Agnes O'Connor x Fem!Reader: Poking The Bear
Summary: Agnes has the misfortune of being called in to work a murder case on Christmas Eve. When she leaves you frustrated, you decide to do what you do best; poke the bear.
AO3
A/N: I said "is anyone going to humiliate this woman in this ultra-specific way?" and didn't wait for an answer. Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals <3
Words: 8k
Included: Established relationship, Christmas, Porn with plot; g!p, teasing, somnophilia (implied), dacryphilia, phone sex, accidental orgasm, semi-public sex, humiliation, jealousy, blowjobs, dom/sub, sub space, throatfucking, unprotected sex, masturbation, light breeding kink, light degradation, praise, orgasm denial.
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Through the peaceful, warm silence of the morning, an alarm clock blares.
Agnes growls under her breath as she does every morning, lumbering from the comfort of the bed and over to the windowsill where the alarm clock sits. A particularly rough blow shuts it up.
God, why did she let Vidal insist on this shift?
Her routine is simple enough she could do it with her eyes closed; and does, for most of it. It isn’t until she turns the shower to a cooler temperature that she feels anywhere close to awake. She needs coffee—bad.
Halfway through said cup of coffee and one of the donuts you picked up, she realizes she hasn’t kissed you good morning yet.
You grumble a bit when she turns you over, untucking your head from the blankets, but you don’t wake. You look heavenly, painted in the warm glow of the Christmas tree you insist on keeping plugged in all night. Agnes smiles.
Pressing her lips to your forehead, she murmurs, barely a whisper, “Be good, baby.”
A hand wraps around her wrist and she startles. Pulling back, your eyes haven’t opened.
“Agnes, come back to bed.” You say, voice gravely from sleep.
“Vidal will be on my case if I don’t show.”
“I can make your morning better than Vidal can.”
You stretch, curling back into the blankets, but hold her wrist just tight enough to indicate you’re still half awake. It’s good your eyes are closed; she doesn’t need you seeing all the kinds of fond you’re making her.
Agnes really shouldn’t get you started, but curiosity kills cats, not bears, “Oh yeah? How would you do that, baby?”
“You’d come back to bed and sleep until I say.”
“And then what?” She prods, trying not to laugh.
“Then we’ll have a really nice breakfast. Donuts for you.”
“What would you have?”
“You.” You answer, casual and so matter-of-fact, “I’ll even swallow, out of Christmas spirit or something.”
Agnes jolts at the change. Though true to form, she can feel the familiar coil of arousal between her legs. She really shouldn’t have gotten you started.
She’s half awake, she won’t remember this, Agnes tells herself as she tries to move from her kneeling position on the bed. Your grip on her wrist remains.
“Sleep. We’ll have fun when I get home.”
“It’s Christmas Eve.” You whine.
“I’ll be home before you know it, I swear.”
“Fine. ‘Love you.” You murmur.
You rescind your hand and turn over, pacified as you burrow back under the covers. Agnes shakes her head.
“Love you too.” She whispers.
With one last parting kiss to your forehead, she’s gone, with you none-the-wiser.
—
You wake up a mess.
There’s a half-remembered conversation with Agnes lingering in your mind, but it’s hazy enough to feel like a dream; an unsatisfying one, the persistent throbbing between your legs says. You offered to blow her, you remember that much—it’s all pretty blank after that.
No, there was something about having fun when she got home, too.
You can’t wait that long.
It isn’t until two of your fingers are knuckle-deep and you’re missing the fullness Agnes offers that the idea strikes you. You scramble blindly for the phone on your night-stand. The movements change the angle of your fingers and you whine, rolling your hips, even as the blind grabs for your phone grow more frustrated.
Once found, it is ripped viciously off the charger, and you open it, going through your messages for the quickest access to her number. You grin at the contrast between your long-winded messages and Agnes’ one word responses.
An infinitesimal movement of your hips reminds you of your intention.
The phone is brought to your ear and it rings… and rings… and rings…
…and rings…
“O’Connor.” Her gruff voice comes down the line.
Your breath hitches in your throat. You squeeze around your own fingers at the sound.
“Yes, Detective, I’d like to report a crime.”
There’s a brief pause on the other end.
“Go on.”
“Well, my wife woke me up this morning and got me turned on, and she didn’t even have the decency to fuck me before she left. What kind of woman does that, Detective?”
You can hear the curve of her grin, “A lousy one. That’s a pretty serious crime.”
Maybe it’s the low, lilting drawl of her voice down the line. Maybe it’s the way you can see how she’s sitting in your mind; shoulders back against the seat but hips forward, legs splayed with careless confidence, one hand toying with her belt. Maybe it’s the easy humor she slips into with you that she’s never had with anyone else.
Whatever it is, two sentences from her brings you closer to finishing than thirty minutes with your hand has.
You whimper, “Keep talking.”
Another pause. Then the faint rustle of fabric.
“What are you doing?”
