Belovagirl

Maria exchanged a glance with Y/n, weighing the invitation. “We’d be delighted,” she replied, her tone as firm as if she were in a boardroom—but with a glint in her blue eyes that betrayed her own curiosity.

Each couple returned to their golf cart – Maria and Y/n to theirs, pearly white and luxurious, while Natasha and Wanda climbed into theirs, a sleek black model that matched the redhead’s aura. As they drove along the winding paths of the club, the warm wind tousled Y/n’s hair. Maria followed Natasha Romanoff and Wanda Maximoff’s cart, since she still didn’t know the best way to the bar.

On the way, Maria thought about how proud she was of her girl. But she knew that Y/n sometimes had a sharp tongue. She was usually a sweet girl, but liked to rebel just tease. And Maria, in these two months of their relationship, already knew every little piece of her. So she felt it was her duty, and her right, to ask Y/n to behave. She turned to the younger woman, glancing at her briefly, her hand sliding up the exposed thigh under the skirt, squeezing lightly in a warning gesture, but never taking her eyes off the road.

“Behave, please. Be polite. I know you’re excited because you won the match, but behave yourself and watch that mouth of yours, baby girl,” Maria ordered, her voice low and husky, loaded with authority that made the younger one shiver all over.

Y/n grinned mischievously, her eyes flashing with that sly rebellion that always tested Maria’s limits. “I always behave, daddy….” she retorted, using the nickname they only used in bed, just to tease, leaning in for a quick kiss on Maria’s cheek. Maria only shook her head in denial.

“Not always, baby. But today, you will.” The tone was a promise of many consequences, and not good ones. Maria was someone who cared about appearances in general, about her reputation. She was a cordial person. She had always been like that. But since her company had grown, this mattered more than ever.

And these women, whom Maria didn’t know yet, were people from the elite, just like her. They were women who, if they had access to this club, it meant they had a certain prestige. And despite loving her girlfriend’s rebellious side, even if she would never admit it out loud, she genuinely hoped Y/n would behave. Especially because Maria was helping Y/n find her own path, and eventually make a name for herself as an athlete. So yes, in these moments reputation counted a lot. That’s why her request was serious.

Y/n nodded, already knowing her girlfriend. Even though they had only known each other for 2 months, Y/n already knew many of Maria’s quirks. And one of those quirks was control, and yes, Maria cared about appearances. Not in a shallow way, but she liked her name to be well spoken and well remembered. Y/n was indeed very excited for winning this match, she knew she was good at what she did, and getting the chance to train at this club was the opportunity of her life, all thanks to Maria. So yes, she would make a bit of an effort. A bit…

The bar at Empire Greens was a sanctuary of discreet luxury: polished mahogany walls, soft leather sofas in exclusive alcoves, and a marble counter where bartenders in impeccable uniforms mixed cocktails with the precision of alchemists. It was the kind of bar that lived up to the club’s reputation. Maria hadn’t yet had the chance to see it in person. She had only seen photos online, and she liked what she saw.

The four chose a secluded table in the corner, with a view of the greens in the distance, the sun filtering through the tall windows and casting shadows that danced across their silhouettes.

Natasha was still trying to understand who that creature was who had beaten her, with her deceptive sweetness and flawless swings, a mix of innocence and fire that left her restless, her body responding with an involuntary attraction she attributed to competition. And competence. Natasha didn’t like mediocre or average people, and this girl had definitely caught her by surprise. Several people at that club had challenged her before, and rarely had anyone beaten her.

Natasha was a person of consistency. She trained since she was little. She trained as if it were for the Olympics, trained with seriousness. She started her training at 12. She was adopted by a wealthy American couple at 10, while still living in Russia. She had to move countries at 10, to a new place, with a new culture, a new language, which, despite her intelligence, she struggled to adapt to. She claimed her perhaps slightly obsessive dedication came from her Russian roots.

But even with all her intense dedication since she was 12, she never fully committed to golf. She never pursued the path of becoming a professional athlete, even with all the tools and money. She chose another path, dedicating herself to studying law and building her law firm, specializing in international and corporate law. It made her feel good to win cases that many considered impossible.

Wanda, more intuitive, felt the tension in the air, as if she were reading their minds, especially her wife’s, and smiled inwardly, knowing that Natasha hated losing but was genuinely curious about this British girl. Natasha wasn’t easily impressed, which often made her, not out of malice, treat others with a certain indifference. But this time she was too curious to show indifference. And Wanda, being a psychologist, could read Natasha too well. More than Natasha liked, often.

A waiter approached, young and efficient, with a menu of craft drinks and handed it to them. “Good afternoon, ladies. What would you like?”

Natasha didn’t even bother to read the menu, she already knew what she wanted. But Maria took the chance to take a look at the menu and see if the bar had a variety of drinks.

After a quick glance, Maria, without hesitation, chose for Y/n first.

“A light gin and tonic for her, nothing too strong, please.”

The gesture was subtle but loaded with authority, and it earned curious looks from Natasha and Wanda. Natasha raised an eyebrow in an amused, sarcastic way at Maria’s imposition, intrigued by the dynamic – who was Maria to decide like that? Even intrigued, Natasha already suspected what it was about. Definitely not something unusual in this world of money and luxury.

Wanda, with her analytical mind, noticed the subtle blush on Y/n’s cheeks, the way she lowered her eyes in submission, and felt a spark of personal interest. Surely, it wasn’t just Natasha who was intrigued. Wanda was too. These two newcomers at the club were definitely curious people. People Wanda was genuinely interested in getting to know better.

They ordered: Natasha a straight whiskey, Wanda a full-bodied red wine, and Maria a dry martini.

When the drinks arrived, the ice clinking in the glasses like a prelude to deeper conversations, Natasha couldn’t hold back any longer. She took a large sip of her whiskey and leaned forward, her eyes fixed on Y/n with predatory intensity. “Who exactly are you?” she asked, her tone husky and direct, as if she were interrogating a witness in court.

Y/n took a sip of her gin and tonic, as if she had already been expecting this question to come up at some point, feeling the freshness slide down her throat, and answered with a confident smile. “I’m a golf athlete. I started my career in London, where I used to live – you must’ve noticed from my lovely accent.” She paused, seeking the gaze of these two strangers, and Wanda smiled – indeed, the British accent had a certain charm.“And I moved here four months ago. I study chemistry at Columbia, scholarship, thanks to my performance in sports.” She paused, her fingers tracing the rim of the glass, aware of the eyes on her, especially Maria’s, who watched with possessive pride. But with a subtle look of warning, the kind that said don’t get too carried away showing off.

Natasha scoffed, leaning back hard in her chair and taking another sip of whiskey that burned her throat. “Athlete? I don’t know you. And I know everyone in this world.”

Y/n chuckled softly, the sound sweet but defiant. “Well, I started my career late, at 18. But I have some sponsors, equipment brands that believe in me. I’m not famous yet, but I’m getting there.”

There was a vulnerability there, mixed with determination, and Natasha felt her anger transform into genuine intrigue, imagining what it would be like to tame that rebelliousness on the course… or off it.

Wanda and Natasha turned to Maria, curious about the woman who seemed to command Y/n so effortlessly.

