marchaprilmaybe

The restaurant is warm from the number of people in it and candles burning in wax-streaked Chianti bottles on tables set too close together. Ona's knee presses against Lucy's under the tablecloth for the entire meal, and by the time they've finished the second glass of wine, Lucy can feel her skin buzzing.

The walk home is only short, and they amble down the high street just after ten, the pavement still dark from the rain earlier. Ona reaches for Lucy's hand somewhere near the off-licence, lacing their fingers together and Lucy squeezes back and says nothing. The silence between them is that kind that says everything.

As they arrive back at Lucy’s flat, she realises that she’s missed Ona more than usual recently. It seems that every time they’re forced to part, it becomes harder and harder. She feels the loneliness deep in her bones these days, and she doesn’t want to think about having to be apart from Ona again right now.

She’s pulled out of her reverie as her back hits the inside of the front door with a soft thud, and Ona's mouth is on hers before the lock has fully clicked shut behind them. The hallway is dark and neither of them bothers to fumble for the light switch. Ona's hands find Lucy's waist, pulling her close, fingers curling into the fabric of the fitted top Lucy wore to dinner.

Lucy's hands come up to Ona's jaw, thumbs brushing the sharp line of it, and she opens her mouth against Ona's, tasting wine on her. Ona pulls back first, just far enough that her breath ghosts across Lucy's wet lips. Her fingers are still hooked in Lucy's top, knuckles pressed to the warm skin above her hip bones.

"Lucy." Ona's voice is low, not light like it was over dinner as they chatted about this and that. There’s a kind of richness to it that makes Lucy's stomach tighten with anticipation. She has a feeling she knows what’s coming next.

"Yeah?"

Ona's thumb traces a slow circle on Lucy's hip, just above her waistband, and Lucy swears she can feel it all over her body. “Do you wanna try a scene tonight?"

So she was right, that was what was coming. Her breath catches a little bit nevertheless and she feels her answer before she says it, feels it pooling between her legs, sudden and heavy. She's been thinking about it for days. Thinking about it in the shower, in the car on the way to training, the other day when she walked Narla in the same loop twice before realising what she was doing.

She’s been thinking about Ona's voice and Ona's hands and the way Ona had promised that they’d do it soon, but not told her exactly when. The anticipation’s been killing her.

And yeah, she said she wanted the control taken from her, but it’s so difficult not knowing what’s going on and giving it all up to Ona. She trusts Ona with her life, but it’s been a tough few days.

"Yeah, I really want to." Her voice comes out rougher than she intends. She clears her throat a little and decides that if they’re doing this tonight, she’s going to lean right into it and open herself up to whatever comes next. "Been wet all weekend thinking about it."

Ona's grip on her hip tightens, just slightly, like she can’t really control it. "You've been thinking about it?"

Lucy nods, her head still tilted back against the door, a glazed look in her eyes. She can feel her cheeks getting warm, not used to speaking like this with Ona. She’s never exposed this side of herself to anyone, come to think of it. But now that they’ve started she can’t repress the way she craves it, craves to feel a little depraved.

"And you got yourself all wet for me, cari?" Ona's thumb presses harder against the edge of her hip bone as she speaks, and Lucy closes her eyes in an attempt to make herself feel braver.

"Mhm, yeah," Lucy replies and laughs a little, "I didn’t touch myself though, wanted to wait for you."

Ona’s quiet for a while, then she steps back just enough to look at Lucy properly in the thin light leaking through the glass pane on the door from the streetlamp outside. Lucy’s cheeks are smattered with pink, more so than they were from just the wine, and Ona can’t help but be surprised at how honest she’s being.

"Okay then, pretty girl, let’s go over the safewords," she says, “just one more time, so you definitely feel okay using them."

Lucy straightens up from the door. Her pulse is hammering, but she knows that going over the safewords again will ground her a bit, make her feel more secure in what they’re about to do.

"Green means everything’s good, yellow means slow down or check in. Red means stop everything."

"And if you can't speak?"

"I’ll squeeze your hand, or tap anywhere I can reach."

Ona nods. Her face is serious and focused, and Lucy can’t stop the thrill that runs through her. She literally has no idea what Ona’s planning to do, besides the rough suggestions they’d shared.

"Bien." Ona reaches past Lucy and flips the hallway light on. The sudden yellow brightness makes Lucy blink as her eyes adjust. "You’re gonna go to the bedroom, take off all your clothes and bend over the bed. I'll come in when I'm ready."

Lucy's heart kicks against her ribs. She doesn't move for a second, caught between the command and the need to process it, and Ona just watches her wait, watches the way Lucy's lips part and her chest rises and falls a little faster.

“Go," Ona says, having given her a little time to think.

Lucy goes without saying anything, now even more intrigued as to what Ona’s going to have her do.

When she gets to the bedroom, it’s cool and dark. Lucy pulls the door shut behind her and stands for a moment in the quiet, just processing what she’s been told to do. She knows she doesn’t have ages to stand and ponder, but Ona will give her a little to prepare herself mentally.

Her hands are steady when she pulls her top over her head, steadier than she feels at least. She folds it and puts it on the dresser, and she knows she doesn’t need to, but it makes her feel better than leaving it rumpled on the floor would.

She steps out of her trousers and does the same with them, then takes off her bra and underwear, and when the air touches her skin she's suddenly very aware of every inch of herself. She’s quietly confident about her body usually, but there’s something about the atmosphere tonight that makes her second guess herself a little.

The bed is unmade from this morning, sheets still rumpled, and Lucy bends over the end of it, pressing her palms flat into the duvet, her chest and stomach meeting the mattress. She keeps her legs straight, feet on the floor, and the position opens her up.

She rests her cheek against the cotton and stares at the wall as she waits for Ona.

Seconds pass. Maybe a minute. The flat is quiet enough that she can hear the fridge humming in the kitchen, the noise of the radiator cooling. Then, she hears Ona move in the hallway. It’s quiet, just odd sounds like footsteps, the sound of a cupboard opening and closing, the tap running.

Ona is taking her sweet time, and every second that passes makes Lucy more aware of the position she's in; bent over her own bed, naked and face down, waiting. Her cunt is throbbing gently with a pulse that matches her heartbeat, and she can feel how wet she is, has been, since the restaurant, since Ona's knee first pressed against hers under the tablecloth.

She shifts her weight slightly, and the movement makes her thighs press together. It sends a sharp little spark through her clit that makes her inhale sharply through her nose but she forces herself to be still. Ona hasn't told her she can move. Ona hasn't told her she can do anything except wait.

She doesn’t want to do anything unless Ona tells her to, she doesn’t know what might happen to her if she disobeys. As much as the thought intrigues her, she wants to be good tonight, wants to yield to Ona.

The door opens quietly.

Lucy decides not to turn her head. She hears Ona's footsteps, slower than usual, and then she hears the soft sound of the door clicking shut. After that, there’s nothing, and she knows Ona is standing there looking at her.

Lucy can feel it, Ona's gaze moving over her bare back, her waist, the curve where her hips meet the mattress, the round swell of her arse lifted in the air, her pussy exposed between her thighs. And although she’s nervous, she’s never felt so seen.

"Good girl." Ona's voice comes from behind her, and the word lands on Lucy's skin like a touch. "Following what I tell you so well."

Lucy's fingers curl into the duvet. She doesn't say anything because doesn't know if she's supposed to, and she fights the urge to turn over and pull Ona down on top of her.

"You look so good like this," Ona says, and her voice changes the more confident she becomes, low with desire. "Bent over and waiting. You know what you look like, Lucy? You look needy. Desperate. Like you've been thinking about this for days and you don't know what to do with yourself."

Lucy's breath shudders out of her and she presses her forehead into the mattress. She doesn’t know why she’d expected Ona to be anything less than perfect at this.

"I can see how much you want me," Ona continues, and Lucy hears her moving closer, one step, then another. "Could see how wet you were from the door, bebé."

