wanda’s bunny ໒

The lamp hums, its low golden glow the only source of trembling light in the living room. Outside, you can hear the rain tapping against the windows impatiently, but inside, the air is thick, cloying. Wanda’s perfume, something with fig and wood, usually makes your nose scrunch, but with how much wine you’ve had, all you can smell right now is the dizzying scent of crushed grapes.

You’re curled on the couch in one of Wanda’s oversized sweaters, the one that feels like it might’ve been plucked straight from a cloud. A half-empty glass of wine rests in your hands, your second now, while Wanda watches you from the other end of the couch. Her green eyes sparkle with something predatory that you don’t notice.

“Drink up, big girl,” she murmurs, her voice velvet to your ears. “You’ve had a very long week. Mommy wants to make sure you’re nice and relaxed.”

The bottle in her grasp tips forward, and the wine glugs generously into your glass, color so deep it makes you think of blood. You sip again, the wine burning sweet down your throat, and then again, over and over until your glass is lighter and the room is a little tilted on its axis. You swallow sluggishly, but when you try to pull back, Wanda keeps the glass there a second longer, and a trickle escapes the corner of your mouth when you finally pull away.

“Um,” you begin, your words coming out slower and softer than you want them to, a giggle laced between your words that doesn’t quite belong to you. “I think, um, that’s enough for me.”

Wanda shifts closer, the movement silent. Her hand finds your knee and begins to stroke, her thumb tracing little circles that make you skittish. “Shh, you’re fine,” she soothes, and your body slackens at the sound. “You’re alright, I’ve got you. Look at you, baby, blushing like that. You’re so pretty like this.” Her voice has a pleased note to it, like a panther curled up in the shade of a tree, body tense and waiting to pounce. 

The hand at your knee doesn’t stop. It slides up your leg and teases the hem of your sweater.

You squirm, pressing your legs together instinctively.

“Wait–” you say, the word slipping from your tongue. “My head feels weird.” Your voice is smaller, breathier than you’d like, almost faintly whiny. You push her hand away weakly, but the alcohol has turned your muscles soft and useless.

“Shh,” Wanda says again, the sound scratching a deep part of your brain. “Let me take care of you.” A gentle kiss to your temple while her fingers keep moving, slipping down until they cup between your legs over your panties. They’re already damp, and the realization makes your face burn hotter.

You squirm, your hips twisting away from her touch, but she follows easily, hand pressing more firmly.

“You’re getting so wet already, baby,” Wanda murmurs, her voice soft like velvet wrapped around a knife. “That’s okay. Your body needs this.”

“No… I don’t–” you begin, but the words tangle in your brain. You try to close your thighs, but her knee nudges between them, holding you open, exposed. Hot tears gather in your eyes, blurring the lamplight into hazy stars. “Wanda, please. It’s too much. I can’t.”

Another hush, less soothing than before, and then she’s nuzzling into your neck as her fingers push your panties aside. They slide through against your slick labia, slow and deliberate, and then, without hesitation, push inside you without any resistance at all. 

The sudden stretch prickles your eyes, and a broken whimper escapes your throat. You’re so full it hurts, and you feel yourself clenching around Wanda’s fingers despite confusion spinning in your mind.

“Easy, baby, I’ve got you,” she murmurs, her voice low and soothing like she’s comforting a child. Her fingers curl deeper, stroking steadily against the sensitive spot that makes sparks shoot in your chest. The sound is filthy, rhythmic, and you whimper. “Just breathe. Mommy’s right here.”

The word lands when your head is already floating, thoughts too scattered to catch it fully, and it slips from your own lips before you can stop it, slurred and needy. 

“Mommy…” you sob softly, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. Shame and heat twists together in your belly. “Mommy, wait– it’s too much, I can’t…”

“Poor, poor thing,” Wanda coos, almost mockingly, and your cheeks flare with heat as she leans in to lick away one of your tears. “But you’re taking my fingers so well. Look how nicely you’re opening up for me, baby.”

She scissors her fingers, stretching you impossibly wider, and the burn blooms into heavy pleasure that makes your hips jerk wildly. You whine, loud, pushing at her shoulders weakly as you squirm beneath her.

Your body is sliding against the couch, skin sweaty and sticking to the fabric. The sweater you’re wearing, Wanda’s, feels almost suffocating now, rubbing against your nipples with every twist and squirm. The scent of your arousal thickens the air, mixing with the foggy smell of wine. 

“Mommy… please, it’s too deep,” you say, voice cracking with dizziness. Your hips buck, trying to dislodge her, but the movement only drives her fingers deeper, and you moan despite yourself.

Your arousal coats Wanda’s hand, shining in the low lamplight. She holds you closer, moving an arm to wrap around your waist, effectively pinning you against her while her fingers keep their steady, unrelenting rhythm. 

“I know, baby. I know it’s a lot,” she soothes, her voice soft, and you almost forget how much you didn’t want this. “But Mommy’s here to help you, okay? You’ll feel so much better after you cum, sweetheart.”

Her thumb nudges at your clit insistently, and then it starts to circle, forcing out a cry from your mouth. Your legs tremble uncontrollably, thighs trying to clamp around her arm but they’re too shaky, your cunt too needy to allow the movement.

Tears stream steadily down your cheeks, and the blurry room won’t stop tilting. Every breath tastes like wine, and the wet sound of her fingers pumping into you fills the room alongside your desperate pants. 

“Please, Mommy– slow down, please, everything’s spinning,” you sob the words, half-begging, half-whining, not even sure of what you want anymore. The pleasure coiling tight and hot in your cunt is almost terrifying with how fast it’s building.

“Mommy knows exactly what you need,” Wanda says gently, almost tenderly, as if she was reading your thoughts. Her fingers curl with purpose, fucking you hard enough to make your hips cant upwards with every thrust. Her lips find your forehead, then your soft, fluttering eyelids, and finally a kiss to the corner of your trembling mouth. “My good girl. Let it build, sweetheart. Don’t fight it.”

You shake your head weakly, another broken sob escaping. “I can’t– Mommy–” The word keeps slipping out, making you dizzier, making everything more confusing. Your hips twitch in conflicted little movements, sometimes pulling away from her touch, other times grinding down on her hand. Sweat trickles down your back. The pressure inside you swells unbearably, every stroke of her fingers dragging you closer to the edge you never asked for.

Wanda’s breath is warm against your ear. “That’s it, baby, don’t fight it. It feels good, right? Let your body relax, don’t fight it.”

Your orgasm crashes over you without any mercy. Your whole body seizes, back arching sharply off the couch as a raw, choked cry is torn from your throat. Pleasure rips through your drunken haze in sharp waves, your cunt pulsing hard around her fingers, and warm wet heat gushes down your hand and onto the cushions. You’re sobbing through every spasm, tears flooding your vision, limbs shaking helplessly, your release too big, too intense, like it’s tearing through you.

Eventually it slows, weakening to soft pulses. Even as you tremble and whimper in the aftermath, Wanda’s fingers are still inside you, buried deep and stroking softly through the fluttering aftershocks. Your head is cradled against her chest, tears sticky against your cheeks. 

“Mommy’s got you. Breathe, baby. Just breathe.” Her free hand strokes your hair, heart-wrenchingly gentle even as her fingers give one last possessive curl inside you.

Your face finds her neck, dazed, exhausted, the room still spinning slowly around you. “Mommy…” you whisper, voice tiny and lost, unsure why the word in your mouth feels both comforting and terrifying.

You were going heads up to the river, one-on-one to the last card; at least that's what you’ve gathered based on off-handed commentary made by one of her friends. Your eyes squinted, an indicator of the jargon escaping you, and the brimming volume of thoughts crowding your head. 

“Small blinds to your right, baby,” Natasha said patronisingly, her hand smoothing over your thigh and pulling your focus back to the table. You bit your lip in acknowledgement, racking your brain for what she could’ve meant. You could barely think about the game at hand, mind occupied elsewhere. 

