the salvo project.
eating your girlfriend out from below the oak.
HELP PALESTINE . DO NOT BUY TLOU2
𓂋 ' a c.o.d tournament— interrupted.
𓂋 ' ❝mics off— ffuuck, gimme' that slutty fuckin' mouth.❞
𓂋 gamer!ellie x gf!reader .ᐟ ✮⋅. svmmary > boredom is looming an all time high, and the doldrums stumped you to an all time low— but how can far down can you go.. go, go? surely, just maybe— ellie won't mind you testing so after all, smack bang right in the midst of a call of duty tournament. might your tongue have far superior aim than her gun?~
.ᐟ ✮⋅. reader discretion is advised > high!ellie, switch-esque!ellie, depictions of dirty talk, video game violence, ellie yelling at the mic sometimes, banter, ellie using gamer slang, flashback sex, a dash of bg lore, body hair warning(body hair is hot), teasing, cunnilingus (e!recieving/ implied r!recieving at end + flashback), fingering (e!recieving/r!masturbating), clit stim, facefucking, jizz everywhere, pussy slapping, smoking weed, petnames used; babe, baby. .ᐟ slanted-only paragraphs are a flashback! (lmk if i missed anything)
.ᐟ ✮⋅. authors note > me when the head is good
✵ masterlist ✵ WC; 5.6k+
“Ohh— take that! Fuckin’ cunt.”
Explosion after explosion, flares of amber orange and dulls of shadowy smoke eat up the entirety of her monitor screen. Mercy heedless to those earthly tones behind every commotion of chaos. Guns, bombs, melee— you name it, she's using it. Constantly. Endlessly strung in high stress battles, thumbs twiddling away at the rubber–coat joysticks like it’s nothing. Seven days now, seven— seven whole moons eaten by the horizon, and nearing an eighth. A whole week Ellie has spent in the soft cushion of her gaming chair, grinding away at rounds, and rounds.. and rounds of Call of Duty.
Tch, call of doodie–schmoodie, whatever.
And day by day, the sun stays a shy bird behind hazing wisps of dahlia–white clouds and drapes of cottony curtains, and you idly lay on the bed behind. Awake, watching, til’ your eyelids waned heavy to the blurry lights of her computer still running nigh past the witching hour, just beyond the round of her scruffy little head. Sorry, not little. It's kinda big. Not bigger though, than that damnable, accurst–of–you, fat leather stuffed headrest you laid bored brows and pin black pupils upon. Eyes hopeful, eyes biting back the sleep barely, hopes of that headrest spinning away from the mane of fawn auburn you'd be so ecstatic to see taste the shade rather than the screen's light. Sadly, hopes are only dreams written like a pathetic cope. Uck, and the cling of weed inside your nose was beginning to familiarize itself, nuzzling among other scents long since pardoned and easy to bear— cause you can't fuckin’ smell them anymore, even when they linger. Ellie plays a game here, chows down on her lunch there, ‘nother game here, and at the end of the day— huffs a blunt there, leaving her a groggy and confused mess in bed.
Ts’ not a failure on your hands though, not a speck of conscience is at play— it's all her, rather every speck of you is yearn. Ellie was just too plainly adamant on fetching herself a victory in tonight's gaming tournament. Gaming. Tournament. This whole week of training— this fucking sennight that left you drawing on boredom mania and a lack of tender, love and care, was for a gaming.. tournament.
Fixated on the phrase so damn much, it doesn't resemble real words to your stale, barren brain anymore. Oh and— picture me sighing while reminding you this— how oh so tired poor Ellie would get after a late night shower, moping her jello–leaden knees into the beds edge and collapsing forward, crawling like a worm up beside you, mumbling, “Gghmm.. nigh..” giving that pillow more mouth action than you'd been getting. That is, if you consider the one time, fourth night, where she gave you sloppy head.
I don't say sloppy lightly. Or in a sexy–sloppy way.
