s.carpenter x fem!reader ⋮ estab. relationship ⋮ suggestive content ⋮ 17+ ⋮ 400 words
She tastes sweet.
Like strawberries and sugar. It's a taste that always makes you dizzy no matter how many times it's been on your tongue. The taste is addictive. She's addictive. Every brush of her lips against yours makes your pulse leap.
Her fingers trail up from their resting place against your neck, sliding against your skin to your jaw. Warmth floods your system as her touch leaves flames in its wake. She's softer than satin as her hand cups your jaw to keep you close to her.
A brief gulp of air lets in the scent of her skin. Something sweeter than her taste. It makes a soft sound well up in your throat, barely a whisper as it slips between her lips.
Sabrina's finally home. She's where she belongs- laying next to you as your lips devour hers. The lonely nights had come to a close, the warmth of her drowning out any lingering chills.
The sheets of your bed cradle the two of you, entangling your limbs between silk. Your own hand travels to the back of her neck. Her hair is soft as you let your fingers drift through it, cherishing her curls reverently.
"Shit, I missed you." Her voice is breathy, lips bruised.
"Missed you more." Your own voice comes out foreign in your own throat, paper-thin and almost whiny.
To curb any reaction, your lips trail down her jaw to her neck. Her pulse is hammering like a jack rabbit. You can feel it beneath your lips. Gentle as can be, your mouth lifts from her neck before pressing against her pulse point.
Sabrina's hands are moving. She's grasping at you, hands roving over your curves and holding onto anything she can touch. But there's no rush. It's just the two of you- no more rehearsals around the corner ready to ruin a moment.
"Love you." She murmurs, leaning up to crash her lips back against yours. "Need you."
Well, maybe there is some rush.
Your tongue runs along the seam of her lips, begging for permission. She opens up with a soft gasp. It's all tongue and teeth from there, exploring for anything you'd not found before.
HOUSE TOUR » I just want you to come inside ! 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋
man’s best friend m.list
⤷ in which; after a pleasing date you find its best to give clark the full house hour!
⤷ warnings; f!reader, praise, oral (f!receiving), side shots (or wtv they're called), piv(unprotected), cream pie
⤷ word count; 2k
a/n; a month late but w 2x the love...
Take Your Shoes Off...
the date was perfect. he was so courteous and such a gentleman. which he had been for the previous other dates, but it was something about the lingering touches and all he’d done to please you tonight.
he called you pretty more times than you could count, he opened doors, pulled out chairs, paid the bill, and finally wore a suit that fit him… a little too well, if anything. you were too used to seeing him drown in his too-big suit at work so, seeing him in a fitted suit nearly knocked you off your feet.
the conversation was great too, clark really knew how to hold a conversation and make you comfortable. you couldn’t imagine a better date with anyone else.
you were in the car now, he was driving you home with a smile on his face and a hand on your thigh. “thank you for dinner baby, i had a really great time, oh and the pineapple air freshener is my favorite kind” you smiled, placing a hand over his, squeezing gently after toying with the pineapple shaped cardboard hung around his mirror. “course baby, me too” he squeezed your thigh, turning to flash you a smile.
after some driving the car comes to a stop in front of your apartment building. you turn to him, tilt your head flirtatiously, “well this is me but, if you have time, do you want the house tour?” you plead, batting your eyelashes at him. clark could never say no to you, which is how he found himself standing behind you as you pushed the key into your front door.
you open the door, stepping aside so he could walk in past you. “take your shoes off” you point to his toes as you toe off your heels. he’s taking his shoes off when you grab at his blazer, offering to hang it up for him. “thank you” he mutters, following you into your kitchen. “did you want water or anything? I have some chips ahoy if you're hungry?” you point to the pantry.
“no, thank you” he smiles, shaking his head with a hand out. “well this is my kitchen” you gesture to the room. “very nice, i like the pictures on your fridge” he says, pointing to the polaroids of you and your friends pinned up by vintage magnets.