Her tone is utterly serious. Unforgiving. And god if it isn’t the sexiest thing you’ve ever heard.
“What do you think I’m doing?”
Finally showing your clit some attention, you moan shamelessly. It’s nice to feel full, but your fingers never quite reach the right spots, and you can’t get off on penetration alone—with Agnes or otherwise. It’s fun to work yourself up though; pushing to the heights you can reach there before really giving yourself the stimulation you want.
If she keeps talking, that—combined with the circling motions on your clit—will send you straight over the edge.
The anticipation builds over the line. For a moment, you pull the phone away to make sure she hasn’t hung up. She’s likely weighing the best thing to say to both turn you on and strike the fear of punishment into you.
Instead, her tone is almost pleading, “Don’t do this now.”
An image strikes you of making Agnes beg, of driving her to a point where the easy dominance falls away, and she’s reduced to chasing whatever kindness you give. It brings you so much pleasure it hurts. You need it. But how to get it?
“Is Agent Vidal in the room with you?” You ask.
The idea of Vidal witnessing what you’re doing to Agnes makes your toes curl.
“No.”
“I thought you were stuck with her today.”
“Leave Vidal out of this.” She demands, but it’s strangled.
She’s clawing for control over the situation, scrambling for a foothold. Normally, you’d give it to her. Normally.
“I don’t think I ask for much…” A lie. You make many requests in the sanctity of your bedroom, “all I wanted was for you to fix what you started.”
“Baby.”
You have to pull your fingers away from your clit, desperate to come but not ready yet.
“There are so many ways you could have done it, too. You could have woken me up with your head between my legs… or with you inside me. It could have been nice, right?”
Only the sound of her breathing comes down the line. Heavy, uneven, like when she’s holding herself over you, hips driving her deeper—
God, you’re so close.
You whisper, needing to know that she’s as affected as you, needing to hear her say it, “Are you hard, Agnes?”
“Yes.”
Even though you haven’t moved any part of your hand, the mental image nearly sends you tumbling over the edge.
“Will you come with me?”
“I…I can’t.”
You know. With the shades open, her office is basically an observation room; meaning if she were to do what you ask, there’s almost a guarantee she’d be caught. A sick part of you wants it. Wants to know that you have enough power over her to make her take the risk.
Gently, you begin to toy with your clit again. You can make her do what you ask. All you need is for her to say it—the confirmation that you’ve undone her so thoroughly that she can’t help but fist her cock under the desk where anyone could see.
“Please.” You beg.
You hear her inhale, the sound sharp in your ear. The words are on the tip of her tongue. Her eyes are no doubt shifting around the office, searching for the perfect way to hide what she’s about to do.
You’re standing on the precipice.
The harsh beeping of a disconnected call blares in your ear. Yanking it away, orgasm thoroughly ruined, you yell in frustration.
—
An officer pulls open the door before you can reach for it, nodding, “Ma’am.”
The precinct is busy for it being a holiday. Uniformed officers sit around desks, either on the phone or talking with others. You spy the Chief talking animatedly to a few toward the back.
They’ve really done up the place this year. Last year it’d been sad, grey. Now there are a few little trees spread around, some personal decorations here and there, a menorah on the front desk with candles waiting to be lit. It livens up the place.
In the back sits the partial vision of Agnes’ office. The blinds are somewhat closed, but she’s left the door open, allowing you enough of a glimpse to know she’s in there. You can imagine her without having to see; her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, hunched over the desk, hand toying with strands of her hair as she frowns over evidence.
Gazes follow as you cut through the center of it all. You do your best to ignore the heat working its way up your neck. Once upon a time, a few of the other officers had tried to catch your attention. You’d entertained a few of them. But they were minnows, and you wanted the shark.
You wanted the unapproachable, stone-faced Detective O’Connor.
And you had been the one to catch Agnes, but her fellow officers couldn’t imagine their illustrious Detective not being the one to do the catching. If only they knew how you could have her eating from the palm of your hand.
A swift knock on the open door and you lean against it. She’s exactly as you imagined. Though there’s a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead and her fingers tap on the desk like she can’t sit still.
She doesn’t look up, barking, “I’m busy.”
“I’ll pass this off to one of the other officers then.”
Her head snaps up and you grin. Hanging from one of your fingers is a white takeout bag. The scent of orange chicken and rice permeates the air, but it isn’t what you’re hungry for.
Work forgotten, she looks you up and down, licking her lips. Her fingers twitch on the desk. You clear your throat and she snaps out of whatever daze she’s in. Clearing her own throat, she sits up, tugging on the bottom of her flannel shirt. Your smile widens.
“Close the door behind you.”
Stepping in, you kick it closed with a low, “Yes, Detective.”
“What are you doing here?”
“My job.” You cross to her desk, dropping the takeout bag on top. You’re perched on the edge closest to her. She looks up at you from her chair, lips pursed, tugging on her shirt again, “What kind of wife would I be if I let you go hungry?”
