and flyers, when a thick, discreet package addressed to Megan lands on top— return address printed clearly: "Bunny Boutique — Lingerie & Novelty Toys."
Novelty Toys.... What?
You've barely registered it when Megan comes rushing down the stairs behind you, sneakers thudding loud, cheeks already flushing pink before she even reaches you.
"OH— Hey! I'll take that! Thanks!" She yelps, snatching it out of your hands so fast that she nearly knocks your coffee cup spilling. Her fingers are trembling, ears turning bright red all the way down to her jawline as she babbles way too fast, way too loud.
"It's, uh, cosplay supplies! Totally educational! For… that online art class I signed up for! Yeah! Theatre adjacent! Very serious creative stuff!"
The fuck? Since when does she take art classes?
You just blink at her, deadpanning. "Megan. We study psychology. Neither of us has takes an art class."
She freezes for half a second, then bursts into nervous, over‑loud giggles, shoving the package under her hoodie like she's smuggling contraband. "Minor! I'm minoring! Surprise! Anyway, gotta go prep for my studying! Bye!"
And before you could retort more, she had already sprinted back up the stairs, slamming her bedroom door so hard the framed photos in the hallway rattle on their hooks.
You stand there for a full minute, eyebrows drawn tight, a weird, tight feeling settling heavy and hot in your chest.
Cosplay supplies? Novelty toys?
Why the panic?
Trying to think nothing of it, you just brushed the whole thing off and carried on like normal.
You powered through your morning online classes, multitasked your way through making a huge, comforting meal for both of you, and then dove straight into your favorite break‑time tradition: destroying each other in Roblox horror games.
Which, naturally, quickly spiraled into a ridiculous, heated debate over exactly who was the absolute biggest, most pathetic wussy of them all.
Megan shrieked and practically climbed into your lap at every jumpscare while still having the nerve to insist you flinched harder, and you spent the whole time rolling your eyes so hard you almost saw your brain, calling her out for hiding half her screen behind her hands while screaming.
You had a good day.
Easy, normal, a bit chaotic, just like always— so when night rolled around, you didn't think twice about anything.
You lay wide awake in bed, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, half‑zoned out until suddenly, the steady hum of Megan's noise abruptly cuts dead silent. And then, through the wall, clear and unmissable…
You hear it.
Soft.
Breathless.
Throaty moans seeping through the shared wall, high and sweet then dropping rough, wrecked, desperate.
"Ohh… yes… right there, baby— fuck, that feels so good…"
You freeze mid‑scroll, fingers hovering over your screen, breath catching so hard it turns into a sharp little gasp. You know that voice. It's her. No mistaking it — same breathy little whine she makes when you surprise her with boba, same throaty giggle she lets out when she wins a game, same cadence — but twisted, filthy, dripping with pleasure so raw it makes your thighs press tight together instantly, heat flooding your face and pooling heavy and aching between your legs.
It's Megan.
It goes on for what feels like hours: wet, slick, squelching sounds that make your toes curl; her crying out how "full" she feels, how "perfectly stretched" she is; murmuring about "putting on such a good show" and "loving being watched" in between high, keening cries that make your stomach twist in knots.
Every whimper, every sharp cry, every filthy praise makes your heart hammer faster, guilt gnawing sharp and hot in your gut while your pussy throbs so bad you have to press a crumpled pillow tight against it just to breathe.
And when she finally comes — screaming loud, long, beautiful — you're shaking all over, soaked through your own underwear, chest heaving like you're the one who just fell apart.
Fuck.
You're screwed.
The next morning, after that whole ordeal and you having to take a cold shower in the middle of the night just to take the heat away from your and somehow clean yourself up because you made a mess on your shorts, the tension between you and Megan is so thick you could practically slice it with a knife.
She waltzes into your room like nothing happened — hair messy and still slightly damp from a shower, wearing your favorite stolen oversized Nirvana hoodie, cheeks flushed that pretty, sated pink you didn't understand until now.
She doesn't even hesitate before flopping straight onto your bed, straddling your hips casually, weight settling warm and heavy right where you're still aching, rocking back and forth just the tiniest bit like she can't help it.
Is she doing this on purpose?
Megan wore that shit-eating grin as always on her face, ever leaning so close that her nose brushes yours, eyes dark and heavy‑lidded, searching your face like she's reading every secret off your skin.
