#I like cash and my hair to my ass do the dash can you make it go fast fuck the fame all I want is them bands if she keep on muggin ima steal

[slicksquid]

I love Hilda fire emblem fancam

[blueicequeen19]

The Rich & The Damned

Warnings: unprotected sex, implied sexy accountant, public car sex, choking

How did I get here? Men usually paid annual salaries just to get a few minutes of my time but now.. I’m in the front seat of a Rolls Royce for free. With a man who doesn’t respect what I do. Who wants me to quit my job and be his good little wife. He infuriates me. He belittles me. But fuck.. his touch turns my PHD brain into mush.

I’m good at what I do. I recognize my skill set and I know how to play powerful men. I’ve paid my bills with cash in advance for years and put myself through Ivy League schools that only care about last names. I don’t have a big name but I have loaded pockets and that speaks volumes. So why the fuck am I on this man’s lap, dying for a scrap of attention when he can no longer be bothered to come inside to see me?

“Fuck me.. please.. I need you.” I whine, tugging on his hair as he peppers kisses along my throat and collar bone, large hands palming my thong-clad ass and rock me against his erection.

“Come home with me.” He growls, taking a chunk of my flesh between his teeth and making me hiss as I shove his head away.

“I told you not to mark me.” I snap, glaring at him even as his blue eyes shine with amusement and mischief.

“And I told you if you wanted back in my bed, you had to stay off the pole.” His words sting, even with the red lipstick smeared across his mouth. If anything the smirk on his face combined with the red smear made him look even more sinister.

I pull my lips back in a snarl as his hand slides between my parted things to cup my pussy. I slap at his hand but his free hand finds my throat, pushing my back against the dash and squeezing hard.

“You’re not for them.” He growls, tucking my thong to the side before shoving two then three fingers inside me. My eyes roll back into my head, my pussy gushing in his hand as he strokes my sweet spot.

“I-I’m not yours.” I rasp, riding his hand like a desperate whore. God, I’d agree to anything right now if it meant I got to feel his fat cock inside me again. Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen to my brain as he squeezes even harder.

“Don’t lie to me. You’re not very good at it.” His words light me on fire again, making me dig my nails into his chest as I try to lift off his hand. The hand around my throat drops to my chest and he yanks my bra down so my breasts spill out.

“I guess we’re both liars.” I purr, just as his hot mouth closes around my nipple and sucks hard. I was so close to my orgasm I could feel it in my toes. I throw my head back as I shamelessly ride his hand but I desperately craved his cock instead.

“Maybe if you’d stop treating me like one of your customers.” I yelp when he’s teeth sink into my nipple so hard, I know there’s blood. Or the very least, a new piercing. His fingers leave me aching and needy in their retreat.

“Stop treating me like a whore and maybe I’d treat you like someone who actually means something to me.” I bite back, shoving his chest hard as I hear the sound of his belt buckle. When his cock springs free between us it takes everything in me to keep my composure. His large hand wraps around the thick shaft as he strokes himself almost lazily. The tip leaked clear drops of precum that I desperately wanted to chase with my tongue.

“Fuck me in my bed and maybe I’ll believe you’re somebody else.”

I was so fucking weak for him. I wanted to choke on it even if it meant I didn’t get off. If he fucked my throat until it was raw, I’d say thank you like the obedient slut I was. But only for him. Only ever him. So why didn’t he get that? I’d fuck him in front of every single client I had just to show him I was his. He could lead me around on a leash if that’s what it took.

I reached back to unhook my bra and let it fall to the floor before wrapping my hand around his on his cock. I savor the way his eyes become hooded and his breathing becomes labored just from my touch. I loved that he was as weak as I was.

“You—,” I brought my other hand up to his throat, squeezing the best I could until his eyes fully dilated while I lifted myself up on his thighs, “—don’t own—,” I notched his thick cock at my entrance and sank down one excruciating inch, “—me.” I sank down the rest of the way, my body welcoming the pain and stretch of him as his breathy moans met my ears.

It was always in moments like these where it became obvious that Rafe Cameron was fucking mine.

[katyawriteswhump]

the freak in the penthouse, pt 4.2

E-rated (for sexual content), accidental millionaire eddie/sex-worker steve.

On tumblr: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3.1 Part 3.2 Part 4.1 or search #thefreakinthepenthouse

On AO3

4.2 Playing hardball

Steve kneeled beneath the piano, contorting himself awkwardly to avoid the pedals. He was giving the blowjob of his life, which crazily, he was enjoying.

