cw — mdni, reader is ellie's gf, vi is kinda mean, strap usage, brief spanking, hair-pulling, squirting, nerd!cuck!ellie...? anyone...?
"fuuck, look at her .."
vi laughs, her calloused hands gripping your waist as she continued her merciless pounding into your cunt. there was nothing but the sound of vi's hips colliding with your ass and the obscene squelching of your wetness filling the room as she fucked you deep into the mattress. this was all occurring right in front of your girlfriend, ellie, who had been made to watch the entire thing with her hands tied behind her back.
you were nothing but a moaning, drooling mess. sweat dripped off both of your bodies and your hair was a tangled mess from being constantly manhandled. the embarrassment of getting wrecked in view of ellie had long left your body; too drunk on the dizzying feeling of vi's thick strap hitting that sweet spot over and over again.
"you see this shit? thaat's how you make your girl feel good," vi tosses a glance at ellie, who had been subtly rubbing her thighs together for some form of friction in her dampening pants, "bet you've never gotten her this wet 'nd needy before, huh?"
vi reached down and grabbed a fistful of your hair, pulling your head back enough so you could properly look at ellie, who was gazing back at you with just as much patheticism.
"c'mon, look at your girlfriend .. let's show her the mess you're gonna make all over my dick, yeah?" vi murmurs against your ear, giving your ass a firm spank with her free hand. you let out a small, pained yelp from the impact as your noisy cunt tightens around the silicone, your orgasm rapidly approaching.
"o-oh god, ngh .. ! ellie, please .. !" you whined, your vision all watery as you tried your best to keep your eyes on her. ellie bit her bottom lip at your needy display, wanting nothing more than to break out of her restraints so she could touch you too.
"tsk, i'm the one fucking you dumb and you've got the nerve to moan her name?" vi scoffs, her thrusts somehow getting rougher. her hand comes down to rub tight circles around your aching clit, which spurs on louder moans from your throat. "go on .. look at ellie in the eyes as you cum. let her know who's making you feel this good."
you fall over the edge not long after — your cunt spasming around the strap as you squirted all over the bedsheets and vi's thighs. exhaustion immediately took over as your twitchy body melted into the sheets, too weak to hold yourself up anymore.
"h-holy shit ..." ellie murmurs in awe, watching with labored breaths as your body trembled from the intensity of your orgasm.
vi slowly pulls out of you, the base of her fake shaft covered in a ring of cream. she takes a moment to catch her breath before sitting back and leaning against the headboard, pulling your worn-out body against hers. with your back now pressed against her chest, she reaches for your thighs and spreads them apart, giving ellie the perfect view of your spent cunt that still leaked with your juices.
"get over here, ellie. gotta teach you how to eat your girl out properly, too."
warning: engaging with this post may cause her to appear unannounced. she knows where you sleep.
✶ part one ⋮ 18+ ⋮ desperately, pussy achingly in need of a feralwife!ellie who:
౨ৎ mumbles shit like “you’re such a good girl” under her breath while you’re doing regular domestic shit. could be folding towels, loading the dishwasher, or even watering the little succulents on the windowsill. the art of watering plants. yup, she finds that shit attractive.
౨ৎ gets all twitchy when a toddler hands her a flower. claims, “i don’t like kids,” but keeps the flower in her sketchbook like it’s a signed autograph from caitlin clark.
౨ৎ holds a baby once at a family function, and the second it stops crying in her arms, she won’t shut up about it for the next week. “d’you see that? she liked me. babies fuckin’ like me, babe.”
౨ৎ gets awfully quiet whenever she sees you holding someone else’s baby.
౨ৎ gets all weird when she sees a my first pride onesie at the thrift store and shoves it in your face aggressively. “hah. imagine. that’d be... gay as fuck.”
౨ৎ starts picking baby names out of nowhere, like, you’re in the middle of grocery shopping and she goes, “that’d be a sick name if we ever had a kid,” then refuses to explain further. “not sayin’ we should. just sayin’... plus, s’not like i’d be a bad mom, right?” then crashes face-first into the doritos aisle when you actually agree.
౨ৎ suddenly starts leaving her sketchbook out, hoping you’ll find the little doodles she’s been doing of you. ones where you’re asleep with your hand on a pregnant belly you don’t even have, or you holding a baby she hasn’t told you about yet, as a silent “if you’d ever want one, i’d want one, too” she doesn’t have the heart to utter, mostly out of fear. because what if you don’t want it? even though you said a long time ago that you were open to it, things change, and so do people. that’s enough to scare her into silence. unbeknownst to her, she’s been knocking on a door that’s already pretty much unlocked.
౨ৎ floats subtle ideas like getting a dog, casually throwing out a shy, “just to see if we’d survive having a creature that needs us, like, a test run! a baby but with less trauma, y’know?” or testing the waters with offhand comments “you’d be such a good mom,” pretending she hasn’t been carrying that shit in her chest this whole time. but eventually, she grows a pair.
౨ৎ blurts out “would you ever wanna… y’know. do the baby thing? with me?” mid-makeout, while you’re straddling her, cheeks of a deep cherry-red as if she just asked you to try out a new position (you lowk have tried them all by now, but that’s besides the point.)
౨ৎ reads all the parenting articles you send her after saying yes. she’s got whole tabs open on her ipad titled “gentle parenting for anxious people” and “how to not fuck up your kid when you’re gay and traumatized.” #ipadkidcore
౨ৎ talks with you for hours about the different options, like real adults and real partners, because she’s serious about this and wants to be ready. timelines, genetics, your job, her job, who would carry, health considerations, etc. all of it etched right next to a half-completed drawing of you in an unfairly serene slumber.
౨ৎ nods to every word that comes out of the doctor’s mouth on your first appointment. he’s explaining how reciprocal IVF works and ellie’s can’t shut the fuck up for more than 6 seconds (you were keeping track.) you think her questions are silly, but to her, they are highly significant and totally life-altering.
“can she still eat gas station sushi, or is that a bad mindset for implantation?”
“does stress really lower fertility because she gets stressed when she looks for parking—” you smack the shit outta her.
౨ৎ cries as soon as you walk out. her legs feel so weak that she has to lean against a wall, eyes all glassy, trembling hands braced on her knees. you even start to worry, already convinced she’s about to backtrack and change her mind after dropping three grand, just like that one time she impulse-bought wonder woman curtains from tiktok shop because ‘they matched the living room vibe’ and regretted it instantly. typical ellie behavior.
“ellie? what’s wrong?”
“it’s just— the idea of… you carrying something that’s half me?” she sniffles, looking away ashamed, “i didn’t think i’d ever get something that good.” only option, really, is to kiss her dumb. what else could you do?
౨ৎ suddenly develops a huge breeding kink out of nowhere. 6 inches in and she goes, “fuck, yeah. just like that. takin’ me so good. my girl’s gonna get full off me, huh? gonna carry our baby.” you try to remind her how insemination really works and all you get is a defensive, “shut up. it’s my fantasy.”
౨ৎ slaps your ass around the house every time you bend over. “that’s a breeding ass, babe.”
౨ৎ takes the donor selection process way too seriously. at first, at least. the intention is there: notebook draped over her laptop keyboard, highlighter cap clenched between her teeth type of serious. she writes things down, circles relevant stuff; even makes a pros and cons list like it’s a fucking job interview.
but no one’s good enough. she’s actively roasting these dudes like they personally disrespected her entire bloodline. “his name is braxton,” she reads out loud, squinting at you sideways. “nope. immediate red flag. he absolutely says ‘epic’ unironically. instant pass.” click. “liam. i just know he got arrested for tax evasion and called his mom to cry about it.” click again, without even giving you time to react. “why does his smile look like he knows what crypto is.” click. “babe, i swear i’ve seen this one dude on the dark web before,” she stabs at the screen of her laptop with her finger. click. “absolutely fucking not.”
she’s scrolling fast now, flicking through profiles like she’s on tinder with way too much repressed rage, commenting it all—height, hair color, childhood photo, medical history tabs she pretends not to care about while still reading every single one with a judgmental heart.
the clicking eventually comes to a stop. “what. the. fuck.”
your eyes land on the name and you can’t help but snort. “who the fuck names their kid… elliot jackscum?”
click. click again. then goes back and clicks on the profile.
“…why does he lowkey look like me though.” you both frown, exchanging looks, “that’s me in the upside-down.”
now you’re both dead silent, fully locked in, reading every detail that actually matters. the medical history is clean, genetic screening clear. education is something arts-related, a personality similar to ellie’s (not that that holds much importance, in your opinion.)
you sigh, studying her face before murmuring a “we should pick him, shouldn’t we.” less a question, more a i know that look.
ellie sinks into the couch, blowing out a resigned breath through her nose as a calloused palm drags down her face. “god fucking damn it.”
“…yeah.”
“jackscum wins.”
౨ৎ starts hormone injections for egg retrieval and instantly becomes the most disgusting, horniest version of herself.
౨ৎ shrugs it off at first, saying it’s whatever, that she’ll get used to it. but it doesn’t level out; if anything, it escalates. gradually, but surely. suddenly she’s spooning you tighter at night, her hands wandering way more than usual, past the waistband of your underwear, up your shirt, cupping your breasts, kissing the back of your neck like you’re the dinner she didn’t get to eat because she got sent to bed early, grounded and starving.
the sex dreams start happening almost every night. sometimes she even moans in her sleep. all you know is you’ve caught her humping her pillow more times than you care to count. you bend over for half a second to pick something up, and she’s there, fake banging you from behind like a dog in heat—except she very clearly wishes it wasn’t fake at all. then she starts begging. for neck kisses. for head. always pulling you into her lap or groping your ass at the most random times. sometimes all while dirty talking to you in a low rasp, her mouth at your neck, her breath caressing your baby hairs deliciously. it makes your head spin.
౨ৎ starts with hints before she actively starts begging. you’ll be eating and she’ll just stare at your mouth and go, “you could do something else with that mouth.” or “how bout you kiss my thighs and see where it goes?” still, not so subtle, but at least she’s cute about it.
౨ৎ other times she straight up whines about it, every time using the same old excuse when you dare call her out. “you don’t understand. i feel like a greek fertility goddess right now. it’s a medical thing—what happened to feminism anyway? girls having each other’s back and all that shit.” does she make any sense? absolutely not, but you hold her hand through it and keep her thighs open when needed, mouth where it matters, patience in your praises and your tongue on her swollen clit. <3
౨ৎ wakes you up in the middle of the night to announce how unwell she’s feeling.
you feel her shaking you like a cocktail while you’re chasing some distant, juicy slumber of your own just to whisper, nearly panicked, “babe. emergency.”
“what,” you mumble, half asleep, half groan, half annoyed.
“i had a dream you ate me out while i was crying and then gave me a juice box. and i woke up horny and thirsty. it’s a sign. please.” she shakes you again, more urgently this time.
“mkay…” you don’t fully register any of it. your half-conscious brain assumes she’s hungry or something, she’s woken you up for less. “go drink water,” you reach for her blindly, eyes still closed, meaning to pat her on the shoulder, except your hand lands right on her tit and her breath stutters like you just hit a wounded nerve.
“it’s not the same,” she sighs, pouting a little at the ceiling.