"Morning, loser." She chirps, voice lower and raspier than usual, grinning bright and innocent, grinding down just enough — slow, deliberate, barely there — to make you jolt hard, eyes blowing wide. "You looked like you didn't even slept a wink. You stayed up late?"
You choke on your own spit, hands flying to her waist to push her off but gripping too tight, fingers digging into soft, warm skin through the hoodie fabric, making her sigh soft and shiver. "I, uh, yeah… loud neighbors, I guess? Yeah, they were... noisy. Had some trouble falling asleep last night."
Megan only giggled, bright, tinkling, innocent — but her brown eyes flash dark, sharp, knowing for half a second, lingering heavy on your flushed face, your tight grip on her hips, the way your legs press subtly together under her.
"Weird. I didn't hear anything. I was studying so hard, remember? Maybe you're confusing reality with dreams, maybe you dreamt about… you know, interesting things."
She hops off you with a slow, lingering drag of her core against yours, patting your cheek way too gently, and saunters toward the door, swaying her hips just a fraction slower than usual.
You watched her leave your bedroom, breathless, soaked, and absolutely terrified that she already knows exactly what kept you awake until 3 AM — and exactly how much you liked it.
God, why is that so exciting to you?
______
For the next two weeks, it unfolds like clockwork.
Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday night at exactly 9 PM—on the dot. Megan locks her door, pulls the blackout curtains tight, and cranks her white noise loud… until it suddenly cuts out, leaving every breathless whimper, shaky moan, and pleasure‑drenched sound from right next door clear, raw, and impossible to ignore.
You lie there in the dark, ears attentive, and catch yourself listening every single time. The first night after the package, you felt sick with guilt, like you were intruding on something private, shameful. But after a while? Your brain starts working overtime to smooth over every jagged, weird little detail, desperate to make it feel normal.
Because what else are you gonna do?
Admit your sweet, chaotic roommate sounds like she's putting on a whole performance, not just getting off? Admit you're getting wetter listening to her than you ever have anyone else?
"It's just… normal." You murmured to yourself firmly, over and over, like a mantra. "Everyone masturbates. Everyone has needs. She's young, she's single, of course, she touches herself. Why wouldn't she? It's healthy. It's private. I'm the weird one for fixating on it like this."
You even try to actively distract yourself: blast your own music loud enough to drown her out, bury your face in homework, start watching your own shows with headphones cranked.
But inevitably, the music fades, your focus drifts, and there it is again.
Clearer, louder, more than it should be.
You started listening so much that there are nights you notice little things that don't quite fit: how she drags it out for hours, not ten or fifteen minutes like most people; how she yells praise and encouragement so loud it sounds like she's talking to someone, not just lost in her own head; how she keeps mentioning "putting on a good show," and "wanting to be seen" in her breathless, wrecked ramblings.
But you swallow the confusion down fast though, forcing a mental reset. Convincing yourself that she's just vocal.
Yeah, vocal.
She's just really… imaginative. Talks to herself when she's feeling good, that's all.
People do that.
Right?
And amidst your guilt and confusion, the daytime tension only gets sharper, harder to bear. You would catch Megan staring at your mouth mid‑conversation way too many times. She also starts finding every excuse to touch you: fixing your hair slow and lingering, squeezing your thigh when she laughs, leaning her whole weight against you on the couch until you're hyper‑aware of every curve pressed to yours.
Sometimes, she would murmur soft teases on your ear after a playful banter during your ranked games in Fortnite in exactly the tone she uses through the wall— making you fumble your controller, cheeks burning, while she just grins like butter wouldn't melt.
One Tuesday, you even catch yourself waiting for 9 PM to roll around, and you hate yourself a little for it.
You're just curious.
A lie.
You know that's a lie because why are you squeezing your eyes shut tight as her moans start seeping through the wall, sharp and sweet and deliberately breathless.
You don't know.
You can't even think at this point as you stuffed your hand inside your pajama pants, trying to relieve the heat beween your legs, all while listening to every bit of sound that Megan makes through the wall.
This was normal, it's normal. It's basic human biology.
You're getting off on her getting off.
But deep down, beneath every excuse, every rationalization, every attempt to convince yourself this is just standard, everyday behavior, the tiny, gnawing doubt stays — sitting heavy in your gut, making your pussy throb, making you wonder.
