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sluttynfemme · 3 months ago

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The Rise and Fall of a Lesbian Situationship

chapter one- call me hot, not pretty

contains: butch4femme, praise kink, derogatory praise, vaginal fingering, light masturbation, strap-ons, slight overstim, explicit consent

The joint you smoked with Miron makes everything soft and hazy. At some point, one of you stubs its smoldering remains out and you migrate from the balcony to her bedroom.

Miron has tacked up multi-colored string lights over her bed and they cast an indigo hue over the plain comforter and walls. You throw yourself onto her bed and hum at the rush of Miron that overwhelms you—smoke, fresh linen, and cologne. It’s so very masculine and butch, and you want to roll around in it like a kitten with catnip.

She chuckles behind you and you feel the graze of fingers on your back thigh. The touch is fleeting. “Make yourself comfortable, princess,” she says.

You’re glad it’s dark because the pet name, even after all this time, still makes you blush.

When you turn your head and peer through your mess of hair, a new source of light bathes the room in white. Miron is fiddling with the TV remote, flipping through movies and shows. Nothing catches her attention, not even the tried and true action movies you know she loves.

You prop yourself up on your elbows and watch her scroll for a few more moments.

“Here,” you say finally. “Give it to me. There’s this anime I’ve been meaning to show you.”

Miron raises a dark eyebrow at you. From this angle, the crookedness of her nose is apparent. Not that you mind. You’ve always thought it made her more handsome. One too many fights, is what she told you when you asked.

“An anime?” she repeats skeptically. Her stupid British accent makes your gut twist with attraction. You’re horny and it makes you stupid. You swallow.

“Yeah.” You push yourself up further, coming to rest on your knees. “You’ll like it. Pretty colors, fight scenes, a hot girl or two. It’s your type.”

Miron has always been able to manipulate you like soft putty in her hands—but she isn’t the only one. You’ve been so good at getting her to do what you want. You’ve known each other for almost 6 months now and you know Miron’s greatest weakness is a pretty girl. It takes some coaxing and pouting, an adjustment to the way you sit so she can admire the length of your legs, but she caves.

You know she only agrees because she doesn’t think she’ll actually be paying attention to the screen. You can tell by the hungry way she looks at you. Most late night hangouts like this end the same way—with the takeout and television abandoned and you naked in her bed.

That’s okay. You know this when you tempt her. You have plans for Miron Sikkari.

With the anime chosen, the two of you settle into her bed. Miron goes first, placing one arm behind her head and beckoning you in with the other. Settled into her side, the smell you’d appreciated earlier is only stronger; warmth blooms in your gut as you find yourself wholly surrounded by it. A shiver trickles down the length of your spine and you sink deeper into Miron when it passes. It’s so hard to relax but Miron’s arms around you and the haze of marijuana leaves you no choice.

You rest your head on her shoulder, leg swung over her tattooed thighs, and you feel warm and safe tucked into her side. A quick glance up reveals that Miron is intently watching the show you picked. This makes you bite your bottom lip, holding onto the mirth.

“So?”

Miron glances at you from the corner of her eye, her mouth tugging into the shape of amusement.

“So?” she mimics.

You elbow her. “So, what do you think?”

“S’alright. You’ve got a point about the colors.” Her eyes move to focus on you and she grins, a flash of white in the dark. The internal screaming in your head grows louder; you consider yourself thoroughly charmed.

“The episodes are only 20 minutes long,” you supply, ever so helpful.

She laughs and you feel it vibrate through her chest. It’s a wonderful sensation, one you greedily want to keep to yourself. You’re not naive enough to think you’re the only girl Miron pays attention to but you hope you’re the only one who makes her laugh.

“That they are. But y’know, I’m starting to think this supposed ‘bad guy’ may have some points… Doesn’t hurt he’s a good lookin’ guy. They’re just jealous he’s got game and they don’t.”

You scoff but scoot in closer. “You’re missing the point… Keep watching.” And she does.

But now that you’ve thought about Miron laying in this bed with other girls, you can’t stop. You wonder if she plays with their hair like she’s playing with yours or if her hand likes to find the sensitive spot on their ribs just under their breast and rub circles. Your mind churns with the possibilities.

The feelings that accompany those possibilities are complicated. You think of the likely candidates to have made it to this bed and compare yourself to them.

You knew what you were asking for when you started fucking Miron Sikkari regularly. Among the large pool of sapphic people at your university, it’s well-known that Miron doesn’t do monogamous relationships. Hell, you all know that she just doesn’t do relationships, period. And still Miron has no trouble finding connections because you all also can’t resist the warmth of her charm.

To your credit, you’re her longest standing hookup outside of maybe Julia (god, you hate her) but you know that doesn’t mean much. To Miron, at least.

When Miron texts you at 10 o’clock on a weeknight, of course you answer. You know what she wants and you’re more than happy to give it to her. Even if you’re pining after her like every other queer girl on campus, the sex is worth the emotional hell.

God, the idea of Miron laying here touching other girls—girls you know, girls you’re friends with—the way she’s touching you right now doesn’t even make you sad; you’re just fucking angry, but at who?

Jealousy makes you stupid. Being horny does, too. They don’t combine well.

Miron is properly distracted by the show, so you decide now is a good time to make a move. With jealousy and need intertwining in your gut, you decide you’re done simply laying on her chest.

One of your hands is splayed over her stomach. The hem of her tee has bunched up over her hip, revealing a small triangle of smooth tan skin, and you slowly begin to inch your fingers towards it. Even in the winter, Miron manages to retain her gorgeous olive skin and you hate her just a little for it.

The pad of your thumb brushes over her hipbone and you feel her suck in the smallest of breaths. You’re sure she doesn’t even realize it. She’s still staring at the TV, watching colorful characters fight off an angry demon. You’ve seen this anime so many times you can’t even count so it’s easy to keep your attention on Miron.

You continue with small touches, light as you trail them from one hipbone to the other. As you do this, you note Miron’s responses. Her fingers splay against your side and her muscles shift and flex under you. When you run your thumb over the raise of her abdominal muscles, her breathing goes steady and controlled. Miron has always been affectionate, needy for touch in a way much different than your own. It’s one of your favorite things about her and you’re sure it’s what makes her so hard to resist. She’s just so good at making you feel special. Needed, even.

Your fingers brush over her happy trail, your thumb catching on the elastic of her boxers. Her hips twitch—fucking finally, you think—and her grip noticeably tightens.

“What happened to watching your show?” she asks in a low, scratchy voice, hands already beginning to roam.

“I’m bored,” you murmur into her neck. Trailing your nose from her collarbone to her jaw, you find the tender spot behind her ear and place a gentle, teasing kiss there.

“Bored?” She groans as you kiss her neck, peppering a few kisses at the base and paying special attention to other spots with your tongue. “Fuck. Then I suppose we’ll have to do something about that. I take my duties as host—ah, very seriously and I can’t have the guest of honor bored.”

You hum your agreement but continue focusing on the task at hand. There’s a spot you know she particularly likes but finding it is always tricky. You drag your tongue along her skin and nip at the flesh under her jaw. The arm Miron had tucked behind her head comes around and now there are two hands on you, roaming and grasping at your sides, your waist, the nape of your neck.

Purposefully, you suck hard on a spot near her carotid. You pause, soothe it with your tongue before you latch with your lips again. You lay claim to this expanse of Miron’s neck and wickedly hope it deters any other girls she might approach throughout the weekend. Fingers lace through your hair and grip your curls close to your skull.

A whine escapes you and you pant against her. She hasn’t even touched you and yet her attention, the anticipation of being under her microscope, excites you.

Suddenly, those two strong hands are on your waist and you’re being tugged on top to straddle her hips. Miron is firm and warm beneath you and you take a moment to admire her. The details of her features are lost in the dim lighting but you see the angle of her jaw, the shadow of her grin, the glint of something hard in her eyes. There’s something so incredibly butch about her in this moment and it makes you throb with want.

One hand remains on your hip. The other reaches up under your shirt to cup your breast, thumb over the barbell of your piercing, and then her mouth is on yours, hot and persistent.

Miron has always kissed you like this—a little forceful, dominating as she slips her tongue in your mouth and stakes a claim. She’s insistent but methodical, an expert of her craft. You suck on her bottom lip and she kisses you harder.

The hand on your hip begins to guide you, encouraging the rock of your hips as your arms come over her shoulders and you lose yourself in Miron’s kiss. You’re still high and this only makes you dizzier. Her fingers dig into the flesh between your thigh and hip and you moan into her.

When she twists and pulls at your nipple, toying with the piercing mindlessly, you whine openly. Miron pulls away because she likes to watch you. Sometimes you like to put on a show, exaggerating the hitch of your breath and slow roll of your hips. Right now, though, you’re uncontrolled and wild. Your eyes squeeze shut because it just feels so damn good. She rubs circles on your hips and toys with your piercings and fuck you just can’t fucking think straight because you just feel so much.