Heat floods Lucy's face and chest, spreading down her neck. She simultaneously wants to close her legs and wants to open them wider but she does neither because most of all she wants to be good for Ona.

"That's it," Ona says. "Stay just like that."

The mattress dips and Ona sits next to her. Lucy can feel the shift in the bed, the warmth of another body close to hers. Ona is perched on the edge of the bed, level with Lucy's hips, and when Lucy opens her eyes and turns her head slightly, she can see Ona's thighs beside her, still fully dressed in the dark jeans and top she wore to dinner.

The contrast between Ona being fully clothed and herself naked, makes something tighten low in Lucy's belly, and she needs to be touched so desperately that if this was a normal evening she’d have started teasing herself by now.

Ona's hand rests on the mattress near Lucy's hip but doesn’t touch her. It’s just close enough that Lucy can feel the warmth radiating from her palm and she longs to arch herself into it.

"Okay, I want to know how you’re feeling," Ona says, her voice softening slightly, "what’s your colour?"

"Green," Lucy whispers, it comes out rough and scraped.

"Mm, good girl."

The praise hits Lucy somewhere deep that she’s never really felt before, somewhere that makes her cunt clench around nothing. She squeezes her eyes shut and pushes it down.

"Now," Ona says, and her hand lifts from the mattress and hovers, Lucy can feel it, the displacement of air above her skin, the promise of contact. "I'm going to touch you. But you're not allowed to make any noise. If you do make a noise, I'll spank you. Do you understand?"

Lucy nods. Her throat is tight. Although she’d told Ona that she liked the idea of being spanked, she hadn’t expected Ona to act on it the first time they tried a scene.

"Dilo."

"Yes, I understand."

"That's good." Ona's fingers finally make contact, just her fingertips, trailing along the curve of Lucy's arse, tracing the swell of it with a slowness that’s almost cruel. "And you'll take it, won't you? You'll take whatever I give you, because you're mine tonight."

Lucy's fingers twist deeper into the duvet and she bites the inside of her cheek. Ona's touch is feather-light and deeply maddening, tracing down over the fullest part of her arse, along the crease where her thigh meets her cheek, and then lower.

Her fingertips brush the sensitive skin of Lucy's inner thigh, and Lucy's whole body tenses, a full-body tremor that she just barely contains. Not touching herself for over a week has made her sensitive in a way she hasn’t felt for so long.

Ona watches and Lucy can feel her watching, can feel her focused attention like a physical thing. Ona's fingers trail higher along her inner thigh, and they come away wet. Lucy knows they do, she can feel her own slick on her thighs, has been able to feel it since she bent over the bed.

"Dios, Lucía." Ona's voice is quiet, almost admiring. "You're dripping. You really have been thinking about this, haven't you? Such a slutty little thing, so desperate for me to touch you."

The words sound so much dirtier in Ona’s accent it almost feels wrong hearing her say them, but Lucy’s clit is throbbing as soon as she speaks, and she has to fight not to moan and keen into Ona.

Instead, she presses her face harder into the mattress and doesn't make a sound. She's determined not to. She can do this. She can stay quiet.

Ona's fingers return to her thigh, and this time they trace upward with purpose rather than just teasing, moving toward the wet heat of Lucy's cunt. Lucy can feel the pulse in her clit harder now, and when Ona's fingertips reach the outer edge of her pussy, Lucy forgets how to breathe for a moment.

"¿Qué color?" Ona asks. Her fingers are still, resting against the slick fold of Lucy's cunt, not moving.

Lucy forces herself to exhale. "Green."

Ona's middle finger slides between Lucy's folds, and the sound it makes, wet, obscenely wet, fills the quiet room. Lucy's jaw locks and she stares at the wall, and she fights with everything she has not to make a sound.

Ona's finger moves slowly at first, gathering the wetness and spreading it along Lucy's slit, then she finds Lucy's clit and presses against it, just holds there with a firm, steady pressure that makes Lucy's thighs shake.

"You're so wet for me mi vida," Ona murmurs, and her finger doesn't move. It just presses, and the pressure is everything and nothing, too much and not enough. "Look at you. Bent over the bed like una zorra, getting my hand all wet. It feels good?"

Lucy's breath comes fast and shallow through her nose and she nods. She can feel the orgasm building already, not too close yet, but she feels the potential of it. Ona's finger on her clit is a point of white heat, and every cell in Lucy's body wants to rock back against it, wants to grind, wants to chase the pressure until it breaks her open.

But she doesn't move. She doesn't make a sound.

Ona begins to circle her clit, maddeningly slowly. The pad of her finger traces a tight, agonising circle around it, and Lucy's entire body goes rigid. The sensation is blinding and Ona definitely knows what she's doing. She knows exactly how to touch Lucy, knows the rhythm and the pressure, and she's using all of it now, like she's taking Lucy apart piece by piece.

"You're doing so well," Ona says, and her voice is warm, almost tender, even as her finger works Lucy's clit with devastating precision. "Such a good girl staying quiet for me. You look so pretty when you're trying not to moan. Your whole body is shaking, do you know that? You're trembling. You want something inside, don't you? You want me to fill you up."

Lucy's teeth are clenched so hard her jaw aches. Where the fuck has that come from? Ona never usually speaks to her like this, not even when she’s topped her in the past, and Lucy’s brain loses function. A thin, high sound is building in her throat, it’s not a moan yet, not quite, but it’s the precursor to one, the thing that comes before the sound breaks free. She swallows it and has to swallow again.

Ona's finger slides down from Lucy's clit, through the slick wetness of her slit, and finds the entrance of her cunt. She doesn't push in, she just rests there, the tip of her finger against the opening, and Lucy feels her own body trying to clench around it, trying to pull it in.

"Mmm so desperate," Ona breathes, “so tight and so wet. This pretty little hole is just begging for it. You can't help yourself, can you? Such a greedy pussy."

The sound escapes then, she can’t hold it back anymore. It's small, barely a gasp, more of a sharp exhale that catches in the back of her throat, but it's a noise and they both know it. Lucy's eyes squeeze shut and she feels her mistake the moment it happens, feels it hang in the air between them.

Ona's finger stills. "What was that Lucía?"

Lucy doesn't answer. Her heart is slamming against her ribs. She can’t help the excitement she feels at what’s about to happen.

"I asked you a question, Lucy. What was that noise?"

"I'm sorry— I—"

"You made a sound, didn’t you?" Ona's voice is hard and clipped,and Lucy hates that it turns her on even more, hates that she’s excited about what this means. "I told you not to. And you couldn't even last five minutes, could you? Five minutes of being quiet, and you couldn't manage it. What does that make you?"

Lucy's face burns. "I—"

"It makes you a needy little slut who can't follow simple instructions."

Ona's hand lifts from Lucy's cunt, and Lucy hears her bring her fingers to her mouth, hears the soft sound of Ona tasting her.

"You taste so good, though, dios mío,” she says, moaning performatively at the taste, “could spend hours between your legs.”

Lucy's cunt throbs at the words. She can feel herself clenching, feel the empty ache of it, and she wants Ona's fingers back so badly it's a physical pain.

"So now I’m gonna spank you," Ona says. "That's what I said would happen. What’s your colour?"

"Green," Lucy manages, though her voice is barely there.

"Good girl.” Ona shifts on the bed, and Lucy can feel her positioning herself in order to get a better angle. It takes a bit of time, but she gets there eventually, and though it probably should feel a bit awkward, it doesn’t. "I'm going to give you five and we’re going to count them. And you're going to thank me after each one. If you forget, we start again."

Lucy's fingers tighten in the duvet again. She nods and braces herself, wondering briefly if this version of Ona had been hidden beneath her usually bright and sunny persona the entire time.

"Okay," Ona says, and then her palm connects with Lucy's arse before Lucy can think anything else.

The sound is sharp in the quiet of the room and the pain arrives a half-second later, a hot, spreading sting that blooms across the fullest part of Lucy's right cheek. Her whole body jerks, but she doesn't make a sound.