On that goddess forsaken night, where the hard and brambly callouses of her fingertips were anything but tender on the hind plush of your thigh, pressing them skin tight to your chest— freckled face in the seam. Man, her skills were humbled real swift. That corally tongue of hers was certainly humble— all her slurry hyping of, “Mhmm.. guhnna’ eat that pussy so fuckihn’.. good..” all the while her drooping lashes flit against your labia and her nose dove between them, awkward pucker of lips inelegantly sucking at the bottom of your slit. But the most inelegant part of that night? The conversation tost.
“Mmpht— mhh’pretty fuckin’.. y'taste better than Italian babe..” she had purled directly against your sopping wet hole, wagging her nose in it.. lethargically, “fuckin’ cum n’ me..”
“Uh..” the sensations were lacking, “Els’—” visibly lacking, “babe..”
“Hmmphghmm..”
“Ellie,” you had to curl fingers in a tuft of her hair, lifting her effortlessly— pshh, “Ellie you—”
“Excuse you—” grumbled she.
“No, Ellie, just—”
You tried, but the brain beneath that rusty shrub and thick skull didn't let up, slipped from grasp and planted her sniffles back down— that time, her tongue actually fallen into your entrance, without grace, nothing of an angel, “Uhhnn—” a babble drawled, “—fuuhck.” as she began tongue–fucking your hole with an inconsistent bob.
Yeah, inelegant it was. Left you wanting better tonight.
So now as you lay, bored of your own gaze, the darksome cast of her chair before you brings on intrigue. Could you— or should you, brace straight knees and flick feet off the bed's edge in pursuit of talking her up? Imbue your lips a slight of spirit to quicken your thoughts?
I think you should.
“Jesus— what's gotten into these fuckin’ guys? Always on my goddamn ass..” a tense gripe draws from her pursed lips, flickers of the controller clacks tearing through each word. A round had just finished— granting you an ajar window of time to slink over. Plasticy clacks sound clearer and sharper on your ears as you approach, one swipe of foot at a time.
Sidling up beside the armchair, you chirp, “El’?” weakly surfing the air, so weakly.
Tired was your voice, and obstructing is that fucking headphone cushion shutting her ears to anything outward— leaving her clueless to you, as she continues to twiddle and carp, “Dude m’ not kidding! They were legit hogging my ass and one–shotting, can't even—”
Sneaking a finger over, you pry the headphone back, “Ellie?” croaked out louder, getting her to jerk an eye and a reposed chin over, bosquet green bands thinning upon a pore over of your sweet, cordial smile.
Corners of her lips were brisk to reflex, tugging a twinning grin. “Hey babe,” rasped past those handsome lips amused to see you, and the soft rubbing of her arm slithers and feels for your waist, palming you nearer, “— whats’ up? Come to watch me beat these assholes?”
You eye the crown of her scalp twining downwards, returning her visual focus upon her screen, and suck a sigh in, “Well..” and pour that sigh heartily out, “Yeah, does the viewing come with a seat?”
“Tsss— nope,” a hiss cooled her teeth, “gonna have to stand— n’ my lap is not an option.” Ellie scolds that so–religiously used alternative, clamping little valleys in the chub of your waist with her puddling fingers.
A pout swells, “Hhmph,” as you bummed, rustling her mullet mane about like a curry comb whilst cupping her head to a press against your sternum, “y’know it gets kindaa bleak lying in bed without cha’.” you pitch emphasis, making it sound more dire than just ‘kinda’ without splitting your lip further.
“Mhmm, I bet— it's my girlfriend, Jesse, jeez..” she spat back into the mic huddled upon her pale, forestry stippled cheek, edging her intended response, “Last game baby, last game.” her tone buzzes.
Goddess, how that low tune can make one squeal on the inside.
Reassuring as it may daresay, skin–tingling as it might set excitement in the base of your spine— those words are ordinary. A repeat. Els’ will have her last game, but she'll also have a caprice, her whims that keep her mind forgetful and her mouth yapping. On, and on, goofing around until night danced into day.
So at the foot of your mind, a pledge stands in the way of letting that girl— your girl, from playing with anything or anyone else, but yours truly.
However, that excitement stilling at the tail of your spine, stands firmer.
