summary: you get into an argument with bimbo!billie and make her cry, but you make it up to her by eating her out
cw: SMUT,EXPLICIT CONTENT,bimbo!billie,dom!reader,swearing,accusing of cheating
The silence in the room was a living thing, coiling in the corners and pressing against the windows. Outside, the Los Angeles dusk was bleeding into bruised purple, but the atmosphere inside was all grey static. Billie stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a perfect silhouette against the dying light. Her curves were exaggerated in the glass reflection, the exaggerated hourglass you’d paid for, the plush, ridiculous tits straining against a thin camisole, the swell of her ass a soft mound beneath her tiny silk shorts. She was a statue of hedonism, all artificial perfection and soft, pliant flesh, and right now, she was the most infuriating thing you’d ever seen.
“He was just being friendly,” she said, her voice a low, syrupy purr that usually made your stomach clench with want. Tonight, it just scraped your nerves raw. She didn’t turn around.
“Friendly?” Your own voice was sharper than you intended, a shard of glass in the thick, quiet room. “Friendly was having his hand on your ass for ten solid minutes while you giggled like a fucking idiot?”
She flinched, a subtle tightening of her shoulders. Finally, she turned, and the full force of her hit you. Those huge, doe-like eyes, fringed with thick, dark lashes, were wide with feigned innocence. Her lips, inflated pillows of gloss, were parted slightly. She looked like a startled fawn, a very expensive, very well-fucked fawn.
“I didn’t giggle,” she countered, a pout forming on that perfect mouth. “And it was on my lower back. You’re being crazy.”
“Crazy.” The word landed between you, heavy and final. You took a step forward, the heels of your boots sinking into the plush cream carpet. “Don’t call me crazy. Not when you parade around like a piece of meat I’ve won at a fair, and then get surprised when other people want to take a bite.”
Her face crumpled, just for a second, a flicker of real hurt before the mask of petulance slid back into place. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”
“It’s the truth!” The shout ripped out of you, raw and ugly. The control you prided yourself on, the cool, collected dominance that kept her in line, it was fraying, snapping. You were on her in two strides, your hand shooting out not to hit her, never to hit her, but to grip her jaw, your fingers digging into the soft skin beneath her ear. You forced her head back, making her look at you.
“You love it,” you snarled, your face inches from hers. Her scent, cloying vanilla and something deeper, muskier, filled your lungs. “You love being looked at. You love knowing everyone wants you. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? The tits, the ass, the lips… it’s all a fucking advertisement. And the ad says ‘available.’”
Tears welled in her enormous eyes, spilling over and carving clean paths through the subtle foundation on her cheeks. She didn’t try to pull away. She just stood there, trembling, her plush bottom lip quivering. “I’m not,” she whispered, the word hitching on a sob. “I’m only for you.”
The sight of her crying, so beautifully broken, should have satisfied you. It should have quenched the fire in your gut. Instead, it only poured gasoline on it. Your grip on her jaw tightened, and you used your other hand to shove her, hard. She stumbled back, her legs hitting the edge of the chaise lounge and sending her sprawling onto it in a heap of soft limbs and trembling curves.
“Then act like it,” you hissed, towering over her. She looked up at you, a vision of ruined doll-like perfection, her camisole rucked up to reveal the smooth, tanned skin of her stomach, her silk shorts riding high on her thick thighs. And you hated her. You hated how much you wanted her, how the sight of her, crying and submissive, made your cunt throb with a violent, immediate need. You hated that you’d lost your temper, that you’d spoken to her like that, that you’d pushed her. The rage curdled, turning into something acrid and self-loathing in your throat.
You stared down at her, your chest heaving, the anger draining away and leaving a cold, hollow ache in its place. You saw the real fear now, not the performance of it, but the genuine, wide-eyed terror in her wet eyes. You’d gone too far.
“Billie,” you started, your voice hoarse, unrecognizable. “I—”
“Don’t,” she choked out, turning her face away from you, her arms wrapping around her midsection. A fresh wave of sobs shook her body. “Just leave me alone.”
But you couldn’t. Leaving her alone was the last thing you could do. The guilt was a physical weight, crushing you. You had to fix it. You had to put the pieces back together. Slowly, you lowered yourself to your knees on the floor beside the chaise, the plush carpet cushioning your descent. The shift in power was immediate, jarring. You, who were always in control, were now looking up at her, supplicant.
“Hey,” you murmured, your voice soft, a desperate attempt to smooth over the raw edges you’d created. You reached out a hesitant hand, not to grab or possess, but to gently stroke her hair. It was as soft as it looked, silken strands slipping through your fingers. “Billie, look at me. I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, her face still buried in her arms. “You were mean.”
“I know,” you breathed, your fingers tracing the shell of her ear. “I was so mean. I’m sorry, baby. I got… jealous. I hate it when other people look at you.” It was a half-truth, but it was the part she needed to hear. You let your hand drift down, over the delicate slope of her shoulder, down her arm. Her skin was warm, alive. You could feel the fine tremor still running through her.
You leaned in closer, your lips brushing against the flushed skin of her neck. You pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss there, a silent apology. She shuddered, but this time it wasn’t from fear. You felt the tension in her body begin to unspool, just a little. Encouraged, you kissed her again, lower this time, on the sensitive skin where her shoulder met her throat. Your tongue darted out to taste the salt of her dried tears.
