𝙈𝙀𝙄-𝙔𝙊𝙆

The master bedroom smelled like Sophia's perfume and the faint, acrid trace of her husband's aftershave still clinging to the sheets. 

Sophia Laforteza had you spread out on her king sized bed like you belonged there, her husband's side of the mattress was still neatly made, which made it better or worse. She hadn't decided yet.

Three fingers deep in your cunt, and you were already falling apart.

"Ah fuck— mommy, it's too much—"

"I know," Sophia said, and she didn't slow down. Her fingers curled inside you, the wet sounds coming from between your legs were obscene. "I know, baby. But you can take it, can't you? Be a good girl for mommy, and be quiet, okay?"

She leaned down and pressed her lips to your forehead. You were crying, little tears tracking down your temples into your hair. She wiped them with her thumb, gentle, as her fingers kept pumping into that slick heat.

"My husband could walk in any minute from his business trip," she murmured against your skin. "And find his pretty little babysitter making a mess all over his bed, and all over my hand."

The timeline of how she got here was still fresh in her mind.

Six weeks ago, her husband had come home and announced he'd hired a babysitter. Sophia had stared at him like he'd grown a second head.

"For what?" she'd asked. Their daughter Lucia was four. Sophia worked four days a week at the clinic, four days where Lucia stayed with Sophia's friend, Daniela, who had two kids the same age and a house full of toys. They didn't need a babysitter, they'd never needed a babysitter.

Her husband had shrugged, that loose easy shrug he did when he was lying. “Daniela’s got her hands full. Figured we'd give her a break. This girl needs the money for school anyway."

Bullshit, Sophia had thought. Absolute bullshit.

Then she'd met you.

You showed up on a Tuesday afternoon, all soft smiles and nervous hands. Nineteen years old, maybe twenty. Pre-med at the community college, tuition piling up, parents back in the province couldn't help much. You were wearing jeans that hugged your ass and a thin sweater that kept slipping off one shoulder.

Sophia hated you on sight.

Sophia clocked you on sight. Clocked what her husband was really doing. Every time you bent over to pick up Lucia’s toys, her husband’s eyes would drop to the curve of your ass.

Every time you reached for something on a high shelf and your shirt rode up, exposing a strip of skin above your waistband, he'd find an excuse to be in the room.

One time, Lucia had grabbed the collar of your shirt during a tantrum and yanked it down hard.

Your pink lace bra had spilled out before you could catch it, your nipples visible for a split second through the sheer fabric. He’s had been standing right there, and didn’t look away.

That night, Sophia had overheard him in the shower, jerking off. She recognised the rhythm through the door. 

He'd started touching you after that. Little things at first, a hand on your lower back when he squeezed past you in the kitchen, fingers resting just above the swell of your ass.

Once, he'd pressed a kiss to the top of your head and murmured, "Sorry, mija, thought you were Sophia." He'd laughed it off, and you'd laughed too, awkward and uncertain, and Sophia had watched from the doorway with her jaw tight enough to crack teeth.

She'd fought with him, screamed at him, called him a cheating piece of shit, which made him play dumb with wide innocent eyes.

"What are you talking about? She's just a kid. I'm helping her out."

One night after a particularly bad fight, Sophia had slammed the bedroom door so hard the frame splintered. She'd been storming down the hall, rage buzzing in her ears, when she passed the guest room they'd given you.

And stopped.

Because you were in there, alone and you were making sounds.

High pitched little whimpers. 

Breath catching. 

The wet, rhythmic noise of fingers moving in and out of a cunt, unmistakable once you'd heard it. Sophia had stood frozen in the hallway, her heart hammering, listening to you fuck yourself.

Then you'd moaned a name.

"Sophia—"

Not her husband. Not some boyfriend. Not some classmate.

Her name. Drawn out and desperate, broken into three syllables like a prayer—So-phi-a.

Sophia had stood there for a full minute after you finished, her thighs pressed together, her cunt throbbing, a slick heat spreading between her legs that she hadn't felt in years.

And she'd realised she didn't want you gone.

She wanted you under her.

The shift had been immediate and complete. The next day, she'd started doing everything he had had done, but worse. She had the advantage of being a woman, of being safe.

You never flinched when she touched you. Never tensed up the way you did when her husband got too close.

She started small.

A hand on your arm when she laughed at something you said. Standing behind you while you washed dishes, close enough that her breath stirred the hairs on the back of your neck, watching the goosebumps rise on your skin.

When Lucia did something cute, Sophia would lean into your ear and laugh low, felt you shiver every single time.

She knew what she was doing. 

Then came the gifts.

"Just a little something," she'd say, handing you a shopping bag. Frilly pink skirts that barely covered your ass.

Thigh high stockings that she showed you how to clip to a garter belt,”Like this, baby, let me help you" her fingers brushing the inside of your thighs.

Hair clips shaped like little bows, pearl earrings, a choker with a tiny heart pendant. Dressing you up piece by piece until you looked like something she'd curated. 