“It means you act first,” Wanda giggled to your right, noticing the furrow between your brows. You’ve always been fond of Wanda, she was helpful and kind—you needed that comfort, especially when your girlfriend was in one of her teasing moods. Like today. Your left eye twitched a little when you recalled why she had cornered you in the bathroom before the company arrived. 

You had complained about being good hosts, and not leaving people to wait at the door; Natasha promptly shut you up with a kiss, and tugged your underwear aside to slide a little pink bullet in you. She led you out the room, not before leaving a small pat on your cheek and reminding you to “keep up that poker face” during the game. It had annoyed you, particularly because she had blueballed you the prior night, mentioning something about having to get a good night’s rest for her mind to stay sharp. To make matters worse, she had strung you along the whole morning and day, wearing rings that wrapped beautifully along her fingers that she knew you adored, groping your ass in passing and claiming it was accidental, and hugging you from behind with her strap purposefully prodding at your back. You just about had enough of her teasing. The fact that your girlfriend was an avid gym-goer, working out 7 days a week, evaded you and she jumped when you practically tackled her in your attempt to unzip her jeans. You didn’t get very far, to be frank. At least Natasha consolidated you with a kiss and a promise. “Later, baby,” she had told you, peppering your face with little pecks. You glared at her now, receiving a raised eyebrow in response. 

“I check,” you spluttered, squirming around the swelling pleasure, then turning to glance at Maria, who was the last to still hold cards. She sat between Agatha, whom you were unfamiliar with, and the fiery redhead who vexingly haunted your last hours without mercy. Maria held your gaze with an imperceptible smirk, held a pause, then broke it by pushing a few stacks of red discs into the center pot. The “chips,” as Natasha had referred to them as, tallied up to be around $10k. How they pulled crazy amounts of money out just to play around with eluded you. 

“Gonna check-raise me, sweetie?” Maria teased, poking fun at your weak faux strategy. Heat crept up your face, though not because of what she'd said. Natasha had pulled out her phone, a seemingly innocent front to the others. Not for you. You had known what she was planning the moment that smug look flashed on her face. Her thumb strummed the waves that appeared on the app she had pulled up on her phone, and your posture straightened. You tried to camouflage your haggard breathing as appraising interest in Maria’s raise—it was a terrible guise, and if your eyes didn’t shut from the inexorably increasing buzz, you would’ve realized how perversely all the women’s gazes settled on you. 

“F-fold,” you squeaked out, not willing to accidentally lose ten grand because your rationale was clouded by Natasha’s infuriatingly arousing distraction. Maria pumped her fist in the air, cheekily, and collected the compounded stack of chips. She splayed her cards out: a bluff. You huffed in exasperation, knowing that if you had called her raise, your hand would’ve won the pot. 

“Romanoff, you can’t invite me here just to let your girl lose all your money,” she teased, patting Natasha’s shoulder. The redhead shrugged her off, smirking at her jab. She pinched your cheek in playful irritation, shooting a sense of pleasure down to your core. Your senses were heightened and easily stimulated from the toy between your legs, and any minor touch from her sent tantalizing shivers down your spine. It was irritating how intensely Natasha observed your struggle; you hated how much you needed her. The entire game, all you’ve been imagining is her taking you, bending you over the table, scattering all the poker chips, ruining the cards with your mess; you especially hated that she knew you’d let her. The second the cards were dealt for the next game, you folded your hand; it’s not like you could’ve played any decent bluff with a seven-duce, because the need in your center clouded all judgement for the game—and the awareness you held for the volume of your sounds. 

“Careful, baby,” Natasha whispered, condescension brimming from her tone, “do you want daddy’s friends to ask what’s wrong with her sweet girl—why she’s trembling, whining, and can’t focus on the game?” You inconspicuously shook your head, not wanting to draw anymore attention towards yourself. Poor girl. If only you knew how perverse your daddy could be and the real reason she invited company over. 

After a few rounds, the big blind circled the table to you, encouraging you to play another hand. You hadn’t won anything at this point, practically feeding your buy-in to each pot. With the smallest stack at the table, you felt like a fish darting around the ocean, just waiting to feel the inevitable jaws of death close around you. A part of you blamed Natasha and her cruel distraction, although you knew you’d play terribly even without it. Agatha, Maria, and Wanda were so hard to read, individually, and even more so when it felt like they were collectively colluding against you; Natasha as well, but you had managed to avoid playing into her. Unfortunately, you couldn’t run from the “shark” for much longer. Somehow, Natasha had managed to clean you out, baiting call after call for her raises that forced you all-in, ending in your loss. You rolled your eyes when she laughed at your clear displeasure; even though you were an awful player, competitiveness wrapped around your heart.

“Sorry, princess,” she teased, grabbing you by your waist and pulling you into her lap, “Guess you’re just gonna have to play with me for the rest of the night.” Your cheeks glowed at her boldness, embarrassed at the obvious voyeurism Natasha was apparently unaware of. A few smirks could be seen around the table, but your vision was obscured by your hands, covering your humiliation. Natasha nudged you with the deck of cards, and you shuffled it sloppily, causing a few to slip onto the ground. You could hear a small ‘tsk’ from behind you, and she turned up the vibrations in punishment. A lewd moan escaped your lips, adding fuel to the burning heat rising in your face. 

“God, Romanoff, shut her up will you,” Agatha taunted, egging on Natasha’s exhibition of you. At Agatha’s comment, Natasha slid her chair, and subsequently you, out from the table. 

“Go fetch, baby,” she purred, forcing you onto your knees to grab the cards. Shrinking down, you reached for the loose rectangles, slipping them over to her. You picked up the retriever cards, making a move to stand up, but Natasha's hand stopped you. Your eyes widened at her insinuation, and further more at the unbuckling sound of her belt and the unzipping of her jeans. You shook your head, whispering your humiliated objection, “There’s other people here, Natty.” 

“Oh we don’t mind, bunny,” Wanda cooed, her voice coming from above the table, responding to your shameful worry. You shrunk even more, and Natasha chuckled at her assistance, patting the side of your cheek.

“Did you hear that, sweet girl?” She mocked, cupping the back of your head and driving it to her crotch. “Go on, baby.”

You pulled back hesitantly, looking up at her through the gap between the table and the ground. The strap she wore was big on purpose, the one you knew made you gag the most; it’s almost like Natasha wanted all her friends to hear you make a mess on her strap. 

“You look so cute, honey,” Maria encouraged, breaking the wavering silence, “give us a show?” 

You blushed at her compliment, and then even more at her innuendo. Slowly, you opened your mouth to press your tongue against the tip. The silicone felt heavy in your mouth, but you hollowed your cheeks and began bobbing your head, repressing your moans. The angle of Natasha’s strap pressed the base of her harness into her, pulling a groan from her throat. You could hear a small thud above you, as if someone had dropped something down. 

“My blind for the next round,” Natasha told the table, garnering a few antsy shuffles from your perspective. It wasn’t until they ended the round, the pot going to Agatha, that you realized the little thud was Natasha’s phone, and her bet was your pleasure; you could hear a snarky comment coming from Agatha, followed by an intensity that rivaled the high you received from winning a hand. The deceivingly small toy inside you buzzed to life and hummed almost louder than the wanton moans it elicited from you. Heat flooded your chest and face as a result of the utter mortification you felt. 

“Fuck, baby, your lips look so pretty wrapped around my cock,” Natasha mocked, loosing her fingers in your hair. She moaned at the pleasure caused by your attentive movement; her melodic sounds entranced you, embarrassment fading away. At this moment, you wanted nothing more than to please your daddy. Your needy whines, muffled by her strap, escape your throat and draw out groans from above, reminding you of your current position. The palpable feeling of hunger settled in the balmy silence, save for the clink of chips being moved or cards folded—you, or your sounds in this case, held the attention of every woman seated. 

“Look at me, baby,” Natasha muttered, stealing the focus of your thoughts. She moans as you meet her heavy gaze, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as you’re swallowing her cock. “Such a cute girl, aren’t you?”

If your lips weren’t so extensively occupied, you’d smile at her praise. The warmth of it melted the humiliating atmosphere, prodding at you, urging you on. With her right hand fixed on the top of your head, she pulled you to her hilt, until your nose was pressed against her. In your peripheral, you could just about make out Wanda watching your lewd intake of Natasha’s cock, her gaze frozen on the way it disappeared then reappeared. 