After his candy-ass panic nearly triggered an asthma attack in the plunge pool, he’d felt pretty shaken. On top of that, his ‘saving’ the situation through riding Eddie cowgirl was gonna make sitting down a world of ouch tomorrow. Once he’d escaped the pool, however, he’d managed to dash to the other restroom, take a puff of his inhaler, and… Bam! He came out swinging. 

Unfortunately, Eddie had then turned all jittery and Steve’s dumbass piano recital had been a bogus move.

Eddie seemed happier now, however.

He moaned, fists clamping rigid in Steve’s hair, while Steve pulled out all his neatest tricks. He pawed at Eddie’s balls, massaging and kneading, digging how they drew up, hard as pebbles. At the same time, he lavished his top-trump skill on Eddie’s cockhead. His lips slid wetly on and off the engorged plum, while his tongue swirled and dabbed at Eddie’s slit. He really hoped he was doing too much of an awesome job for Eddie to try and deep throat him.

His hopes paid off.

“Christ… Stevie… You’re fucking slaying me… Yes… there. Aaaaaagh, fuck, fuck, FUUUUUUCK!”

Eddie came hard, hot liquid coating the back of Steve’s throat, giving him little choice but to swallow. Meanwhile, Eddie jerked back, spurting the remnants of his load across Steve’s face:

“Shit… sorry, I was… Oh man, you’re sweet.” Eddie slumped forward, arms thumping the keyboard with a loud, dissonant plink. “You okay?” he panted.

“Mmmm.” Steve licked Eddie’s salty taste from his lips, dragging his arm across his disaster-zone face. He usually loathed this, struggling to conceal his revulsion. It made a helluva lot of difference when he actually fancied the guy who’d mini-bukakid him. He crawled out from under the piano, nearly braining himself. Eddie, looking kinda sheepish, offered him a glass of champagne.

“To wash away, the… erm…”

“Come? I love a cocktail."

“Pun intended?”

“Um, no?” Steve took the flute—internally cringing at his latest lousy line—chugged it back. He knew he should go drink some water. He said, instead: “Gonna be brutally honest. I prefer beer.”

“Christ, me too. I’d murder for a six-pack of Bud.”

After that, they showered together, got wasted on iced beer, then watched a Van Damme movie on cable from Eddie’s enormous bed. Steve lay belly-down across Eddie’s lap, while Eddie fiddled with Steve’s ass.

As Jean-Claude was high-kicking some punk out of existence, Eddie dealt his own killer blow: “Stevie, I want you to stay.”

“You paid for the night, man. I’m not about to split.”

Eddie switched off the TV with his remote. “Not that. How much dough d’ya want for a week? A month? To stay all the time. What do you say?”

“Woah! You really hate your money, don’t you?”

Steve rolled off Eddie’s lap, rested his chin on his fist, and stared. Was Eddie on the level? He was blatantly buzzed. A hot mess, basically. Steve was pretty fuzzy headed, too, after mixing the beer and champagne.

“I can’t ditch my day-job. Playing yo-yo in elevators is still better than”—having sex with the regular breed of a-hole John— “other crap. But listen, as long as I get some sleep and my cash, I’ll come back tomorrow. And the day after that. Aaaaand the day after that, if you’re not sick of my ass.”

A smirk flirted across Eddie’s lush lips, only to be replaced by total sincerity. “I’d like that, Stevie. I’d really like that. And as much as I’d love to fuck you all night every night, sleeping beauty, I ain’t got that kinda stamina. While you’re here, you can nap as much as you like. So…. any other rules? Expectations of your liege lord? Any more buck for your bang?”

“Say what?” This is where I play hardball. Negotiate a higher fee. “Nope,” said Steve, smiling up into Eddie’s big chocolate and slightly bloodshot eyes.

“Okay, I got one new rule,” said Eddie, crossing his arms tight around himself. “No games of poke the grizzly.”

“You lost me again. Is it some loopy sex-game?”

“Nope. You don’t ask me diddly-squat about my past. I won’t ask you.”

Cool. I don’t even have to feel guilty about keeping quiet about… stuff. “You got it, Eddie-cakes.”

Steve came back the next day and so it began.

They usually had sex. Some nights, they just chilled, ordered everything and anything on room service, plus take-outs from all over town, and stuffed their faces. 

Eddie proved a heavy sleeper, which was fortunate for Steve, who often woke himself up coughing. It got easier to control now he’d picked up his prevention meds, but Eddie’s smoking offset that a bit. Not that Steve was gonna say anything, which was kinda dumb, he knew, but… he really didn’t want to.

He’d muscle through.

By the end of a fortnight, it was all routine. When Steve’s alarm went off at 6am, Eddie would groan, lift his arm for Steve to roll away, then snore on. And Steve would often say a silent prayer of thanks to Eddie that he still had an alarm to swiftly silence. That digital watch was the last thing his father gave him. He’d been about to pawn it yet again before Eddie showed up.

