RODEO BRUISES .ᐟ
summary: It took only a few seconds for you to fall down that horse. Legs, hips, back and the aching feeling of bruises already forming on your body. And Dodge, your boyfriend, is worried. But a massage and some fingering later, you both end up relaxed.
pairing: dodge mason x afab!girlfriend.
cw: +18. mdni. 2.8k words. praise. overstimulation. fingering. multiple orgasms. dirty-talking. aftercare.
taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @museboos, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @artstennisracket, @yardofbrunettes, @hangels, @sweetheartfaist, @lacelottie
You should’ve seen the fall coming. The way your horse twitched under you, the crack of something in the trees, the second of stillness before the storm. But you didn’t. One sharp jolt and you were airborne—then earthbound. Shoulder first. Hip second. The wind punched out of your lungs like a slap to the chest.
Now you’re lying on your stomach in Dodge’s bed, your body aching in a dozen places, skin flushed warm from the hot bath he insisted on drawing for you earlier. You’re wearing only an oversized t-shirt—his—and a pair of soft cotton panties. The arnica oil sits on the nightstand beside you, and he’s rubbing it into your sore muscles with quiet, focused intensity.
“You scared the shit out of me,” he mutters, kneeling beside the bed as his hands press gentle circles into your lower back. “I thought—I don’t know what I thought. You weren’t moving.”
“I’m okay now,” you murmur, voice muffled by the pillow. “Thanks to you.”
His thumbs press along your spine, just enough to stretch out the ache without pushing too far. Dodge’s hands are warm, rough in all the right ways. You can feel the calluses catch on your skin now and then, but they don’t hurt. They remind you of who he is—of how many times those same hands have steadied you, cupped your face, tugged you close like he didn’t trust the world to keep you safe.
“Can’t believe you’re still lettin’ me touch you,” he says softly, like the guilt’s still pressing into his chest. “I should’ve kept a better eye on you.”
You exhale a sleepy sound. “You weren’t the one who spooked the horse.”
“Still.”
His touch lingers at the small of your back. The room is dim—sunlight gone, leaving only the amber glow of the bedside lamp. You hear him open the oil bottle again, feel the warmth of it as he rubs it between his hands.
He starts again, slow and purposeful. First at your shoulders, then your back, kneading the soreness from your muscles in long, deliberate strokes. But this time, he doesn’t stop there. His hands slide lower—tracing the curves of your hips, then down, until his palms are resting over the swell of your ass. He does it in a way that you know is not sexual.
You shift slightly, breath hitching, still. Because it’s Dodge, and every little attention coming from him makes your body boil. Hot like summer, heat pooling inside your stomach without permission from your brain.
“Still okay?” he murmurs, low and close to your ear.
“Yes,” you whisper, and your body betrays you by arching into his touch just a little.
His thumbs move in careful circles across the soft flesh there, rubbing out the tension like he has every right to touch you this way—and he does. It’s tender. Reassuring. But there’s something else behind it too, simmering slow. The edge of want.
“You’ve got the prettiest ass I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs like it’s a confession. “Soft, even when you’re bruised.”
You let out a shaky laugh, still face-down in the pillow. “You’re not helping me rest, you know.”
“You want me to stop?”
You shake your head. Of course you don’t.
Dodge hums like he already knew the answer. His hands glide over your thighs, up again, then closer—until his thumbs brush along the crease where your thighs meet your core. The fabric of your panties is thin, barely separating his hands from the heat of you.
“You’re warm here,” he says quietly, almost reverently. “Real warm.”
You bury your face deeper into the pillows.
“You’re blushing,” he teases softly like he knows without needing to see your face, and he’s kissing the back of your thigh. “What, just from a little massage?”
“It’s not just the massage,” you mutter, and he laughs against your skin—low and fond.
He’s careful as he touches you, rubbing slow circles over your clothed pussy. One hand slips under your shirt again to rest warm on your lower back, grounding you. The other moves between your legs, teasing along your slit through the dampening cotton.
“You’re wet already,” he murmurs, voice dipping even lower. “All this just from me touchin’ you like this?”
You nod against the pillow, your breath shuddering.
“You’re so fuckin’ soft, baby. You always get like this when I take my time with you.”
A soft whimper escapes your throat, hips twitching as he touches you through your panties with maddening patience. He presses a little harder over your clit with his thumb, the pressure slow and steady, and you make a strangled sound into the sheets.
“That’s it,” he praises. “Let me take care of you.”
He slides the fabric to the side then, baring you to the warm air of the room. His fingers glide between your folds, wet and hot and already pulsing for more. When he dips a finger just against your entrance, you whimper.
“God, you’re so ready,” he groans. “So fuckin’ wet for me.”
His fingers stroke back up, teasing around your clit again before he leans down, breath hot over the curve of your ass. “You make the sweetest sounds, you know that? Every little cry just for me.”
You cry out again as he presses a finger inside—just one, slow and steady. It slides in easy, thanks to how wet you already are. You clench around him instinctively. “There we go,” he whispers. “That feel good?”