“Babe..”
Hell, it was a spread across your loins, not just the sacral bit of your back, but the sacral heat of your pants. And with Ellie sitting in front of you looking like that..
“Could I at least..”
A fetching head of caramel practically being a bedazzling tree topper to such a pretty face, spouting from her dainty side burns into the cutest fucking freckles begging to be warmed by the selenic curve of your palm, and a nose blown of screen light— a pink peony against fair topography of skin. I apologize for going on and on about her features, but my goddess, how can you deny her mien? Brows manifestly huskier when she’s pissed off at a blotch of pixels, just has your knees wanting to run scratched on the rough carpet and..
A breath in you snagged, “Help you out while you play?”
Well mused of your mind, coming upon the conclusion— swimmingly might I add, that four nights ago.. left you wanton of a certain flavor.
Her reddish brows floored inwards, crushing forehead lines tighter than a silk corset, giving you that look of.. being dumbfounded, “‘Help me out’? What d’ya mean by that babe?” her head cocked left at you, cockily cocked.
This is not easy.
“Like..” you trailed off, scraping up the words slowly as they popped into your noggin, “give.. my.. talented girl a mas—”
“Hahaha, shut up dude..” a repressed wheeze then pealed in her chest, interrupting you. Right, she's on call.. Doesn’t matter though, does it? “Sorry babe,” a grit hawk washes her words away, “gimme’ a second?”
Really? A second, really Ellie?
A scoff hacks your own throat, cross with her ask of ‘a second’. She passed the entire span of daylight with her ‘seconds’ fleeter than fish skipping water, and burned her eyes in that computer screen, surrendering minimal time to talk to you, or touch you, or to kiss you. And perhaps you’re just overly needy, or too clingy— or maybe Ellie's just—
Wait.
If she can’t spare the breath to talk, just show her.
Show her with your own breath.
“Hmm..”
You decline both knees, left first.. right tandem, the scratch of ribbed carpet chafing with the cottony–clad round of them as you scurry under the dark oaken desk, Ellie unaware.
“Rounds ‘bout to start? Nhht—” she smacked her tongue through close–drawn lips, “was gonna open my spotify, buut whatever..'' spoken nasally. And with her attention set to the final game loading up, you found elbow room at the spread of her bare, pockmarked knees staring back at you.
You could worship those knees with your lips, bare to them.
The knees steadfast at her job, always scratching off skin like a coin to lottery tickets, her pore–curdling job of property construction, which luckily, her savvy of bolts and nails is intrinsic, to a degree. Sunburnt, crispy red scars like sun–dried tomatoes serially taking on earthlier shades as they age, her skin being used to all the trouble. Chapters are written upon those little scars, for instance— you, thumbs welding a navy dinosaur print bandaid left in her old, distressed bag to her gory knee whilst she sat upon your homespun sofa, joking a lecture of, “Take it easy on the screws.” to her grown adult headass who was reckless enough to tramp her knees on an untidy workspace. Cute auburn–headed gal who just coveted to take on the from–scratch modus operandi of building a vanity wardrobe all by herself for your birthday, lecturing you back while wiggling her button nose west to east, “You distracted me,” even recalling her crude–not–smooth slip of tongue, “Fuckin’ sexy.”
Or those welts of funnier rhetoric, risen on the top of her feet wrought by the hammer boasting its hard and bulky head loud and dropping atop her sneakers, which she shouldn't be wearing— she really shouldn't, and yet she did. Ellie's an ace yet illed by a bad case of foolhardiness, using those bruises as an excuse to make you ‘Kiss her feet better’.. dork.