On the fifteenth morning, all this usual shit happened. Steve flung on his uniform and slipped out of the suite. He was tucking his shirt in his pants when he reached the service elevator.

“What are you skulking around up here for, Harrington?”

Steve cringed, turning on his toes to confront that total creep, Kline. He needed an excuse, any excuse. Wearily drawing a blank, he was forced to drag out the one thing he’d got in his pocket. His inhaler.

“I was looking for this. Figured I dropped it when I was up here, delivering room service. Seems I was right.”

“Nothing about you is right, son. You’re a gutter-trash, good-for-nothing, snivelling runt.” Kline looked at his own watch, tapped it. “You better hurry up, or you’ll be late for your shift.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “Unless you’re already on shift?”

Steve longed to cave the asshat’s teeth in, break his nose, then scream in his ‘snivelling runt’ face. Instead, he muttered, “Don’t start for two minutes,” and dived past Kline to use the stairs rather than the elevator.

What did Kline mean, ‘Already on shift?’ Steve had been extra careful about not being seen entering Eddie’s suite, or even inside it. Anyhow, what he did in his free time was up to him, right?

Dream on. He rules the roost in this hotel. He’ll want a cut, or worse.

Steve slopped way more coffee than usual at breakfast. Even his trainee-sous-chef ally, Robin, hollered at him when he forgot to pick up the hollandaise to go with an Eggs Benedict. Kline told him to take the rest of the day off—without pay, naturally. He was heading off, when Robin came running after him. “Steve, wait!”

“What?” He hooked his hands on his hips.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Listen, however much that penthouse bum is paying you, you need a night off to actually sleep.”

“I am sleeping, Robin! Only not in a linen closet.” Okay, that was where he’d been heading, but only for a snooze. “Jesus, how many times do I have to tell you? Eddie genuinely is the best thing that’s happened to me in a fucking age.”

...

5.1 on tumblr or search #thefreakinthepenthouse)

Chapter 5 on AO3

Thank you for reading. Likes reblogs and comments much appreciated and will feed the bunnies🐰💕🐰💕🐰💕🐰💕

On tumblr: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3.1 Part 3.2 Part 4.1

On AO3 All my ST stuff on AO3

[themermaidriot]

I like cash and my hair to my ass (I do) Do the dash, can you make it go fast? (Go, go) Fuck the fame, all I want is them bands (Money) If she keep on muggin', I'ma steal her man (I got him)

[autisminfinite]

i like cash and my hair to my ass do the dash can you make it go fast fuck fame all i want is the gains if she keep on mugging imma steal her man he watch my behaviour cuz he knows im bad pussy put a spell on him he in a trance i do what i want you do what i ask he loves my confidence and thats what u lack

[enchanted-moura]

I like cash and my hair to my ass

Do the dash, can you make it go fast?

Fuck the fame, all I want is them bands

- Flo Milli💋

[imeverywoman420]

I vocally hate so much stuff. Heres some things i like:

Pictures of old Hot topics or spencers or malls in general. Really any pictures taken of mundane life in the 90s and 2000s

weirdcore and liminal spaces

i really like memes i guess. Always have hehe always will. I love just looking up Troll face spongebob. Squidward elf bar meme. Old 9Gag memes. I really love being silly online and its been a consistent thing for so long.

i like patterns like paisley and i like velvet and jewel tones

i like riff raff the rapper i think nes silly

freepypasta

^_^

Being mad but like for fun

criticizing things

sorting my small colorful objects (like makeup for example) into different baskets and containers

youtube on my tv not my phone or computer

i like cash and my hair to my ass do the dash can you make it go fast fuck the fame all i want is

[rosiedoestumblr]

40 looks so good on you, Ms. Rosie! I hope I’m as cool as you when I’m 40. I’m currently 28, and aging kind of scares me, but it’s people like you that make me feel like there’s nothing to be scared of. 🩷 Thanks for sticking around the internet (specifically Fall Out Boy spaces) as long as you have, it’s always quite a treat to see you on my dash. Have a good day!!

Aw, thanks dude! That's such a nice thing to say (I think you may be mistaken about exactly how cool I am, though). I know I'm really fortunate that having Sicilian genes and a chubby face disguises some of the ageing process, but bear in mind that (as with most people) the pictures I share are probably one or two out of 30 I took to find a couple from a good angle, with good lighting, possibly a Norfolk Terrier or a scarf over my chin to hide how many of them I've cultivated in the last 20 years... I also tend to keep my make up (except my eyeliner) quite natural, because I find that helps keep you looking fresh faced - but that principle shouldn't dictate what you wear.