You'd worn it all. Thanked her shyly every time, never seemed to realise it wasn't generosity.

The first time she'd kissed you had been two weeks ago. Her husband was out late, Lucia was asleep, and you were curled up on the couch watching some reality show Sophia pretended to care about.

You'd turned your head to say something, Sophia couldn't even remember what, and she'd just leaned in and pressed her mouth to yours.

You'd frozen for exactly one second.

Then your lips parted, and you made a sound, a tiny whimper, and Sophia's tongue was in your mouth and her hand was on your throat and nothing had been the same since.

Tonight was the third time she'd had you in her bed.

Her husband was supposed to be back from his trip to Chicago tomorrow morning, but he'd texted an hour ago that his flight got moved up. He'd be home by nine.

Sophia didn't care.

She was three fingers deep in your cunt on his side of the mattress.

"Look at you," she murmured, pulling back to look at your face.

Your eyes were glassy, lips parted, cheeks wet. You were wearing one of the outfits she'd bought you, a pink babydoll dress that had ridden up around your waist, matching panties that she'd pulled to the side to get at you.

The stockings she'd picked out were soaked through at the inner thighs. "Look at the mess you're making."

She pulled her fingers out of you slow, just to watch you gasp, just to hear the wet schlick sound of it.

Her hand was coated in your slick, glistening up to the knuckles. She held it up between your faces, spread her fingers so you could see the strands of creamy fluid connecting them.

"This is what happens every time I touch you, isn't it?" She brought her fingers to her mouth and sucked them clean, two at a time, holding eye contact. Tasted tart and faintly sweet.

"You get so wet for me, so fast. I barely have to do anything."

You whimpered, hips bucking up into nothing.

"Please—"

"Please what?" Sophia shifted, positioning herself between your thighs. She was still fully dressed, white button, up with the top three buttons undone, black pencil skirt hiked up around her thighs. "Use your words, baby. You're a big girl."

"Please fuck me," you choked out. "Mommy, please—"

"Good girl."

She pushed back into you with four fingers this time, stretching you, and you cried out loud enough that she had to clamp her free hand over your mouth.

"What did I say about being quiet?"

She leaned in close, her breath hot against your cheek. “Lucia asleep. And he could walk through that door any minute. You want him to see this? You want him to see his wife's fingers buried in his babysitter's cunt?"

You shook your head frantically under her palm, but your hips kept grinding down on her hand.

"No? You sure? Because this pussy doesn't seem to agree." She curled her fingers, found that rough little patch inside you, pressed hard.

Your whole body seized up. "You're clenching me so tight, baby. You gonna come for mommy? Gonna soak my hand while my husband's key turns in the lock?"

Such a pretty doll, she'd thought then. My pretty doll.

Your muffled moan was desperate, high pitched, vibrating against her palm.

"Go ahead," Sophia whispered, fucking into you harder, the wet sounds filling the room. "Come on my fingers. Right here on his pillow. Make a mess. I want to see it."

She released your mouth.

"Ah—aaahhh—fuck, mommy, I'm—"

"Come," Sophia commanded, and you did, your back bowing off the mattress, your cunt clamping down on her fingers in pulsing waves, a gush of fluid soaking her palm and dripping down onto the sheets.

She fucked you through it, slow and steady, watching your face contort, watching the tears spill down your cheeks, watching you come undone completely under her hand.

When you finally went limp, chest heaving, she pulled her fingers out gently and brought them to your mouth.

"Clean them," she said.

You took her fingers between your lips, sucked them clean with soft, shaky moans, your tongue working between each digit.

"That's my good girl." Sophia stroked your hair with her free hand, pushed it back from your sweaty forehead. "So perfect. So pretty when you cry."

From somewhere downstairs, a sound.

The front door opening.

Keys clinking against the hall table.

"Sophia? I'm back early!"

Her husband’s voice echoed up the stairs.

Sophia smiled. 

"Right on time," she murmured, pulling her fingers from your mouth.

A string of spit connected from your bottom lip to her fingertips. She wiped it on your chin, slow, deliberate, then traced your jaw with her thumb.

"You're a mess," she said, and she said it like a compliment.

You blinked up at her, dazed, chest heaving.

The orange streetlight caught the wet on your cheeks, made you look like something out of a painting.

Sophia was going to remember this, the way your thighs were still spread, your cunt glistening and swollen, clit peeking out from under its hood like it was begging for attention. 

She looked down at you and sprawled on her husband's pillow, dress bunched up, stockings soaked, cunt still twitching, eyes wide with panic. "Don't move, baby. Let him see exactly what he was never going to get."

He hired a pretty young thing to wave in front of him, Sophia thought, rising from the bed and smoothing down her skirt. Never occurred to him she might not be for him.

"Sophia?" Footsteps on the stairs now. Getting closer. "You up there?"

"In here, mahal," Sophia called out, her voice syrupy sweet. She glanced back at you, still frozen on the bed, and winked. "We're just finishing up."

a/n: im very horny and only one person can fix it but my baby is currently on her period