By contrast, the more raunchy moments. Always on those cozy bed bound nights spent with her Nintendo switch cradled nicely in your palms, emphasis on ‘hers’, letting Els’ bore you with her nerdy pointers on Stardew Valley, or suchlike, only to.. intimately detour. Orbit of your pointer, you milled the soreness of her thighs in tiny hearts while her fingers kept you even busier above— pressing salty, sweaty thumbprints on your brush of tongue. Sexiest purrs she turns you on with, ogling your suck and going, “Oohh, shit, bite on it— uhh, fuckk.” God, and when you did— weeped your teeth low and huffed a moan on those fucked–up callouses, you felt her quad squirm, or flex under your touch. Ellie loved being inside you exclusive of your core hole, because it's the foreplay that counts, and the afterplay. Wants you to swallow every dead cell flaking. Wants a throat so shaky in her presence. Wants her girl's mouth so unforsaken of a gag on her knuckles, “That's it, huhh— taste your pussy?” drinking her taste, your taste, drink, drink.. drink. Don't demur her curl of lip when you do so, just take it. Take her in.
Took.
Sexy fucking knees, sexy fuckin’— m’ not uttering feet, and sexy fucking thighs. Each bend of her leg that you ooed and awed at and rode and looked and fucked on and—
You're dead–on staring between them right now. Manspreadt too? Fuck. And who could dismiss those skin–thin–tight biker shorts? Accentuating every muscle that hugged her hip, hem cut pleasingly as a groove of her quad started, and left next to naught to imagine— of her crotch, bump of it shown in the coating of shiny fabric.
A gulp falls, you're thirstier.
Need to take her in, now.
She husks, “Okay, let's lock the fuck in.” soundly before the flicking of joysticks clattered gently above your head.
Seeing those knees, studying the blemishes, fuck— you wanna start there. So, you unfold your hand, finger webbing wide, and.. take hold like a shiny apple, thumb wiping over the bony dimples that jerked upon feel.
“What the fuck was— hold on, guys,” her knee reeled back, and head ducked slightly, belly hunching in as she sifts over the dark cowering of light underneath her desk to spot you, totally righteous, “—Babe?” she whispers, squinting stupidly.
“Helpin’ you out.” you press your voice into her other knee, a voice of suggestion.
Ellie's ears grasped the tang of coquetry you spoke with, getting your gist like the flip of a switch— brows creaking up, “Can't you wait after? Games just—”
“There is no after.”
She hums hushingly, squeaky, “What's that spose t’mean?” and sets her controller down— whilst the coast was clear in–game.
Muffled against her knee, you mouth on, “Ur’ always tu’ tired, Els’— like uh fuckin..” spit strokes of your smushed pout, you drag them sloppily up her thigh, “ragdoll..”
“Fuck..” shuddered Ellie.
Licking an agonizing stripe, you feel the muscle of her thigh tense under your plumb tongue, her cupped knee tilting aside to splay her lap further as you go up.. up, and up. Briny savor of her skin— comprising the most palatable beads of sweat you'll ever meet, tastes sensational. And when you draw near her crotch with your tongue a parched worm and your nose like a bloodhound's, drenched in that pungency of body spray n’ sweat, you look up.
You study her.
Peach lips parted as gales of breath chastise to be free from her ribs, no longer suitable to be gulped in nasally. Her pupils are as dark as the virgin moon and as engrossed as an artist is her canvas, thereupon a sign of her captivation in this smutty ask your tongue brings to the table, cooing quiet, “That's what you meant?—” corners of her lips tugging haught, “Lick me out?”
“Mhm..” you croon, nosing–butting her leg.
“Eat my fuckin’ pussy?” she teases, of course, “You wanna?.. Huh?” slumping her butt deep in the cushion to protrude her clothed cunt in your face, a cocky piece of shit, “Yea?”
Fingers now given a reason, you spider–crawl them up from knee to hip bone, synchronizing with your other hand— and clutching the bone juts, flesh like terracotta to your fingers, “Yeah..”
That was enough of an answer for her. Giggle bobbing that bulb of her gullet gorgeously as her spindly fingers enfold behind your head, balling up inside her tender fist.
“M'kay— take em’ off then baby.”
Digits now ordered a reason, you tuck them a firm inch under the elastic. When she doesn't flinch, nor doesn't jack a finger to help, instead returning her free hand to a grasp around her plastic controller, it dawns. You're gonna do this, by will, by thought, and by urges— amid her tournament. Impish, you could be, or an angel, you could disguise. Taunt her poor clit, or give her something to barm slobber over? You ponder the routes like see–and–saw, a balance scale.