౨ৎ jokes about dying if you don’t suck her tits and moans way too loud when you actually do.
from there, things derail fast, because somehow you end up between her thighs, slurping on a clit that’s never throbbed so angrily against your tongue. she’s so wet you almost feel bad. between the constant horniness, the random mood swings, the cramps, the snapping, you figure your girl genuinely needs the extra attention.
except she’s greedy about it.
she yanks at your hair harshly, sucking in a breath, moaning like a pornstar. freckles scattered over pink skin, growing impatient beneath you, looking so fucking pretty it physically hurts. “babe… please,” she begs in a voice so feeble, so high-pitched, “please, please—fingers, please.” seconds away from a full mental breakdown even as you’re eating her out.
it’s never enough for ellie. doesn’t matter if she’s going to bed with an orgasm count of five or thirteen.
you pull away with the filthiest smooch, lips abandoning her completely. “doctor said no internal stimulation.” your huff lands directly on her cunt, making her shiver. “you’re lucky i’m even doing this.”
of course, she argues. “i’m literally not gonna die from one knuckle—”
“ellie.” you glare at her through your lashes and she swears she’s gonna squirt just from that.
“this is the worst oppression i’ve ever experienced—oh my god, keep going, keep—oooh fuck, fuuck!—” she comes gasping into the crook of her elbow, all whiny and twitchy, actively trying to argue even as she rides it out on your tongue.
“you still gonna complain? i’m fucking you to sleep at this point.”
“i’ll give it a six… could’ve been better with your fingers.”
you wipe your mouth and snort. “you’re lucky i didn’t call the doctor mid-orgasm and tell him exactly what you were asking me for, you little bitch.”
౨ৎ wakes you up the next morning with breakfast in bed: a cute, wooden tray with a japanese cherry blossom tree painted on it (by her), heart-shaped pancakes, chocolate-dipped strawberries and a tulip very obviously stolen from someone’s garden two blocks away—plus… a thick envelope?
still blurry-eyed and half unconscious, you press a lazy peck to her lips, mumbling a sleepy thanks as you squint at the envelope. not that ellie isn’t a love-letter type of girl, but this is… not that.
“NOTICE OF NOISE COMPLAINT – UNIT 3C” written across it in threatening red sharpie, you frown. “huh… what’s this?”
you shift the tray over your thighs and tear the envelope open, barely looking at her as you pull the letter out. the mattress dips when she climbs back into bed, knee knocking into yours under the covers. you grab a chocolate-drenched strawberry, take a big bite and unfold the paper one-handed.
“looks like we got our first official citation,” she says casually with a slight bounce of her shoulders. “we’re on record.”
your eyes skim the page, the words making your frown deepen, “ellie… this is not… a good thing.” a masterpiece of overly formal language explaining that someone yelling “oh fuck, faster—” at ungodly hours has apparently disrupted the recycling schedule.
“the old lady next door told building management that unit 3c films amateur porn at ungodly hours and traumatized her grandkids. she kept tabs on us too… even submitted a whole report with timestamps. timestamps, babe.”
the pride in her voice makes you look back at her in disbelief. not because of the notice itself, but because she isn’t even a little ashamed that half the building now has a rough estimate of how many times a week she comes. “what. the. fuck.”
the concern is unmatched, she’s beaming by this point. “i know, right? you’re that skilled with your tongue. we should frame it and put it in the living room,” she lifts her hands to frame an imaginary golden plaque in the air, eyes all dreamy. “bachelor of arts in making your wife scream.” bumps your shoulder with hers. you snort, barely. more amused than anything. genuinely just shocked it didn’t happen sooner, back to when she used to fuck you stupid with her beloved strap every night before bed, period or not, because “your body didn’t get to cockblock her like that.” her words.
“should be fucking proud, babe. not even kat—”
your eyes narrow at the mention of her ex. “say that name again and you’re out of the fucking house.”
౨ৎ sits through the egg retrieval process like a real champ. all cocky in the car, all “guess i’m donating to the cause, huh?” but the second she gets in the gown and hears “you’ll feel a little pressure” she asks the nurse for “just a minute” at least five times before anyone gets to lay a finger on her.
౨ৎ something in her sick brain rewires the second she learns her eggs are fertilized. “that’s it, this pussy’s full of me already—ride me like you wanna make another.” science sure is an opinion to her.
౨ৎ goes fucking insane when the clinic clears you for a natural transfer cycle—which means no suppression, no medicated estrogen protocol, just monitoring, timing and a whole lot of hope. they explain to you that transfers are usually more controlled, with generous doses of estrogen and progesterone scheduled down to the hour, but your stubborn ass wanted to try option b instead. what they don’t explain is that this would apparently include ellie tracking your ovulation on THREE different apps and bothering you about it. constantly. and that’s on you, really.
“hydrate, mama. cervical mucus loves hydration.”
you could be brushing your teeth and she’s leaning against the doorway, “so… how’s the mucus lookin’ today?”
or it’s her prophecies. “according to clue, you ovulate in 15 days. according to flo? 14. but babe my gut says 13.5. trust.”
౨ৎ wakes you up every morning with fertility facts she studied the night before, after lying awake next to your snoring ass. the moment you open your eyes, the first thing you hear is shit like, “mornin’... apparently, when you sleep well, implantation chances go up.”
“I HAVEN’T EVEN OVULATED YET.”
“yeah, but you will soon… my perfect little incubator.”
౨ৎ checks the cervical mucus so seriously it becomes scary. you drop your underwear to pee and she’s already leaning over your shoulder to take a peek. “hmm. fertile window approaching.”
“ELLIE WILLIAMS. GET OUT OF THE BATHROOM.”
“just saying, babe. it looks… promising.”
the craziest thing is that all her guesses weren’t even half wrong. the clinic confirms everything with ultrasounds and blood tests.
౨ৎ comes home after a long day of work and instead of greeting you with bouquets of flowers like she used to, she’s always carrying something that could benefit your health. vitamins, teas, supplements, all bought in ridiculous amounts. she even leaves little notes on them, the kind that used to come tucked between baby blue roses, baby’s breath and lavender.
✉︎ “𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘦 ˙ᵕ˙ 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘤 𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘥.”
౨ৎ holds your hand through the entire embryo transfer, somehow more anxious than you are. the nurses nearly kick her out for interfering too much. she keeps stopping the doctor with stupid questions, insisting he double-check everything, even get another doctor in the room, just in case. she finally behaves after a few very firm warnings. (no pegging for a week.)
౨ৎ treats you like a fragile little fawn for the next two weeks. you’re not allowed to lift anything heavier than a bobby pin. “my wife’s got a belly to grow.”
౨ৎ constantly tucks blankets around you, shoving her own pillow under your legs, sleeping like a starfish without one ‘cause “science says gravity helps.” if you dare suggest she’s making that shit up, or that reddit isn’t reliable, “science IS reddit.”
౨ৎ sits on the bathroom floor two weeks later, shaking like a wet chihuahua while you take a pregnancy test. after peeing gracefully on the stick, you place it on the counter face-down. “please… please… please…” two minutes in, “why’s this shit takin’ so long? oh my fucking god.” four minutes in, “swear to god, if she gets pregnant i’ll go to church every sunday.” spoiler: she lied. she’s not even religious.
౨ৎ when the pregnancy test finally comes back positive, she doesn’t react like a normal person. sure, she kisses you hard and gets a little emotional, but she’s mostly praising herself.
“I DID THAT. I KNEW I NUT GOOD.”
“you didn’t even nut.”
“emotionally i was balls deep. let me have this.” + endless kisses to your nonexistent bump<3
౨ৎ is a nervous wreck the day she has to tell your family. and her dad.
it’s a sunny sunday, barbecue smoke filtering lazily through the open windows, the neighbors’ kids are shrieking outside, their laughter piercing straight through your skull. a dog down the street barks furiously at bees hovering over its bowl, while the grumpy man across the road yells at the kids for kicking a ball across his precious patch of grass.
and ellie is absolutely shitting her pants. quite literally. she’s excused herself to pee at least three times in a row. she always gets like this when she’s anxious. by the time she comes back the fourth time, your mom is setting a cherry pie down in the middle of the table.
ellie refuses to sit, impulsively blurting it out, “i got her pregnant.”
the crust of pie lodges straight in your throat as you launch into a coughing fit, hand pounding the table. “y—yes,” you manage between coughs. why is she like this. why does she have to make it weird. “a doctor got me pregnant,” you quickly correct her.
ellie turns to you, offended, waving it off. “my egg. her womb. our baby.” she finishes with a small shrug and a smug grin, “jackpot.” claiming it’s all thanks to her because she ‘manifested that shit.’
౨ৎ orders a mug that says ‘world’s best breeder’ that she claims is “a joke” but uses it every fucking day.
౨ৎ stares at your belly when it really pops and ellie looks like she’s just seen a leprechaun. “i gotta process this. it’s happening. you’re big. (you’re not) i did that. i did that. holy fuck.”
౨ৎ starts giving you weird ass pet names, “my little transport truck full of baby” or “my stacked fridge.”
౨ৎ immediately leaves a positive review on the clinic google page “$14,000 to breed my wife. money well spent!!!”
౨ৎ won’t let you walk anywhere alone. you don’t get privacy or independence, not anymore. you stand up to get water and she’s like “nonono—sit down. i’ll get it for you.” you sneeze once and she’s looking up: “can sneezing effect early pregnancy??” you lay on your stomach and she gets anxious about it, “what if you pop a tit?? will the baby feel it?”
౨ৎ has absolutely no idea how to act when she’s horny anymore. like, yeah, she’s still wildly attracted (obviously), but she’s also scared as fuck. she’ll kiss your belly, trail her mouth down your neck, press slow kisses to the inside of your thighs, then freeze like she’s committing a felony, two seconds away from an actual panic attack. “is it okay if i—? wait. is that safe? are you comfortable? tell me if you’re uncomfortable. actually… no sex tonight. nope. abort mission. i need to research.” she lasts exactly three hours before she’s straddling you again, phone carelessly tossed somewhere in the sheets, eyes gleaming in the dark like a cat’s. “okay,” she grins sheepishly, “i researched. turns out we can. can i ride your thigh now or no.” all that unnecessary stress just for her to end up leaving snail trails on your thigh. disappointing to say the least.
౨ৎ turns aggressively protective and insists on coming with you for every errand.
grocery store? someone bumps your cart with theirs and ellie’s already stepping in front of you like she’s shielding the president. “watch where you’re going, for fuck’s sake,” she snaps so loud your face burns and you suddenly become a stranger three aisles away. “can’t you see she’s pregnant?” she gestures toward you like a crazy woman. you’re barely a few weeks in, nothing is visible yet, not even a hint. you honestly don’t even blame the guy for looking at your wife like she’s insane as he quietly wheels his cart away, terrified. little does she know, next time he’s bringing his wife with him because women terrify him.
your first checkup? she nearly starts a riot in the waiting room because no one offers you a seat. again—absolutely no one can tell you’re pregnant. but ellie insists she can feel your shoulders tensing, your poor spine straining and your body working overtime.”
౨ৎ treats you like actual royalty. she brings you snacks but won’t make eye contact while doing it, drops them off all awkward, without mumbling a single word (loser ellie nghh)
౨ৎ kisses your bump goodnight and gets shy if she catches you watching her.
౨ৎ sticks little anxious reminders on your nightstand on mornings she has to leave early for work.
“𝘱𝘭𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳!!! 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘪𝘵!!!”
“𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘴 >:(”
“𝘪 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 + 𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘺𝘰 ♡”
౨ৎ narrates everything to the baby. you eat strawberries and she talks directly to your stomach, rubbing it gently, “hear that? mama’s feeding you antioxidants.” later, you’re watching zootropolis together, a fox plush tucked against your side and she adds, “see, kiddo? absolute cinema.” like the baby can actually see through your eyes. she’s convinced it can.
౨ৎ thanks you out of nowhere, because not only you’ve chosen her as your forever partner like swans do, but you’re also building a family with her. “hey, thanks for doing this with me.” then she kisses your shoulder and immediately pretends she didn’t just get emotional, stomping away before you can catch her tearing up like a way-too-chalant lesbian she swears she’s not.
