#ask jaime

Cate had been bent over the dryer for maybe five seconds before you walked in. And, no, that wasn’t a coincidence.

She didn’t need to do laundry. The panties she’d dropped in there weren’t even dirty. But she'd seen the garage light flicker on through the kitchen window—you coming home from whatever grumpy manual labor task you assigned herself when you didn’t want to be around people—and Cate had moved into position like clockwork.

Legs just a little too far apart. Back arched like a magazine spread. Hair up in a messy clip, neck exposed, nothing on but a thin little romper that she’d absolutely sized down in and no bra. It rode up when she bent over. She let it.

“Hey,” she said without turning around.

Silence. Just the shuffle of boots on concrete. The sound of a toolbox thunking onto the counter. Cate smirked to herself.

Then finally: “Why are you doing laundry in the garage when we have a machine upstairs?”

Cate turned slowly, bracing herself against the dryer lid with both palms. “Because this one’s louder,” she said, biting the corner of her lip. “Vibrates more.”

You stared at her like she was a crime scene. Sweat-slicked hair, oil smudged on your arm, that dark, wary look you always got when Cate was being too much. Which was funny. Because Cate had barely even started.

“I didn’t know you were back,” Cate lied sweetly, pushing off the dryer and crossing the room. “I would’ve waited for help. These panties are so delicate, you know? One wrong cycle and they’re ruined.”

You crossed your arms, eyes dropping—just for a second—to Cate’s legs. The way her romper clung to her hips like static. The pink lace still peeking out from her grip.

“You’re not wearing a bra,” you said flatly.

Cate grinned. “You noticed.”

She closed the last bit of distance slowly, toeing the edge of your boots with her bare feet, tipping her head back to meet those furious eyes. God, it was so unfair that you looked like that. Like you’d just walked off a fucking photoshoot for a hot construction workers calendar. Sharp jaw, flared nostrils, hands like they were made to pin Cate down. Cate wanted them around her throat. For science.

“You know,” she said, soft and syrupy, “if our parents hadn’t gotten married, we’d be fucking by now.”

You made a noise. Not a word. Just a noise. Choked and irritated, like your body was seconds ahead of your brain and about to betray you again.

Cate smiled. Patted her chest like she was searching for a microphone. “Oops. Did I say that out loud?”

She backed away with a wink, sauntering toward the door, hips swaying like she knew she’d be followed.

She wasn’t expecting an immediate reaction. Not really.

A glare, maybe. A muttered curse.

Not footsteps. Not pursuit.

Teasing you had become more of a ritual than a strategy—something Cate did to pass the time, to provoke the ache under her own skin. A game with no set rules and no clear end.

But apparently, her little show had struck a nerve—because she didn’t make it far before she heard the familiar creak of the garage door open behind her. The floorboard groaning in the mudroom. The quiet click of boots on tile.

Cate didn’t turn around right away. She was halfway up the stairs, one hand on the banister, her heart already lurching like it knew. Like some part of her had always known she wouldn’t get away with pushing this girl forever. Not when you pushed back harder than anyone she’d ever met.

“You left your laundry,” came your voice—low, dry, barely steady.

Cate turned slowly.

You stood just below the landing, one hand in your pocket, the other holding up the pink lace thong like it was a live grenade.

“Oh no,” Cate said, playing up her gasp, trailing her fingers down the banister as she descended one step at a time. “Was that in your hands this whole time?”

You didn’t answer. But you didn’t drop them either.

Cate stopped two steps above you. Just enough to be taller. Close enough to breathe you in—sweat and oil and laundry detergent, the smell of heat and tension and something deeply, irreversibly wrong.

Or at least that’s what she should’ve called it.

“You gonna keep holding those?” she asked, tilting her head. “Or are you gonna admit you followed me in because you wanna fuck your stepsister?”

Your eyes snapped to hers, sharp and dark and furious—but you didn’t move. Your fingers tightened around the lace.

Cate took another step down. Her voice dropped, soft and treacherous. “No parents home. You’re not gonna get a better shot.”

Still nothing.

Cate reached out—slow, deliberate—and ran her nails up the edge of your jaw. “Do you think about it?” she murmured. “When you’re alone in that sad little bed of yours? When you jerk off in the shower and pretend it’s not me you’re picturing?”