She’s not sure whether she’s still supposed to be staying quiet, and decides she’ll try to be good, wants to be good for Ona. She wants to be Ona’s good girl, wants to please her.

"One. Thank you," Lucy says, and her voice is actually steadier than she expected.

"Mmm good girl." Ona's hand smooths over the spot she just struck, and the touch is warm, gentle, a stark contrast to the sting. Her palm cups Lucy's arse, squeezing once, and Lucy feels the ache melt into something warmer, something that pulses between her legs. She keens at Ona’s words, and thinks she wouldn’t mind staying suspended in this headspace forever, never making another decision again.

"You took that so well, such a pretty ass. It's already pink for me."

After that, the second strike comes without warning. It lands on her left cheek this time, lower, where the flesh is softer, and the sting is sharper, more concentrated. Lucy's breath catches but she holds it and manages to stop herself from making a noise.

"Two. Thank you." Her voice is breathy and light, a strange sound to herself.

"Beautiful." Ona's hand rubs the spot, and her thumb trails along the crease of Lucy's arse, dipping lower, brushing the sensitive skin between her cunt and her arsehole. Lucy's thighs tense in anticipation of the next slap.

"You're being so good for me now. Maybe you just needed a little correction. Needed someone to show you how to behave. Is that it bebé?"

Ona spanks her again before Lucy can formulate a response; it catches the undercurve of Lucy's arse, where the skin is thin and tender, and the pain flares white-hot, makes Lucy's eyes water. She gasps, but just a gasp not a moan, and she's not sure if that counts, but Ona doesn't stop her, so she speaks anyway.

"Three. Thank you."

"That's it," Ona says. Her voice is warm, approving, and she leans down. Lucy can feel the shift of air, the warmth of Ona's breath near her skin, and presses her lips to the spot she just struck. The kiss is soft and it makes Lucy's cunt clench so hard she feels it in her stomach.

"You're doing so well. Taking your punishment like a good girl. You look so pretty with my handprints on your arse. Mmm, you love being slutty for me, don’t you?"

The fourth strike lands on her right cheek again, overlapping with the first, and the double impact of it makes Lucy's whole body shudder. The pain is deeper now, a hot, throbbing ache that sinks into the muscle, and Lucy can feel it radiating downward, pooling between her legs, feeding the relentless pulse in her clit.

She couldn’t have guessed how much she likes this, how much she knows she’ll crave it as soon as this finishes.

"Four. Thank you." Her voice wavers on the last word.

"One more," Ona says. "You're doing so well. Can you take one more for me, amor?”

"Yeah." Lucy's answer is immediate. She doesn't need to think about it. She wants it, wants the sting, wants the heat, wants whatever Ona is willing to give her. "Please."

"Please?" Ona's voice carries a smile. "Look at you, begging for me. Such good manners. What’s your colour, cariño?"

"Green."

The fifth strike is the hardest yet. Ona's palm connects with the centre of Lucy's right cheek again, flat and firm, and the pain is blinding, a flash that makes Lucy's vision blur, and then it melts, becomes a deep, throbbing heat that sinks into her cunt and makes her whole pelvis ache with need. Lucy's mouth opens but she clamps it shut, bites down on her own lip hard enough to taste copper.

"Five. Thank you." Her voice breaks on the number and she feels like she could come from any slight touch.

Ona's hand rests on the hot, stinging skin of Lucy's arse, but she doesn't rub or soothe this time. She just holds, palm flat against the warmth she's created, and Lucy can feel a trembling start, deep, involuntary, a full-body shudder that moves through her like a wave.

"Good girl," Ona says. "That's five and you took it so well." Her thumb traces a slow line down the crease of Lucy's arse, and Lucy feels it like a brand, feels every nerve ending light up under the touch. "You’re all red and hot now, I can feel how warm it is on my hand."

Lucy's face is pressed deep into the mattress. She's breathing hard, each exhale a controlled push through her nose, and her cunt is aching, clenching, so empty it hurts. She can feel her own wetness cooling on her inner thighs, can feel the swollen pulse of her clit demanding attention, and she doesn't know if she's allowed to ask for more.

She wants to beg until her throat aches, beg for whatever Ona is willing to give her. Something, anything, that will relieve this frustration.

"What’s your colour now, pretty girl?" Ona asks. Her hand is still on Lucy's arse, warm and steady.

"Green." The word comes out thick, unsteady. Lucy had been worried that Ona asking her what colour she was would feel a little performative and unnecessary, but in reality it helps to ground her, to show her that they’re in this together even though the power is so skewed towards Ona.

"Good." Ona shifts on the bed, and her hand slides lower, from the curve of Lucy's arse to the tender skin of her inner thigh, and then higher, until her fingers brush the outer edge of Lucy's cunt. Lucy's entire body goes still, and she’s suddenly very worried about the possibility that she’s going to come without permission.

"I'm going to touch you again. It’s the same rules, no noise. But if you make a sound, I'll spank your pussy this time. Do you understand?"

Lucy's stomach drops, her cunt throbs. She’d read about that, and clearly Ona has too, but she didn’t think they’d be trying it now. The idea sends a shiver through her, though, and she feels herself getting wetter.

"Yes."

"Say it back to me."

"If I make a noise, you'll spank my cunt." The words are vulgar, and feel vulgar coming out of her mouth. They’ve talked dirty before, always do, really, but never like this. It makes her feel filthy in the most delicious of ways.

"Good girl." Ona's fingers slide between Lucy's folds again, and the wetness is obscene, a slick, hot mess that coats Ona's fingers instantly. "Dios, Lucy. You're even wetter than before. Did you like being spanked?"

Lucy doesn't answer. She can't. She's too busy trying not to moan, trying to lock the sound behind her teeth, because the feel of Ona's fingers on her cunt after the spanking is almost unbearable. Every nerve is raw, sensitised, and the lightest touch sends sparks cascading through her pelvis.

Ona finds her clit again and she draws slow, tight, circles that almost match the rhythm of Lucy's pulse. Lucy's thighs are shaking, a fine, constant tremor that she can't control, and her fingers are twisted so tightly into the duvet that the fabric is stretched completely taut.

"You're so close already?" Ona asks, and Lucy swears she can hear her smirking, if that’s even possible. "I can feel it, you're right there. But you're not going to come yet. And you're not going to make a sound either."

Lucy's jaw is locked so tight her teeth ache. Her orgasm is building, a heavy, coiling pressure deep within her, tightening with every circle of Ona's finger. She can feel it in her stomach, in her thighs, in the arch of her spine. The pressure is enormous, relentless, and Ona isn't stopping, isn't easing off, just keeps that same steady, maddening rhythm.

"Look at you," Ona murmurs. "Bent over, dripping, your ass red from my hand, and you can't even make a sound. You're holding it all in. Such a good, desperate little slut. You want to come so badly. I can feel your pussy trying to clench around nothing. It's pathetic. It's perfect."

The words crack something open and a sound escapes Lucy; a small, broken noise that comes from the back of her throat before she can catch it. It's barely audible. It doesn't matter. Ona hears it anyway, just like she did the last time. Lucy wonders if part of her made it because she craves the punishment.

Her hand stills on Lucy's cunt. "That was another noise, hmm?"

Lucy's breath catches and her whole body tenses.

"I told you," Ona says, and her voice is low, almost gentle, which is worse than if she were angry. "I told you what would happen. And you couldn't help yourself, could you? You just had to make a noise. You're too needy and desperate. You can't control yourself."

Lucy's eyes are burning. She presses her forehead into the mattress. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise, I know you can be a good girl for me if you try." Ona's hand lifts from Lucy's cunt, and Lucy pushes back after it.

"¿Qué color?"

"Green."

"Buena chica." Ona shifts again, and this time her hand comes down not on Lucy's arse but lower, between her legs, her palm connecting with the swollen, wet flesh of Lucy's cunt.

