🤙

[vinceredeforza]

i write for everyone and everything my heart desires, so there's a mix of everything here. i suck as staying consistent with writing and if i don't feel like writing im not gonna...but anyways English isn't my first language so apologies for any typos cause i also don't proofread my stuff or reread my stuff often so whoops.

Kamala Harris:

blush and butterflies (part 1)

bush and butterflies (part 2)

blush and butterflies (final)

puppy lingerie (pet play)

quiet shopping (orgasm denial)

Baran Al-Hashimi:

oh shit (smau)

Mother Leonora:

tied punishment (soft bdsm)

Farah Karim:

Farah’s disdain (degradation)

[vinceredeforza]

chapter 4 - (chapter 5 coming soon) (nav)

tags: @easiwhitechocolate , @hurriedlyworthyblight

lmk if you wanna be tagged too

[vinceredeforza]

ur smau is soso good

thank you soo much 🫡

[vinceredeforza]

chapter 3 - (chapter 4 here) (nav)

tags: @easiwhitechocolate

[vinceredeforza]

chapter 2 - (chapter 3) (nav)

some of baran’s pov (lowkey wasn’t sure what to say cause in my head Baran wouldn’t even go to anyone especially not a co worker about this but for the plot 👌)

[vinceredeforza]

Chapter 1 - (chapter 2) (nav)

[vinceredeforza]

oh shit (nav)

baran al hashimi x fem!reader smau

synopsis: you accidentally send baran a nude

warnings: not sure yet.., sexual topics??

chapter 1 - 🐾

chapter 2 - 😥

chapter 3 - 🫪

chapter 4 - 😑

[pussybongwater]

i need to be in the middle of a yolanda and emery sandwich 🤤🤤🤤

[garciasfemme]

whole hospital got doe eyes

[buttonsandbones]

the concept of being baran al-hashimi’s young girlfriend who breaks through her professional side.

[vinceredeforza]

why is life lowkey kicking my butt lol

[vinceredeforza]

Farah's Disdain

Farah Karim x Fem!reader

Synopsis: Farah hates a ‘barrack bunny’ until it's her turn.

Genre: smut, degradation/slut shaming

Warnings: Verbal Insults, idk

You arrive at camp the way you always do, lip gloss gleaming under the unforgiving desert sun, hair brushed to some polished shine that has no business surviving a warzone. The rifle slung over your shoulder looks almost ornamental like an accessory to match the eyeliner you smudged with meticulous care this morning.

And of course, the men notice. They whistle, tease, let their words curl around you like smoke, and you laugh it off with that soft, playful tone that only makes their grins widen.

Farah Karim thinks it’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever seen.

You are too polished, too American, too soft around the edges for the world you’ve stepped into. She watches you with arms crossed, jaw tight, her voice low when she finally mutters to Soap who happens to be standing beside her.

“She paints her face every morning like she’s preparing for a date, not a mission" her accent sharp around the words. “Does she think mascara will protect her from bullets?”

Soap smirks, folding his arms, following her gaze to where you’re tying your hair back in front of a cracked mirror. “Och, I dunno, Farah. Morale’s important, aye? Maybe the lads fight harder if they think a pretty lady is watchin’.”

Farah glares at him, unimpressed. “This isn’t a game. War doesn’t care if she looks ‘pretty.’”

Soap chuckles under his breath. “Aye, but you do care. I can see it burnin’ a hole in ye every time she bats her lashes.”

Farah doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, she turns away though her eyes can’t help but flick back toward you as you let one of the men braid a loose strand of your hair, laughing at his clumsy attempt.

It makes her chest tight with something she doesn’t name. something sharper than irritation, something heavier than disdain.

She convinces herself it’s just annoyance.

Because what kind of soldier shows up to war looking like she’s headed to a party?

What kind of soldier are you, really?

—————

You push open the door to the women’s barracks, humming faintly under your breath as you toss your kit bag onto the narrow bunk. The mirror on the far wall catches your eye, and before long you’re standing in front of it, lip pencil in one hand, gloss in the other.

Your routine is almost ritualistic: outline, blend, dab, press. You lean closer to check the balance of color, adjusting until you’re satisfied. War outside, but in here you carve out your own kind of order, one stroke at a time.

The door creaks again. You glance up in the reflection and spot Farah slipping inside, clearly by accident. She halts for a heartbeat when she sees you. Her gaze lingers on the lip gloss glinting in your hand, then on the shine of your mouth when you purse your lips together.

She doesn’t say a word.

Instead, she sets her rifle down on the bed opposite yours, settling onto the edge with the kind of soldier’s grace that looks carved into her bones. She pulls a brush through her dark hair with quick, efficient strokes before gathering it into her hands. Her fingers move with muscle memory as she begins braiding, tightly.

You catch her in the mirror watching you for half a second too long, and your smile tugs wider.

“Something on my face?” you ask lightly, blotting your lips with a tissue.

Farah’s expression doesn’t shift. “Plenty” she says, her tone clipped, her fingers tightening on the braid as though binding up her own irritation.

You laugh softly, unfazed. “Well, that’s the point.”

She exhales through her nose, braiding faster, annoyed at herself for even stepping inside, annoyed at you for looking like you belonged anywhere but here. Still, she doesn’t leave. She finishes tying off her braid, tucks it neatly behind her shoulder, and only then stands.

The air between you is sharp, unspoken.

She doesn’t tell you she thinks your lip gloss is useless. She doesn’t tell you she notices the way you tilt your head, checking your work in the mirror like every line matters.

She just shoulders her rifle and leaves, jaw tight, braid perfect.

And you, left in the quiet can’t help smiling at her reflection.

—————

You’re sitting on the steps outside the barracks, the evening sun dripping gold over the camp. A canteen rests in your lap, your voice light as you mention it to no one in particular but hoping Farah would for once join in.

“God, McTavish was being so annoyingly flirty again” you sigh, shaking your head with a faint smile. “Sometimes I think he does it just to wind me up.”

Farah was leaning against the wall not far away, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in that way of hers that makes you feel like she sees more than she should.

Her voice cuts across the quiet like a blade “Maybe he does it because you encourage it.”

You blink, turning to look at her. “Excuse me?”

Farah pushes off the wall taking a step closer her tone flat but dripping with disdain. “You laugh at them, smile at them, let them braid your hair like it’s a schoolyard. Don’t act surprised when the men treat you like a toy.”

The words sting, sharp and deliberate. But she doesn’t stop there.

“You like it. The eyes on you. Makes you feel important.” Her gaze rakes over you, cold. “You’re a slut.”

The canteen slips from your lap, metal clinking against the step as you stare at her, chest tight. You expected her usual clipped remarks, her eye rolls, her sighs. But this was something else.

You swallow hard, throat dry. “You don’t know me.”

Farah’s jaw tightens, her braid brushing against her shoulder as she looks away as if even meeting your eyes is too much. She knows she’s gone too far but pride won’t let her take it back.

Instead, she says nothing more. Just turns, walks away, and leaves you there with the echo of her words biting deeper than she intended.

And for the first time, you wonder if she hates you…or if it’s something far more complicated.

After that it starts small. A mutter under her breath when you pass her in the corridor, a sneer when you tie your hair back before a briefing.

“Slut.”

You catch it, of course, but when you whip your head around, she’s already walking away, her braid tight and her shoulders squared as if nothing happened.

Then it escalates.

During a weapons check, she leans in just close enough that only you can hear, her voice like the edge of a blade.

“Whore.”

She says it like a fact, not an insult and the calm in her tone makes your chest tighten in a way you hate. You grit your teeth, focusing on your rifle refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

But she doesn’t stop.

In the barracks one night, when you’re curled up on your bunk with a book, she passes by and tosses it over her shoulder, casual as anything:

“Barrack bunny.”

The others don’t hear, she makes sure of that. It’s always in passing, always private, as if the words is meant for your ears alone.

You tell yourself it shouldn’t matter. She doesn’t know you, not really. Her words shouldn’t bite so deep.