That was what did it.

You moved so fast the world tilted. One second Cate was standing smug on the stairs, and the next she was pinned—slammed—against the hallway wall, her feet barely touching the floor and your hand planted firm on her hip like you’d been waiting to do this. Like you’d spent every night since the wedding thinking about what Cate would sound like with her thighs spread.

Cate gasped. Giggled. “Oh my god.”

“I’m not gonna fuck you,” you growled.

Cate arched her back, smirking into your ear. “Sure sounds like you want to.”

Her legs wrapped around your waist without thinking. Her hands clawed into the dark cotton of that tank top, her lips already brushing against your neck.

She felt you shudder.

And then—very softly, like it hurt—you whispered, “You’re so fucking evil.”

Cate’s grin turned wicked. “And you’re already so fucking hard.”

She tilted her hips against yours, slow and deliberate. Felt the twitch. The grunt. The sharp, helpless breath.

The hallway was quiet except for the sound of her back hitting the wall and the soft, stunned, broken way you said her name like a prayer.

There was no one home.

Not yet.

Something shifted behind your eyes—like the snap of a rubber band, like decision. The gears in your head clicked into place, hot and helpless and already too far gone. You let out a low, guttural sound—somewhere between a grunt and a growl—and then you were moving, carrying Cate off without a word, like she weighed nothing at all.

The slam of the bedroom door echoed through the house like a gunshot.

Cate barely had time to gasp before she was tossed—tossed—onto your bed, her back bouncing against rumpled sheets that smelled like leather and cedar and maybe a hint of desperation. Her romper had already ridden halfway up her thighs. Her hair was falling out of its clip. She looked wrecked and ready and you hadn’t even touched her properly yet.

Which made Cate insane.

You stood over her, breathing hard, chest rising beneath that sweat-damp tank top like you were still trying to justify this to yourself. Like maybe if you didn’t say it out loud, it didn’t count.

But Cate knew better. She saw it.

The restraint was unraveling by the second. Your jaw tight. Your fists clenched. Your whole body coiled like a spring and Cate was the match waiting to strike it.

“Oh,” Cate breathed, stretching out across the mattress like a centerfold, one strap of her romper slipping dramatically off her shoulder. “So is this how big sisters discipline now?”

You snarled.

It was almost funny—how fast you snapped. One knee on the bed. One hand braced beside Cate’s head. And then you were there, hovering over her like a storm front, one palm skimming down the curve of Cate’s exposed thigh like you owned her.

“You think this is funny?” You asked, low and dangerous.

Cate moaned softly. “I think you’ve been dying to fuck me since day one.”

“You’re out of your goddamn mind.”

“Am I?” she whispered, curling her fingers into your shirt and dragging you down. “Or am I just the first girl who ever made you crave something this wrong?”

Your mouths were inches apart. Cate could feel the tremble in your breath. Could taste the surrender coming.

And then—finally, finally—you crushed your lips together.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was months of tension combusting in an instant, teeth and tongue and fingers yanking that ridiculous romper down like it had personally offended you. Cate moaned into your mouth, shameless and needy, grinding up into your lap like she’d earned this—because she had. She fucking had.

“You like playing games?” You growled, breaking the kiss to mouth down her jaw, her throat, her collarbone.

Cate gasped. “Mmhm.”

You grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head.

“Then let’s play,” you said.

And Cate, sluttiest little menace in the house, smiled like the winner she was.

Cate was pretty sure her heart had relocated to her throat.

Or maybe her cunt. Hard to tell.

She’d been pinned before—she liked being pinned—but there was something different about your grip. Something vicious and trembling and barely under control. Your fingers wrapped tight around Cate’s wrists, pressing them into the pillow like you were afraid of what she’d do if you let go. Your eyes were wild—not drunk, not dazed, just locked in and furious, like Cate had awoken something feral.

“You wanted my attention,” you said, breath hot against her jaw. “Here it is.”

Cate whined. Actually whined. The sound left her mouth before she could even catch it. “Finally.”