Here is my stupid face right now, without make up and with unwashed hair. I developed adult acne after having immaculate skin when I was a teenager, possibly because my dog keeps standing on it or licking all over it. I have OCD and what is (appointment pending) probably about to be diagnosed as ADHD, so I'm a chronic skin picker, hence the scars all over my chin and forehead. I've also got fine lines under my eyes, bottom lip and on my forehead, but automatic settings on modern phone cameras kind of smooth the worst of them out.

The whole thing about getting older can be scary, but mostly because we've all been raised on the Boomer-generation's expectations, through movies, TV, adverts and the like, and a lot has changed. We're really fortunate to live at a time where being yourself is much more acceptable than it used to be, in most (although sadly not all) cases. Every advert you see is specifically designed to make you feel inadequate and make you fear irrelevance, but only so they've got an excuse to sell you something you can live without. Whether that's a fancier car or anti-wrinkle cream.

You don't actually have to do the stuff that really ages you, unless you want to. You can keep going to shows (to be honest, gigs have got so expensive we see more people our age there than younger people, who often struggle to afford what bands are asking). You can keep wearing band shirts. You can keep dying your hair and getting tattoos. You can keep being passionate about it. You're a grown ass adult, it's down to you to make your own choices. You don't have to give up what you love, but sometimes you have to be creative about the time you find in which to enjoy it. And you'll appreciate that more.

I've never wanted kids, so I haven't had any.

I never went to uni, but I fell into a career that pays me alright, and it's not an industry I care a lot about (I'm a gas safety contract manager) but I see it as a resource that allows me to do the things that I really want to, the rest of the time.

It's important to remember to live your own life, not the life someone else - anyone else - wants you to. You have to be pragmatic, obviously, and if you choose to settle down with another person then give and take will always be necessary, but don't ever let someone tell you what you can and can't be interested in because of your age (except you, Prince Andrew) or what you can or can't spend your own spare time and disposable cash doing. Keep loving the things you love, if they still captivate you. Fuck anyone who would tell you otherwise! It's the joylessness of giving up your identity to become nothing but your life obligations that costs you the most.

For my part, I'm pretty squarely between Patrick and Andy, age-wise. Fall Out Boy are my generation. We've grown up together, in a fannish sense. It's not like a TV show might be, where the characters are still young and I've gotten old in the last 18 years, they're still relatable to me, even now. Which is probably a lot of the reason I'm still here, specifically.

Watching the waves of new fans discovering the band over the years has been fun, really. Partly because it makes us truly geriatric emos feel like mystical sages sitting on the lonely mountain tops of Old Timer Fandom, offering anecdotes from bandom drama long ago, to young adventurers who approach us with news from the mists of TikTik to ask if things really happened, and witnessing the same things happening cyclically, every couple of years.

New blood means Pete will feel validated and Patrick will feel relevant they'll continue to feel they have something to offer/sell (look what happened when an album didn't do as well...) and it's hard to fault that.

Focus on enjoying your life and your interests as they are now (although do think about saving some of your money when you can, because you'll thank yourself later) and fuck worrying about everything else. You'll find you don't feel any different, when you get where I am, than you do now, anyway.

You have a good day, too. And thanks again for saying such kind things. xoxo

[thisisntapainting]

i like cash and my hair to my ass do the dash can you make it go fast fuck the fame all i want is them bands if she keep on muggin imma steal her man he watching my behavior cause he know im bad pussy put a spell on him he in a trance i do what i please and you do what i ask he love my confidence and thats what you lack if you think im stealing swag bitch come and sue me they watch me like im a new movie his baby mother is my groupie we got the club going up on a tuesday like an OMG girl im a beauty if it dont go my way i get moody flexin on you is my duty im the big dog my nicknames scooby

[pansexualkiba]

It's like William Shakespeare once said: "I like cash and my hair to my ass can you do the dash make it go fast"

[starsonmarsy]

me: starts getting flustered me immediately: I LIKE CASH AND MY HAIR TO MY ASS DO THE DASH CAN YOU MAKE IT GO FAST FUCK THE FAME ALL I WANT IS THEM BANDS IF SHE KEEP ON MUGGIN IMMA STEAL HER MANS SHE WATCHIN MY BEHAVIOR CUZ SHE KNOW I'M BAD PUSSY PUT A SPELL ON HIM HE IN A TRANCE I DO WHAT I PLEASE AND YOU DO WHAT I ASK-

[slicksquid]

I think that hilda fire emblem fancam video is one of the greatest videos on the planet

[husbandette1]