“And you, Maria? What do you do for a living?” Wanda asked, her piercing green eyes on her.

Maria smiled, crossing her legs elegantly. “I’m an executive director at a cybersecurity consulting firm. Wall Street, corporate clients, the kind of work that keeps things safe and… controlled.” She returned the question, her tone professional but inquisitive: “And what about you two?”

Natasha answered first, the whiskey easing her tension. “Lawyer. Specializing in International and Corporate Law. I have a firm, you’ve probably heard of it, it’s called Romanoff & Associates.” Natasha finished the sentence with pride. She knew her firm had a name, and had prestige.

“Yes, indeed, I’ve heard of it. Your last name caught my attention, but I hadn’t made the connection with the firm.” Maria responded politely. But it was true, she really had heard of it. It was one of the best firms in the city. Meanwhile, Y/n watched the women’s interaction. It was in these moments that she truly felt out of place in this world, this world of networking and money. Because she had no clue about Natasha’s firm. But if Maria knew it, it was because it was really well-known and important.

Wanda added: “I’m a clinical psychologist for executives and celebrities. I help people navigate their… inner complexities.” Y/n made a shocked, surprised face. Celebrities. Fancy. But as a good Gen Z girl, she couldn’t resist her curiosity.

“That’s so cool, like who do you work with? Like Taylor Swift? Sabrina Carpenter? Olivia Rodrigo? Or better, like Lady Gaga?!” Y/n asked with genuine excitement. It seemed surreal to treat celebrities and know all their life secrets. Maria couldn’t hold back her embarrassment and took a big sip of her drink, even if she thought it was cute. Wanda gave a genuine, elegant laugh.

“I see famous people you definitely know, but for ethical reasons I can’t tell you names.” Wanda replied, and Y/n pouted sulkily. But yes, she understood.

Wanda, with an encouraging smile, shifted the focus to what really mattered. “You know, the club has several golf competitions, lots of them, from casual tournaments to high-level events. And Natasha even sponsors some. She loves investing in promising talents.”

The younger girl’s eyes lit up again, her body leaning forward with genuine youthful excitement, forgetting for a moment Maria’s request that she behave. “I want to participate! Oh my God, that would be amazing, competing here, with you guys… I live for golf.” Her voice trembled slightly with desire, not only for the sport but for the possibility of more challenges, more victories, more looks like Natasha’s and Wanda’s on her.

Maria touched her hand under the table, a subtle squeeze of approval and pride, and a reminder that any participation would first come with much discussion. But that she would definitely support and encourage her girl.

Natasha, still intrigued, made a point of emphasizing: “The competitions I usually sponsor are big, and important. With people who often trained since they were in diapers…”

Natasha took a sip of her whiskey, the amber liquid swirling in the glass as her green eyes fixed on Y/n, still digesting the unexpected defeat on the course. And Y/n stared back. It was clear Natasha still doubted her potential. Especially now that she knew Y/n had started training late. Natasha must have thought Y/n beat her by beginner’s luck.

The redhead leaned forward, her athletic body tense under the black polo, like a predator analyzing its prey. “So, Y/n…” she began, her Russian accent giving a cutting tone to her husky voice, “do you have a coach? An athlete like you, winning at Empire Greens, must have someone shaping that… raw talent.”

Y/n sensed the challenging tone, she wasn’t naïve nor dumb, but replied with a sweet smile, her British accent softening her comeback. “I don’t have a fixed coach, no,” she admitted, spinning her gin and tonic glass between her fingers. “I train with several people, some volunteers at Columbia, fellow athletes who help me with drills. And, well…” She hesitated, shooting a quick glance at Maria, who watched her intently. “I pay some coaches when I can.”

In fact, it was Maria who financed those sessions, a detail she omitted, knowing that Maria preferred discretion about their arrangements.

Natasha scoffed, leaning back in her chair again, crossing her legs with a half-sarcastic smile. “An ‘athlete’ without a fixed coach? Interesting.”

The tone was almost disdainful, as if she were questioning Y/n’s legitimacy, a 24-year-old girl who dared to beat her on her own turf.

Wanda, always the intuitive mediator, gently touched Natasha’s arm, a gesture that calmed the redhead but also reinforced their partnership. “Darling…” she reprimanded softly, her Eastern European accent wrapping the word like a caress. “No need to be so harsh. Y/n clearly knows what she’s doing.” Her eyes met the younger girl’s, a sparkle of empathy mixed with something deeper, as if she were probing into the girl’s hidden desires.

Y/n straightened up, feeling the need to assert herself. “I manage just fine on my own,” she said, her tone firm but with a touch of playfulness that betrayed her youth. “I beat you today, didn’t I?”

The words slipped out with a hint of rebellion, a challenge that made Natasha narrow her eyes, her face flushing slightly with a mix of anger and intrigue.

Maria, who had been silently watching until then, squeezed Y/n’s thigh hard enough to make the girl shrink into her chair, a shiver running up her spine.

“Y/n…” Maria said, her tone low and loaded with authority, a deadly look cutting through her. “Watch your tone.” It was a clear warning, a reminder that, even in public, Y/n answered to her. And that Y/n was not to start trouble with one of New York’s best lawyers.

The girl lowered her eyes, her cheeks flushing, her body responding to the command with a mix of shame and excitement. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, almost inaudible, only for Maria to hear, but enough to satisfy her girlfriend.

Wanda, noticing the dynamic, leaned forward, adjusting her hair that was falling over her shoulders as she took a sip of her red wine. “So, you’re looking for a coach then?” she asked, addressing Maria with a tone mixing curiosity and offer. “Natasha knows several excellent ones, wonderful teachers who could help Y/n shine even more. Isn’t that right, darling?”

Natasha shot Wanda a deadly look, clearly annoyed at the idea of sharing her connections with the girl who had just defeated her. “Seriously, Wanda?” she muttered, but her wife only smiled, unbothered, knowing exactly how to push the right buttons. But she also knew how to shoot Natasha an assertive look that made it clear she wasn’t to disobey her in front of others. Wanda wasn’t shaken by her wife’s bad mood.

Wanda continued, ignoring Natasha’s resistance. “Even Natasha could give her some lessons. She’s the best in the club, after all, or was, until today.” The comment was light but sharp, and Y/n couldn’t hold back a giggle, quickly covering her mouth. But she was amused that, in a way, Natasha’s wife seemed to be on her side.

“I was the one who won this match,” Y/n said softly, her tone teasing, softened by a cheeky smile. The comment, however, drew another deadly look from Maria, who now held her martini with dangerous calm.

Y/n shrank again, feeling the weight of Maria’s dominance even in public, her body reacting with a familiar heat that made her press her thighs together under the table.

Maria, regaining control of the conversation, addressed Wanda and Natasha with a professional smile. “We know she needs a fixed coach, that was one of the reasons we joined the club. We’re reviewing resumes, we want the best. I would be very grateful if you had suggestions.”

Wanda nodded, delighted at the chance to connect the four of them. “Natasha, darling, what’s the name of that coach we really like? The one who works with modern precision techniques? She’d be excellent for Y/n.” Her voice was sweet, but there was a touch of subtle manipulation, as if she were orchestrating something bigger. And also challenging Natasha to try to disobey her.