౨ৎ cries over baby clothes, you’ll be walking in walmart and other places and she’ll be crying as if she’s the one pregnant and a walking ball of stubborn, unpredictable hormones. “babe it’s so fucking small—look—wait, hold it against your belly again—oh my god—that’s OUR kid—”
you swat her hand away. “kid? ellie, it’s barely an embryo.”
“bite your tongue. that’s our fucking heir.” she’ll promptly hiss every time you remind her. swear to god she’ll make you apologize like you just said the worst thing imaginable.
౨ৎ checks your pregnancy app every morning before she even pees. you wake up to her perched in bed with her glasses on, “holy shit… the baby’s a blueberry today.” then she turns to you, grinning like a dork, “babe. you’re a blueberry mom.”
౨ৎ will clock that you’re sick before you even admit it.
౨ৎ cancels plans without even telling you because if her girl needs her, everything else can die. the world could literally collapse and crumble to the core of the underworld and she wouldn’t budge. you don’t even ask for her presence, ‘cause she’s already there like a sickening little parasite.
౨ৎ feels genuinely guilty when the morning sickness gets worse. you rush to the bathroom and somehow she beats you there. already kneeling behind you, holding your hair in a gentle fist and shielding your forehead from stubborn strands while you puke your soul out. rubs reassuring circles into your back with her palm, “’m sorry, baby… i’m so sorry you feel like this…” and she means that shit with her whole heart, like it’s her fault. “you’re doing so good. your body’s doing so much right now… i know it sucks ass, i know…” and the one that melts your insides every time, “my poor girls.”
౨ৎ goes down a rabbit hole about acupressure after reading somewhere in a facebook article dina sent her that it can help with nausea. the next morning you’re hunched over the sink complaining that you feel sick again and she’s already reaching for your wrist, “hold on, hold on, don’t move.” she presses her thumb on your wrist, right between your tendons, squinting back at you for any sign of improvement. “internet said this one’s for nausea.” when you tell her it actually helped a little, she sits back on the toilet lid looking waaay too proud of herself. “see? basically a doctor now.”
౨ৎ turns into a doberman about smells. you hate garlic, vinegar, anything sharp or fermented, so now she goes around sniffing the air like a bloodhound. “what the fuck is that? i said. no. funyuns. i told you the smell makes her gag. what the fuck is wrong with you?” and just like that, your friends are forever banned from your house.
౨ৎ sleeps lighter than ever when you’re feeling off. if you so much as shift or groan, she jolts awake like she’s just fallen into a void. “hey, hey… i’m here. what do you need?” even if what you need is just to complain.
౨ৎ refuses to complain herself, even when she’s exhausted, even when you keep her up all night because the nausea won’t leave you alone. she doesn’t say a word, doesn’t blame you, doesn’t take her stress out on you. even with dark circles under her eyes and all, she still rubs your shoulders, still makes you food, still reassures you. if you dare apologize, she shakes her head, shutting you up instantly. “don’t. you’re growing our baby and you’re sick. bare minimum. least i can do.”
౨ৎ cannot stand when men so much as glance at your bump or say anything remotely sweet to you. “that’s how it starts. smiling. then asking what school the kid goes to. next thing you know, he’s trying to be the father that steps up. not on my fucking watch.”
౨ৎ cries at your first ultrasound because the baby has her nose. honestly, you were glad. but then she says weird shit, “look at that shrimp spine. head’s huge as fuck, babe! definitely got my brain in there. my swimmers were built different.” the nurse looks at her weird.
౨ৎ prints out an image of your ultrasound, laminates it and keeps it inside the back of her phone case just to peek at it when she’s having a bad day :(
౨ৎ has a completely blank sketchbook she plans to fill only with baby drawings.
౨ৎ spoons you extra gentle at night, with one hand over your bump and her mouth in the curve of your neck, “you smell different,” when you ask her to elaborate, you feel her shrug behind you, “like… mom energy. sweeter. ripe. i dunno.”
౨ৎ is suffocatingly obsessive the entire pregnancy—waking you up at 3am to make sure you feel okay or if you need to pee. sometimes, you have to sleep on the couch just to get away from her. when you wake up, she’s passed out on the carpet right beside you. you even accidentally step on her the first time. arghh.
౨ৎ starts rearranging the entire house in the middle of the night to make sure the closets are neat and everything even remotely dangerous for a baby shoved out of the way (despite the fact that you’re barely a few months in).
౨ৎ keeps calling the baby “big sister” as if having this one in the incubator somehow means you’re already open to more kids.
“babe, she’s not even born yet.” (utterly irrelevant to ellie)
“doesn’t matter. mentally preparing her. she’s gotta know she’s not gonna be an only child.” she’s so excited it physically pains you to demolish that delusion of hers. “also i ordered matching onesies that say ‘1st round’ and ‘2nd round’—” and the cherry on top, “fuck it, let’s go full lesbian duggar family.”
“ah hell naww. i’m divorcing you.”
౨ৎ lowkey gets horny when hormones start fucking you up hard. you don’t cry, you’re just mean as fuck… to ellie it’s foreplay. she blushes and her pussy starts throbbing in about 0.34 seconds. immediate reaction.
“i said no fucking pulp.” you narrow your eyes, pissed as fuck. all because she got you the wrong type of juice. “fucking useless piece of shit.”
she wishes you were like this 24/7. snapping, mean, reminding her how stupid and pathetic and useless her existence is.
she doesn’t argue. can’t. actually, you catch that fucking loser stifling a groan—maybe a moan, you’re not entirely sure. all you know is she’s drooling between her legs. “right. yeah. i’m so sorry… wanna spank me? i deserve it, ma’am.”
౨ৎ the mornings are consistently tragic. she wakes up, unfortunately—that’s her first mistake. the rambling starts before her eyes are even open, words spilling out as her legs swing off the bed like her brain never truly powered down overnight.
you’re at the table, swirling your cereal, already soggy and sinking depressingly to the bottom of the bowl. she won’t stop pacing, won’t stop fucking talking. you check the clock more than once. ten full minutes of this and you’re at your limit.
“—in addition to that, i was reading that hedgehogs—”
your spoon clinks sharply against the porcelain. “oh. my. fucking. god.” she blinks, genuinely startled, thinking she’s missed a cue you never gave her. confusion seems to shut her up, granting you a sacred moment of momentary peace. your irritation, however, keeps growing. “do you ever shut the fuck up?” you snap, “do you have a switch? or did you wake up with an eminem up your fucking ass?”
ellie has always known that the normal response would be to get offended. to shut down, perhaps. cry. maybe even to snap back. only she knows how many times she’s wished that she could be normal about this. because unpredictability gets under her skin in the worst ways and she never knows which version of you she’s waking up to. way to keep the marriage alive!
౨ৎ spends actual hours tracing your stretch marks with her tongue before head time, “fuckin’ marked by me” like she’s proud of leaving permanent scars on your temple of a body (which is every other night because she claims orgasms keep the baby healthy.)
౨ৎ fucks you with a strap when you’re in the second trimester and gets anxious as hell. it starts before even getting you naked. you’re doing chores and randomly huff, frustrated, telling her you need her inside.
“oh! okay. yup. happening. bedroom. now. careful—let me hold you—no, don’t walk that fast—babe slow down—BABE YOU’RE PREGNANT.”
when she gets on top of you it’s even worse. she’s rocking the strap into you at the pace of a fucking snail. no cocky shit, no dirty talk, just a super focused look on her face like she’s scared of giving you an abortion with her strap.
you wrap your legs around her hips, the heel of your foot pressing into her butt as some type of encouragement. “ellie... faster.”
she tries to mask the nervousness with cockiness. doesn’t work. “…yeah?”
“yes. faster. please.” you pant, restless and impatient and worked up, watching her through a blur as she hesitates and deliberately keeps the same pace, dragging the slow strokes out like it’s a punishment. “are you—” you claw at her shoulder, visibly losing it. “what the hell is this? you fuck me slower than the wifi at my grandma’s.”
she’s offended, maybe even tries to defend herself, “i’m—m’not slow.”
“it’s awful. i’m pregnant, not a fabergé egg.”
“‘m just… savoring it, y’know?”
“oh my god,” you smack her hand off your tit, “you’re scared you’re gonna hurt the baby.”
she legit freezes mid-thrust. “…no?”
“ellie, the baby is in my uterus, not hanging out in the hallway waiting to get hit.”
still doesn’t speed up, stubbornly sabotaging your orgasm. “yeah, but… what if she’s, like, right here?” her hand drifts to the underside of your stomach.
you actually laugh at that and smack her hand away once again. “right where? in my fucking cervix? do you seriously think your strap has prenatal combat abilities?”
“i just don’t wanna bonk her in the head or somethin’.”
you cover your face with both hands, in disbelief. you aren’t sure if you find this hot or embarrassing. “ellie,” longest sigh she’s ever heard from you, “i am so close to flipping us over and doing this myself.” you threaten.
“oh my god. are you seriously pissed at me for protecting our child?”
“from silicone?!”
“from reckless parenting!—fetus cost me over ten thousand dollars, ma. think i’m about to knock it loose ‘cause you’re horny?” all of it punctuated by yet another slow thrust, “no thanks.”
“that’s not even how–”
“gotta protect the investment, bro.”
“call me bro again and you’re dead.”
in the end, you flip her over and grind down slow and deep. you don’t stop, not even after you’ve already come, not even when her fingers clutch at your hips in an anxious attempt to stop you. you had to. next time, you’re tying her to the headboard so you can fuck her properly.
౨ৎ keeps a tally on the fridge called “times she let me touch the belly” when you start getting self-conscious about the stretch marks on your body, about how different you feel in your own skin. some days you can’t even bear to let her rest a hand there, let alone kiss it. you erase the tally every time you see it, feeling embarrassed and completely overwhelmed. but she’s more stubborn, more determined. she starts it over every single time, even adding smiley faces to the days you let her kiss it, repeating every day “you’re even prettier like this” without fail, until it finally absorbs.
౨ৎ doesn’t ask questions when you’re upset or crying, because she’s aware hormones don’t always make sense, like that one time you sobbed over giraffes not having proper shelter during storms. she’ll disappear for a minute and come back with one of those microwaveable lavender plushies because she’s read somewhere—deep in a reddit thread full of other pregnant women swearing by it—that lavender and chamomile help calm the nervous system. aromatherapy. figured it was worth a shot. ever since that precious discovery, the routine’s been the same. she settles behind you in bed, tucking the warm plush against your chest and wrapping herself around you like a safe blanket. no talking, no trying to cheer you up at all costs, just warm lavender filling your nostrils and quiet reassurance. if you start crying anyway, she rubs slow circles into your arm, “yeah, i know, baby. hormones are evil.”
౨ৎ screams when your water breaks, not a cute gasp, not an excited “oh my god,” but something ugly. high-pitched, even. straight out of a horror movie. she even notices before you do. she’s mid-sentence when her eyes drop to your lap and goes dead silent for half a second before it dawns on her. “uh.” her breath stutters, “uh.” the scream that follows makes you flinch. “IT’S HAPPENING.”
you’re still processing, barely feeling any pain, and she’s already sprinting down the hallway like the house is on fire. drawers are slamming, cabinets are opening, she’s grabbing the hospital bag she packed three weeks ago at 2am, your phone charger, her wallet, your pillow(??) and somehow a random framed photo from the nightstand. as if you’ll need it. as if that’ll make the pain more tolerable.
౨ৎ keeps dropping things because her hands are shaking so bad. the keys hit the floor several times, the suitcase tips over at least twice. she tries to carry all of it at once and looks like a raccoon stumbling out of a 7-eleven, caught stealing whiskey.
you waddle after her, annoyed and contracting at the same time, clutching at your belly. “ellie. calm. down.”
