A Date With Muffin (AMAB)

Disclaimer: NSFW. There are 2 versions of this story, for the 2 different sorts of genitalia that the reader might have. There are no pronouns used specifically for the reader, so anyone of any gender identity can read and immerse! This is the version of the story for people with AFAB (Assigned Female at Birth) genitalia. You can find the version for AMAB (Assigned Male at Birth) genitalia HERE.

Content/Kink Warnings: Impact Play (minor), Facesitting, Scissoring, Fugue State, Anal, Ass to Mouth, Kissing After Oral Sex, Strapon 

The sky is veined with radiant orange as you step through the tall, flower-dappled arch into the public park. A soft breeze and paint-splatter cloud cover temper the early summer heat; our prearranged meeting spot is caught in the brighter side of gloaming, the precipice of afternoon headed for evening as the sun has just begun to tease its descent on the harbourside horizon. 

Inviting me out like this had been, you suppose, a touch unavoidably awkward. Advertising my aromanticism and refusal to commit so brazenly as I do, it’s a rarity someone still goes out of their way to ask me on what could be called a “date”. My bewildered stare had made you flinch, and I’d had to confirm you knew I wasn’t exactly open to being courted. But that was never your intention, of course. All you’d wanted was a night for us to share, as friends, as partners, as whatever-we-were-really, but alone together, for once. 

Besides, you’d made it fairly clear it was your intention to spoil me, and that you’d already planned the whole night out ahead of time to make sure I’d have fun, so… I had figured, who would I be to turn you down? Romance is unappealing and exhausting, but dating, that can be fun. 

You finally spy me after a few minutes of searching the rather large floral park. I’m waiting for you on a small bench under shade cover, stifling a small giggle at how long it had taken you to notice me.

“Awe, did you dress up just for me?” I tease in greeting as you approach, despite clearly having done the same myself. A form-fitting green sweater dress hugs my curves tightly, accentuating my bust and hips for a starkly feminine silhouette against the setting sky once I stand up to greet you. You’ve never seen me in anything but converse or the occasional boot, and yet the cobbled-stone ground clacks beneath my scarlet stilettos on my approach. Between all that and the handbag, you suppose it might not be all that surprising you hadn’t recognized me for so long.

Our faces are dusted gold by the sun as I slip my hand into the crook of your elbow, asking just what exactly you have planned for me that you were so intent to be secretive about. You return only a sly look, and I laugh, allowing you to guide me away and out from the park into the streets.

We smell the pop-up marketplace two whole streets before we arrive, seeing an intimate downtown side street lined with pop-up vendors - local craftsmen moving their hand-made wares, multicultural street food slathered in sauce for pennies on the dime, and a small crowd of other passers-by milling about the boxwood stalls out of curiosity. You’d gotten the whole idea for this date after spying the advertisement flyer for this event in the local gazette. The Full Moon Bazaar, they were calling it - really just an excuse for the city event planners to have something to do in June, being honest, but you knew of my love for the bohemian artistic, and as my eyes lit up with glee, you patiently allowed yourself to be dragged along by the arm from then on. 

A massive Nordic woman with a boisterous voice is selling birdcall whistles she carved from balsa. A pair of obvious brothers, Saudi at a guess, but perhaps Jordanian, sell falafel with the sort of forceful charisma that makes you feel rude for saying no. A woman with hastily-applied eyeshadow and a face coated of too-light concealer peddles wood-burned coaster sets with wiccan and druidic symbols she, hazarding a safe bet, found on Pinterest. And so on, and so on. Despite you having been the one to bring me here as a surprise, it’s me who essentially treats you to a tour of the entire market, eyes sparkling with fascination at every pitch and product demonstration.

I never actually buy anything, though. You notice this and intentionally get us separated for a brief time as I go to survey a busker taking the golden opportunity to perform, just to buy me a custom wax candle: patchouli and bergamot. I’m a little taken aback when you give it to me, surprised you actually shelled out - only to indulge in a touch more teasing as I force it out of you that this candle was, in fact, twenty dollars. Such is the price of locality, though, and I ease the pain of financial impact by tracing my fingers along your jawline and pulling you in for the first gentle, grateful kiss of the night. 