“Aren’t you pathetic?” Agatha jeered, her annoyance at losing a hefty sum evident in her remark. “Sucking your daddy off with no shame in front of all her friends?” You reflexively whimpered at her comment, the vulgarity of it sending licks of flame to your face—and to your core, causing your thighs to tighten in an attempt to quell the fire. Natasha notices your abashment, guiding your head down again, this time firmly holding you there. Instinctively, you fight it, throat spamming around the sudden sharp intrusion, but her grip is inert on your skull. 

“Keep at it, princess,” Natasha says, shushing your audible complaints, “Daddy will tell you when you can stop.” Though striking redness remained at your ears, the careful encouragement and steering of Natasha’s hand absorbed your consciousness. Your little gags and whimpers filled the room for minutes that felt like decades, clinging onto the ends of every shallow conversation. Natasha interrupted your worship of her by gently grasping the back of your head, pulling you off her strap with a ‘pop’ from your lips.

“C’mere, sweet girl,” she muttered, sliding her hands beneath your arms to haul you onto her lap. You straddled her with her cock between your legs, sloppy from your prior work. Natasha took in the view, the game fading into the background; you looked delicious, eyes glassy, face peppered with light color, and lips swollen from use. She leaned in for a moment, gaze swiping over your mouth in foreshadow, and then kissed you. You melted into her, steadying yourself with your hands on her shoulders. 

“Up,” Natasha ordered, tapping your thighs. A look of mortification overtook your expression. Sucking her off was one thing, at least you had the table to hide away your shame, but here? Above the cover of safety, where everyone has a full view of your indecency? Your fingers clenched around Natasha, pupils dilating in fear and embarrassment. You shook your head again for the second time tonight, a pleading look filling your face. Natasha tsked, grabbing you by your waist in spite of your refusal. With one hand, she slipped you out of your shorts, lining herself up with your soaking entrance. When you sank down onto her, you could feel every ridge and texture of her strap, consuming your senses. The fullness it forced into you pried a shuttering gasp from the deepest part of your need, and you slammed your eyes shut. You moaned when your ass met her clothed thighs, signifying the depth she had reached. The little toy she slid in you prior to the arrival of her company kissed your cervix, still vibrating on the cruel setting Agatha had left it. Your whines grew, and you had to lean your weight onto her front to find your footing. Natasha wrapped herself around you, arms caressing your backside. 

“Sit like this, all pretty and warming my cock, ‘kay?” Natasha cooed, patting your ass from behind. You nodded, because that was the only thing you could do, and thanked her silently for granting you the grace of your front facing her instead of the others, though your embarrassment was evident in your ears. 

The night continued like normal, save for the wanton moans you muffled in Natasha’s neck caused by her abrupt movements. You thought she was doing it on purpose, but with no real way to prove it, you were left to the mercy of her will. At one point, she passed around her phone again, letting her friends control the moment of your orgasm. Natasha could feel you clenching around her strap at every tantalizing increase or teasing decrease of the toy. You were trembling, and you would’ve crumpled onto the ground if she were not supporting your full weight. Natasha’s hips didn’t jump enough for you to get off, and you made your need very clear.

“Please, please, daddy,” you choked out pleas, clinging to Natasha’s shirt. 

“You’re asking the wrong person, baby,” Natasha smirked, kissing your cheek and nodding pointedly at Wanda, who was currently in possession of her phone. You hid your face in her neck which your arms wrapped around. 

“W-Wanda,” you squeaked out hesitantly, “please, I want more, please.” She smirked at your humiliation, but nonetheless, she enhanced the waves of pleasure.

“Greedy girl,” she teased, moving her thumb up and down, controlling the intensity of the vibrations in your core. You let out tiny gasps in response, hips bucking up, chasing relief.

“P-Please.” The strangled plea narrowly escaped your throat. Your begging had only incited more trouble, and the women watched you hang on the edge for the entire night, poker chips used as betting power towards who had control of your high. Humiliation had long since been forgotten, the haze of chasing your orgasm stealing your focus. You would’ve done anything for them to let you fall apart, as Natasha made it clear she would not be assisting in that department. 

“Aggie, can I please cum,” you whined, now directing your requests toward the current holder of your fate. 

“I don’t know, can you? You seem very able, pet,” she mocked, bringing the intensity as high as the app would let her. You choked on your next breath, and let little ‘ahh’s escape you. 

“May, I- fuck-, may I please cum,” you begged, your grip turning Natasha’s skin an iron white. Agatha chuckled at your desperation.

“Mmm, I think that’s a question for your daddy, don’t you?” You let out an agonizing wail, annoyance at the game the women were forcing you to play. 

“Daddy, daddy, please, daddy,” you spluttered out, the intensity of the toy affecting your ability to form any other word. Natasha grinned devilishly, heartlessly withholding her permission. Instead, she left little kisses on your sweat-lined forehead, pulling your hair out of your face.

“Cum for me, pretty girl,” she murmured against your skin, finally granting you the ability to freefall. You felt as if the world had folded in on itself, outside becoming in, and then suddenly, nothing. Natasha could feel the spasms of your walls and thighs, your fluids coating her cock and ruining her jeans. She soothed over your skin as you came down, whispering sweet praises into you. 

You laid motionlessly, slumped against her, blinking in slow recovery. The others had resorted to cleaning up, putting away the chips, or bringing you a glass of water. Natasha thanked Maria for you, as you held yourself up to drink with all the strength that remained. As everyone funneled out for the night, Agatha winked at you as she slid out the door, leaving you with one last remark. 

“Thanks for the entertainment, pet.”

“Maybe hook up with someone, have a one-night stand, y’know, to forget about her.” You scowled at her remark, choosing instead to down the half-empty drink you’d been nursing the entire night. It felt like the more you drank, the more you thought about her. Her annoyingly entrancing auburn hair that clung perfectly to her heated face when she was just a little ticked off. Her idiotic metal rings that wrapped deliciously around irritatingly immaculate slender fingers. Stupid, stupid, Wanda, and her stupid, stupid disgustingly charming personality. Your thesaurus of internally monologued insults was interrupted by a clink on the bar counter behind you. 

“Thank you,” you muttered to your friend, hands meeting the shot glass immediately. 

“It’s on me tonight. You know you need it,” she grinned, “I can’t remember the last time you came out drinking with us! Finally you’re free from that witch, and how she managed to keep you locked up for so long is beyond me.” Free is the last word you would choose to describe yourself right now. The only thing you’re free from is the physicality of said ‘witch,’ she still mentally plagued your mind and claimed your feelings. 

“Yeah, thank god,” you joked, lightly, trying to disguise your depressive yearning as irritation. You didn’t mean it, of course. You would trade everything in the world for one more night with her. Too bad you had snapped on your last 2 love-sick years and stormed out of the room with a “fine, we’re done.” Part of you blamed your friends; if they hadn’t ‘convinced’ you that your relationship was unhealthy, that Wanda was taking advantage of you, too old for you, isolating you, you wouldn’t have had the false bravado to blow up in her face. You didn’t want to think about that, or her, for any longer, swinging your head back to down your second drink, and first shot, of the night.

“Let’s dance, help me take my mind off her,” you shouted over the music, pulling yourself and your friend off the high-stools and into the kaleidoscope of lights. She giggled and joined you willingly, swaying with the melody. Whatever was in that glass she had ordered started to sink into your bloodstream, and the constant movement did not help. You weren’t a lightweight–at least you thought—but it had been a while since you had alcohol without Wanda, and she never let you have anything too strong. The shot forced a weird latency effect in your vision, the ends of it obfuscating as you turned. Movement blur, paired with the same hammering headache you arrived with did not make the dancing easier. You muttered something about needing another beverage for the ‘nerves,’ and your friend gladly complied.