Natasha sighed, clearly reluctant, but gave in under Wanda’s insistent gaze. “Diana Kessler,” she muttered, the name leaving her lips as if it hurt. “She’s one of the best. Has experience with Olympic athletes, focuses on mental control and swing mechanics.” She took another sip of whiskey, as if trying to swallow her frustration.

Maria grabbed her phone, noting the name with executive efficiency. “Diana Kessler. I’ll get in touch with her. Thank you, Natasha, Wanda.” Her tone was genuine, but firm, reaffirming her position as the leader at that moment. She cast a look at Y/n, who remained quiet, knowing that any sharp comment now could lead to a “conversation” later – perhaps face down across Maria’s lap, getting spanked, and begging for relief that she knew would hardly come.

Maria finished her martini and set the glass down on the table, a gesture that signaled the end of the meeting. “Well, it’s time to wrap things up here,” she said, glancing at Y/n. “You have a night class at college today, honey. We can’t be late.”

Y/n rolled her eyes, an almost unconscious childish gesture that did not escape Maria’s notice. “Seriously, Maria? Quantum chemistry at seven at night…,” she muttered, her whiny tone laced with a hint of rebellion. Maria didn’t reply, but the look she gave was enough to make her straighten in her chair, the blush returning to her cheeks.

Wanda, ever observant, leaned in with interest. “Tell me more about your course, Y/n. Columbia isn’t for just anyone…”

Y/n smiled, proud despite the tension. “Well, I’m majoring in Chemistry, with a focus on organic. I’m really good at it, you know? I got the scholarship at Columbia because of that—and because of golf, of course.” There was genuine confidence there, a spark that made Wanda smile and Natasha raise an eyebrow, as if reassessing the girl in front of them.

“Impressive,” Wanda said, genuinely intrigued. “Athlete and scientist. You’re full of surprises.”

The four of them stood, said their goodbyes, the empty glasses leaving behind a trail of unspoken promises. As they walked toward the golf carts, Maria took Y/n’s hand, squeezing it firmly. “You did well today,” she whispered, her tone heavy with approval, yet carrying an implicit warning. “But that sharp tongue of yours… we’ll talk about it at home.”

The younger woman swallowed hard, her body buzzing with anticipation of what was to come, while Natasha and Wanda watched from a distance, the couple exchanging a look that suggested Y/n had just stepped into a game much bigger than golf.

Y/n stepped out of the Columbia University classroom with the late afternoon New York sun warming her face, a welcome contrast to the icy air-conditioning that had turned the organic chemistry lecture into a marathon of formulas and reactions that seemed to dance in her mind like stray golf balls.

At twenty-four, she still felt like an intruder on that imposing campus, with its gothic towers and immaculate lawns that screamed “American elite.” Four months in the United States, and her soft British accent still betrayed her in every conversation, making her sound like a lost tourist among the city’s fast-paced New Yorkers. But there, between books and laboratories, she anchored herself in the dream—a scholarship earned not only through her sharp mind but also through the golf club that had made her a sensation in London.

Her day had been exhausting. She’d woken at six a.m. in her modest Manhattan apartment, partly funded by golf sponsors and, more generously, by Maria—her lover, her domme, her anchor in this chaotic city. After a quick coffee, she’d rushed to the subway, arriving at Columbia just in time for the first class. Quantum chemistry in the morning, followed by a lab session where she handled compounds that smelled of pharmaceutical promise.

She’d eaten a hurried sandwich in the campus cafeteria, downed an entire energy drink, and exchanged messages with Maria: “Miss you, sweetie. How’s your day?” — followed by the inevitable reply, always with that subtle commanding tone: “Behave, baby girl. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Now, with her heavy backpack slung over her shoulders—stuffed with books and a foldable golf club she insisted on carrying for impromptu practice—Y/n headed toward the campus practice range. It was a modest patch of grass, nothing compared to the luxurious greens she dreamed of, but enough to sharpen her swing. Golf was her life—her rebellion made flesh, the sport that had freed her from London’s monotony and brought her here. An opportunity she’d never dared dream possible. She had thought she’d live in London for the rest of her life.

She lived for it: the sound of the club slicing through the air, the ball flying true, the constant challenge to push past her own limits. But lately, that fire had been shared with Maria, who had introduced her to a deeper world of desire, where submission and pleasure intertwined like invisible ropes.

As she crossed the grass, adjusting her cap to block the sun, her phone buzzed. Maria: “I’m in the parking lot. Come now.” A familiar shiver ran through her—a mix of excitement and obedience. She wanted to practice—or rather, she needed to—her body craved the release of endorphins that made her feel invincible. But Maria… oh, Maria had that way of commanding without raising her voice, of making Y/n’s body respond before her mind even processed the words.

They’d been dating for two months, and in that time Maria had become the undisputed dominant—deciding schedules, outfits, even the limits of their pleasure. Y/n, sweet and spoiled, loved to test boundaries, but deep down she surrendered to the control that made her feel safe, desired. And Maria had become so much more than a domme—she was a companion in a foreign land. Y/n had arrived in the U.S. alone, still struggling to adapt far from family and in a completely new culture. For the first two months, she’d felt achingly lonely. Until she met Maria, who turned her world upside down—in the best possible way.

She hesitated, looking at the empty range. “Just one quick swing,” she thought—then the phone buzzed again: “Don’t make me wait, baby.” With a resigned sigh, she turned toward the parking lot.

Maria was there, leaning against her sleek black Audi, arms crossed over the tailored suit that accentuated her lean, authoritative frame. At forty, Maria Hill was the embodiment of power: CEO of a cybersecurity firm, wealthy enough to quietly spoil Y/n like a discreet sugar mommy, covering rent, clothes, and indulgences golf prize money could never reach.

“Hi, love,” Y/n said with a shy smile, her British accent wrapping around the words like a caress. She leaned in for a kiss, but Maria caught her chin, guiding the movement firmly. The kiss was possessive—tongue invading, teeth grazing her lower lips, sending waves of heat through Y/n’s body.

“You took your time,” Maria murmured against her mouth, voice low and husky, dripping with dominance that made Y/n’s knees weaken. “Were you thinking of disobeying me?”

The younger woman blushed, eyes instinctively dropping. “I… I just wanted to get in a little practice. It’s been a long day, and golf relaxes me.”

Maria chuckled softly, her hand sliding to the back of Y/n’s neck, squeezing lightly—a subtle gesture of control that both knew was the prelude to something more intimate. “Relax? You know I decide when and how you relax, sweet girl.” She pulled Y/n closer, pressing their bodies together, feeling her quickened breath. In the half-empty lot, the risk of being seen added a forbidden thrill. Maria’s other hand slipped under Y/n’s shirt, tracing the toned skin of her stomach from hours of training. “Remember last night? When you begged for more, and I made you wait?”

Y/n bit her lip at the memory: they’d come home from dinner, and Maria had tied her loosely to the bedposts with silk scarves, kissing every inch of her body while denying her climax, whispering commands like “Hold it for me, baby. Show me you’re mine.” It had been soft domination—no pain, just control and delayed pleasure—that left her trembling.

“Yes… I remember,” Y/n whispered, her body already responding, heat pooling between her thighs.