Ellie coughs, unmuting her mic with the scarcely audible prick of a button, “M'back, shit— where'd you guys spawn?”
You search her boxer hem with a riffling of your fingertips, gracing the bumpy seams with a circling skim beneath them, cold shells of your nails indenting her belly with ripples as they move— and then, yanking. They get caught a bit between her rump and the seat, but she bucks up, letting the fabric pass her buttcheeks and become a bunch on her knobby ankles.
A spout of words prest her lips apart, “How the fuck did my grenade not absolutely blast them?” and it sounds, insincere. A feign gripe in her throat. Anything to pretend like a pretty mouth isn’t drawing heated gasps on her bare entrance, adding, “Fucking rigged.” her jaw sets hard, a clench.
Not even a whisper inside, Ellie. Already antsing a fluster.
An index drags off the shorts and the descendant of her foots curve, thin veily skin wrinkling in your finger–pads’ path. They're so soft, you deem, deem about the practical silk you've merely swiped a finger over. But, you have a job to nurture, a girl to play with— so, hands skip up, and caper.
Eyes skip first, as they innately are the most appetent.
You progress her fair cream skin in sight, roving over the eye–candy rolls and tones her body is built of, then.. auburn. That's all you could see. Auburn thicket. Coarse brownish curlies that laid whichever way they wanted, however they pancaked inside her underwear, springing a voluminous bush when she strips herself of her sable–black boxer briefs. Mhh, and the way those strands spiral around each other like looping stria, lacing over the gleam of her soaked slit, pumps your tongue fervent to lap the nectar. You bite the tempt back, pinning your lip— can't be too needy. Goddess praise be.. but her body hair is so debonair.
Hey, it's an attractive feature, ticklish or not.
Eyeing her happy trail, the world phases a trance and all you can tunnel on is her lower–half. The nook of her leather seat molds to your ribs as you slant into it and perch wholly between her lap. You then read the hairs with your digits and—aha, giggle in shut lips, when her stomach sinks in to her spine faster than quicksand at the paltry.. paltry fade of your caress, “Hmm’hm.” fingertip following the curve over her pubic and into the cush of her folds and painting knuckles in the sticky excitement, goddamn.
“Oh— let’s fucking go,” she rouses, letting you on the assumption that she must be well in the fucking zone, getting kills, ascending the leaderboard, concentrated. That irked you, drove you to web your fingers together and smack her pussy—line, adhering the clammy hot hold afterwards.
Ellie jerks, giving your fingers a wee kick of her chubbed labia squirming over your palm, just a little. Much enough a press into your sweet fingers, a press of a pulse— you notice. Swelling cadence— her pussy folds were throbbing so white–hot, wet and bulging as you loiter your touch, piteous for you to finger it. Fuck, it’s like a hot spell was cast and dripping between your quads, deliberating about how messy her pussy is. Fuck.
Winching your head up, and a dry part of your mouth, “Jesus— Ellie..” you erupt softly over the clamor of her bumping buttons, and scoff, “Ur’ soaked..” before tugging another ray up her entrance, allowing your digit to hook and pull her poor constellation of nerves, watching it snap back in place, not at all missing her snap of hip.
A distinct gulp falls, “Mhh— fuck, dude,” attempting neutrality, attempts to act natural, taking carnage against that oh so good tug, “dude fuckin’ flank him..” panting on the mic, lost to that stinging bake that makes her clit feel.. bloated, and blossoming.
Ellie’s respires; those cut off breaths one dares to keep in, timid air, has your panties burning. “Soo fucking soaked,” a moaned recite fell, tsk wrinkling the petal of your lips.
“Please.. Shut up,” her lips dwell shut, akin to a ventriloquist, pussy and mouth pleads, “They’ll fuckin’ hear—”“Just mute baby.”
“Can’t— y’know this..”