WAIT WHAT IF I DECIDED TO BE FUNNY N KEPT CALLING U FLO MILLI ANON 😭😭😭 AGSHAH NO I KIDDING <333 BUT HELLOOOOOOOO MY DEAR IM SO GLAD TO FINALLY BE ABLE TO TALK TO YOU YOURE SO FUNNY

SUFJWJFJWJFNSBDB IVE LOST ALL SENSE OF EYE DENT TITTY........... 😳😳😳😳

[zesbian]

ladies did you hear Billboard chose Pillowtalk as one of the most defining songs of the decade

[company]

beef flomix is the itty bitty piggy of this generation

[beanlot]

OFFICER [2]

PART 1

you’re in custody, but experience a little deja-vu when a familiar face questions you.

wc: 3.5k (smut)

this heavily revolves around cnc. if that is not your thing, do not read this. i am no longer a fan of this work, but due to feedback from readers, it will stay up on my blog - russian roulette without safety, facesitting, oral/fingering, sadism, spitplay

─── ⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰ ───

if i see you again, i will have to arrest you.

you tried for weeks to forget her scent, those presiding hands against your stomach, and quite unapologetically how she made your clit feel like it had its own heartbeat.

you wanted to be a predator, but she made you inhibited prey.

soon, those weeks progressed into months.

you started to think that maybe you were the master of your craft. it was too easy to get what you wanted, too good at dining and dashing, too skilled at keying the fanciest of cars. so you tried slipping up; creating more noise, becoming more shameless with your drunk and disorderly acts - but nothing worked.

you had even considered homicide just to fulfil that fantasy of her face perched between your legs again.

but that wasn’t ideal, so you resorted to one-upping. you’d banked astronomical amounts of cash through breaking and entering, threatened a few people here and there and had yourself gamble in shady bars.

you were a lawyer’s nightmare.

and that’s what landed you here - gunmetal walls that incarcerated you, monotonous under an artificial light. you were postponed for questioning, and brewing indignantly - not only because of the thin mattress that was making your ass feel rigid with every minute, but you had no way to tell what time it was or how many hours were passing.

custody was brutal; you’d underestimate it in documentaries, but now that you were the individual said companies were making documentaries about, there was only so little you could do before you were losing your shit.

you felt as though these months were for nothing, your little slip-ups intended for a lesbian pervert you met on a saturday night became an anticlimactic arrest made by a male officer who got too comfy with militantly blindsiding you when you had left the jewellery shop.

you wanted to make yourself comfortable, and at one point found yourself legs crossed, upper body dangling upside down off the bed.

“sit up.” an irked grunt echoes in your ears, and you can’t exactly decipher if you’re regretting not appreciating the silence you were forced to indulge in for hours, or relieved to have someone in the room with you.

you sigh, head feeling as if it had been deadlifting when you sit up; you swivel around to face them, blinking through the dizziness.

those familiarised globes stare back at you, interminable lashes that fan against her tawny cheeks; that god forsaken moth etched in the exact spot it was all those months ago.

her hair is dyed slightly darker, a subtle contrast to the chestnut strands you had your fingers root-deep in, but significant enough to accentuate her hardened eyebrows. “it’s you.” you whisper out of disbelief, that intrusive pummelling in your clit when you can’t dismantle the image of her tongue flattened against your clit, the way her eyes narrowed in satisfaction when you swallowed her spit.

her uniform had changed to a newfound beige, must’ve got promoted. the walkie on her hip is loud and annoying, she’s quick to turn it off, the scuffed voices turning to silence - your eyes try to be respectful, but how can they? she’s a treat to look at, and taste.

she’s skeptical, trying to match your face to a name.

“you don’t remember me?” you ask in some disbelief. how could she forget fingering some girl in the back of her car, during a shift? unless she did it often, the thought just irks you.

your ‘relationship’ was oil and water that you did your best to mix.

that tyrannising stare falls flat, and you can hear the clockworks initiating. and again, you have a feeling that this is gonna be fun.

“go ahead. just ask me whatever.” you sigh. but no matter what browbeating methods, hectoring language or plagued looks she’d use against you, you wouldn’t budge. unlike last time, it seemed as if she was doing all the talking and you elicited half-assed responses back.

“you recognise this street?”

nope.

“we’ve caught you already, someone’s reported this car you sold to them on the 28th.”

hm.

“says here you went awol for a few days.”

sure.

her badge plagues your curiosity. e. williams.