If it's just normal… why does it feel like she's doing it just for you? Why does her moans felt like it was directed for you to hear? Why does every loaded look, every lingering touch, feel like foreplay?
And why the fuck are you so affected by it?
______
The breaking point finally hits on a slow, gray, rainy Saturday afternoon, the kind where the sky pours nonstop and you're both cooped up inside, bouncing off each other like bored, hyperactive kids.
You've just spent a solid twenty minutes locked in a ridiculous, heated standoff over the very last cup of taro boba— arguing back and forth, voices rising in mock outrage, neither of you willing to back down.
At last, Megan throws her hands up in dramatic defeat, huffing loud and exaggerated, snatching her keys and wallet off the counter. "Fine! If you're gonna be this greedy and heartless, I'm going out to buy my own whole stash! Extra pearls, all mine, and you're absolutely getting not a shit! Don't miss me too much while I'm gone!"
She storms out, slamming the front door behind her with a dramatic thud that shakes the walls, leaving her bedroom door completely, unmistakably cracked wide open, her laptop glowing bright and glowing like a secret invitation right in the middle of her messy bed.
You tell yourself you're just going in to grab your favorite hair tie she swiped this morning — fair payback for boba theft. You tell yourself you won't look at anything else.
Don't get tempted. Don't get tempted.
But one step inside, and there it is, plain as day: her browser open to a saved livestream archive, bold username shining bright enough to burn itself into your brain forever:
"BUNNYMEI!" — ARCHIVE: RIDING MY FAVORITE CARROT 💦🥕
What the... hell?
Your breath catches so hard you nearly gag.
Your feet move on autopilot, closing the door softly behind you just in case, fingers trembling so bad you fumble your own phone three times before you type the username into the search bar.
And then? Oh.
Oh fuck.
There she is. Your Megan. Same tiny beauty mark right above her hipbone— you've traced it absentmindedly a hundred times when you've cuddled on movie nights. Same jade bracelet she never, ever takes off— even now, glinting bright against flushed, dewy skin.
There she was.
But stripped of baggy hoodies, messy ponytails, and game controllers: perched on soft, silk bunny‑printed sheets, fluffy white bunny ears perched in her messy waves, absolutely nothing else covering her perfect, bare body.
Her tits are heavy, nipples pebbled hard and deep pink, her pussy bare, swollen, glistening so wet it drips thick and slow down her inner thighs onto the sheets below. She grins at the camera — sharp, confident, filthy, nothing like your giggly roommate — and croons in that exact same voice you know so well, only rougher, thicker, dripping with want.
"Hi my lovelies~ Had a new theme for today. Who's gonna spoil me today? Who's gonna tell me exactly how much they wanna see me fall apart?'
Then she grabs it — that same novelty carrot toy from the package weeks ago — and drags it slow, teasing, up her soaked slit, circling her clit with the rounded tip first, making her whole body jerk and shiver, just like she does when you accidentally brush that exact spot on her hip while passing snacks.
Your nails dig hard into your palms, your mouth going dry as dust as you watch her line it up, then slide it in — inch by agonizing inch, slow, deep, deliberate — until it's buried to the hilt inside her pussy.
Her pretty mouth falls open in a perfect, silent O, eyes rolling back, her bunny ears clip-ons flattening against her messy hair, and she moans loud, raw, unfiltered– dropping soft, loaded hints tied straight to every small, familiar touch and habit you share, never naming you, but always pointing straight to you.
"Fuck— so big... stretches me out so deep, feels so good… wish it wasn't just plastic though… wish it was warmer… softer… hands that always linger too long on my waist… fingers that brush my skin like they're scared to want more… I'd imagine every touch like theirs — rough, gentle, exactly the way they lean close… yeah… just… like that…"
She starts riding it then— slow at first, grinding her hips deep, rolling them in messy, wild circles before picking up speed, bouncing fast and rough on the silicone, wet squelching sounds loud and filthy through your headphones. She pinches and twists her nipples until she's crying out, fingers pressing tight, fast circles to her clit that makes her whole body convulse, thighs shaking uncontrollably— the exact same little tremor you feel run through her when you tuck her hair back behind her ear.