“None of the other guys get lunch delivered personally.”
“None of the other guys are married to me. Do I get a kiss for my troubles?”
Briefly, she looks out into the precinct—not that she can see much with the shades drawn—then back to your lips. Agnes shifts, licking her own, before nodding.
You lean forward and hold onto the chair by one arm, capturing her lips in a rough kiss. Your other hand palms the length you know pulsates between her legs. Upon contact she grunts into your mouth, hips bucking.
Her hand fumbles blindly for your wrist. Catching it in a firm grip, you can feel the tension in her frame as she decides whether to press you closer or shove you away.
Pulling back just enough to smile, “Poor baby. Have you been like this all day?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what, Detective?” You murmur.
Her breath hitches. Blue eyes so blown out they’re nearly black regard you, her chest rising and falling as she struggles for an even rhythm of breath. You test her grip and find its slackened. The palm of your hand caresses the entire outline of her through her jeans.
Agnes doesn’t push you away, but she doesn’t pull you closer, either. The hand on your wrist allows you enough movement to stroke slowly from base to tip. Every inch of her seems to jump at the whisper of your touch.
Looking into her eyes, you can see how she’s fighting for control. She just can’t find the path to it. Good. You want her like this—panting and desperate. It makes you clench around nothing.
“What have you been imagining all this time?”
She swallows. Clears her throat, “Vidal will be back soon.”
“I can be quick.”
“Anyone… could see.”
“We have a few options. Your favorite is off the table, though.”
The favorite in question being Agnes bending you over the desk and fucking you hard and fast. It’s efficient, allowing her drive in deep while having the benefit of spanking you as she chases her reward. Her cock twitches at the reminder.
She’s tense, taut with energy like she’s only a few strokes from finishing right here. The thought is hot and you want it, bad—but not all dreams can be reality.
“What do we have?” Agnes asks, finally.
“If I crawl under the desk no one would see what I’m doing.” You offer.
Your hand keeps moving. It’s more for yourself than anything; you like feeling her, hard and wanting, yet so restricted, jumping at the slightest bit of attention. A thumb swipes over where you know the head is and she chokes, hips stuttering from what had been a slow roll into your hand.
“Do it.” She demands.
The subtle authority returning to her voice sends a shiver down your spine. One more swipe of your thumb and she keens, before clamping her mouth shut.
You laugh. Waking up this morning, this is the last thing you expected for yourself from the day; but you can’t deny you’re enjoying every second.
“That’s my girl.” You praise.
Bracing to slide off the desk, there’s a knock on Agnes’ closed office door, and disaster strikes.
The knock startles you. You try to turn and look toward the door, but forget just how precarious your seating situation is on the edge of the desk. You lose your balance. You’re able to get your foot under you just enough to fall into Agnes’ lap, rather than onto the cold tile of the office.
Agnes lets out a cross between a harsh breath and a moan as you fall into her. Your back presses firmly to her front.
“Don’t—god, I’m gonna—”
Strong hands settle on your hips to shove you off, but it’s too late. Agnes grunts. Nails dig into your sides as she ruts helplessly against your backside, unloading spurts of cum with every press of her hips.
You freeze in shock.
Then out of habit your hands find hers. With one, you lace your fingers together. With the other you caress her wrist, brushing gently as you turn your head to meet her eyes, careful to keep every inch of your body where she needs you. Her hips tense, stuttering, whimpering as she fights the orgasm that’s ravaging her.
“It’s okay. Let it happen.” You encourage, brushing a finger against her inner wrist. A war is waging over her face as she’s caught between desire and shame. Desire must win out. Agnes movements pick up speed as she furiously grinds up against you, and you can’t help the praise that falls from your lips, “That’s it.”
Now that she’s given in, she can’t stop, the hands on your hips clenching as she presses closer, harder with every thrust, powerless to the desire she can’t stop shooting. A wounded noise leaves her throat. You empathize; you know well how getting what you want can quickly move into pained-pleasure, when your body just keeps giving and giving.
Agnes’ expression is pained, laced with helplessness to her pleasure. Her eyes don’t leave your own as she rides out the waves. You try to sit still, letting her take what she needs. She allows you to watch every twitch of her expression, hear every noise she lets slip—it’s an act of trust that overwhelms. Lifting a hand to her cheek, you wipe at the perspiration there.
Eventually, she relaxes into the seat, her hips stopping in their frantic search for friction. Her eyes slip closed and you watch her breathe.
You’re eternally grateful that whoever knocked didn’t barge in right after; there is no way you’d have been able to talk your way around what was happening. It’s a mercy that Agnes rarely shuts her office door—now that she has, everyone understands something important is going on.
Running a finger along her cheekbone, you whisper, “Are you okay?”
“What do you think?” She growls.
“Given the mess you just made, I’d say you’re on cloud nine.” You tease.
With a sudden show of strength, you’re shoved into a standing position. You turn to take in the weight of Agnes’ glare.
Agnes snarls, “Fuck you.”