The pain is different, a little sharper, though Ona doesn’t hit her as hard. It’s definitely more intimate though. Her body jerks, and a strangled sound that’s half gasp, half sob catches in her throat, but she swallows it. She holds it in. She doesn't make a sound.

"One," she whispers. "Thank you."

"Good girl," Ona says, and her voice is warm, proud. "That's it. Tómalo por mí. You're being so good."

The second slap lands slightly higher, catching the top of Lucy's clit, and the sensation is blinding, a sharp burst that melts instantly into pleasure, so much pleasure that Lucy's hips buck involuntarily and her cunt clenches hard around nothing. She bites down on her lip and tastes blood and doesn’t make a sound. She can feel herself teetering on the brink of orgasm though, and takes a deep breath.

"Two. Thank you."

"Beautiful," Ona breathes. "You're being so good for me, Lucy. So good. Your pussy is so pretty when it's pink."

Lucy can't speak. If she speaks, she'll moan. She’s so close she can practically taste it.

Ona's hand comes down a third time, and this one catches Lucy directly on her clit and the pain and pleasure merge into something indistinguishable, a white-hot wave that crests and breaks, and Lucy feels the orgasm slam into her. It’s sudden and unbidden, and she hears herself make a sound, a high, broken moan that tears out of her throat before she can stop it.

Her cunt spasms, clenching around nothing, and her whole body shakes with it, and she can feel herself getting wetter, feel the slick running down her thighs as the orgasm pulses through her in sharp, rhythmic waves. She's coming, she's coming without permission from a spanking, and the sound she's making is obscene, a moan that dissolves into a whimper that dissolves into nothing.

Ona's hand is between her legs, and Lucy can feel her fingers pressing against her cunt, feeling the spasms, the wetness. "Oh," Ona says, and her voice is quiet, almost wondering. "You came just from being spanked. You’re so dirty Lucía, you couldn't wait, could you? You just came all over yourself."

Lucy's face is burning. Her body is still shaking, aftershocks rolling through her in diminishing waves, and she feels exposed. She can feel Ona's eyes on her, on the wet mess she's made of herself, and the shame and the pleasure are so tangled she can't separate them.

"I— I'm sorry," she manages. "I didn't mean to—"

She doesn’t want to disobey Ona, didn’t mean to come. She knows it’s stupid, but she feels herself getting a little upset at the thought of disappointing Ona.

"Shh." Ona's hand moves from between her legs to the small of Lucy's back, and the touch is warm, grounding. "You're okay. Colour?"

Lucy takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Still green."

"Good." Ona's hand traces a slow line up Lucy's spine, and Lucy feels the touch like a balm, soothing and possessive. "You did so well. You came without permission, and we'll deal with that later. But right now, I want you to know something."

Lucy turns her head slightly. Ona is sitting beside her, still fully dressed, and her face is soft in the low light.

"You were perfect," Ona says. "Every time you took what I gave you and didn’t try to think for yourself, you were perfect. I'm so proud of you."

Lucy's eyes sting and she doesn't know if it's the orgasm or the words or the way Ona is looking at her. She reaches out, and Ona's hand meets hers, and their fingers lace together on the rumpled sheets.

"Thank you," Lucy whispers.

Ona squeezes her hand. "Don't thank me yet," she says, and the corner of her mouth curves.

"So," Ona says, and Lucy feels weirdly shy now that she’s being looked at head on and Ona isn’t distracted. "You came without my permission, didn’t you cariño?"

Lucy's fingers tighten around Ona's as she waits to hear what Ona’s come up with as her punishment. She figures she should probably try to placate Ona a little.

"I know." Lucy's voice comes out quiet, softened by the duvet pressed to her mouth. "I'm—"

"Don't apologise bebé." Ona lifts her hand from Lucy's lower back and places it against the curve of her shoulder blade instead, stroking her thumb across the skin in a calming way. "That was so hot, watching you get all needy like that, got me so wet watching you Lucía."

"But you still came," Ona continues, and her tone doesn't sharpen but Lucy can tell she’s in for it. "So here’s what we’re gonna do."

Lucy turns her head, pressing her forehead into the duvet so that her face is hidden.

"Mírame."

Lucy rolls her head to the side. Her eyes are glassy, the pupils blown wide, and there's a flush spreading from her throat up across her cheekbone, mottled and uneven. A strand of dark hair sticks to her temple, damp with sweat. Ona thinks she’s never looked more gorgeous.

"What’s your colour? Don’t want it getting too much for you.” Ona says tenderly.

"I’m still green."

"Good." Ona withdraws her hand from Lucy's back and stands. The mattress shifts as the weight redistributes and Lucy's fingers flex against the duvet, grasping at nothing. Her eyes stay on Ona as she moves around the foot of the bed to the other side.

Ona's blouse is still tucked into her jeans and still buttoned up in contrast to Lucy's nakedness, to the way Lucy's skin catches the low light from the bedside lamp, every mark and flush and goosebump visible.

Ona stops at the side of the bed nearest the wall, where the light falls in a warm stripe across the rumpled duvet. She looks down at Lucy, at the straightened length of her spine, the dimples above her arse, the reddened skin where her handprints still bloom in overlapping ovals.

"Okay," Ona says as she reaches for the hem of her blouse and begins unbuttoning from the bottom, keeping her eyes firmly on Lucy the entire time. "You're gonna lie on your back with your head at the foot of the bed."

Lucy pushes herself up onto her forearms, the muscles in her stomach contracting as she lifts. The movement is slow, as if she's making sure her body will cooperate after what just happened.

She turns over and slides up the bed on her back, then repositions herself so her head hangs just over the foot edge, her dark hair falling towards the floor.

Ona finishes with the buttons and shrugs the blouse off her shoulders. The fabric catches the lamplight as it slides down her arms, and she folds it before setting it on the chest of drawers behind her. She unclasps her bra and lets it fall away from her, smiling at the look in Lucy’s eyes as she watches.

From where she lies, Lucy can see the underside of her breasts, the soft plane of her stomach, the faint line where her jeans sit on her hips. Lucy's lips part, and her tongue touches her lower lip as she waits for Ona’s next move.

Ona unzips her jeans and pushes the denim down over her hips, stepping out of one leg, then the other, and stands in black underwear that match the discarded bra. A small, dark patch at the centre of them makes visible what her controlled expression doesn’t; the evidence of her own arousal, soaked into the fabric.

She steps closer to the bed, to where Lucy's head hangs off the edge, and stops with her thighs bracketing Lucy's field of vision. From this angle, Lucy can practically smell how turned on Ona is, and she fights the urge to pull her down.

"You made a mess of yourself and I had to watch you come without touching myself," Ona says, looking down at Lucy's upturned face. "So now you're going to make it up to me. I’m gonna sit on your face, and you're going to use that mouth for something other than making sounds you weren't allowed to make."

Lucy's chest rises sharply. Her nipples are still peaked, still flushed, and the muscles in her stomach jump beneath her skin. She swallows, her throat working visibly in this position, the tendons standing out.

"Yes," she says. The word comes out rough, like she can’t hide how much this is doing for her.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, please."

Ona's mouth curves, softening at one corner that acknowledges the politeness. She hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her underwear and draws them down, stepping out of them quickly. The cool air of the room touches her skin, and she feels the slickness between her thighs as she moves.

"Ona—" Lucy starts, and then stops herself, as if she doesn't have the right words, or maybe too many of them.

"¿Qué?"

"I want to." Lucy's voice is steady now, steadier than it has any right to be, given the way her hands are gripping the duvet on either side of her hips. "I want you to."

Ona smiles and climbs onto the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight as she straddles Lucy's torso, her knees settling on either side of Lucy's ribs. The position puts her cunt above Lucy's sternum, close enough that Lucy can smell her. Ona's wetness has left a thin trail along her inner thigh, catching the light.

She walks her knees forward, one at a time, until she's above Lucy's collarbones, then her shoulders. Lucy's face is directly below her now, framed by Ona's thighs, and from here Ona can see the way Lucy's eyes widen when Ona's pussy gets close enough to feel the heat radiating off it, the way her nostrils flare as she inhales, the way her jaw unclenches and her mouth opens slightly.