Back in step with each other as we depart the bazaar, the sun is now only peeking halfway over into the west sky. You guide me to a turn down a street I recognize, and immediately, I already know where we’re going next. You aren’t looking down at me at the time, so you don’t notice my cheeks heat ever so slightly, realizing how nice it feels to know I’m with someone who really hears me when I talk.

I love this board game cafe. It’s open well into the evening, which is nice for my night-owlish manner. The staff are welcoming, the biscuits are fine, the hot chocolate is outstanding, and there’s a pride flag dangling in the window year-round. I can’t say I remember when I mentioned it to you specifically, if I did at all, but clearly you must have heard me and remembered at some point. 

I order a white hot cocoa from the stubbly-chinned man who greets us at the door, and whilst you go to order a decaf earl gray tea, I cut in and correct your order to a yerba mate. You glance at me, confused, and all it takes is a wiggle of my eyebrows to convey my meaning: I’d already decided you would need some energy later on into tonight. 

You claim our table, a nice corner booth beside a streetview window, whilst I pick out a selection of games. I have to ignore my own competitive streak and stray away from games I know I’d just trounce you in, so I just go for a classic. Cards against Humanity. Cliche, yes, a relic of a generation before ours, perhaps so, but it’s nostalgic. Besides, it was you who made the mistake of letting me pick our game, and I’d decided I wanted to see you blush.

It’s a simple bit of fun, for the first little while. The game technically isn’t made for two players, there’s nobody to be the impartial ‘czar’ on any given turn, but we just reveal each of our answers to the given prompt of the round, and see whose makes it hardest to remain quiet and respectful to the other patrons and staff. 

Eventually, our drinks arrive, and I almost make you spill yours by pointedly nudging my knee between your legs from under the table. You splutter in surprise, and I cackle to myself at your expression, withdrawing before you retaliate and we devolve into a full match of footsie which would definitely get us asked to leave. 

It comes out to a close game, but after the eleventh round of best-of-twelve, I’m the proudest I’d been all night when I triumphantly answer ‘I drink to forget ______’ with ‘Fucking my therapist’. The sigh you give as you reluctantly hand me my seventh and final victory is long-suffering, but a smile returns to your face as I ruffle my own ears, stimming with excitement in my classic, giddy way. 

Our drinks finished, we pay and return the game to the shelf. It’s well and truly nighttime as we leave - perhaps we’d sipped a little too slowly as we’d just been enjoying one another’s company. We can still hear the bazaar clamouring on, back from the way we’d come, but we turn to walk away. You confess you’d intended for the date to progress to a lovely harbourside beach stroll at this point, but the sun had set too far too fast, and you aren’t quite sure where to go from here. 

I smile, reminding you coyly that my apartment isn’t so much as a fifteen minute walk away, and after a touch of deliberation, we set off towards it. This time, rather than taking your elbow in my hands, I guide your hand by the wrist to rest softly upon the contour of my waist and hip, still accentuated nicely by the tight wrap of my dress. You blush at first, glancing over at me for confirmation, and you receive it in form of a peck on the cheek that drags just enough to the right as it leaves to allow me a cheeky, parting nibble on your ear. I cock a brow invitingly at you, laugh to myself at your funny look, and press us both onwards down the now-deserted streets. 

Halfway home, we elect to take a small detour down a one-way walking street. I’m more familiar with the neighborhood, so even though I’ve never been down this way myself, I can be fairly sure it would save us a bit of time. Despite that, though, you feel our lockstep drifting out of sync as my footsteps slow in curiosity, eventually stopping as I stare up at a tall, slate-gray building covered in what appeared to be years of graffiti. By the uniformity of the tinted black rectangle windows, the three-storey complex can be assumed to have once been an office building of some such, but the place above the door where a corporate logo would have been mounted is just weathered concrete and rusty bolts securing nothing. It’s well and truly abandoned, and as my face lights up in childlike glee at the sight of missing glass in one of the ground-level windows, you know me well enough to already tell where we’re headed next. 