—————

The rescue mission went sideways fast. Gunfire echoing, smoke choking the air, bodies dragged out one by one. By the time you got Farah to cover, she was bleeding through her sleeve her face tight with pain she refused to show.

Back at camp, the ‘medics’ were stretched thin. Too many injured, not enough hands. Someone shoved a bloody kit bag at you, barked an order and suddenly it was just you and her.

“You shouldn’t be here” Farah snapped as you guided her onto a bunk, her voice sharp despite the pallor under her skin. “I don’t need you.”

You set your jaw, snapping open the kit with steady hands. “Lucky for you, I worked as an EMT back in the States.”

You peel back the fabric, blood sticky and hot against your gloves. “Bullet went clean through” you murmur, checking the wound.

Farah exhales through her nose, muscles taut as you disinfect. The second the alcohol makes contact, she hisses and jerks, glare snapping toward you.

“You whore” she spits, as though the insult might anchor her against the pain.

Your hands don’t falter. You’ve been called worse in trauma bays when you first started, with men bleeding out under your watch. Still, it stings.

You meet her glare head-on. “You’d be dead without this whore right now.”

For once, she doesn’t answer. Her teeth grind, her breath sharp, and you work in silence wrapping, stitching, steadying.

By the time you finish, sweat beads at her temple. She won’t meet your eyes.

You pack the kit away, your voice quieter. “There. You’ll scar, but it’ll hold.”

Farah flexes her hand experimentally, winces then mutters barely audible: “I didn’t need you.”

You just smirk faintly, exhausted. “Yeah. Keep telling yourself that.”

The first time, you lean over her bunk as she adjusted her bandaged arm, reaching for a map on the stand next to her. Your neckline dips, and Farah’s gaze betrays her before she even realizes it. Just a second too long, her eyes flick down to your cleavage. Her jaw clenches. She forces her eyes back to the ceiling, her hand tightening around the edge of the bunk as though she could snap the corner clean off.

Later, in the barracks, you bend at the waist to grab something from your duffel. The stretch of fabric across your hips, the way your hair falls loose, Farah’s eyes catch again, uninvited, traitorous.

Heat curls low in her stomach before she stomps it out with a surge of anger. She doesn’t want this. Not from you. Not from the woman she’s spent weeks branding a distraction, a liability, a slut.

And yet, her pulse stutters anyway.

By the time you straighten and glance over your shoulder, she’s already looking away, braid whipping against her back as she busies herself with anything else checking her rifle, adjusting her jacket, anything.

But she knows.

She knows she looked.

And it infuriates her.

The next time you pass her in the hall, all sunshine and lip gloss like the war hasn’t chewed everyone raw, she spits the word sharper than ever, just to ground herself.

“Slut.”

Your brows lift, but you don’t bite back. You just smile faintly, as though you’ve caught her in something she won’t admit.

That smile lingers with her long after you’ve gone, and it makes her stomach twist worse than the sight of your skin ever did.

—————

The move happens overnight fast, frantic, silent. Whispers of a location leak, enemy eyes too close for comfort. By dawn, the camp was stripped bare and reassembled miles away, thinner, tighter, everyone crammed closer than before.

The women’s barracks doesn’t survive the downsizing. There aren’t enough bunks to go around, not enough walls to divide. When assignments are read out, you catch her name paired with yours, and your stomach twists.

Farah Karim.

You don’t miss the flash of irritation on her face either.

By the time you make it inside, the reality sets in: one bed. Narrow, stiff, barely wide enough for two. She stands there with her arms crossed, jaw set, like she can will the mattress to split into two.

“I’ll take the floor” you offer, dropping your bag.

“No” she snaps, too fast, too sharp. Then, softer: “It’s fine. We share.”

That night, every movement feels too loud. Your breathing, her shifting, the creak of springs under the both of you. You roll once, just trying to get comfortable. The brush of your shoulder against hers makes her flinch.

“Slut” she whispers, venom low in her throat.

Your lips part, ready to bite back but then she shifts closer deliberately, her warmth sliding against yours. Her braid brushes your arm. Her knee nudges yours.

“Barrack bunny” she mutters next, the words hot against your ear. She doesn’t pull away. In fact, she presses closer, like the insult itself gives her permission.

It’s cruel and degrading but her body betrays her. The press of her thigh against yours, the way her breathing hitches when your hip brushes hers.

You whisper back, barely audible “If I’m a slut, why are you holding on so tight?”

You can feel it, the tight coil of her body, the way she’s holding herself rigid as if she pressed too close to you she might snap something inside her.

So you test it.

You shift, slow and deliberate, your hips rubbing into hers. Just a graze at first, then firmer rubbing against her thigh.

You wait for the snap, for the sharp retreat, for her to shove you off and spit another venomous word.

But she doesn’t.

She doesn’t move at all.

Then to your shock, her arm hooks around your waist, dragging you closer until your back is flush against her chest, her breath spilling hot against your neck.

“Slut,” she whispers right against your ear.

Her hand grips your hip, holding you there, grinding you tighter against her.

“Always desperate for attention” she murmurs, low enough no one else could hear. “Even here, you can’t help yourself, can you?”

You shiver, caught between fury and heat but you don’t pull away either. You push back harder, testing her grip.

Farah only tightens her hold, teeth gritting as she presses closer her voice like poison and honey all at once.

“Little barrack bunny,” she hisses. “Rubbing yourself on me like you’ve been waiting for it all along.”

She wants.

She wants, and it infuriates her.

So she whispers sharper, crueler things to cover the way her lips nearly graze your ear, her breathing jagged, her hand still clutching your waist as if daring you to stop her.

But you don’t.

You never could.

“Slut. Grinding on me like you’ve been begging for this since day one.”

You inhale sharply but the sound is swallowed when she suddenly pushes at your shoulder, forcing you onto your back. The thin mattress creaks under the shift.

Farah looms over you, her braid falling forward, her face inches from yours. Her eyes are dark, conflicted, furious.

And then her hand grips your jaw, fingers firm, tilting your face up to hers.

“Quiet” she hisses, her breath hot against your lips. “You make one sound, and everyone in this camp will know what you are.”

Your chest heaves. Her thumb presses hard into your cheek, holding you still, keeping you trapped beneath her.

And then she kisses you.

It isn’t gentle. It’s bruising, claiming, her mouth crushing against yours as if she can force her hate back down your throat. But when you kiss her back, eager, hungry almost softly her grip only tightens, dragging you deeper. Her other hand slides down your side, fingertips tracing the hem of your shirt, slipping beneath to grope at your breast. She groans low in her throat, a sound like she’s angry at herself for needing this, needing you.

She breaks from your lips only to whisper against them, venom laced with want.

“Whore. Look at you…spreading your legs without me even asking.”

Her hand grips your thigh, squeezing hard, pushing it open. Her knee slides between yours, pressing up, pinning you to the thin mattress.

“You’re going to keep quiet for me,” she breathes, her forehead against yours, sweat slick at her temple. “Aren’t you, little barrack bunny? You’re such a little slut,” she hisses, dragging her nails down your side. “Always needy…look at you, begging for it even before I touch you.”

Her hand slides lower, finger slipping below the waistband of your pants, fingers brushing against your panties. You gasp, but she silences you instantly with a finger pressed to your lips. Her knees press into the mattress, pinning your legs open. She leans close, lips brushing your ear as she continues:

“God, you’re pathetic. I can’t believe how wet you get for me while I’m telling you what a whore you are.”

Your breath catches, your mind spinning. You know you should pull away, but the raw mix of words and touch has you frozen and needy.

Her fingers move under your panties, soft and slow just as they enter inside. You whimper, arms wrapping around her shoulders just as you nuzzle your face into her neck.

“You’re pathetic” she hisses, pressing her mouth to your neck, biting lightly as her fingers curl lightly inside. “Look at you, quivering for me…such a desperate little slut.”

You shiver under her, hips lifting against her insistence. She catches the movement instantly, gripping your waist tighter, her fingers curling faster, and smirking at your response.

“Pathetic, so fucking eager…” she whispers, teeth grazing your jaw. “I can see it. You love me telling you what a whore you are while I touch you. Admit it.”