After a while, you lost count of how many drinks you’d had tonight, but no matter how many you’d accept, the sluggish, surfacing feeling of missing your girlfriend—ex-girlfriend—kept rising. Knowing your friends would try to stop you if you told them about your ‘plan,’ you mumbled about needing to use the restroom, and slipped away quietly. Closing the bathroom door drowned part of the lyrics swimming through your mind, but the pounding bass line remained. Your phone had already met your palm when you paused; before you slammed the door in your face, Wanda had thrown a snarky, one-off line about how you’d “always need her,” and “wouldn’t last a day without calling her.” You had scoffed at her at the time, but right now, it couldn’t be more true; however, you had definitely had too much to drink, and your faux brazenness didn’t allow you to hit her contact—yet. It was for the better this way. You knew Wanda would laugh in your face if you had called her here, mocking you for your clinginess and want for her, even after she “treated you like she owned you” and “took away all your agency.” When you said those words to her, for the same second it takes someone to realize their hand is on a scalding pan, her face had crumbled; after that split-moment, she had given you an exasperated glare and built her mask back up. You couldn’t focus on the memory of what happened after, because the maddening music had seeped back in through the open door. The song plaguing the air had switched from the club EDM to a more pestilential rave scene vibe, and your friend had come looking for you. 

“Oh my god, why were you taking so long?” She questioned, dropping her bag on the sink counter and coming up to you. You grimaced at the loud clank of her belongings scattering on the surface.

“Shit,” she muttered, hurriedly picking up a round hand mirror making its way to a descent that would most certainly shatter it. You busied your hands by helping her clean up, mumbling a sorry at her previous comment. 

“I thought you had started your period, or something, that's why I brought all this,” she conceded, gesturing to her bag with various objects sporadically being placed back inside. You should be thankful for friends like her, willing to put up with your years of self-blackballing and rejection of plans extended for you. Here she is, still supporting you, paying for drinks. It’s not like you’d never accept their invitations; it’s just the times you would, Wanda would always pick you up early, or make up an excuse for why you couldn’t attend—with the amount of ‘doctor’s visits’ you had been at this past year, people should think of you as chronically ill with an incurable disorder. 

Speaking of Wanda, your lips pursed as you confessed, “No, I was going to sneak away and call someone.” You could practically feel her eyes rolling when you mentioned it. With both of you drunk, your friend had held an air of brashness, justifying her next remark. 

“She treated you like her little pet, you can’t be hung up on her anymore.” While this analysis of your relationship—past relationship—would have hurt you in any other context, tonight the only thing you wanted to be was ‘her little pet.’ Actually, the more you think about it, the more irritated it makes you. Your friend was right, how could you still be hung up on her? She’d control your outfits, relationships, and even jobs. You hadn’t lived for yourself these past 2 years. To be fair, it wasn’t that bad, she paid for anything you could have wanted, and you didn’t actually need to work since she handled your mortgage bills, student loans, and everything else. She loved you, cared for you, and never put anything above you. Wait. There it was again. That perpetual voice in your head that needed to defend her, always. It was almost like Wanda had planted a replica of herself in your own thoughts, always convincing you to submit to her, never disobey her, listen to her. Whatever; tonight that changed. You had already broken one of her “rules,” evident by the booze that tainted your breath and mind, might as well break them all.

“Remember what you mentioned earlier?” you goaded, looking up at your friend with a maniacal look. She grinned, quickly catching on to your, probably impractical, idea. The two of you left the bathroom, skipping with glee. 

It had been easy to get into bed with someone; perhaps your flirting skills needed work, yes, but their levels sufficed enough for a one-nighter. Was it a little irresponsible of them to let you leave with a stranger while absolutely hammered? Sure, but you had all been a little too intoxicated to think right, and you assured them you’d be okay. Drunken lips met, and your bodies folded into each other. There was a possibility, you thought as your hands gripped fiery strands, that you chose to approach this particular stranger because of her close resemblance to a certain someone. Your friend had eyed you and pointed out the resemblance, but you shrugged her off, calling her dramatic; maybe you should have listened to her at the time. Now, all you could think about were the similarities; her overzealous look, burgundy hair, and husky tone. Her hands on you, in you, lifting a haze over your mind. When you reached your peak, you were ashamed to admit how much it caused you to miss Wanda; thank god your face had been buried in a pillow, or else your mystery partner would’ve probably been disappointed to hear you moaning another’s name. 

You had left the bed as soon as you felt slow rises and falls in your mystery partner’s chest; you felt a little remorse for ditching, but it was a game both of you had signed up for: one-night, no questions, no feelings. Zipping up the same jean shorts that were hastily torn off of you just a few hours prior, and brushing your hair with her comb, you pried open the bedroom door quietly. Your eyes scanned the room, landing on the couch. You walked over to where you had lost your bra and top before you made it onto the mattress. That restless, expeditious hunger reminded you of Wanda, and you caught yourself smiling fondly. The drunken stupidity in your mind had nestled itself into a faint buzz, still leaving your head floating and a little empty. Before you could register your instinctual reflex, your hand started to dial a number you were all too familiar with. 

“Hello?” Her tone was sharp and annoyed. You froze. You didn’t expect her to answer so quickly, especially at 2 in the morning, and you also didn’t expect yourself to call her right after the event that was supposed to help you forget about her. Still, you tried to justify your own actions to yourself, blaming it on the bottomless drinks paid for by your friends. 

“Wan- mommy,” you whispered. You knew that title was her weak point, and she softened on the other line, but stayed persistent. 

“Why are you calling me this late?” She scoffed. She already knew the answer, of course. Wanda had been stalking your location all night, waiting for a call to appear on her phone; a few months ago she installed a GPS tracker on your phone, which you have since forgotten about. This was the type of controlling behavior your friends complained about, but you never took their warnings to heart. When you had mentioned it to her, Wanda told you they were just jealous, and what were you to do if not believe her? 

“‘m sorry.” The demeanor she held made your mind fuzzy; you never could stand to be bad when your mommy was disappointed in you. 

You could hear a sigh on the other line, and then finally, “Don’t go anywhere, I’m coming to pick you up.” Your body felt warm at her demand, humming a barely audible agreement. 

You had bundled yourself up in your jacket and a random throw blanket scavenged from the stranger’s apartment—hopefully they wouldn’t miss it—and fell asleep against a fire hydrant. When the familiar rumble of Wanda’s corvette approached the side of the street, you jolted awake. 

“I didn’t know mommy’s girl was this stupid. Why didn’t you stay inside, baby?” she chastised, coming around the front of her car to squeeze your chin up at her. As much as she hated seeing your blinking dot in some random apartment, she would’ve much preferred you stay warm. You sneezed in response, and blinked at her, dumbly. Her infantilization of you, paired with the high you were still coming off of, brought you to a space where only half your senses were present. 

“I can’t say I expected this of you, baby,” she murmured, pulling you into the car. “I thought my sweet girl would come straight back to mommy, especially after that big fit you threw.” 

Your head tilted a little, trying to wrap your head around what Wanda was saying to you.

“Is this who my little girl is now, hmm?” Her condescending stare, eyes narrowed as if she were scolding a child, make you melt even further into yourself. “A drunk slut, whoring yourself out to some random bitch, and then having to call mommy to clean up your mess?”

“No, mommy, please,” you begged for her forgiveness, wrapping your body around her free arm. You hadn’t stopped to question how she knew the details of your night. She yanked her arm out from you with such startling force, causing your head to hit the wheel. 

“Mommy,” your eyes welled up, "I'm sorry, please, I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”

“Don’t go around making promises you can’t keep, baby.” 

“Please, anything,” you bat your eyes at her. At this point, you were just saying anything to get her to soften up, pawing at her arm again. This time she let you fit your fingers between hers, rubbing circles into the back of your hand, while her other hand turned the wheel.

“The first thing you’re gonna do is shut that whiny little mouth of yours. Then, when we get back home, you’re gonna take a nice long bath and go to sleep.” Even when she was mad at you, she could be so considerate. You should’ve never listened to your friends when they told you Wanda was bad for you. How could she be, when she took such care for you? You decided, on your own, that you were going to cut them off as soon as you woke up in the morning. When you verbalized this to Wanda—to the best of your ability—she cooed and stroked your thigh. 