“Good girl,” Maria praised, kissing her neck before pulling away. “Now, get in the car. We’re going to lunch.”

“But I wanted to practice…” she protested, her voice slipping into that bratty tone Maria loved to tame.

One eyebrow arched, Maria’s tone sharpening. “Y/n, we’re going to lunch now. Obey.” It wasn’t a suggestion; it was an order, and Y/n felt the familiar pull of submission. She nodded, slipping into the car, her pulse quickened by the mix of frustration and anticipation.

The drive to the bistro was quiet at first, Maria’s right hand on the wheel, her left resting on Y/n’s thigh, squeezing possessively. “You look beautiful today,” she said, eyes fixed on the road, her hand slowly sliding upward. Y/n squirmed, the touch sending sparks through her, especially after last night’s denied release had left her hypersensitive. “But you need to learn to prioritize. Your body is mine to take care of, and that includes feeding it properly.”

Y/n whimpered softly, leaning into the touch. “You distract me so much… it’s hard to focus on school when I think about you all day.”

Maria smiled, predatory. “That’s exactly how it should be. Now behave at lunch, or I’ll have to punish you later.” The promise of punishment—perhaps another edging session, taking her to the brink without release, made Y/n press her thighs together.

They arrived at the elegant Upper East Side bistro, a discreet spot with outdoor tables, fresh flowers, and a French menu dripping with sophistication. Maria chose a secluded table, ordered white wine and light salads, ignoring curious glances at the unlikely pair: the poised executive and the young athlete. As they ate, Maria’s gaze stayed fixed on Y/n, correcting her posture with a look or guiding her hand to the fork with a touch.

“You gave me a hard time leaving the university,” Maria said casually, cutting into her grilled salmon. “I almost had to drag you away from that range.”

Y/n laughed softly, then lowered her gaze. “Sorry. It’s just… golf means everything to me.”

Maria’s hand found her knee under the table, squeezing. “I know. And that’s why I wanted to tell you something.” She paused, savoring the suspense as Y/n looked at her curiously. “I bought us memberships to the Empire Greens Club. An exclusive golf club. You can train there, compete… and I’ll go with you. Be your companion.”

Y/n blinked, stunned, her mouth forming a perfect “O.” Empire Greens was legendary, impeccable greens, elite tournaments, a place athletes like her dreamed of but that required connections and money she didn’t have. “Oh my God… Maria, you… you did this? For me?” Tears of gratitude welled up, and she leaned across the table to kiss her, forgetting about decorum.

Maria laughed quietly, accepting the kiss, but holding her firmly. “For us, sweet girl. But remember—there, you still obey me.”

Y/n nodded eagerly. “Oh my God, can we go today? Please?”

Maria traced her lower lip with her thumb, smiling. “Maybe. If you finish all this…” She gestured at the untouched salad. “…and then we stop by my place. I need you relaxed before anything else.”

Y/n swallowed, knowing exactly what relaxed meant: an afternoon of possessive touches, whispered orders, her body surrendered to Maria’s controlled pleasure. If she was lucky, Maria might even let her cum.

She ate faster, her body already anticipating what was to come, as the New York sun bathed them in the promise of luxurious greens and deep, unshakable desires.

The late afternoon sun bathed New York in golden tones, filtering through the wide windows of Maria Hill’s Upper East Side duplex. The apartment, with its white leather sofas, minimalist chandeliers, and breathtaking skyline view, was a reflection of the woman who lived there—sophisticated, commanding, and with a touch of control in every detail. And of course, Maria’s apartment was immaculate. Not a single thing out of place. Maria was meticulous when it came to cleanliness.

Y/n, still feeling the lingering heat from the afternoon they had spent together, adjusted herself in front of the mirror in the guest bedroom—now practically her second home. She slept with Maria, but she also had her own room in her apartment.

The memory of what had happened a few minutes earlier still pulsed on her skin: Maria guiding her into the shower, the hot water pouring down while firm hands traced her body, her fingers moving in circles on the girl's clit, fast and fierce, while emitting whispers of “My good girl” mixed with soft commands that made her moan and cum against the tiles. Maria's domination was always like this - precise, intense, but never cruel, leaving Y/n in a state of surrender and desire that made her question who she was before she met her.

Now, dressed for the Empire Greens Club, she felt like a different person. Finally, she had cum, even if it was just a quickie in the shower.

Her fitted white golf polo, snug enough to highlight her strong shoulders and defined waist, paired perfectly with a pleated skirt that ended just above her knees, revealing legs toned from years of practice. On her feet, expensive golf shoes, gifted by a British sponsor who still believed in her potential. Her hair was tied in a high ponytail, and her favorite club, a Callaway driver she treated as an extension of her own body, rested in her golf bag by the door.

She turned in the mirror, feeling the fabric hug her curves, and gave a playful smile. “Think I’m ready to impress, love?”

Maria, leaning against the doorframe, watched her with a predatory half-smile. She had also changed, opting for casual elegance: tailored khaki trousers, a beige linen shirt that flattered her subtle tan, and leather loafers that screamed wealth. At forty, Maria exuded effortless power, every movement calculated, every glance laced with intent.

“You’re more than ready, baby,” she said, stepping forward and adjusting the collar of Y/n’s polo with a possessive touch. Her fingers brushed the younger woman’s neck, sending a familiar shiver down her spine. “But remember, at the club, you represent both of us. Behave, or I’ll have to remind you who’s in charge.”

Y/n bit her lip, her eyes glinting with a mix of defiance and submission. “I always behave… kind of….” The teasing tone drew a low chuckle from Maria, who pulled her in for a quick but firm kiss, nipping her lower lip before stepping back.

“Let’s go. The car’s waiting.”

The drive to the Empire Greens Club was a slow dance of tension and anticipation. Sitting in the passenger seat of Maria’s Audi, Y/n held her golf bag in her lap, her fingers tapping nervously against the leather. The club was legendary—an oasis for New York’s elite, where millionaires and celebrities mingled on flawless greens and in polished mahogany lounges. Being a member there, even through Maria’s courtesy, was like stepping into a world that a middle-class girl from London had never imagined entering. Inside, she was freaking out—a giddy little girl wanting to jump and squeal—but she kept her composure, just as Maria expected. Maria’s hand resting on her thigh throughout the ride was a constant reminder: “You’re mine, and I brought you here.”

When they arrived, the Empire Greens Club entrance was everything she had imagined and more. A wrought-iron gate with golden details swung open automatically, revealing an oak-lined drive. The main building, a neoclassical mansion with white columns and tall windows, looked straight out of a Hollywood film. Discreet signs read Members Only, and security guards in flawless suits checked Maria’s credentials with a respectful nod.

Y/n tried not to let her eyes go wide, but her heart was racing. “Oh my God, Maria…” she whispered, unable to hold it in.

Maria parked in a reserved space, and before she could open Y/n’s door, the younger woman was already out, bouncing from the car like a child in a theme park. “Maria, look at this! It’s… insane!” Her voice carried a note of pure excitement that made Maria laugh—but also raise a warning eyebrow.

