pillow princess so bratty she throws a tantrum each time you come up for air. whinging and whining like the most spoilt of spoilt brats as if she's not squirming in want, splayed out on her bedspread, so wet your tongue could be lapping at milk. hissing between breathy, dainty pants. are you an idiot? are you even trying, you dense fucking moron? be more gentle. no, press harder. no, not there! are you so fucking incompetent she really has to guide you through this? god, does she have to do everything for you? as if you're not reducing her to a lack-limbed puddle soaking through silk, her head arching back as she swallows, strangled moans down her throat. "right—, there, you fucking brute." she gasps when she comes; so faint, almost just a wisp of air — for she won't allow yourself the satisfaction of any noise louder. not that that stops her from damn near ripping your fucking hair out with the force of which she yanks it. squirting, allll over your sweet little face — your own lungs sucking in air, greedy, because she'd practically crunched your head with those cheerleading thighs, jewellery-laden hand shoving you downdowndown. all but suffocated in the hot, wet chokehold of her cunt.
after all that, she only sniffs. takes a moment to regain her composure, before she's swinging her bambi legs off the bedsheets, head held high. "clean it up." she gestures, like you're her goddamned maid, and leaves the door swinging wideee open on her way out.
(you don't bother to suppress the glow of satisfaction, at the slight wobble in her strut. or, the smirk when she inevitably pulls you right into her lap again — ready to be used).
