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sluttynfemme · 1 month

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𝗖𝗔𝗟𝗟 𝗠𝗘 𝗛𝗢𝗧, 𝗡𝗢𝗧 𝗣𝗥𝗘𝗧𝗧𝗬

playboy butch x overachiever femme (pov)

You and Miron have an unspoken arrangement for Thursday nights.

Word count -> 5.9k

Contains: praise kink, derogatory praise, fingering, some light masturbation, strap-ons, slight dom/sub, stone butch/pillow princess, femme receiving all, substance use (marijuana), slight overstimulation, butch is called ‘Sir’

DO NOT INTERACT:

MEN, TERFs, ZIONISTS, and MINORS

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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