Your contrary hand, bored of her rough and clenching hip, habits a supple desire of flesh to mingle touch beyond her ribs. “Then keep it in..” purred you, skimming palms up her shirt ‘til the hem draped upon your arm, trickling, rubbing there— her breast, “Or can you not handle?”
“God—” a fed up sigh breaks a beam on her mouth, “ur’ a fucking tease.” yet her nipple went erect under your flicks, contradicting as hell.
“Love to tease, babe.” you curl, honored as a monarch.
But what's a tease without— ah, inserting a finger in her hole so unvoicedly desperate for a filling, and rubbing her soft nipple to a hardened pebble.
“Get good, get goo— ah~” her mutter runs unto a flunk, transfixing with her chords tightening and body rutting— right as you dilated her cunt with a single finger. It clamps your middle in, presses a saturation of her lovely stick deeper in your print, seethes a drafty hiss, “Sshhh—” from Ellie's grit set teeth, who would die— melt a puddled corpse, if her teammates heard.
“Mhmm,” you delighted, honestly, “so tight..” no shame held, no ignominy in the pursing of your licked lips stamping a heart shape below her navel button, weightless and inlaid gingerly, just to be a menace. Make her flinch, make her want it, have her focus sucked in her gasps and floored in her loins. So— you force deeper, relish the disappearance of your finger past her pussy lips.
Wrists strangle veins, “Fhck!” and gravel moans leave her chewed lips when you hit her heaven spot, pressure worsening when she humps your palm in reaction.
You found the noises slipping from her, a dulcet melody, enticing you nip, lap the flesh suctioned inside your spit–lined hole, trace mocks of her moans on her belly, “Mhh– ohhm.” merely designed to provoke— but oh did it make your own pussy twitch.
Menace you are.
Index digit added, you begin a slothful milking along her squeezing, silken walls, and so her throat cracks, “A—ah, um, shit I tagged that guy— fuck,” under her murk, she curses, curses you in tone. Curse your beauteous hair, the only mass she could see peeking down, wishing she could grab it.
“Mmphht—” your lips unlock.
“Huhh..uh.”
You muse in her drowsy cry, “Yeah?” and lunate your fingers, curling and kissing her g–spot with the tips, patting the achey knot down ‘til it pushed a hollow in her wall. Like mashing a goddess–grown fruit, it squelches, spills out the stirring scent of her pussy, and it drives you to bow your chin and snake your tongue out, collecting her clit woven as a basket.
“Fuck, babe fuck..” she spares no effort, muffling with her teeth.
Once you did taste her heady arousal— not the flesh of her belly, nor her thigh, at long last being so near in her core, you're half a madden parasite for it, and half a tongue–baiter. Circling the hood ritualistically, poking the sides, pounding around the pearl, opening her pale folds spread on your mid–face and smearing slick upon your wad of chin, drops welling on your jaw, showing that you know where her pleasure pulse beats but never swirling into it. Nasty.
Ellie dotes when her girls are nasty.
Her quiver of, “Hah..” carries so weakly to your dazed ears, forehead feeling the kick of her abs pushing. “So fuckin’ g— nhh.” her words sapped as you pinched her nipple, twining it like a stem.
“S'good?” muffled you, lips coated in the glossiness of her precum as they flub over her clit again, the little bud thumping in your perched mouth.
It is fucking good. Celestial drink, she bears down all of it in your mouth, easing so perfectly on your licks. You then unfurl your tongue fully like a moonflower in bloom and lick a fat stripe, to which— she bucks into your grunt, “Fuuhh’.” and an uncalled hand pats on your head again, dulled nails sculpting hot and grim on your scalp.
“Fuuck—” Els’ havers a whimper, her tune swells so high in pitch, and then it simply drops— flowing into a tensing groan, “Ugghh— m'not fucking camping. Lag got my ass.” Not true.
A ghost handprint keeps your head steady, even if she goes to swipe her controller up, you still feel them, phantomly lingerance. “Ahhn,” you slurp some more, treating her cunt like a salty popsicle. You glimpse her expression a few times; knurled brows, casting lashes, mouth the size of a polished penny, looking so pitiful when she acted so invulnerable.