You lean against her, face pressed into her shoulder. Miron has ignited an unignorable need inside you and you need her to do something to cool the fire before it consumes you. You don’t want to be an overstimulated mess but then again you and Miron probably have different objectives.

“Fuck,” Miron murmurs against you. “You’re pretty like this. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

You’re so bad with words when you get like this and she knows it. Any other day, any other time, you could match her charm with something at least partially intelligent.

Right now, all you manage is a breathy little moan. Miron chuckles and grabs the meat of your ass. “Just a perfect princess, aren’t you?”

You nod against her. You are, aren’t you? This you believe in wholly.

That’s one thing you know you hold over the girls Miron might see. None of them are stone, none of them are you.

Even with as diverse a queer population as your university has, you and Miron are two of only a handful of stone lesbians on campus.

You know Miron enjoys the random girls’ company but you are different. She knows you’ll never ask to reciprocate or touch her. You are happily content to be fucked sideways until she is tired and done. This, you know from experience, takes quite some time. You take it gladly. Do they?

Miron flips you on to your back and there her fingers are, tugging at the sides of your pants. She’s honed in on you, her gaze raking over your form. You lift your hips for her and she takes off your pants without much effort. You not so subtly tug at the hem of her shirt.

“Off,” you say.

“Bossy tonight, then.”

You roll your eyes.

Miron kneels between your legs. Like this, her tattoos stretch across her sculpted, muscled thighs and you see the mouth of a tiger stretch over her knee.

When she takes her tee off, leaving her in a tight fitted sports bra, you see even more beautiful skin inked with tattoos of all shapes and sizes. You’ve sat and studied them before and your favorite is the barking doberman on her calf. From this angle, you can best view the dragon on her abdomen, done in heavy black. The scales and claws flow with the muscle, beautiful art on a beautiful body. Miron wears her physique and her tattoos like armor, one she is unwilling to remove.

Before she can ask, you reach for the bottom of your shirt and begin to pull it up. Miron, of course, assists you in this, ever the gentleman. She tosses it away.

This leaves you splayed beneath her in your underwear. Miron devours the sight of you, raking her eyes from your open thighs to your heaving chest, and you feel even wetter. Almost like she knows, Miron looks to the growing damp spot on your panties and you see the ghost of her smile. The television, completely forgotten, illuminates her from the back and casts her in shadow; it defines the swell of her biceps and width of her shoulders and you want to desperately wrap your legs around her waist.

“Look at you,” she says. Her eyes are hooded, dark with desire. One of her hands rests on your lower stomach and her thumb strokes the skin just under your navel. “I love getting you like this, you know. I bet you’re soaked and I haven’t even touched you.” With the other hand, she reaches down and runs a knuckle over you. It takes every ounce of your willpower not to shudder and whine. “Of course you are. You’re just a whiny, needy slut. So good for me.”

This breaks you. A strangled sound escapes your throat and you reach for her. “Miron, “ you whine. “Miron, don’t tease me.”

“Oh, but that’s my favorite part, sweetheart.”

She runs her knuckle over you a few more times, just enough that your hips have started squirming and you’ve started panting like a bitch in heat. You press your palms into your eyes and endure the torture.

She teases you mercilessly, stroking you over your panties and occasionally pressing her thumb into your clit. At some point, she leans over and kisses your stomach, peppers them over your rib, and makes her way to your nipples where she sucks one into her mouth and continues to toy with you.

Miron always pays such special attention to you and you love it.

Finally, when she’s satisfied, you feel her hands at your hips again and you immediately lift them. She pulls your panties off easily and the frustrating tension in your body only increases.

“Miron,” you gasp. “Please. Please touch me.” You’ve never been ashamed to beg.

“Look at me,” she says. You do.

She holds your gaze as she dips one finger into your cunt. Your breath catches as she runs a finger up your slit, gathering your cum and pausing to roll your clit between her fingers. She wants to know how swollen you are; she wants to know how far she can push you. Whatever she finds there pleases her because she lets out a low groan.

You jerk when she jerks her thumb over it and she laughs cruelly above you. “Poor baby… So sensitive. How do you want me?”

You struggle to answer, mind foggy with weed and desire, so she pauses her ministrations.

“Answer me, princess,” she repeats, firm.

“Fuck, ah. I-I want you hard. Please make me cum. I wanna come.” When she doesn’t return to touching you, you continue babbling. “I want you hard and fast. I want to come around you. Fuck, please. Please, Sir. Make me cum.”

Miron shudders and you know you’ve just said the magic word. Sir.

She doesn’t answer right away. She pauses just long enough that you notice it and you want to burst out of your skin.

Finally—

“Good girl.”

Miron pushes one finger in and you shudder, gasping as she quickly enters you. She isn’t kind, only momentarily checking to see if you can accommodate a second finger. You’re just a stupid slut, so of course you can. She inserts another and adjusts so she can pump into you. Miron is hard and rough with your cunt but she’s thorough, moving slowly and deliberately.

You writhe around her, whimpering and squirming as you struggle to decide if it’s too much or too little.

“Hold still.”

This is an impossible task for you and she knows it; her hand, large enough that it covers most of your lower stomach, moves to hold you down. Miron is so very much stronger than you which is why she doesn’t hold it against you when you only continue to squirm, bucking into her hand. Pinned in place, she fucks you just like you asked. The feeling is exquisite, perfect, and all-consuming.

You bite down on your fist to hold back the guttural moans as your eyes roll into the back of your head.

“Stop that,” Miron says and punctuates it with a punishing curl of her fingers. The sound you make is pathetic. “I wanna hear you. Go on. Let me hear you, princess.”

You remove your gag and, secure in the knowledge that you’ve been given permission, you cry out. The sounds you begin to make originate deep in your chest, scrape along the back of your throat as you grip the sheets and sob.

“Fuck,” you say. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“There it is. God, you’re fucking perfect. Look at you, so needy,” she croons. Pieces of her short, dark hair have fallen across her forehead and her brow is pinched in concentration. “Do you want to cum for me?”

“Yes,” you say. “Yes, yes, yes.”

You can feel that pressure building behind your navel and you know the orgasm will ruin you. Distantly, you still hear Miron speaking; she’s coaching you through it now, soothing you through the violent torrent of sensation. Her gentle words do not match the pace she’s set, stretching you around three fingers and digging into the spongy spot just inside your cunt. Your back arches and every muscle in your body coils so tight you think you might die. You feel yourself pulse around her and your breath catches.

“Then be a good girl and cum for me.”

The orgasm spills over you and you moan in relief. Your fingers and toes tingle; the tension finally dissipates. You ride her hand through the aftermath and she praises you for your endurance.

Miron pulls her fingers free and you whine at the loss. You watch as she places them in her mouth and cleans them, one digit at a time. You’re selective about when you allow her to put her mouth on you, so she always takes a moment to savor the taste of you.

She swears. “You taste so fucking good,” she says and you flush. Horny and stupid, you think.

You lay against the array of pillows, disoriented as you catch your breath. Miron moves from between your thighs, kissing your stomach but avoiding the spots she knows are too sensitive, and comes to lay beside you. She places another brief kiss on your temple, covers your naked body with a blanket, and plays with your hair for a minute or two.

“You’re always so mean,” you finally say. You don’t mean it.

Miron grins. “You like it,” she replies, and she’s right. You rest your eyes; you deserve it.

Even though she has just thoroughly ruined your pussy—you still feel yourself dripping on your thighs—you want more and you know she does too. Miron, who has been hyper-aware of the ‘predatory lesbian’ stereotype since you met her, always waits for you to ask for more.

You appreciate this about her; that she gives you the space to choose, even if she’s never given you reason to worry. You like that even though you know she’s starving for more, she never pushes for it.

Through your daze, you smell smoke. Sweet and musky, you peek open an eye. Miron has summoned another joint and lit up.

You shift, turning to face her. She’s watching you, mindlessly running her thumb over your temple. Smoke drifts from her mouth towards the running ceiling fan. She’s so handsome and your brain screams at you as your heart skips a beat. You know this is so stupid of you. You need to break it off soon, before she breaks your heart, but that is a problem for another day.

“Hi,” you say sheepishly.

“Hello,” she replies and takes another hit. There’s mirth in her eyes that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

“Can I have some?” You pout a little bit and that makes her laugh.

“I don’t know… what’ll you give me for it?”

You narrow your eyes; Miron stares back, smug. Leaning over, you kiss her. You snake your arms around her neck and slip your tongue in her mouth. She tastes like smoke and she hums against you, seeking more. It’s no surprise when she attempts to slot her knee between your thighs; you almost let her.

