otv smut, on occasion.

Rae doesn’t bother to get in a room and hide away from accidentally prying eyes. At this point, you try to recall, who hasn’t caught you two yet? It’s a fucked-up thrill to now hope for, admittedly. 

She gets a hand under the hem of your shirt, ghosting around you until finding grip by the small of your back. Her nails dig into you like before. The smirk at the corner of her lips indicates she likes that, always has. See, Rae has you pinned against a wall. There’s a part of her that would enjoy being greedy and would like to bide her time, taking every sweet little second to undress, tease, caress. More often than not, however—as is the case today—she leans towards the frantic and frenzied. It’s concept versus practice. All that teasing and flirting on the phone always gets her so worked up that by the end Rae is nothing but a wet, needy mess. She’s ready to get fucked and you always find yourself at her beck and call.

Her breath clashes warm against yours while her other hand toys at your front. As her thumb plays with the elastic waistband of your shorts, she looks down. The bulge is—inevitably, dutifully—visible. Rae gets a playful knee between your legs so that her thigh brushes and incites it further. 

There’s a back and forth you play out, somewhat theatrical, and mostly for her entertainment. She starts with some fleeting kiss that’s less of a brush and more of a quick peck-and-smack before pulling back. Light and lascivious. You play it out for the sake of doing so. A you’re late from her makes you respond, simply, by looking at your watch with dramatic intent. Oh, I should apologize? You, a tad defiant (which is, as it happens, unintended, though it works out). She scoffs, of course, and pulls the waistband lower. It’s taut and at that point of no return—between your hips and the rest of your legs—as Rae still keeps those nails on your back sharp and prickling. Yes, you should. Her hand at the front runs cold down your stomach and past the yielding fabric. The base of your cock is warm, stiffening further when her cool touch wraps its commanding grip around you. 

There’s not much teasing after that. Again: Rae is needy.

However much control she may have in the circumstance, whatever say in the matter, most of it melts away with little resistance once she crouches down to face your length. With your waistband sitting comfortably around your thighs now, you assist Rae: she’s eager (see also: salivating), causing disarray in her hairstyle as she gathers it all up onto your awaiting palm. You’ve played this game before. Once you have proper grip, her lips part. You enjoy the image for a second too long when her expectant eyes gaze up, imploring. So you bring her in. The slow approach is, really, the crux of all this. She texts you, calls you. Tells you when, where, and how  she wants it. But the moment—down to the literal second—when she resigns any and all sense of control, she hands it all to you. All of that authority. All in the grip of her hair.

Yes, you’re the one against the wall, and yes, Rae’s the one with her hands on your thighs, holding on like her life depends on it, but it’s you who’s setting the pace, thrusting slow into her warm, slick mouth. Rae’s lips envelop you in full, down to the base, as her tongue runs circles under your shaft to make further mess of all the dripping spit. Every so often, a gag, accompanied by this light moan with every breath she takes up at the tip. Pulling her away, a trail of spit bridges between you and her lower lip. It falls right on her chin. Rather indecent.

Rae stands, shimmying and hiking the short skirt up her thighs and plump ass. It sits nicely atop her hips, around her waist. “Put it in me, please.” 

She’s one to put it in herself, in any case. So you bend your knees, sliding your back down the wall. Rae turns and you align perfectly. Considering the amount of spit, it takes nothing for it to slip in. One clean motion and you’re surrounded by heat; the glide is pure vice.

“Fuck—” You, voiceless.

Whichever bits of hair were previously gathered with your fist fell a tad coiled and intertwined down her back. It really is that simple. On queue—because Rae knows what she’s doing—she flips a strand over her shoulder to join the rest of her frizzed locks. Because you also know what you’re doing, your hands bide their time, knowing how desperate she can get. The way she pushes back on your light thrusts, onto your cock, is her tell. 

Your palms land on her plush and rippling ass first. You’re barely fucking up into her as Rae backs onto your hips. When her head drops back a bit—hair draped over this sinful arch of her back—Rae pats your thigh. “What are you waiting for?” Looking back and swaying her hair. 

Your hands clutch her ass harder before letting go. The makeshift ponytail that you manage is disheveled and messy, but it gets the job done. “For you to say it,” you admit. With one committed thrust, you sink all the way inside her folds. Covered, wet. The fist around her hair pulls slow, steady, as Rae further arches and bends and keens. 

The best part of all of this is how you both have it down to, largely, a routine. All of that teasing hours before while she got ready: photos and texts and short but dangerous clips of everything but her face. Then while you got ready, all because of the expectation and promise. Rae would send a photo with the phone at a dangerously high angle—could see all the way down her tiny top. You’d send something equally incriminating and before you knew it (and you knew), you’d get the call. She isn’t one to invite over text; that’s all just to start. Rae’s one to call simply because, yeah, she gets off on that vocal confirmation—on the sound of your voice falling deep and serious and saying yes, I’ll be there in a few. Implied under all that hush-toned discussion was the obvious rest.

Now, the real best part of all this is how she began taking pills, what, two weeks ago? It’s not something you’re able to pinpoint anymore. You have literally lost count. 

Some way, somehow, Rae’s the one against the wall now. Her chest is willingly pressed against it as her open palm fails to find any grip to hold on to the flat surface—at this point and in a different setting it would be the sheets, a pillow. Her other hand works the pads of her fingertips on her warm, sopping wet clit. If it weren’t for the music and noise downstairs, you figure, it would be downright audible.

And she doesn’t have to tell you that she’s cumming. Her fucked-out cunt pulses around the nonstop fucking of your cock. You also catch her free hand, fingers bracing against the solid surface, attempting to divert all of that energy onto something. 