"Hands on my thighs," Ona says. "Don't move them until I tell you, and tap on my leg if you need to stop.”

Lucy lifts her hands from the duvet and places them on Ona's legs, palms flat against the outside of her thighs, fingers curving around to the soft skin of her inner leg.

Ona lowers herself. The first contact is the wet seam of her pussy pressing against Lucy's chin, and Lucy's fingers tighten on Ona's thighs, leaving little crescents where her nails press in.

Ona shifts forward, and her cunt drags across Lucy's mouth as Lucy licks into her, starting at the base of Ona's slit and dragging upward with the flat of it, wide and wet, gathering the taste of her. Ona's thighs tense under Lucy's hands for a moment before relaxing again.

"Ay, así," Ona says. Her voice has dropped, not in volume but in register, the words coming from lower in her chest. "Right there. Don't rush, wanna feel it."

Lucy licks again, slower this time, and the tip of her tongue traces the inner edge of Ona's outer lip. Each pass draws a wet sound from between Ona's legs, obscene in the quiet room.

Ona begins to move. Not much, just a subtle rolling of her hips that matches the rhythm of Lucy's tongue. She braces one hand on the wall behind the bed, her fingers splaying against the plaster, and the other hand comes down to Lucy's hair, gathering a fistful at the crown of her head. The grip isn't tight enough to hurt but it’s anchoring, a way to hold Lucy exactly where she wants her.

"Mmm, you look so good like this," Ona says, looking down, a little breathless. From this angle, she can see Lucy's face only in fragments, the bridge of her nose, her closed eyes, the jaw working as her tongue moves.

Lucy's chin is wet, glistening, and her cheeks are flushed a deep, mottled pink that spreads down her throat. "Face between my thighs, mouth full of me. This is what you're for, isn't it?"

Lucy makes a sound of agreement, a hum that vibrates against Ona's cunt, and the sensation makes Ona's grip on her hair tighten. A sharp intake of breath through Ona's nose. Her hips stutter, losing their rhythm for half a second before resettling.

"Dirty girl," Ona murmurs. The words are quiet, almost tender, but they carry weight. "Couldn't keep yourself from coming, could you? Too desperate, too greedy. And now look at you, face soaked, tongue in my pussy, making up for being so messy."

Ona’s voice is breathy, like she can’t hide how good she feels anymore. Lucy's tongue finds Ona's clit and circles it, slow, applying pressure with the flat rather than the tip. She can feel the it pulse against her, a flutter that matches the heartbeat she can sense through the skin of Ona's thighs.

She seals her lips around it and sucks gently, just enough to create a sort of vacuum, and Ona's hips jerk forward, grinding her cunt harder against Lucy's mouth.

"Fuck, sí, así mismo." Ona's voice cracks on the last words, her controller persona breaking for the first time. Her head tips forward, her chin dropping to her chest, and her breathing has gone ragged. Each exhale comes out in a short, sharp burst through her mouth. "Good girl. Good fucking girl."

The praise lands somewhere in Lucy's chest and radiates outward, and Lucy wants to be her good girl, wants to do whatever Ona commands her. She redoubles her effort, alternating between broad, flat licks and focused, pointed strokes against Ona's clit, reading the responses in the way Ona's thighs clench and release around her head.

Ona rides her face with increasing intent. The rolling motion of her hips has become a grind, deliberate, her pussy sliding across Lucy's mouth and chin with each pass. Lucy's entire lower face is coated in slick, and she can feel Ona's arousal dripping down her cheeks. She never wants to stop.

And then Ona's free hand, the one that was braced against the wall, moves down. It travels along her own thigh, past her hip, and reaches behind her. Lucy feels the shift in Ona's weight first, the way her centre of gravity adjusts, and then she feels fingers on her stomach.

Lucy's abdominal muscles contract involuntarily, a sharp flinch that makes Ona pause.

"Colour?" Ona asks, the word coming out breathless, and she lifts herself off Lucy’s face briefly so that she can speak.

"Green. Green."

Ona's hand slides lower. Her fingers trace the line between Lucy's hip and the top of her thigh, skirting the edge of where Lucy wants her without touching it. Lucy's legs shift on the duvet, her feet pressing into the mattress, her knees falling apart like an invitation, instinctive, her body opening before her mind can catch up.

"You're still so wet," Ona observes. Her fingers reach the crease where Lucy's thigh meets her torso, and she trails two fingertips along the outer edge of Lucy's pussy, not parting her, just tracing the contour. The touch is featherlight, barely there, and it makes Lucy's hips cant upward, chasing the pressure. "From coming without permission from being spanked on your cunt, and having your mouth on me."

Lucy moans. The sound is muffled by Ona's pussy, vibrating against the wet flesh, and Ona's hips grind down in response, her own moan slipping out, low and guttural, bitten off at the end.

"Don’t stop, Lucía," Ona breathes, and Lucy realises she's stopped licking, her mouth frozen open against Ona's cunt while Ona's fingers trace the outside of hers. She resumes immediately, tongue finding Ona's clit again, circling, sucking with a desperate but sloppy rhythm that matches the urgency building in her own hips.

Ona's fingers part Lucy and he cool air of the room hits the wet heat of her cunt. Lucy keens, a high, thin sound that disappears into Ona's flesh. Ona slides two fingers through the slick, gathering it, spreading it upward over Lucy's clit and back down again in a slow, deliberate stroke that makes Lucy's thighs shake.

"You're dripping," Ona says. Her voice is so rough, the edges frayed, and she's breathing hard now, each word pushed out on an exhale. "All over my fingers, making a mess of my hand."

Lucy sucks Ona's clit into her mouth again, and Ona's hips lose their rhythm entirely to give way for a jerky, uncontrolled thrust forward that grinds her cunt across Lucy's entire face. Ona's fingers press harder against Lucy's slit, and one fingertip slips inside, just the first knuckle, and Lucy's walls clench around it, pulling, greedy.

"Dios, you're tight." Ona works her finger deeper, a slow, steady push that sinks into Lucy to the second knuckle. The wet heat envelops her, and she can feel the pulse of Lucy's cunt around her finger. She adds a second finger, and Lucy's moan is long and continuous, a vibration that travels through Ona's cunt and up her spine.

Ona begins to fuck her. Slow, curling strokes, two fingers sliding in to the knuckle and then drawing back, dragging against the front wall where the tissue is ridged and swollen. Each stroke presses into that spot, and Lucy's hips buck off the bed, her stomach contracting, her hands gripping Ona's thighs so hard her knuckles go white.

"Don't stop—" Lucy gasps, pulling her mouth away from Ona's cunt for just a second. Her chin is drenched, her lips swollen, her eyes squeezed shut. "Ona, please—"

"I didn't tell you to stop either, zorrita." Ona pushes her hips down, pressing her cunt back against Lucy's mouth, and Lucy's tongue resumes, less precise, licking in broad, desperate strokes that miss Ona's clit as often as they find it. Ona doesn't correct her. She's too focused on the way Lucy's cunt is clenching around her fingers, the way the wetness is increasing, the way Lucy's thighs are trembling against the sheets.

"Please," Lucy says, the word muffled, half-lost in Ona's flesh. "I'm— I'm close—"

Ona's fingers still inside Lucy. Not withdrawing, just stopping, holding perfectly still while Lucy's cunt clenches and pulses around them, while Lucy's hips strain upward, seeking friction that isn't there.

Lucy makes a sound of pure frustration, a whine that dissolves into a moan as she tries to grind against Ona's hand. Ona's palm presses flat against her pubic bone, holding her down, preventing the movement.

"Escúchame." Ona's voice is low, controlled, a stark contrast to the ragged edge it carried moments ago. She waits until Lucy's hips stop straining, until the only movement is the rapid rise and fall of her chest and the quiver in her thighs. "You’re not allowed to come again yet.”