With Miron distracted, you steal the joint and scoot away. She snorts and you take a hit. The burn in your throat is pleasant and familiar. As you take in another hit, Miron’s hands slip under the blanket and come around your waist. Her fingers are cold against your skin but you sigh into her. You don’t feel like bratting with her tonight. Silently, you offer her the joint over your shoulder and bring it to her lips when she accepts. The cherry glows red and Miron lets out a small cough to clear her throat.

You two smoke the second joint, ashing it in a cute tray shaped like a slice of pepperoni pizza. Miron only has to reach over you to get to it and her long, athletic arms make that very easy.

Miron leaves the roach smoking in the tray and you watch the thin lines of smoke rise to the ceiling. The smell of weed has become something of a comfort to you and you press yourself into Miron as you let it envelope you.

She nuzzles into your neck and you hum. The kisses she places on you are open-mouthed, and somewhere not too far from your collarbone, she leaves a hickey.

You stretch into her, relish in her warmth and the pleasure and the weed. It doesn’t take much, just a few kisses on the corner of your jaw as she rubs slow circles on your ribs, before you’re moaning again.

You know she won’t touch you anywhere until you ask. And while you don’t mind begging, there’s a part of your brain that is forgetting language and becoming a creature of need. It slows you down and Miron doesn’t like to wait. She bites your shoulder and her fingers pause their ministrations.

It takes you a few deep breaths to float back to your body. Miron is so still behind you, waiting.

“More,” you whine; your fingers dig into the bed. “I want more.”

She hums against you. “Good,” she says softly against your skin. Her fingers crawl inward from your hip and brush against your inner thigh. She finds you smeared all over yourself. “Fuck. You’re so fucking good for me, princess. C’mere. Open up.”

Strong arms pull you flush to her chest. Your head tips back. With one arm under you, she easily reaches your chest to play with as the other continues toward your ruined pussy.

When her fingers dip back into your mess, you mewl and jerk against her hand. Miron gently hushes you, runs her thumb over your nipple, and soothes you as she coaxes an orgasm out of you. She takes such care and time with this one, carefully riding the line of overstimulation with your clit.

You embarrass yourself, rutting and crying against her. Miron praises you for how good you are but you don’t believe her; she encourages you, coaches you through your breathing, and you fail to listen. You pant and grow frustrated with yourself.

You want to cum, you don’t want to disappoint her, you want a million things and all of them feel entirely out of reach. Orgasms like this don’t come easily to you and you don’t think you’re worth the time, but Miron is viciously determined. You want to tell her I can’t but the words won’t come. You know she would just say Yes, you can anyway.

Instead you make incoherent, babbling noises. Miron huffs into your shoulder, a small laugh as her lips curve into a smile against your skin. You squirm too hard and Miron slows her pace, reducing pressure. You go too still and she adjusts the pace as she massages your clit.

You’re not worth the effort but Miron gives it to you. When you cum for the second time, your moan stops in your throat. You cum silently, arched against her, and she holds you tightly as you spasm against her. The orgasm is a wave you ride out. Purple and blue lights dance behind your eyes.

When you stop twitching and you aren’t heaving and whimpering, she grabs your chin and makes you look over your shoulder at her. Her yellow eyes, hooded with desire and intoxication, search your face. “Do you have one more in you or are you done?”

You’ve been fucking consistently for almost three months now. Miron knows your limits and body well enough to know when you can’t take anymore—when you’re too fucked out to make a good judgement call. You, though you’re very close, haven’t quite reached that point.

You nod but that’s not enough for her.

“Say it,” she orders, her gaze piercing. She’s looking for signs that you’re not okay, but she finds none. Her attentiveness makes you feel safe with her.

“I have one more in me.” For good measure, you add: “Sir.”

Satisfied, she peels away from you and sits up. You close your eyes and rest while you can. Miron rummages around the room a bit and you hear the rustle of fabric. A part of you knows what’s coming and the anticipation is excruciating.

Miron has one drawer of her dresser dedicated to her various cocks. The colors and sizes vary, from a monstrous flesh-toned cock she’d received as a gag gift to a practical 5-inch magenta piece. You know she also keeps nipple clamps, silk rope, and flavored condoms right along side the organized basket of vibrators, all of which she keeps meticulously clean. Your favorite, the one she says she keeps for you, is long and black and stretches you wide open. But that’s not why you like it so much. It’s clearly Miron’s favorite too because you’ve felt the difference in the way she moves. You tried one other cock with her and hadn’t tried again; with the black strap, she moves like it’s an extension of her body, a real cock that she can feel you pulse around.

When she comes back to you, she touches a hand to your hip. You open your eyes and there she is above you, rubbing her cock with her left hand as she spreads lube over silicone. Cool fingers enter you as she mixes lube with your cum for safe measure—her cock is big but she always makes sure you’re ready for it.

“On your hands and knees,” she orders softly.

You adjust your position and rest your cheek on a pillow, arms stretched in front of you. The bed dips behind you as she takes her place and a pair of hands adjusts you, angling your hips to better take the brutal fucking coming your way.

“Now,” she says and the steel in her voice makes you quiver. She massages your ass and you feel yourself dripping. “If it’s too much, you’re going to use that word we talked about, yeah? Do you remember what that is?”

You comply, even if it makes you feel a little silly to say it aloud. “Strawberry.”

“And if you can’t speak?”

“Five taps on the bed… or on you.”

“Good girl,” she says and that’s when you feel her.

Compliance has earned you the thing you want most.

The head runs up and down your slit and its unexpected sensation makes you moan into the bed. She’s merciless with her teasing and when you moan too quietly, she brings her hand down hard on your ass. You yelp, but revel in the sting.

“That’s pathetic, princess. We both know you can do better.”

You don’t bother with a response. She doesn’t want your words; she wants obedience.

You feel the head at your entrance before its removed again, which makes you mewl. She runs a knuckle over the swollen length of your cunt, takes a nice look at you.

The sight of your pussy and the red palm print forming on your ass must be driving her insane. You know her wants just as well as she knows yours, so you know it’s especially cruel when you reach between your legs and use your pointer and middle finger to expose yourself. You expose the swollen nub of your clit and spread your labia so she can watch how you clench around nothing.

Miron sucks in a breath and goes so very still behind you. She’s entranced as you touch yourself. You make little noises for her, tiny sounds of pleasure because you want to drive her crazy. You want to see the control she holds over herself snap because she deserves to feel good too.

And it does snap. The head of her cock presses into you, stretching you wide, and she doesn’t stop until her hips are flush against you. The size alone has you groaning and clawing at the bed, the pressure intense and painful and delicious.

Miron kindly waits for you to adjust and experimentally moves her hips, dragging her cock out… and then pushing it back in.

You keen into the pillow, cursing and whimpering to yourself as she sets a pace. Hands position your knees just right and pull you up at the waist; they rest at your hips. Though she’s panting above you, the way she pulls in and out of you is intentional. Maybe it’s a punishment for teasing her so rudely.

You don’t really fucking care. It feels so good that you can’t think about anything else. Trying to survive the pleasure she inflicts upon you is your first priority.

So you rut and hump against her, pressing your ass against her hips and gasping when her cock reaches the deepest part of you. The sounds you make are no longer moans or groans or sighs of pleasure. You are animalistic. She’s stripped you to the nerve and peeled you open to reveal your honest wants.

No hiding, no shame, no fear of retaliation, you let her fuck you and you stop holding onto your responsibilities. They don’t matter. Not right now, not when she shifts her hand up and presses you deeper into the bed. She’s groaning your name, calling you pretty and telling you how goddamn stupid you make her. She puts you where she needs you and you trust her when she does. You know all she wants to do is make you cum, make you feel so good, and wouldn’t it be so cruel to take that from her?

You cry as her cock rubs against every inch of you. There’s a pulse building inside you and you want to give yourself over to it. Fingers dig into your skin. A mouth at the top of your spine across your shoulders. You whimper and beg for more.

Teeth and nails and the sting of impact on your ass make you cry harder. She pulls on your hair and you groan deep in your chest, rolling your hips in time with hers.

“Fuckkk, look at you. Look how pretty, such a good girl for me. My pretty little slut. Are you going to cum? I want you to cum, princess.”

You nod and babble and promise whatever they ask. Anything. Anything to cum, anything to relieve the agony of your orgasm.

Their lips travel your skin and leave a scorching path in their wake. Lips and touch and sensation overwhelm you.

“I wanna cum,” you babble. “Make me cum, please, I need to cum. Make me cum, please. Fuck, Sir. Sir, please I need it. I need it please.” The words tumble from your mouth. “I want you to cum inside me.”

The final slam of their cock—and you fall apart beneath them. Your orgasm escalates into a full-body experience and so every cell in your body explodes with release when you cum.