“you don’t look like a williams,” you hum, disorientated as to how someone so abstract was concealed with a surname so common - she was truly the snake in the grass. “maybe more like a.. i don’t know, mayb-“

“what are you doing?” she interrupts, that grunting voice harrowed into your ears. “this isn’t like last time, i’m serious. cut it out.”

and you understand why she isn’t playing around. unlike last time, you’re in her workplace. just one story could get her sacked, could ruin her fucking life. “so you admit there was a last time?” you ask, trying to cope by including some light humour, but you regret it when her face changes. what was her reserved eyes plummet to ones of wrath.

and although you’re remotely shitting bricks at how quickly it changed, you like how defenceless you feel under it.

so you keep feeding fuel to the fire, and it keeps heating up your stomach.. “you’re nervous, huh.”

you want to dig new lows to get under her skin, and you had the perfect shovel. “i get it. i could get you fired, maybe get you a criminal record. after all, you di-“

she stands up. you expect her to leave the room in ire, but she inspects you; those eyes darting around in thought, similar to how she did last time. under the impression you were fantasising her words rather than hearing them, you disregard her incoherent murmur.

“was i too soft on you?”

she approaches you, and you feel like a deer confined in a cage with a starved tiger.

“did you not learn anything, making threats to ruin my reputation?”

your heart is cudgelling your ribs as she steps towards you, you want her to bite. and you hadn’t realised how instinctively unfurled your legs were until she filled the considerable gap between you, hands planted on your knees and her altered scent oozing into your skin; no amount of last-minute crime could make you this bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as seeing her flavourful stare incise into you.

she leans in slowly, and you part your lips on impulse, inviting her. but she rests her forehead against yours, ready to pull away incase she heard anyone traipsing down the hall. you’re already helplessly grinding into her thigh, sensitivity in your clit amplifying when you realise she’s letting you.

her lids are low, staring deliciously at your lips; just as you think she’s about to lean in and satisfy that aching hunger you have for her.

you hear a gun cock.

a glacial touch on your jaw, and the cold shiver paralyses your body. “knees, now.” her breath against your lips; although she was exhaling, you felt as though she had inhaled all the self-possession out of you.

you’re immobile, and sit there wide-eyed at her, but find yourself quickly perching off the mattress and onto the floor when you remember how fucking hard she hits. she appreciates how you look, doe eyes that submerge in aroused timidity and hair becoming dishevelled when she runs her fingers through it. as much as you try and admire how she looks down at you, you can’t help but tunnel your vision at the fucking gun in her hand; she notices. “what? you’re not scared, are you?”

you look up at her, trying to conceal your distress. “come on. like last time, since you enjoyed it so bad. open.” she commands; you try and disregard her request, but when you see the gun inch closer against your lips, you know what she wants.

you’re humiliated - jaw tenderly unlatching, eyes closed to distance yourself from anxiety burrowing into your stomach, the suffocating taste of steel against your tongue when the rim slides in. “you weren’t this obedient,” you hear her state, the metallic taste strengthening with every swallow. “maybe you did learn something.”

her free hand confines the roots of your hair, forcing your head forward; she can tell you’re scared shitless by how reluctant you are to move, and it thrills her. “careful,” you hear her whisper, aluminium sliding down your throat. “wouldn’t wanna pop your pretty face open.”

you feel a tear slide down at this, that mortifying discomfort at the back of your throat establishing itself again. you want to stop, but realise that out of these months, this was your desired result - you were going to endure this again.

so you dip your head lower, bloodshot eyes tinged a cherry red leering back up at her innocently. she seems morbidly fascinated by this, but also remotely pissed off that she didn’t grind you as deep in the bones as she wanted.

so the damp barrel leaves your mouth, and she applies it to your temple.

“what ar-“

you hear it click. and you involuntarily flinch, trying to cower your head away but her hand an iron grip on your throat - you’d never felt your heart hammer so vigorously, tempted to believe you’d be having a cardiac arrest any second now. “please-“

“please what?”

click.

“please stop, stop, stop..” you repeat, your hands tremor against her kneecaps; tears erupting onto your cheeks and making your skin glossy.

“stop what, sweet girl? i ain’t doing shit.”

you feel like you need to start internally saying your prayers, make peace with death, reminisce on all the mistakes and fuckups in your life. but she slowly bows down to your ear, breath grazing your jaw. “it’s empty. relax.”

you exhale shakily as she fixes the gun back into her holster. she’s sadistic, her tongue tenderly tracing your damp cheeks, tasting at your fear.

you whine in disgust, more repulsed by the fact she wanted to literally taste the hysteria she created rather than the actual sensation of her tongue against your skin. “you’re fucking sick,” you weep, feeling her fingers anchor at your waist, guiding you to your feet.

she rests her forehead against yours again, but this time tastefully tilts her head to lean in, enveloping her lips into yours.