Your free hand dragged down her side, rough and deliberate. Over ribs, over the soft dip of her waist, catching briefly at the edge of her romper where it was bunched uselessly around her hips. Cate arched into it, eyes fluttering shut, but you tut—low and dark—and bit her neck.

“Oh my god,” Cate gasped, jerking under you.

“Keep your hands where I put them,” you snapped.

Cate bit her lip, squirming, but didn’t move. Not an inch. She wouldn’t dare.

This wasn’t just about sex. It never had been. This was a war Cate had been waging since the day their parents said I do, and right now? She was losing. Gloriously. Willingly.

And you were making sure she knew it.

“Look at you,” you muttered, sliding two fingers along the inside of her thigh. “Always so mouthy. So fucking smug.”

Cate gasped again, hips stuttering. “You love it.”

“Yeah?” You shoved the fabric aside and pressed harder. “What makes you so sure?”

Cate sobbed a laugh, eyes wide and glistening. “Because you followed me.”

You stilled.

Cate smirked.

“You followed me inside,” she whispered, licking her lips. “Into the house. With my panties in your hand.”

You growled and grabbed her jaw—turned her face up and kissed her like you wanted to shut her up for good. Tongue and teeth and lips bruising against your own, and Cate kissed you back with everything she had, rolling her hips up to meet you until you were grinding together, shameless and hot and loud.

You were going to break the bed.

She was going to let you.

When you finally pulled back, your voice was wrecked. “You’re a fucking brat.”

Cate moaned, eyes shining. “Then punish me.”

And oh, oh—did you ever.

Her wrists were starting to ache.

Not that she cared. Not that she’d ever dare complain. Not with you growling into her skin like this was some divine reckoning and Cate was the sacrificial lamb—panting, arching, thriving under it.

She didn’t even know where her romper had landed. Somewhere on the floor, probably. Maybe still hanging off the ceiling fan from when you had yanked it off with one hand and thrown it over your shoulder like it personally offended you. Cate had kicked her panties across the room for dramatic flair—fully leaning into the moment—only to yelp when you grabbed her by the thighs and dragged her back down the bed like she weighed nothing.

Now her knees were hooked over your shoulders, her whole body trembling, the mattress dipping beneath you in a steady rhythm that felt like punishment and worship at the same time.

“You—oh my god—”

“Shut up,” you muttered against her thigh, mouthing another mark just beside her hipbone. “You don’t get to act like a cocky little bitch for weeks and then play the victim.”

“I’m not—fuck—I’m not playing—”

“You’re dripping.”

Cate whined.

“You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?” Another kiss. Another bite. “Laying in bed thinking about it? About how it would feel when I finally snapped?”

She could barely breathe. She could barely think. She was going to cry and it wasn’t even over yet.

“Yes,” she moaned, biting her fist. “Yes, please, please—”

“Say it.”

Cate’s head thrashed side to side. “Say what?”

You licked up the inside of her thigh, slow and cruel. “Tell me what you are.”

Cate sobbed. “Your stepsister—”

Wrong answer.

You slapped her thigh—light, but firm enough to make her jolt—and glared up at her with those wrecked, furious eyes.

Cate blinked. Then it clicked.

“Oh my god,” she gasped, grinning wildly through the flush on her cheeks. “You’re mad because I said stepsister.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Cate laughed, breathless and delighted. “You don’t want it to be wrong, huh? You want me to be just a girl. Not your little problem. Not off-limits.”

You growled.

Cate pulled her knees higher, opening herself like a prayer. “Then pretend, Daddy.”

Something broke.

Maybe it was restraint. Maybe it was your self-control. Maybe it was Cate’s last thread of sanity snapping loose like a ribbon between greedy fingers. Whatever it was, it shattered loud and brutal and irreversible.

You surged up, kissing her filthy—all teeth and tongue and bruised-lipped hunger. You kissed like you were starving. Like the sound of Cate saying daddy had undone you completely. Like you could kiss the fight right out of her.

Cate moaned against your mouth, clawing at your shoulders, dragging you closer, wrapping her thighs tighter around your hips. Needing you inside. Needing you everywhere. Her back arched off the mattress, desperate for friction, for heat, for anything. Everything.

Then—

“You’re mine,” you hissed.

And then you were inside.

Deep.

All at once.