“Control yourself, sweet girl,” Maria said, stepping out of the car with calm grace. “You’re an athlete, not a tourist. Let’s show them who you are.” She circled the car, handed the keys to a valet, and gestured to an attendant who brought something that made Y/n’s jaw drop: a custom golf cart, pearl white with leather accents, purchased by Maria for their exclusive use at the club. “Surprise,” Maria said, smiling with satisfaction. “Now, come thank me properly.”

Y/n didn’t hesitate. She threw herself into Maria’s arms, hugging her tightly before pulling her into an impulsive kiss, her soft lips meeting Maria’s with an urgency that made a few conservative members in the parking area look away. Maria laughed against her mouth, holding her by the waist. “You’re impossible, you know that? Let’s go see the place.”

They climbed into the golf cart, Maria at the wheel and Y/n beside her, grinning like a fool, her golf bag secure at her feet. The club was vast, a maze of green fields stretching for acres, with sparkling artificial lakes and pristine white sand bunkers that looked sculpted by artists. It was a Monday evening, quieter than usual—perfect for a first tour. Y/n couldn’t stop pointing things out: “Look at that green! And that hole, must be a par 5, right? My God, Maria, this is a dream!”

Maria drove at a steady pace, letting the younger woman soak it all in, but her gaze stayed attentive. She knew exactly what this meant to her. She knew that in London, Y/n would never have access to a place like this, and she was glad to be the one to give it to her. “It’s beautiful, yes. But you’re going to shine here, my love. These courses will know your name.” She stopped the cart near the main course, a stretch of grass so perfect it looked painted. “Want to take a few shots? Just to get a feel for the place.”

Y/n almost squealed with excitement, but reined herself in, remembering Maria’s warning about composure. “Can I? Really? Like, right now?”

Maria nodded, pride glinting in her eyes. It was in moments like this that their age difference was most obvious—Y/n’s excitement was almost childlike, and Maria found it endearing. “You can. But only because you’ve been a good girl today. Get your clubs and show me what you can do.”

Y/n hopped out of the cart, picking up her driver with almost ritual reverence. The course was silent, except for the distant birdsong and the gentle whisper of the wind. She set the ball on the tee, adjusting her stance with the precision of years of training. Her eyes locked on the horizon, her body relaxed but coiled, like a bowstring ready to release. The swing was perfect—a fluid arc, the club slicing through the air with a whistle, the ball soaring high and straight, landing meters away, almost kissing the fairway.

Maria, leaning against the cart, clapped slowly, a smile spreading across her face. “That’s it, my girl. Show them who you are.”

Y/n turned, her face lit with a mix of pride and shyness. She ran to Maria, throwing herself into her arms again, but this time Maria held her tight, pulling her into a deeper kiss, her hand sliding up the golf skirt to the exposed thigh. “You’re incredible,” Maria murmured, her voice thick with promise. “But don’t forget, here, you play for me.”

She nodded, her heart pounding, her body still buzzing from the swing and Maria’s touch. “Always, Maria. Always.” As the sun dipped toward the horizon, they returned to the cart, ready to explore more of Empire Greens—and what it meant to belong to each other in this new world, full of promise and desire.

Wednesday arrived like a whispered promise, the scorching midday sun over New York turning the city into a cauldron of asphalt and ambition.

Y/n had woken up early that morning, her body still marked by the memories of the night before with Maria, a prolonged session of possessive touches in the duplex, where Maria had pinned her against the bedroom wall, firm hands on her wrists, kisses that went down her neck to her breasts, and to her clit and folds, denying her climax until she begged, sly and surrendered. “You're mine, baby,” Maria murmured, finally allowing relief in waves that left her trembling.

Now, dressed for the Empire Greens Club, Y/n felt that submissive hum thrumming constantly beneath her skin—a reminder that, even in her rebellion, she belonged to someone.

Maria had kept her promise: on Monday, after their first visit, she had given Y/n a free pass to the club. “You can go whenever you want, sweet girl,” she’d said, her tone a mix of generosity and control. “But follow the rules: always let me know, don’t flirt with strangers, and come back to me untouched.”

Y/n had nodded, eyes shining with gratitude, but inside she felt the familiar pull of domination—Maria was not just her lover; she was her anchor, her sugar mommy who financed dreams with discreet checks and veiled commands.

Today, though, they were going together again. Maria drove the Audi with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the younger woman’s thigh, her fingers lazily tracing circles over the golf skirt that hugged her curves.

Y/n looked flawless: a light-blue polo that made her eyes pop and flattered the subtle tan of her British skin, a white pleated skirt that ended just above the knee, revealing strong, sculpted legs from relentless training. Her pristine white golf shoes completed the look, and her golf bag sat in the backseat like an extension of herself. On her wrist, she wore a rose-gold Rolex—Maria’s gift from the week before. Discreet, but to a sharp eye, clearly expensive.

Maria, in turn, radiated casual elegance: beige linen trousers, a silk blouse that draped perfectly over her mature curves, and sunglasses that hid the possessive glint in her blue eyes. At forty, she was the epitome of feminine power, and Y/n couldn’t help the shiver that ran through her—a mix of desire and obedience.

“You’re quiet today,” Maria remarked, giving her thigh a light squeeze as she accelerated down the avenue. “Thinking about what I’m going to do to you after the club?”

Y/n flushed, biting her lower lip with a coy smile. “Maybe… or just anxious to play. Thanks again for the pass, love. It means the world.”

Maria smiled, predatory. “You’re welcome. But remember—out there, you play for me. If I tell you to stop, you stop.” Her tone was light but carried unmistakable authority, and Y/n nodded, feeling heat bloom between her thighs at the thought of whatever rewards or punishments might follow.

They arrived at Empire Greens around 2 p.m., the parking lot busier than it had been on Monday, luxury cars lined up like trophies: Porsches, Bentleys, a gleaming Tesla. The club buzzed with activity; it was prime time for New York’s elite, those who could afford long midweek breaks.

Y/n still found it a little surreal—so many wealthy people in one place, laughing in clusters, their polished clubs glinting in the sun, conversations drifting about stocks and trips to the Riviera. As an athlete from humble beginnings, she still felt like an outsider, but she was starting to adapt: golf anchored her, transforming her from a British scholarship girl into a confident presence on the greens. Still, it felt strange.

Maria parked with precision, and they both got out, heading for the custom golf cart Maria had bought—a luxury that still made Y/n grin.

“Come on,” Maria said, sliding into the driver’s seat and motioning for the younger woman to join her. They drove along the winding paths of the club, the warm breeze tossing Y/n’s hair as she pointed excitedly at the courses. “That one looks perfect—the fairway’s wide, but with challenging bunkers. Can I try it?”

Maria pulled the cart up to the section Y/n had chosen, a par 4 with a subtle dogleg to the right and rolling greens that promised tricks. But they weren’t alone: two women, both somewhere in their forties, occupied the nearby tee box, speaking quietly as they readied their clubs. One was tall and athletic, with flaming red hair falling in loose waves, wearing a fitted black polo that accentuated her generous curves and a skirt that showed off toned legs. The other, slightly taller, had chestnut-red curls and an air of mystery in her flowing golf dress—a mix of bohemian and refined. They looked like a couple, their gestures intimate—the redhead touching the other’s arm with casual familiarity.