And when she leans right up close to the lens, pupils blown wide black, cheeks flushed bright crimson, and begs breathlessly, weaving every quiet hint tighter.
"Tip extra if you wanna watch me absolutely shatter… I always save my sweetest sounds for the one who teases me, who challenges me, who knows exactly how to make me blush just by looking too long… You like watching me, right? Or at least, listening to me, heh, what a pervert."
Your stomach drops right through the floor. It clicks instantly — no loud call‑out needed, just all those tiny, specific, loaded hints that only you get it.
It's always been you.
You slam your phone shut, bolt back to your room, lock your door tight, and slide down the back of it, chest heaving like you just ran a marathon.
You should feel guilty. You do feel guilty.
But beneath the shame, beneath the shock, there's something bigger, hungrier, undeniable.
You're obsessed.
And so, for weeks, it became your dirtiest, sweetest secret.
At 6 PM, Megan would be bursting into your room, her IPad raised like a weapon as she screamed, full of betrayal and dramatic anger.
"YOU TRADED MY NEON DRAGON FOR A REGULAR CAT? I AM LITERALLY NEVER SPEAKING TO YOU AGAIN!"
And you would just cackle at her pathetic whining, rolling your eyes with how she was trying to threaten you into stealing all your pets while you're asleep.
At 10 PM, You'd curled up in the dark, headphones cranked to max volume, watching that exact same girl that you were just arguing with later over some trading values, fall apart over and over again on camera, touching yourself along with her, imagining it's you she looks for through that lens, imagining those cries are for you, only you.
"Yeah, fuck that feels so good... You like it when I'm speaking like this? Oh, God... fuck.."
You would just bit your pillow, trying to drown your moans, eyes rolling back for a completely different reason now while your hand moved frantically underneath your shorts.
That became your whole month, to be honest.
You would play games with Megan, act normal, banter during the day and then get off on her through the screen at night.
It didn't also helped that the tension right now that you two have is so thick you can practically reach out and touch it. You jump every time she knocks on your door mid‑stream, scrambling to hide your phone and smooth your flushed skin, acting like you definitely weren't just listening to her get off while doing the exact same thing. Every time she leans close, every time she smiles soft and knowing, every time she brushes her fingers lingeringly against yours, it feels like a secret conversation only the two of you understand.
Heavy, hot, throbbing with everything unsaid.
______
All of it finally, inevitably breaks on a still, quiet Sunday afternoon.
Megan hops straight into the shower, blasting her playlist so loud the bass practically rattles the walls—loud enough to drown out absolutely everything else.
The moment the water finally clicks off ten minutes later, the soft, damp pad of her bare feet can be heard padding silently down the hallway, and instead of heading to her bedroom, she instead approached yours, breath hitching as she slowly, quietly pushed the door that wasn't even closed fully.
Well, you forgot to close it.
No, fuck it, you didn't even bothered closing it this time.
Because right now, you were curled up in bed, back pressed to the headboard, knees spread wide, phone held close to your face, completely, totally gone.
And on screen? Megan and that infamous stream again — her riding that carrot toy hard, fast, messy, crying out how "full and perfect" she feels, weaving those familiar, loaded hints all over again.
You bite your lip so hard you taste copper, thighs clamped tight, hand slipping frantic, desperate beneath the waistband of your shorts, matching every circle she draws on her clit on screen with your own fingers, breath coming in ragged, tiny gasps.
Your mind was hazy at this point, eyes half lidded as your hand tries to replicate every thing she does, your movements getting more desperate.
You don't hear her step closer. You don't sense anything else in the whole world but her.
Until a low, wicked, warm hum curls right against your ear, so close you feel her damp hair brush your cheek, her breath fan hot and shaky against your skin.
"Enjoying the rerun, baby?"
You shriek, like, really shriek, actual, high‑pitched, and mortified as you slammed your phone flat against the mattress like it could erase everything, hands flying to cover yourself, face burning so bright red it spreads all the way down your chest.
When you whip around, there she is, Megan leaning over you, hair damp and messy sticking to her flushed neck, wrapped loosely in nothing but a tiny fluffy white towel that barely contains her heavy tits and leaves her bare legs exposed all the way up. Her brown eyes are blown completely black, pupils swallowing all the warm color, gleaming with pure, unfiltered lust, mischief, and relief — grinning like she's been waiting months to catch you exactly here, exactly like this.