Lucy's breath catches. A small, wounded sound escapes her throat.

"You came without permission once already." Ona curls her fingers inside Lucy, just slightly, a slow press against the swollen front wall, and Lucy's back arches off the bed, her mouth falling open against Ona's cunt. "You're not going to do it again."

"Ona—"

"Not until I strap you." Lucy can’t hold back the moan that comes at those words. Ona holds herself perfectly still above Lucy, her pussy pressed against Lucy's mouth, her fingers buried deep inside Lucy's cunt, and she waits. "That's when you'll come, when I decide. When I'm inside you, fucking you properly. ¿Entiendes?"

Lucy's entire body is trembling, a tremor that starts in her thighs and radiates outward, making the muscles of her stomach jump and twitch. Her cunt is clenching around Ona's fingers in rapid, involuntary pulses, and she's so close, so brutally, achingly close, that the denial feels like a physical weight pressing down on her pelvis.

"Do you understand?" Ona repeats. She withdraws her fingers slowly, one knuckle at a time, and Lucy whimpers at the loss, her cunt clenching on nothing, empty and throbbing.

"Yes." Lucy's voice is barely audible. "I understand."

"Good." Ona slides her fingers back through Lucy's slick, tracing her outer lips, spreading the wetness, keeping her aroused without pushing her over. "You're gonna keep eating me out, and I’ll keep touching you. And you're going to hold it. Every time you get close, you're gonna tell me, and I'm going to decide whether to stop or keep going."

Lucy's tongue resumes its work on Ona's cunt, slower now, more accurate. She can taste Ona's increasing wetness, and Ona's clit is swollen tight under Lucy's lips. Lucy seals her mouth over it and sucks, and Ona's thighs clamp around her head.

"Fuck—" Ona breathes. Her hand returns to Lucy's cunt, two fingers sliding back inside with a single, smooth thrust. Lucy keens against Ona's pussy, the vibration making Ona's hips stutter, and Ona begins to fuck her again in the same slow, curling strokes, pressing that swollen ridge inside Lucy with each thrust.

The tension in Lucy's body rebuilds immediately. Her thighs shake, her stomach tightens, and she can feel the orgasm gathering again like a hot, coiling pressure at the base of her spine that spreads outward with each stroke of Ona's fingers. She moans against Ona's cunt, long and low, and Ona grinds down against her face, riding the vibration.

"Close," Lucy gasps, pulling back just far enough to get the word out. "I'm close—"

Ona's fingers slow. Not stopping, but easing, the curl becoming gentler, the pace dropping until it's barely a tease. Lucy's cunt clenches around her, desperate, and Lucy's hips try to chase the pressure, but Ona's palm on her pubic bone holds her flat.

"No, don’t come.” Ona says. Her voice is strained now, her own arousal evident in the way her thighs are shaking, in the slick dripping down onto Lucy's face. "You can take it."

Lucy makes a sound that isn't a word but more of a raw, broken noise that vibrates against Ona's clit, and Ona's hips jerk forward, her own orgasm building, the rhythm of her grinding becoming erratic.

"Keep going," Ona orders, and her fingers inside Lucy speed up again, and own Lucy's mouth works Ona's cunt with frantic, desperate intensity, tongue and lips and the edge of teeth, sloppy and perfect, and Ona's thighs close around Lucy's head like a vice.

Lucy is right there. Right at the edge. Her pussy is clenching in rapid, uncontrolled pulses around Ona's fingers, and the pressure in her pelvis is unbearable, a coiled spring wound to its limit. She whimpers, a continuous, high-pitched sound that disappears into Ona's flesh.

"Don't," Ona says, and the word is half-command, half-plea, because she's close too, her own orgasm building in the clench of her thighs and the roll of her hips. "No te atrevas."

Lucy's entire body goes rigid. Every muscle locks, her thighs, her stomach, her arms, her fingers digging into Ona's skin hard enough to bruise. She holds still while Ona's fingers fuck into her, while Ona's cunt grinds against her mouth, while the orgasm screams through her body demanding release.

Ona comes first. Her hips slam forward, her cunt pressing down against Lucy's face, and her whole body shakes in a full, convulsive shudder that starts in her core and radiates outward. She cries out, a sound that breaks in the middle, and her fingers inside Lucy curl hard, pressing that swollen spot with brutal precision.

Lucy practically screams into Ona's cunt. The orgasm is right there, she’s right at the precipice, one stroke away, but she stops herself from going over the edge. She holds through each clench or her pussy around Ona’s fingers, through the spasms in her thighs, through the white-hot pressure in her pelvis that demands release. She holds because Ona told her to, because the denial is the point, because the ache of not coming is deeper and more consuming than any orgasm could be.

Ona rides out the aftershocks with slow, grinding rolls of her hips, her cunt sliding across Lucy's face in diminishing circles. Her fingers are still inside Lucy, still, and she can feel the desperate clenching of Lucy's walls, the echo of an orgasm that didn't happen, the ghost of release denied.

She withdraws her fingers slowly and Lucy's cunt clenches on nothing, and a thin, broken whine escapes her throat. Ona lifts herself up, swinging one leg over Lucy's head, and settles on the bed beside her. Lucy's face is drenched, her chin, cheeks, lips, the bridge of her nose, all of it shining with Ona's come.

Her eyes are open, glassy, staring at the ceiling with the unfocused gaze of someone whose entire nervous system is screaming.

Ona leans over and presses her lips to Lucy's forehead. The gesture is soft, incongruous, a moment of tenderness in the wreckage of Lucy's composure.

"You did it," Ona murmurs against her skin. "You were so close, and you stopped yourself for me."

Lucy's breath hitches. A tear slides from the corner of her eye, tracking sideways across her temple and into her hairline. Not from pain or sadness, but from the sheer, overwhelming weight of denial, of obedience, of wanting something so badly and choosing not to take it.

Ona takes Lucy's hand and squeezes it as a pulse of pressure, a reassurance. Lucy squeezes back. Three times, hard.

"I know," Ona says. She rolls onto her side, propping her head on her hand, and looks down at Lucy's wrecked, flushed, desperate face. "I know you need to come, and I will let you princesa, but only when I decide to."

Lucy's free hand comes up to cover her face, pressing against her eyes. Her chest heaves, and a shudder runs through her even though she isn’t cold.

"Look at me," Ona says.

Lucy lowers her hand. Her eyes are red-rimmed, wet, and her lower lip is trembling.

"Eres perfecta," Ona says. The words are quiet, certain, stripped of everything but their meaning. "You did exactly what I asked. And when I fuck you, it's going to be so good. It's going to be worth every second of this."

Ona's thumb traces a slow arc across Lucy's knuckles, back and forth, a metronome set to resting heart rate as she tries to bring Lucy back down a little. Lucy's breathing has slowed and although she’s not quite calm yet, it’s no longer the ragged, shallow gasps from minutes ago.

Ona shifts closer. The mattress dips, and Lucy's body rolls slightly toward the warmth. Ona curves around her, one arm sliding beneath Lucy's neck, the other settling across her ribs. Her lips press against Lucy's temple, then her cheek, then the corner of her jaw. She’s unhurried and caring, wanting to show Lucy how much she cares.

"Good," Ona murmurs into Lucy's hair. "That's good."

Lucy's fingers tighten around Ona's hand. A small sound escapes her throat, caught between a word and a sob. Ona's palm flattens against Lucy's stomach, spread wide, and she pulls her closer until their bodies are flush. Lucy's back presses against Ona's chest, Ona's knees fitting behind Lucy's bent knees, and the tension that has been coiled in Lucy's muscles since the first slap begins to unspool.

Ona touches her. Not with intent, not with direction, just the lazy drift of fingertips across skin. She traces the curve of Lucy's hip, the dip of her waist, follows the faint line where ribs give way to stomach. Each touch is feather-light, barely there, and Lucy's skin prickles in its wake.