“I knew my good girl was still in there.” Your face heated at her compliment, and you buried your face in her shoulder. It was quiet on the way home with you half-asleep and Wanda at the wheel. She occasionally peppered little kisses on your hand, murmuring words you couldn’t make out.

When you got home, the porch light had been left on—proof of Wanda’s hasty actions. She had been so worried about you, watching your location move to a foreign building. It had been a miracle that she hadn’t driven immediately there, but she knew her little girl would come back to her; you just got lost along the way. Getting you in the house had been easy, but getting you in the shower was another story. When she managed to haul you over to the tub, you fell limp against her, unhelpful and unmoving. 

“Baby. Mommy’s very mad at you right now. Don’t make it worse.” You huffed at her, opening one eye against the bright fluorescent light of her bathroom. Sluggishly, you climbed in the tub, still fully dressed. You still couldn’t believe that she had answered your call, without a second thought; you take her for granted too much. 

“Strip,” Wanda ordered, raising an eyebrow. You pouted at her, raising your arms for her. She rolled her eyes at your childishness, pulling your shirt over your head and your shorts down your legs. When she unclipped your bra, you covered your arms over your chest, bashfully. Wanda slapped them away. 

“How many times have I seen you naked, sweetheart?” she lectured, moving on to shimmy your panties down your thighs. Your cheeks glowed. As she slid them down, she could see a pool of want string down with them. 

“Fucking slut,” she said, biting her lip. You whined at her words, crossing your legs to hide yourself. You were ashamed; ashamed at your choices from earlier, and ashamed at how much you craved her inevitable punishment.

“I’ll deal with you in a bit,” Wanda said pointedly. The way she spoke to your pussy like you weren’t there made the pressure in your thighs grow, uncomfortably so. 

“Mommy,” you groaned, rubbing your legs together. 

“Stop that,” Wanda scolded, squeezing your thigh to freeze your movements. She started the shower, with her still fully dressed. It made you flush even more, knowing you were fully exposed for her. 

“Can you shower by yourself, or do you need your mommy to do that for you too?” She mocked, manhandling you into the cold water. You gasped out the title you had been repeating all night, jumping at the sudden cold. Your nipples pebbled when the droplets met them, a reaction that Wanda did not miss. She slid her hand from your thighs, trailing them up your body to your breasts. Her hand squeezed and tightness of her grip made you whimper. Her other hand, now free after turning on the water, floated to the body wash, pumping the silky product onto her palm. 

“Mommy needs to make sure my sweet girl is all clean, okay?” she spoke, condescendingly, “stay still, baby.” She brought her palm down to your icky center, and using the body wash as lube—not that you needed any help in that department; you were soaking wet, and not from the shower—Wanda pushed three fingers into you at once, causing you to gasp and stand on your tippy toes to get away from the stretch. She pushed you down with her free hand, until your feet were back on the ground, shushing you. When you settled onto her fingers, she began pumping, massaging your cute perky breasts at the same time. You held the back of your hand against your mouth, muffling your melodious moans.

“Don’t do that,” she snapped, “I want to hear your pathetic sounds.” You complied, a bit embarrassed at the reflexive way you listened to her. The body wash gave her “inspection” of your pussy a little sting to it, and every languid thrust made you more and more sensitive. She was being rougher and meaner than usual, and you knew why. It was well warranted treatment, you thought to yourself; Wanda had always been so good to you, but there you were, practically cheating on her with a stranger you had been just a few hours before. And you had cum for someone else, without her permission no less. The guilt overcame you. You didn’t realize you were crying until Wanda’s hands left your chest and core, and cupped your cheeks.

“My sweet girl,” she purred. It was a mystery to how she even realized there were tears, especially because of the water. But Wanda always noticed. You leaned into her touch, babbling out ‘mommys’ and sniffles of apologies. She leaned your head out of the water, shushing you with a kiss. Her lips felt like they were searing hot compared to the shower that had yet to warm up. If you were in the right state of mind, you would’ve realized Wanda set it to that temperature on purpose, to keep your mind uncomfortable, and subsequently moldable. She has you right

where she wants you, pliable, submissive, and needy. You chased her lips when they left you, and she chuckled at your attempt. 

“Let’s finish showering, bunny,” she cooed, washing her hands in the falling water. The rest of your shower went without notability. 

You had passed out right when she finished dressing you in her oversized t-shirt and lacy underwear. Your little snores made her almost forget what she had to be angry at you for. She knew you were just a needy pet; all you did last night was throw a tantrum just for her attention. That was to be expected. What she didn’t expect was for you to actually let someone else touch what was hers. Wanda felt like she deserved reparations for your vehement behavior. And look at you now: freshly showered, adorable lingerie, shirt that lifted just a little too high. You were practically asking for it with your slightly agape mouth, and perfectly laid out hair. Wanda felt like it was justified; your body needed to be claimed again. It was only right. That’s what she told herself as she lifted your thighs, pulling your panties aside. No wonder you were so whiny, your pretty cunt was so worked up all this time. Wanda was only doing you, and her, a favor by taking care of this mess. That was her reasoning behind lowering her mouth on your leaky pink pussy. Her tongue pushed past your entrance, swirling around your insides. She lapped up the wetness you pooled between your legs, humming to herself as she did. A tiny crease formed between your brows as you let out small whimpers in your sleep. 

Fuck, Wanda had missed this taste. Sure, you had only been gone for a night or two, but she would’ve fucked you ten fold in that amount of time. You had been stealing her life source, her reason for living, when you stormed off. It’s only right that she gets to have her way with you now, she justified, as she flicked her tongue into your unconscious form. You were just as sensitive as ever, legs twitching at each swipe. She relieved her right hand of the duty of pushing your thigh apart, and instead brought it down to your soaked entrance. Your hips jutted out just a little, perhaps a cause of your dreams, and she giggled at your eagerness. Even in your sleep, you chased her fingers. When Wanda sunk them into you, she moaned. You were positively soaked, and she ravished in it all being for her. She pumped and curled her fingers with such lewd vigor and divulgence, one could actually believe that she truly did survive off of your pleasure. Your euphonious moans and whimpers bounced around the room, and when she found that spot in you that clenched your abs and squeezed your thighs, she drilled everything she had into it. Like a symphony, your entire body moved up and down to the rhythm of the tempo her fingers set. She didn’t give your clit a break either, licking, sucking, and circling the bundle of nerves until she recognized the contorted look that filled your sleeping face. Then, everything stopped. 

Oh no, she was not about to give her naughty little girl the pleasure of an orgasm, even unconsciously. Wanda had planned to bring you to the edge, over and over again, in your sleep, just so you would be needy and complacent tomorrow morning. And that she did. Every twitch of your thighs, clenching of your abs, and furrowing of your brows, halted her movements. She tightened that coil, again and again, throughout the entire night. At the end, you were so worked up, even a breeze blowing by could give you an orgasm. It was a miracle you hadn’t awoke at any point, and the alcohol definitely played a role. 

Coming morning, your hand had met your eyes, groggily rubbing consciousness into them. A Wanda sized dent was left in the bed, and she was nowhere to be seen. A faint aroma of scrambled eggs and sound of sizzling slowly crept into the room, and you would have been excited at the thought of one of your favorite dishes if it weren’t for the massive ache you had woken up with. Lifting up the edge of your underwear, you could see an ocean of need pooling between your thighs. What could you have possibly dreamt about to warrant this type of reaction? You flung your legs over the side of the bed, scrunching your nose at the feeling of fabric rubbing against your icky area. It was like you had been injected with some kind of chemical that increased your sensitivity exponentially. You slowly made your way to the bathroom, a pair of fresh underwear in tow. Your walk was a little funny, as a result of your attempt to prevent your thighs from rubbing together. It was a pain to clean up, as every swipe sent what felt like electricity jolting through your body. When you finished wiping up your mess, your feet led you towards the ravishing smell, into the kitchen, and your eyes staked their claim on Wanda. 