"I– Megan, oh my god— I'm so sorry- I- I didn't mean–" You stammer, voice shaking so hard it barely comes out, trying to scramble backward away from her.
Is this how you'll die? By getting off on your roommate and getting caught?
Megan only turned back slowly, her fingers curling around the doorknob to click it shut firm and final, locking you in together, while you stumbled over frantic, breathless apologies.
She didn't do anything, didn't even said anything; she just leaned back against the door, eyes heavy and dark, watching you unravel. And then, inch by maddening inch, her fluffy white towel started to slip, sliding lower over her chest, her hips, revealing more of her soft, flushed skin with every heartbeat. She didn't grab for it— just let it go, letting it drop in a soft, useless heap to the floor at her feet, leaving her standing there completely, gloriously bare for you. Her tits heavy and flushed, nipples pebbled tight and begging for touch, her smooth thighs slightly parted to show her glistening, dripping center—wet and swollen and undeniably ready, all for you.
The air suddenly felt thick, burning, heavy with heat as she stood fully exposed, confident and wrecked and perfect, letting you drink in every inch of her like you'd been starving for it.
"M-Megan?" You swallowed, your eyes glued onto her figure despite how many times you tell yourself to look away, to avert your gaze, you can't, you just physically can't. "I-I'm- I'm really sorry for–"
You were about to get up to explain, to talk rationally even if your body wants nothing more than to feel her but your words were useless as you watch her saunter back you with complete purpose and intent.
Megan just grabbed your wrists gently, firmly, pinning them soft against the bed on either side of your hips, leaning closer until her naked chest brushes yours through your shirt, smelling like mint shampoo and sweet, overwhelming arousal.
"Sorry?" She murmured, voice dropping low, rough, that exact same throaty tone from the streams as she tilted her head, thumb brushing slow circles over your racing pulse point. "Sorry for watching me get off thinking about you? For touching yourself while I touch myself to you? Baby… there is absolutely nothing to be sorry for."
Before you can even fumble for more words, she had already claimed her spot on top of you, straddling your hips, her naked body pressed against yours.
It hit you harder than anything on a screen ever could.
Her skin was burning hot to the touch, flushed deep pink all over, nipples hard and throbbing, her pussy dripping wet — slick running thick and constant down her inner thighs, pooling against the fabric of your cotton shorts as she continues to straddle you.
She didn't rush. She took her sweet time settling there, weight heavy and perfect, grinding slow, deliberate circles of her bare, soaked cunt straight against your clothed center — making you both gasp sharp and loud, your desperation for each other slowly starting to unravel.
"Wanna see how I really do it?" Megan whispers, leaning down to kiss soft, open‑mouthed trails along your jawline, down your throat, voice wrecked and shaking with months of pent‑up longing.
"No chat blowing up, no thousands of strangers staring, no rushing to keep up with stupid tips… just me. Doing everything I've spent every single night imagining doing with you."
She pulls back just enough to let you watch — really watch — as she drags two fingers slow, teasing, through her own folds, spreading her lips wide to show you exactly how swollen, how pink, how glistening and desperate she is for you. Her clit pebbles hard and jumps instantly when she brushes it, making her buck her hips forward with a broken, whiny little cry.
"Look how wet you make me." She moans, circling that sensitive nub faster, harder, pressing down deep enough to make her thighs tremble. "Every night I locked my door? Every touch? Every dirty word? It got this soaked… all for you. Nobody else."
She sinks two fingers deep inside herself, curling them instantly to hit that spot she knows makes her scream— the spot you get to find for yourself soon — squelching loud and wet every time she pulls them out glistening with her own cream, thrusting them back in hard and fast. Her head falls back, highlighted hair cascading wild over her shoulders, pretty neck exposed for you to mark as you please, and she cries out— loud, raw, unfiltered, your name — over and over and over again, like it's the only word she knows how to say right now.
"Fuck... feels exactly like I dreamed — I'd picture your face staring back instead of the camera… picture your fingers stretching me open rough and deep, your voice telling me how good I look… your lips everywhere… God, I've been so hungry for you… only you…"
Your mind can't process anything at this point, lust overriding every bit of your senses as your mouth found her neck, latching onto the milky soft skin, licking and nipping at the tender flesh.