You fuss over me a little as I heft myself over the sill of the vacant window, citing a few concerns about broken glass and loose nails, combined with my less-than-urbex-ideal wardrobe and shoe choice. I, though, perhaps impetuously shrug your concerns away, scooting my way into the building and glancing around contentedly at the abandoned, paint-pocked walls. You follow behind me with just a little lilted coaxing, and I’m happy to brush the dust off your rear for you after your foot catches the sill wrong and you stumble upon your entrance. 

If I were here under different circumstances, I might have made a point of it to explore every room this great old building had to offer, tracing my fingers over the lines of spraypaint, murals and tags alike. You recall I’ve always been such a proponent of things like this; people ought to make places their own more. 

You laugh off my snarky comments directed at a few of the funnier presences, of course; one entire wall of what used to be a conference room had been dedicated to a heart, with the initials “G+C” present in flowery script therein. Of course, unfortunately, either G or C had apparently at one point returned to cross a jagged line through the middle of the heart, and it’s beyond me to resist a little jab at the sight. 

It’s your turn to get a little coy, at last, then. You wonder aloud if anyone who’d tread in this building before us, leaving these tags about, had been out on a night like ours had been. You approach me from behind, wrapping your hands around my waist and resting your chin against my head, murmuring to me that you wish you’d known we’d be making this pitstop; you might have found yourself inclined to leave a little something behind to indicate our time here, as well. It elicits a laugh from me, the thought of our initials up on that wall instead seeming utterly silly to me, but I lace my fingers together with yours at my waist all the same. 

A slow, calm quiet descends between us. I leave it be undisturbed just long enough to make you think this intimacy might just be somewhat solemn, before quickly and deftly breaking that sense entirely by moving your gentle hand at my waist to my breast, squeezing your fingers onto me and glancing over my shoulder at you with a lip-biting smirk. 

Our breathing grows heavier, then. Thicker, as my free hand drifts back to tangle amidst your hair and pull us close. I roll my hips back against you, and with a giggle, I know you certainly need no further motivation to keep touching me like this. I release your hand and twirl around, pressing my body against yours face to face now. My fingers slide over your hips to catch my thumbs in your belt loops, and as our chests press together, you get the message, and slide your own hands down from my waist to give the taut flesh of my rump a gentle but firm knead. 

My mouth drops open for a light moan, an opportunity you take to slip your tongue between my lips, letting us taste each other as my eyes drift shut into the kiss. My hand drifts from your hem to your crotch as your groping intensifies, teasing and miming the motions of rubbing through your clothes, tantalizing gleefully with well-trained fingers. 

Just as your hand wraps around the hem of my dress to pull it up, and just as my fingers find the button of your pants, intent to release it, we’re both abruptly yanked free of the moment by the sound of a floorboard squeaking above us. Anxiety cleaves through your mood with a cold flash, and you quickly jerk backwards and readjust your clothing, whilst I just laugh and straighten out my dress. This late at night, such a sound is almost certainly just an old building cooling down, or perhaps at most a raccoon, but it at least reminded us that this was hardly the best place anyway. 

The cloud-cover has dispersed by the time we reemerge back out the way we went in, leaving the stars glittering down at us as we retake to the roads side-by-side. This pedestrian street is deserted, just enough so that when I notice the peaks of your erect, aroused nipples poking through your top, it’s me who takes the liberty to press them back down out of sight. Of course, not before massaging them for a few moments - I lean up and whisper in you ear with a kiss, an assurance that my apartment is just around the corner, and we carry on. 

At least in this world, the physical access point of my apartment is a contemporary mid-rise, all boxes with white walls and black trim. It’s not my favourite, but it serves its purpose for me, and one can’t be choosy with exteriors these days. The lobby is deserted, and I scan my card at the elevator to bring us up to the top floor, both of us rolling our eyes at the chintzy tropical music playing with too much gain over the crusted speaker under the button console. 

As we reach my door, you question for a moment why I’ve seemingly hung a door sign labelled “1408” under the nameplate, despite this apartment numerically being apartment 311. I just bite my tongue and giggle at my small joke, before slipping my key into the keyhole.