You come to… later. You’re not sure how long, but you’ve been moved onto your back and the mess between your legs is being cleaned up with something warm and damp. You moan, reaching for the person who hovers above you. This place where the pleasure is too great and you cannot speak leaves you vulnerable but you trust this person. They’ve never left you alone and cold before, so you trust that when you reach, they will come.

Warmth wraps around you and you nuzzle into the source, wrapping your arms around it tight. Hands stroke your cheek, draw shapes onto your shoulders, and slowly untangle the greater knots in your hair.

It takes you an hour to gather your wits. Miron lays with you, offering you water and cracking bad jokes as you regain your words and judgement. When you’re ready, you put your clothes back on and she walks you to the door. She waits on the landing of her apartment as you walk to your car and waves goodbye when you get inside and settle in.

You swallow and wave back, watching the broad shape of her back and shoulders disappear. You sit there in the silence, feeling tired and sticky.

Miron will text you again next Thursday night, as she always does. You don’t have a lab and she has an opening in her schedule that she leaves wide open for you. You might play dumb for thirty minutes, leave her on read for a while just to be mean, but you’ll be back.

Of course you’ll be back.

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sluttynfemme · 3 months ago

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The Rise and Fall of a Lesbian Situationship

chapter two- knee deep in the passenger seat

contains: butch4femme, jealousy, praise kink, derogatory praise, fingering, strap-on, intox, slight overstim, strap sucking, car sex

Midterms chew you up and spit you out. You’re exhausted, physically and mentally, and you’ve never been so fucking needy in your life.

You’ve been neglecting yourself lately. It’s been two weeks since you last saw Miron. The first time you canceled on her, you’d lost track of time at the library. When she texted you at 10:30pm, asking if you wanted chicken or tofu in your noodles, you realized with regret there was no possible way you could meet her. You needed to work through at least half of your 16-page research paper before you could leave and you had just crested page five.

YOU: fuck i’m sorry, i lost track of time and i’m stuck at the library… order without me, i don’t think i’ll be leaving until the library closes :\

MIRON: no worries, i’ll just have them deliver to u. i know u haven’t eaten today, lol

You could have tried to argue about the takeout—you hate handouts—but you’re just too focused and too tired to fight. And she was right. You hadn’t eaten.

The second time you canceled, which was yesterday, you’d had the wherewithal to text them early in the day. You told them the truth, which was that your Advanced Calc II exam was in the morning and you were neurotic and anxious and needed the time to study. Miron had replied with something nice and bland and that was that.

But your dry spell has expanded past just Miron. In the last few weeks, you’ve hardly touched yourself either. When you have, it’s been brief and efficient, something to help you go to sleep at night after you’ve hit your dab pen a few times. You might take the time to make yourself wet, or you may just spit on your fingers and touch yourself roughly, rubbing your clit furiously. You think of her, though, oh of course you think of her, and it’s the thought of her head between your legs that gets you off both times.

(Shit. You’ve been thinking about that more lately—Miron Sikkari’s dark head of curls between your thighs, her mouth sucking in your clit, her tongue in your hole.

Maybe the distance has made your pussy fonder but the anxiety you normally have, the one that worries you’ll take too long, that you won’t taste good, just isn’t there.

You want it. God, you fucking want it.)

So, you haven’t seen Miron in weeks and you’ve been doing a piss-poor job of taking care of your own needs, sexual or otherwise.

As such, your diet has consisted mostly of iced coffees, McChickens and microwaveable mac and cheese. At night time, even if you were trying to sleep, the lesbian couple sharing the room above yours has been fighting all week. One of them had cheated on the other at a party last weekend and you and the entire building have been privy to the details of that infidelity all week.

You’re sober and horny and exhausted.

It’ll be three more days before you know whether or not you passed your Advanced Calc II exam. You spent all week studying, working through practice problems and old homework, and none of it felt like enough when you sat down to take it earlier that morning.

You remember the GPA requirement for your full-ride scholarship, the one you are barely meeting, and your gut twists with anxiety.

You’ve been trying so hard but life has you pulled in a million directions—you’re taking 6 three credit-hour courses and a 1 hour lab. On weekdays, when you aren’t in class, you’re at work-study on campus or studying in your dorm; on weekends, you work at the upscale steakhouse in town and sometimes you write for the university’s paper for extra cash. You have, on occasion, been known to donate plasma on Mondays.

Except for Thursday nights, you never make time for yourself. There are always better things to do with your time than self-care. Like the library.

You don’t go out. Ever.

But this time, you’re breaking your ‘no parties, no distractions’ rule. Your manager, Greg, gave you the weekend off after he found you sobbing in the cooler two hours ago. All you want to do is get drunk, maybe a little crossed, and forget that you are failing spectacularly in all areas of your life.

You call Tara, your best friend, from your car, hiccuping into the speaker as you drive home. She comforts you and promises to be your driver and babysitter while you get properly trashed. You deserve a break, babe. Tara is more than willing to give up alcohol for the evening if it means getting you to come along with her anywhere on a Friday night.

There’s a party going on at some house outside city limits and Tara promises it’s just the place to be. You’re not the only one with a plan to blow off steam after midterms.

The two of you currently meander down a gravel road in Tara’s newer-model sedan, eyes searching for a light in the dark.

You fiddle with your dab pen in your lap while a queer pop song plays through the stereo. Tara complains that the potholes are going to ruin her shocks—or maybe it’s the struts. You’re not really paying attention, truth be told.

Instead, you’re thinking about the string of text messages you exchanged with Miron only an hour before. While you’d waited on Tara to pick you up, you’d time to think. You were needy and you missed Miron’s attention.

YOU: are you going to party the basketball team is doing?

MIRON: wasnt planning on it, noor n ryan want to shoot pool downtown

YOU: oh ok

MIRON: why

YOU: tara is taking me, figured i’d say hi if you were gonna be there

MIRON: ur going out?

YOU: yeah, tara is taking me

Your phone has been painfully quiet since then and you wonder if you’ve made her mad. Things have always been good between the two of you but her lack of response makes you nervous.

Tara swears and you tune in. She’s complaining about her ex now, graciously reminded by the break-up ballad cued on her Spotify. “They’re a liar, Hamali. Two months we’ve been doing this online thing. Two months. And to find out they’ve had a girlfriend this whole time?”

You take a long hit of your pen and shrug, resting your head. The smoke tickles when you blow it out your nose. “That’s the problem with meeting people online. It’s easy to hide shit and get away with it. You never know if you’re getting the entirety of a person, y’know? It’s equally as easy to ghost them and avoid accountability, so people will say and do whatever they want.”

“Like she knew about me but I didn’t know about her, which is so crazy to me. They’d told her we were just friends, or some bullshit.“

You nod your head in agreement, the buzz making you feel bold. “So, fuck that guy and their girlfriend. You know what you should do? Date Noor. Noor is literally begging for a chance to take you out. You already know the sex is good, y’all fucked last summer, and Noor is one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. You’re not gonna run the risk of being lied to and ghosted. Besides, you know where Noor lives so even if she did do something horrible—but she won’t because it’s Noor—you can just show up at her house and confront her there.”

You stare at Tara pointedly and she replies with some new detail she’s just recalled. You do the girl thing, hashing out the details of this massive relationship failure, passing the time as you drive.

You’ve already been traveling for twenty minutes so it only takes a few more for a beautiful country house to appear in the distance. Light pours from its windows, a colorful beacon in the dark. People mill around outside and their breath cloud in front of them in white puffs.

Tara parks in a grass field amidst an organized grid of other vehicles. There are a fair amount of people out tonight, you note. Your boots crunch over frost when you step out of the car and you shiver. The skinny jeans you fished from your closet and black corset top don’t do much to shield you from the wind.

Your best friend grabs your hand and you weave through the cars, making your way with the others toward the house. A neat stone path lined with solar lamps and small shrubs leads you to the front porch. The house is even prettier up close, all beautiful wood paneling and detailed carpentry, so pretty that you’re almost green with envy. Stylish but comfortable furniture and twinkling lights make the porch inviting; the front door feels like a portal to a world far away.

When you make the plunge inside, where you are so much warmer, you think that you’re not surprised this is the kind of party Tara brings you to. She’s never been one for the rotten underbelly of a house on fraternity row. But still, you feel entirely out of your depth. The house isn’t extravagant but everything you lay your eyes on flashes a triple-digit price tag at you like a neon sign. You feel poor and small and you would be overwhelmed if it weren’t for your friend.

People say Hi! and Omigod how are you? to Tara and wave and smile at you as you are absorbed deeper into the house. They… do not know who you are and you can’t blame them, really; you’ve been here a semester and a half and this is your second night out. You feel dumb and awkward and your social anxiety is screaming like a hoard of cicadas in summertime.

You need to adhere to your original plan: get shitfaced and ditch the anxiety. Ditch all of it.

In the kitchen, Tara opens the fridge and inspects its contents. Her mini skirt hugs her waist and hips, accentuating the softness estrogen has brought to her figure, and the glitter on her collarbone and shoulders sparkle in the light.

Hard liquor is already on the counter but space has been made inside the refrigerator-sized monstrosity for wine coolers, soda, and bottled water. Tara retrieves a bottle of water and a Coke and you watch, taking a long drag on your pen, as she deftly whips up a Jack and Coke for you. She’s heavy handed with the pour, which you appreciate.

You’re stumbling behind Tara, choking on the whiskey behind your hand, as she pulls you through the house. She’s always been a speed-walker lesbian you can never keep up with.

“What are we looking for?” you ask.

She grins over her shoulder. “You’ll see!” she sings in reply.

Tara brings you to a room on the second floor, large and spacious with a green-felt pool table in the center. Beer pong is next to a set of white French balcony doors; an L-shaped couch is tucked in the back corner where a group of people are huddled around a coffee table. As you approach, you see colored baggies, gummy squares, and pre-rolled joints neatly displayed. The cloying scent of marijuana assaults your senses and you could kiss Tara; sobriety has sucked and you think a blunt with your drink would fix you permanently.

The dealer is an obvious dyke with cropped brown hair and a T-shirt that says, Who ate all the pussy? Tara knows your tastes so you stand back, sipping your drink quietly, while she buys you two pre-rolled joints. You watch with amusement as Tara immediately snags the dealer’s attention and begins to flirt with him, playing with the ends of her dark ass-long hair. Tara walks away with a free edible square several minutes later.

No one gives a fuck if you light up down here so you find a spot near beer pong and watch as the women’s basketball team begin a bracket amongst themselves and divvy into teams.

Once settled, you light your joint and sip your drink and enjoy the haze that settles over you. Intoxication is sweet bliss. You find yourself laughing more than expected. Several of the players are good friends with Tara and she tells you about the intricacies of their social circle—who’s been seeing who, who’s been fighting and who’s been fucking. It’s all harmless gossip and you enjoy it immensely. You’ll admit, it’s a nice change of pace from all of the books and homework assignments.

It’s not long before you’ve both finished your drinks and you’ve smoked about half of your first pre-roll. Tara leaves you on your stool with instructions not to wander far. This makes you giggle. Where could you possibly go?

You feel her presence before you see her. Miron has a way with people that you find eerie and the room shifts to center its axis around her.

She comes up behind you and a hand brushes over the small of your back. You swallow. You know if you turn your head, she’ll be right there, waiting, watching; she’s close enough now that you can smell the musk of her cologne.

When you turn, Miron is grinning down at you. Her hair is a mess and a single curl lays over her forehead.

“Hi,” she says. You want to melt into a puddle where you sit. You hate how little it takes to grab your attention. Heat rises to your already hot cheeks.

“You’re here.”

“I am,” she says and arches an eyebrow. The scrutiny makes you squirm. “What, like I’d miss a chance to see you out in public? Did the restaurant burn down?”

You blink. Stammer. “I—No, Greg gave me the night off and Tara’s been wanting me to come out for ages.”

Miron’s grin is feral and canine. She’s teasing you and the realization frustrates you. You shut your mouth, flustered. She can talk, if she’s feeling so damn cheeky.

“Don’t pout. I just wanted to come make myself known.

“Well. Hello. And good-bye,” you say, even though you don’t really want her to leave. You cross your arms, feeling defensive and panicked. You didn’t expect to see her, you have nothing prepared. You want her to like you. But it’s Miron.

The hand at the small of your back disappears and you immediately wish she would put it back. Being around Miron is always like this. You want her close but the proximity makes you nervous. All you know how to do is bite.

Miron searches your face, brow furrowing for just a moment. You almost mistake it for confusion. The expression is gone as quickly as it comes, though, and Miron smiles at you once more.

“Well, alright then. Have a good time, sweetheart. Don’t get into any trouble.”

She brushes your chin with her thumb and forefinger, flashes a cheeky smile, and disappears back into the house. The world continues spinning like normal. Blood pulses in your ears and chest to the thumping baseline powering through the media room.

Miron is gone but now that you know they’re here, they’re all you can think about. They had lied about playing pool with Noor, then. Why? You bite your cheek, worry your bottom lip between your teeth—a terrible habit, really.

You cross your arms and slink to a corner where you find a bar stool to perch upon. You’d been lurking on the corners of this room, in the doorway, but your new vantage lets you keep an eye on the comings and goings. The basketball game featured on the wall-size flatscreen and the game of beer pong is now largely ignored so that you can watch for Tara—just Tara, no one else.

A few moments later, the dark-haired beauty returns to you with refills in hand. She hands you your cup and you swirl the contents around. Another Jack and Coke with an emphasis on the soda this time. You don’t blame her for slowing your light weight self down; you just grab the second half of your joint and light up.

“What’s up your ass?”

You grumble into your cup. The captain of the basketball team roars with victory, startling you. It seems she and her partner have won. Their prize is an edible, donated by the dealer. How kind of him.

Tara pouts. “Come on. Don’t play hard to get.”

“Miron’s here. Noor and Ryan probably are too.”

Tara immediately perks up. “Really? Where?”

You roll your eyes and snicker. “You’re so fucking easy. My god.”

“You have absolutely no room to talk. Where did Miron go? She didn’t leave, did she?”

“No, I told her to… I don’t know. She wandered off.”

“Then let’s go look for them, yeah? Come on, Hamali. They are our friends.”

Ryan, maybe. But you and Miron are fucking consistently and the sexual tension between Noor and Tara has been suffocating the last few months.

You’re happy to follow Tara around again. Your head is light and fuzzy and it’s nice not having to think about where you are walking or how you’ll get there. The music in the house beats and pulses around you, overwhelming your senses. Too much of this and you’ll be crying in a dark bathroom, overstimulated and overwhelmed. You’re safe for now though and content to trail behind Tara.

You find two of them in one of the many rooms downstairs. Ryan is fiddling with a deck of playing cards, dividing them up and shuffling them around, while Noor takes buy-ins.

“Are you playing poker?”

Noor is a bit on the shorter side and broad through the shoulders, with beautiful brown skin and hazel eyes that Tara likes to fawn over. She looks up at you and flashes a devilish smile. “Strip poker. Wanna buy in?”

You roll your eyes, barely suppressing a giggle. “God, no. But Tara might.”

Tara splutters. Her tan cheeks turn pink and you watch as a magnetic pull lures the both of them in. Noor says something charming, a bit cheeky, and you quickly tune them out. Not really a conversation meant for you.

Despite your better judgment, you find yourself looking for the dark head of curls that should tower over the rest of your group. It’s rare to see Noor and Ryan without Miron, especially with something as enticing as strip poker on the line.

“Where’s Miron?” you ask, leaning forward on your toes.

“Got distracted.” Ryan’s response is tight-lipped and your gut immediately drops. That can only mean one thing.

A deeply masochistic part of you wants to know who she is. You’ve always known this to be what it is: friends with benefits, casual, no-strings-attached. That doesn’t stop the deep sting when you’re reminded that Miron Sikkari is not yours.

Is she prettier than you? Does she give Miron something you don’t? No, it’s none of those things. You know that. Miron just doesn’t date.

No one stops you when you quietly slip away. It’s not hard for you to slip through the hallways unseen. All you have to do is search for her magnetic attraction in the house. People gravitate towards her. They can’t help it.

When you find Miron, it’s on the back patio outside. She’s sprawled out in a chair, her legs spread wide. In her free hand, she holds a smoldering blunt. None of that matters though. Because the girl sitting in her lap is Julia.

Julia. Julia. Julia.

Your brain goes white.

Both of her perfectly gorgeous legs are swung over Miron’s thighs, the slit in her skirt exposing an expanse of smooth tan skin. Only one of her perfectly manicured hands rests at the nape of Miron’s neck, playing with the short curls just above her fade; the other rests on Miron’s chest, fingers adorned with gold and stone rings.

Miron clearly enjoys the attention. You watch as she leans into Julia’s hand, as her eyes flutter when Julia tugs on the ends of her curls.

It’s hard to explain why you feel so strongly about the other woman. This isn’t who you are. You’re not the type to go blind with jealousy, but when you look at Julia and her perfect long red hair and her beautiful tits and amazing ass… well, maybe it’s hard not to compare. Next to her, you feel like a silly girl playing pretend.

You freeze in the frame of the sliding doors. There’s a blunt rotation going on and Miron has just passed to the right. You debate being bold, putting yourself right in the middle, and seeing if maybe you can overthrow Julia’s position in her lap. You entertain a fantasy where you coolly integrate yourself and Miron is awed

Ultimately, the idea of losing outweighs the rewards of winning and you begin to slink back into the house. All you want to do is return to Tara and drink more. You have a whole joint left, too, stored in your pocket for safe keeping.

You don’t retreat successfully. Miron, who has been lulled into a state of relaxation by Julia’s ministrations, spots you hiding behind the patio door. Her eyes, hooded with her high, widen with recognition as you backpedal and she opens and closes her mouth. You’re not quite sure what you’d call the look on her face but it makes you ache.

In the kitchen, Ryan, Noor, Tara and a few faces you don’t recognize have started a game. Noor is dealer and Ryan is already missing their shirt.

You’re not going to cry. That’s not what that feeling behind your eyes is. You just… feel a little sick. God, you could just turn fucking green. Envy is not your color.

Ryan notices you return first. Their smile is wide and inviting and they wave you over.

You try to smile back but you have a terrible poker face, game or otherwise. If they notice how forced it is, they don't say anything.

A few moments after you’ve settled down and lit up your second joint, Miron’s frame fills the doorway.

“Hey,” Miron says, a small salute at the forehead. Her grin is lopsided and she’s just so terribly handsome. You avoid looking at her, instead becoming increasingly occupied by the stickers on your phone case.

Ryan makes a noise. “What? Back so soon?” Their voice holds an edge.

There’s a pause and then you hear Miron say, “And pass up the chance to see you naked? Never.”

“You want me to deal you in?” Noor asks.

“Actually—‘Mali, could I borrow you for a second?”

Your eyes immediately snap up to Miron. Those fucking eyes of hers are burning into you, red and hooded from the smoking. Your stomach flips.

Wordlessly, you stub your joint out, place it in your case, and separate from Ryan’s side. You wrap your arms around your waist and follow Miron down the hall. Music bounces off the walls around you, echoing in your head. The walls are narrow enough that when she stops, leans her back against the wall, and slides down just a little, her legs eat up the entire distance.

You stand opposite to her, fidgety and restless in close quarters. Her head cocks to the side.

“What’s up?” you ask lamely.

Miron takes a second to study your face. “You just came outside and looked like you had something to say. What was it?”

Your throat feels dry. It’s so damn hard to think around Miron and you hate it. Her intensity always manages to throw you off course completely. You’re not used to being so noticed.

“I just came to find you because we were starting strip poker; turned around because you were busy.”

Miron makes a face that scrunches up her nose. “No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were. And you were clearly enjoying yourself, so far be it from me to interrupt you.”

“Hamali, what are—“ Their eyes narrow infinitesimally, cat eyes in the dark. “Is this about Julia? Is she why you’re upset with me?”

“I’m not upset, Miron.”

“Bullshit. You’ve said fuck all to me tonight. I want to know why you came out there—the real reason. And I want to know why you turned around.”

You stand there gaping like a fish. Truthfully, you don’t have an answer for either question. Why did you go looking for Miron? You don’t know. So instead you say:

“I just don’t understand why Julia of all people. No one likes her, except you.”

For once, Miron actually looks speechless. They blink a few times before saying, “What?”

Music and blood pulse in your ears. You’re pissed and you’ve been drinking. You ought to give Miron a piece of your mind. You do.

“Julia is just using you, you know that, right? She—well, she treats you like a piece of meat and it’s disgusting frankly. I hate her.” You feel petulant but you keep going. Miron doesn’t date but this isn’t about that; this isn’t about the fact that you desperately want her all to yourself. “She’s twenty-one but she acts like she’s thirteen, like she’s a goddamn child. You’re not a toy, Miron. Why, in the ever loving fuck, do you let her use you like one?”

“She was just sitting in my lap—“

“I haven’t forgotten what she said to you last month. You were so pissed too because she’s always resented the fact that you’re stone. What was it? ‘I could never date you but you’re too perfect of a lay to pass over.’ And now here she is in your lap, and I fucking hate her.”

Miron starts and stops a few times, stumbling over her words in a way that you’d never seen her do. Finally, they get out, “What does it matter, anyway?”

“What does it matter? You’re the one who fucking asked me! She’s a bitch! She’s a cunt!” You’re seething now, leaning in towards Miron as you make your point. You lift your chin indignantly. “I came out there because I wanted to see you. I didn’t know what to say when I first saw you. I didn’t expect to see you and I didn’t have time to think or get my thoughts straight, so I went looking for you later. And it’s Julia, who you’ve done nothing but complain about for weeks now, sitting in your lap. It’s Julia, playing with your hair, shotgunning smoke into your mouth.”

“What am I supposed to do, Hamali, follow you around like a lost puppy? I went outside to smoke and she was there. It’s not like I sought her out! Besides, what’s it to you if she uses me? Why do you care?” She takes a step toward you, inviting herself into your personal space like she always does. A wave of her cologne washes over you, something crisp and earthy. She towers over you and despite your anger, you can’t ignore the way your gut tightens. You kinda want to kiss her.

“Because it’s wrong and shitty of her.”

“Sure, but I’m a big kid. I know what I’m getting into with Julia. I don’t think that’s the entire truth, ‘Mali.”

“I—“

“Be honest with me: are you jealous?”

Another baby step. They’re standing close enough that if you took a deep breath your chest would brush them. She leans down, lips close to the shell of your ear and you fight a shiver.

“You don’t wish that was you sitting in my lap?”

“N-no, that’s not it, I told you, I—“

“Oh, I know what you said.” You feel her fingertips brush the dip of your waist before they curl around it entirely. You try your hardest to ignore just how far her fingers can reach around you. “I don’t think that’s the truth, though. I think the truth is that you are pent up and stressed and are using Julia as an excuse to rile me up. Come on, princess.” You feel her fingers slip under the hem of your shirt just barely. “You should know by now that you don’t have to play games with me.”

Your hand comes up to grip their forearm, your nails leaving crescent moon marks on their skin. Already you feel yourself growing wet. Your head swims; you sway just a bit on your feet. Fuck, she’s so right. You are pent up and stressed and her bare fingers on your bare skin feels so nice.

“Princess,” she says, teeth in your throat. “You gonna tell me I’m wrong? C’mon. Why don’t we go somewhere more private to talk about this?”

You know that wherever she takes you “talking” is not what she has planned. “Where?” you ask, voice a little more breathless than you’d like.

“Jeep,” they mumble into your neck.

You nod. Yes. Yes, yes, yes. You know you can be so much better than Julia. You know Miron can make the itch under your skin go away. Fuck, you’re just burning, wanting, waiting.

Miron takes your hand and leads you back down the hall. As you pass the poker game going on in the spare room, you see that Tara is missing her shirt and Ryan is out their socks and pants; a few others have joined and they’re all in various states of undress.

The journey back through the house is nothing like the one inside. Your world is full of bright lights and colors and everything blurs together as you blindly follow Miron outside. Her hand is so warm in yours as you slam the front door behind you and step into the cold.

The porch is empty and no one is around, so Miron takes the time to press you against the door and kiss you. It’s so sudden. One moment, you’re shivering as the cold turns your cheeks pink and your breath comes out in a fog. Next, Miron has you flush against them, lips moving against yours in a persistent, persuasive manner. Her leg finds its way between yours and with your difference in height, it’s easy to apply pressure to your core.

You keen into her mouth at the slightest touch and she groans. Her tongue in your mouth next, searching and exploring. She hasn’t tasted you in weeks and she kisses you like she’s trying to make up for lost time.

Her hand grips your jaw, thumb pressed in the delicate space between your ear and mandible. She tastes like smoke and mint, the faintest hint of alcohol.

Miron pulls away and leaves you wanting more. They take your hand, pulling you back through the pretty stone path and to the cars parked in the neighboring field.

You pass Tara’s sedan and then you see Miron’s Jeep on the other side of a massive truck.

You’ve heard of the Jeep. Of course you’ve heard of Miron’s fucking Jeep. You’re eighty-percent sure she keeps a collection of underwear in her center console, keepsakes from every fuck she’s ever had in there.

Miron’s hands are at your hips again, insistent as they hold you tight against them.

“You’re so fucking hot, you know that? God, you have no idea how how fucking bored I’ve been.”

You sigh as Miron hones in on your neck. Her teeth and tongue assault you, turning you into a useless mess in her arms. She keeps talking to you, flips the button on your jeans.

“Feel me, princess. Go on. Feel how hard you make me.”

Miron takes your hand and guides it to her groin. Beneath the fabric of her Dickies, you feel something hard and long. Your breath catches in your throat and your pussy—goddamnit, you just throb.

“Miron,” you groan.

They laugh in your ear. Make no mistake—they’re mocking you. You know it. They’ve always given you shit for how easy it is to get you to take strap. It’s one of your preferred methods of fucking, honestly. You love how fucking wild it makes this stone butch of yours, how feral Miron grows when it’s just you, her dick, and filthy pillow talk.

