New In Town - Chapter 11 - Session Planning
It had gotten late without us noticing.
The living room was lit in that soft, hazy way it always got when the only source of light was the floor lamp by the couch—warm and golden, more like candlelight than anything else. My D&D prep was spread across the coffee table and onto the rug: open notebooks, loose pages of monster stats, a folder of handouts, one of the players’ minis half-painted and forgotten beside a crumpled snack wrapper.
M was curled up on the floor across from me, oversized hoodie falling off one shoulder, knees pulled to their chest. Their hair was a little messy from lying around, and they had that look they always got when they were watching me work—thoughtful, quiet for a moment, then all smirk.
“What if I just cast Zone of Truth on the NPC?” they asked, reaching lazily for a gummy from the open bag between us. “You’d have to tell me their whole backstory, right?”
I didn’t even look up. “That’s not how it works.”
I shook my head and made another note in the margin of my map. “It’s not like the movies where people can’t lie. They’re not just going to blurt out every embarrassing secret. They just can’t lie about what they’re asked about.”
“You know I’m not gonna stop asking,” they said. Their tone was casual, but the way their eyes lingered on me wasn’t. “You might as well tell me what’s waiting behind the next door. Just a little peek.”
“M,” I said, glancing up at them over the top of my notebook. “Spoilers.”
They grinned, slow and sharp. “I like spoilers.”
They stretched out long across the rug like a cat, one leg sliding toward mine under the table. Their bare foot brushed against my shin.
“Bet I could bribe you for one,” they said, voice dropping a little lower. “You’re looking very... persuadable tonight.”
“Are you flirting with your Dungeon Master?”
“Maybe I’m roleplaying.” Their fingers ghosted across the edge of one of the character sheets. “Maybe I’m just a desperate little rogue trying to seduce her way past a deadly trap.”
I sighed—dramatically—and leaned back on my hands, watching them with a half-smile. “You're gonna get us both killed.”
They propped themselves up on one elbow and looked right at me.
“Or,” they said, “you could let me help.”
Their voice had shifted—still teasing, but quieter now. More breath than sound. It lingered in the air between us like smoke.
My pen is still. The map in front of me suddenly felt very far away.
I let the silence stretch between us.
They didn’t fill it this time.
Just lay there on the rug, still and watching, like they knew something had changed. Like they’d pushed a little too far, or exactly far enough.
I leaned forward slowly, setting my notebook aside.
“You really want to help?” I asked, voice low. “Is that it?”
They nodded, wide-eyed now. Just the smallest shift in posture—like they didn’t quite know whether to smile or kneel.
“Alright,” I said. “You can help.”
I stood up. I walked around the table. M tilted their head to follow me with their eyes, but didn’t move.
They obeyed instantly, hoodie slipping lower as they rose to their knees. I reached out, tugged the hem over their head, slow and deliberate, baring their soft skin to the lamp’s honey-warm light.
“Bend over the table,” I said. “Hands flat. Stay still.”
Their breath caught, but they didn’t hesitate. They moved like they’d been waiting for it all night, hips pressing against the edge of the wood, cheek turned sideways so they could still glance back at me.
I grabbed my notebook and laid it flat across their shoulder blades.
“Don’t move,” I murmured, flipping it open. “You said you wanted to help me plan.”
Their breath hitched again—barely a sound—but I caught the way their thighs squeezed together.
I picked up my pen, rested it against the page, and tapped it there once.
“Be a good table for me,” I said. “And maybe I’ll let you see what I’ve got planned next.”
They didn’t move. Not even a tremble beneath my notebook.
I kept the pen poised for a second longer, watching them breathe—shoulders rising under the pages, spine curving downward with obedient grace. The soft dip of their lower back made a perfect shelf. I could’ve written a thousand sessions like that.
Instead, I set the pen aside.
I slid my hands down their sides, slow and greedy, until my palms met the curve of their hips. They were warm and pliant, barely breathing now, eyes closed and lips parted like they were afraid they’d ruin it by speaking. Or begging.
“You like being useful, don’t you?” I asked, pressing in behind them, my voice just above a whisper. “Being something I can lean on. Use.”
They nodded quickly, face flushed. “Yes—yes, please…”
I let my zipper fall open.
“Good,” I said. “Stay still.”
One hand kept the notebook balanced across their back, while the other gripped their hip hard enough to make them gasp. I slid into them slow—deliberate. The kind of slow that didn’t ask permission. That told them what they were for.
They whimpered as I filled them, back arching, but they didn’t move. Didn’t dare drop the notebook. Not even as I started to thrust.
“You’re doing so well,” I murmured against their ear, pushing deeper, dragging a broken little sound from their throat. “Just like that. Hold still for me. Let me use you.”
Each thrust pushed them into the table—flesh against wood, page against spine—and they took it beautifully. Needy. Willing. Trying so hard to be good.
I fucked them like I meant it, one hand steadying the notebook, the other digging into their waist, using them exactly the way they’d asked to be used—until I couldn’t hold back anymore. Until I buried myself deep and spilled inside them with a low, satisfied groan.
Their whole body trembled, skin slick with sweat, chest heaving.
But they never dropped the notebook.
I leaned down, kissed the back of their neck.
“Perfect table,” I murmured.
They were still catching their breath when I reached for them again.
“Up,” I murmured, pulling them gently by the arm. “On the table.”
They moved without hesitation, still flushed and panting, eyes hazy with that perfect, used-up look. I swept the notebooks aside to clear the space, and they climbed up, lying back along the hardwood with a soft hiss as their bare skin met the cool surface.
“Hold this,” I said, grabbing the campaign book from the chair beside me.
They blinked up at me—then smiled, dazed and dreamy, as they took it in both hands and raised it above their chest like an offering.
“Don’t drop it,” I warned. “I still need to prep the next encounter.”
I slid back inside them in one smooth thrust.
They gasped, arms tensing to keep the book aloft as I began to fuck them again—deeper this time, sharper, like I was hammering something in place inside them. Their legs wrapped around my waist instinctively, but they kept the book steady, eyes fluttering shut as they moaned.
I grinned down at them. “You like being part of the process, huh?”
“Letting me use your body to get my story straight.”
They nodded, the book dipping an inch—then catching themselves and adjusting, still clinging to it like it was sacred.
I thrust harder. “Gonna hold it for me, even while I fuck you stupid?”
“Yes,” they breathed. “Anything, anything you want.”
I kept one hand braced on the table and reached up with the other, turning a page with a smirk. “Hmm. I think the party’s gonna run into trouble in the next dungeon. Traps. Restraints. Maybe some... creative bindings.”
They whimpered again, the edges of the book trembling slightly in their grip.
I leaned down, lips brushing theirs, hips still moving slow and relentless between their thighs.
“I could write it all down later,” I whispered, “or I could just practice on you.”
Their voice was a breathy, wrecked mess when they answered. “Practice. Please. Fuck, I want you to.”
I kissed them then, hungry, possessive, while my cock worked deeper, hips grinding down like I could mold them into the table itself.
They moaned into my mouth, desperate and beautiful and obedient, their arms beginning to tremble under the weight of the book. I fucked them until their whole body was trembling, thighs slick, face flushed, eyes rolling back as I pulled them closer and held them tight.
And when they came–gasping and writhing, the book finally slipping from their hands – I caught it before it hit the floor.
“Guess you’ll need more practice holding it,” I teased, setting it down on the edge of the table and grinning down at them. “We’ve got a few more nights before game day.”