Cate’s eyes flew open. She screamed—guttural, broken, delirious—hands fisting in the sheets as her entire body jerked.

“You’re mine,” you growled again, voice dark and ragged, burying your face in Cate’s neck as you drove deeper, sharper, rougher.

Teeth sank into her shoulder. Cate cried out again, legs trembling, already too far gone.

“I don’t give a fuck whose name is on the marriage certificate.” A brutal thrust. Cate sobbed, pleasure tearing through her like lightning.

“I don’t care who lives in this house.” Another. Harder. Claiming.

“You belong to me.”

And fuck—Cate did. Every part of her. Every breath, every thought, every shaky, wrecked, hungry inch. She belonged to you like heat belongs to fire. Like ache belongs to touch.

She whimpered, nails dragging down your back. “Again,” she breathed. “Say it again.”

You leaned up, hand at Cate’s throat now—gentle but firm, possessive. Your pupils blown wide, jaw clenched, entire body flexed and braced above her.

“You’re mine,” you repeated, slow this time. Almost reverent.

Like a prayer Cate would never recover from.

Cate was unraveling.

Her body arched with every thrust, pleasure crashing over her in relentless waves—sharp and hot and overwhelming. You were everywhere—mouth on Cate’s throat, fingers bruising her hips, your body pressing Cate down into the mattress like you could fuck her through it.

It was too much. It wasn’t enough.

“Mine,” you growled again, like you couldn’t stop saying it. Like it was Cate’s name now. Your religion.

Cate sobbed against your shoulder, nails scraping across your back like she needed to mark you in return. “Fuck—baby—please,” she gasped, voice raw, desperate, high and wrecked.

“Please what?” You rasped, teeth catching her earlobe. Your rhythm didn’t slow—it deepened, got meaner. “You want me to stop? Hm?”

“No,” Cate choked. Her thighs trembled around your waist. “No—no, I want—I want—”

“You want to cum?” You whispered darkly, kissing down her jaw. “Is that it, princess? Want me to make you come on my cock?”

Cate nearly screamed again.

That low, satisfied noise rumbled in your throat, like you liked watching her break apart. You pressed a hand flat against Cate’s stomach, holding her down while your other hand tilted her face up to look at you.

“Then look at me when you do it.”

And Cate—sluttiest, brattiest, most beautiful little problem you had ever met—came so hard she saw stars.

Cate’s orgasm hit like a freight train—hot and blinding and endless. Her mouth fell open, no sound coming out at first, just the convulsing stutter of her whole body seizing around you, like she was being possessed by the need.

You kept going through it—fucking her right through the aftershocks like you didn’t care if Cate survived, as long as she came around you.

When Cate could breathe again, her voice was barely a whisper.

“Y-you said it didn’t matter whose name was on the marriage certificate,” she said, dazed, mascara streaked halfway to her jaw. “You wanna put yours on mine?”

You froze—mid-thrust, mid-breath, mid-everything.

Cate blinked up at you with glassy, mischievous eyes.

“I’m just saying,” she murmured. “You keep talking like you’re gonna marry me. Might as well make it official.”

You let out a low groan, dropped your forehead to Cate’s shoulder—and then thrust hard again, making her cry out with a sharp, gasping squeak.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

“Good,” Cate whispered, curling a shaky hand around the back of your neck. “You can die in me.”

Cate’s whole body was buzzing after.

Not just in the oh my god my legs won’t stop twitching kind of way—though that was very much happening. But deeper. Quieter. Something that pulsed in her ribs, that prickled behind her eyes every time she blinked and remembered where she was and who she was with and what you’d just done together.

She was in your bed.

Chest still heaving. Hair clinging to her damp neck. Covered in bite marks and bruises that wouldn’t be going away anytime soon.

And you…you were tucking her in.

“I’m not cold,” Cate mumbled, half-whining as you pulled the blanket higher over her chest.

“You will be in five minutes,” you said, still breathless, but already back in dad mode, fussing over her with calloused fingers and that gruff little frown that made Cate’s stomach flip.

“I thought this was a punishment.”

You met her eyes—narrow, dangerous. “Don’t tempt me. I can go again.”

Cate giggled. “You sound so mad about it.”