Ona's nails drag gently across the marks she left earlier, the blush across her arse, and Lucy inhales sharply at the contact, a small flinch that dissolves immediately into a lean, pressing back into Ona's touch.

"You did so well," Ona says. Her voice is low, close to Lucy's ear, the words more vibration than sound. "I know how hard that was."

Lucy's throat works. "I wanted to. For you."

"For me." Ona's hand stills on Lucy's hip, fingers curling possessively. "And for yourself?”

There’s a pause, and Lucy's chest rises and falls. "Yes."

Ona presses her lips to the spot behind Lucy's ear, the one that makes her shiver. She stays there for a moment, breathing her in. Ona's hand resumes its wandering, skimming the inside of Lucy's wrist, the soft skin of her forearm, the bend of her elbow. Mapping and memorising her.

"You're so good," Ona says again, her voice so soft. "So good for me, Lucy."

Lucy turns her head, just enough that her cheek rests against Ona's jaw. Her eyes are closed, lashes dark and damp. Another tear has dried in a silver track toward her temple, and Ona's thumb finds it, traces its path, wipes it clean.

The room holds them in its dim, warm quiet.

Ona's hand drifts up to Lucy's hair, fingers combing through the dark tangles. She works slowly, separating strands, smoothing them back from Lucy's face. Lucy's breathing deepens, her body growing heavier against Ona's. The trembling has nearly stopped, it’s just an occasional shudder now.

A few minutes pass and Ona just holds Lucy, strokes her, presses occasional kisses to her shoulder, her neck, the top of her head. The urgency that filled the room has transmuted into something much calmer and quieter, and Ona can feel Lucy's heartbeat against her own ribs, steady now, slower than her own.

"I have a question," Ona says.

Lucy opens her eyes. They're glassy, unfocused, still somewhere between here and wherever the denial sent her. "Mm."

Ona's hand settles on Lucy's hip again, thumb drawing a small circle on the bone.

"Would you like me to fuck you now?"

Lucy's breath catches at her words, and her fingers grip Ona's forearm. Her body stiffens for half a second, every muscle pulling taut, before she exhales in a long, shaking rush.

"Yes please,” Lucy whispers.

The 'please' is desperate but stripped of performance, and Ona rewards it with a kiss to the pulse point beneath Lucy's jaw. She can feel the blood hammering there, faster now, the calm she built splintering back into need.

"Good girl."

Ona untangles herself from Lucy slowly, deliberately, letting her body separate by degrees; arm first, then legs, then the press of her chest. Lucy makes a small, displeased sound at the loss of contact, reaching backward, and Ona catches her hand, kisses her palm, sets it gently on the mattress.

"Stay there bebé."

Ona swings her legs off the bed and stands. The air hits her skin, cooler than the cocoon of body heat they'd built, and she rolls her shoulders once before bending to retrieve the harness and dildo from the drawer. The harness is smooth in her hands, familiar, and she steps into it with ease, then slots the dildo into the O-ring at the front, tightening the base until it sits firm against her body.

She turns back to the bed. Lucy is watching her, propped on one elbow now, her dark hair a wild curtain over one shoulder, her eyes tracking Ona's hands as they make final adjustments to the straps. The lamplight catches the sheen of sweat on Lucy's stomach, the flush that hasn't fully faded from her chest, the wetness still glistening on her inner thighs. She looks both wrecked and hungry at once.

"Come here," Ona says. She sits on the edge of the bed, feet flat on the floor, and pats her thigh. “I want you on top of me."

Lucy blinks, a little surprised. They’ve never done it like this before, not with Ona wearing the strap. “You want me to—"

"Sí, ride me, I want to watch you. I want you to take what you need."

Lucy's lips part. She stares at Ona, at the harness sitting snug against her hips, the dildo jutting upward, her composed expression, and something shifts in her composure. The glassiness in her eyes clears and her pupils blow wide.

She moves off the bed and stands in front of Ona, close enough that her knees brush Ona's thighs. Ona looks up at her, tilts her head, and waits. Lucy's hands come up, trembling slightly, and rest on Ona's shoulders. She leans in, waits for Ona to lean up to her too.

Their mouths meet, soft at first, barely a touch, and then it becomes deeper, Lucy's tongue sliding against Ona's, her teeth just catching Ona's lower lip. Ona lets her, lets her set the pace for now, lets her take what she needs if only briefly. One of Lucy's hands slides into Ona's hair, gripping at the root, and the kiss turns urgent and messy.

When Lucy pulls back, her lips are swollen and her breathing is ragged. She looks at Ona with something raw, with the vulnerability of someone who has been held underwater and is finally breaking the surface.

Ona reaches up and cups her face. Both hands, palms against her jaw, thumbs on her cheekbones. She holds Lucy there, looking at her, and Lucy can't look away.

"Whenever you're ready," Ona says. "Take your time."

Lucy nods. She climbs further onto the bed, straddling Ona's lap properly, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of Ona's hips. The dildo presses between them, cool against Lucy's heated skin, and she rolls her hips once, a reflexive grind that drags her wet pussy along the shaft. They both inhale. Lucy's eyes flutter shut.

Ona's hands settle on Lucy's waist, steadying her. She can feel the muscles trembling beneath Lucy's skin, the fine vibration of a body wound tight and held on the edge for too long. She rubs her thumbs in slow circles on Lucy's hip bones, grounding her.

"Mírame," Ona says.

Lucy opens her eyes. They're bright, liquid, fixed on Ona's face.

Her hand moves between her thighs, fingers wrapping around the dildo. She lifts her hips, positions herself, and Ona watches her face as the tip presses against her entrance. Lucy's jaw tightens and her breath hisses between her teeth.

"Slow," Ona says, and it’s not a command but a suggestion. A kindness.

Lucy sinks down. The first inch stretches her open and her mouth falls slack, a low, guttural sound pushing out of her chest. She pauses and adjusts, takes more. Ona's hands tighten on her hips, guiding but not forcing, and Lucy's thighs shake as she lowers herself inch by inch. The dildo fills her gradually, spreading her wide, and the sound she makes when it bottoms out is closer to a sob than a moan, full-bodied and helpless, echoing off the walls.

"Oh god." Lucy's head drops forward, forehead pressing against Ona's. "Oh fuck, oh—"

"Breathe," Ona says. Her hands slide up Lucy's sides, over her ribs, cupping her breasts. Her thumbs brush Lucy's still sensitive nipples and Lucy gasps, clenching around the dildo. "That's it. Just breathe."

Lucy breathes. In through her nose, out through her mouth, each exhale shuddering. Her inner walls grip the shaft, adjusting to the fullness, and Ona can feel the pressure of it through the harness base against her own pelvis like a dull, warm ache that sends a pulse of arousal through her core.

"Move when you're ready, mi vida," Ona murmurs. She kisses Lucy's forehead, her nose, the corner of her mouth. "I've got you."

Lucy lifts her hips. The dildo slides halfway out, glistening, and she sinks back down with a moan that starts in her stomach. She does it again, and again, finding a rhythm that’s slow and deep, grinding at the bottom of each stroke. Her hands grip Ona's shoulders, nails digging into the skin, and Ona lets her, lets her take what she needs because she knows she’s still in control.

"Mmm, that's it," Ona says. Her voice is a low murmur, a constant presence beneath Lucy's ragged breathing. "Just like that. You're doing so well."

Lucy's pace quickens. Her hips roll faster, the dildo sliding in and out with a wet, obscene sound that fills the room, slick and rhythmic, punctuated by the soft slap of skin against skin. She's moaning openly now, each thrust pushing the sound out of her. Not quiet, not restrained, not the bitten-off whimpers from before. These are, unguarded and desperate.

"Ona—" Her voice cracks. "Ona, please, I—"

"I know bebé." Ona's hands slide down to Lucy's arse, squeezing and pulling her closer on each downstroke. The angle shifts, and Lucy cries out, her back arching, the dildo hitting something deep inside her that makes her whole body jerk. "I know. Let go."