Y/n gave Maria a pout. She wanted to play right here, where the women were. Maria sighed—this girl was spoiled beyond measure.

Always the diplomat with a touch of authority, Maria walked over to them, Y/n by her side. The younger woman was already smiling—she knew Maria would handle it for her. Maria might complain about her being spoiled, but she was the first to indulge her.

“Excuse me,” Maria said, addressing the shorter redhead, whose presence radiated confidence and a hint of superiority. “Would it be alright if we joined your round? My partner here”—she rested a possessive hand on Y/n’s waist—“is eager to play this hole.”

The redhead raised an eyebrow, her green eyes scanning Y/n from head to toe with a mix of disdain and curiosity. She didn’t seem thrilled—perhaps used to owning the course without interruptions—but after a glance at her companion, she gave a reluctant nod. “Fine. As long as you don’t take too long.”

Feeling the weight of the scrutiny, Y/n extended her hand with a sweet smile, her British accent softening her words. “Thank you. I’m Y/n. And this is Maria Hill.”

The redhead shook her hand firmly, her grip strong. “Natasha Romanoff.” Her voice was low, husky, with a faint Russian lilt that added to the intrigue.

Her companion smiled more warmly, deep green eyes sparkling. “Wanda Maximoff. Pleasure.”

Y/n, curious and just a touch defiant—her subtle rebellious streak showing—asked Natasha directly, “Are you the one playing?”

Natasha chuckled, a low, sarcastic sound, crossing her arms over her chest. “Yes, I am. Why? Do you want a lesson?”

Y/n felt her competitive fire flare. Sweet though she was, she could be sharp when she wanted to be—especially in golf, the game she lived for. “Actually, how about a quick match? Just this hole. You versus me. Make it interesting.”

Maria gave the faintest shake of her head, already knowing what Y/n was trying to pull. But she let it play out—she wanted to see how far she’d go.

Natasha laughed in her face, her lips curling with amusement. “You? A British girl fresh to the club? Fine. But don’t cry when you lose.”

Y/n laughed back, feigning innocence. “Don’t worry about me, ma’am. I’m not much of a crier.”

Wanda watched with surprise—and a spark of intrigue in her eyes. Maria, standing beside Y/n, gave her hand a subtle squeeze—Behave—but didn’t intervene. She knew golf was Y/n’s domain.

They began. Natasha teed off first, her drive a rocket: wide stance, interlocked grip, the swing a perfect arc of controlled power. The ball flew straight and long, landing 250 yards down the fairway—perfectly positioned for the approach.

Y/n swallowed hard. Natasha was good—really good—better than she’d expected. But she tried not to let it rattle her. She focused, recalling her tournament habits: hole by hole, just like she’d learned in London competitions. Her own drive was precise, using a square stance, weight transferring smoothly from backswing to downswing, incorporating a subtle fade to work around the dogleg. The ball traveled 240 yards, but with greater accuracy, stopping closer to the green than Natasha’s.

On the approach, Natasha went for an aggressive 7-iron, but the wind caught it, and the ball rolled into a side bunker—a tactical miscalculation, perhaps underestimating the green’s contours.

Y/n, playing smart, chose a controlled 9-iron with backspin, reading the wind and slope. She executed a low punch shot, the ball bouncing once and stopping ten feet from the hole, thanks to her perfected compression technique—driving the ball against the turf for maximum control.

Natasha got out of the bunker with a decent sand wedge, but left it 15 feet from the hole. Her putt was aggressive, but it missed by inches—the subtle left break on the green throwing her off. A quiet laugh escaped Y/n before she could stop herself. Natasha shot her a death glare.

“What’s so funny?” Natasha’s voice was sharp, impatient. She hated missing—and this girl’s attitude was grating.

“I wasn’t laughing. Must’ve been your imagination,” Y/n replied, feigning innocence. But she couldn’t deny it—this woman was intimidating. In some ways, she reminded her of Maria.

For her decisive putt, Y/n went through her routine: visualizing the line, adjusting for the grain, a smooth, pendulum stroke. The ball rolled perfectly, dropping into the hole with a satisfying clink—a birdie against Natasha’s par.

Natasha blinked, her face flushing with anger, fists tightening around her club. “How the hell…?” She was furious, but beneath it, intrigued. Who was this girl who had just outplayed her with flawless technical precision?

Beside her, Wanda looked surprised, her mouth forming a small “O,” deep green eyes fixed on Y/n with growing curiosity.

Maria smiled proudly, pulling Y/n into a quick embrace and whispering in her ear, “Good girl. But don’t get too excited—you still have to obey me.”

Y/n laughed, her body buzzing from the victory, knowing this little informal match had just opened doors to something deeper at Empire Greens.

Natasha Romanoff lingered on the tee box, gripping her club like a weapon that had misfired. Her green eyes, sharp as blades, locked on Y/n with a mix of disbelief and simmering fury.

How had that… kid beaten her? Natasha was the undisputed queen of these greens—years of relentless practice, swings calculated with the precision of a field operative—and now, defeated by a British girl who barely looked out of college.

The afternoon sun lit her skin, outlining her athletic curves under the fitted black polo, but her body was taut, thigh muscles flexing unconsciously as she processed the humiliation. “How did that child beat me?” she muttered, just loud enough to be heard, the Russian lilt adding an edge of veiled threat.

Y/n, still high on adrenaline, turned with a sweet smile—one sharpened at the edges. Her subtle rebellious streak showed, like a perfectly timed club strike. She adjusted her pleated skirt, feeling the fabric brush her toned thighs, and lifted her chin, eyes gleaming with confidence. “Actually, I’m twenty-four,” she corrected, her British accent curling around the words like a quiet dare. “Not such a child, really.” There was provocation there, a veiled challenge that made Natasha blink, intrigued despite her anger.

Wanda Maximoff, beside her wife, watched with a mysterious smile, her deep green eyes studying Y/n as if dissecting a complex mind in a therapy session. She touched Natasha’s arm lightly—a possessive gesture that softened the redhead’s ferocity, but also sparked a shared curiosity between them.

Maria Hill, always the calculated observer, stepped closer to Y/n, her hand sliding around the younger woman’s waist in a touch that was both protective and possessive. She felt Y/n lean instinctively into her—a surrender that thrilled her, a reminder that even in victory, she was still hers to guide.

Sensing the charged dynamic, Wanda spoke in a smooth, empathetic tone, her Eastern European accent adding an air of mystery. “How about we have a few drinks at the club bar? You’re new members, after all. It would be a good way to… get to know each other better.” Her lips curved into a smile that promised more than small talk, and Natasha, still fuming inside, gave a reluctant nod—her intrigue winning over her temper.

You were sitting in the second row, on the left side of the room, as always. Hair hastily tied back. Eyes downcast. Legs crossed — physically and emotionally guarded.

You hadn’t slept well.

Not since Friday.

The forced trip with your parents had ended that morning, the car stopping in front of the college as if it were doing you a favor. Your mother gave a fake smile. Your father told you to “be brilliant.” Neither of them asked how you were feeling.

And now here you were. In class with Natasha Romanoff.