“I am mad,” you grumbled, smoothing your palm down Cate’s thigh. “You’re a menace.”

“Mm.” Cate stretched under the blanket, sore and warm and positively wrecked. “You’re obsessed with me.”

You didn’t answer. Just kept running your hand along her skin, slow and grounding.

That was the worst part. The softness after. The way Cate had expected to be thrown out—told to sneak back to her room before your parents got home. She’d planned for that. Had a whole act lined up about how she’d find a new way to torment you tomorrow, how she’d climb into your lap during family movie night and whisper filthy things in your ear just to get back at you for leaving.

But you didn’t leave.

You didn’t even move.

Just pulled Cate closer—grumbling under your breath like it annoyed you—and let her curl up with her head on your chest like it was normal. Like this was something you did.

Cate blinked at the ceiling, her throat a little tight. “...Hey?”

“Hmm?”

She swallowed. “This wasn’t just because I pissed you off, right?”

Your hand stilled.

Then—slowly—you exhaled. “No.”

Cate didn’t say anything.

You shifted, lifting your arm so Cate could curl further into your side. “You’re not just hot, Cate.”

Cate blinked.

“You’re infuriating, and reckless, and manipulative as hell,” you went on, fingers tangling in her hair. “But you’re smart. And funny. And when you’re not being a little brat, you’re…kind of unbearable in this really addictive way.”

Cate’s throat tightened more.

She hid her face in your shoulder. “That was the nicest insult I’ve ever received.”

You laughed, soft and low. “Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it.”

Too late.

Cate was already ruined.

You fell asleep first—mumbling something half-sweet, half-stupid as your breath evened out and your grip around Cate loosened just enough to settle into comfort. Cate didn’t move. She didn’t want to. She was warm and satisfied and perfectly tucked beneath the weight of your arm, and besides—she liked the way her stepsister looked when sleeping. Soft. Unguarded. Hers, now.

She closed her eyes for a while too, not to sleep, but to memorize the feeling. Her pulse still thudded low and slow between her thighs. Her skin still tingled. Her ego practically glowed.

She heard the front door open—heard the keys hit the hook, the sound of heels clicking across hardwood, her mom humming something from the grocery store playlist.

And she didn’t move an inch.

Because she wanted to be caught.

Not just for the thrill—but for the proof. The validation. She wanted you to see that she wasn’t afraid. That she could get away with anything. That this didn’t have to be a secret if you didn’t want it to be. That she would protect you for once.

Cate stretched out a little more, let her thigh hook higher over your hips, let the hem of her borrowed tank top ride up just a bit. She kissed your shoulder lazily and smiled when the door creaked open.

Her mom walks in with a tray of fresh-cut fruit and an iced latte for her sweet, perfect daughter—because she’s thriving in this new marriage and wants everyone else to be too—and she doesn’t even realize it’s the wrong room until it’s too late.

She pushes the door open with her hip, smiling softly, calling, “Cate, honey—look what I—”

And nearly drops the tray when she sees you.

Cate. In your bed. Wrapped around you like a boa constrictor in nothing but a tank top and bruises. One leg slung possessively over your hip. Her lips clearly swollen. Her hair a mess. You’re shirtless, arm around her like instinct, blinking sleepily.

And Cate? That little menace doesn’t even flinch.

She just lifts her head, and gives her mom the sweetest, most innocent smile in the world.

“Oh. Hi, Mom.”

Her mom stares.

Cate stretches, back arching a little, completely unbothered. “You brought me a latte? You’re literally an angel, I love you so much.”

You're frozen solid, now. Halfway buried under the covers, clutching the blanket like it’ll protect you from divine judgment. You’re waiting—bracing—for the screaming, the grounding, the what the fuck is going on here, young lady?!

Instead…

“Oh, well,” Cate’s mom says faintly. “I—I didn’t realize you two were…uh…”

“Bonding?” Cate supplies sweetly, sitting up just enough to steal the latte and take a victorious sip. “We are. It’s been so healing.”

Her mom blinks. “You’re…in your stepsister’s bed.”

Cate beams. “Sisterly bonding, Mom. You said you wanted us to get along.”

You cough. Choke.

Cate pats your chest like she’s concerned. “Aw. Careful, sissy. You okay?”

