raven

It took convincing to get Emily to go on a date with you. A lot of convincing.

Due the age gap between you both being just over twelve years, your beautiful older girlfriend felt she was doing you a disservice. Maybe you’d get bored of her back pain and mid-life mood swings.

But, in an almost perverse way, her being older was part of the attraction: it felt like she knew more, experienced more, had more confidence.

And when she stopped dying her hair you felt like a feral animal.

Her being a little older clearly had its perks, but what enticed you most was the dominance. Being section-chief of the BAU had brought her more discipline, and taunting patience than you’d ever seen. She’d use it against you on nights where she’d have you begging under her while she was completely unfazed.

But with discipline came rules, and she had many.

As you lay in her sumptuous bed, sprawling out in the empty space next to you she usually fills, her scent still clinging to the sheets, you’re reminding of one rule in particular: do not touch yourself.

You know she does it to make the anticipation stronger when she’s away on cases, to make the first touch when she comes home that slightest bit sweeter.

But sometimes… you can’t help but get a little desperate, your hands slipping down your panties, and then photographing the evidence to send to her phone during work meetings. It earns you a spanking every time, yet you still continue.

This time, it’s less about taunting, and more about pure desperation.

She doesn’t want you to do this. You know that. But her scent overwhelms you as you lay in her bed, and you replay her last text to you in your mind: “The case might be a few more days, baby. Be good for me, okay? I’ll see you soon.”

The nicknames, the requests, it’s almost like she wants you to break her rules… right?

Your hand, slow and tentative, trails down your stomach as you close your eyes. Lower. Lower. You gasp, soft but desperate as your hands slips through your folds, wet from just the thought of Emily.

You imagine it’s her. Of course you do. Her fingers slipping inside you. Her hand kneading and gripping your boobs. You get lost in it: murmuring her name, whining as your hips lift up to grind against your hand.

A door being opened. Keys jingling.

You’re pulled out of your fantasy. Surely she’s not home. Surely n- A loud, tired sigh. Her sigh.

The stairs creek and you know she’s seconds away from walking in and suddenly all your earlier disregard for the rules evaporates.

You pull your hand from between your thighs and tug the thick covers over your body right before she walks in.

She undresses in the dark, not wanting to wake you, and every noise you hear is torture. The slow unbuckle of her belt you’ve heard so many times, a zipper sliding down. It’s tantalising. Excruciating. Every part of your skin yearns to be pressed against hers again.

Finally. God, finally she slips in beside you, and you expect to feel her chest solid against your back, her hand coming to stroke up your arm in that relaxing manner she always does.

Instead, you hear a scoff.

She’s your girlfriend, but she’s also a profiler.

“You’re really pretending to be asleep, my dear?” She teases, but it’s not a question.

“You never sleep on that side, and I can practically hear your heart beating.”

She knows what you’ve done. You know she knows. You don’t move. You’re caught.

“I wonder what got my pretty girl so nervous, hm?” Her hand trails up your arm, but not to stroke.

Shame curls in your gut as she grabs your hand, feeling the wetness still clinging to your fingers. You should pull away. Bury evidence of your desperation under the covers at least. But it feels too good to be humiliated by her.

“Oh.” She starts, her voice low. “My little slut didn’t even have time to wipe her hands.”

“Emily I-“ You start, turning towards her.

But she’s merely frowns, and corrects you.

“Mommy.”

She sees your pupils dilate, your pathetic little swallow. You fucking love when she demands that of you. The way she says it sounds so natural, so meant to be. Like the title is simply what she is to you.

“Mommy,” You sigh. “I just- you’ve been gone so long and I-“

She cuts in again, her body pressing against yours. She kisses you. Once. You lean forward for more. She leans back, but her hand cups over your soaked panties, and your cheeks burn.

“You just… got a little desperate, yeah?” Her voice is laced with feigned sympathy.

You nod, looking up at her. “Yeah I…

you’re always gone so long and I just needed you…”

She hums, fingers slipping under your panties, feeling you bare, and your hand clutches her arm to centre yourself.

“Then how come I can hold off?” She questions. “How come your mommy, who’s just as aching as you, can hold off on touching myself for one week, but you can’t. Hm?”

“Mommy, I’m sorry. I just- fuck.”

All thoughts fade into nonsense as her fingers move inside of you. Slow. Deep. Making sure you feel everything. She groans as you clench around her.

She would usually spank you, make you apologise for breaking her rules, but your mind is too cloudy to realise why she’s being so lenient tonight.

You arch into her touch like a pet starved of affection, hips bucking as pleas and thank you’s slip out of your mouth.

“Oh baby,” she coos. “My little slut just needed a good fucking didn’t she?”

You nod, gripping her arm as she guides you over the edge. You whine and twitch as she holds you, hips moving erratically.

She lets you ride it out until the very last twitch of your hips. And then she… doesn’t stop. You let out a quiet whine of overstimulation.

“Mommy I- I’m done.” You speak.

“Oh you are, are you?” She asks mockingly. “Well I’m not. You weren’t saying that when you were being all greedy, fucking yourself in my bed.”

You whimper, apologies spilling out as tears start to fall.

“You’re a big girl.” She mocks, but god does it fuel you. “You can take it.”

And she knows, and you know, that you’d do anything for her. You’d let her drive you into a haze of pleasure and pain until your mind broke into two.

So you nod. Of course you nod, whining as you cry. The pleasure fuels you just as much as the sting of overstimulation as your hips start to buck into her touch again, craving her even as you’re overloaded with feeling.

You let out a particularly broken whimper, and she knows you’re right there again, and she guides you through it just as before, allowing you to spill over her fingers.

She could be meaner. She could make you go for longer, but you look so beautifully wrecked, and she’s so tired that all she wants to do is pull you into her arms.

She whispers praises in your ear, kissing your nose, lips, cheeks. Anything she can touch, and she pulls her fingers out, bringing them to your mouth.

Your lips part instantly and she makes you taste yourself, lips moving over her fingers obediently.

“You’re so good for me.” She murmurs, now moving to pull you into her arms, kissing your forehead. “Such a beautiful girl when you cry.”

You bury your head in her shoulder, inhaling her scent like an addict after days of withdrawal. “I missed you. I hate it when you’re away.” Your voice is soft, heavy with tiredness and satisfaction.