You nod, moaning into the pillow. “Yes. Yes, Dodge—”
He adds another finger, stretching you carefully, curling just enough to make your thighs tremble. The hand on your lower back strokes comfortingly, holding you in place as he fucks you slow with his fingers.
“You’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he groans. “So fuckin’ needy tonight.”
“I c-can’t—” your voice cracks as you try to hold still. Your hips grind back into his hand on instinct. “You can,” he coaxes, voice going impossibly soft. “You always can for me, baby. Give me that first one. Let it out.”
It rises fast—so fast your breath can’t keep up. You come with a cry muffled in the pillow, your body shaking as you fall apart under his hand when his fingers hit your spongy spot multiple times. Tears slip down your cheeks and Dodge catches them with his thumb.
“Good girl,” he whispers, kissing the dip of your lower back. “That’s it. So fuckin’ good.”
He keeps going—slow, unrelenting—and the overstimulation hits like a wave. You whine, writhing against the bed as his fingers work your soaked cunt. “You’ve got more,” he whispers, low and certain. “Don’t hide from me.”
“I—it’s too much—Please—More…”
“It’s perfect,” he counters, and his voice is full of something warm and molten. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty when you cry.”
The second orgasm crashes over you, harder than the first. You sob into the mattress, trembling as he talks you through it, rubbing slow circles over your clit with his free fingers as your cunt pulses around his digits.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “That’s my girl.”
You lay there panting, body shaking. He slows, finally withdrawing his fingers, and you hear the wet sound of it, slick coating his hand. He presses a kiss to the small of your back, then one to your thigh, then higher. “You alright?” he asks quietly, hand smoothing over your back.
You nod, still breathless. “I’m so good.”
He kisses your shoulder. “That was the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” You let out a laugh, exhausted and floaty. “You’re gonna kill me with compliments.”
He chuckles, laying down beside you and resting a hand on your lower back. “Only if it gets you to cry like that again.”
You’re still trembling beneath him, cheek pressed into the pillow, your body limp and warm with the afterglow of two back-to-back orgasms. Your skin feels tight and glowing, like you’ve been cracked open and poured full of honey. Dodge’s hand is now resting between your shoulder blades, gentle and grounding.
“You alright, baby?” he murmurs again, his voice a little hoarse with want.
You hum a breathless yes, too gone to say much else. But your hips twitch when his palm trails back down, between your thighs again, where you’re slick and aching. He groans softly at the sight.
“Goddamn,” he says low, reverent. “You’re even more soaked.”
You bury your face deeper in the pillow, embarrassed—but it only makes him smile. He leans over you, kissing the back of your neck, your shoulder, the warm patch of skin just behind your ear. “Don’t go shy on me now,” he teases softly. “Not when your pretty pussy’s beggin’ for more.”
You shiver, and your legs part instinctively as his fingers return. He strokes along your folds again—slow, lazy, just enjoying the feel of you. You let out a soft sound, half-whimper, half-plea.
“You want more?” he asks gently. “You gotta say it.”
“Please…” Your voice is rough, sweet with exhaustion. “More.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
He pushes two fingers back inside you easily, curling them deep. You gasp, your hips rolling down into the bed, your thighs twitching. “Still so fuckin’ tight,” he murmurs. “And you just came twice.” You moan, the pressure of him filling you again like a balm and a brand. He adds a third finger slowly, easing you open with care, watching your body stretch around him.
You gasp, the stretch bordering on too much—but just barely. Your muscles clench, trying to adjust, and Dodge strokes your back soothingly, kissing your spine.
“Shh, I’ve got you. Just breathe through it, baby. You’re takin’ me so well.”
He works them slowly, twisting and curling until your thighs begin to tremble again. You feel full, stuffed, stretched in the most tender way—your hips pinned to the mattress, your whole body reduced to sensation.
“Feels good,” you whisper, voice cracking. “So full, Dodge—”
“I know,” he croons. “You’re doin’ perfect. Always so sweet for me.” You sob into the pillow, overwhelmed by the heat pooling in your belly again. You didn’t think you had anything left, but the pressure’s building fast, sharp and hot and electric.
“Don’t fight it,” he whispers, pressing kisses between your shoulder blades. “Give me another. Come for me again. Let me see you fall apart.”
You try to hold it, just for a second longer—but it slams into you without warning. You cry out, hands clutching the sheets as your whole body tenses, shudders, and breaks. Your thighs are soaked now, his fingers working you through it until you’re gasping for air.
Tears wet your face, hot and steady. Dodge strokes your hip, coos into your ear like he’s trying to settle a wild thing.
“There she is,” he whispers. “There’s my girl.”
You don’t know how long you lie there, panting and shaking, skin flushed and nerves blazing. Dodge is still behind you, still touching you—gentle now, tracing circles into your skin with the pads of his fingers. His lips ghost along your spine, your shoulder blades, your ass.
“You still with me?” he asks finally.
You nod, still face-down in the pillow. “I’m here.”
“Did so good,” he says, voice thick with awe. “Let me fuckin’ ruin you without even movin’ you.”
You laugh weakly. “I don’t think I can walk anyway.”
He laughs too, kissing your hip. “Good. You ain’t goin’ anywhere.” You can feel his hard cock pressing against your thigh through his jeans, but he hasn’t taken his own pleasure—not yet. He’s too focused on you. Always has been. “Want me to stop?” he asks, even now. Always checking. Always careful.
You shake your head, arching weakly into his touch. “Don’t stop. Just… slower.” He hums, satisfied. “You wanna give me one more?”
You gasp, half-laughing, half-delirious. “I don’t even know if I can.”
“That’s alright, baby,” he whispers, settling back between your thighs, his hand already moving again—slow and purposeful, dragging your pleasure out like he has all the time in the world.
And Dodge?
He’s gonna make sure you remember it with every inch of your trembling body.
The room is quiet again, save for the sound of your breathing—still a little unsteady but settling, and the soft rustle of the sheets beneath you. Dodge stays close, his lips brushing your lower back, his hands warm where they rest on the swell of your hips.
You hum, soft and dazed, face still turned into the pillow. You’re boneless, stretched out and melted, your skin tingling everywhere he touched. You can feel your thighs still wet and sticky, your panties damp and clinging to the side, your body flushed with the aftershocks of everything he gave you.
But Dodge doesn’t rush. He never does.
"Alright, sweetheart," he murmurs into the small of your back. "Gonna get you cleaned up. Don't move, I’ve got it."
You feel the bed dip as he gets up, hear him padding across the room. The sound of a faucet running, a towel being wrung out. His care is quiet, reverent. Like he’s handling something precious.
When he comes back, he slides down beside you, and you flinch at the first contact—the towel is warm, wet, and soft as he eases your legs apart just enough to wipe gently between them. He murmurs something under his breath when he sees the mess, but it’s not dirty, not crude. It’s wonder. It’s pride.
“Look what you gave me,” he whispers, thumb brushing the inside of your thigh. “You were so good for me. So damn perfect.” You blink, eyes glassy from overstimulation and tears. Your lips twitch into a lazy smile.
He’s so careful as he cleans you, wiping you down with slow, tender strokes. He presses kisses to the backs of your knees, your thighs, the curve of your spine. And then, with the towel tossed aside, his fingers return—but not to tease, not to start anything new.
He starts massaging you again.
Same as before—like it’s still about your fall, still about the tight muscles and tension from the saddle and the ground. He starts at your ankles, kneading slow and steady. You sigh, letting yourself go limp all over again.
“You weren’t lyin’ earlier,” he says softly, voice full of affection. “Took a hell of a hit.”
“Mm,” you hum. “Was worth it.”
He chuckles under his breath. “Don’t say that. I’d rather you keep your pretty bones in one piece.”
His hands glide up your calves, thumbs pressing into the flesh, gentle but firm. You twitch a little when he hits a sore spot, but he kisses your ankle in apology, smoothing the tension with a few more careful passes. "You like me takin’ care of you like this?" he asks quietly.
“Mmhmm.”
“You deserve it,” he says simply, like it’s fact. “Deserve to be touched real nice. Spoken to sweet. Made to feel good.”
Your chest tightens at that. There’s so much love in his voice it makes you ache.
He continues the massage, now at your thighs, avoiding your sore hips but stroking the surrounding muscles with steady care. The sensation is grounding. His touch, worshipful. There’s no rush now—no teasing, no game. Just love.
He kneads the small of your back, gentle over the spot that took the brunt of the fall. When you flinch a little, he pauses, kisses the ache, and moves around it. “Gonna need to ice that tomorrow,” he murmurs. “But for now, I’ll be your heat pack.”
You let out a sleepy giggle into the pillow.
He eventually stops massaging and shifts up the bed beside you, slipping under the covers, arms sliding around your waist. You’re still on your stomach, too dazed to flip, but he just wraps himself around you from behind, chest to your back, one hand slipping beneath the hem of your oversized shirt to stroke your waist.
“You know I love you, right?” he murmurs.
You nod instantly. “Yeah. I know. I love you too.”
“Good,” he says, brushing a kiss to your cheek. “’Cause I do. More than I know what to do with, sometimes.” You press your hand to his forearm where it’s draped over your side, squeezing lightly.
His voice dips lower, soft and sure. “Next time you fall off a horse, don’t wait for me to come find you, alright? You come to me right away.”
You smile against the pillow. “You’d always take care of me like this?” He laughs, husky and low. “Girl, I’ll take care of you like this every night if you want.”
“You’d wear your fingers out.”
“You’re worth it,” he says without missing a beat. “Every damn second.”
You turn your head just enough to see his face—his messy hair, his sleep-heavy eyes, the soft curve of his smile. He kisses your forehead, your temple, your cheek, and finally the corner of your mouth. “Sleep now,” he whispers. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
And he is. Always.