Her mom is still standing in the doorway like she’s trying to process a war crime. But Cate is already curling back into your side, sipping her latte and stroking one hand along your abs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Thank you for the fruit, by the way,” Cate adds, glancing over. “Can you just leave it on the desk? We’ll eat it after our cuddle nap.”

You whimper.

Cate’s mom opens her mouth. Then closes it. Then—slowly—backs out of the room and shuts the door.

You’re flabbergasted.

Cate just hums contentedly. “Told you I get away with everything.”

Cate didn’t come here to sweat.

Let’s get that straight.

She came to wear a matching set so cute it could make people weep. To sip her green juice dramatically between stretches. To listen to her Pilates instructor over Bluetooth in one ear and her girlfriend grunting obscenely under a barbell in the other. To lean against the mirror in glossy lip balm and perfect eyeliner and bully you with her eyes while pretending to meditate.

And yet, here she is.

Front row to your personal flex-off, sitting on a nearby bench with her chin in her hand while you deadlift enough weight to kill an average man and make it look like foreplay.

“Three more,” Cate drawls, voice thick with boredom and barely-concealed lust. “Make it sexy.”

You glances at her in the mirror—already glistening with sweat, biceps bulging—and smirk.

“Only if you spot me later,” you pant, clearly teasing.

Cate gags. “I’d rather die. Or be crushed under you. Either’s fine.”

You just chuckle and finish the set, dropping the bar with a loud clang that draws more than a few looks. Not that you two don’t already have attention. You always do.

It’s not Cate’s fault she’s pretty. Or that her girlfriend looks like a punk rock demigod who came to the gym straight from a mosh pit and still smells like cedarwood and danger. She’s just trying to vibe. It’s not her fault if half the people here are suddenly distracted mid-rep.

“Wipe your forehead,” Cate says casually as you grab your towel. “You’re sweating on my fantasy.”

“Don’t act like you don’t love it,” you fire back, taking a long swig from your water bottle, throat working, veins still popped from exertion.

Cate’s brain flatlines for a moment.

“Okay, maybe I love it,” she mutters.

Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, she stands, walks right up to you, and climbs you like a tree.

On the gym floor.

In front of everyone.

You barely stumble—just grunts as your arms instinctively wrap around her waist, steadying her. Cate’s legs slot around your hips. Her arms drape over your shoulders. It’s casual. Intimate. Obscene.

You tilt your head. “Is this part of my cooldown?”

Cate runs her fingers through the damp hair at the nape of your neck. “I’m your reward.”

Someone drops a dumbbell nearby. Someone else trips on a resistance band. Cate ignores it all, brushing her nose against yours with a smile that almost makes her knees buckle.

“You’re terrible,” you mutter.

“You’re lucky I don’t straddle you mid-bench press,” Cate whispers back. “Do you want me to ruin this school’s liability insurance?”

You laugh—soft and low and wrecked—and lean in to kiss her. Just a little one. Barely a brush. But it’s enough to make Cate’s toes curl in her sneakers.

You stay like that for a while, surrounded by judgment and jealousy and the quiet horror of every other gym-goer trying not to look.

Eventually, you shift. “Alright, c’mon, baby. You wanna do pull-ups?”

Cate blinks. “You mean emotionally?”

You smirk. “No. Physically.”

Cate looks deeply offended. “Absolutely not.”

You just kiss her again and mutter, “Pilates princess,” against her lips.

“Weightlifting whore,” Cate shoots back.

You go to separate machines. But not for long. Cate finds a way to “stretch” against your back. You adjust Cate’s form by dragging your fingers down her spine in a totally unnecessary way. The entire gym suffers.

And by the end?

Cate’s on the leg press—legs trembling, hair stuck to her forehead, glaring.

“I hate you.”

You’re crouched in front of her, holding her ankles, looking like you just won a trophy. “You love me.”

Cate sighs, loud and theatrical. “Unfortunately.”

By the time you make it to the locker room, Cate is over it.

Her thighs hurt. Her eyeliner’s sweating off. Her once-perfect Lululemon set is damp in unflattering places. Her hair is in a claw clip that’s barely holding on. And worst of all?

You look better now than you did before the workout.