The professor walked in right on time, as always. Dark blazer, steady stride. She gave the classroom a quick scan, her eyes briefly passing over you without stopping. Professional. Just as it should be. You met her gaze with a small, discreet, but tired smile.

But deep down, Natasha knew.

She’s exhausted. Left their house this morning. Didn’t even manage to say good morning. Just texted “arrived” at 11:48 in the group chat. And only because she snuck off to the bathroom. She barely said a word the entire trip.

Wanda, even though she wasn’t there, knew too. She and Natasha were exchanging quiet messages the whole time.

❤️ Wanda: “Did you see her mom’s Instagram stories? That ‘lecture’ yesterday… it looked like a cult. She was in the back. Falling apart.”

🖤 Natasha: “I saw. Today she’s in pieces.”

Natasha placed her materials on the desk and started the class.

— Today we’ll review the concepts of narrative strategy and impactful argument structure. Open your book to page 42.

The class began to stir. You didn’t. You hesitated for a few moments and had to take a deep breath before finally opening your backpack and taking out your materials.

You opened the booklet, but your mind was somewhere else.

Just five more hours.

Only five more hours until Wanda’s class, the last one. Until you could get to the car. To the gate. To the hug. To the pacifier.

The thought came quickly — and dangerously. You cut it off immediately.

You couldn’t think about that here.

Or you’d fall apart.

Your phone vibrated under the desk. A soft buzz.

The group chat: “us”.

🖤 Natasha: “Did you drink water, baby girl?”

🩷 You: “Yes. A sip. I’m okay.”

Natasha didn’t reply. She just glanced at you discreetly. You didn’t even look up. Your posture was perfect. But inside… you just wanted to be held.

She’s not just our student. She’s our baby. And she’s stuck in a role that doesn’t belong to her.

Class continued. Natasha wrote on the board, corrected questions, kept her tone firm and academic. But from time to time, she sent little notes.

🖤 Natasha: “I’m here, okay? Hang in there.”

🩷 You: “I’m trying. Really.”

Across campus, Wanda read everything on her phone, standing still in the staff lounge, heart aching.

❤️ Wanda: “I wish this class was over already. I want her in my arms now.”

You yawned, fighting off exhaustion. The diaper you wore under your pants — the one you had insisted on putting on yourself that morning in the college bathroom — was light, but present. A small anchor. A reminder of what was coming. Of what was still yours.

You fidgeted with your fingers in your lap. Thought about your pacifier. The scent of lavender and honey. The quiet of Wanda and Natasha’s room. Your little nursery…

Just five more hours.

Natasha finished a long explanation and asked the students to do a group activity. You chose to work alone. You hated group work.

While your classmates moved around, you lowered your head and typed quickly:

🩷 You: “I don’t think I can make it through Wanda’s class.”

🖤 Natasha: “Yes, you can. We’re here. Just a little longer, my love.”

You took a deep breath.

Held back the tears.

Told yourself:

Just pretend a little longer. Then you can be who you are.

And so, sitting like any student, pretending to be just another adult, you stayed strong.

Waiting to go back — not to your parents’ house. But home. To your mommies.

The bell rang softly after what felt like an eternity, announcing the afternoon break. Class was only bearable because Natasha was the professor. But that was exactly the problem. You didn’t want your professor. You wanted your mommy.

Chairs began to creak as students stood up, grabbing backpacks, phones, water bottles.

You remained seated.

Back straight, hands gripping your thighs. Head slightly lowered.

You looked like you didn’t know what to do with your own body.

Natasha watched from where she was, pretending to go over notes.

Your gaze met hers for a moment.

It was a tired look. Small. Almost childlike. A silent plea.

“Will you take me home?”

But Natasha couldn’t.

She just subtly nodded toward the door with her chin, like saying: Go on, sweetheart. Go take a breath.

You understood. You always did. You knew Natasha couldn’t do anything now.

You nodded, slowly gathered your backpack, and left with the last few students.

As soon as you stepped outside, your phone buzzed twice.

🖤 Natasha: “Go to the cafeteria, okay? Get something to eat.”

❤️ Wanda: “There’s chicken sandwich today. Or that chocolate muffin you like.”

You smiled for the first time all day. A small, discreet smile, but real.

The messages felt like a caress in the middle of stone.

🩷 You: “Okay. I’ll go.”

You walked to the cafeteria with short steps. Your legs felt heavy. The long shirt covered well, but the diaper underneath was still there — slightly damp. A quiet comfort.

At the counter, you looked at the options. Chose a chocolate muffin — warm, fresh out of the oven — and a box of grape juice.

At the register, you pulled a small black card from your backpack.

Not the one your parents had given you.

The one Natasha and Wanda had set up, with a low limit, just for moments like this. They insisted:

“You already deal with too much pressure from your parents. This one is just to care for you. It’s love in credit form.”

You paid.

Across campus, Natasha’s phone buzzed.

💳 “Approved purchase - $11.90: University Cafeteria.”

She smiled to herself and typed:

🖤 Natasha: “Good girl.”

You read it and blushed, glancing around discreetly.

You pouted a little and replied:

🩷 You: “I took a picture to show.”

You snapped a photo of the tray: the muffin sliced in half, the juice box.

Sent it to the group.

❤️ Wanda: “Yummy, sweetheart!”

🖤 Natasha: “Eat it all, okay? Then mommy will check if there’s room for milk.”

You let out a quiet giggle, still blushing.

And knowing there would definitely be room for milk. Especially Wanda’s.

You sat in the corner of the cafeteria, near the wall. Ate slowly. The taste was faint — exhaustion dulled everything — but the feeling of connection made it better.

When the snack was done, you tossed the juice box in the trash and got up.

Now came Wanda’s class.

Last one of the day.

Last stretch before going home. Home for real.

Wanda’s classroom was silent, as if the afternoon heat had set everyone to slow motion. The projector showed a presentation on symbolic construction of collective identity. Wanda’s voice filled the space precisely — calm, firm, elegant. She gestured with control, as always.

You were in the third row now.

The first thirty minutes, you held on. Took short notes, looked at the slides, underlined key terms. Focused on your mommy’s calm voice. The voice you couldn’t resist. But slowly, your mind began to drift.

Exhaustion.

Emotional fatigue.

Longing.

Next thing you knew, you were drawing little wings and abstract scribbles on the corner of the page. Pressing hard. Like that could ease something.

From the podium, Wanda noticed.

Discreetly, she picked up her phone and typed in the group chat.

❤️ Wanda: “Baby, focus on the lesson. It’s important.”

You glanced at the phone under the desk. Took a deep breath. Wanda noticed everything. Always.

🖤 Natasha: “What do you mean my baby’s not paying attention? 😠😠 Does mommy need to scold you?”

🩷 You: “I just want to go home…”

Wanda didn’t reply — she was back speaking to the class.

Natasha, in the staff room, crossed her arms and typed quickly:

🖤 Natasha: “Just one more hour. You can do it. Then there’s milk, bath, cuddles — anything you want.”

You closed your phone. Thought about everything waiting at home. Tried to listen for a few more minutes.

But your body wasn’t cooperating anymore.

You stood up. Said nothing. Grabbed your phone and left the room.

Wanda saw you go. Followed with her eyes for a few seconds. Tried to keep her composure. But inside, a spike of concern.