“I…I-” you start, but her finger presses to your lips, silencing you.

“Shut up” she says, low and commanding. “Don’t let the others hear.”

Her lips find yours again, her tongue teasing inside your mouth silencing your whimpers.

“Such a dirty little barrack bunny” she murmurs against your ear, her thumb resting over your clit applying just enough pressure. “Do you like being this helpless? Getting wet for me while I tell you what a slut you are? Of course you do…you’re pathetic.”

Her free hand roams teasing and kneading over your left boob. Every insult pushes you higher.

“God, look at you,” she whispers, voice hoarse. “Quivering like a little whore, You’re mine, got it? And you’re going to remember it every time you feel wet like this.”

You can’t stop the moan that escapes when her fingers press exactly where you needed them. She smirks, hearing it, loving it, dragging the sound out of you.

“Good girl” she breathes, her teeth grazing your shoulder, lips pressing hot against your skin. “So fucking good for me…my barrack bunny.”

[vinceredeforza]

Quiet Shopping

Synopsis: Kamala offers you her card to online shop on one condition.

Genre: Smut, Orgasm Denial

Warnings: Second Person, idk

A/N: remember everything anyone in this ff is not true or related to their true self whatsoever!

It’s your birthday, and the house feels quieter than usual. Planning lectures for UCLA are behind you for the week, your inbox mercifully empty, and Kamala has made it her mission to keep you firmly in her orbit for the day.

You don’t even get a chance to retreat into your office before she pulls you down onto the couch, settling you easily onto her lap. At first, you think she’s teasing but the way her arms wind around your waist says otherwise. She always has to touch you, sometimes it’s just a pinky, sometimes it’s her hand finding yours under a table during a dinner event. But right now, she’s greedy with her closeness.

“Birthday girls shouldn’t be working” she murmurs into your shoulder, her voice soft but laced with that commanding warmth that always makes you listen. “So here’s what we’re going to do.”

She gestures toward your laptop waiting on the coffee table. “You get to shop. Anything you want. No limits. My only rule…” her mouth brushes your ear, and you feel the smile forming before you hear it “is for you to stay quiet.”

Your laugh slips out before you can stop it, and she pulls back just enough to give you a mock stern look.

“See? That’s a strike already” she says, denying you the little kiss you lean in to steal. “Quiet means quiet, Angel.”

You open your laptop trying to focus on the screen. The credit card is saved, hers of course and the freedom to choose anything makes your pulse quicken. Shoes, dresses, books you’ve been eyeing, she’s giving you full rein. But every time her hand sneaks under your shirt, every time her lips hover just close enough to make your breath catch, you forget what you’re doing.

Kamala’s lips find your neck warm and unhurried. She knows exactly where your skin is most sensitive, where a kiss makes your shoulders rise and your breath catch. You clench your jaw, determined not to give her the satisfaction of a sound.

The laptop screen glows in front of you. You force yourself to click through the tabs you’ve saved for weeks, the stack of books you’d been eyeing but never let yourself buy. A hardcover on an autobiography, a few novels you had been quietly waiting for, that oversized coffee table book you once said was “too indulgent.” Kamala’s chin rests on your shoulder as she watches you add them all to your cart, her lips never stopping their slow trail along your neck.

“Good girl” she murmurs, almost too softly to hear. It makes your fingers twitch over the keyboard, but you stay silent.

The press of her mouth lingers just below your ear, deliberate and teasing. She’s testing your patience, just like she always does when she knows you’re playing along. Your screen blurs for a second as her hand squeezes your thigh, but you force yourself back to the cart determined to keep quiet.

Click. Another book added.

Click. Another small indulgence you wouldn’t have let yourself buy before.

Kamala hums against your skin, the vibration of it making you want to gasp, to whine but you bite it back. She said quiet, and you know the second you slip, her affection will vanish.

For now, she kisses, and you shop.

She changes tactics after a while. The kisses along your neck slow, then still and you almost relax until you feel her hand slide beneath the hem of your shirt. Her fingers are warm against your skin, roaming in lazy patterns that make it impossible to focus on the glowing laptop screen.

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to stay composed. The cursor hovers over the checkout button, but the pressure of her hand against your waist then higher until her fingers wiggle under your bra. Her fingers tug lightly breaking your concentration.

A whimper slips out. Small, unplanned, but enough.

Instantly, Kamala pulls back. The warmth of her mouth is gone, her touch disappears.

Her voice is calm and firm, the same cadence she uses when she wants a room full of people to fall silent.

“Hands off” she warns, her eyes steady on you. “You know the rules.”

You glance down at your laptop, fingers frozen above the trackpad. You want to reach back for her, to pull her hand where you need it most but the look she gives you makes your pulse skip.

“No touching until you remember how to be quiet” she adds, her tone clipped.

Her hands wander lower this time, deliberate clearly testing you. The weight of her palm drifts over your stomach, slipping down until you can hardly think about anything else. Your spine stiffens, your fingers trembling over the keyboard as you fight to keep your focus on the checkout screen.

Barnes & Noble blurs in front of your eyes. The cart is full, titles you’ve dreamed of holding stacked neatly on the list but the way Kamala’s fingers toy at the edge of your waistband makes it almost impossible to press that final button.

You breathe out slowly, forcing yourself to click Checkout. Just one more step. Payment processing, order confirmed. You’ve made it-

Until she presses just a little lower. Her fingers reaching your panties, her middle finger applying pressure over your clit.

The sound leaves you before you can catch it, a soft whimper you can’t bite back and immediately, her touch vanishes.

Kamala leans back against the couch, her expression unreadable. Finally, she speaks, her tone measured.

“That’s twice, baby. You want me to stop altogether?”

You shake your head quickly, almost desperately but she doesn’t move closer.

“Then learn the rules” she says simply, folding her hands in her lap. The gentleness in her eyes doesn’t match the distance in her touch, and that contradiction makes your chest ache.

Kamala doesn’t return right away. Your body still aching from where her hands had been just moments ago. The silence stretches until you think you might break until finally, you feel her fingertips return, grazing lightly over your waistband.

Her hand slips lower again, not rushing this time, just resting there like a promise. You stiffen, every nerve alive but you don’t make a sound. Not when her thumb draws lazy circles over your clit. Not when she presses closer against your back. Your lips part, but nothing escapes.

The screen in front of you is all but forgotten, your vision blurring with each deliberate touch. Still you refuse to lose again. Your cursor drifts clumsily, and somehow you manage to open another tab.

Heels. The pair you’d been eyeing for weeks but never let yourself splurge on. Black, sleek, impractical for campus but perfect for you. Your hand trembles as you click Add to Cart, forcing yourself to breathe evenly while Kamala’s mouth ghosts along your neck.

She notices. Of course she notices.

“Look at you” she murmurs, her tone a low praise that sinks into your skin. “So determined.” Her finger presses lightly against your entrance, a reward in itself. “That’s my girl.”

Your heart slams against your ribs, pride swelling in your chest even as the struggle nearly breaks you. You manage to press Checkout, your jaw tight, and for once no sound escapes.

Kamala hums in approval, kissing your temple at last. “That’s what I like to see. My clever, disciplined wife.”

The praise only makes it harder to concentrate. Every word she murmurs against your skin, every slow brush of her fingers, twists your resolve tighter until it’s almost unbearable. You can feel yourself growing annoyed, not at her exactly, but at the rules, at the game.

Your voice wobbles before you even realize it. “Kamala…” you start softly, but it’s enough to make her pause, her lips lifting into that teasing smirk you know too well.

Your hand twitches, almost involuntarily and you reach down trying to guide hers back to claim a little of what you’ve been denied.

She catches it before it fully connects. Her eyes hold yours, warm but unyielding. “Honey,” she says gently, but with that unmistakable firmness, “if you want it that bad, you’ll have to stop shopping.” Her hand slides back up to rest on your waist, still close enough to tease but not so close as to give you what you’re craving.

She leans in just slightly, her breath brushing your ear. “Otherwise…you keep quiet and shop. That’s the rule. You agreed to it.”