The entry parlour leads directly into the common space of the apartment, and I gesture for you to slip off your shoes as I doff mine. This common space, a kitchenette leading out into a small sitting area, is a bit of a hodgepodge. The cabinets are painted the colour of deep water, a bizarre combination of photographs and wall hangings adorn the walls, and there’s no two alike chairs amid the sitting area - the only thing on the central coffee table besides a lime runner and some vase-held lupins is a mess of unorganized photos and albums. April, my roommate, whilst persnickety about keeping her own room clean, is a touch less strict with herself when it comes to leaving her half-finished organization projects lying out and about. 

You ask if April’s around tonight, to which I shake my head. She’s off-world sightseeing for a new album collection, and would be for the next several days, meaning we had the night to ourselves. I accompany that comment with a tilt of my eyebrow and a curl of my lips, and as I gesture to the doorway to my own room off to the left, we waste no further time. 

My room is a large one, divided in half by a half-wall between a section nearly reminiscent of a living room in its own right, and a bed tucked between walls on three of four sides. Shelves line the walls alongside tables and stands, each and every surface covered in a clutter of baubles, odds, and ends in little particular arrangement. You realize now that the reason there was no TV in the common space’s sitting room was because there was one in here, a massive screen covering much of the wall across from a comfortable-looking gray leather couch with felt cushioning. You glance to the side to flick the light on, but it only alights the various strings of fairy lights I have strung around the room and mounted to the walls with tacks - there’s no overhead in here, and I prefer the dimmer moodiness of this sort of lighting. I twirl around the room and flick on a few lamps for just a bit more illumination, setting the candle you bought me down on a nearby shelf, before flopping down onto the couch leisurely. I ask if you want to watch something, and you simply shrug and agree. 

You’re aware my to-be-watched list of horror movies is rather long, so you just sit back and let me spin my little random-generator wheel on my phone, content to sit back and relax in my company for now as we watch whatever comes up. Tonight, it turns out, the wheel lands on 2025’s Until Dawn film, prompting a rather prematurely derisive snort from me. It doesn’t take me very long to track it down on one popup-laden website or another to download it, and as I set it aside to get ready, I ask if you’d like a drink. 

You’re about to ask what I have, thinking I’m just offering to stroll back out to the kitchen to fetch a soda or something from the fridge, but I saunter pointedly over to one of the shelves by my bed, plucking two rocks glasses from where they’re stacked beside a line of tall bottles and spirits. You can’t resist cracking a joke about me keeping alcohol within grabbing distance of where I sleep, to which I simply shoot back with a coy grin that I’m a grown woman, and I can drink whenever and however I please. In the end, you concede, just asking for something simple with whatever I have. After a few moments, the movie is finished downloading and ready, and you’re sipping on a rum and coke with your arm around my shoulders whilst I nurse a New York Sour as it begins to play. 

For the first while, you’re rather expecting the movie session to naturally transform into the classic sort of “Netflix and chill”, as it were, every five minutes or so making some further advancement on me so as to spark the mood. I never turn you down, of course, completely content to set my rear between your legs and let you knead my boobs gingerly, but it likely surprises you how focused I am on the movie. Or, well, at least, focused on commenting on exactly how terrible the movie is. 

I break out in giggles at every little piece of stilted dialogue, break out in cursing and dramatic hand-waving whenever a plot point comes out nonsensical, or whenever the movie bastardizes its own source material in a way too outright insulting to ignore. It’s just as I’m commenting how the characters’ wardrobes feel like a 55-year-old’s conception of how Gen-Z dresses that you finally ask me if we should just turn the movie off, only to receive the most bizarre look from me in response. I smile at your confusion, explaining that even with the worst movies like this, I still find immense joy in watching them - especially with as feast-or-famine a genre as horror, you don’t get very far as a self-proclaimed genre enthusiast without the ability to thoroughly enjoy the experience of watching a truthfully dogshit film. Reassured, you settle back down, peppering my neck with a few calming kisses whenever I get too rowdy, and even joining me in mocking the ridiculousness of the characters and writing at a few points, which I reward by pressing myself back into you more firmly. 

The movie ends at last, and we’re left before a black screen with empty glasses, the buzzing lightness of the alcohol in our heads, and barely an inch of space between us. I twist around so that I’m lying on my stomach against you, my breasts pressing against yours as I nudge our foreheads together in wantful silence. It’s you again who makes the final push to press our lips together, with my mouth soon happily drifting open in desperation to taste you once again. Your hands glide down my sides as mine drift up to lock behind your neck, and we stay there in wistful liplock for minutes on end. 

It’s only as your hands curl around the hem of my dress once more that I break the kiss, promptly hopping up from the couch in a quickness that leaves you practically gasping at the air from my sudden, unexpected departure. You cast me an exasperated look as your cunt throbs in your pants in unsatisfied desperation, and I just giggle and promise you that I have a better idea. 

You boost yourself up into a sitting position as I saunter over to the radio on the shelf by my bed, making sure to sway my hips a little exaggeratedly for you to see as I move. I select a mixtape from a stack to the side, cassettes still being a bit of a retro fascination of mine, and I slide it into the player where the spools begin to wind. The radio sputters to life as I take you by the hand, hoisting you up from the couch and guiding you over to my bed, where a soft nudge to your shoulders bids you to sit down on the edge before me. 

It’s as the radio begins playing my chosen mixtape, a collection of smooth, desirous disco R&B, that you finally catch on to my intention. Still standing before you, fingertips drifting lightly over your shoulders and biceps as I pull back again, my hips sway flirtily side to side to the rhythm. You attempt to reach for my hips, but I pull back and cheekily advise you of this particular “club’s” ruling against touching the dancers, to which you roll your eyes and sit back to watch. It isn’t long, of course, before the first bouncy chorus of the first song hits, and I immediately begin going against that very same protocol. 

My dress outlines and accentuates the contours of my ass beautifully as I bounce and roll it back against you, gyrating and twerking back at you in time with the beats and rhythms of the smooth, tonal music. After the first song completes, I reach back and pull up the hem of my dress over my hips, revealing to you at last my choice of panties for the night: a thin, lacy lavender thong that nestles between my cheeks that still grind and buck against you, lascivious and tempting enough that you feel yourself begin to drool. 

Fed up at last with waiting, and more than a little tired of all my teasing and leading-on all night, you at last heed the impulse to roughen things a bit - I let out a yelp of surprise and glee as your hand strikes my ass, leaving behind an ephemeral imprint of it in red along with a brisk sting that spikes my arousal to the point that even I’m through with my own teasing. My grinding against you slows and I lean back, gesturing with arousal-shaking fingers for you to unzip my dress at the back, an order which you quickly obey, allowing me to slip my arms free of the shoulderless sleeves and stand up to let it fall away. 

My bra matches my panties, a lacy purple underwire for support and visual appeal beneath the form-fitting dress. It’s only the underwear and thighhighs that I yet wear before you, but at this point, I’m quite eager to take come clothes off of you before we finish stripping me. 

My thin fingers make quick work of the button and fly of your jeans, tugging them down and free of your legs, before tossing them nonchalantly to the side. The growing wet stain of need on your underwear is revealed, and you can practically see the hearts dancing in my eyes as I press my face against it, salivating and breathing in your scent. I damn near reverently curl my fingers over your waistband and begin to tug downwards, inch by inch, marvelling at your gorgeous, slick folds that are slowly revealed to me, my tongue lapping out to lick my lips in anticipation at the sight. 

You shaved for me, I comment offhandedly, to which you simply offer a shaky nod, anticipation robbing us both of our composure. With a glance up to meet your eye, and a gleeful smile that lets my drool-coated tongue slip free from my lips, I let my eyes drift shut and dive between your legs at last. 

My nose nudges fervidly against your clit as my lips dive into your delectably slick cunt, caressing the flesh and folds with my tongue as my eyes roll back in my head with lust. My fingers are soon to join in, slipping inside of you in a pair and beginning to pump away, each movement and twitch within you sending slight shocks of pleasure through your abdomen that I’m gleeful to feel on my tongue. I reestablish our lustful eye contact and slowly drag my tongue all the way up your slit, allowing beads of my own drool to drip down onto your pussy and mingle with your juices.