Megan let out a loud, high pitched moan as your teeth sank into the column between her neck and shoulder, pulling out her fingers and prompting it between your lips.
"Wanna see you taste me." She breathed, hips grinding against yours to make up for the loss of stimulation.
You didn't even hesitated.
Your lips parted slowly, opening for her like a flower unfolding in the sun, and you drew her long, slender fingers that was glistening, completely coated in her thick, warm slick, deep into your mouth. You sucked them greedily, cheeks hollowing with every pull, swirling your tongue thoroughly around every smooth inch, tasting her, tasting everything that has to do with Megan.
Megan completely unraveled right then, gone in a haze of utter obsession and desperate need for you alone. She whined high and broken, her hips wildly grinding down against yours, pupils blown wide and black like she was starving to watch you claim her this way.
"Yes— just like that… God, look at you… sucking my fingers so perfectly… you were made for this... made for me."
She babbled breathlessly, voice wrecked and thick with lust, completely, helplessly obsessed with the sight of you taking her so deep.
Megan crashed her mouth to yours right after, kissing you with wild, devouring desperation. It was messy, open‑mouthed, and all‑consuming, shoving her tongue past your lips to tangle wildly with yours, tasting herself on you like it was the sweetest thing she'd ever known.
She kissed you over and over, frantic and deep, biting softly at your swollen lips, sucking on your tongue, moaning right into your mouth like she couldn't bear a single second without touching you, tasting you, being as close to you as physically possible.
"Hng.. want you… only you… nobody else… please, want you so much..." She gasped between feverish, bruising kisses, hips grinding helplessly into your shorts, her free hand clutching tight at your hair, your neck, your shoulders — anything to pull you impossibly closer, like she wanted to fuse her body straight into yours and never let go.
She keeps grinding against you, her soaked cunt dragging hot and heavy right over your center until your clothes are absolutely ruined, slick dark and soaking straight through both layers, sticking skin‑tight where you're pressed together. You're already whimpering, hands clutching hard at her waist, hips bucking up to meet every roll, completely lost in the friction.
"Megan… fuck… you're dripping all over me… feels insane…" You gasp, voice wrecked and trembling.
She reaches blindly, fingers fumbling open your nightstand drawer as she went in for the pink pretty box— opening it with rushed haze. The exact gift she had handed you yesterday in that clean and neat wrap, all shy smiles and "just a little surprise for you" — the one you hadn't even gotten the chance to unwrap yet.
And ow here it is, a double‑edged toy, long and sleek, same matte pink silicone as her favorite carrot, thickening gently at both ends — one firm, curved to stroke deep inside her, the other softer, bump‑textured, perfectly shaped to stretch and fill you, made to lock you together and pleasure you both all at once.
Oh.
Your breath catches hard. "Wait— that's what you gave me? I never even got to open it… you planned this…?"
"Knew exactly when I'd use it for us." Megan gasps, pupils blown wild and desperate, grinding harder as she lines the firmer end to her own dripping, aching hole, then guides the softer, nubbed tip right to your pulsing, soaked center. "Wanted it saved… just for this… you and me… no one else…"
She presses slow, steady, and sure — and it sinks deep into both of you at the exact same time.
Good lord.
The stretch is blinding, perfect.
Megan cries out high, sharp, and wrecked as it fills her completely, her walls instantly fluttering and squeezing tight around it, while you sob out her name, head falling back, eyes rolling hard as it presses thick, full, and heavy inside you, hitting every sensitive spot like it was molded just for your body. "Megan! — oh fuck— it's so big…"
"God, yes— so good…" She moans, rocking her hips fast and rough, grinding down until the toy drags deep and relentless inside both of you, every textured ridge sparking raw, electric pleasure.
The slick sounds are loud, filthy, wet squelches echoing through the room as your combined cream coats every inch of silicone and drips messily down between your bodies onto the sheets. "Hng... can feel you squeezing it… feel us together just like I always imagined…"
Your nails dig into her back, legs locking tight around her waist to pull her deeper, meeting every grind with your own frantic, hungry snaps. "Don't stop — never stop… need it deeper… need you…"
Megan was already shaking uncontrollably, thighs trembling so hard she can barely stay upright, chest heaving, tears of pure, overwhelming pleasure pricking her lashes as she moved her hips more insistently, desperately. "Fuck... fuck, love you... love you so much..."