You take a deep, shaky breath and force yourself to stay silent, letting your cursor hover over the final “Place Order” button, your hand frozen while Kamala’s gaze lingers possessively on you.

“Good girl” she murmurs softer this time letting just enough affection back to make your heart skip a beat.

You’re trembling barely holding yourself together. The effort to stay quiet twists your chest, curls your stomach in knots, and every subtle rub from Kamala makes it harder. You bite your lip, jaw tight, trying to keep your composure.

A soft, almost accidental moan escapes before you can stop it, your voice breaking the fragile silence.

Immediately, she pulls back leaving you throbbing. The warmth, the pressure, the teasing all gone. Her lips part, her expression shifts into mock disappointment, and she pouts at you exaggerating the hurt in a way that makes your heart ache as much as her absence.

“Baby…” she murmurs, her voice playful but firm, “hands off. Remember the rules.”

You stumble over your words, cheeks hot. “I-I’m sorry! I-please, Kamala, I’ll be quiet! Please!”

She tilts her head, watching you plead with the tiniest bit of amusement sparkling in her eyes. Her pout deepens, and you feel the weight of her gaze drilling into you. She doesn’t move closer, doesn’t give in to the pleading.

“You’re not a good girl, honey,” she whispers, her voice low and teasing, almost mocking.

You whine cheeks burning, and she leans in just enough for her lips to brush the side of your neck. “Do you understand what you did wrong?”

“I-I moaned” you whisper, voice barely steady, and she nods, smirking.

“Say it” she orders, tone firm now. “Out loud. Apologize.”

“I…I’m sorry, Kammy.” you stammer nearly bowing your head.”

“Louder. For me. Make it sincere.”

“I…I’m sorry, Kamala,” you repeat, voice wavering “I didn’t stay quiet like you asked. I-please, I’ll follow the rules.”

Her eyes glint, satisfied just enough to toy with you. “Good. Now tell me the rules.”

You take a trembling breath, voice shaking, “I…I have to stay quiet. I…I can’t touch your hands. I…I can’t make noise if I want you to keep touching me.”

“Exactly,” she whispers, a slow, deliberate smile curving her lips. “And what happens if you break them?”

“I…lose your attention. You stop touching me until I remember the rules” you whisper, your words spilling in desperation.

“Now…wait. Think about how badly you wanted it, and remember what happens when you can’t follow directions.”

You shift uncomfortably, every nerve screaming for her touch but she doesn’t give in. Her whispers continue to trail over your neck and shoulder, low and teasing. “You’re not a good girl yet. Not until you earn it.”

You waited, quiet, obedient, and the ache of denial has curled tight through your body long enough. Kamala finally shifts, her hands ghosting over your sides letting you feel her presence fully. You almost drop the laptop in your trembling fingers, and she laughs softly, shaking her head. “That’s enough, bae. We can put this aside for now.”

You set the computer on the coffee table with a shaky sigh, finally free of its glow and its distractions. Your body leans instinctively back, tilting your head onto her shoulder, and she wraps an arm around you holding you close.

Your nails dig into her forearm lightly, not hard, not in pain just enough to anchor yourself as she circles her fingers over your clit. She doesn’t flinch; she lets it pass, letting you cling to her however you need.

Her lips trail along the side of your neck again, slower this time. You fight every urge to moan, your chest tightening with the effort but the temptation pulls at you with every brush of her mouth, every press of her fingers along your panties.

“You’re doing so well” she whispers, voice low, almost possessive.

You tilt your head further against her shoulder, trembling against her, fingertips digging into her forearm as you try to ride the edge of the moment just as her fingers draw circles over your sensitive clit. Your chest rises, your mind whirling…and then, at the last second a loud, involuntary moan escapes.

Kamala’s hand jerks away, her body pulling back just enough to leave you achingly exposed. Your eyes prick with the sting of denial, pleading silently for even a fraction of what you were promised.

Her lips tilt into that infuriatingly sweet mocking pout, and she leans close enough to whisper, her voice dripping with playful scolding, “Oh, baby…not again.”

She taps your chin gently with one finger, forcing your gaze to meet hers. “Apologize. Now.”

“I-I’m sorry, Kamala!” you stammer, cheeks flaming, voice wobbling.

“And the rules?” she presses, mock sternness in every syllable, “Tell me them. Every last one.”

“I-I have to stay quiet. I can’t touch your hands. I can’t make noise if I want you!” you whisper, your throat tight with both embarrassment and frustration.

“Exactly,” she murmurs, still pouting, letting her disappointment play on her features in that teasing way you can’t help but melt for. “And what happens if you break them?”

“You stop.”

She hums softly, mock sympathy painting her expression, before sliding you completely off her lap. The warmth, the teasing touch, the tension all gone in an instant.

“Now..” she says, voice lighter but firm, “we should start getting ready for our dinner reservation, or we’ll be late. Maybe if you behave y/n, we can continue this later.”

You grab her hand before she can pull you fully off the couch, voice trembling as you plead, “Kammy…please… I’m sorry! I’ll behave! Please…”

She tilts her head, her expression softening just enough to make your heart hammer, and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek. The warmth lingers longer than you expect, but it’s not the full reward you’d been craving.

“You should learn how to follow the rules first, cupcake” she murmurs, her lips brushing your skin teasingly. “Maybe…if you behave during dinner, something good will come your way.”

You can’t help the small, shaky breath that escapes, your body still buzzing from the denial.

[vinceredeforza]

Tied Punishment

Synopsis: Mother Leonora is forced to punish you after you prove to be difficult with the other nuns.

Genre: Smut, Bondage

Warnings: Second Person, Age gap (19 and 32), Power Imbalance, Religious elements included during sex and throughout fic, Spanking

A/N: I’m not religious, so sorry if i depicted something wrong or in a disrespectful manner, this is gonna get no traction cause she’s unknown 🥀

Six months. That is how long you have lived behind the walls, rising with the toll of the bell, moving through the convent’s strict hours like a thread sewn carefully. The rhythm had become familiar: dawn prayers, silent meals, endless chores. What once felt suffocating now feels almost, though you’d never actually say it aloud, safe.

Still, safety does not erase the restless hum inside you. You are not like the others, not really. Faith does not come to you easily. When the others bow their heads in prayer, words falling from their lips like second nature, you only mimic the motions, the silence in your chest louder than the murmured whispers.

Mother Leonora had never once chastised you for it. She had noticed, of course she had; there is only ever little she doesn’t notice. But instead of scolding, she had only ever smiled at you with that knowing glint in her eyes, as though she found your resistance…amusing.

You had learned that she had a habit of such small private caring gestures. A piece of hard candy pressed discreetly into your palm after supper. A subtle tug at your sleeve when you’ve fumbled during vespers, guiding you back into line before another sister can bark correction. Once, when you dropped an entire basket of laundry into the mud, she had appeared at your side before you could even panic, murmuring gently “Pick it up. I’ll see that the others think it was the wind.” And somehow, they had.

The others whispered, of course. They whispered about how she favors you, how her eyes linger longer when she speaks your name. You’ve heard it in the washroom, in the kitchens, a mix of envy and suspicion threading their voices. But Mother Leonora pays it no mind, and so..neither do you.

That evening, after the final prayers, you found yourself alone in the corridor. The lamps flickered, shadows stretching long against the stone walls. You were about to retire when her voice, low and velvet, breaks the quiet.

“y/n.”

You turn. She is standing at the far end, her whiter robes setting her apart from the rest, her posture impossibly straight. In her hand, she held something small wrapped in crinkled paper.

She approaches, the heels of her shoes clicking softly. “You’ve had a difficult week” she says, not asking but stating as though she’s read it in your posture, in the tired set of your mouth. She presses the sweet into your palm, her fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “A little consolation.”

You stare down at the offering, warmth curling in your chest despite the cold stone air.

“Thank you, Mother.”

Her smile is slight, but it reaches her eyes. “Don’t thank me, child. It is no sin to be cared for.” Then with that same teasing tone she so often uses, she adds “Though you may want to keep this hidden. Not all here favor you”

She turns before you can reply, her dark veil swaying as she walks back down the corridor. You watch her go, the candy clenched in your fist your heart beating faster than it should.