“You could have… if you had a little self control.”
Your eyes fall to her lap for emphasis, the evidence of her desire stark against the front of her jeans. Her hands clench on the arm-rests. Blood has rushed to her face, painting her features in red hues that betray her forced calm.
The sight of her so humiliated is doing it for you; and you can see that she sees, regarding you with a loaded, wary look. It will take no shortage of negotiation, but you will be revisiting this again.
You open the take out bag and pluck out the napkins near the bottom. Carefully, you wipe them over the planes of her face, soaking up the sweat that had been clinging to her skin. Agnes doesn’t meet your eye.
“Agnes.” Waiting until she locks eyes with you, “It’s okay.”
She scoffs, “I came in my pants like a fucking teenager.”
“And it was hot.”
“You’re really something else, you know that?”
“Oh, I’m well aware. I also know that you love me for it.”
Agnes rolls her eyes.
“Unfortunately.”
“Careful, O’Connor, I can still give this lunch away to one of your coworkers.”
The bag is promptly snatched from your reach. You laugh.
Now that she’s standing, you breathe a sigh of relief; her flannel is long, perfectly hiding the evidence of your activities from the world. You just hope no one outside was looking in too closely.
Desire rears its head at the thought. You need to get out of here before you do something that’ll get you both caught.
You lean up and steal a kiss, “Enjoy your lunch, baby.”
When you open the door to leave, you come face-to-face with Agent Rio Vidal holding two cups of coffee in her hands. You startle and she raises her brows at seeing you.
“Agent Vidal.”
“I wasn’t expecting to see you here, sweetheart, or I would’ve bought an extra coffee.”
“That’s okay, I was just bringing Agnes something to eat.”
“Take mine.” The coffee cup is held between the two of you. You can see the faint mark of her lipstick on the lid as she leans in, “I don’t need the extra caffeine anyway.”
“Keep it, Vidal. She can have mine.”
You turn so you can take in both of them. Vidal is relaxed, posture brimming with a quiet confidence while Agnes is tense, staring at the two of you like she could throw something—and she would, if she didn’t think it’d encourage the former somehow.
Agnes has always been… odd around Vidal; moreso than the normal awkwardness between two exes. And Vidal has never been subtle with her interest in poking Agnes’ nerves.
Whatever it is, you’re going to use it and see where it takes you.
You accept the offered cup of coffee, making deliberate eye contact with Agnes as you take a long sip. A latte—thank god, Agnes’ black drip would’ve made you gag.
“Thanks for the coffee.” You murmur low. Then you throw your wife a smile, ignoring the promise of pain in her eyes, “See you at home, Agnes.”
—
Coming home you’re delighted to find a few last-minute packages on the porch. Carrying them in, one shifts heavily in your arms, and you know immediately what it is; one of the speakers in Agnes’ car crapped out on her a few months back, so the passenger-side only spits out static where there should be music—or the sports broadcasts, in your wife’s case; you bought her a new stereo system so she wouldn’t have to ‘make do’ anymore.
There’s also a few new shirts, a nice leather belt, and a watch she’d been eyeing but wasn’t willing to buy for herself. You wrap all of them with a smile on your face and slide them under the tree.
The busy work of it all eases the tension in your shoulders and some of the arousal between your legs. There’s a lingering peace in every corner of your home. It’s quiet, barring the music playing from the kitchen, casting a nostalgic glow over you where the lights seem just a little warmer.
You sit down on the couch and take it all in. Ornaments wobble on branches, glittering and winking at you as they twist. There’s a garland draped over the fireplace with dancing lights; you feel warmer inside when you remember how Agnes helped you set it up, shaking her head at your excitement.
With the bustle of the season, you’ve forgotten to take time like this to stop and let it sink in. So many spend Christmas alone, hungry, without a place to go. You don’t have to. You have a wife who will spend every second with you in the warmth of your home. Tears prick your eyes.
You fall asleep on the couch with that warm feeling in your chest.
—
The scent of garlic and butter tickles your nose. You snap awake.
Did you leave the stove on?
You shoot up from the couch and throw off the blanket you don’t remember grabbing. It falls to your feet, twisting in your ankles, and you do all you can not to fall face-first onto the floor. How long have you been asleep?
Wait. Did you even put anything on to cook?
Agnes’ flannel-clad back greets you when you round the corner. A sigh leaves you. One hand settles over your chest, willing your heartbeat to slow to a normal pattern. It all comes back to you; wrapping gifts, sitting down to enjoy the quiet, intending to get up and start dinner afterward.
You step into the kitchen and wrap your arms around her waist from behind, forehead resting between her shoulder blades. A hand lifts your own so she can press a kiss on the back.
“How was work?” You ask, voice muffled by her shirt.
“A waste of time.” She answers. Her form shifts, one shoulder tensing as she stirs what sits on the stove, “It could’ve waited until after Christmas.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault. Vidal’s a workaholic and fails to realize the rest of us aren’t.”