Where is she going now?

Wanda picked up her phone and wrote:

❤️ Wanda: “Where are you going, love?”

You replied almost instantly.

🩷 You: “Bathroom. But I don’t want to come back. I’ll stay in the courtyard.”

🖤 Natasha: “Yes, you will, baby. That way mommy Wanda can keep an eye on you. Class is almost over.”

🩷 You: “I don’t want to. It’s boring. The topic, not mommy…”

Wanda replied five minutes later.

❤️ Wanda: “Okay. But come back and grab your backpack later. No forgetting things halfway.”

🩷 You: “Okay…”

In the courtyard, the warm wind blew, stirring dry leaves. You didn’t even want the bathroom. You just wanted to leave the room.

Your mommy’s voice was making you confused.

You sat on a bench near a tree-lined walkway. Pulled out a book from your backpack: Fourth Wing. You picked it because of the cover — a dragon, golden sparkles. It looked magical. Also because you saw a girl in your Civil Law class reading it. It caught your attention.

You read two pages. Then five more.

But something in the story made you… uncomfortable.

There was too much emotion. Desire, tension. Characters touching in ways you didn’t fully understand. Not clearly. You bit your lip.

Why does this book make my chest tight?

Why does it feel like something I should know, but don’t?

You closed the book. Maybe your mommies wouldn’t be happy to know what you were reading. They always ask for the age rating. But this time, you didn’t check.

You just sat there, staring at the trees.

Not thinking much. Just waiting. Waiting for the time to come and finally go home.

The bell rang.

You got up, returned to Wanda’s classroom. It was empty now. The professor had already left. She must’ve been with Natasha already.

You grabbed your things quietly and awkwardly. Zipped up your backpack, adjusted your hair, and left the room in a rush.

You walked to the usual alley. The alley you, Wanda, and Natasha had agreed on. So no student would suspect. You crossed the campus with firm steps but slumped shoulders. The golden end of day didn’t ease the weight you carried from the weekend.

The car was already there. You sighed with relief. Tinted windows. Parked at the same spot. They were always there. Always.

You opened the back door, tossed your backpack on the seat, and climbed in.

Shut the door. Wanda greeted you first.

- Hi, baby girl!

Natasha looked back and smiled.

- Hi, sweetheart. Did you survive the classes?

And then, like a kitten meowing for comfort, you whispered:

— I want our house…

Natasha turned her head slightly, driving.

Wanda, in the passenger seat, reached her hand back right away.

— We’re already taking you, love.

You bit your lip again. Didn’t even try to hold anything back anymore.

College was over for today.

The adult mask could begin to melt.

And home — the real one — was just around the corner.

The drive to Wanda and Natasha’s house took fifteen minutes. Luckily, the college wasn’t too far.

Natasha parked the car. And you all got out.

The key turned in the lock with a soft click. The familiar scent of home filled the air: sweet lavender, clean fabric, and a light touch of vanilla — the smell of a true home. Natasha stepped in first, kicking off her heels and placing her bag on the console table. Wanda followed right behind.

You paused at the doorway, almost frozen.

Your legs felt like rubber. Your body, exhausted.

But your soul was slowly beginning to relax.

Natasha crouched down first, patiently.

— Let’s take off these little shoes, sweetheart — she murmured.

You lifted your foot silently.

Natasha unfastened the Velcro on your black sneakers — childish, already a bit worn. One came off, then the other.

Beside them, her own high heels stood tall. The contrast was so domestic, so intimate, that Wanda smiled.

It was always like this. Big shoes, little feet. The house felt whole again.

— There we go…— Wanda said, crouching down too and scooping you into her arms.

You let out a heavy sigh, your face resting on Wanda’s shoulder, arms limp.

Just breathing in her scent.

No more talking. No more pretending.

On the way upstairs, Natasha gently fixed your hair, tucking a strand away from your forehead.

— You put on a diaper… when did that happen, huh?

No response.

Just a soft little groan, muffled against Wanda’s shoulder.

But they both noticed — it was full. Heavy. Warm.

They knew you had the habit of wearing diapers for comfort. You’d take them to your parents’ house and use them when needed. But you almost never wore one on your own for college.

They climbed the stairs slowly. In the hallway, your room waited, its door half open.

It was everything you needed.

The crib with lace bumpers.

The nursing chair beside it.

The white changing table, decorated with hand-painted little animals.

And the soft pink room, with crown and teddy bear stickers across the walls.

Wanda and Natasha had put it all together with such love and care. Just how you wanted it. And just how they wanted it. For their little princess.

Wanda took you straight to the changing table. Laid you down gently.

— Let’s get these big-girl clothes off — she said, unbuttoning your cardigan.

You whimpered, in a babylike voice, eyes still closed:

— I’m big…

Natasha chuckled softly and teased you sweetly:

— Of course you are. Our big girl, huh?

Wanda nodded, laughing too.

— So big that she’s been in a diaper for over four hours without saying a word.

You let out a fussy little groan.

They unbuttoned your jeans and pulled them down carefully.

The diaper was soaked, warm, already starting to give off that sour scent of lingering urine.

You had really used it.

The two women exchanged a look.

When they opened the side tabs, they saw your skin — red and irritated.

— You’re starting to get a rash, love… — Natasha murmured, concerned.

But you didn’t react. You were far away, completely surrendered, in another world. Just blinking slowly, almost in a trance, as Wanda wiped you gently with warm cotton, and Natasha got the ointment ready.

They would need to use a lot of it. To prevent a worse rash.

The new diaper came right after — soft, printed with clouds and hearts.

The pink onesie with teddy bears was pulled over you, the buttons snapping shut between your legs with dry, sweet clicks.

Natasha leaned in to sniff your neck and scrunched her nose discreetly.

— What scent is this? — she whispered to Wanda. — Incense?

Natasha grabbed a damp cloth and wiped your neck.

— Must be something from her mom’s house — Wanda replied with a sigh. — Doesn’t suit our baby at all.

She picked up the right perfume — a baby one, gentle, with a hint of chamomile — and sprayed it on your neck, behind your ears, on your chest.

The scent changed.

Your whole energy shifted with it.

Wanda knelt down, looked into your eyes — full of tenderness, full of love.

— Do you want to nurse, sweetheart?

Without fully opening your eyes, you nodded. Of course you did. You always did.

Then you stretched out your arms — a silent, desperate gesture, asking to be held.

Natasha smiled, tired but tender.

— You’re gonna hurt mommy’s boob again if you suck too hard…

Wanda lifted you into her arms and sat down in the nursing chair.

She pulled up her shirt with practiced ease, adjusted you in her lap, and offered her breast.

You latched on eagerly.

As if trying to drink not just the milk, but the whole day you’d been through.

As if starving for presence.

For touch.

For love.

Wanda felt the strength of your suck and winced slightly.

— Hey, easy there, baby… go gentler. Mommy still needs these boobs tomorrow.

You didn’t answer. Just gave a soft whimper, still nursing.

Tiny hands gripping Wanda’s blouse.

Your body, finally relaxed.

Natasha knelt beside the two of you, gently stroking your forehead with her fingers.

— You’re home now, little one. The little house is here. Mommy’s here. Both of your mommies…