The dorms are already quiet for the night, the kind of silence that is only broken by the occasional creak of the old stone walls. The other sisters are asleep, but you’re not. You’re sitting on a little stool in Mother Leonora’s study room, your hair down around your shoulders, the brush in her hand moving carefully through the strands.

“You don’t take much time for yourself..” she says softly, working through a knot. “Always rushing off to chores. No wonder your hair looks like it’s been through a storm.”

You let out a small laugh, embarrassed. “I guess I’ve never really cared about that stuff.”

“Oh, I know” she teases gently, tugging just enough to make you wince. “Hold still.”

You bite back a groan and stare at the flickering candlelight on her desk. After a moment, the thought slips out before you can stop it. “Do you really believe it? All of it? The prayers, the rules..and the idea that God’s watching us every second?”

She doesn’t answer right away. The brush slows, then continues, steady and calm.

“I believe there’s more to life than what we see” she says finally. “And I believe people need something bigger than themselves to hold onto.”

“But what if I never feel it?” you ask your voice quiet, almost ashamed. “What if I never…believe?”

She leans just slightly closer, her voice low but sure. “Then you keep asking. That’s all faith really is, questions that don’t go away.” Her words hang in the air. The brush glides through your hair again, gentle now, almost soothing.

“You don’t have to fit the mold, y/n” she adds after a pause. “Not everyone here does. But you’re still here, aren’t you? That means something.”

You swallow unsure of what to say. There’s comfort in her tone though, even if it doesn’t erase the doubt. “You don’t have to know what you believe tonight. Just keep showing up. The rest will find you.”

Her brush slows again when you hesitate, words caught in your throat.

“Go on” she murmurs, not in command but in invitation. She slips the brush into one hand, the other gently tucking a loose strand of your hair behind your ear so she can see your face as you turn to face her.

“I just…” you exhale frustrated with yourself. “I don’t get it...everyone else seems so certain..like they feel something when they pray. Like they know God’s there. I sit there, say the words and it’s just..empty.”

Leonora shifts closer, her presence filling the quiet space behind you. She brushes the rest of your hair back over your shoulder, clearing it out of the way then lets her fingertips linger against your cheek, warm and grounding.

“You think certainty is what faith is made of?” she asks softly, eyes searching yours. “No. Faith is built out of doubt. That’s where belief has to start.” Her thumb moves in a small circle against your skin, steady and reassuring.

“You don’t need to force yourself to feel what they feel. You only need to be honest with what’s inside you even if that’s doubt even if that’s nothing at all.”

Your throat tightens and you have to look down, afraid she’ll see too much in your face. But she tilts your chin back up, just enough that your eyes meet hers again.

“You’re allowed to wrestle with it” she says gently. “You’re allowed to take your time.”

“You know…” Her voice drops softer as though she’s admitting something she shouldn’t. “I shouldn’t say this. A superior must treat all her daughters the same.”

You blink waiting.

“But I don’t.” She lets out a faint laugh, almost self-mocking and shakes her head. “I favor you. I always have.”

Your chest tightens your mind scrambling for something to say but her hand moves to hush you, her thumb brushing over your bottom lip, her palm resting briefly against your jaw.

“It isn’t fair, I know” she continues, her tone gentler now as though she’s soothing both you and herself. “The others would resent it if they knew. So you must keep quiet, hm?” Her gaze locks on yours, firm but warm. “Let it be our secret. You have my trust..and my care.”

Your breath catches, and you nod slowly, unsure whether you’ve just been given a gift or a burden. Mother Leonora smiles then, small private, meant only for you and lets her hand fall back into her lap. “Good girl” she murmurs. “Now. No more frowning..” But the weight of her words lingers in your chest, heavier than any prayer.

—————

It happens in the middle of the afternoon, when the convent is humming with chores and prayer. You don’t even notice you’ve been watched until you hear the sharp voice of Sister Agnes behind you.

“Blasphemy” she hisses.

Within minutes two more sisters have closed in, their whispers sharp. “Sinful thoughts” one muttered. “About women.”

You try to deny it but their voices rise in a chorus of certainty, and before long you’re marched down the corridor, your arms stiff at your sides. Shame burns hot on your skin.

The heavy door to Mother Leonora’s study creaks open, and you’re pushed inside. She sits at her desk, writing with that steady deliberate hand, and looks up as though mildly inconvenienced by the intrusion.

“Mother,” Sister Agnes blurts out, her tone full of righteous fire. “She has entertained unnatural thoughts. Sinful ones. Against God’s will.”

The air feels suffocating. You can hardly look up.

Mother Leonora’s gaze flickers to you, then back to the group of nuns. For a moment, silence reigns then she sets her pen down with slow care.

“Leave us.” she says. Not loud, not angry, just calm.

The nuns hesitate, clearly shocked. “But, Mother-”

“I said leave.” Her tone sharpens just enough to cut through their protests, and they retreat grumbling under their breath but too afraid to disobey. The door shuts behind them, leaving only you and her.

“Sit” she says, gesturing to the chair across from her desk.

Your legs feel weak but you obey, lowering yourself into the chair. You can’t bring yourself to meet her eyes, your hands twisting nervously in your lap.

For a long moment she simply watches you, her expression unreadable. Then she leans back in her chair, and says quietly, “Tell me. Is it true?” Her voice isn’t accusing. It isn’t harsh. If anything, it feels like an invitation…dangerous, yes but safe in a way you can’t imagina.

The silence stretches until it’s unbearable. You can hear the faint scrape of her sleeve as she adjusts in her chair. Finally, Mother Leonora speaks.

“You understand what they accuse you of, don’t you?”

Your mouth is dry. “Yes, Mother.”

Her eyes, sharp as flint don’t waver from your face. “And it is true?”

You hesitate, and that alone is enough. She exhales slowly as if the weight of your answer doesn’t surprise her but instead only confirm what she already knew.

“Sinful thoughts” she says, her tone crisp almost cutting. “Desires that have no place within God’s house. Do you know what that means, child?”

You nod faintly, shame crawling up your throat.

“It means you are straying. It means temptation has its claws in you….and if you are not corrected…” Her hand rests against the desk fingers tapping once, twice, in thought. “You risk pulling your soul into damnation.”

She leans forward, voice lowering the authority in it sinking into your bones. “Sin cannot go unpunished. To ignore it would be a cruelty.” Her gaze catches yours, holds it. “So you will come to me. Tonight. After hours. My study.”

Your breath catches. “To…be punished?”

“To be guided” she corrects, though the word does nothing to soften the chill in her tone. “I will see to it myself.”

For a moment she lets the words hang between you, heavy and inescapable. Then she leans back, dismissing you with a flick of her hand.

“Go…and not a word to anyone.”

You rise bowing your head, your pulse thundering in your ears. As you leave, you feel her eyes on your back until the door clicks shut.

—————

The convent is different at night. The hallways are darker and quieter, the candles throwing long shadows across the walls.

You make your way up slowly heart pounding until you reach the familiar door. Her study. The wood looks heavier than it did during the day, the carved cross at its center stark in the dim light.

You hesitate, just for a moment, before raising your hand to knock.

The door opens before you can. Mother Leonora stands there already waiting, her veil and dark robes neatly in place despite the hour. Her expression is unreadable, though her eyes glint when they find yours.

“Come in.” she says quietly.

You step inside. The room is warm, lit only by a single lamp on the desk and a pair of candles. The smell of incense lingers faintly in the air, mixed with the sharper scent of polished wood.

And then you see it.

On the edge of the desk rests a paddle, its surface smooth, the handle worn from use. Not the kind meant for games or lessons, but for correction.

Your breath stutters, but before you can speak, she closes the door behind you with a soft click.

“You came, good girl.” Leonora says, her tone calm as though you’ve already done something worth praising simply by obeying. She gestures toward the chair by her desk. “Sit. We will speak first.”

She crosses the room slowly every movement deliberate, and takes her seat on the edge of the desk, one hand resting lightly on the paddle. Not lifting it, not yet, just letting it be seen.