“You are most of the year.”
Agnes grunts noncommittally, “What trouble did you get into?”
“Wrapped a few gifts, took a nap. I’m surprised some of your guys weren’t beating down my door with how rowdy I was being.”
“Chief would’ve just sent me to handle you.”
“I’d like that… you, handling me…” You murmur, hand moving down her front with intent.
A strong, veined hand grabs your own. She forces it back to its former resting place. You keep your hand where it is directed. The haven you’ve found nuzzled against her back—surrounded by the scent of her cologne and the heat of her—is just as inviting as anything more salacious could be.
Something bubbles and pops on the stove. Agnes jolts, before relaxing. You drag yourself from your haven to look over her shoulder; a pan of sauce is stirred on one burner, boiling pasta churning away on another. Simple, but hearty.
You press a kiss to the skin you can reach, just behind her ear, “You’re getting better.”
Before, her dinner of choice would’ve been a canister of peanuts, maybe a microwave dinner.
“Don’t say anything until you’ve tasted it.”
“I’ll do what I want.” You answer.
“Don’t I know it.”
Jabbing her side with a finger until she cracks a grin, “Let me taste, so I can tell you how amazing it is.”
The wooden spoon is lifted from the sauce and over her shoulder to your mouth. You wrap your lips around it, immediately lulled further into bliss by the combination of onion, garlic, and tomato.
“Agnes, that is delicious.”
Her brows raise. With a flourish, she allows herself a taste.
“You love to stroke my ego.” She says in that self-deprecating tone you know well.
Your hand and mouth move before you think, “That’s not the only part of you I like to stroke.”
Whether by a lapse in understanding or simply because she lets you, your hand finds its mark before Agnes can stop it. The full width of your hand presses at the apex of her thighs. Your mouth drops open.
Agnes is painfully erect for the second time today with little work on your part.
She drops the spoon against the pan and removes your hand again, blunt nails biting into your skin in the way you like. You don’t react, still reeling from the information you’ve gleaned. Agnes libido isn’t what it once was—a reality of age—even if she’s like a well kept oldsmobile; capable of going the distance and then some once you get her properly started. But you’ve done very little in the way of actually getting her started since visiting the office.
“What on earth have you been up to today?” You ask, breathless.
“Don’t start.”
“I’d say you’re well past the starting point, given what I just felt.” A laugh escapes, then you pause, “You didn’t…”
Agnes curious gaze meets yours over her shoulder. Understanding dawns, along with indignation, “Of course not.”
“Needing a little extra help is normal.”
“This is all your doing.” She snaps, “Go sit down.”
“If it’s all my doing, you should let me fix it.” You coo.
In a sudden burst of movement, Agnes is out of your arms, sauce and pasta left behind on the stove. You blink. Did something happen at work? Have you hit a nerve?
She crosses the space to the kitchen table. The chair at the head of the table, facing the stove, is yanked from its resting place. You wince as it shrieks against the floor. But she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, turning the chair and meeting your eyes with a hard look, pointing.
“Sit.”
You move without thinking. There’s a subtle note of steel beneath the command that sends you into submission on instinct, like a pet might jump to obey their owner. The thought doesn’t chafe today; you want to be good, you want to obey.
Plopping down into the seat, hands settle on your shoulders. Agnes growls in your ear, “Stay.”
And you do.
As she finishes dinner, moving the pasta into the sauce with an unsure—but successful—flourish. As she nearly burns herself cutting the garlic bread fresh out of the oven. As she casts quick, dark glances your way every few minutes, as if having to make sure you’re where she left you.
You are the picture of poise and obedience, fighting every desperate urge for nearness to follow her command. But the longer she takes the harder it becomes. Hands settled on your thighs, your fingers scratch anxiously at the fabric of your pants, helpless and without any other way to expel this building energy.
“Agnes.” You whine.
“Quiet.”
It takes ages before she approaches you. She takes her sweet time putting dinner on plates, making it pretty in a way you know is just to drive you crazy; she doesn’t give two fucks about whether or not something looks nice as long as it tastes good.
Dinner is brought over to the table, but you tilt your head. Agnes only brought one plate.
“Up.” She commands, “You’re in my seat.”
You stand. Reaching for the chair next to hers, a hand on the back stops you from pulling it out. There’s the deep sound of porcelain meeting the wood of the table. As she leans around you, the scent of her cologne makes you dizzy.
Agnes snaps her fingers. You jolt, snapping back into your own mind. She points to the floor and your brows furrow. Then, it clicks, and your face grows warm.
You sink to your knees in front of Agnes’ chair as she sits in it.
“I can guess what a perp is going to do just by the way they sit in interrogation.” Agnes drawls, idly tapping her knee as her mind works, “But you… I can never guess how you’re going to act. Look at you now, all good and obedient for me, when you were acting like a whore in my office today.”
So caught up in the dizzying feeling of submission, you’ve been oblivious to the weight of your own desire. Agnes’ words change that in an instant. There’s a needy, pulsing beat between your legs, and you clench your thighs together in an attempt to help yourself. It doesn’t work.
“You started it.” You say, breathless.
You can’t breathe around your desire for her. Oxygen is a secondary need to the feel of her, whether she’s buried deep inside or grazing her fingers over your flesh; you want her and it hurts. But you keep your hands on the tops of your thighs.
Agnes chuckles. It’s a low, rolling thing. Agnes’ usual response to amusement is to grin, maybe even shake her head and scoff—laughter is a rare thing, aged and cultivated until it’s amber laced with smoke over your senses. You feel the heat of it. The intoxication it brings is warm, a weight settling comfortingly over the shoulders.
“I’m collecting on your offer from earlier.”
And with that, her thighs part, and you surge forward without being told. Her belt is unbuckled in one fell swoop. You moan, unable to help yourself, needy for the feel of her skin, to taste.
A testament to the overwhelm of your desire that the concept of toying with her again does not cross your mind. Your hand finds the desperate length of her cock, exposing it to the cool air.
It stands proud, tip flushed and leaking, veins stark against the fair skin. You pant. With single-focus, you lean forward.
An equally fair hand grips your jaw, forcing your eyes to Agnes’, “How many taps?”
You blink. You’re buried beneath desire, mind clawing its way to the surface.
“T-Three.”
Agnes nods and you’re free.
The first thing you do with your newfound freedom is flatten your tongue and lick a broad stripe up the length of her. The hand on your jaw goes slack in surprise, Agnes’ hips jumping. A groan echoes through the room.
You circle your tongue over the tip, drinking in her taste and the sounds falling from her lips. It’s heady, making the room fuzzy around the edges.
Submission brings with it a strange feeling of power. You’re doing as she bids, being good, but every sound and reaction coming from her is real; the truest manifestation of how well you’re doing to please her.
The world falls away. Your head feels floaty, strangely empty despite the manuevers you’re employing with your mouth. You don’t need words, you don’t need thoughts, you just need to offer Agnes whatever she wants.
Which you do by taking her cock in your mouth until she hits the back of your throat.
A thud sounds from her hand slamming on the tabletop, scrambling for something to grip as she chokes out, “Fuck!”
You do all you can to repress your gag reflex, forcing yourself to just relax everytime she hits the back of your throat. Agnes has her head thrown back, eyes closed, chest rising and falling as she pants, whimpering with every movement of your tongue and mouth.
Through it all, her hand remains on the side of your face, a careful guide. You can’t help the hand that sneaks under your skirt; Agnes is shaking with tension, begging to let go and chase her pleasure at your expense, but she’s holding herself back and guiding you through taking her in the way that would do the least harm.
You moan. Agnes’ cock twitches in your mouth and she matches your moan, a semblance of that control slipping with a particularly rough thrust. You gag, tears forming in your eyes.
The hand between your thighs shakes, fumbling for your clit while focusing on what really matters. You’re so wet there’s barely any friction.
You want Agnes to make you gag again. You want her to push into you and take what she wants until you’re crying.
Looking up, you try to will all of that thought and intent into your eyes, but Agnes’ are closed.
You whine.
Blue eyes regard you from beneath drooping lids. You will one thought into your mind and one thought only; use me.
Agnes swallows. The pad of a thumb runs under your eye, collecting some of the wetness there as if to say are you sure? In answer, you take as much of her as you can physically manage, eyes meeting her own the whole time.
Her restraint snaps.
Agnes’ hand travels to the back of your head, her hips moving faster and firmer than you can comprehend. She takes over completely; driving into you for what she needs, making you gag obscenely, without a thought in the world for if it is too much.
Not having to make choices allows you to focus on obtaining your own pleasure. With every tear she forces from your eyes, you swipe over the pulsating bud of your clit. You can feel your own orgasm building low in your gut.
“I’m going to cum.” Agnes groans.
Delight shoots through you. She’s going to cum and it’s because of you; because you were good and gave her everything she needs. It feels amazing.
Why, then, do you pull off and out of reach?
Agnes growls. You blink.
Words. There are words to go with the desire you feel. You close your eyes, searching for them, mentally scrambling at the edges until you can wrap your hands around them and their meaning.
“Can I…” You start, voice rough from the beating your throat has taken, “Can I ride you?”
Agnes makes quite the scene; splayed open on the dining room chair, hair a mess and eyes blown out, cock twitching and needy through the fly of the jeans she ruined only a few hours ago. You clench.
Agnes licks her lips, “Yeah, alright.”
You stand on shaking legs and Agnes holds up a hand, stopping you as she lifts her hips and fumbles in her back pocket. She obtains her wallet and rifles through until she locates a small foil wrapper.
It’s safer, you know. You’ve used one almost every other time for the duration of your marriage.
“Agnes.”
The woman in question pauses before opening the condom. Her brow pops up in an unspoken question.