“CALM DOWN?” she shrieks, “WE TRAINED FOR THIS!”
she barrels toward the front door, flings it open with way too much force and makes it halfway down the stairs before you realize something. “ELLIE YOUR FUCKIN’ SHOES. PUT YOUR SHOES ON!”
she freezes mid-step, looks down at her star wars socks, then looks back at you. “FUCK. FUCK. SHOES!” she glitches in place, like a badly programmed 2000s npc lacking any real sense of awareness, turning left, then right. “WHERE ARE MY— I HAD THEM— I—” she runs back inside, collides with the wall, then trips over the edge of the carpet, moving too fast for her own coordination. she yanks her converse on without untying them, nearly falling again as she tries to shove her heel in, hopping around on one foot like a deranged baby chimp.
౨ৎ has absolutely zero skills under pressure. she backs out of the driveway without checking the mirrors, knocking over your lined-up trash cans and the neighbors’. she honks at a random pedestrian who was literally just walking, screaming, “HOLY SHIT— THE BABY— THE BABY—” she nearly runs a red light and kills you both.
౨ৎ tries so hard to be supportive in the delivery room, letting you demolish her hand, stroking your sweaty hair, kissing your feverish forehead… until she makes the mistake of looking directly between your legs mid-push. she goes pale in 000.11 seconds, “oh my god—s’that—s’that supposed to— oh, fuck— OH—” and then she collapses to the floor.
౨ৎ wakes up and tries to pretend she didn’t faint even with a confused medical student fanning her, sitting up like, “i’m fine, i’m fine.” gets up again, pushes the nurse out of the way, “keep going, ‘m so proud of-” looks between your thighs again and… lights out.
౨ৎ fully wakes up at last, when the baby is already out of you, crying on your chest. she’s missed the entire thing and will forever hate herself for it.
౨ৎ follows you around like an anxious golden retriever every time your daughter makes any noise, “babe???? is that normal? do they always breathe like that??”
౨ৎ insists on taking the night shift so you can sleep, rocking the baby in the dim lit living room, “hey, baby girl… mommy’s tired. let her rest, ’kay? i gotchu, i gotchu…” when the baby finally drifts off, she tiptoes back into the bedroom and tucks the blanket around you with the same dedicated care.
౨ৎ always makes sure the bathroom cabinets stay stocked with extra diapers for the baby and extra postpartum pads for you.
౨ৎ becomes so domestic in the most adorable way your heart aches, doing everything she can to make postpartum easier, even if she looks like she’s two seconds away from passing out every day. she washes bottles, folds tiny onesies with crazy precision, brings you snacks and water without being asked, and holds the baby while you shower. sometimes she’s the one passing out on the couch from exhaustion, and you have to tuck her into bed again :( poor baby.
౨ৎ is understanding at first when, after birth, your body and its healing process don’t really leave space for intimacy. she’s supportive, loving, so patient it almost hurts, “you’ve been through so much, babe. just rest. i got you.” she gives you extra love and attention, takes care of you, makes you food when you forget to eat, rubs your legs when they ache from walking back and forth to the bassinet, and your tummy when you get cramps. because she loves you.
౨ৎ starts to get grumpy once you’re cleared to have sex and actually try to initiate it, only to get cockblocked by your own daughter. like, extremely bitchy. she folds laundry with too much force, cabinet doors no longer experience gentle closing. you swear you even hear her mutter “fuckin’ blue-balled in my own house” under her breath while warming a bottle.
౨ৎ the first time you ride her again after birth, she’s laid out flat on the bed, arms limp at her sides, eyes a little dazed like she still thinks she’s dreaming. it happens after the baby has finally fallen asleep in her crib (handmade by joel), you close the bedroom door like you’re planning a louvre heist.
“you’ve got fifteen minutes before she wakes up again,” you’d said and ellie makes it her side quest.
no strap this time, claiming she needs to feel the warmth she’s been missing for so long. she’s too overwhelmed just watching you hover over her, your tits bigger, fuller, your hips rolling slowly against hers, your stomach soft with loose skin and marked with lines she loves so much it makes her dizzy.
she just lies there with her mouth slack while you ride her slick cunt, so slippery you nearly struggle to anchor yourself against her. the wet sounds are louder than they should be in a quiet house. at one point, you lean over her, moaning into her mouth as your tits bounce and one leaks directly onto her throat. an accident that makes her whole body jerk like she’s been tased, clawing at your hips. she doesn’t think, doesn’t speak, just breathes heavily, letting out a strangled, wet “uhnngh—” that sounds like her soul leaving her body and something else taking over—a succubus, perhaps.
she’s already close when you grope your own chest, milk spilling over your fingers as it drips slowly down your wrist. that’s what truly breaks her. she whimpers like a kicked dog, rocking up into you, desperate, mindless rolls of jerky hips while she pants through a red face and damp mouth, “fuck—baby, you’re dripping. m’gonna cum—don’t stop—keep making a mess, fuckfuckfuck—”
౨ৎ googles “is it safe to breastfeed your wife” after accidentally licking your nipple clean earlier with the brightness all the way down. blueprint forever ruined.
౨ৎ genuinely starts tweaking when your tits leak through shirts and tank tops. even buries her face between them, motorboating you, greedy hands everywhere, mouth trailing down between your thighs, not giving two shits if you’re moaning into the baby monitor or how many times you try to push her head away. “she won’t remember this. shut up and take it.”
౨ৎ conveniently starts wearing a strap under her clothes like it’s a uniform. when the baby is finally out cold, she sneaks up behind you and starts palming you real slow, intentions clear in the greediness of her palms. “could just slide it in real quick. five minutes, tops—two if you’re loud.” if you try to protest, she has her answer ready. “hey, m’not tryna force it, baby, just sayin’. you’re dripping. math is mathing again.”
౨ৎ sends you texts from across the room while your family is over to see the baby.
“your tits look heavy. come sit on my face after they leave.”
“leak on me and i’ll build you another kid.”
when you look at her, she’s pretending to listen to whatever your aunt is saying about swaddling techniques, nodding and smiling all politely, while your phone lights up again in your lap like she’s not two feet away, acting completely normal.
౨ৎ gets ridiculously turned on when you whine “my tits hurt,” pacing around the house in one of her tanks while it slowly soaks through at the nipple. eyeing you from the couch, manspreading, she offers to help relieve the pressure with her mouth like it’s a public service, hoping the throbbing in her sweats will disappear if she lets her intrusive thoughts win. “that sucks, babe… do you want… me to, uhh… do something about it…?”
౨ৎ starts pulling little tricks. it always begins with an innocent shoulder massage, hands working the knots out of your tense muscles before her fingers disappear under the hem of your shirt when you’re most distracted. “i just wanna feel you,” she’ll claim before pulling your nursing bra down in one quick tug, pretending to be shocked when you leak. “oh nooo. oops.” the proud little smirk that follows genuinely makes you want to split her skull in half.
౨ৎ you find a folder on her phone named “ᴍᴏᴍᴍʏᴍɪʟᴋᴇʀs” and it’s just videos of you leaking through your shirts or nipple play.
her search history is worse, though.
⌕ “lactation kink + pornhub”
⌕ “is it normal to nut from taste of breastmilk reddit”
⌕ “wifey boob.fullplease help”
⌕ “www.betterhelp.com”
the kinkshaming goes crazy. “the fuck are you on. it’s not a kink, it’s just objectively hot. and you leaked on me last night, so that’s on you.” she’s just devoted like that. how dare you kinkshame your wife for worshipping you.
౨ৎ drags you into the backseat after grocery shopping and fucks you there with the diaper bag half-open beside you, its contents spilling out haphazardly. in broad daylight, in a walmart parking lot. the two car window sunshades barely hiding your naked lower half, your pants bunched around your ankles, shoes still firmly in place like shackles. her fingers plunging deep into your dripping pussy, her mouth stealing every moan from you. all because she couldn’t wait until nightfall, when the baby would finally surrender to a sweet slumber.
౨ৎ can’t sleep unless her hand is under your shirt and cupping one leaking tit. tries to be chill about it but whimpers a little every time you shift away ;((
౨ৎ goes through real grief when you stop lactating, wandering around the house sighing like a tormented spirit that never found the light, “miss ’em heavy.” she’s mourning</3
౨ৎ talks to your daughter like she’s an adult who just happens to be gnome-sized.
౨ৎ lets her “help” with everything, even if it makes the task ten times longer. even if it includes your kid handing her socks one by one while she’s folding laundry. even if your baby is just standing on a chair stirring absolutely nothing in her bowl. ellie never rushes her nor complains ‘cause—“we’re doing it together, that’s the whole point.”
౨ৎ never misses bedtime routine. she reads the same damn book every single night because your daughter insists and ellie reads the same lines she read the night before with the same excitement in her tone, switching between all the voices anyway, even when she’s exhausted. and if you dare suggest skipping a page or skipping reading before bed, ellie gives you a look, as if you’d just suggested abandoning your child in the woods with no water, no food, no caretakers. she’s a dedicated mom and you couldn’t be more proud.
౨ৎ lets your kid sit on the counter while she cooks. “this is garlic… it smells insane—don’t touch it,” she warns gently as the toddler’s finger wanders toward it, eager to poke it. when she touches it, ellie simply sighs but doesn’t get mad. “okay. now you know.”
౨ৎ tries to get the kid to say “mah-mah” again, but the first word that comes out of her mouth is a very firm “noh.” ellie bites the inside of her cheek, trying not to laugh in the baby’s face. “strong boundaries. we love to see it.” later on, she tries again, crouching in front of the little gremlin and tapping her own chest. “say… love you. loh-ve you,” the kid squints, thinking very hard, then proudly produces a clumsy “wah-yoo.” ellie grins like she just won the lottery, her heart practically bursting. “yeah. wah-yoo too, kiddo.”
౨ৎ becomes the kid’s personal elevator. every five minutes, the toddler waddles up to her on unsure feet, arms stretched straight up, bouncing like a little spring because she barely knows how to walk yet. “UHP! EH-YEE!” (a gibberish version of her name) ellie sighs like she’s completely exhausted with the life she chose, but bends down to scoop her up anyway. “yeah yeah, uhp. i gotchu, bug.”
౨ৎ accidentally teaches her sarcasm before manners. you’ll hear your toddler drop her toy and dramatically exclaim, “oh great!” ellie grins proudly at you from across the kitchen. “what? she used it correctly.” she’s ellie’s daughter.
౨ৎ is weirdly gentle about scraped knees. you’ve never seen her panic over your daughter tripping or getting small cuts. instead, she’ll crouch down, inspect it like a professional and blow on it after disinfecting it. “okay. that sucks, i know, bug.” she applies my little pony band-aids and kisses all her boo-boos. done. that’s it. the kid immediately stops crying.
౨ৎ saves every drawing your daughter makes. every scribble, every half-ripped, crumpled piece of misunderstood art. you always find them tucked into her sketchbook, her wallet, or even her jacket pockets—the latter usually discovered after you’ve shoved the jacket into the washing machine and the drawing comes out soggy and ruined. when you ask why she feels the urge to collect them all like pokémon cards, she’ll say: “they’re important.”
౨ৎ teaches her music early. hands her headphones that are way too big for her head and lets her pluck the strings on her guitar. she nods proudly and pretends it sounds good. “you’ve got rhythm, peanut.”
౨ৎ never says “because i said so.” ever. because she doesn’t want to be like her dad. she’d rather overexplain everything, even when she’s tired as hell.
౨ৎ packs her lunch every damn morning before kindergarten. sandwiches with little faces, tiny cupcakes ellie bakes just for her, star-shaped pieces of fruit she meticulously cuts with tiny cookie cutters.
౨ৎ gives her adult reassurance in tiny doses. “hey peanut, it’s okay to be bad at things. that’s how you get good.” it makes you wanna rip your hair out. in a good way.