“thanks, i have more in my living room, here i’ll show you!” you take his land, leading him into your living room gesturing to the framed pictures you had, some of your friends, others of childhood pictures.
“your house is so nice, i like how you’ve decorated it, it's very you” he’s smiling like he’s in a museum, to him, anything to do with you is art. “and your couch is really comfy.” he huffs, sitting on the sofa.
you continue throughout the house, pointing to random things he definitely didn’t need to hear the backstory to, but he loved hearing it all. he’d ask where you got certain things, and complement everything he could, it was sweet. he complements all the mood lighting, all your furniture, all the posters you’ve strategically placed.
as you approach your bedroom you smile, turning to face him. “I’m pleasured to be your hot tour guide! i hate how this tour is coming to an end but, this is my favorite room, so prepare yourself” you expressed, hand on the doorknob as you spoke. you walk in, but clark stays put just outside the door.
“you coming in or what?” you tease, using your finger to call him over. he steps in the room sheepishly like he’d hate to intrude, and you're not sure how to tell him you want him to intrude. he takes a look around, pointing at different decorations to complement them before his eyes land on your bed. “looks very comfortable i like it all. i love your house.”
“thank you, clark. you know some say it’s a place where your dreams come true.” you smile, shrugging. there’s a beat of silence, it’s not awkward but heavy with tension. you couldn’t hold back anymore he’s been a gentleman all night he deserves to be rewarded, though you aren’t sure if this is his reward or yours.
“the bed looks pretty comfortable, we should try it out, let me show you” he’s smiling like a fool when you kiss him then, his hands fly to your waist holding you comfortably while you stand on your tippy toes to properly catch his lips. his hands are warm as they run up your back, holding you firmly against him. his lips are just as warm against yours; his kisses were soft until your tongue slipped into his mouth.
he tried to keep his cool, to continue to be gentleman and keep holding you like you were the most fragile thing in the world but when to your hands treaded through the small curls at the nape of his neck, the way you feel so close to him and the way your tongue feels against him, he breaks. his kiss turns rough as do his hands, he’s grabbing a bit firmer but still enough room for you to pull away.
you’re both sighing into the kiss, hands all over each other, both your hairs tangled in the others fingers. clark thinks fast when he turns you, walking you back till the back of your knees hit the bed causing you to fall back suddenly, falling perfectly on the bed. he’s kneeling one knee after the other, holding your thighs before parting them with his torso.
there's not a word said before he’s kissing the inside of your knees as his fingers hook in the belt loops of your jeans. he doesn’t pull them off quite yet, waiting for your approval which you gladly give by raising your hips and shifting them to help him wiggle them off before he tosses them near your laundry basket.
you can feel him smiling against your inner thigh, leading higher to where you need him most. he kisses at the lace of your underwear before pulling them off, to then be face to face with you. “so pretty” he mutters, before licking a stripe up your slit, stopping at your clit where he wraps his tongue around your nub.
you sigh as his suction grows stronger and his tongue laps against you. your moans are small and only audible to him before his fingers circle your entrance before pushing in gently. now you’re sure the neighbors would be able to hear how good he’s making you feel.
“clark” you whimper, threading your fingers through his hair as his fingers continue to pump inside of you. you wonder how he hasn’t come up for air yet but who can ponder on that long when his tongue feels so good on your clit and the tips of his fingers curl at your g-spot perfectly every time.
he has a hand on your thigh which he uses to pull you even closer to his mouth, and his rhythm doesn’t falter as he leaves open mouthed kisses to your clit. your moans echo throughout the room and if it's not how wet you are, it's those sounds that keep him going.
the feeling in your lower stomach is growing as your hips rock with his movements and the way you’ve grown to be increasingly more desperate, tells him you're close. “ah- clark, i’m gonna cum- feels so-” you’re arching your back when you cum, pulling his hair as you mewl his name. he continues lapping at your pussy for a few seconds before he’s pulling away and licking his fingers.
you pull him up by the shoulders of his shirt to kiss him, tasting your slick on his lips. he pulls away to pull his shirt off, not waiting to crash his lips back into yours. within a few seconds he’s taken off the rest of his clothes and your top, leaving you in your bra.
he wastes no time before he’s kissing at your cleavage, leaving purple spots in the wake of his lips. his hand rests at your side, pulling you closer to him as his hand slips behind you to unhook your bra, throwing it off the bed.
“god, you’re perfect” he whispers like he's thinking out loud, taking your nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the hard pebble before pulling away to blow cold air, leaving your nipple harder than before.
he seems to know everything you want, each move he makes is practiced and perfect. when he stands on his knees, he pulls your knees together and turns you to your side before pushing the plush of your ass up to give him the perfect view of your pussy.
he looks up at you for permission before his tip drags against your slit, tracing your entrance before he’s stretching you out with just his tip. you're both moaning as he inches in, his hand is at your side and your hand grabs onto his for support.
once he bottoms out, he’s leaning down to kiss you, whispering how good you feel before he starts to rock his hips, setting an even rhythm. it’s slow at first, enough to get you used to the feeling before he’s speeding up.
your name falls from his lips desperately as he continues to relentlessly thrust into you. “taking me so well, honey- god” he whimpered, watching the way your hip rippled with each snap of his hips.
your eyes are rolling back, and your moans are raw and loud. his hand finds its way to your clit drawing small, short circles into the sensitive nub as he continues to fuck into you. your eyes shut from the pleasure as you cry out, you want to look because truthfully, he is a sight, but the pleasure is overwhelming in the best way.
“open your eyes baby, look at me” he commanded gently. you listen, peeling your eyes to see the way he looks. his curls are perfectly messy, and he looks pussy drunk off you, eyes half lidded with his mouth slightly agape like he’d been dreaming of this moment, which he probably had just as much as you had.
“there you go” he praises, a smile appearing on his face in the least teasing way. he’s not smiling to demean you in any way, but because he genuinely feels happy.
he’s about to lose it, seeing your fucked out expression with the way you’re squeezing him just right, mixed with your moans and the wet plops of him fucking you truly is heaven. the grip he has on your thigh tightens which tells you how close he is, “sweetheart, m’gonna cum, you feel so good” he whimpers as his eyebrows push together.
you can't even form words with how good you feel, instead you just opt out for purring his name in the most desperate way possible, which is probably what set him off the edge.
“oh- god honey, yeah” his thrusts are shallow as he spills spurts of his warm cum into you. your words are incoherent as the knot in your stomach snaps and your orgasm washes over you making your thighs shake and your nails claw into his abdomen, which he didn’t mind.
he’s leaning over you, breathing against your neck for a second before reluctantly pulling out and kissing your forehead. “you feeling okay?” he asks, pulling out and rubbing your thigh soothingly. “yeah” you whisper, nodding at the space in bed next to you, which he gladly takes. “i really enjoyed your house tour by the way” he smiles, pulling you into his chest and rubbing your back.
you and sabrina meet for the first time at the 2026 grammys.
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pairing: sabrina carpenter x reader
words count: about 2.3k
contents: brief use of Y/N, not so accurate events, strangers to romantic interests, alcohol consumption
author’s note: this is my first time writing something this long, and i hope you guys like it. i may or may not have been inspired by sabrina's' interactions with benito at the grammys 🥹 let me know what you think of it! dividers by @pixopix <3
The night feels electric before you even step out of the car, like the air itself is charged with anticipation. It hums against your skin and buzzes in your ears. The kind of energy that only exists when history is about to be made. When the door opens, cameras flashes erupt instantly—rapid, blinding bursts of white that explode like fireworks against the dark Los Angeles sky.