The words are instinct, comprehensive thought still far away, “I want you to cum inside me.”
Outside, the world rages on. Westview residents race down the street, returning home from last minute errands, gifts in tow that they’ll have to sneak inside. The wind is kicking up and through the trees as snow grows closer with every second.
And then there is you and Agnes, tucked in the warmth of your home, caught in the weight of your words. Stopped in the face of the potential consequences.
Agnes throws the unopened condom on the kitchen table.
“Then come here.”
You stand with your legs on either side of her own, steadying yourself on her shoulders. One steady hand settles on your hip. The other pushes your panties aside and aligns her to your entrance as you lower into her lap.
You could take her in one motion with how wet you are. Yet, Agnes keeps your descent slow, careful. She watches your face with every inch you take—same as you watch hers.
Agnes’ chest is heaving, eyes dark and stormy, face pinched in concentration. She’s the most handsome person you’ve ever seen. You clench around her and her hands tighten on your waist.
“Sorry.” You murmur, out of habit.
Agnes raises a brow, but doesn’t respond, helping you down the last few inches. When you settle fully in her lap you let out the breath you’d been holding.
One hand sneaks under your skirt to trace shapes on the bare flesh of your hip.
“You pulled an interesting stunt with Vidal today.” Agnes says. The hand on your hip tightens, “I’m not so sure I should reward your behavior.”
“Then why let me…”
“Why deny myself just because you’re acting like a brat?”
There’s a small testing thrust of her hips. You clench. She groans, head falling back against the chair. You whimper. Trying to move your own hips, eager for what you’ve been denied, you find yourself held in place.
That’s not fair. All day she’s been teasing you, driving you to the edge of what you want—what you need, just to deny you.
“You started it.” You whine, trying to move your hips again, still finding yourself held stationary as she leisurely thrusts up, “You woke me up and got me all bothered, it’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair, baby.”
“Please.” You whine, “It’s not my fault, please.”
Muscles in her arms tremble as she lifts you slightly before sinking you back down onto her. The fullness makes your toes curl but it isn’t enough.
“Calling me at work and getting me worked up wasn’t your fault?”
“…No.”
Agnes laughs, “If you’re going to lie, you could at least be convincing.”
You won’t win this fight by playing fair, not when Agnes is clearly uninterested in fairness.
“You… You feel so good. Can’t think properly.” You breathe, moaning a bit more than comes naturally, “I’m so full of you.”
The thrust of her is uneven. She stops moving you completely and you fight down a grin.
You press a hand between your bodies, applying pressure to your lower stomach as she continues to thrust, subtly picking up speed. Her pants are growing louder, a wheeze leaving her mouth when you press.
“That’s you.” You murmur, leaning forward and ghosting over her lips, tracing the bridge of her nose with the tip of your own. You press harder and enjoy the way she groans, “Nobody has ever been as deep inside me as you.”
“Fuck.” She snarls.
You’re pushed up again, suddenly empty, and whine, blinking at the change. But then her strong hands are on your hips and spinning you around.
Your front is pressed against the table, bent so your cheek rests on the top of it. The texture of her jeans is rough against the back of your thighs as she lines herself and fills you in one thrust.
“Oh, fuck!” You cry.
Agnes sets a brutal pace, chasing that which only you can offer. Every thrust has her cock brushing that perfect spot inside you and you lose control of whatever sounds you’re making.
“Is this what you wanted?” Agnes snarls in your ear, “For me to leave work and fuck you like some bitch in heat?”
“Yes!”
“You haven’t earned it.”
“No, Agnes, please!”
“Hold it.” She orders.
With every move she makes, you do all you can to ignore the pleasure, to pretend it doesn’t exist. It’s somewhat possible when it’s only her cock. But then she leans down and starts toying with your clit and you cry out, fighting not to roll your hips against them.
You want what you’ve been chasing all day, but you still want to be good. You’re her good girl, aren’t you? You have to keep being good even if it hurts.
So, you hold your orgasm at bay, while Agnes chases her own. Judging by the uneven rhythm of her hips it won’t take long.
“Please let me come, Agnes. Please.” You beg.
“Why should I?”
“I’ll give you anything—anything! Please, my love!”
“Anything, huh?”
The tone of her voice is low, dangerous. Layered with a rasp that nearly undoes you.
If she doesn’t let up, it doesn’t matter how good you are; you’re going to cum.
“Anything!”
Agnes phone is slammed down on the table right beside your head. It isn’t on, but you have the sinking feeling that you’ve just landed yourself into something far worse than expected.
Her thrusts stop, but she keeps a light, teasing pressure that grazes your clit just enough to keep you engaged without getting you off.
It is torture. And the silence building as you stare down the upturned cell phone is only making it worse.
“I’m going to make a call and turn on the speaker. Then, I’m going to fuck you. And you’re going to let whoever is on the phone hear you as I make you cum.”
The weight of it is like a lead weight of nerves in your stomach, “But—“
“If you want to act like a whore you’re going to be treated like one.” She snarls, then her tone grows softer, “Yes or no, angel?”