“I told you this morning that sin cannot go unpunished,” she begins, her voice steady, firm. “Do you understand why?”

Your mouth is dry as you nod. “Yes, Mother.”

Her gaze sharpens. “Say it.”

“Because…because to ignore it would be to let it grow.”

A small smile flickers at her lips, gone as quickly as it came. “Correct.” She tilts her head slightly, her eyes never leaving your face. “And yet…you are here. Which means you trust me enough to take what is given.”

The silence stretches between you until at last she sets the paddle across her lap, her hands folding over it waiting.

“Stand” she says simply. She gestures for you to step closer, then points to the space in front of her. You obey, the weight of her authority leaving no room for hesitation. “You will count each one aloud. If you lose track we begin again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Good.”

She motions for you to bend forward and your hands brace against the desk, the wood cool beneath your palms. She stands behind you, lifting your white chemise.

Then the first strike lands. A sharp crack, heat blooming across your buttock.

“One-one” you gasp, the word tumbling out shakily.

The second comes just as steady, just as firm.

“Two.”

Leonora says nothing at first only keeps the rhythm, each blow controlled. The sound of the paddle fills the room, followed each time by your voice counting.

At “Six” you falter, your breath catching.

The paddle stills. Silence then her voice, calm and cutting: “Do not lose yourself now or we begin again.”

You clench your fists, force the word out. “Six.”

“Better.” There’s a thread of approval in her tone, subtle but enough to make your chest tighten. “Carry on.”

The paddle cracks again, harder this time and your body jerks instinctively. The sting burns deep, your hands slipping down to shield your butt from the next smack.

Instantly her voice cuts through the silence commanding.

“Hands to yourself.”

Slowly, you bring your hands back to the desk, gripping the edge until your knuckles whiten.

“That was a warning,” Mother Leonora says firmly. “You will not cover what must be corrected. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mother” you whisper.

The paddle rises again. The next strike lands sharper, and before you can stop yourself, you flinch, your hands darting back again in a desperate attempt to protect your aching skin. The sound of the paddle hitting the desk this time makes you jump.

You start to stammer an apology, but she is already moving. From the drawer of her desk she pulls a length of soft cord, simple but sturdy, the kind used to bind books or bundles of linens. She takes your wrists in her hands and ties them together firmly in front of you.

“There” she says, giving the knot a slight tug to test its hold. “Now you will learn properly.”

Your heart races, your bound hands pressed flat against your back. She steps back, paddle in hand once more.

The paddle comes down again, the sound echoing off the stone walls.

“Nine” you manage, your voice a shaky whisper.

“Good” Mother Leonora murmurs, her tone low, controlled. “Now answer me. Whose face did you see when you sinned in your mind? Whose hands?”

Another sharp crack. “Ten.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. The truth rises up despite every instinct to hide it. “It wasn’t the sisters…”

“Eleven.” Her voice cuts through your breath. “Then who?”

You swallow hard, shame thick on your tongue. “You” you whisper.

The paddle stops midair.

For a long, tense heartbeat she doesn’t move. Then she exhales, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a hiss, as though she’s caught off guard.

“Me?” she says softly almost disbelieving. She steps closer, and though you can’t see her face you can feel the heat of her presence. “You dare think such things about me?”

You nod faintly, your wrists trembling against the cord.

After a moment, she sets the paddle aside, her hand resting lightly over your buttocks soothing the red skin. The touch is almost gentle, almost kind.

“Is that the reason you’re soaking wet?” Mother Leonora asked, her hand drifting down from your buttock down till she reached your cotton panties. Her fingers rubbing over your clit.

“Mhm.” You whimpered, face pressed gently onto the soft leather of her desk mat.

“You’re full of sin. I have a way to get it out of you.” She whispered, her fingers hooking onto your panties pushing them to the side as her other hand rubbed in between your folds. “You’re wet..did you like me spanking you?”

You stayed quiet, hands gripping onto the cord.

“Speak for Mother Leonora.” She said just as her fingers pushed themselves inside your entrance.

“Ah-..I-I liked it…” you forced out, your hips pushing back wanting to help meet her fingers just as they started curling inside of you.

As Leonora curled her finger inside she grabbed the paddle with the other hand, slapping over your buttock.

“Ngh..” you whimpered, hands attempting to tug out of the rope rubbing against the skin of your wrist.

“You’re an ungodly child.” She said down to you, watching as your thighs trembled holding yourself bent over the desk while also trying to get closer towards her.

“Mom-mother Leonora..” you moaned just as she slapped your bright red buttock.

“Look at you.” She groaned, placing the paddle aside and instead resting her hand over the blooming purple marks over your skin. It didn’t take long for her to curl her fingertips perfectly into that one sensitive spot that made you moan stupidly in front of her.

“You’re close aren’t you? Go on..let those sinful thoughts leave your body.” She whispered trusting her fingers in and out while keeping her fingers curled so that every time she entered it would rub against your gummy walls in that one spot.

You pressed your face harder against the desk instinctively almost bracing yourself, just as you started tightening around her fingers.

“Ngh-” You stay bent forward, wrists bound, trembling, unsure whether to breathe relief or dread. She pulls her sticky fingers out, pulling away as if nothing had happened.

The scrape of a drawer opening reaches your ears. Then the faint pop of a jar. A cool scent drifts through the air.

Her hand presses gently against your back, keeping you down. “Don’t move.”

The lotion touches your skin, cold at first then spreading into the welts and heat left behind. Her fingers work in steady, practiced circles not tender nor indulgent but gentle.

“You will remember this lesson” she murmurs, her tone flat.

You swallow hard, biting back the urge to speak.

She continues rubbing the lotion in until the fire dulls to a heavy throb. Only then does she take a step back, reaching for the rope at your wrists. Her fingers are still sticky but undid it, the knots falling away quickly.

Your arms fall limp at your sides.

Mother Leonora places the jar back in the drawer with a firm click, then finally looks at you. Her expression is unreadable, though her eyes linger longer than they should.

“Return to your dormitory.” she says quietly. “Sleep if you can. Tomorrow you will rise early, and you will carry yourself as though tonight never happened.”

Her hand brushes once against your shoulder light, fleeting, a touch gone almost before you register it. “Go.”

And with that, she turns away, leaving you to gather yourself and leave her study, the sting still burning, your thighs still aching.

[vinceredeforza]

Puppy Lingerie

Synopsis: What better way to please your wife than to bring one of her own nicknames to life?

Genre: Smut, Pet Play

Warnings: Second Person

A/N: this one is short because i had already written it and i accidentally deleted it so i had to redo hahaha..😂

The Vice President’s office was never quiet for long, not that Kamala ever bothered to even mutter that word out loud. Phones rang in clipped tones, aides drifted in and out with folders and urgent updates, and Kamala Harris sat at the center of it all, crisp suit, steady pen, and that calm authority.

She was mid sentence, annotating a briefing note, when her chief of staff lingered just near the doorway. “Madam Vice President” she began carefully “today is the fourteenth.”

Kamala didn’t look up immediately. “And your point?” she asked, her voice smooth but edged with a warning that time was short.

The staffer hesitated, then cleared her throat. “It’s your anniversary, isn’t it? With Dr. y/l/n.”

Kamala’s pen stilled. For a fraction of a second, her lips softened into the tug of a smile. “You’ve got a good memory.” she said lightly, before setting her pen down and folding her hands on the desk.

The aide’s shoulders eased. “We just thought…you might want space in your schedule. To celebrate.”

Kamala let out a low laugh, shaking her head. “Yes please, y/n would kill me if I didn’t take the afternoon off.” She leaned back in her chair, tone shifting back into the professional cadence that always carried in the West Wing. “Nothing extravagant. Just a casual dinner. That’s enough…so clear my schedule starting from about 5 pm.”

The aide nodded, wisely not pressing further. Everyone on staff knew the subject of her private life was off-limits but sometimes for just a second, the Vice President let affection slip into the room.

As soon as the door closed, Kamala sat back in her chair, her eyes drifting briefly from the papers stacked neatly in front of her. She allowed herself a small smile. Dinner would be simple and quiet, but in her mind ordinary with you had always been extraordinary.