The red carpet stretches ahead in a river of silk and diamonds, a current of people dressed not just to impress, but to be remembered. Every smile is calculated. Every pose deliberate. Everyone here is dressed to leave a mark.
And then there’s her.
Sabrina Carpenter stands at the edge of the carpet like she was conjured out of a fairytale. Not simply beautiful—curated, luminous, intentional. The kind of presence that draws attention without asking for it. Conversations subtly tilt in her direction. Cameras linger a fraction longer.
Her dress is a soft ivory crafted in layers that catch the light like mist at sunrise. The fabric shifts with every step she takes, almost alive. The bodice is structured with a sweetheart neckline that frames her collarbones, jeweled straps resting delicately against her fair shoulders. Crystals bloom across the corset in constellations, glittering under the flashes every time she moves. It’s romantic and dramatic.
The skirt cascades in layered tiers—airy and theatrical. It moves like it understands timing, floating when she walks, trailing behind her in a gentle, whispering train. And draped over her shoulders is the faintest veil of a tulle cape—translucent, weightless, almost unreal. It gives her that split-second, breath-catching quality that makes people pause mid-sentence.
A modern princess, but make it pop star.
2025 belonged to her in a way that only happens once in a career, if you’re lucky. Chart-topping singles that refused to leave the radios. A sold-out tour that turned venues into choirs. Viral performances dissected frame by frame. Cultural takeover. She’s nominated in six categories tonight, and the press has already written think pieces predicting multiple wins before the ceremony has even begun.
You had a year like that, too.
A breakthrough album that critics called defining. A fanbase that multiplied faster than you could process. Your face on billboards. Your name on headlines. Your lyrics quoted back at you by strangers. Tonight, you’re both seated at the tables reserved for the industry’s golden children.
And somehow, you haven’t met yet.
The first crack in expectations happens early in the night.
A pre-telecast award. Her name is called as a nominee. The envelope opens.
She loses.
There’s the smallest flicker in her expression—so fast it’s almost invisible. A quick inhale that barely lifts her chest. The tiniest tightening on her shoulders. But then the practiced smile slides into place, effortless and gracious.
She’s competitive. She won’t pretend she isn’t. That fire is part of what got her here. But she doesn’t let the loss dull her glow.
Not tonight.
Because when she performs Manchild, she detonates the room.
She’s changed into a sharp, tailored, pilot-inspired look—sleek lines, structured shoulders, a silhouette that draws attention. It’s playful authority, flirtatious control. She struts across the stage like it belongs to her, like she built it from scratch. Her vocals slice clean through the arena, crisp and teasing. The choreography is magnetic, every movement intentional, every glance weaponized.
The attitude is tongue-in-cheek but razor sharp. Her expressions are theatrical, exaggerated in just the right ways—a raised brow here, a smirk there. She plays with the camera like it’s in on the joke.
You watch from your table, elbows resting against your knees, leaning forward without meaning to.
You’ve seen her online. Of course you have. Everyone has. Clips. Interviews. Performances. Memes.
But seeing her in person is different.
She’s shorter than you expected. Brighter than you expected. Louder in presence than anyone else in the building. The kind of charisma that bends the atmosphere around it.
When she locks eyes with the camera during the bridge and smirks, it feels borderline illegal.
When the performance ends, you clap. Not politely or because cameras are sweeping the crowd. Genuinely.
And when she scans the audience during the applause, letting her gaze drift over familiar faces... She sees you.
Finally sees you.
You’re standing. Applauding like you mean it. No restraint. No industry coolness.
Her eyes linger half a second longer than necessary.
Later, the category for Best Pop Vocal Album is announced.
Your category.
Her category.
The camera takes turns between nominees. She sits straight, hands folded elegantly in her lap like she’s mastered stillness. You sit upright too, but there’s tension in your shoulders, in the way your fingers curl against your knees.
“And the Grammy goes to... Y/N.”
For a moment, you don’t move. The sound hits you before the meaning does. The room erupts—cheers, applause, the scrape of chairs against the floor.