Whoever she calls and puts on the line, you’ll never be able to look in the eye again. But you’re so full and eager that you don’t truly care at this point.
Besides, it’s Christmas Eve, maybe everyone will be too busy to pick up.
“Yes.”
A harsh thrust that forces the air from your lungs, then her lips are next to your ear, breath hot, “That’s my girl.”
The echo of your own words from earlier make your toes curl. Her phone is snatched from the table and she continues to toy with your clit as she makes the call.
It rings… and rings… and rings…
Faintly, you hear the line connect, and you gasp.
You can’t make out who the voice belongs to, but you hear a faint, “Yeah?”
Agnes barks down the line, “Don’t say a word.”
The bang! as her phone hits the table again makes you jump, a small shriek leaving your lips. It wobbles. Faintly, you’re impressed she hasn’t broken the thing with how she abuses it.
A long finger slams down on the speaker button and as the phone tilts slightly, you read the name on the screen, and your eyes widen.
Vidal.
Before you can say a word, though, Agnes is back to work. Something in the action of being heard has made her more aggressive. You swear you can feel the bruises forming on your hips where she grabs, leveraging you for every single thrust.
You try to choke down your moans and whimpers, not wanting Agent Vidal to hear you like this, but Agnes won’t stand for it; one hand grabs your jaw and pries your mouth open.
She pushes in to the hilt and you let out a shrieking moan.
“You were so talkative before. Have you lost your nerve?”
“I—please—“
“Calling me this morning and getting me worked up, teasing me in the office, in the kitchen… and incapable of handling your punishment.”
“I’m sorry, Agnes. Please.”
“Please, what?”
“Use me. I want—I need you to fuck me until I can’t remember being without you—I need you to fuck me until you cum inside and make me yours forever—please!”
The knowledge that every word from your mouth is being heard by someone else is not forgotten, but you’ve been pushed beyond caring. Agnes is intent on making you beg for what you want and you want it bad.
Agnes’ fingers and cock alternate stimulating you. If her fingers are working, her hips aren’t—and vice versa. You’re frankly astonished she’s been able to last so long because you’re teetering on the edge of pleasure at the barest contact.
But her will has always been steel. And she wants to see you humiliated.
The hand on your clit slides to your lower stomach and presses, mimicking your own actions only minutes before, “When I knock you up, you’re going to feel it right here.”
Something inside you snaps. You wail.
Agnes’ hips are moving at a clip, every inch of her rubbing where you need, setting you alight from within. Her hand doesn’t move. The faster she goes, the deeper she drives, her hips begin to lose their rhythm.
Any words devolve into animalistic grunts as she ruts into you, mouth alternating between kissing and biting at your neck from behind.
You’re so fucking close. If she denies you now, you think you might die.
“Let me cum, Agnes, please—pretty please—I’ll be your good girl, please, I’ll be so good. Let me cum and fill me up, it’s all I want—“
Through gritted teeth, “Go on then.”
Something inside you snaps.
The command is exactly what you need. Your entire body clenches so tight you fear you may never relax again. You lose track of what noises leave your mouth, you think you may even lose consciousness for a few moments.
All you know when you come to is that your throat is raw and Agnes is driving into you, choking out in your ear, “Gonna cum—“
Her hips meet your own at full force and don’t pull back, remaining, pulsing forward as if she can’t get close enough. Every spasm of her cock paints your insides with her desire, marking you as hers. Agnes holds your hips as she presses in with every twitch, struggling to breathe.
Weakly, you reach a hand back to tangle in her hair. Your throat aches, “That’s it, baby. Fill me.”
A groan. Another rough twitch.
It reaches a point where the pressure ebbs. She remains, but she’s not twitching anymore, nor is she fighting to become one with you. There’s only the sound of your breathing in the room.
Agnes moves to straighten and pull out, but you whine, reaching back to grab whatever part of her you can reach.
“Stay.” You whisper.
She pauses.
A hand gently caresses along your spine, “You can’t stay like this, angel.”
“Just let me feel you a little longer.”
There’s a comfort in the fullness; in the knowledge that Agnes is the only woman who can provide this for you. That she even wants to.
It’s all a blur beyond that.
Eventually, you can’t stand being bent over on the table anymore, even if you never want to be without the feeling of Agnes inside you. The call with Vidal is disconnected at some point. You and your wife move slowly, hand in hand, up to your bedroom.
You gently shove her onto the bed while grabbing damp washcloths. Neither of you can stand a shower at this point.
The two of you take your time, being careful to mind the sore spots. You lean slightly into Agnes as you wipe some of the sweat from her flesh.
“You’re so good to me.” You murmur, kissing the underside of her jaw, “Thank you, my love.”
“Consider it an early Christmas gift, angel.”
You tamp down on the urge to say something sappy for her to scoff at. Instead, you guide her down and kiss her, soft and slow.