My tongue swirls around your clit as you arch your back for me, my well-practiced technique now sending waves of euphoria up through your muscles and shivering down your legs. My hands pry your legs apart as I hum in satisfaction against your heat, each little whimper and grunt of need I elicit from you only serving to egg me on. My tongue delves further within you now, all but fucking you with it really, and I roll your clit with the ball of my thumb, keeping a careful eye out for the signs of your closeness. I can feel your pussy pulsing with desperate proximity against my lips, and just as your face scrunches up in preparation…

…I pull away. My smile is mischievous and gleeful as you groan with confusion and ache, your now-spit-slathered crotch still aching and desperate in the chill air. I resist my own urge to let you finish, the impulse to be naughty overtaking the impulse to see you cum just yet. I cheekily wipe away the several strands of saliva that still connect my face to your pussy, before pushing you down onto your back by the shoulders and clambering up atop you. You’ll have to earn it, I inform you, and you’re quick to catch the message. 

As I twirl around atop you, my legs straddling your head and my hands steadying me by groping at your chest, my slickened panties hang mere inches in the air above your mouth, and you can already taste the scent of my heat. Eagerly, you tug my panties aside, and I shift myself to assist you in slipping them off. As I’m removing my own bra above you, a bit thankful to finally be rid of the underwire, you’re about to simply dig in when a glimmer of metallic steel and emerald green above you catches your eye. The head of a plug, heart-shaped and inlaid with green crystal, pokes naughtily out of my ass. I laugh at your clear awe and wiggle my hips for emphasis above you, letting you see how snugly it’s stretching me. You ask me if I’ve been wearing that plug all night, and I cheekily remind you how much I pointedly avoided eating anything solid at either the bazaar or cafe. I’d done all my pregaming for tonight before even setting foot outside to meet you; we were always going to end up here, and I’d wanted to be ready to offer you everything I could. 

Impatience finally wins you over, and you reach up to pull my hips down towards you, the lips of my glisteningly-slick pussy kissing you softly before you hungrily delve your tongue into my folds. My sighs and slow moans of pleasure are all the motivation you need, and as you grope and pry apart my asscheeks for better access, I grind myself down harder atop you, both of us ever-so-momentarily forgetting your need for air as your mind fills with my scent and flavour. It’s full-bodied, with the tell-tale hints of sweetness and salt that come from arousal. If you close your eyes, you could almost imagine you’re tasting salted caramel, albeit of a sort you’ve never had, and that alongside the pulsing you can feel through my abdomen with each twitch and twist of your tongue only motivates you to proceed with ever-increasing care. 

I can feel my first climax of the night nearing as my legs begin to twitch around your head, my grip on your chest growing unsteady. I end up needing to lean down farther to bunch up the covers in my fists as I let out a long groan of pleasure, but such a motion only brings my face once again close to your pulsing, still-wet pussy. The sheer inertia of my arousal taking the lead, I keep my hips planted atop you as firmly as I can whilst craning my neck to lap up as many of the fresh fluids as I can, suckling and nursing your clit with my tongue as you finally drag me over my limit. 

My moans are muffled against you as I climax, my hips bucking against your lips as a new deluge of my fluids coat your face and tongue. The convulsions rip through my legs and belly mercilessly, and in the end, close as I had left you, it’s the vibrations of my cum-clouded moaning that puts you over the edge as well. Our hips roll together, each of us bucking and writhing against each other as we briefly lose ourselves in the sensation and flavour, bodies caught together in heated reverence that we’re loath to depart from. As the brief mania of our shared orgasm winds down, I dismount your face at last, leaving you gasping for air with your face slickened and coated with me. You glance down at last, catching me lapping up a few stray drops of your flavour that I missed, before sultrily dragging my tongue up the entire length of your abdomen, sliding across your navel and belly button with my eyes sparkling with glee. 

The sight of my drooling face stokes a fire in you, one I quickly recognize on your face and espouse a soft purr of excitement at the sight of. Your shirt has been ruined, essentially, with dribblings of my juices rolling down your chin having completely soaked it through, you quickly finish stripping yourself down to nothing. My thighhighs, which we both know stay on, are the only clothing between our bodies now, of course not counting the sparkling plug still nestled inside me, and a few jewelry pieces we know sex is improved by if left on. 