Though she does tell you that she’s cumming, anyway. “I’m—fuck—” A  sharp inhale, followed by a relieved exhale. “I’m cumming.” Rae tenses up. It’s this high-strung, pent-up shudder that finally finds its path of least resistance—everywhere. Her whole body quivers when you push your length inside of her in full. You feel her fingers shock-still against her nub, pressing tight and firm. 

Once she subsides you realize you’re not long for it either. The pull-back out is something of an impossibility; you’re overstimulated at this stage. Your hands have been everywhere: around her waist, grasping at her hips, pulling all of that lush hair. And your eyes just get everything, don’t they? Rae’s face every time she ventures a look back, her now blush-red ass from the constant thrusts, and that desperate, telling hand that let you confirm her inescapable orgasm. There’s certainly more there but your vision turns to haze. You fuck her again and again.

Then you cum.

The thrusting is uninterrupted and messy and delirious. Hot white paints the inside of Rae’s pussy as it likewise escapes out with each and every plunge into it. You’re not even able to state it, let her know it’s coming. You just fuck and fuck and fuck. Incessant. Until your legs just about fail.

~

And they nearly give out while coming down the stairs. You’re shaky and weak. Drained. Rae takes everything—not like you’re unwilling, this has been established. But here you are: the steps lead directly towards the foyer of the compound and she’s showing you the door.

Rae gives you a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“I’m busy all day.” You respond plainly.

“It’ll be late. Late late.”

You both stumble through her door in a clumsy, yet familiar, buzzed sort of way.

"Come on,” she breathes onto your neck. Jodi's trying, pulling at your bomber jacket, making every attempt to get it off your shoulders.

"Let's at least close the door." You say, laughing.

She lets you stomp all the way against the wall, pins you. "Fine, but get. This. Off." A playful pat accompanies every word. Her cute, mock pout quickly melts into drunken laughter as you hasten towards the door.

This is the usual for you two. Nearly every Saturday the same. Oddly enough, the whole mess began when you two were sober.

And it's when you lock the door—this loud and decisive sound—that you both know all bets are off.

Jodi did really hint at it first; that's the story you're sticking with. She will forever debate the opposite, but you remember clear as day: ten forty-five. You had just set your phone down after checking the time (how opportune, you'll applaud) and the cafe was getting lively. She sat perpendicular to you, got real close, and just whispered. It was filth—desirable, tempting, tantalizing filth. You were both very agreeable after more than a few drinks over brunch.

"Mmph." You're the one kissing her neck now, her moans by your ear, begging. "More."

Jodi's dress is impossibly short. You both continue to stumble towards the usual couch as your hands find their way down to the back of her thighs, her ass, always so plush and easy and yours. Bunching up some of the thin black fabric by the small of her back, you expose her ass and smack. It's got this impish thing to it that she really likes, unrestrained and wanton—a trigger; she brings your lips together in this torrential kiss that pushes you over whatever was left of that edge and you’re left plummeting.

~

Twelve thirty, your best guess.

Her ass has tender red marks all over. It barely fades into the reflection on the glass pane of her apartment as Jodi kneels in front of you, hair sways accompanied by these sinful sounds: gags and chokes and slurps of spit.

“Oh fuck,” you growl.

You hold her head in place after every paced thrust. With hands on your thighs to help ease herself into it, she grips, leaving retaliatory marks of her own; Jodi’s equally eager to have your cock pushed down the back of her throat. The pain's worth every second, you figure—much like you've figured before.

Jodi's lips let go with a pop to then pump your length with all the drool and slick. She twists her wrist—it's slow, methodical, just how you like—and looks up. Stares right through you.

"You're so fucking hard," she moans.

And her puffed sleeves: one's fallen, lazily resting as one of her breasts spills over. She notices the way your eyes glaze over hers, down to her chest, and slides the other off.

~

It's this thing about lust, its persistent qualities, that has you both yielding to alcohol as a means to this debauched end. You lose track of time as per usual.

Jodi's on top, riding, bouncing. Her dress was flung off to god knows where and you're smothered by her tits, grabbing and sucking on her taut nipples interchangeably. Your cock throbs harder each time she slams down that soaked pussy of hers:

"Fuck." Jodi gasps and moans.  "It's so deep—so deep."

Her warm folds cream around your length; you can hear it with each upstroke of her hips. Your busy hands run up her used-up tits, flush-red chest, and around her neck, pulling her in for a needy kiss. Jodi struggles and stops bouncing—turns it into more of a grind—and by the time your tongues slather each other in spit she reaches her first, quivering orgasm.

~

When you reach yours—you assume it's getting close to one p.m. by now—Jodi's on all fours, wanton and needy and still riding that post-orgasm high.

She's always this lecherous, as if never fucked, never satisfied. Her hips push back against your thrusts to meet you halfway. She fucking loves it; this loud and steady cadence—deeper, harder—fills the room along with her moans, your grunts, and the occasional spank you give her bright red ass.

You cross the threshold together. At a certain point in time, Jodi's hand slipped under her and began to rub her clit incessantly. You could feel it every now and then, at the end of those hilting thrusts. And knowing just how desperate she became for another orgasm got you all the more closer to your peak.

When you finally do cum, ropes of white coat all around Jodi's cunt: some paint her throbbing lips as you pull out, mixing with her arousal as it drips its upcoming orgasm; another just above her ass, trickling down onto that puckered hole; and the rest lands on her cheeks, her back.

Jodi cums again, flutters, and her fingers work faster as she feels the glazing warmth. You can see her holes pulsating and you're terribly tempted to go in again—smear all that cum around her pussy and fuck it into her as echoing moans get louder and louder—but you're spent. 

As she spreads some of it with her fingers during the last few throbs of her reddened slit, you collapse to the side, sweaty and exhausted—downright consumed—and catch a glimpse of Jodi’s sultry stare. She smiles through the final bouts of her orgasm: