regatoni

John scrubs a hand over his warming cheeks and chuckles when he meets Kate's eyes. Her smile is sharp, wicked. The very same one she shares whenever a plan executes perfectly. She pats his back and lays a key card on the desk.

"Happy birthday, John. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." She laughs softly as she leaves the suite. The door clicks shut after easing closed, leaving him alone with his gifts.

He stares, good manners slipping now that company's gone. He doffs his cap and shucks off his jacket, taking his time to place both aside. His breathing deepens as he peels off his shirt, the cool air a balm to his warmed skin.

"Look at you. Sittin' pretty. Much better than last time." He tugs off his belt and lifts a single brow. "Did our chat motivate you? Or are you on your best behavior 'cause it's my birthday?"

His pet doesn't answer, of course, not with the gag held between her teeth. She weakly whines as he steps out of his trousers, folding them with the same lack of hurry as the rest of his clothes. His lip curls at the sheen on her lips, the string of drool dangling from the silicone, and how her eyes drill far lower than his face. He cups himself over the cotton, sneering when her gaze snaps up.

"No, you care about the rules or my birthday, do you? You just want somethin' to gag on." John clicks his tongue, ignoring her protests, releasing himself to pluck the half-full bottle resting between her legs. Fingers curling around the neck, he guides the heft of it deliberately into her seam as he lifts it. He zeroes in on the damp revealed by its removal and the pink silicone tail peeking out from behind the gusset. He exhales hard through his nose. 

"You better be a good girl for Kate next time you're with her. She's spoiled you."

John pulls the room's armchair closer to the bed and pours himself a small drink. The bottle is an old tradition that he and Nik started. Kate's the most recent addition to the rotation, despite her deeming it unpalatable. But, sure enough, her initials and last year's date are etched in ink on the bottle's label.

He looks over their pet and the rope securing her limbs, ensuring it's only as uncomfortable as she likes. Her arms double-cuffed at her back, legs held open like butterfly wings, tied ankle to thigh. She's stunning like this. Always is.

Swirling the amber on his tongue, savoring the taste, he swipes through his phone to the clever little app, and starts her off at the halfway point on the scale. He sips, content to watch her try and remain still as the egg whirrs to life, tail twitching from where it sticks out of her panties. He knows some of the frustrated noises trapped behind the gag stem from the fact he hasn't ripped that frilly piece of lingerie off yet, that he can't see her pussy soaking itself. He's in no rush. After all, following one near-immediate orgasm, from probably being teased to high heaven by Kate, the silk conforms to her sex. He sees every fucking detail from the chair.

John's achingly hard, purposely ignoring his own needs. He plays with the settings through another orgasm, curiously trying out the new tap mode, sending occasional pulses to keep her guessing. Only when the aftershocks peter out, leaving her trembling and contracting inward, does he shut it down to let her slump inward. He sets his glass aside.

"There we go." He minds as he removes the gag dripping with her spit. "Status?"

"Green, could use water, sir." She whispers through several deep breaths, voice shaky.

"Good girl, telling me what you need." The reinforcement is pointless, more for him than her. Regardless, he finds her water bottle in the minifridge and watches her lips pucker around the straw. "I'm gonna take that out when you're finished. Need anything else?"

She swallows, then shakes her head. "No, sir."

The hot pink vibrator's sticky, coated, and its removal releases a little rush. They both groan, and it's all he can do to not tip her back and take her there and then.

"Kate's improved." He observes, one finger hooking under the rope wrapped around her upper thigh. She squirms, lips pressing together in a frown. "You don't think so?"

"I had to tell her how to do my legs."

"Did you?" John grabs one of the smaller pillows and tosses it beside the bed. He toes it into position, then reaches for her. "Proud of yourself?" He huffs when, instead of answering, she arcs toward his hands, eyes trained on his face. She's still feeling a mite bold, then. That bravado doesn't last. It never does. The second he puts her level with the strained fabric of his pants, her eyes drop. That slip of attitude bleeds into an affectation of the docility he likes. A practiced and put-upon yielding. She'll play along, for now.

"Conceited and greedy." John chides, reaching for his glass. He widens his stance, nodding once to cue her. A chuckle rumbles out as she buries her face into the cotton pulled taut across his cock. Nosing it first, dragging in deep breaths, then mouthing at him, wetting it, laving her tongue over its curve, then down. He hisses, watching her clumsily take the elastic band in her mouth. "Mind those teeth."

When she manages to drag the cotton to his base, he pushes it down his thighs further with his free hand, then settles it on the crown of her head. His cock droops, twitching at her soft, warm breaths fanning over it. A teaser.

She kisses his tip once, stealing a kitten's lick, before opening and offering his cock its cradle. He glides it over her tongue, letting the threads of his control puppet him along until he's as far as she can take. Into the wet sleeve of her throat, breathing hard through her nose. His head tips back, and a prolonged sigh leaves him as he simply holds there, listening to the choked gags of her attitude adjustment.

He starts slow. Kate's probably kept their pet's pretty mouth occupied for the weeks she's had her, but he's seen the woman's collection, and nothing's as thick as him. He picks up the pace, rocking his hips with some vigor when her tongue starts acting more deliberately, less reactionary. She's old hand at this by now. Takes his cock like a champ anywhere he sticks it.

His head tilts back down until his chin taps his chest to admire the sight of his pet working. Her eyelashes flutter over her cheeks, nose scrunching as his hair repeatedly tickles it. 

"Eyes open." He withdraws until just the tip sits behind her lips, before giving it a few shallow thrusts to knock the tears off her waterline. He licks his lips at the uneven lines of her smearing makeup. No waterproof shit. Kate really thought of everything. He shuttles her mouth down again, swearing at the squeeze.

When he pulls out, her tongue chases after, and he slaps his length across it to hear her whine. She lets it slip over her cheek to nuzzle his sack, and he nearly bites a chunk of his cheek out when she pays them her attention, suckling gently at the textured skin. Her swollen lips plant kisses. It takes the last of his drink and the last of his self-restraint to stop her. 

He'd rather not paint her face—not on the first round. 

John weighs his options. How much freedom she ought to have in what comes next. She turns her head beneath his hand, pressing a kiss to his wrist before letting her teeth graze lightly over the ridges of its veins. Then, when he doesn't make a decision quick enough for her liking, she nips hard. His nostrils flare at the sting, and then he moves, his decision made. It's time, he thinks, to unwrap the present right in front of him.

He makes short work of the rope. First her legs, then her arms, hoisting her onto the bed rougher than planned. The hotel bed groans under the sudden drop, but the indignant huff she expels is louder. The seconds he allows her to stretch her limbs as he kicks off his pants is his mercy. 

The mattress dips as he follows her toward the headboard, knees knocking hers apart. Her hand slides down her belly quick as a cat, spreading herself with two digits, and his single-mindedness nearly misses the 'J' and 'P' painted neatly on her fingernails.

"What's this?"

She smiles coyly. "Another present."

"Did I pay for it?"

"Yes, sir. They look better wet. See?" To illustrate, she shines them with her own slick, and she's right. They do. His gaze shifts between them to the entrance they frame. She's dripping like a tap, clit swollen under its hood and almost goading. The glittery paint catches the light.

"Look at that." He throbs at the sight of her hole clenching reflexively, then slips a finger between her own, groaning at the give and the heat. Her breath hitches as he buries it deep and crooks it. He knows every part of her body as well as he knows his own. Takes nothing to find the spot that makes her sing.

The ebbing of his near-orgasm is a minor tragedy, his prick practically begging to cram itself into her, but watching her squirm satisfies the torment. He relishes her whimpers, the wet squelch of her pussy sucking him in. The sight of her gripping the sheets and stuffing her painted fingers into her mouth, the sound of a muffled oh fuck escaping around them—never been a better show.

John works her up to two and briefly considers a third when her eyes roll, but he's fit to burst. Plenty of time between now and breakfast. He might try for a fourth when she's good and loose.

While he cleans his fingers, her legs hitch around his waist and lock by the ankle at the small of his back, heels digging in and urging. A demand sneaks out, too, though when he meets her eye, she's biting her lip in denial. All apologetic, but only when she's caught.

Spoiled, pampered pet. He's supposed to be the firm hand of the trio. She's gone and softened him up.

He drapes over her, arms bracketing her head. No quarter, no turning her face away. Front row seat to her pupils swallowing their color, tears pooling heavily on their lines. Her anticipation and frustration are raw, too big for her to hide. Her sweetness exists at the knife's edge, and too often, he finds himself on the wrong side of it. She knows just where to slot it between his ribs, when to twist. How much to give to make him ache for it. Turn both of them greedy.

Her hips wiggle, heat-seeking cunt in search of a cock, and another gasp puffs out of her when it works. The blunt head catches and, with pressure, notches. "Deep breath." He warns. From there, it's one languid thrust into her cunt. Worth all the teasing and toying, no resistance at all. She's snug, soaking, and fits him like a glove.

The first outward stroke pulls a deep groan from somewhere deep within him. Her heels tamp down as he builds a rhythm. Bullying him into bullying her. They let up when he plummets deep enough to brush her cervix, the muscles melding to his sides briefly seizing like she's touched an electric fence. Kicking when he keeps at it.

Her hands meet behind his neck, fingers lacing together. Later, she'll dig them into his back upon request. Kiss the marks they leave, too. The thought already makes his chest ache. For all the trouble she gives him, she's a good girl.

He and Nik got lucky.

They weren't looking for anything like this when they met her. They had each other, thought it sorted, no need for more. No one else. But then, out of every shop in the city, they had to pick hers. And she, with her effortless smile and charm, had to go and upsell Nik that first bottle. She didn't push, exactly, but the way she leaned in, the lilt of her voice—it was impossible to resist. She was under their skin in a heartbeat.

After that, they couldn't help themselves. The way they showed up to collect her after work, practically glowing. The fucking springs in their steps. Nik's arm over her shoulders, and John's around her waist, as if there was nothing in the world but the three of them, as if they'd known each other forever.

It was meant to be a one-time thing. Now she's got her own room and an allowance.

And then Kate got involved, and everything changed again, simplifying and complicating it all at once. New rules laid down to keep everyone happy and well, but flexible enough that everyone knows her availability if someone needs to eat her cunt.

He slips out to roll to his side, grunting approvingly when she hastily follows suit, arse pressing insistently to his front. His hand curls under her knee, lifting and prying her open, and hers reaches down blindly to guide him back in. The sound she makes is pornographic, pitching up a note in her used throat when he punches back in the second her hole slots over him.

"Needy fuckin'–"

"Please, John, I want–"

Beneath her head, the bicep she uses as a pillow bulges. He bends his arm further, snatching up one wrist and netting himself the other when she tries to free it. 

Like this, he can let loose. Fuck her with abandon. Give her what she really wants and what he needs. Something to stave off the steady march of time, help him ignore the new crop of silvers and grays above his ears. Stretch out the pretty girl on his cock and listen to her cry about it, and cry for more. 

His nose and forehead press to her temple, and she turns her head enough to give him the chance for a kiss. He doesn't hesitate, leaning in to claim her mouth. It's sloppy and desperate, but it's the softest she's been all night since choking on him.

Her leg lifts from his hold, sweat beading along her forehead at the strain. His hand falls automatically toward her clit, thumbing where the skin stretches first, feeling how thin it spreads on the outstroke. It makes him rut like a bull, feeling bigger than ever with how taut it goes. He pants into her neck, grinning wolfishly at how her pussy clenches around him when he briefly teases the bud between her legs.

She shifts, rolling her hips back to meet him, and he answers by turning her, then pressing her down into the sheets. One hand firmly clamps at her waist, the other settling at the nape of her neck. His knees take the brunt of his weight, spreading to stabilize his stance, before rebuilding his pace. He fucks her like this for a while, spearing over and over again, staring rapt at the core of her body. Listening to the slick glide of himself into where she's swollen and crying. 

He moves his mitt from her waist to the underside of her knee, spreading her further, driving in deeper. "Touch yourself." he rasps, a chuckle rumbling out of him at the speed of her compliance. One of her arms snakes under her stomach, and he watches four cute fingers poke out from under his cock to rub herself stupid.

Sweat clings to his back, matting the pelt of coarse hair on his chest and stomach, dripping steadily onto her as he shifts his weight. He leans more of his heft onto her, letting gravity aid the swing of his hips. Hammers down on her fingers. In a distant corner of his mind, he recalls his last birthday and the noise complaints. The concierge's face the next morning, tomato-red and warped with embarrassment, unable to meet their eyes as he explained.

A sharp whine snaps his eyes to her face. Her bottom lip is held fast in her teeth, and he releases her neck to drag a knuckle down the side of her face. He collects a bead of sweat and licks it off, humming at another delightful squeeze.

"Gonna come, sweetheart? Gettin' close?"

She nods, eyelids shutting halfway. Tiny stars dance in her pupils as her eyes roll in their sockets. They snap to him when his palm returns to her neck. It draws a groan out of his throat, that expression. Looking to him for permission. To come, to speak.

"Tell me how it feels."

"Good, 's good, sir. Fffuck! " 

Her wrist must be aching. He knows the rest of her is. "You want to come?" He presses a finger against her carotid, enough to encourage focus. "C'mon, words."

"Yes, please, sir—"

It's his day, but he lets her have it. She comes hard, choking his cock, forcing him to a furious grind and short, pointed thrusts. He follows not long after, hand slipping from her neck in a frantic, jerking motion, the last shred of control he has left before it overtakes him. When it does, it scours his thoughts clean, spills most of what's left into her, and she milks the dregs out. 

It's some time before he can ease out of her, and his length pulses with interest at the obscene sound of his exit. A filthy chuckle rattles out of him at the sight of his cum dribbling out after, freed by the suction. She's a mess. He adjusts, gets comfortable, and then digs his fingertips into the muscles of her upper thighs and glutes. Humming when she comes back online, panting, face buried in the pillow.

"Tired already?"

She manages to shake her head.

They'll take a break, for both their sakes. If the extra suitcase at the foot of the bed is any indicator, she's brought her entire toy chest with her. Enough to keep his hands busy in the downtime. Until morning. 

She's not too tired that she can't help him move her. He props himself up against the tufted headboard, its cheap fabric sopping up his sweat, and she drapes herself over his chest. Momentarily sated, temporarily sweet. Her hand splays across his chest, nails glinting like stained-glass windows. He stares at his initials—protected under a clear varnish, pristine and perfect. As fleeting as the calm. Branding her as his for a day. This only happens once a year. But seeing that 'P' stirs that old possessive streak. 

She drifts, her breathing evening out as her body recuperates. Won't take more than twenty minutes, tops. He could time it to the second if he cared, but he doesn't. He lets her rest, sprawled warm and weighty against him.

"Happy birthday, John." she sighs, her voice soft as a whisper over his chest, her breath blowing through the whorls of his hair.

Happy birthday indeed, he thinks, tracing a line between her shoulder blades.