You stand slowly, heart hammering against your ribs, vision slightly blurred at the edges. And without consciously deciding to, your eyes search the crowd.
They find her instantly. She’s already looking at you.
There’s something amused in her expression—not bitter, not resentful. Not even surprised. Just... Impressed.
She smiles knowingly. Then she begins to clap, steady and deliberate.
It grounds you more than anything else could in that moment.
You walk to the stage.
Your speech is heartfelt and emotional. You thank your team, your family, your fans. Somewhere in the middle, you glance out again.
She’s still watching.
When you finish, the applause swells. And when you walk back toward your table, the eye contact doesn’t break.
The rest of the ceremony turns into a silent game between you two.
Stolen glances across tables. Tiny smiles. Raised brows at questionable jokes. When Trevor Noah delivers a bad punchline, you both react at the same time—identical expressions of barely concealed disbelief. When another artist wins, you both clap enthusiastically—a little too enthusiastically, like you’re daring each other not to laugh.
It’s subtle. No one else would clock it. But it’s there, a chemistry that crackles like a live wire stretched between two tables.
Then comes the final award of the night.
Album of the Year.
You’re nominated. She’s nominated.
The tension thickens, pressing against your lungs.
“And the Grammy goes to—”
Your name. Again.
The room explodes into chaos. A standing ovation. People shouting. Someone claps your shoulder.
You stand, stunned, and this time, you look at her first.
She exhales, then laughs softly to herself before clapping. There’s disappointment in her eyes. She wanted it—of course she did. But beneath that, there’s something else.
Curiosity.
She looks at you like you’re something worth studying.
Your second speech is longer. You’re overwhelmed now, words tangling together, gratitude spilling everywhere.
When you return to the floor, everything shifts.
Because now the night is yours.
And she’s walking toward you.
You’re halfway through hugging your producer—still a little dazed, still floating somewhere between adrenaline and disbelief—when you feel a shift in the air behind you. Not dramatic. Just a subtle change, like the room recalibrates around a new center of gravity.
You turn, and there Sabrina is.
Up close, she’s devastating in a way that feels almost unfair. The ivory of her dress is softer under the dimmer lights now, glowing rather than sparkling. Her perfume reaches you—warm, clean, with something faintly sweet underneath.
“Okay,” she says, placing a hand dramatically over her heart, eyes wide with theatrical offense. “First of all? Rude.”
You blink, still catching up. “Rude?”
She nods solemnly, committing fully to the bit. “You couldn’t leave me one? Just a little pity Grammy? As a treat?”
The way she says it—mock wounded but playful—knocks a real laugh out of you. A startled, honest one.
She notices and her grin widens, pleased.
“Congratulations,” she continues, her tone softening just enough to let sincerity slip through. “That speech? Very Oscar-coded. I was like, should I be crying? Should I stand? Do I throw flowers?”
“Please don’t throw anything at me.”
“Oh, I absolutely could’ve. I’m very strong.”
You tilt your head, letting your gaze sweep over her for a second longer than necessary. “I can tell.”
Her eyes drop briefly, assessing you in return, before lifting back up to meet yours. There’s interest in those blue depths.
“And your performance?” you say, shifting the focus before your body betrays you. “Unfair. Genuinely. You hypnotized half the crowd.”
She shrugs, pretending nonchalance, but there’s pride tucked into the corner of her mouth. “I mean… I did look hot. That helps.”
“Understatement of the year.”
Her eyes flash at that.
“You’re charming,” she says, studying you now rather than joking. “It’s dangerous.”
“I could say the same about you, Cap.”
She laughs instantly at the reference to her pilot look, shoulders shaking. “Stop. I commit to a bit.”
“It worked.”
She leans in slightly. “I noticed you giving an standing ovation after my performance.”
Your heart stutters. “You did, huh?”
“I notice everything.”