and she tastes as good, if not better, than you remember.

a rhythm of her lips against yours, a candied taste that had you hot on her heels when she went to pull away for breath. her hands delved everywhere, from your hips to your breasts, to the back of your neck and maundered around your clothed slit. she pulls away eventually, sexually frustrated breaths intensifying when she looks at the state of you.

she had hitched your shirt up only slightly, and your jeans were slowly sliding down your thighs. eyes pierced onto your breasts, and pupils dilated at the sight of them irregularly springing out of your shirt when she pulls it up just a tad higher.

you watch her collect the spit in her mouth, her tongue generously leaving her parted lips, a string of spit drizzling onto your breast. you sigh, the sensation of moisture so substantial between your legs, you could likely hear it if you stayed silent. “does that turn you on, hm?” she sighs in your ear, “you like watching your tits get spat on?”

when you don’t answer, that baneful slap singes the side of your face. you’d almost forgotten how truly bad it felt, which seemed impossible considering it was something you weren’t anticipating. “yes, yes officer,” you nod profusely, shuddering when another string falls onto the other breast; skin becoming glassy when her fingers massage it into you.

“you know.. i’m sure some of my colleagues would love to see this.” her fingers taunt your stomach, lowering until they find the band of your underwear; forefinger provokingly trickling into your folds. “they’d love a pretty girl like you..” she whispers, and you can’t help but feel a sizzle of adrenaline when her fingers graze her walkie.

you shake your head, even the thought of it humiliates you. you twitch when you feel her finger graze your wet clit, teasingly circling the bud. “i wouldn’t do that.” she delicately pecks at your neck, almost lovingly.

it’s not because she cares about you, it’s because she’s possessive. you’re her pretty girl, she caught you first.

and if the slap on your face wasn’t that bad, the slap on your pussy was.

desire floods your insides when her fatal palm wallops against your folds, pixels of indigo tinting your vision. you exhale shakily when she smears your slick over your clit, extraterrestrial sensitivity; you’re unable to control the chronic grinding of your hips when her fingers keep rubbing against your clit. and so you whine, wanting her to skyrocket you into that fruitful orgasm she had you in before.

but you’re tranced as her hand seeps into her trousers, feeling as if you could tear up at the luscious sight of her unbuckling her belt and touching herself; the urge to orgasm then and there. her fingers slide back out, oiled in her own fluid - you can’t look away, too captivated at how her fingers glisten in the light so appetisingly.

you thought she’d glide her fingers in your mouth, but instead, her fingers fall back into your underwear; gliding into your folds, teasing your aroused hole. you feel how easy it is for her to slide into you, so impotent and undefended; her wetness stirring with yours as you tighten around her fingers. “that’s it. just take it.. take it, pretty girl.”

you nod, lips being pecked when you do so, you feel as if you’re being rewarded for complying. her hands are flooded with veins, knuckles contracting when she keeps fucking curling her fingers into you - that exquisite bundle of sensitivity gathering whenever she rubs against your most vulnerable spots. and before you know it, your legs are inveterately trembling when she speeds up, fingers pumping into you maliciously.

she has some admirable stamina.

your fingers bunched into her shoulders, uniform crumpled into your palms; you can feel it, that fucking wreath inside you that debilitates your hips, that entwine of bliss you’d been anticipating for months. “fuck- please.. please, please..”

“you begging me already?” you hear her release a breathy laugh. and it’s unworldly, it constructs itself at the very top of that mountain; it’s so ready to gush out at any second, but when it only gets a taste of the top, she starts slowing down. “no please.. please, not again, please..” you whine, you’re sexually frustrated and just want nothing more than to orgasm with her fingers inside you.

but she knows how to compensate.

“you wanna come that bad?”

eagerness pounds in your clit; it’s desperate to get coated by her tongue. you freeze, assuming you’re just under another delusion when she says the next thing, that your ears are bullshitting - but when her free hand takes your wrist and forces it into her trousers, you know you’re hearing crystal clear.

“earn it.”

you flinch when your fingers are immersed into stifling moisture. her clit is erect, and you can’t stop yourself from flicking it ever so tenderly when her legs flinch every time.

it was addicting, you were pleasuring her. her heavy breaths in your ear, that consistent pressure on your clit when she adjusts her palm against it, sweat aflame on her forehead.

you apply more pressure, ever so desperate to hear her moan; her breaths becoming shakier, compulsively erratical against your skin - she’s grinding into your hand, and it’s such an opulent sight to see. “fuck..” she grunts, and you memorise the expression on her face. eyes artistically closed, freckled skin that gleams in splendour, mouth agape and discharging such vulnerable sounds. you speed up, movements becoming sloppy when she’s so fucking wet you can’t feel your own fingers against her folds. she’s starting to rub against you, hips clenching and making it harder to target her clit when she’s tightening her thighs. you know she’s primed to spurt her cum onto your fingers any second now by the way she’s indomitably breathing in your ear.

so you decide to give her a taste of her own medicine.

you slow down malignantly, her trembling stifles not long after. you can’t help but feel a sense of retribution, you saw this as tit for tat, and so had a fulfilled smirk on your lips. you expect her to erupt out of the ill temper she usually finds herself brewing in, but she does the opposite.

she chuckles in your ear, breathing still sloppy and inconsistent.