Then, just as quickly, she straightened her shoulders and reached for her next folder. Work first. Always work first.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

The lock clicked, and the sound of the door shutting behind her carried a weight you knew well. Her day slipping off her shoulders. Kamala set her bag down with a sigh, but the moment her eyes landed on you, the the title was gone. In her place stood Kamala, your Kamala, grinning like she hadn’t smiled all day.

“ugh, puppy” she whispered, crossing the room in long strides. Before you could answer, her arms were around you pulling you in close. Her perfume clung faintly to her blazer, but underneath was the warm scent of home. She pressed a kiss to your lips, soft and lingering then another to your cheek as if she couldn’t quite get enough.

You laughed against her shoulder. “Rough day?”

“Better now” she whispered, hugging you tighter. “So much better now.” She leaned back just enough to look at you, eyes shining and caught the faint scent of the meal you’d been preparing. “And you cooked.”

The gratitude in her voice made your chest ache. Kamala rested her forehead against yours, whispering like it was a secret: “I don’t say it enough, but I’m so thankful for you.”

Her smile widened again, soft and real, as she kissed you once more not the brisk, careful gesture of a public figure, but the unguarded kind meant only for you.

“Now” she said, slipping out of her blazer and draping it over the chair “tell me what you made before I eat dessert first.” Her eyes sparkled as she leaned close to your ear and added, teasing but sincere “And by dessert..I mean you, honey.”

Dinner was simple but also perfect, the kind of night the two of you craved after endless schedules and long hours. The table glowed under candlelight, the faint notes of a jazz record humming in the background. A bottle of red was already half-empty, and Kamala looked more relaxed than she had in weeks, her laughter spilling out easily as she refilled both glasses.

“Baby” she said, her eyes sparkling as she leaned across the table “you spoil me. This food? The wine? You’ve ruined me for anything else.”

You smiled at her dramatics, cutting another slice of steak. “I think you’ll survive.”

She gave you a grin that was almost girlish, then bit her lip like she was holding in a secret. “Speaking of spoiling…” Kamala reached under the table and slid a carefully wrapped box onto the empty space between you. Her whole face lit up in that way you rarely got to see outside these four walls. “Happy anniversary, baby.”

Inside was a stethoscope, sleek, heavy, and unmistakably expensive. The tubing was deep navy, the chest piece shining silver, and there, engraved in delicate script were your initials. Nestled beneath it was a simple elegant bracelet, understated but so perfectly you.

Your breath caught. “Kammy…”

“Do you like it?” she asked quickly, almost nervously, then rushed on before you could answer. “I thought..since you wear those cartoon scrubs that make kids smile, but you deserve something elegant that’s just for you too..and the bracelet…” She reached over, brushing your wrist with her thumb. “So I’m with you even when I’m not.”

You leaned across the table and kissed her, soft and slow, before sliding your own gift toward her. She raised a brow at the neat box with the careful bow.

“Your turn.”

Kamala opened it, the first flash of glossy red soles pulling a laugh straight from her chest. “Oh honey, you didn’t.” She held up the Louboutins like a prize, grinning ear to ear. “You know I love heels.”

“There’s more” you said quickly, pointing at the second smaller box.

She opened it to reveal a batch of homemade brownies, tied with a ribbon. For a moment, Kamala melted away completely. She clapped her hands together, laugh bubbling over then leaned across the table again to kiss you. “Red bottoms and chocolate? Baby, i’m touched.”

You reached over, brushing her hand. “So…I might have one more gift.”

Kamala’s brows lifted. “One more?”

You tried to hold back your grin. “Mhm. But..it’s dessert. Think you still have room?”

Her laughter bubbled out, full and unrestrained. “I always have room for dessert.”

That made you giggle, nerves and excitement swirling as you stood and held out your hand. “Then come on.”

Kamala let you guide her up from her chair, her warm hand sliding into yours as you tugged her toward the bedroom upstairs. Her steps were slow, as though she already suspected where this was leading. You pushed open the door, the soft glow of the bedside lamp spilling across the room, and turned to her with a mischievous smile.

“Sit.”

Kamala giggled, settling herself on the edge of the bed, blazer already draped over a chair, hair tumbling a little loose from its pins. “Yes, ma’am,” she teased, crossing her legs. “Should I be nervous?”

You giggled again, pressing a quick kiss to her temple before slipping into the closet. “Don’t move until I come back.”

Kamala sighed, hands running over her thighs, leaning back onto the bed.

You stepped out of the closet, hesitating only for a second before letting yourself be seen. The soft pink lingerie dress clung in just the right way, delicate lace brushing against your skin, and the silly but undeniably adorable puppy ears perched on your head made the whole look feel both playful and intimate.

Kamala’s reaction was immediate. A burst of laughter escaped her as her hand flew up to cover her mouth, shoulders shaking with the kind of unrestrained giggle you heard often. She leaned forward on the bed, eyes wide and sparkling.

“Oh my god” she said, breathless from laughing, “you actually went and did this.” Her laughter softened into little chuckles, her chest still rising and falling quickly as she shook her head in disbelief.

You shifted shyly under her gaze, smoothing down the fabric and pretending to pout. “So, you don’t like it?”

That snapped her out of the giggles immediately. She reached for you, tugging you closer until you stood between her legs, her hands sliding lightly over the hem of the dress. “Baby, no. Don’t even think that for a second.” Her voice was low, warm, and certain. “You look…so cute.”

Her eyes traveled over you with open affection, lingering on the pink lace, the way the puppy ears tilted when you moved your head down to look at her. “You usually curl up comfy in those little PJ sets, all practical and safe” she teased softly “but this…this is just for me...”

You bit your lip, nodding.

Kamala’s expression melted, a giggle still slipping out as she pulled you closer by the waist. “It’s the sweetest thing, puppy. And honestly? You’re pulling it off.”

She stood up arm sliding around your waist, kissing you with that mix of laughter and tenderness still lingering on her lips. One kiss turned into another, longer and softer, as she whispered against your mouth: “You’re so pretty. Absolutely perfect.”

Her giggles faded into a smile that wouldn’t leave her face, and she rested her forehead against yours, still tracing idle patterns along the hem of the pink dress with her fingers. “You’ve given me a lot of gifts tonight” she murmured, “but this one? This one might be my favorite.”

The warmth of Kamala’s lips still lingered when she made herself comfortable onto the bed. Her hands already guiding you to straddle her over her lap.

“Puppy…” she started, then paused, her voice lower now, almost hesitant. Her eyes darted away for a second, then back up to yours. “Can I…ask you something silly?”

You tilted your head, amused at how shy she suddenly looked, the Vice President of the United States reduced to a woman twirling her thumb against the hem of your dress. “You can ask me anything.” Her grin grew sheepish, and she bit her lip before blurting out: “Bark for me.”

You froze for a heartbeat, then giggled covering your mouth as you tried to stifle it. “Kamala!”

“I know, I know!” she said quickly, her laugh tumbling out embarrassed but playful all the same. “It’s ridiculous, I shouldn’t have asked-”

But the twinkle in her eyes betrayed her, and you couldn’t resist. You leaned closer, still laughing and let out the softest little “woof.”

Kamala bursted into another fit of giggles, doubling over slightly as her arms wrapped tighter around your waist. “Oh my god” she wheezed between laughs “I can’t believe you actually did it.”

You kissed the tip of her nose, smirking. “What can I say? I aim to please.”

She shook her head still laughing but visibly touched, her hands sliding up your sides until she could cradle your face. “You’re too good to me” she whispered, kissing you again deeper this time, laughter melting into silence.

The puppy ears slipped a little as she pulled you closer, but she didn’t care. Her smile pressed against your mouth, soft and giddy as she whispered: “Best anniversary gift ever.”

She slid her hands down, trailing over your shoulders, across your arms, pausing to toy with the lace at the straps. Her touch was featherlight and deliberate, her fingers skimming like she was reading you piece by piece.

You shivered, shifting under her gaze. “Kamala…”

“Mhm?” she hummed, lips curving as her fingers grazed along your waist, the pink silk whispering beneath her touch. She looked up at you with that mischievous sparkle in her eyes, clearly enjoying herself.