“And you?” You counter, because you refuse to be the only one flustered. “You were already looking at me before they called my name.”
She doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even try to do so. Instead, she tilts her head slowly, considering it.
“Maybe I had a feeling.”
“A feeling?”
“That if I didn’t win,” she says, her eyes steady on yours, “at least it would be someone interesting.”
The air between you thickens. Just enough to make it hard to breathe normally.
Across the room, someone calls her name. Another hand lands on your shoulder, asking for a photo. The industry doesn’t pause for tension.
She steps back just slightly. “There’s an after-party happening later. You going?”
“I was planning to.”
“Good.” She smooths her skirt, composure sliding effortlessly back into place. “Because I’d hate to lose to you twice and not at least get a drink out of it.”
“You’re competitive.”
“Painfully.”
“I like that.”
Her smile widens at that.
“See you soon,” she says.
The after-party is a different world entirely. Gone are the rigid seating charts and choreographed applause. The venue hums with low lighting and heavy bass, champagne gleaming under warm gold fixtures. The air smells like expensive perfume and adrenaline finally being exhaled. Heels are abandoned. Ties loosen. Laughter turns reckless now that no one’s being judged.
You scan the room before you even realize you're doing it, and there she is. Across the space, near the bar.
The tulle cape is gone, revealing the clean lines of her shoulders. Her hair is slightly tousled now, less red carpet perfection and more lived-in glamour. She’s holding a Limoncello Spritz, glass balanced effortlessly between her fingers, laughing at something someone says—head tipped back, looking breathtaking and achingly real.
And then, like she can feel it, she looks at you. There’s recognition instantly.
She excuses herself mid-sentence, brushing someone’s arm with a quick apology, and walks straight toward you.
“Hey, Grammy hog,” she says as she reaches you, tone bright and teasing.
“Hi, almost-Grammy hog.”
She gasps, hand to chest. “Cheeky.”
“You started it.”
“True.” She takes a slow sip of her drink, eyes never leaving yours over the rim of the glass. “So. Be honest. Are you always this insufferably talented, or was tonight special?”
“Only when I’m trying to impress someone.”
She hums thoughtfully, like she’s genuinely weighing that. “Is it working?”
“Depends. Is it?”
She studies you intentionally then, like she’s flipping through pages, reading between lines.
“Unfortunately,” she says at last, “yes.”
You start talking.
At first about the obvious things—music, touring, the chaos of 2025. But the conversation shifts naturally. About pressure. About burnout. About how surreal it feels to be praised and idolized by strangers who don’t know you at all. About the loneliness that sneaks in even when arenas are full.
She’s sharper than people give her credit for. Quick in a way that feels effortless. Funny in a way that creeps up on you and then lands hard. Self-aware enough to joke about her own ambition without pretending it doesn’t exist. She's a strong, intelligent woman, and you're drawn to that.
At some point, you’re sitting on a velvet couch tucked into a darker corner of the room. Your knees brush, and neither of you moves away.
At another point, you start leaning in instinctively when she talks. Like you’re afraid if you don’t, you’ll miss something important.
A photographer approaches, camera already lifted.
She waves them away without turning fully. “Sorry,” she says sweetly, flashing a practiced smile. “I’m busy networking.”
You laugh, and she bumps her knee against yours in satisfaction.
Hours go by without feeling like they do. Songs change. Drinks are refilled. The room thins out.
Finally, she glances at her phone to check the time, the glow lighting her face from below. “I should probably go before I do something that ends up on Twitter.”
“That's probably wise.”
She stands, smoothing her dress absentmindedly. There’s a flicker of hesitation in her gaze, like she doesn't want to leave just yet. Then she reaches for your hand.
“Give me your phone.”
You raise an amused brow. “Wow. Moving fast.”
She rolls her eyes, although she’s smiling. “I just want to give you my number. I need to make sure you won’t disappear.”
You hand it over and she types quickly, thumbs efficient. Hands it back.
You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face when you see her name in your contacts.
“Text me,” she says.
“I will.”
She steps closer again. Close enough that you feel the warmth of her breath against your ear as she leans in.
“Next year,” she whispers playfully, confidence woven through every syllable, “I’m taking at least three Grammys from you.”
You turn your head slightly, just enough that your mouths are almost brushing. Close enough that if either of you moved a fraction, you would kiss.
“Looking forward to it.”
She pulls back slowly, grin sharp and satisfied. And then she disappears into the crowd, blonde hair glowing under the warm lights.
You stay where you are for a long moment, heart still racing.
And as the night continues spinning around you, you realize something.
Maybe the best thing you won tonight wasn’t a Grammy at all.
hi do u think u could do Agatha Harkness & innocent reader smut please 💕💕
{ The “virgin” }
Mbf!Agatha harkness x innocent reader
Warning: ( NSFW! Do not read if you’re not over the age of 18, includes adult sex information) masturbation (r! Receiving), fingering (r! Receiving), clit play , talk of watching porn, talk of sex toys, forced orgasm, breast play, praise kink, first time cumming.
A/n: had this in my box unposted for far too long, sorry for the long wait hope you enjoy!
Agatha was your mom’s best friend since childhood. They were very close since high school and have always stayed that way. Growing up Agatha was like your second mom. Always taking you to school, picking you up, dropping you off to dance practice when your mom had to work late nights, taking you out on tea party dates and ensuring that she took pictures and videos so you mom wouldn’t beat herself up for thinking she’s missing out on your childhood.
By the time you were ready to go to high school Agatha had moved states and your mom had decided to completely remove you from the outside world. She made you switch schools, and would sometimes make you take online classes when she had a night shift and couldn’t pick you up. She completely locked you away from society and civilization. You didn’t have friends, you didn’t go out, you never drank or smoke, you never had a normal life.
You were always at home either reading or listening to music—sobbing your youth away. For your last year in high school she finally allowed you to live a little. You were able to do big girl stuff, like drink alcohol for the first time, vape once, attend wild and crazy parties, sneak out, and all the teenage stuff you had missed out on. And finally you were able to make cool popular friends who shared the same interests as you and who had your back.
But there was one thing. You never had sex. You’d listen to all your friends talk about it and pretend that you have, telling them stories of times you would randomly hook up with guys and sneak out just to have sex, and times you’d do it for fun then ghost them or break their hearts or times you’d do it for the money. You were a really pretty girl and lots of guys would hide the front of their pants everytime you walked past them. They were all crazy over you but you didn’t wanna date anyone until you knew enough stuff about sex so you wouldn’t embarrass yourself.
You’d often watch porn but it often wasn’t real enough so you’d go to sex shows or strip clubs. You’d join sex group chats where girls sent their nudes or sex tapes. You’d read journals about how to orgasm, squirt, ride a dick, suck one, sex positions and all the crazy stuff. None of which you knew how to do.
So when you heard that Agatha was coming to visit,you thought that you’d speak to her about it personally since you’ve never talked to your mom about your feelings and you were kinda scared to do so, because often times she’d tell you to don’t have boyfriends and never get caught up in sexual activities— classical.
You had your last course work exams today and you were completely and utterly exhausted and sexually frustrated. You were doing human biology and part of your class today was learning about sex and the different type of orgasms.
****
When you got home you didn’t bother to check your phone and maybe you should have because then you would have saw the message from your mom stating that Agatha was back in town and going to be spending the night because she had a late night shift and that she should be coming over anytime soon, so keep the doors unlocked.
Once you saw that house was completely empty, You went straight to your room and gently closed the door. You tossed your bag aside and quickly removed all piece of clothing from your body. You laid on your bed, pillow underneath your hips as you laid there completely naked and sprawled out. You closed your eyes and reflected on the orgasm videos you once used to watch.