“Mommy, I’m sorry,” you looked up at her, covering your hands with your face. You felt ashamed caused by memories of last night, and the anger you held for her conjured by your friends dissipating, leaving you with the aftermath of your reactions. She melted at the sight of you, leaning down to pepper little kisses around your forehead. 

“What’s wrong, princess?” She whispered, kissing your ear as she dotted her mouth around. Her breath sent shivers crawling around your spine, leaving goosebumps where they trailed. 

“Need you,” you murmured, pressing into her side. She laughed at your words, hands still occupied on the stove. She had always looked so beautiful doing domestic things for you, like cooking or laundry. You’d usually love making yourself useful in whichever ways you could, but today, you held not the same appetite for helpfulness. 

“Go set the table, baby,” she asked, nodding her head towards the wooden surface. You whined at her request, pulling yourself off of her.

“Please, mommy,” you stomped your feet. Her eyes darkened and she raised an eyebrow.

“Is that how you want to speak to me right now? You’re in a lot of trouble still, silly girl.” Her voice raised in volume, just enough to strike obedience into you. 

“‘m sorry, mommy.”

“That’s what I thought. Do what I asked, sweet girl.” You dragged your feet the whole way to the table, and again whilst laying cutlery, plates, and glasses. Wanda rolled her eyes at your dramatics. 

“Mommy, pleaseee, I really need you,” you begged, a few hours after breakfast. You two had moved to the couch, wrapped around each other with an arbitrarily chosen sitcom in the background. Wanda feigned ignorance at the need between your thighs she knew you were possessing, instead choosing to echo your words from a few nights ago.

“I thought you said I was too much, and that you didn’t need me, baby,” she mocked, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ears. As her fingers floated over, they made just enough contact to melt your mind a little. 

“No, I take it back, mommy,” you whined, “can’t live without you.” You felt, in this moment, that acquiring her attention was akin to your fundamental need of oxygen. Wanda grinned at your admission, leaning in for a kiss. 

“I know,” she mumbled into your lips, and you shifted yourself onto her. 

“Please, let me show you how much I need you,” you whimpered, grinding down, and ruining her sweatpants. Wanda’s eyes glinted, her hand sliding up your shirt, fingers running up your bare stomach before grabbing your breasts with her hands. She pinched one of your erect nipples, rolling it around, watching your body squirm. After she had wound you up last night, almost every part of your body became hypersensitive, confusing you. Wanda, of course, was aware of this. She slapped your chest, playfully, and you gasped at the feeling of her palms rubbing against your nipples as she massaged you harshly. You would’ve fallen against her, had she not been holding you up by your chest; you were practically butter, leaning against her hands, letting her have her way with groping you. Wanda smirked at your pitiful whines and bucking hips, and she knew you felt the hard bulge beneath her sweatpants pressing against you.

“Please, please,” you mewled, any other word escaping your mind. Wanda let you continue to hump against her, her hips pressing her strap purposely up into your clit. Your back arched as you felt it, leaning yourself back against your arms and simultaneously into her. 

“I thought you wanted to watch a show, baby,” Wanda teased, turning your head towards the television by squeezing your chin with her free hand, the other still palming your chest. With your face flushed and eyes screwed shut, you could feel yourself getting wetter and more embarrassed at her words. 

“No, mommy, please, want you,” you moaned, hips already begging for release. She rolled her eyes at your need, bringing her hands down on your hips to force pressure into your nerves. You groaned, as your sensitive cunt tightened around an ache of nothingness. A part of you felt anger towards your past self; if you had not gotten so indignantly enraged at Wanda over what your friends had told you, she wouldn’t be so virulent to you now and you would be in a more propitious situation. As the coil in your tummy spiraled, slews of ‘please’s and ‘mommy’s began escaping your mouth; your hands came around to Wanda’s shoulders, and she could tell you were close. 

“You’re pathetic, sweetie,” she spat, “Fucking slut, whining about how you don’t need me, then coming back and begging for me to let you cum?” The visible flush on your face multiplied, if such a thing could even happen; her words left you fuzzy, and she forced your attention onto her with a sharp squeeze of your thigh, looking into your eyes which were glassy from the fusion of pleasure and humiliation that occupied your empty little head. “I haven’t even touched you down there, princess. What’s got you so worked up?”

Your words die in your gaping mouth and reincarnate as helpless whimpers. Your head was filled with only one thing, and Wanda loved to see you squirming to reach it; she knew you wouldn’t have the capacity to answer her purposefully loaded questions. It’s not like she needed the answer anyway, she hadn’t forgotten about the hours she spent winding you up like a toy, not letting you reach your zenith even once. When you didn’t answer her in adequate time, she released your face, slapping the side of it a little.

“Mommy’s little doll can’t be that dumb yet,” she mocked, pressing you even harder against her ruined pants. You pouted at her words, shaking your head childishly. She laughed at the display, pinching your cheeks. You buried your face into her, leaving breathy whines against her neck, begging for your impending release. The faster you grinded into her, the higher you climbed, but you knew cumming without her permission now would be a death sentence. 

“Mommy, need to cum please,” you spluttered out in one breath, not trusting yourself to take a long pause in between each word. It was getting harder and harder to form coherent verbal expressions, and Wanda relished these dopey babblings. She pressed you further down onto her, encouraging you to rut into her with fervent urge. Wanda had to stop for a moment, just to admire you; bare, rolling hips against, exposed nipples hardening to perfect peaks in the air, your eyes, half-lidded, glassy and full of desire. Your need for her was intoxicating, and her fingertips traveled down her chest, trailing between the valley of your breasts and over the curve of your clenching stomach. You arched into her touch with closed eyes, releasing a whimper of pure and absolute pleasure. 

“Go ahead, baby, show mommy how much you want me.”

With her consent, a breathy, prolonged cry escaped from the rope of desire that snapped inside you, letting you fall from your compulsive hunger; it felt like you had been thrown over a mountainside that had rivaled the heights of Olympus, soaring through the sky to land into the arms of your lover. Your hands dug into her shoulders, causing little crescent shapes to embed into her skin. Wanda reached around your back, nestling her hand in between sweaty strands of your hair. She pulled back softly, bringing your face to hers. It drove her mad, to think about you with another; she met your lips with indignation, leaving sloppy, open-mouth kisses to claim your shaking form. Your hips slowed, almost to a halt if it were not for the sporadic jolts of aftershocks from your orgasm. 

Wanda stilled your hips, pressing her hands around you. You had expected her to bring you down carefully, peppering little kisses around your face, praising you, like she always did. Unfortunately for you, she was not in that kind of mood. Instead, reaching under you, she flipped the band of her drenched sweatpants down, revealing her strap. In one swift moment, before your dumb, empty little brain could even register what was happening, she pulled your panties to the side and her cock into your hole. You squeaked when she pushed into you halfway, crying out and crumpling forward onto her. The feeling of her length engulfed your senses entirely, forcing your focus to one burning point of desire. 

“W-Wanda, wait, stop,” you whined, complaints muffed by her chest, “it’s too much.”

“Mommy,” she corrected with a hiss against your cheek, “isn’t done yet.” 

“Mommy,” you sobbed, grabbing to cling to her arms, or to anything really, as she sank herself further into you. Your stature crumbles under the weight of her looming desire, unable to produce even a single thought as you lose yourself to the sensation of her. 

“You’ll take what I give you, baby,” she hissed, “This is what you asked for, isn’t it?” You nodded, biting your lip and looking up at her through fear pricked eyelashes, fully resting on her hilt. Her hands moved to position both of you upright. Now, your hands were shaking on her shoulders, and hers gripping on your hips. She set an awful starting pace, lifting you up and down her cock, each impact grinding the straps base into her clit. You had whimpered at each movement, feeling fuller than you had ever felt before. Your head lolled forward, onto her shoulder, hiding your flush from her. In this position, your cute whimpers traveled straight into Wanda’s ears, fueling her need even more. It would be a tragedy to compare anything to the sweet heat of your aching cunt clenching around her. 

“Slower please, mommy,” you pleaded, trying to push her hands off your waist. She trapped your wrists behind your lower back, with one hand, while the other guided your hips to roll at a faster pace. “Don’t fucking fight me, baby. You don’t get to, not after that fit you threw. Just be a good girl, and let mommy use your tight little pussy.” 