Miron pulls the latch on the back door to the Jeep. It swings open, an invitation you’re eager to accept. “Get inside.”

You do and without being told you begin to remove your shoes and socks. The back seats are laid down a quilt thrown down hastily; a bit sourly, you realize Miron was prepared to get laid no matter who it was.

Miron climbs in behind you. The awkward manner in which she does so is almost enough to make you laugh.

She pins you with a single look. Pulling the door shut behind her, she says, “Take your pants off, princess. I won’t be able to do much with this,” they punctuate this by grabbing their cock, “if you’re still wrapped up so pretty.”

You shimmy out of the jeans, slipping your underwear off, and it’s a blur from there. All of this movement has you feeling almost sloppily drunk. The two of you somehow readjust, Miron settling below you as you crawl on top. The cool smear of lube on your thigh briefly grounds you and then you're being stretched and filled. You cry out and Miron hushes you, rubbing circles on your hips.

It hurts. The pain isn’t unbearable but truthfully the two of you hadn’t spent much time on foreplay before Miron put their cock in you. You can’t fault her; the lube helps. The stretch and pain you feel is a nice reminder as you whine and whimper in Miron’s lap.

You don’t fuck right away. Miron, you realize, has been staring at you rather intensely while you have your eyes screwed shut. Her hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, and her fingers make her way to your head of curls.

She brushes a piece back, tucking it behind your ear. “You still have that joint on you, princess?”

You nod, trying and failing to squeeze your thighs together.

“Take it out. Light it. You deserve to relax.”

Getting crossed in the back of Miron’s car seems like an excellent idea, so you do as your told.

You smoke, and Miron quietly demands that you feed her smoke. Her lips meet yours more than a few times as you breathe each hit into her lungs. You feel spacey and sluggish and you realize absently that Miron’s hips have begun rocking up into you.

“Miron,” you whisper.

“Hmm?” she hums, smiling at you in her haze.

Mustering your strength you push her down, her back coming to rest on some pillows and blankets she’s used to prop herself up.

“I think I’m done waiting.”

Your hands rest on her abdomen, an anchor to steady yourself as you breathe in and out and adjust to her cock. You grit your teeth, hang your head. It hurts still,, but you have a point to prove and pain isn't something you’ve ever shied from.

Miron swears. “Fuck.”

Nails dig into your hips and a slight twitch in her hips nearly makes you keen.

“Can I—?” she starts and you cut her off by shifting one hand to her shoulder and rolling your hips.

This time, you don’t stop yourself from making the sounds you want to. Miron watches you, pupils blown, as you hold her down and experiment.

You’ve never had sex in a car before and god is it uncomfortable but you just don’t fucking care. You feel full and her hands are on you; the ache starting in your knees is nothing.

Miron rocks into you and that makes you gasp and sigh. Your grip on her shoulder loosens and she takes full advantage of that. Before you can push her down and play at being in charge, she puts her mouth on you, wrapping her lips around a nipple.

A hand slips from your hip to your ass, kneading the flesh and fat and muscle there. It guides the rock of your hips as you ride her, filled to the hilt. When teeth pull on the metal of your piercing, you whine.

Your hand slips under her collar and you drag your nails across her shoulder, leaving welts with the points of your acrylics. You lace your fingers through her hair, wrap and wind through it. In the far reaches of your peripheral vision, you can see her watching you through her eyelashes, a patient study.

When you pull, the groan she lets out against you makes your hips jerk. It resonates deep in her throat, an unbidden, unwilling sound of pleasure. You love doing that to her.

You think of Julia, again, and how she was playing with the curls at Miron’s neck when you found them. Jealousy spreads through you like a wildfire. You think of how she fawned over Miron, touching her bicep, swinging her thighs over her lap. It makes you possessive and you dig your nails into Miron’s scalp.

Teeth bite down on the swell of your breast and you instinctively pull harder. You feel yourself clench and the fresh smear of cum on your thighs. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. You’re in deep shit.

“Did you just bite me?” you ask.

She grins, arrogant and pleased with herself. “You liked it.”

You did, but you also like to argue. “Did not.”

She slips a hand between your bodies and her thumb finds your clit. Before you can stop her, an open-mouthed kiss on your shoulder turns into a bite.

You cry out and shudder in her arms.

Your mind is hazy but you feel Miron laugh against you. Absently, you note that the car windows have fogged over with your breath.

Lips tug on your earlobe. “You got wetter, sweetheart.”

You did. You know you did. Fuck, you feel drunk and so very high and you are quickly losing the ability to talk back. The jealousy you choked on is hard to remember when she calls you pet names. With no dignity, you moan into her shoulder. The sharp burst pain is almost enough to send you over the edge and into your first orgasm—but not quite.

You’re still rocking against her, suffering through the pleasure you feel. You know you’re pitiful like this. Silly and stupid with need, you ride her in an attempt to stop whatever it is Miron pulls out of you. You’ve brought yourself to the precipice but you can’t push yourself over.

Miron keeps a hand on your hip and pays sweet, special attention to your chest while you try your best to cum. The thumb on your clit provides enough stimulation to make you whimper—but it’s still not enough.

If anyone walks by, they’ll find you falling to pieces in her lap. Your tank is missing and you know that when you look in the morning, you’ll see bites and hickeys all over your tits. She’s terrible like that.

You whine, exhausted and stretched full, and she hushes you.

She lays a kiss on your collarbone. “Fuck, you’re close, aren’t you?”

Your gut sparks and you dig into her shoulders, drawing a deep groan from her. You nod against her shoulder, a shuddering and panting mess. Close. So fucking close. You’re woozy with the need.

“You’ve worked so hard this week. It’s only fair you get to cum. Do you agree, princess?”

A hand cups the back of your head, a gentle soothing weight that presses you into her chest. You nod and melt into her, your cheek pressed against warm skin. Your whole body buzzes, focused in your clit as Miron rolls her cock into you. Embarrassment is the last thing on your mind, so you don’t care when you feel tears on your cheeks.

“There you are. That’s it. Good girl. Just like that.”

You shudder and your hips slow. You’re so tired as you cry into her shoulder. You can’t. You just fucking can’t. You need her, need her to put you on your back and fuck you hard.

The uninhibited part of your mind again thinks about what someone would see if they found you then. Maybe it’s Julia who finds you. They would see Miron and you having sloppy drunk sex in the back of the Jeep, her strap buried in you. You’re naked at this point, covered in hickies and bent over her lap.

“You want me to take care of you, sweetheart? Make you feel good, like I always do?”

Miron adjusts herself under you and you whimper as her cock moves inside you. The veining on the underside of the cock runs perfectly against your entrance as she shifts and you endure the exquisite torture.

She’s going to take care of you. She promised. Finally, you’ll get to cum.

With her grip on your hips, she lowers her center of balance, slipping further into the black leather seats to give herself some leverage. And then she thrusts up into you.

Your head drops to her shoulder and you gasp against her skin, sinking your own teeth into the skin of her neck. Groaning, Miron settles into a ruthless pace.

Her hips rise up against you, her cock pounding into your core. It hurts, bruising something deep in you that you nearly flinch away from, but the relief and pleasure you feel outweigh the discomfort.

Tears leak from your eyes as you tip your head back. “Fuck, fuck, Miron, I—”

You feel yourself breaking apart in their lap, a shattering that begins in your gut and spreads through your entire being. You thrash and scream against their body as you cum, experiencing the release in its entire violent glory.

Every muscle in your body contracts. You feel the gush of cum between your legs. You arch so hard against them that you feel the muscles in your feet begin to cramp.

And when the violence of your orgasm passes, you are left with the exhausting sweet relief in your body. The tension you’ve been holding all week is gone and you slump against Miron’s body.

She soothes you as you steady your breath, but you can hear the humor.

It doesn’t take much for you to laugh against her. Honestly, you’re not even sure what you find so funny. But she joins you and the two of you laugh together until you’re just two people again.

It’s quiet for some time, you wrapped around her torso, her cock still buried in you.

Her cock—that lick of heat races through you again. The things you wanna do to their butch cock.

“I wanna try something,” you blurt. You chomp the words out in an effort to ensure they’re said.

Your gut twists with nerves. You’d read about it being done to butches—femmes, too—but what if she doesn’t like it? The possibility of a No looms over you.

Miron grins at you and raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

You bite your lip. “Could I… Would you mind… Can I suck you off? Or like pretend I’m—“

A muscle in her jaw tweaks and she swallows. Hard. “You wanna suck me off, Karakuş?” Miron’s voice strikes you as a bit breathy but the tilt of her smile assures you of her confidence.

You immediately turn bright red. “I-I mean, yeah. Yes.” You can’t look her in the eyes.

“Alright.” Miron looks around the inside of the car for a moment. “Think you’ve got enough space?”

You blink and quickly nod your head a few times. What are you supposed to say? No?