First you started by playing with your breast, small light gropes before twisting and pulling your nipples. Then your hand made its way down your stomach gently drawing shapes and caressing the soft flesh, when you got to your mound you slowly parted your legs and allowed your hand to wonder. You carefully started toying with your clit. Just as you saw in the porn videos. Slow, small and gentle circles around the small bud.
Your back arched slightly as your head fell back. You could feel all the slick from your cunt on your fingers coating them so sinfully. A soft moan escaped from your throat as your finger went down further exploring, your depths. you swirled your finger around your entrance before gasping softly. You’ve never had anything up there in a while since the time your mom had almost caught you riding your friends dildo in her bathroom. You had to lie about your moaning being coughing because you were getting sick.
Soon frustration started to build up within you. You increased the pace of your fingers, desperate for some sort of release or high but nothing came. You felt a small tingling in your stomach but it disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared. At this point you were just forcing an orgasm, you weren’t totally in the moment and the sexy, horny feeling that you once felt was now gone and replaced with unease.
“ fuck! Gosh just cum already” you huffed as you sat up and removed your hands from your cunt wiping off the tip of your fingers with wipes. Sighing you laid back against the headboard and closed your eyes.
“ my love?” Your eyes snapped open when you heard the familiar voice. It was Agatha. She was standing in your door way, arms crossed with a slight concerned look but maybe for a moment you saw a glint behind her eyes or maybe you were imagining things. You quickly covered yourself with your blanket before she proceeded to approach you.
“ how long were you standing there?” the question came out a little more harsh than you may have intended because you saw the way she stopped in her tracks and looked at you. She stared at your figure for a while before smirking.
“ long enough to observe that you have no sex drive….. so who’s the boy you’re trying to impress?” Your eyes widen at her statement before huffing and rolling over on the bed, giving her a little space to sit.
“ 1. there’s no boy, 2. You weren’t supposed to see that and 3. Please don’t tell mom” Agatha smiled softly at you before her hand reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
“ I won’t….. but you have to let me help you first. “
That’s how you ended up with her three fingers knuckle deep in your dripping cunt. Your cunt gladly sucked in her fingers ,clenching down on all three digits. You were a complete moaning mess for her. With your back arched and your eyes rolled to the back of your head….. the entire scene was utterly and completely sinful. But god did it feel so good. Her fingers were hitting a spongy spot in you felt magical.
Unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. Your thighs were closing in on her as your toes curled every now and then.
“ oh—oh my fucking god!SHIT—“ you cried out as your body twitched when she opened your legs wider allowing her to go a little deeper. Her fingers would curl every time they thrusted into you, the more audible you were the faster she would fuck her fingers into you. Your grip on the sheets were detrimental as you began to see stars.
“ yeah baby girl? Right there? It feels good when mommy’s does that?” Your mind was fuzzy and your skin was bathing in sweat, the once so innocent girl was now a moaning whore for her own mother’s childhood best friend. You started to feel that familiar burning sensation in your lower tummy and it felt strange this time. Demanding or forcing.
You tried to ease away from Agatha’s fingers a bit but she held your hips firmly.
“ w-wait,oh god! Stop, I think I’m gonna c—“ before you could finish your sentence Agatha pushes your legs above your chest fucking you deeper from a different angle as a sinister smirk took over her face. All you could hear was the sqlueching noise from her knuckles connecting over and over again in a brutal attempt to push you over and edge and with a few more thrust you were gone completely.
You came with a silent cry as you cling onto the bed sheets for dear life, your thighs shook vigorously as you continued to soar high at cloud nine. You’ve never experienced anything like this. It felt like heaven. Agatha’s fingers was still working you through your climax as you slowly started to regain your senses. She removed her fingers from your trenches before placing them in her mouth.
A soft but audible moan was heard from her before she smiled softly down at you.
“ do you have anything else in mind that you wanna learn sweetheart, your mom doesn’t get home till 7 and I have all weekend…..” oh brother…….