౨ৎ lets your kid tattoo her or color over her already existing tattoos with washable markers, then forgets to wash them off before going out.
౨ৎ teaches her that asking for help is normal by doing it herself. now, she’s the first to hate relying on other people, but she wants to set an example. “hey babybug, help me open this?” your daughter beams, a gummy smile with barely a few teeth on display and uses all her strength. ellie thanks her like she just saved her life, boosting her tiny confidence straight through the roof.
౨ৎ has a secret handshake with her that changes weekly (mostly because your daughter keeps forgetting it) and no one else is allowed to learn it.
౨ৎ goes insanely overboard for the kid’s third christmas. sometime after midnight, you wake up to noises in the living room, only to find ellie crouched on the floor with a bag of flour, making tiny snowy footprints across the floor from the window to the tree, like santa broke in like a cheap burglar and walked around the house. she even takes one of your boots and lightly stamps it in the flour to make it look ““realistic.”” when your toddler wakes up in the morning and waddles into the living room, she freezes in awe and points at the floor excitedly, “sah-nah! sah-nah he come! mama, look!” big, dreamy green eyes look up at you, tugging at your pajama pants, “he WALK!” and ellie’s standing behind you trying so hard not to laugh, shoulders shaking, covering her mouth as she nudges you gently in the ribs, “holy shit. it actually worked.”
౨ৎ gets two bouquets on valentine’s day, one for each of her fav girls. your toddler’s is mainly a tiny bundle of plush flowers tied with a pink ribbon, a little rainbow dash tucked in the middle because ellie knows it’s her favorite pony. yours, meanwhile, is an absurdly massive bouquet that barely fits through the door or into a vase. roses, peonies, every fucking flower she was able to find in the store. when you raise a brow at her, she goes, “she’s my valentine,” she nods toward the gnome-sized, freckled mess of a kid proudly clutching rainbow dash and zooming around the living room. “but you’re my wife. there are levels.”
౨ৎ keeps snacks in every pocket of every hoodie for every eventuality. when your toddler asks for one, ellie pretends to be surprised every time she happens to find snickers tucked in her pockets. “woah! how did that get there?” your kid genuinely thinks ellie is a magician.
౨ৎ thanks your daughter for the smallest things, it’s either “thank you for trying,” or “thank you for telling me.”
౨ৎ on nights your toddler falls asleep between you, ellie brushes your hair out of your face and mumbles “you’re such a good mom,” eyes full of pride, gratitude making her heart throb.
౨ৎ becomes that parent with the camera roll. your phone has maybe ten photos of the baby. ellie’s has thousands. blurry ones, mid-yawn ones, ones where the kid’s just staring at nothing like a confused potato with not a single thought behind her irises. at some point, it genuinely starts to feel like she’s documenting a rare species.
౨ৎ sets one of her favorite girls as her lockscreen: your kid asleep on your chest, drooling on your shoulder and her tiny hand clutching your shirt.
౨ৎ loves motherhood far more than she ever expected, but more than anything, she loves seeing you round, glowing, growing an entire human inside you. she loves the ugly parts of it, too—the stress, the anxiety, the sleepless nights, the excitement that sits in her chest like it might burst into tiny sparks, but would you want to go through it again the way she would?
you’ve been out with friends all day when she finally finds the courage to bring it up. funny enough, they’d just had a baby. a newborn. ellie had held him for a while, rocking him gently while he fussed, nose pressed to the crown of his head, which smelled faintly like cinnamon. it made her chest ache with nostalgia, holding something that tiny again, she realized she missed it.
it comes up later at home, while you’re both getting ready for bed. “what if she had a sibling,” ellie mumbles suddenly, after spitting toothpaste into the sink, looking at you through the mirror while you brush your teeth, shoulders bumping together. “like, one that’s just as annoying. that’d be kinda cute, right?”
“you mean another baby?” you question, already clocking the look on her face, watching her slide the hair tie off her wrist and gather her hair into a messy, low bun.
she hums casually, “one more can’t hurt.” for a second, you think she’s talking about gummy bears.
“i dunno. we already have our hands full, el.” you sigh. “babies take a lot of time—we barely survived the first one.”
she shrugs, already committed to the idea, determined to put the idea into your head. “you’ve already been pregnant once... what’s one more?”
you don’t answer. you just leave the bathroom and crawl under the comfort of your blankets, hoping silence will kill the conversation, but nothing ever dies with her. she’s sliding into bed a second later, scooting closer like a clingy koala. “we already have one kid,” she continues, “might as well go for the dlc.”
“dlc is crazy,” you smile despite yourself, “go to sleep.”
“huh. g’night, ma.” she presses a kiss to your shoulder when you turn into her arms, facing the wall. “...sleep on it, though.”
nsfw thoughts, mdni, +18. reader gets passed around by her sorority sisters vi, abby and ellie! fingering, oral, strapping (all reader receiving).
a sorority initiation. that’s all it’s meant to be. y’know, some sororities play harmless pranks, focus on its values and pledging process.
but no, the one sorority you decided to join has a very… non-traditional welcoming ceremony.
vi’s the president. you would have never guessed she’d be the type to join a sorority, let alone be the one in charge of it. if you had any doubt about how well she could lead and control the group of girls, you trusted her completely now that she was strapping you in front of them.
“you’re taking me so well, pretty girl,” she’s holding one of your legs over her shoulders, gaze locked on how perfect your pussy is taking her bright pink dildo in. “i had to… hmph… fill this pretty hole myself first”
“v-vi… ah…”
she grins, eyes flicking to your scrunched up face. one hand comes up to grab your neck, her pace faster than before.
“god, you’ve got the prettiest pussy,” she mumbles under her breath.
“make her cum already,” abby, the vicepresident, crosses her arms over her chest to hide her already hardened nipples. “your turn was over like 2 minutes ago”
“fuck off,” vi barks back, but her thrusts start going deeper after the comment. your eyes roll to the back of your head, and she chooses to focus on making you feel well instead. “hear that, pretty girl? they’re all dying to fuck you too, but i’m… shit… i’m the one breaking you in”
the familiar feeling of an orgasm hits you out of a sudden, and you moan as your legs instinctively close around vi’s hips and pull her closer.
a whimper escapes your lips as you feel vi pull out of you.
“wait don’t— oh fuck!”
abby practically jumps at you, her mouth latching onto your nipple as her fingers quickly slide inside you. she doesn’t waste any time, curling them and finding that sweet, spongy spot inside you.
“shit, baby, you’re so fucking wet,” abby groans, teeth nibbling your nipple carefully as she starts pumping her fingers in and out of you.
“a-a-abby! fuck,” your back arches, but abby is quick to grab your hips and push you down onto the mattress again.
“stay still,” her hands holding your body tight enough to leave a mark. “i’ve barely started and you’re already screaming out my name, baby. imagine what i could do with a third finger”
as if on cue, she introduces a new finger inside you.
“be fucking nice,” vi slaps abby’s back, but she can’t help staring at the way her fingers disappear into your pussy.
abby doesn’t even listen to her. her lips are parted as her own clit pulses in desperation, loving the wet sounds you’re making, how tight you feel around her fingers.
you cum for the second time just a minute later, body shaking as abby helps you ride out your high.
you open your eyes at the abrupt coldness of her absence as you feel her fingers slip out of you, but they get immediately replaced by something wet, plump and soft.
you glance down and are met with the beautiful sight of ellie, the newest recruit who has barely spoken throughout this whole ordeal, lapping at your pussy as if it was her last meal.
she looks up at you just as she takes a slow, teasing lick at your folds, her hands coming up to grab your thighs softly before she dives back in.
“i-i can’t,” you try to push yourself up onto your shoulders, but your body betrays you with a slight tremble.
“you’re not leaving ellie out of all the fun, are you baby?” abby smacks your left tit, making you whimper in response.
vi pushes your hair out of your face, her hand settling down at your jaw as she grabs it firmly. “you can take one more, pretty girl”
ellie’s tongue starts circling your clit, and she has no self-restraint as her fellow friends. the heat becomes unbearable for her, she can feel her own underwear covered in slick, and she starts humping the edge of the bed looking for friction.
when you come undone for the third time, your fingers tangle themselves in ellie’s hair and push her forward against your entrance. it’s the hair pulling that does it for her, and she moans against your pussy while she cums right after you.
“good job,” vi caresses your cheek, a lopsided smirk on her face. “welcome to the phi vixens”
“we’re going to make a great team,” abby gives your nipple a last pinch.
ellie lifts her face from your pussy, eyes half-lidded as she sighs, “i call first dibs tomorrow”
Pairing: Sugar Mommy Coach!Abby x Figure Skater!Reader
Summary: Your skating coach also happens to be your sugar mommy. . .
Contents: nsfw, smut headcanons, age gap (all 18+), secret relationship - but established, size kink, spanking, oral sex, strap on’s, edging, teasing, eye contact, fingering, tribbing/scissoring, car sex, lingerie, overstimulation.
˖᯽ ݁˖ Merri’s Notes. . . Need her to be rough with me. . .
Coach!Abby who is strict on the ice, pushing you to do your best, but outside she spoils you rotten.
Coach!Abby who only buys you the best equipment and outfits/costumes. Expensive ones. Beautiful custom made costumes for competitions, new ice skates, training equipment, jackets etc.
Coach!Abby who drives you to and from the rink every week. Who rests her large hand on your thigh whilst she drives, smoothing it up and down before resting at the top of your inner thigh.
Coach!Abby who knows when you’re getting too spoiled or asking for a tonne of stuff. Who pulls you against her with an arm around your waist, squeezing your ass in her hand. Who pulls you down over her lap and spanks you gently. Who only spanks you harder, turning your ass red and flushed, when you start whining.
Coach!Abby who sometimes lets you sleep over. Who sits you on the couch, holding your hips down with one arm as she fucks you with her tongue. Who moans into your cunt as you squirm and whimper beneath her. Who gives you one of her shirts to sleep in.
Coach!Abby who wraps your ponytail around her hand and pulls your head back as she thrusts into you from behind with her strap, forcing you to arch your back more. Who thrusts deep in you before stilling and leaning over to kiss you, making small grinding motions with her hips letting you feel every ridge of it.
Coach!Abby who wakes you up with her fingers circling your clit, dipping her fingers into your cunt until you’re bucking your hips up and whimpering on the edge. Who pulls her fingers out before you cum, and starts getting ready for the day. Who teases you all day, not letting you have what you want, until you’re begging and humping against her leg when you can’t sleep that night.
Coach!Abby who fucks you in the rink bathroom sometimes, holding a hand over your mouth to keep you quiet. Who forces you to keep eye contact with her whilst she fucks you with her fingers, slowing down if you break it. Who makes you stare into her eyes as you come.
Coach!Abby who traps your head between her thighs when you’re eating her out, not letting you go until you’ve made her cum. Who loves hearing your little whimpers as kiss and lick her cunt like you’re worshipping and devouring her at the same time.
Coach!Abby who likes watching you stretch before practice, your body bending and twisting in ways that make her imagination run wild. Who pushes your legs apart, one bent and pressed against your chest as she rubs her cunt over your overstimulated clit, letting you squirm and whine beneath her.
Coach!Abby who holds you down on her muscular thigh, forcing you to grind against it until you’ve soaked through your panties and leggings. Who only starts helping you when you grip her shoulder tightly and start begging for her to just touch you.
Coach!Abby who tries to calm your nerves in the car, it’s only a small competition but you’re really nervous. Who eventually pulls over on the side of the road slides her hand down your sweatpants and into your underwear, ignoring your protests about how you’re technically in public. Who pounds your cunt with her fingers until your head is thrown back against the seat, cheeks flushed, as your walls clench tightly around them.
Coach!Abby who takes you shopping under the guise of getting some new skates, again, but somehow the both of you end up in the lingerie store. Who goes in the dressing room with you, running her hands over your skin, pinching your nipples, as you try some on. Who leaves the store with a new bag of lingerie and a blushing you.
Coach!Abby who pounds into you with her thick strap at night, not letting up until your legs are shaking and the sheets are soaked beneath you. Who watches you with a small cocky smile as you fumble slightly during practice the next day.
thinking about mean!ellie sitting back as you rode her strap. her hands groping your ass as you bounced up and down. whenever you went too slow she would whisper in your ear.
“awh is it too big for you?”
“c’mon pretty, you can go faster then that.”
“you are going so slow. you know, someone who really wanted too cum would be going a lot faster. maybe we should just stop.”
a grin would stretch across her face as you started babbling and whining about how you really want too cum. pleading and begging her not too stop. a few stray tears running down your cheeks.
she would laugh and coo mockingly as the fat tears ran down your cheeks. she would grip your hips so hard you knew there would be bruises blooming across the skin in the morning.
“only im allowed too mark you up, no one else can touch my pretty girl, right?”
thinking about neither of you ever being quiet. your whining and whimpering along side her constant mocking and praise.
she would kiss all over your face. being so soft with her girl. she would roughly suck bruises into the skin on your neck. she would bite down on your collar bones. suck pretty little bruises near your tits as they bounced.
every time you would whine about being sore or tired.
“oh my poor little baby.”
“just such a good girl, being so good bouncing on my cock, making me feel so good.”
she would love to make you feel dumb. loved taking on the role of the knight in shining armour who saved her damsel in distress. how could she not? you just lost all your words as soon as her hands were on you. looking so beautiful as she rutted up into you.
cw ; oral, abby is practically making out with your cunt, vibrator used, big clit!abby, overstimulation, multiple orgasms
synopsis ; abby gets off from pleasuring you.
The buzzing of the toy fills the room as Abby holds the vibrator to her own engorged clit—nerves stimulated by the toy’s relentless buzzing. She moves the vibrator up and down on her clit with a shaky hand as her mouth focuses on you.
She’s been eating you out for hours now. You’re exhausted in the best way, your cunt is soaked with her spit and your arousal. You’re twitching, moaning, drooling.
“Abby, I don’t know if I can take anymore,” you say in a meek, small voice.
Abby smirks into your pussy, “you’re gonna take more,” even as she says that, the pleasure makes her own voice crack, but she’s determined.
You grip the sheets when you feel her tongue dipping inside again, tongue-fucking you. Her nose nudges your clit teasingly as her tongue works. She’s good at this, almost way too good. Your legs are faced with a challenge; try not to close around Abby’s head and restrict her oxygen.
You know she’ll like that, but you don’t want her dying face first in your pussy.
She licks up a bold stripe of your vulva. You gasp, your hips pushing off the bed. She pins you back down and kisses your cunt sloppily before driving her tongue back inside your weeping slit.
“Abby, I really don’t think I can take more,” you protest weakly.
Abby looks up, the lower half of her mouth soaked in your juices, “then, don’t think.”
You pout at that and she goes back to kissing your pussy sloppy-style. She’s obsessed with the way you taste. Her fingers hold you open, her other hand focusing on holding the vibrator on her pussy.
You feel her tongue teasing your g-spot again for what feels like the hundredth time. “I’m gonna cum again,” you mewl, holding her there, your fingers tightening in her hair.
Abby doesn’t let the sting of her scalp deter her. She keeps going and—you cum with a loud moan of her name and at the same time—Abby’s pussy walls flutter as a blissful orgasm crashes over her. Her eyes roll back, she pushes her tongue deeper and lets it stay there as she comes down from her high.
summary: overwhelmed at the crowded block party, you were thankful when your neighbor tommy, invited you on a gas station run with him and his older brother joel. the only problem is, tommy’s truck only holds two people and joel’s been waiting for his chance to get you alone.
cw: 18+ MDNI, no outbreak au, i imagined joel in his late thirties, flirtatious tommy, a brief panic attack, joel being a peeping tom, male masturbation, jealous!joel, non-con vouyerism, pet names, dry humping, gas station sex, dub-con, sexual frustration, raw sex, slut shaming, bicep choking, clit slapping, rough sex, big dick miller, breeding kink, overstimulation, forced creampie, slight aftercare
wc: 6.4k
a/n: first kinkmas fic! got a little nasty with my brain worms and couldn’t stop writing, i just miss summer and the heat so bad
Every December, as the sun would begin to drift down the horizon, most people would turn in early, choosing to stay inside during the cooler Texas nights—but not your neighbors.
Without fail, your neighborhood always figured out a way to celebrate Christmas early, planning a special celebration days before the holiday, the weather always turning out perfect for the occasion.
Usually, the temperatures would remain comfortable enough for light sweaters and jeans—but this year’s celebration was different—a scorching hot heatwave decided to come to fruition, seeping its muggy warmth all across Texas, the temperature particularly unpleasant in Austin.
You knew the sun would be baking today—the news alerted you of the rising tempers—yet it still didn’t prepare you to feel punched in the face by the suffocating humidity even when getting dressed, the sweat begun to pool around your forehead although you put on the smallest, thinnest clothing you owned.
Opening your backdoor, the bright sun instantly blinded you; the smell of booze and barbecue smoke sneaked up your nose as you walked out your white screen door to the backyard, the hinges snapping against the wall.
Thankfully you were just on time, walking through the soft grass, the freshly mowed clippings fluffed around your toes in excess, the strands sticking to your freshly lotioned skin causing your ankles to itch as you stride through the yard.
You can feel the sound of music beginning to shake in your eardrums—the country music booming out from the multicolored speakers.
As you approach the cul-de-sac, you quickly realize how crowded the block party has become.
Your neighbors have been hyping up this party for weeks now, an all-American, trashy way of celebrating Christmas, and if there was one thing people enjoyed most, it was drinking—always throwing unnecessary parties as an excuse to get shitfaced with little to no regrets, today being no different.
You were unable to complain as you imagined swimming in some rich neighbors pool, eating all of the free food you could muster and washing it down with expensive beer. Truthfully—that sounded like a damn good Saturday evening, and who were you to turn down some free ribs?
You could finally make out the lyrics to the end of the song that's played on your walk over. Getting distracted by all the people crowding the street, you almost trip over the spread out extension cords connected to the array of machines.
You didn’t expect it to be this crowded, the winter holiday was a time for families and cozy nights inside in front of the tv, but to your surprise—that didn’t stop everyone from showing up in abundance.
The strangers standing around the block weren’t dressed in the usual ugly Christmas sweaters, instead they shedded their layers for swimsuits and red sunglasses—you could only imagine how uncomfortably warm the large fuzzy Santa hats felt in this heat.
As you ventured further down the road, you stepped around the wooden corn hole setups and the booze spilt puddles, trying to find a good place to sit down and people watch, waiting to see someone you know. It was abundantly clear you misunderstood the popularity of the random celebration—the people going all out.
You watched in awe at the plastic fold up tables piled full with food, the lawn chairs and water inflatables filled the paved driveways, and the crowd? It was far too massive for the small space, hundreds of people spread out around the houses, their voices loud and slurred as they ran around rampant.
You quickly grew overwhelmed at the crowd, not recognizing any familiar faces, you finally found a safe spot out of the sun and underneath a tree. Leaning against the bark, you crossed your arms in an attempt to soothe yourself.
“Hey! Started to think you weren't gon’ show up.” A voice speaks, ripping you from your panicked thoughts.
Looking up in the direction of the noise, you see Tommy smiling brightly at you, holding a beer with his shirt unbuttoned. His cheeks looking flushed red from the sun, his freckles painting his nose bridge.
You go to reply, smiling big in his direction, but the grass crumbles behind him, a brown boot coming into your line of vision.
You quickly make eye contact with Joel, the man you always tried your best to make a good impression on, yet it always fell flat—him never bothering to start a conversation with you, no matter how hard you tried.
“Hey! Yeah-I um, I just got here.” You say loudly, yelling over the music. “It’s like, really crazy, I didn’t expect this many people to show up.”
You don’t mean to talk so much, yet the words effortlessly fall from your lips, quickly becoming overwhelmed with the party goers—and the quiet older Miller staring you down.
“You alright?” Tommy questions, raising his eyebrow in concern at your panic.
“Just…overwhelmed, lotta people here.” Humming quietly, you bow your head into the grass, staring at the small pale insects deep in the dirt. Joel instantly makes you start to second guess your actions just with his eyes—all without saying a word.
“We were just ‘bout to leave. Gonna head over to the gas station ‘n pick up some beers, you're welcome to join us.”
Tommy’s inquisition makes your ears perk up, more than ready to abandon whatever plans you had at the party tonight. “Okay, sounds good actually, thanks.”
Tommy looks over at his brother, yet Joel’s face remains stone cold. “Joel, you alive over there?
He doesn’t look at Tommy, instead he chooses to keep his eyes on you, holding eye contact as he lets out a grumble.
“You still comin’?” Tommy pushes, and you watch as Joel finally looks away from you, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, swallowing his spit.
“Yep,” he speaks, and you can barely hear him, his voice hoarse and raspy, his hand coming up to push his hat down over his eyes.
Joel stood there similarly to you, his awkward intimidating presence a much starker difference than his lively brother, Joel not bothering to talk to you.
It wasn’t that you were trying to irritate him, and you truly believed you’ve never actually done nothing wrong to him—but each time he’d stare at you, you were met with the same look in his eyes of pure indifference.
The same look he’s doing right now as you turned your head to look at him, his broad body standing firmly in place. His eyes met yours as he cleared his throat, cautiously taking a single step forward.
Joel knows you—well, he kinda knows you. He knows of your parents, far too old to pay attention to whatever their promiscuous daughter got up to.
He remembered the first time he met you, he was helping your dad replace his brake pads one early summer morning, his sweat dripping down his face into the collar of his shirt thanks to the Texas heat.
Bent over, he heard your flip flops clomping against the cement when you stepped into the garage, your voice sickeningly sweet as you asked your father for some cash to go shopping.
Joel peered up at the noise, his ears perking up your sugary feminine voice, and when he saw you? He knew you were it—a cute little thing, far too young for him, yet that didn’t stop his eyes catching on the flesh of your thighs hanging out your denim shorts.
He watched you stand next to your father, your eyes glazed with a hint of manipulation as you silently begged for the cash.
As he breathed in, letting the air fill his lungs full of breath he didn’t realize he'd been holding, he instantly got a whiff of your strong smelling perfume—the fruity substance just as sweet as your voice, he quickly grew dizzy in the large garage. As his sweaty hands stuck to the metal of the car, he wondered to himself if it was you or the humidity that had this effect on him.
Your father didn’t bat an eye at your presence, instead he smiled brightly, showing you his teeth, lovingly pulling you into his side. He balled his hand into a fist, carelessly messing your hair up with his closed palm.
Joel attempted to listen to what he mumbled in your ear, yet it was quiet enough to not pick up his words, and he couldn’t help his eyes fall back onto your face.
He watched as you giggled, kissing your father on the cheek, you thanked him loudly for the money, waltzing back into the house, but right before you closed the door—you smiled at him, the apples of your cheeks shining as your eyes crinkled, and Joel knew he was in trouble.
Less than a week later, on an evening where Joel came home late from work, he pulled into his driveway, the brim of his hat not helping in his favor as the setting sun burned orange hues in his eyes. As he approached the garage, something caught his eye—there you stood, twirling your hair between your fingertips, giggling at some nonsense Tommy was spewing.
Joel felt puzzled, his brother—and you? Hitting it off? He simply couldn’t believe it, Tommy was cocky and raunchy, and a girl like you wouldn’t be caught dead being friendly with a guy like him.