“you think that’s funny, huh?” her tone is of one you had never acquainted with, it’s elevated itself a few pitches and is pungent with some kind of excitement. whatever she’s just thought of, you’re not sure if you should be looking forward to it.

but you’re disappointed when she situates herself on the edge of the bed, face bleached of any aggravated resentment. she seems inordinately serene, too abnormally at peace with the fact you didn’t let her orgasm.

it’s too good to be true, but that gut feeling withers instantaneously.

“sit on my face.”

that’s it?

that’s the punishment?

you don’t hesitate, and sooner or later, find your lower body bare and trawling against her uniform. she was ethereal, brindled hair against the thin mattress, dotted freckles along her skin that created an enviable need to coat them all with your cum, tongue ready to provide for you.

your thighs are jailed by her hands, fingers that bury into your skin so robustly; she’s lowering you down, and you can’t ignore the impulse in your clit exploding when her tongue flicks over it ever so softly.

your stomach is hitching like crazy when she keeps teasing your sensitive nub, circling it, flicking against it. and eventually, she engulfs your clit completely in her mouth, fulfilment nurturing itself in your stomach when you feel her tongue swirling her saliva around it.

you’re whimpering unruly, thighs twitching in an irrepressible manner as you grind against her face; you know her chin and nose are most definitely coated in you. but just as you’re saturated in that pool of unearthly pleasure, she bites your clit.

“fuck!” you yelp, the grip on your thighs strengthening; you were clapped in irons under the raw grip of her palms. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry..” you repeat aimlessly, knowing that even if you wanted to jump out of her grip, you can’t.

you’re harrowed, not only due to the tortuous twinging in your clit but also because she made diluting you down look so plain sailing. she belittled you in ways that seemed eternal.

“please stop, i wo-“ you can’t finish your sentence, because she bites again; waterworks hazardously escaping from your eyes. “fuck, please..” you cry out jaggedly, the torment on your clit being medicated only slightly when she tenderly kitten licks it.

it’s as if she’s mocking you with kindness, her lips pecking delicately at your clit apologetically.

you feel her lips embrace your bud again once you’d recovered a minute or so later, tongue whisking your clit fluidly before she sucks. but you’re too busy tensing up, vigilant for her subdued attack - she notices this, loosening on your thighs and fingers glissading across your stomach and to your breasts, tenderly pinching your nipples.

you feel her lips slither against your clit, before she brings a hand down to gel a finger with her spit; you helplessly watch as she coats one of your nipples enticingly. her tongue siphoning your clit, nipples ambushed with her fingers, spit drooling down your stomach - it was fucking preposterous.

and you can feel it, the familiar corkscrew again. your hips stiff and stomach rigid to aid the incoming unfoldment; your nipples were becoming more sensitive, thighs becoming more shaky, clit vibrating against her tongue so decrepitly.

“fuck, fuck, fuck..” you repeat breathlessly, unable to compose yourself through the animosity of what’s brewing inside - that spiralling latchstring of soon-to-be glory coiling higher and higher. you look down, wanting so badly to come on her tongue, make her taste what she’s done to you, what she had done to you for months - you were falling apart at the seams.

you’d never felt it this indestructible before, your lower body feeling as if it was being shredded through a mosh pit of marvel, stupefying you. your orgasm lasts so stunningly, replenishing itself in your clit - you felt brand new, a clean slate, wiped of any rational thought.

and when you open your eyes, her face is drenched, hair clad onto her cheeks and insipid in your cum. her skin glistening, lips hydrated with your cum, and her hair duskier in your fluid.

it’s a few minutes that you regulate your breathing, try to calm down. as you do so, she’s sitting up, trying to hear out for any noise down the halls. “ah fuck..” you exhale shakily, looking over to see her wipe her lips.

your limbs are moth-eaten as you lay down onto the bed. and she knows you need to relax, take it easy. so she pats your outer thigh. her solicitous touch against your spine, ardent breath exiting her lips, eyes doting over you.

“you know you’re going to court, right?”