She leans down finally to kiss you, messy, sloppy and open-mouth. She bites your lip until you both taste copper, shoves her tongue deep into your mouth like she's fucking you there too, swallowing every little moan you let out like it's the most delicious thing she had ever stated.
"And for the record?" She gasps raggedly against your lips, grinding down harder and faster than ever, the double‑ended toy driving relentless, perfect friction inside you both, making your vision blur and your legs tremble.
She's confessing it all— raw, trembling, completely stripped of every act, every lie.
"Every single show, every toy, every fake audience? I never thought about any of them. Never. Not once. It was always you. I'd replay your laugh while I touched myself. I'd remember how you pout when you lose a game, how pretty your hands look holding your controller, how warm you feel when we watch movies… and I'd pretend it was your hand wrapped around mine instead of a toy. I'd whisper your name when I came — over and over, quiet enough no one else could catch — just so I could pretend you heard me."
Megan let out another breathless, ragged moan as your hips bucked against hers, her hazy eyes never leaving yours. "My livestreams was never for anyone else... it was just my stupid, desperate way of getting off to you when I was too scared to say it out loud."
If you're going to die today from the orgasm that's building at your lower stomach, you wouldn't even complain.
You kiss her back through tears and shudders, wrapping your arms tight around her neck, tangling fingers in her damp hair as soft pants left your lips. "I was always watching… always thinking it was just for me… I wanted it so bad… wanted you…"
"Good." She whimpers, kissing you breathless again, grinding you both closer and closer to the edge. "Because now… I'm yours. Every side of me… all mine… all yours… forever."
She leans her full weight into you, driving the toy deeper, thicker, blindingly full inside both of you. Every sharp, rolling drag grinds rough, perfect friction right over your sweetest spots made stars burst behind your eyes. You both gasp in unison, bodies trembling, slick coating every glide as it stretches you open, locked tight and burning together.
"Feel that? Months of edging myself… months of saving myself… all waiting for this exact moment, for something that fills us both…" Megan panted against your lips, heavy, high pitched whimpers leaving her mouth at every drag of the toy inside her.
"Now, let's make it real. Cum with me, please... together, harder than any stupid camera ever could... ruin me, let me ruin you back. Please, fuck — ruin us for good."
You don't hold back. You meet every snap of her hips with equal force, the double‑ended toy sliding deep and fast, hitting that sweet spot inside her every time while its textured end rubs your most sensitive places raw and perfect. She rides the shared toy like she was born for this — crying your name over and over like a prayer, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks from overstimulation, your combined juices dripping thick and messy onto the mattress below.
When Megan finally shatters— absolutely tears herself apart on the toy buried inside both of you — it's raw, loud, messy, perfect. So fucking vocal.
She screams until her throat goes hoarse, legs locking tight on your hips, back arching so hard, fingers gripping tightly on the sheets as wave after wave of thick, creamy release flooded out of her and squeezing the toy tight, triggering your own shaking orgasm right alongside hers. You both write, moans joining together, clinging to each other as white hot pleasure rips through you in endless, throbbing waves, bodies still locked together by the toy, skin slick and tangled.
Megan collapses forward onto your chest immediately, boneless, sweat‑soaked, breath coming in ragged little pants, completely wrecked.
She can't even think.
And neither can you.
For a long, quiet moment, the only sounds are both of you catching your breath, the soft, slick drag of the toy still settled inside you both, tangled together in the mess of sheets and sweat. She nuzzles her damp face into the crook of your neck, pressing soft, ticklish kisses to your skin, giggling weak and happy and satisfied — that familiar, bright Megan giggle, but warmer now, softer, all yours.
You just let out a soft, breathless sigh, your hand running down her back as you caressed her sweat-soaked skin with gentle reverence.
Megan pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, pupils still blown, cheeks flushed, smile wobbly and bright.
You're so gone for her.
She pressed a soft kiss at the corner of your lips, brushing a strand of messy hair off your forehead before nuzzling back against the crook of your neck as if she had officially made her claim.
"So much better than just watching me in the screen, right?"
Oh, a hundred-fucking-percent better.
______
a/n: just let me fucking cook, i promise the domme sophia chapter is almost done!