He felt a sour feeling tucked tightly in his abdomen, jealousy creeping itself up deep inside of him, and he quickly began to hate the feeling.
He was green with envy as he shut the truck off, the roaring engine coming to a silence, he stepped out his seat, rounding the truck to grab his paperwork out of his tool chest.
Joel could instantly tell his presence cut your conversation short, and when he walked up the pavement—his instinct was right, watching as Tommy gripped your arm, nodding his head at whatever you were whispering.
Joel didn’t look over as he brushed shoulders with Tommy, the action hard enough he stumbled, but Joel paid no mind, slamming the front door behind him.
Tommy causally brought you up in conversation that night, doting on how funny you were, the two of you having a lot in common. Joel couldn’t hide the snarl that appeared on his face as Tommy babbled on about his new connection with the cute girl across the street.
As if God was playing a cruel joke on him, Joel always saw you outside after that, typically with little to no clothes on, parading around your yard doing god knows what.
Sometimes he’d catch you outside next to his own backyard, swimming or tanning—you always greeted him with that same big smile, and Joel couldn’t stop himself from staring at you.
He felt dirty—and maybe he was, always turning around, hiding himself behind the white fence, swiftly adjusting himself in his suddenly too tight jeans.
He began to wonder why you never started a conversation with him and why it seemed like everyone got a chance to get to know you except for Joel, and that began to piss him off.
From that moment on, he constantly caught himself looking out his window, hoping to see you in the grass, ready to finally talk to him, but for Joel? The world never worked out correctly, and when he finally saw you out the window, it was a much different sight than he expected.
The clock rapidly blinked in the pitch black bedroom, the green flashing lights shined brightly at Joel, reading just a couple minutes past midnight.
Cursing to himself—he was exhausted, the long days and even later nights were starting to eat at him mentally, finding himself unable to fall asleep easily nowadays, his work schedule not helping.
Throwing the covers off his legs, he decided to get out of bed, maybe walk around the house and get a glass of water, striving to reset his mind from the unnerving task of sleeping.
Running a hand over his eyes, he looked over to his cracked window, the cool air filling the bedroom in a comfortable manner. Walking up to the window, he leaned himself on its steep edge, peering outside into the night.
As his eyes adjusted to the warm street lighting, he instantly caught something in his tired gaze, there stood you—completely bare, inches away from your own open bedroom window.
Maybe it was too much over the counter sleep medicine, or maybe he shouldn’t have had a beer after dinner that evening—surley, his eyes were deceiving him.
But there you were, your bare spine glistening in the soft light of your bedroom, the warm hues from what he presumed to be your lamp, hugged the curve of your plump ass. Your silhouette somehow appeared to glow through the closed window—even from hundreds of feet away.
Holding a white towel in your hands, you shimmied it side by side, delicately ridding yourself of the droplets of water that trickled down your body from your late night shower.
Joel’s heart fell into his stomach, his blood pressure instantly turning his ears pink, he cautiously hid himself behind the navy curtains.
Rapidly blinking his sleep deprived eyes, he attempted to rid himself of your image but it was no use—like each time he sees you, your essence burns a perfect cutout tucked away deep inside his memories.
He felt like a teenage boy once again, peeping on his attractive much older neighbor—yet this time it felt increasingly dirtier, you were young—too young to be gawked at like a piece of meat, but Joel couldn’t stop himself, feeling the same growth in his pants he's felt all week long, and with each time you being the cause.
Bringing a hand down to palm himself, his nostrils exhaled the underlying tension he was holding in, feeling his cock jerk in the combines of his sweats.
Watching you was an adrenaline rush he never knew he needed, his eyes trailing your bare frame as you bent over, fumbling in your wooden dresser.
Joel’s breath stuttered as he gripped himself through the cotton, his dick rock hard at the sight of you, and he couldn’t help himself from pulling the elastic waistband down—his cock wildly springing up to his stomach, his typical pink tip reddened and angry.
Stroking himself, Joel watched as you pulled your panties over your ass, hiding the delicious view of your ass. Joel bit his lip, thinking of how soft and plush your thighs were, watching how they jiggled as you turned around.
Joel collected a loogie of spit, letting it fall onto his cock with a small ‘tut’, he rubbed it on himself, the wet squelching filling his bedroom. He pounded his free hand against the wall in a fist, the cool smooth paint against his calloused hand, but all he could think about was how you’d feel on his cock.
Your unaware movements caused Joel’s knees to buckle, your swollen breasts now in his view, your nipples looking right back at him. He turned his view to your face in an attempt to not cum so quickly, and he was unable to tell your exact emotion spread across your face, yet your features were much softer alone in the relaxing moonlight.
Raising your arms, you quickly scrambled into a cut-off white tank top, the hem tickling right under your breasts. The covering was incredibly thin—so thin Joel could see the outline of your pebbled nipples.
He began to feel disappointed, the show ended as quickly as it started, but Joel was so enamored by you—and he could feel his balls tightening, growing increasingly close to his release.
His hand was rapid against his cock, pumping it as fast as he could, the motion burned deep in the muscles of his inner thighs but then—he saw it, your eyes looking over in the direction of his house.
You looking in his direction caused his hips to buck in his hand, you none the wiser; had no idea someone was watching you—touching themselves at your naked body.
The concept was so juvenile and dirty, it caused Joel to cum hard and fast, his cum spurting down his hand, making a mess of his sweatpants.
After an outfit change, Joel finally slept well that night, dreaming about you, and when he finally could get his hands on you.
You think he’s going to finally say something to you—finally address you like you mean something, but instead, he pivots his movements—his boots kicking up a small mountain of dirt as he turned around, heading over to the parked truck.
You could tell Tommy’s teasing was beginning to effect Joel, his jaw ticking each time Tommy opened his mouth, the bones tightening in his face so strongly, the tenseness spreading to his neck, highlighting his veins.
“We takin’ my truck?” Joel questions, the first time he’s really spoken up in front of you today.
“Nope,” Tommy responds quickly, his lips popping the ‘p’ sound. “Gotta take mine, was gonna fill up my tank, ‘s almost about on empty."
Joel shivered at the inclination, Tommy’s truck couldn’t fit the three of you, hell—it could barely fit him and Tommy. The red two-seater truck was old and cluttered, the middle console so tall it could barely squeeze a second body in, let alone three.
“Ain’t enough seats for three.” Joel grumbles, furrowing his eyebrows.
You look at Tommy, his lips spread into a smug smile, and back at Joel—his face ghostly white at the idea of having to take you with them.
“Where am I supposed to sit?” You question, butting in their brotherly conversation with a curious glint in your eyes.
Tommy pats your hip, wiggling his eyebrows. “Hey that’s alright, me n you can share a seat.”
Joel blinks hard at Tommy, watching how he raises his eyebrow at you, his lip curled into a cocky smirk. There’s no way in hell Joel is going to let that happen.
“No chance I’m driving your truck, last time I did the tire fell off the axle.” Joel blurts out, his words charged in dominance.
Tommy sighs at Joel, staring at him with the knowing brotherly look in his eyes you can’t quite decipher.
“Then how about yall share the passenger seat then, just a couple minutes away, shouldn’t be too big of a deal right?”
Joel gets into the truck first, his boots flicking up the dirt stuck to the running board, his knuckle gripping the handrail with a groan.
He adjusts his legs against the floorboards, graciously giving you enough room as he spreads them wide, your own personal seat for the next uncomfortable sweaty minutes.
Shakily, you mimic his movements, grabbing onto the hand rail, you yank yourself up into the truck, clumsily landing in between his open thighs.
The position wasn’t terrible, you just felt awkward—sitting on a man’s lap who’s barely ever uttered a word to you made you feel funny, you could feel the clammy sticky skin of your lower back against his forearms, the uncomfortable situation already beginning to swirl deep inside your belly.
Bump.
Bump.
Bump.
Tommy should have told you he was taking the backroads, the terrain uneven and filled with potholes.
It was growing impossible to hold still on top of Joel’s lap, each time the truck plowed into a pothole—you couldn’t control your movements, your ass rubbing directly in between Joel’s legs, the friction driving straight into his cock.
You tried to force your weight into the balls of your feet in an attempt to relieve the tension on Joel—but it was impossible, each time you’d go over a hump in the ground, you’d end up right where you started, directly on his clothed cock.
You could tell it was affecting him by the way his hands flew down onto each side of your hips, gripping the flesh in his palms. His big hands held you so tightly his fingertips were sure to leave bruises in the soft flesh.
The short ride seemed much longer with Joel pressed against you like this. Arching your back—you could feel the outline of his cock against the inside of your thigh, the large imprint poking into your ass.
You tried to distract yourself from the tense situation, focusing on the dirty floor, the build up of sawdust so strong it ticked your nose, but you were unable to stay focused—especially when Joel’s hands swallowed your waist so easily, you caught yourself tracing his veins with your eyes.
“Tommy, outta all the ways you coulda went, why the hell you’d pick this one?” Joel questions, his gravely voice vibrating behind you.
Joel can feel you let out a shaky sigh against him, your back moving against his belly.
If you could only hear what Joel was thinking, or—what his dick is thinking, you’d probably scramble off of him, hell—you’d probably ride back home in the trunk with the metal tool box, far away from his perverted self.
“You saw how busy the street was, ain’t no way I was drivin’ through that fuckin’ crowd.” Tommy bites back, and you can’t help the feeling in your gut of nervousness, maybe you shouldn’t have come along with them, the air in the truck suddenly feeling suffocating.
In an attempt to get some fresh air, your arm reaches over to the passenger side door, pushing your finger down onto the window button, you hear it screech as it rolls down, the warm wind beginning to blow your hair back.
Catching a glimpse out the open window, the hot air flows into the truck as you stare blankly into the open fields, watching the sun begin to dip below the horizon.
But one particular swerve of the car causes your body to jump in the air, and as you land down against Joel’s legs you see him staring at your face through the passenger side mirror.
He looked angrier than the last time you saw his face, his lips pursed into a tight line, the irises of his eyes deepened into a dark black—frustratingly staring directly into his target—you.
Joel wasn’t holding up well, your ass feeling much better against him than he could ever imagined, and oh was he was growing mad— his body furious at how oblivious you seemed to the situation, he was sure that you were purposely rubbing yourself on him in an attempt to rile him up, and Joel was seconds away from snapping.
Joel angled his hips in such a way to feel the space where your thighs met between your cunt, the feeling instantly gratifying—your weight snug against his dripping cock.
The feeling made him quickly grow dizzy, and he could smell your sugary perfume mixing into your sweat—the smell causing his tastebuds to wetten.
He watched how your face seemed scared and uncomfortable, your wide eyed gaze staring back into his through the mirror made him want to take you right there in front of Tommy—that will show him, show him who you’ve belonged to this whole time.
The idea of taking you now, slipping his cock out of his jeans and pushing your panties to the side was a wet dream for another night fisting his cock alone.
Joel was too focused right now, remaining calm with your body on him in the tight angle—the gravel under the tires vibrating your ass onto his dick.
The heat omitting from your barely covered cunt seeped through the denim of his pants, you continuously tried to take your ass of his cock, yet the movement causes your skirt to raise up your thick thighs, placing your thinly veiled pussy right onto his cock, and he could ever so slightly feel the pulsating squeezes from your cunt.
Tommy remains completely oblivious to what’s occurring beside him, humming to the song that plays low on the radio and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.
As the truck finally pulled into the gas station, Joel couldn’t help himself from “accidentally” pushing his hips up into yours, and he couldn’t hide his chuckle that slipped from his throat when he heard a small squeak slip past your own lips.
You couldn’t wait for Tommy to unlock the truck, pushing the button yourself—you peeled off Joel and out of the truck quickly standing on your wobbly legs, desperately trying to get yourself out of the uncomfortable situation.