Sat so prettily on your tongue, who wouldn't want to toungefuck her to a scream?
Surely not you.
“Lock in— lock in, lock in..” she chanted, sighing to herself, keeping her mouth engaged over the developing bubble in her groin, even if she just wanted to facefuck you. Terribly.
Useless, her tongue was. Cause as soon as you lodged a fold of your muscle inside her tight–stretched slit, embarking a beeline across your knuckles and in her gummy plush, hearing the grip of skin fasten on plastic, it was game over.
“Ahauhh.. y'uh—”
Over.
“That's it.”
“Huh?” you tilt confusion in her folds.
A clack, a cluck, you hear the song of keycaps tapping after a good thud knocks wood to sleep, a familiar routine of her gamewear being scattered over the rigid land shape of her keyboard. That means only one thing.
“Mics off, fuck— gimme’ that slutty fuckin’ mouth—”
“Mhh!—” you scramble a hand from her breast, swerving around her body to grapple rows of her ass flesh in it.
Nails bleed whitish pigment as her spindly fingers wrap behind the conches of your ears, smashing you into her auburn bush and creasing your sloppy pout into her now humping pelvis, pussychoking you with her fat mound gapen. So feisty, and hungry with it— no breath can be drawn. Grunting, “Fuck ur’ pretty face— ungh!” a flattering insult, not that uncommon.
You played your cards right.
“Hhhgmm— El—” you could barely babble, the pressure given with her cunt was mouth–shunning, bubbly and frothy inside your gullet as your lips flop into it.
“Like that?” her voice was of a god stranded heavenward, a blare above, “Yeah.. that mouths gunna’ make me cum.” louder than the skin–sticking noise of her cum–soaken butt bouncing fast on her leather cushion.
Forward, it is. Although, her sassy audacity only makes the loose crotch pocket of your pajama pants laden with the summery mist your underwear let seep through. You brace your thighs together, trap the arousal, groan when you writhe just right and squish your clit with the inseam, “Grhhn~”
Clear in abundance, she’s close, “Huhh yeah..” closer than humans to hell, “Yeah baby—” riding your face houndishly with no remorse for her disgusting moans or pure primeval instinct to make you disgusting. Her fingers wind your scalp, turn the skin, reform the bone, but it was sacred compared to the dirt filth her pussy enacted. Face just as drenched as your own cunt, slick facial— her folds gave in to the prod of your nose and flared the delicate thick of them around so, chafing your cheeks, intentionally drawing circles with her clit on it, consuming your fingers like a fucking black hole. And my, your tongue could hardly vie with. Plugging her slippery hole here and there, slinking awkwardly down her entrance, or up, and pulling delicious ribbons of her precum each time the tip plunged in. She was rutting and wild, yet, maybe.. a particular liking of her pussy so cherub red, dewey and swollen using and defiling the portrait–perfect face of divinity, yours, made your inhibitions drop dead like afflicted crows.
Ellie’s pussy can do such a wonder to you, can make you pussystruck.
Makes you.. want to.. resign your fingers inside her and— drop them down. You caress yourself. Render her cum mixed with yours as you punch that hand down your band and splay your pinkie and pointer to spread yourself, flexing paired fingers deep beyond the rim, shoving her inside.
Her pupils wrapped in olive green, tickled by dainty tears crawling her waterline peer down at you, and you look back. Her face was fucked ruddy as her labia, going between cold and grooved brows— and soft vulnerability, back and forth, tenser and tenser, until.. white possessed her eye sockets.
“Ha.. aah, Ah fuck! Fuck! Uhhn’ god—” groused in her chest, whiny when it left her breath, and dangerously ugly when a gush of her orgasm came with it. It is— gosh, it's a spectacle. Her eyes flipped back, freckles darker against paleness, and her cheeks vignette in flush, sickly–esque.
Sick of the knot snapping that left her gut to churn.
Yet you were rotten sick, and drank it all.