You lift yourself off Miron’s cock and there’s some adjusting for her to find a comfortable position slumped against a few pillows and the back of the front seats. You tug at the bottom of her shirt. She always does this, strips you naked before you realize she’s still fully clothed.

Miron obliges quickly. They pull their black tee over their head and toss it into the passenger seat. Now you can see all of her tattoos, namely your favorite, the dragon curling under her sternum and over her belly.

You start by kissing her neck, swirling your tongue over the places you know she likes. You press her into the floor, bracing yourself over her as you begin your descent down.

“Fuck,” she says, more of a breath than a word. Her hips twitch in anticipation and you smile to yourself.

You kiss her stomach, following the curved tail of her dragon tattoo, journeying further south until you reach her hip bone. There are a few more smaller, hidden tattoos here—an armadillo on the outside of her hip, a zippo lighter on the V of her abdomen. You spend a few moments here, kissing the feather soft-skin of her hip; you suck a hickey just next to the zippo lighter and smile when they swear and jerks under you. Their cock is inches away from your mouth and you know they’re trying so hard to be patient.

It works out for her that you’re desperate to put her in your mouth. You turn your face in, brushing the strap with your nose. It smells strongly of you, pleasant and musky, if not a bit salty. Your tongue darts out, tasting the silicone, and you nuzzle into her cock, kissing the side and base.

Miron’s eyes are on you. You feel them burning into your face. This makes you want to squirm under her gaze but you double down on the task at hand.

You don’t wait long before licking up the side of her cock. She groans, says something foul that you don’t really hear, and slides her fingers through your hair. Her hands are rough on your scalp and they knot through your curls. Her thumb brushes the curve of your jaw. You hum.

When you reach the top, you look up at her. Of course she’s staring back. You keep eye contact with her as you curve your tongue around the head of her strap. In the dim lighting of Miron’s back seat, the shine of plastic and your own cum make her cock gleam oil-slick.

You keep eye-contact with her when you wrap your mouth around her cock and take her into your throat.

Miron’s eyes are blown wide. Her nostrils flare and the hand in your hair grips you even tighter. Your eyes flutter shut. You groan around her. Saliva leaks from the corners of your mouth and you close your eyes, relaxing your throat as she gently bucks into your mouth.

“Fuck,” she says. “Look at you, princess. Fuck.” Her head tips back against the seat behind her. “You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

You soak in the praise as you suck Miron Sikkari’s cock. Her hand remains on the back of your neck, guiding you up and down. Though you can’t see it yourself, you hope she appreciates her view: You, face down, ass up, the naked curve of your spine and waist on display just for her.

One of your hands digs into her thigh to support yourself. Her muscles flex and bulge under you, and you hear the stream of curses leaving her mouth.

You catch a—Fuck, fuck, fuck, sweetheart, you’re such a slut—and not too long after—God, look at you taking all of me like that, you didn’t even need my help, that’s perfect, you’re perfect.

You suck Miron off until she tells you to stop. You’re content down here, throat relaxed around her hard cock as you sleepily give her head. The position you’ve folded yourself into is rather comfortable and Miron’s hand on your head is heavenly. Compared to the urgency of your fucking, the blowjob you give Miron takes it’s time. You look at her occasionally and find her face buried in her hands or staring right back at you. One of her thumbs brushes under your eye, wiping away the tear tracks and smeared mascara.

Hands on your shoulders push you away before they pull you back up. A thumb makes its way into your mouth and you wrap your lips around it. Of course you do. A voice shushes you, pulls you to their chest, adjusts you just right.

Miron has placed the two of you flat in the back seat, both of you laid on your sides. You note that her legs seem a bit cramped, but she doesn’t seem to notice. If she does, she doesn’t care. A hand is busy stroking your stomach and lips are on your neck and that voice keeps telling you—

You’re so pretty. Think you can take my cock for me one more time, princess? Fuck, Hamali, you feel so good. That’s right sweetheart. Keep me warm. Let me use you.

The head of her cock presses into you, splitting you open again, and you groan. She slips into you with ease, filling you perfectly.

Fingers circle your clit and you jolt, an animal brought back to life. You suck in a breath and moan. Your head tips against her and they hold you even tighter.

Her arms pin you against her chest, not that you have the strength or will to fight back. A hand rests at your throat, a casual reminder of her physical dominance over you. The movements they make around your most sensitive point send shockwaves through you. You keen, whimper, whine. Your hips stutter to a rhythm of their own design.

Shhhh. Shhh. That’s it. You’re so sensitive right now. God, a fucking mess. This is. Fuck, ‘Mali. You have no fucking idea—

Teeth nip at your earlobe before they sink into the flesh of your neck. If there’s anyone nearby, they absolutely hear your moan. It’s loud and carnal and your eyes roll into your skull.

Your orgasm does not creep upon you in a gentle construction of pleasure and pain that transcends you. When Miron bites you, your orgasm rears its head inside of you and punches a hole straight through your gut.

You hear a distant scream (your own) and feel breath on your neck. Your pleasure burns through you, a wildfire that won’t be stopped.

Your body shakes and shakes and shakes. Miron wonders at you as you cum under her touch.

Any thought you’ve been holding onto evaporates. Right now, you’re just another girl Miron Sikkari has fucked in the backseat of her Jeep and you bask in its glory. You may be starting to see the appeal.

In the true moments after, Miron holds you with a softer, more gentle grip. Her arms are still a vice around you, but her fingers stroke and smooth over whatever they can reach. She pulls the cock you’ve been keeping warm for her out and the absence makes you shiver. Sweat sticks to both of your bodies and the mixed sound of your breathing fills the car.

You’ve never wanted anyone to be Mine more.

“As much as I’d like to continue laying here,” her lips brush over the shell of your ear, “my legs are going a bit numb, love. Here, why don’t we sit up.”

You barely contain your whining. In another world, one where your claim to Miron is real, you might have thrown a tantrum; you ask to be taken home, swaddled, and held all night. You’d pout for a joint and her attention and you’d receive both for your efforts. She calls you something else, something intimate like baby or—

That claim is not yours. You have to remember that. So you shift into a seated position, wincing when blood rushes back to the cramped parts of your body. Your cunt is sore and will be for a few days.

Miron is quiet while you collect your clothes. You hear her removing her strap and the distinct sound of a zipper when she places it back in her backpack. Hickies have begun to bloom across your collarbone, larger bursts of purple forming where she bit you. Your top does nothing to hide them and your skinny jeans are a bitch to wiggle over your hips. You decide your boots are the worst part when you smack your elbow trying to cram your feet into the chunky platforms.

When you’re in a finer state of dress, Miron wordlessly opens the back of the Jeep and climbs out. She holds out an arm, letting you use her for stability. The world outside is cold, significantly less warm and humid than the vehicle. You wrap your arms around yourself, feeling a little wobbly on your legs, and shiver as sweat cools on your skin.

Your muscles are tired and you still feel more than a little drunk. Now that the moment and its intensity has passed, you aren’t sure what to say.

Maybe you should stick your hand out for a good shake and say, “Thanks for the fuck. Yeah, no, I know we’re not dating. I just hate when you flirt with girls you’ve had sex with more than once. No, I don’t wanna be just a hook-up but I also don’t wanna be nothing. Yeah, great, see you next Thursday.”

You don’t think that would go over well. Any claim you might have to Miron’s time and attention would disappear. You’re too selfish for that. Sex with Miron is too good to let go for something as inconsequential as feelings.

Miron has her hands in her pockets. Her eyes look wholly black in this lighting. “I should get you back to Tara,” she says. “She’ll be wondering where you are by now.”

You start to laugh but are surprised by just how dry your throat is. “Maybe. I don’t know. I would be surprised if Tara managed to keep herself sober while I was gone. She’s probably set her sights on Noor.”

“Where does that leave you?”

“I imagine they have to stop sucking each other off at some point. It’s a party… I’m sure I can keep myself occupied until she’s ready to go.”

Miron huffs. “You don’t sound so confident there.” You’re not. Parties aren’t your scene but your options are slim. “What if I just took you home?”

Your eyes snap back to her. “What?” You’re a little surprised.

Miron looks a little bashful and scratches at the back of her neck. “I mean, to be honest, I don’t really want to go back and you don’t look like you do either. We could just… get back in the Jeep. You can text Tara. I can take you home. To your dorm. Call it a night, yeah?”

You just look at her for a moment. The midnight sky is bright and washes Miron in a million shades of blue. They look so boyish in this moment, hands tucked in their pockets, earnest as they wait for an answer. Miron’s eyes are so dark, so bottomless. It would be so easy to let them swallow you whole.

This is why you can’t hate her, or any of the girls she shamelessly seduces, you think. When she looks at you like that, how can you say no?

“Alright,” you say.

As if you could have given any other answer.

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