“Gonna go use the restroom,” mumbling, you tucked your arms over your chest, staring back down at the beige gas station pavement.
The lights from the sign buzzed in your ears as you waltzed over to the glass door, pushing your body into it, the bell rang as you walked inside, heading straight to the only bathroom at the back of the store.
Joel watched your hips bounce while you ran away from him, and Joel wasn’t going to let you get the chance to slip away once again. He’s been waiting on this moment for far too long, a chance to finally get you alone.
He takes one look at Tommy, mumbling an excuse about buying the beer, he hops out of the truck—following you inside.
The shifty bathroom smells of stale disinfectant and mold, the old rusted lock barley works as you attempt to wiggle it shut, a sliver of the isles still leaking through the small crack on the side of the door.
Turning the faucet on cold, you push down on the plastic soap containers grey button with your palm, fighting with the thick old soap that refuses to drip down.
Cursing to yourself, you bang the side of it, watching as it tumbles off the wall and down onto the floor with a loud shatter, the contraption busting wide open, pink slimy soap seeping on the vintage tiled flooring.
“Shit!” You curse to yourself, bending down to clean up your growing mess, you don’t hear the door creeking open over the faucet pouring water down the drain.
“The fuck was that?”
His voice startles you, jumping so hard you feel as if your heart stopped, you look over in the direction—instantly knowing who it is.
“What?” You question, wondering if he heard the crash echo through the thin walls, but your response only pushes his temper further.
Joel steps further into the bathroom, pushing himself up against the wall, making sure to actually lock the rusted door into place.
“Shit, don’t you look at me like that, you know exactly what you were doin’.”
Your stomach sinks further at his admission, the adrenaline pumping in your blood. “I-I didn’t mean to, I swear!” You exclaim, your eyes wide and desperate as you defend yourself. “Went to get soap and it fell off the wall.”
“What?” He scoffs, looking at you then the disheveled container. “I…I ain’t talking about that.”
Joel takes a step forward, the floor creaking underneath his boots as he closes you in.
“Fuck, you got no clue what you’re doin’ to me do ya?”
You really don’t mean to irritate him, even though he came into the bathroom you were using, you still feel like at nuisance, his aggressive demeanor making you feel small.
“Is this about the truck? You could have drove, Tommy said-”
“Don’t you bring him up right now,” Joel’s voice ticks, his eyes darkening.
You watch him in the reflection of the mirror slowly steps forward, his frame easily filling up the small bathroom. Squinting, you brace yourself—having nowhere to hide, the feeling of him brushing up against you makes the hairs on your arms prickle.
The lighting is hazy in the bathroom, the hissing green hues distorting his face, and like a hunter hunting his prey—Joel has finally caught you right where he wants you.
Gripping your hip, he pushes you back onto his hard cock, and you can instantly feel him against you, the denim tight from his swollen cock—all from your teasing.
“You feel that? Been doing this to me since you met me, prancing ‘round outside like a slut, never payin’ me any fucking attention.”
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you watch as he bends your spine down lower, forcing you to arch your back. Your shirt lifts up at the position, feeling the cold porcelain on the freed skin of your belly.
Joel absentmindedly grinds his cock into your ass, watching every quirk of your face through the mirror. He feels bad for what he’s about to do, but you’ve been teasing him for far too long and a man can only take so much.
“All on purpose right? Trying to get me riled up? Well shit it’s working.” He spits, his words like venom, and in some sick way—you feel your wet cunt get even slicker, rolling your hips back into his, meeting his movements.
“Answer me.” Joel orders, his tongue clicking.
He slides his free hand up your spine, and you can feel his calloused fingers twitch ever so slightly through the material of your top.
His hand travels up towards your head, his fingertips grazing the hairs nestled at the nape of your neck. His hand coasts around to your face, his palm resting snugly against your chin, he forces you to stare back at him in the cracked mirror.
“Yes I-yes, ‘s all on purpose. ‘m sorry,” you manage to choke out, giving into his sick game, his cock feeling too good against your covered pussy.
“You ain’t sorry, actin’ all sweet, ‘s an act ain’t it?” Joel whispers into your ear, bending his body weight onto you.
His belly crushes your frame, unable to breathe as your chest is pressed so deep into the sink, you can smell the fruity soap swirling deep downwards the drain, yet you remain focused on him, your eyes meeting his.
“Yes, been wanting you Joel, just too scared to talk to you.”
“Yeah? Things ‘bout to be real scary, shoulda been good, spoken up in the first place.” Joel scoffs, finally pulling himself off your body.
The hand that remains on your side comes down the hem of your skirt, he has you believing he’s going to pull it off, but he doesn’t bother—instead pushing the flimsy fabric up past your hips, he uncovers your cunt, barely confined inside of your cotton panties.
“All it took was one word,” Joel mumbles, more so to himself as he throws his head down against his chest, fumbling with his belt buckle.
“Woulda took ya out, nice dinner.”
You can hear the metal of his zipper pulling against the grain of teeth, the denim brushing in his hands as he yanks them down to his knees.
“Took ya back to mine and fucked ya real nice ‘n slow.” Joel hisses, and you can tell it’s from his cock hitting the cold air from behind you, even though he’s not focused on your face, your me focused on his, watching him as if smoke will erupt from his ears in anger.
“It’s a shame, taking such a pretty thing in such a nasty fucking bathroom.”
He finally looks back at you, his head shaking in disappointment, he takes a hand down to your soaked puffy cunt, pulling your panties to the side in such aggression, the fabric burns, scratching on your inner thighs.
“But you want that don’t you? A dirty fuck for a dirty girl.”
And with that, Joel pushes his cock into your entrance, stuffing you full of his thick red tip, the head already filling you up as you mewl, the feeling ripping your thighs open.
Your jaw turns slack at the stretch, choking on your breath; the feeling of his cock is incomparable to anything you’ve ever felt before. You were far from a virgin, but for someone this big and strong, your cunt couldn’t take it, squeezing down hard on his cock in an attempt to still his movements.
“J-Joel, you’re hurtin’ me.” You cry, begging for him to give you a chance to take him, yet he smirks at you in the mirror, his lip curling just barely enough you almost miss it.
He’s never heard a painful plea sound so pretty, and he hopes you can forgive him, but when it comes from your pouting distraught lips—he almost busts right then, before he’s even got the chance to fully fuck you yet.
“Good, need ya ta learn a fuckin’ lesson.”
Joel was telling you the truth, he wishes things were different—he would have loved to be a gentleman, do all the sweet things he’s telling you, yet Joel knows himself—he knows what he needs and more so what you can handle.
Pulling himself out of your tight pussy, he watches as your slick coats his dick. He shutters as he slams back in, your warmth sucking him back in; he grabs your hip to stabilize his movements, his thrusts picking up speed.
“Knew you’d be too damn tight, just needed me to loosen ya up huh?” Joel tuts from behind you, his cock ramming so hard into your pussy, you can feel the tip of his dick prodding at your cervix, the tight muscle aching against the protruding presence.
God, Joel feels obsessed with your cunt—the way you pull him inside, it’s everything and more he could have ever imagined. Your velvety walls smooth over the skin of his dick, so soft and wet, makes his legs shake with each thrust.
Your pussys quickly becomes a sopping mess around his dick, feeling him mold himself into the perfect shape in your cunt; he fucks you deep—each thrust knocking the wind out of you.
“J-Joel, ‘s too much!” You gurgle, gripping on to the sink so tight it begins to shake off the wall, you can see the porcelain's dirt-stained caulk looking back at you.
“Shit you like that don’t ya?” Cursing, Joel grinds his cock into you, his pelvis flush fo your ass.
Your hands react faster than your brain can realize, throwing your arms back, your right arm instantly finds Joel’s neck, pulling him closer.
Joel’s quick to respond—spreading his large hand over the expanse of exposed skin on your belly, he rushes his palm up the flesh, his hand rubbing your shirt off your chest.
The fabric gives at your breasts, watching in the mirror as Joel manhandles flimsy fabric off the fat of your chest, exposing your soft breasts—you watch him carelessly touching you in the mirror as if he owns you.
“Looks even better up close,” Joel breathes into your neck, bunching the fabric of your top so far up your body it begins to rub angrily at your neck.
The grinding sensation he’s giving you is too dull for the intensity you’re craving. You push your ass onto him—pushing his hips backward in an attempt to use his cock for your own pleasure.
Joel pulls back slightly, watching the way you take his cock all by yourself, the noise of your ass clapping echoing off the walls and deep into his eardrums causes him to shudder.
“Fucking yourself using my cock, lookin’ so damn pretty.” Joel coos, approving your movements.
But Joel has waited for this moment for far too long, and he would be crass to allow you to use him like this, he much rather use you—just like he planned
He grips you tightly around him, pushing his belly deep into your spine, his arm comes around your neck; his bicep sitting snug around your throat.
You let out a gargled moan at the new angle, his cock tilting itself just right it begins to rock fast against your g-spot.
“Tell me how good I feel, hell—can see it in your face, just how bad you want this dick.” Joel pushes, not wanting you to be quiet.
He needs to hear every single squeak out of your mouth, the need for your pretty little voice to scream his name would be a stroke of his ego he could only imagine in his dreams and he’s so close to getting it—knowing exactly what you need from him.
He brings the hand on your hip down in between your legs, pushing his pointer finger and middle finger on your clit, he begins to rabidly rub the bead, the feeling making your eyes roll into the back of your head.
His skilled fingers are too much for your body to handle, the feeling only intensified by the bicep around your throat, you can’t help but feel breathless, your moans becoming raspy as he holds your limp, fucked out body up.
He can feel your cunt fluttering around his cock, your legs clenching around his hand tells him you're close and Joel isn’t far behind, his balls skin tight as they slap loudly onto your skin.
“How ‘bout I cum inside ya? Make you prance around town with my fucking kid in yer belly?”
His words make your belly quiver, imagining Joel out of all people in town to be the one to claim your cunt as his makes you feel a way you’ve never felt before—his seed knocking you up in an aged gas station bathroom is disgusting—yet so satisfying you can’t help but moan out in agreement.
“Can feel ya clenching on me doll, shit-know you want it, want my cum inside of ya like a slut.” Joel babbles, himself coming closer to his release.
Joel cums before you, his girthy cock spurting thick ropes of his seed deep into your walls, you can feel the cum seeping deep past your cervix.
“Cmon, gotta feel ya cum for me baby.”
His words do it for you, pushing your knees together, your body begins to shake, your bones prickling with stars as your muscles burn. Your orgasm snaps through you like a rubberband, Joel having no choice but to help you stand up straight, your legs feeling like jelly.
As you cum, Joel’s hand comes down on your clit, slapping the puffy bead into overstimulation, you scream out loud, your knuckles turning pale on the edge of the sink.
Screaming, you thrash around his grasp, using both of your hands to release yourself against his angry palm, he finally lets off your pleading cunt, your clit throbbing in agony.
“Gotta take it out, ‘s gonna sting.”
Pulling out, his cum instantly falls from your stretched out cunt, the warm clear liquid seeping down your legs, Joel is quick to rip a paper towel, wetting it in the bathroom sink.
Swiping it up your cunt, you hiss in discomfort—although it’s a nice gesture after he abused your cunt, the scratchy surface of the towel burns the inside of your thighs, each wipe of his hand hurting more than the next.
“I’ll see ya outside,” Joel mutters under his breath, “gotta buy beer, ‘s what I came in here for.”
You watch as he zips up his jeans, the dark spot of precum dampening against his denim catches in the light as he walks out the bathroom, leaving you in your messy clothes, ass and tits out with his cum still seeping out of your pussy.
Confusion washes over you, and if you thought you didn’t understand him before—you sure as hell don’t get him now.