You whined at her vulgarity, leaning further into her, now fully supported by her shoulders. Willing everything in yourself to be a good girl and take your mommy’s cock, you start to move your hips with her hand. You sat at the precipice of pain and ecstasy, pleasure building inside of you as your walls cave in on Wanda’s length. It truly felt as if you were being split into two, and, to the best of your ability, you voiced your concerns to Wanda. 

“Too much, it hurts mommy, please stop,” you spluttered, gasping and screwing your eyes together tightly at the intense discomfort that disguised itself in pleasure. 

“Mommy will decide when it’s too much for you, baby,” Wanda hissed. You had no choice but to accept her decree, but still let out a whine in complaint. She bucked up a little harsher in response. Wanda’s hand released your arms, trailing around your waist and across your tummy to grope at your bouncing breasts harshly and callously. You deserved a worse punishment, in her opinion, leaving her and running away to slut yourself off to some whore at a bar; she bet you never even caught the stranger’s name, but shit, did you feel addicting. Lost in her own thoughts formed by the synthesis of her outrage and craving, she pushed you over, onto your back to reach a deeper part of you. From on top, she was able to thrust harder with more fervor. Your wanton moans echo around the room, hands gripping the material beneath you. The slick sound of sex and the stringing stickiness of your mixed fluids would have embarrassed you in another mindset, but now, you were just as lost in the desire as Wanda was; the intoxicating feeling of intimacy overwhelmed your senses. Each plunge of herself into you loosened your cunt until there was barely any resistance; as you became accustomed to her size, your whines grew lewdly in volume. With your clammy hands, you clung to her, and every time your pussy took her to her hilt, you let out little whines, raking your nails across her back. Your mind felt higher than any drug could have ever taken you, pleasure obscuring any real thought you might have mustered up. She dropped to lean on her elbows, trapping you between her forearms. 

“My cute brainless fucktoy, aren’t you?” Wanda cooed into your ear, and you nodded your head into her neck; you would've nodded at anything she said, incapable of much else in that moment. Wanda’s breathy moans had picked up their frequency, and you knew she was grinding against the strap’s base as she fucked you; the thought of her using you as just an object for her own pleasure caused your cunt to tense around her, your wetness seeping out between the two of you. “My sweet girl, you feel so tight,” she muttered from behind you, hands fitting themselves around your waist, using your hips as leverage to rut into you rougher. The feeling of her desperate desire rivaled any other, and you felt as if she were trying to melt her soul into yours. Pleasure ran wild in your bloodstream and nerves, firing like crazy, random, and then surging back to one pure point as she rounded your hip to draw circles against your clit. You could hear a gasp, distantly, not quite sure if it was yours from pleasure or hers from the shock of your wetness; your muscles gathered and trembled in transfixed purpose, her fingers and cock prying moan after moan from your lips. You could feel the familiar coil in your tummy, tightening once again, stronger than it had ever before; Wanda could feel the same. 

“Gonna cum again, mommy,” you cried, as you buried your face into the side of her arm. Your forehead pressed against her, and you melted into the light bounce of the couch beneath the two of you. Wanda’s grunts collected against the side of your head as she grew ever closer to her own high. Without uttering a single word, she met your lips again, pressing into passionately. Your mouths locked together, burning, blissful, and mind-numbing. It had felt like a kiss for an eternity, void of time or oxygen. When she pulled away, your steamy, half-lidded stare incited a deep, fervent need within her. You could feel the bruise on your cervix forming as her tempo increased. You knew she was closing in on her climax, and you wanted nothing more than to feel the fall with her. You stammered out incomplete words, in an attempt to declare your proximity to your orgasm. 

The multiverse, and everything in it, ceased to exist in the very moment Wanda’s permission whispered into your ear.

Your legs wrapped around her tightly, and then it washed over you like a wave crashing onto the shore. As you came down from your peak, the wave pulled back, dragging the pleasure out from your core into every limb, every hair on your body, all the way out to your fingertips. The same gratification sank through Wanda, relief from the ache building in her center caused white-hot pleasure to blind her vision. She plummeted from her apex, hands gripping the cushions below you. 

When you both came to, tangled around each other, heavy breathing, and spent bodies, Wanda smiled at you. The love you felt for her in that moment was physically painful, and you brought your hands up to melt into another kiss. “My sweet girl, I love you,” Wanda murmured into your lips, as she fell into your embrace. 

Your life, soul, body, and mind belonged to her, and her alone. You’d never leave her side again.

The dessert came in a beautiful white box placed inside a large brown paper bag, the classic ones you see at supermarkets and local stores, except this one came with one deceptively innocent-looking message in a corner. You could hardly read it, with Natasha’s hand furiously shaking the bag in front of your face. It started with your name, a comma, and a pure-intentioned “Happy Birthday!” This on its own could have been excused, except for the very end where you could make out a phone number and a from Katie, the i dotted with a small, middle school-esque heart. 

Kate Bishop, the daughter of the diner’s owner, and a nostalgic name. Of course she had remembered your favorite cake. You and her, of course partially because of your frequent visits, had formed a sort of friendship; it was nothing notable, really, just flirtatious looks and lingering touches when you reached to receive coffee or breakfast from her hands. It had been unfortunate, when you moved to the big city, leaving your family, friends, and subsequent “situationship.” It had been even more unfortunate that Kate’s penmanship had graced the eyes of Natasha Romanoff. She was offended; one, at being proved wrong from her prior presumptuous comment, and two, because who does this “Katie” think she is, leaving a number and a heart for her little girl? When Natasha had asked you who she was, you responded with, “my girlfriend.” A lie of course, but you were in a mood to get on her nerves as much as you could; oh what a mistake that was. She dropped the cake to the ground, flipping you on your chest. In one smooth, quick motion, she has you face down, ass up, and back arched. 

“You’ve been getting into a lot of trouble recently, hmm?” She pulled your panties down, roughly pinning your wrists to your back when your hands flung up to stop her. Using her freehand, she easily forces three fingers in your dripping heat, relishing in the muffled moan you reflexively let out. 

“Look at you. Dirty slut. Is this all for Katie?” She muttered, pumping in and out of you.

Your instinct and the tremble in your legs tell you to shake your head no and beg for Natasha’s mercy, but your defiant nature had other plans. You, instead, nodded, slow and steady, making sure she could see your purposeful rebellion. A sharp breath in could be heard behind you, and Natasha released a small “ha?” in response to your brazenness. It was a real mystery of the world, where such audacity came from. She let your arms free and pulled her fingers out, which surprised you enough to turn around and watch her walk up the stairs, into the main house. You felt triumphant; you should brat-off more often if she was just going to leave you alone and huff in solitary. Your celebratory moment was interrupted as Natasha came back down shortly after, holding a kitchen knife. 

“Come back down to cut the cake for me, Daddy?” You really need to learn how to shut up. 

With one hard kick, you fell onto your back and air knocked out of you, your shirt hiking up from the movement. It was a comfortable top you were wearing, but you didn’t hold any sentimental value for it. Thankfully. Because soon after, a long rip could be heard, and your nipples hardened when they met the cold basement air. Your heartbeat quickened into thundering, when you saw the glint of her blade travel down your chest. You felt the goosebumps on your ribs rise when she dragged the metal edge just enough to nick you. She shuts up your inevitable complaints by shoving two fingers into your mouth, pushing them in and out slowly.

“W-wait,” you started to reason around her fingers. Natasha forces a gag out of you, and presses her fingers down on your tongue occasionally as she speaks. 

“Talking back, slutting yourself out to someone else?” You’re starting to feel the tears poke out the corner of your eyes, as Natasha recounts your past bratty behaviors. She had never left anything permanent on you before, just bruises and many, many welts. It seems this time, it would be different. 

“I think you need to be reminded of who you belong to, don’t you?” Natasha raises her eyebrows and slows her fingers to a halt, giving you one last chance to partially redeem yourself. You weighed the sunk-cost fallacy, and responded with a curt, “fuck you.”