"I can't—I'm—" Lucy's thighs are shaking violently now, her rhythm faltering, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Tears are leaking from the corners of her eyes again, tracking down her cheeks, and she doesn't wipe them away. "Please, please let me—"

"Come," Ona says, and she moves her hand to the front of Lucy, to where they’re joined, and rubs her clit in quick, tight circles. "Come for me, Lucy."

Lucy slams her hips down one final time and the orgasm hits her like a wave breaking. Her whole body seizes, back arching, head thrown back, mouth open in a sound that's barely human. A wail, high and keening, tears out of her throat as her pussy clamps hard around the dildo, pulsing, gripping. Her nails rake down Ona's back, leaving red trails, and Ona pulls her close, chest to chest, arms wrapped tight around her as she shakes apart.

Lucy rides the waves, grinding her hips in small, frantic circles, each movement drawing another moan from her lips. They spill out of her uncontrolled , sobs and gasps and fragments of Ona's name, over and over, a litany.

Ona holds her through it. One hand cradles the back of Lucy's skull, fingers tangled in her hair, pressing her face into the curve of Ona's neck. The other spans the width of Lucy's lower back, anchoring her, keeping her from flying apart. Ona can feel Lucy's tears on her skin, hot and wet, and the tremors racking Lucy's body transfer through the harness, through their pressed-together skin, into Ona's own bones.

"That's it," Ona murmurs against Lucy's temple. "I've got you. I've got you. Let it all go."

Lucy's moans soften into whimpers, the contractions weakening, slowing. Her body goes slack against Ona's, held upright only by the arms around her. She's breathing in great, hiccupping gasps, her face pressed into Ona's neck, and Ona can feel her eyelashes fluttering against her skin.

"Good girl," Ona whispers. "Good girl. You did so well, estoy muy orgulloso de ti.”

Lucy makes a sound, a broken, grateful noise, and her arms wrap around Ona's neck, holding on. She's still trembling, small aftershocks rolling through her, and each one makes her clench around the dildo, drawing a tiny gasp from her lips.

Ona gives her time. She doesn't move, doesn't shift, doesn't try to separate them. She holds Lucy against her body and lets the silence settle around them, broken only by their breathing and the occasional creak of the bed. The lamp casts its amber glow, and outside, the night has gone fully dark, the window a black mirror reflecting nothing.

When Lucy's breathing finally steadies, Ona presses a kiss to her shoulder. "I'm going to lift you off now. Okay?"

A small nod against her neck. Lucy's arms loosen, and Ona grips her hips, lifting slowly. The dildo slides out inch by inch, slick and glistening, and Lucy whimpers at the loss, her hole clenching around nothing, empty and aching. Ona eases her down onto the mattress, onto her side, and Lucy curls into a fetal position, knees drawn up, arms crossed over her chest.

Ona unbuckles the harness. It peels away from her skin, warm and damp, and she sets it on the floor beside the bed. The dildo follows, laid carefully on the carpet. She’ll clean it later. She turns back to Lucy and lies down behind her, fitting her body against Lucy's back the way they were before, chest to spine, knees behind knees, arm draped over her ribs.

Lucy reaches for her hand, pulls it tighter around herself, and holds on. Her fingers are a little cold and Ona rubs them with her thumb, warming them.

Minutes pass. Lucy's breathing deepens, slows. The trembling has stopped, but she hasn't moved, hasn't uncurled. Ona can feel the vulnerability radiating from her, a rawness, an openness, like a nerve exposed.

"Hey," Ona says softly. She shifts, propping herself on one elbow so she can look down at Lucy's face. Her free hand brushes the hair back from Lucy's forehead, tucking it behind her ear. "Where are you?"

Lucy's eyes open, slowly, as if surfacing from deep water. They're unfocused, distant, the pupils still blown wide. She blinks. Her lips move, but no sound comes out the first time. She tries again. "I'm... here."

"Here where?" Ona's fingers trace Lucy's eyebrow, the bridge of her nose, the line of her cheekbone. Grounding touches. Bringing her back.

"I don't know." Lucy's voice is small and distant. "Floaty. I can't... my legs feel far away."

Ona smiles and kisses her shoulder. "That's okay. You don't need your legs right now. Just be here."

Lucy's hand finds Ona's wrist, holds it. Her fingers are still cold, still trembling faintly. "I came so hard I couldn't—" She stops and swallows. "I couldn’t think about anything else other than the feeling.”

"I know," Ona says, and her thumb strokes Lucy's wrist, over the pulse point. "How did it feel bebé?"

Something in Lucy's face shifts. The furrow between her brows smooths. Her grip on Ona's wrist loosens, just slightly. "It was... a lot."

"A lot how?"

Lucy is quiet for a long moment. Her eyes drift to the ceiling, then back to Ona's face. "Like everything got really loud and then really quiet at the same time. I couldn't tell where I ended and you started." She pauses. "I've never come like that before. I've never—"

She stops. Her chin trembles, and she presses her face into the pillow, hiding. Ona lets her. She puts her hand on Lucy's back, between her shoulder blades, and holds it there, warm and steady.

"You don't have to explain it all right now," Ona says. "Just tell me how you feel. Right now, in this moment."

Lucy turns her head, one eye visible above the pillow. "Safe," she says. The word comes out cracked and rough. "I feel safe. And tired. And..." She trails off.

"And?"

Lucy rolls onto her back, looking up at Ona. Her eyes are wet again, but she's not crying, they’re just full with the excess feeling of something too big to contain. "Grateful. That you were open to trying it."

Ona leans down and kisses her. Soft, brief, a press of lips that says everything words would fumble. When she pulls back, Lucy's eyes are closed, and the tension in her jaw has finally, fully released.

"Stay there," Ona says. She gets up, pads barefoot to the bathroom, and returns with a glass of water and a warm, damp flannel. She sits on the edge of the bed and holds the glass to Lucy's lips. "Drink."

Lucy drinks. Small sips at first, then longer ones, her throat working. Water dribbles down her chin and Ona wipes it away with her thumb. Then she unfolds the flannel and drapes it between Lucy's thighs, warm and gentle against her swollen, sensitive skin. Lucy hisses a little at the contact, hips shifting, but Ona's hand on her stomach holds her still.

"I know," Ona says. "Just let me."

She cleans her carefully, thoroughly, the flannel moving in slow strokes. Lucy watches her, watches Ona's hands, her face, the concentration in her expression , and something passes between them that doesn't need language. When Ona finishes, she tosses the flannel toward the bathroom and pulls the twisted sheet up from the foot of the bed, shaking it out and laying it over Lucy's body.

Then she climbs back into bed. She pulls Lucy against her, arranging them on their sides, Lucy's back to Ona's front again, the sheet tucked around them both. Her arm settles over Lucy's waist, hand flat on her stomach, and she presses her lips to the nape of Lucy's neck.

"Rest now, cari," Ona says. The word is an instruction, but it sounds like permission. "I'm not going anywhere."

Lucy's hand finds Ona's under the sheet, laces their fingers together, and holds tight. Her body is heavy, sinking into the mattress, and her breathing slows, each exhale longer than the last, the rhythm of someone sliding toward sleep. The tension that has lived in her muscles for hours, for days, maybe, the buildup of want and restraint and the specific agony of being told to wait, drains out of her.

Ona lies still, listening. Lucy's heartbeat, slow and steady now, pulses against her palm. The room is quiet, the lamp casting its amber pool, and outside the window, the world has gone dark and still. Ona can feel Lucy's body growing heavier against her, the last vestiges of alertness dissolving, and she tightens her arm, pulls her closer.

"How do you feel now?" Ona asks, her voice barely above a breath.

Lucy is quiet for so long that Ona thinks she's fallen asleep. Then, muffled by the pillow, her voice is barely audible saying, "like I'm yours."

Ona's eyes close. Her hand tightens on Lucy's stomach, fingers pressing into the soft skin, and she breathes in the scent of her, sweat and sex and the smell that's just Lucy, just this. She presses her face into Lucy's hair.