“I want to make it up to you,” you whispered against her skin. Your hands moved to her waist, grip gentle, reverent. “Let me make it up to you.”
She finally lifted her head, her face a mess of blotchy skin and running mascara, but still, so devastatingly beautiful. Her huge, puffy eyes searched yours. “How?”
A sliver of relief cut through the suffocating guilt. You gave her a small, crooked smile. Your hands slid from her waist to her thighs, your palms smoothing over the warm, yielding flesh. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of her silk shorts.
“Let me,” you said again, your gaze dropping to her lips, then lower, to the apex of her thighs. “Please.”
She hesitated for a long moment, her puffy lips still pursed in a sulk, but the anger in her eyes was fading, being replaced by that familiar, hazy cloud of arousal that always descended when you looked at her like this. Like she was a feast you were about to devour. Finally, with a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, she gave in.
You didn’t waste a second. You peeled the tiny shorts down her legs, the silk whispering against her skin. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath, of course. Her cunt was bare, smooth, and already glistening with a faint sheen of wetness. The sight of it made your mouth water. You pushed her legs apart, draping one over the back of the chaise, the other foot flat on the floor. She was open to you completely, exposed.
You didn’t start with her clit. That would be too easy, too fast. You wanted to worship her, to erase the ugliness of your anger with the beauty of your devotion. You leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the inside of her knee, then another, higher up on her thigh. Her skin was impossibly soft, tasting of expensive lotion and her own unique sweetness. You could feel her muscles twitch under your lips, her breathing growing shallow.
“Still mad at me?” you murmured against her skin.
“Little bit,” she breathed, her voice already thick with desire. But her hand came down to rest on your head, her fingers tangling in your hair, urging you upward.
You smiled against her thigh and obliged, moving higher, your tongue tracing a delicate pattern on her skin. You could smell her now, that rich, intoxicating scent that drove you wild. You bypassed her cunt, instead moving to the soft crease where her thigh met her pelvis, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there. She whimpered, her hips lifting off the chaise in a silent plea.
You looked up at her. Her head was thrown back, her dark hair a spill of silk against the cream fabric, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. She looked like a goddess, a fallen angel, a masterpiece of flesh and desire. And she was all yours.
Only then did you finally lower your head to her center. You flattened your tongue and gave her one long, slow lick from her entrance to her clit. She cried out, her fingers tightening in your hair, her back arching off the chaise. She tasted divine, like honey and salt and something uniquely, intoxicatingly Billie.
You started to eat her out in earnest then, your tongue exploring every fold and crevice of her. You lapped at her entrance, gathering her wetness on your tongue before plunging it inside her, fucking her with it. She ground her hips against your face, her movements growing more desperate, more erratic. You brought a hand up, your fingers finding her clit, rubbing it in tight, fast circles as your tongue continued to work inside her.
You could feel her getting close, her thighs trembling around your head, her breaths coming in short, sharp pants. Her moans were getting louder, more uninhibited, filling the room with the beautiful, wanton sounds of her pleasure. You looked up at her again, and the sight of her, lost in the throes of passion, her face contorted with ecstasy, was almost enough to make you come yourself.
“I’m gonna… I’m gonna…” she gasped, her words dissolving into a high-pitched keen as her orgasm crashed over her. Her entire body went rigid, her cunt clamping down on your tongue as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her. You didn’t stop, continuing to lick and suck at her through her orgasm, drawing it out, making it last as long as possible.
When she finally collapsed back onto the chaise, her body limp and spent, you gave her one last, gentle kiss on her clit before pulling away. Your face was wet with her, your lips swollen, your chin glistening. You crawled up her body, your movements slow and deliberate, and kissed her, letting her taste herself on your lips.
She kissed you back, her arms wrapping around your neck, pulling you closer. The kiss was slow, deep, and full of a million unspoken apologies. The anger was gone, the hurt forgotten, replaced by a deep, abiding love that was as terrifying as it was intoxicating.
You pulled away, resting your forehead against hers. “Are you still mad at me?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.
She shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. “No,” she murmured, her eyes still closed. “I forgive you.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. You settled down beside her on the chaise, pulling her into your arms. She came willingly, curling into your side, her head on your chest. You could feel her heartbeat, a steady, reassuring rhythm against your own.
“I’m sorry,” you said again, your fingers tracing patterns on her back. “For what I said. For being… rough.”
She shifted, propping herself up on an elbow to look at you. Her huge, dark eyes were soft, the anger and hurt completely gone, replaced by a gentle understanding that made your chest ache. “I know,” she said, her fingers toying with a strand of your hair. “But you know I like it when you’re a little rough.”
You couldn’t help but smile. “A little,” you agreed, pulling her down for another kiss. This one was different, softer, more tender. It was a promise. A vow to do better, to be better.
When you pulled away, she was looking at you with a familiar glint in her eye. “Does this mean I’m forgiven for the guy at the party?”
You laughed, a real, genuine laugh that felt like sunshine after a storm. “You’re forgiven,” you said, your hand coming up to cup her cheek, your thumb stroking her skin. “But if I see another man’s hand on you, I can’t promise I won’t lose my shit again.”
She grinned, a wicked, mischievous grin that made your stomach flip.
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