“This is going to be fun,” she all but beams at you. You feel the knife dig into your flesh; now was a time as good as any to feel the fear set in. Her fingers leave your mouth to palm your breasts, pinching your nipples as she carves slowly. 

“Daddy, please no,” you beg, but you also know there’s no use. You’re kicking your feet, but trying your best to keep your chest still, afraid of the blade slipping. Natasha rolls her eyes at your disobedience, bringing her hand down sharply on your cheek. 

“Stay still, pretty,” she murmurs, “Daddy’s, almost done.”

You’re bawling now, hands clinging to Natasha’s free arm. Your mouth fills with blood as you bite down on your lip, trying to keep yourself from moving. She’s dragging the knife across your skin, over and over again, forming what you think are words. The pain is unbearable, and the only thing keeping you present is the audible drips of blood staining the floor. You don’t realize when she stops. You don’t even realize Natasha has left the basement, until she comes back and jolts you awake by pouring alcohol on the fresh wound; your torso is searing with agony, while the rest of your body feels numb in comparison. Natasha’s warm hand meets your cheek as she moves your face towards a small mirror she brought down for you. 

“Look, baby,” she smiles. You think she feels proud of her work. You catch a glimpse of yourself, eyes bloodshot, lips swollen and burgundy. When Natasha tilts the mirror, your gaze lowers and settles on your upper rib. Your mouth gapes open as you read what she engraved into your skin, and a little gasp leaves your lips 

You can see the first word: Daddy’s. It doesn’t settle in your mind that Natasha’s honorific is now etched into you permanently. You squint, trying to read the second part of her cruel claiming ritual, but it’s hidden behind a facade of red. She notices your difficulty reading, and God you wished you hid it better; you don’t see what Natasha reaches down for, but you do feel it when the stinging chemical drenches you again. It burns and feels like your skin is being peeled from the muscle; you scream as you try to scurry away from her. She squeezes your thigh to keep you in place, leaving tiny crescent shapes on your legs. When the alcohol washes away the maroon, you can make out the full carving.

Daddy’s Girl.

"You like it, don’t you sweet girl?" The soft, excited tone she uses makes you forget about the agonizing pain she induced, and you hum in response, nodding your head, voice weak from all the screaming and crying.

"Now you’ll remember, and everyone will know," she says with a smug smile as she presses a kiss to your lips and, for some reason, your heart flutters. Your eyelids open and close slowly, mind blank and docile from the finished punishment. At least, you thought it was finished. 

Natasha swings your legs up and over her shoulders, causing you to fall on your back. The engraving causes you to clench your teeth in pain, as she manhandles you into position. Apparently, seeing you in unbearable physical pain and getting to carve her name into you like you're her bedpost wasn't enough. The constant insatiable need to remind you that she owns you, and you are hers, is never satisfied. You whimper in recognition, as you hear the zipper of her jeans pull apart. There is no fight left in you, even when Natasha slides her strap out of her pants and meets your covered entrance. You lay there, breathing and blinking sluggishly, watching her through your hooded eyes. Nat chuckles at your submission and practical invitation, but she pauses as an idea seems to flood her mind. She stands up, causing a crease to form between your brows. You sit up a little, or at least you try to before the pain forces you back down. You had assumed she brought the cake back upstairs in your daze of unconsciousness, but the bag remained. Natasha is walking towards the forgotten dessert bag, and grinning a devilish smile. A small something slides out of her pocket and into her hand, and when you realize what it is, and what she’s trying to do, your stomach lurches. 

While Natasha walks over to you, you can hear 10 beeps, each of which bring you a feeling of increasing imperial doom. She was going to call Kate. You’d hope to the higher powers, if any existed, that the time difference would be enough to warrant her ignorance, but of course, the fates loved Natasha.

“Hello? Who is this?” You haven’t heard her voice in years, tears threatening to spill at your reminiscence. Natasha held the phone up to you, and smirked. You shook your head silently, and she sighed. She hit the mute button before picking up the knife and straddling your thighs.

“Sweetheart, answer or I’ll kill you.” You knew she would never do that, she’s just as afraid of losing you as you were of dying, but you couldn’t think rationally in this moment. 

“Do not hang up.” She unmuted, held the knife to your neck, and handed you the phone, awaiting your response. 

“H-hi, Katie,” you said, meekly. It had been a while since you held a phone, let alone spoke to anyone besides Natasha’s friends, who were just as sick as her. You could hear Kate’s excitement through the phone, as she said your name in recognition; however, you were a little distracted by Natasha shimming your underwear down your legs, and parting your thighs with hers. Your eyes widened at her actions, and you shook your head pleadingly. Natasha ignored you.

“How have you been? I haven’t seen you at the diner in ages! How's the city?” You tried your best to comprehend Kate’s questions, and formulate the best lies you could give her, as Natasha trailed her strap along your entrance. 

“I’ve been g—,” your sentence cuts off when Natasha cruelly plunges herself into you, bottoming out instantly. She smirks up at you, nodding her head at the phone in reminder. 

“Katie’s waiting on a response, bunny,” she mutters, quiet enough so only you could hear. Natasha had started pumping in and out at an agonizingly slow pace; you’re sure she’s doing this on purpose because it draws out the most noise from you. 

“What was that? Are you okay?” Your face flushes at the thought of Kate hearing your moans. 

“I’m f-fine, Kate. I’ve been good in the city, busy. Y’know,” you splutter out, trying to answer as fast as possible so your hand can return to your mouth and muffle the moans escaping your throat.

“That’s great to hear! I miss you a lot. The diner isn’t the same without your weekly visits.” You silently curse Kate for her flirty personality, as Natasha’s gaze darkens at her words. She starts moving her hips harder and faster, setting a punishing tempo; her hands are sure to leave bruises where she grips your thighs. Sounds of skin meeting skin and squelching wetness fill the room. Your face feels like it’s 100 degrees when Kate asks what the commotion is. 

“Sorry, I’m…” You pull the phone away from your mouth as Natasha delivers a particularly rough thrust. “I’m watching a movie right now.”

You’re thankful that Kate believes you, choosing to talk about her time at the same “boring old” diner. She mentions some of your shared friends, who you haven’t seen in years since you’ve moved. You hope, secretly, that they'd have forgotten about you by now; there was no way you could “catch up,” like Kate had suggested, and you didn’t want them to feel let down. After a few minutes of rambling, Kate mentions that she has to start getting ready for work soon. You just wished she would hang up so you could focus on the pleasure that was winding up in your center.

“I’ll text you later, ‘kay?” she mentions. Her bubbly tone makes you want to cry, knowing this will probably be the last time you’ll ever hear from her. 

“Mhm,” you respond, not being able to muster anything else with the ruthless speed Natasha had established. Kate had finally hung up after a few seconds, possibly waiting for you to give more of a parting expression. You let out a lewd, unfiltered moan, after you were sure she couldn’t hear, and Natasha’s lips tugged skyward on one corner. 

“You did so good, baby,” she said mockingly. You responded with a little ‘mhm,’ and wrapped your legs around her waist. 

“What do we say when Daddy gives you a gift?” You were sure if she was referring to the call or your new permanent label, but in fear of retaliation, you abided by her insinuation either way. 

“T-Th..ank you, D-Da…ddy,” you gasped out, the words leaving you in stutters from the up and down motion of your body. 

“You’re welcome, bunny,” Natasha grunted. You couldn’t even feel the searing pain on your chest, it being replaced with waves of pleasure. Your hands reached out, making a grabbing motion. Natasha complied, replacing the space between your fingers with hers, then pinning them above your head. You whined at her restraints, but bucked your hips anyway. 

“Silly baby, can only think of one thing, hmm? Just want Daddy to make you cum, nothing else in that empty brain of yours.” You nod along dumbly to her condescensions, understanding every other word. From the carving, to the call, your mind had just about melted, leaving you in a floaty subspace, perfectly pliable for Natasha to use. No matter what she did to you, she could always bring you here. 

“Wanna cum, please, Daddy,” you pouted your lips at her. How could she deny her girl when she asked so sweetly?

“Go ahead, baby.”