“You’re taking forever you know..by now you’re usually touching all over” you whined, swatting lightly at her hands.

Her laugh was warm and teasing. “Patience, puppy. I just want to appreciate you properly.” She leaned forward, pressing a kiss against your collarbone, then slowly let her lips wander along the line of the lace.

You squirmed, tugging at her shoulders. “Properly can be faster, you know.”

Kamala chuckled, glancing up at you through her lashes, the corners of her mouth tugged into a grin. “Oh no, baby. Tonight I’m taking my sweet time. You look too good not to.”

Her hands continued their leisurely path, over your hips, down your thighs, then back up again and every touch left you more restless, more impatient.

“Kamala…” you half-whispered, half-whined, trying to pull her closer.

She giggled, kissing just under your jaw as she whispered “Don’t worry, puppy. Dessert’s always worth the wait.”

Kamala’s lips skimmed your throat, her hands dragging lazy paths over your body like she had all the time in the world. You squirmed in her lap, whining, the puppy ears bouncing slightly as you tried to shift her closer.

“Kamalaaa…” you groaned, tilting your head back.

She chuckled against your skin, the sound low and rich. “What is it, baby?”

“That you’re too slow,” you complained, tugging at her blouse sleeve attempting to drag her hand down the dress. “I want you now.”

Her laugh bubbled up again, and she nipped gently at your neck before pulling back to look at you. “Oh…don’t you know? Good puppies wait.”

Your cheeks heated, the words settling over you in a way that made your chest flutter. Kamala noticed, of course. She always noticed.

“Sit up straight for me.” Her tone had shifted playful but firmer almost coaxing. You obeyed, a little huff in your breath as you perched on her lap. Kamala’s eyes roamed you slowly, head tilted like she was inspecting her favorite treasure.

“There you are” she murmured, brushing her thumb along your bottom lip. “My pretty little puppy.”

You bit your lip, restless, and in a teasing burst you gave another small bark “woof.”

Kamala laughed while shaking her head, her hand sliding down your throat to rest just above your collarbone. “God, you’re adorable.” She pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your lips, then lower, her mouth trailing heat along your neck while her hands explored every inch of you with infuriating patience.

You whined again, rocking toward her. “Kamalaaa…”

Her eyes flicked up, amused and gleaming. “Shhh puppy. I told you I’m taking my time. Let me enjoy you.”

When you pouted, she giggled, actually giggled, before pressing you back onto the bed, her hair falling loose around her face. “Don’t worry” she whispered, lips brushing your ear as one hand traced along the hem of your lingerie.

Kamala had you sprawled back against the pillows, the lamp casting a warm golden glow over both of you. Her blouse had been tossed somewhere on the floor, but somehow she still carried herself with the same composed presence only now, it was mixed with a giddy kind of feeling.

Her fingers traced the hem of your pink lingerie, never quite giving you what you wanted. She let her hand trail up, over your ribs, skimming your collarbone, then down again, slow enough to make you groan.

“Kamalaaa…” you whined, tugging gently at her wrist. “You’re so slow.”

She giggled. “Patience, puppy.”

You huffed. “I’ve been patient all day.”

Her lips curved, her voice dropping just enough to make your pulse race. “Then be patient..just a little longer.” She shifted, kneeling on the mattress beside you, her eyes roaming over your body like she was memorizing every detail.

“You look cute” she murmured. Her tone was soft and coaxing, but carried enough weight to make you obey without hesitation. She adjusted the puppy ears that had gone slightly askew.

“There” she said with satisfaction, brushing her thumb across your cheek. “So obedient.”

The praise made something flutter deep in your chest, and you let out a nervous giggle.

Kamala smirked, tilting her head. “I could get used to this. My smart accomplished doctor at work…and my sweet little puppy at home.”

You squirmed and whispered, “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Her giggle spilled out again as she kissed the corner of your mouth. “Of course, I am. You’re adorable.” She leaned back just slightly, eyes dancing with amusement. “Now…let me hear you.”

Your heart jumped. “Hear me?”

“Mhm.” She traced lazy circles on your inner thigh, smile spreading mockingly. “Come on, puppy. Bark for me.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Kammy..”

She tugged your hands gently away, laughing as she kissed your knuckles. “Don’t be shy. Just once more..for me.”

The affection in her eyes was too much to resist, so you caved in: “Woof.”

Kamala bursted into another fit of giggles, clutching at your waist as she leaned into you.

Her fingers skimmed slowly up your thigh, her kisses deepening as her patience shifted into something more needy. Her hand trailed up higher, her kisses stalling just as her fingers finally made contact with your underwear.

“You’re soaking..” she murmured again, her fingers rubbing up your clothed folds. Then she pulled back, casually like she hadn’t just touched you right where you wanted her. “Alright, puppy. Down.” She tapped the edge of mattress.

You blinked at her sitting up after her, and she chuckled. “On your knees.”

Heat rushed through you, but you slid down obediently to the floor beside the bed. Kamala’s breath hitched, her fingers brushing your hair back around the ears. She cradled your face for a long moment, her thumb stroking your cheek.

“There’s my good girl” she whispered.

The words wrapped around you like a warm tether. Kamala leaned down tugging your hair just enough to tilt your head back, and kissed you deep her laughter still humming against your lips.

“You’ve made this the best anniversary ever” she murmured when she pulled away, her voice giddy and low.

Kamala’s hand stilled at your jaw, traveling to the zipper of her slacks. “You’ll be a good puppy won’t you?” she asked with a head tilt lifting her hips enough to slide her slacks down.

Eagerly and desperately you reached out just as her slacks hit her knees, helping her push them down completely. “You’re eager..” she giggled, her fingers hooking onto the hem of her underwear tugging them just enough until you took over and pushed her calf’s out of each leg hole.

“Go on..lick like the good puppy you are.” Kamala’s hand ran through your hair, tugging you closer.

You scooted closer to her; hands settled on your own lap leaning closer until you were able to reach out and lick up her folds. Kamala's head tilted back, a sweet and quiet moan leaving her mouth. With that alone, your hands rose grabbing her thighs placing them over your shoulders shoving your face in between her thighs.

Kamala leaned back onto the bed, the heels of her feet digging into your back pushing you closer. You whimpered, tongue running flat over her folds.

"You tast-" You started against her clit before she reached down and gave a harsh tug at your hair. "Shu-shut up and keep going...please" she whispered in a soft, wobbly voice just as she looked down locking eyes with you.

You hummed as her thighs clenched together around your head, your tongue pushing against her entrance. Her head tilted back into the mattress, a hand holding your hair and the other was clenched tightly around the comforter.

“Ngh..you’re doing so good puppy..” she moaned broken and vulnerable while she tried her best to not dig her nails into your head.

You fell into the trance.

The one where Kamala’s half broken moans filled the bedroom and your mind, where her hand happened to tug just right at your hair, or how she was so perfectly positioned right in front of you.

“Fuck-” Kamala tilted her head forward just enough to look down at you without straining her neck. She laughed mid moan, a small quiet giggle.

“What’s funny?” you pulled away, eyebrows tugged together into that stern little look you got whenever you felt Kamala start giggling at you.

“N-no..nothing..keep going..you just looked very cute is all.” She murmured, the end of her feet poked onto your back as a signal to continue.

“It’s not funny..” you whispered before continuing the way you were going, tongue licking over her clit. You closed your eyes relishing in her salty sweet taste, you didn’t notice when she whined in that way she did when she started getting close.

“I’m coming..” she whispered, one of her hands raising to rest over her mouth. “Ngh..i’m coming puppy..”

You kept the same medium pace over her clit, your hands holding her thighs still on your shoulders as she finally went slack and started moaning relentlessly.

Her moans had softened into small, quiet giggles. “Puppy” she whispered, voice husky but sweet, “you were so good for me tonight.”

[vinceredeforza]

i’m actually not rewriting that bullshit again at all, it’s only going to be 2k words now

[vinceredeforza]

i’m actually crying kill me pls