Bucks twitch into the air, and cream dribbles off your chin and down her closed crack. Ellie didn’t care. Care was pardoned the second her headphones were flung off. You’re too deft. Too wicked, she’s fully inclined to do whatever she sees fit, frankly. You deserve loads of splatter of her cum spraying in your chokes, your gags, drowning in your gums. It satiates, and hydrates your damned tongue. Explicitly what you wished for.
You fail to cum with her, stilling your hand to a cup on your crotch because unholy heaven are you too absorbed in your girlfriend to focus, horny lips following her pelvis when they collapse and splat on her bottom. Very much, bleh.
“Oh.. hah.. oh my— ghhm,” a throaty gulp backdrops her bloats of chest inhaling tiredly, “—god, fuck that was..”
You find your chin a hearth on her thigh, clefting the flesh, “Distracting?”
Thick of her brows rose dumbly, “Uh.. yeah?”
“What about.. cathartic?”
“Babe, don’t use big words right n— I can’t.. whoof..” Ellie remained deficient of mellow lungs, rolling her nape back over the chair head,”can’t breathe..”
A grin can’t help but lighten your face, “Need some air?” you jokingly chirp and mooch your grasp from the crevice of her butt and seat, replacing them on the cusp of her knees and snaking yourself up her body— to join spit.
“Ohh, hey there,” a feathered blow of her hum–laugh chaps your lips before she takes them honeyed and frail, “mhh..” not forcing her passion in, mind you she’s dramatically dying, but letting them ghost and press.
“Hmm..” you swap giggles, breaking off after one lengthy nibble, “should have interrupted your games days earlier..” added you, inching to peck the crooked corner of her mouth, just to tie that pretty idea off with a lacy whisper.
“Ugh,” her throat hacks, “of course you’d say that.”
“Been fucking bored without you all week.. duh?” you loll your butt on her thigh, the pressure knee–jerking her hands to land on your behind with a soft thump. Totally unintentional.
“Oops?” said she, sounding feign, “that's why you—”
“Mhm.”
“Ah.” auburn wisps jostle slightly as she nods, cocking her head near her shoulder, “could've just asked.” cooed gently.
“Pshh—” you toss your eyes, and slouch back on her palpating fingers, “I tried— yet you continued playing.”
“Sorry babe, m'here now though.” a hand smooths your butt, sidling up the globe and ironing that leathery palm of hers on the sacral of your spine.
Wait, what happened to her tournament?
Shit, her thigh feels so right. A tempt provokes you— wanting to grind away that heat brindled and not snuffed, use the stiffness of her muscles to get off, bounce on it and have her strapping mitts and milken lips mark bruises while she guides you through it, shit. You gaze thoughtlessly, wood rust and fair pale blurring lines as you simply— stare. Spurned from realizing you actually began a sedated groin rub into her thigh.
Regardless, you inquire airily, “Aren't you still in the middle of the round?” miasma sinking your lids low.
“Huh,” snorted Ellie, who had definitely taken note of your humps. Cute, she thinks with a little tut of her head in the polar direction, lumbering a lean forward into your face and asks with rasp, “whatcha’ doin’ there?”
“Nothin—”
“Yeah, no— you need attention.” the room spins around you as her dangling feet pat the carpet and twirl the chair, hoisting you cradled in her arms beneath your butt one moment— and thrown upon the sheet edge of your night–thriving cloud the next, silhouette kneeled in the frame of both your legs arched.
“Ah!”
“Scoot, til’ your butt’s nearly off, c’mon.”
“Oh?” you feel that heat coddle your spine again, eagerly bending into it and sticking your clad junk out for her, excited.
That was just what she longed of, god and you're so willing, she just has to praise you with smooches decorating your inner–thigh fat— one, two, three— thick strokes ruching between her brows when she smells you, stopping at the crevice your hip binds— and gives you a pore over, for rite of tasting, seeking what is already sought, “Can I make it up to you?”
Hmm, a teasy little jest won't hurt, “You high?”
“No.. turned on though.”
“No shit, go ahead.”
“Thanks babe, ll’ make sure you cum this time, hmm?”
She can kiss that tournament money goodbye.
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