Wordlessly, you pat the bed beside you with an urgent glare in your eyes, and I’m quick to respond, scampering up to you and laying myself out for you, arching my back and running my hands down my body for you to regard with delicious intent. You still need a few moments to yourself to get ready for another full round, but that doesn’t mean you can’t put this teasing little bitch in her place in the meantime, of course. 

Without warning, you reach down and plunge two fingers deep inside me, squirming them about and taking to massaging my clit with the ball of your thumb. I yelp in surprise at the sudden stimulation at my still-sensitive post-orgasm pussy, but it quickly turns into a moan as my hips lurch up on their own, eager to take the fingers deeper, letting them hit all the right spots. I reach up to pull you closer, and you plunge your tongue between my lips, claiming territory now rather than just enjoying the taste. We can still taste our own remnants on the other’s tongues, and our flavours commingle for a beautiful moment as our tongues drag and snake together.

The small whine I let out as you break off the kiss is quickly dragged into a cry of surprise as your teeth gently sink into the flesh of my neck; hard enough to mark, but not break skin, just the way you know I can’t resist it. My nails drag down your back as you bite and suckle your way down my neck, collar, and clavicle, your fingers pumping in and out of me and making me impatient and slick once again with need. 

In the end, this time, it’s you who makes me beg, once the slight cramps of your orgasm have soothed themselves away enough for the next round. My legs drift apart as your fingers slither out of me, and it’s with sex-drunk haze clouding my mind and a desperate sigh in my voice that I beg to feel you against me. You smirk, grabbing the backside of one of my knees to lift my flexible leg high and away, allowing yourself ample room to sidle up and let your pussy press up against mine. You nudge around a bit to experiment with the angle, each intentional grind of your clit against mine making me whimper impatiently, before at last you firm up your stance, confirm with me that I’m warmed up enough to take all you have, and begin to roll against me.

Your hips slap wetly against my elevated thigh as you buck and grind our cunts together, and I let out a long groan at the delectable sensation of our lower lips kissing each other. The music of my dance, previously forgotten but never actually turned off, returns then to your ears: it’s turned onto some sensual salsa beat now. You smile, grateful for the energetic tempo to set yourself to, and you lean down to press our foreheads together as you start to take me in full earnest. 

My thighs slap against your hips like a drumbeat as you move, my hot breath puffing up into your face alongside whimpers that might have been intended as words, but got lost in the translation of overwhelming sensation. My boobs heave and bounce with every thrust, and with a devilish glint in your eye, you lean down to clasp your lips around one of my perky nipples. My second orgasm, much more abrupt than the first, tears through my abdomen as your tongue drags across the sensitive nub of flesh, and I all but cry out in glee. My fingers tangle in your hair as my legs involuntarily lock around your hips, keeping you hilted within me at your deepest as I ride the orgasm out against you, making you groan and pant around my nipple as it practically feels as though I’m trying to drag you into myself. 

No words need to be exchanged between us this time as my legs finally relax enough to let you slide off of me, which is convenient, seeing as my ability to form complete senses seems to be momentarily malfunctioning. All you need to is catch my eye and glower, making a circular motion with your finger, and my fuck-addled head obeys the unspoken command without hesitation. I roll over onto my stomach, arching my back and spreading my knees beneath myself to give you a full view of my rear high in the air.

For but a moment, I think you’re about to reposition yourself beneath me, and as the seconds drag on without feeling your sex-heat against my skin again, my impatience builds, and I glance back towards you curiously. You’ve slid off the bed and are rifling through the top drawer of my bed-foot chest, where you know I keep my toys and such. As a glimmer of glee alights in your eye, and you extract a few choice items, I know precisely what your plan from here is, and I dutifully whine with anticipation as I spread my cheeks wide for your convenience. There’s only so many things one could have planned with a massive bottle of water-based lubricant, a black-strapped garter set, and a rather impressive pink silicon cock.

The buttplug, still green and glittery even beneath the sheen of my fluids coating it, pulls free of my ass with a slick wet pop. It’s a thick thing, four inches in diameter at the widest point; I’d picked it out of my collection this morning in the hopes of being ready for exactly this moment. As it leaves me, stretching my pretty pink hole as it goes, I give a long low moan at the sudden feeling of gaping emptiness. You take advantage of it by reaching forward, plug in hand, surprising me by planting the body temperature steel against my tongue. Catching on quickly, I dutifully pop the plug into my mouth like a sucker, and you aren’t intent on leaving my now-open ass empty for very long. 

The cool splash of the lubricant you pour into me elicits a yelp, muffled by the plug which I let drop free from my lips then, and I whimper with anticipation once again as you slather your dildo with the same. Staying plugged has its benefits; there’s no need for exhaustive warmup before anal, and as you nestle the head against the rim of my ass, I can tell by the grin on your face that you appreciate the gesture just as much as I’m about to appreciate you. You hastily strap the dildo onto yourself, laughing lightly at the sight of it now nestled between your legs and resting on the lip of my readily-presented ass. 

My ass practically devours the dildo with a wetted sliding sound, your entrance aided by the glut of lube. My teeth involuntarily clamp around a bunched up section of blanket beneath me, though you quickly pull me free of it by grabbing a handful of my hair and tugging back for support as you begin to fuck me. Each slap of your hips against my ass sends a jolted cry of pleasure free from my lungs, my eyes rolling back in my head dumbly at the sensation of the bizarre, urgent, feral pressure that a good anal reaming always brings. You make certain I’m utterly helpless beneath you, keeping myself upright the utter extent of what I can do as you claim me for your own for the night, and your free hand makes sure to leave a few imprints on my taut, bouncing cheeks for a little extra sting to help me remember that. 

At last, you can feel your second orgasm of the night welling up in your belly, the base of the dildo you fucked me with grinding beautifully against your cunt with every harsh thrust into me you delivered. You manage to hold out just long enough to feel yet another climax hit me, my hips now moving on their own to slap back against you in rhythm with your thrusts. It’s the sight of my used pussy dripping a gush of my fluids down my thighs and ruining my bedclothes that finally sends you over the peak, and you hilt yourself fully in my ass to let us ride out our orgasms together. I let out a final, prolonged cry of glee at the feeling of the dildo stretching me so intensely and deeply the pair of us locked in place as we convulse, lost in the feeling of each other for a long moment of fuck-hazed warmth. 

Finally, you return to your senses enough to slide your lube-slickened dildo free of my well-stretched ass, which promptly begins convulsing in your absence and leaking your lube down my thighs. I weakly wave my plug towards you, and you catch on, taking it and making sure to seal me back up; I’m intent on keeping that delicious stretched feeling at least for the rest of the night, and you’re certainly of no mind to stop me. 

The pair of us at last collapse, exhausted and chests heaving, side by side atop the sex-dirtied blankets, which I sigh and kick aside nonchalantly. I sidle up directly beside you and making quick work of the straps securing the dildo against your hips. With a twinkle in my eye, I bring the head of the dildo to my lips and kiss it softly, tantalizing myself with the taste, before treating you to a show of me fellating it, eagerly suckling and lapping up my own well-fucked flavour free of the silicon. We share a glance as I polish it off, and you laugh at my unique eccentric sense of depravity, a laugh that I can’t help but join in. 

As the haze between us settles down into an exhausted, heavy sweat, your head hits the pillow as fatigue begins to take you, your muscles needing rest and eager to slip into slumber soon. I join you, crawling up to press my back against your chest, curling my legs up as you wrap your arm around my stomach and pepper the back of my head with warm, tired kisses. A goofy, adoring smile is the last thing you remember us sharing before you drift off to sleep, the sight of my body well-fucked, glowing, and covered in your marks trailing on from the conscious world and into your dreams. 

It’s when you awake the next morning to the sounds of fervid slurping, and the sight of my eager face nuzzled deep between your legs once again, hearts and stars practically bursting in my eyes as I sup on your flavour,, that you at last first ponder what sort of mistake you may have made. 

-END-

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