Tank clinging to every inch of you, dark with sweat, collar loose enough to expose your chest tattoo and the way your sports bra never quite sits flat. Your smirk is cocky, your forearms are veiny, and when you pull the locker open, Cate has to look away to avoid whimpering at the sheer smug athleticism of it all.

Cate crosses her arms, leaning against the locker like a girl trying to maintain a single thread of dignity.

“This better not become a regular thing,” she mutters. “You dragging me to the gym and forcing me to watch you get all…shiny and hot and then make me do lunges. That’s abuse.”

You toss her a towel and peel off your tank in one motion.

Cate stares.

Drops the towel.

“…You were saying?” you tease, already turning toward the showers with your towel slung over one shoulder, the waistband of your shorts riding just low enough to reveal the inky black tattooed above your hips.

Cate doesn’t even try to be subtle about watching you walk away.

She picks up the towel and follows you.

The showers are mostly empty—thank God. Just a few other girls rinsing off in the first stalls, quiet, steam rising and fogging the mirrors near the entrance.

Cate claims the one at the end, furthest from the door, and steps inside already pulling off her sports bra. You’re close behind, kicking off your shoes, peeling your clothes away like they’re too tight to tolerate.

The second the warm water hits Cate’s shoulders, she lets out a groan.

You’re already in the next stall over, but the divider between you is barely a suggestion—an open curve of tile that does nothing to discourage misbehavior.

Cate cranes her neck.

“Why are you over there?”

You smirk. “Thought you needed space to recover.”

Cate scoffs. “What I need is your hands on me before I collapse and sue you for post-lunge trauma.”

You hum in agreement. And then you’re there—sliding into Cate’s shower stall, all steam and smugness, towel dropped somewhere, body wet and flushed and unfairly gorgeous.

Cate’s hands go to your shoulders instinctively.

“Hi,” she whispers.

“Hi,” you reply, already ducking your head to kiss her.

It’s soft at first—warm water cascading over your backs, Cate pressed into the tile with her arms looped around your neck. But soft never stays that way with you. Not for long.

Your hands trail down her back, over her hips, gripping her thighs and lifting her without effort. Cate wraps around you like muscle memory, moaning into your mouth, water slicking your skin and steam wrapping you two in a haze.

Cate noses along your jaw, breath hitching. “You always like getting dirty just to clean up like this?”

You bite her earlobe. “I like it when you smell like lavender and sweat.”

Cate gasps. Then bites your lip.

“You are so lucky we’re the only ones in here now.”

You groan and press your hips forward, pinning Cate against the wall. “I wouldn’t care if we weren’t.”

“Baby.”

“Let ‘em hear it.”

Cate whines—actually whines—and it’s all over after that.

The water keeps running.

The tile gets slippery.

Cate’s back hits it with a wet slap—not hard, but decisive. Like you’re staking your claim in steam and skin and the scent of Cate’s conditioner. Water pours over you in sheets, catching in the curve of Cate’s collarbone, beading down her thighs, turning her hair to wet, golden ropes.

She gasps, head tilting back, mouth parting—but not from the heat of the water.

From the heat of you.

Your hands are under her thighs, gripping just above her knees, holding her up like she weighs nothing. Your body is slick, flushed, muscles twitching from the earlier workout, and you’re already mouthing at Cate’s jaw, her neck, the underside of her ear like you need to taste her.

Cate is gone.

Melting. Moaning. Completely undone by the sheer audacity of it all.

“You’re—” she tries to say, but her voice breaks on a breathless gasp as you roll your hips forward, grinding against her, slow and deliberate, cock hard and heavy between you.

“Mm?” you murmur, lips brushing her ear. “What am I?”

Cate shudders.

“A menace,” she manages. “A menace with a god complex.”

You huff a laugh against her skin. “You love me.”

“An unfortunate curse.”

But she says it with a grin—eyes fluttering, arms locked around your shoulders like you’re the only thing keeping her upright. You are.

You shift your grip, one arm fully anchoring Cate’s thighs, the other trailing up her spine, fingers tangling in her wet hair.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” you whisper. And then—lower—hungrier. “Tell me if you want more.”

Cate leans in until your foreheads touch.

“I want everything.”

You kiss her hard then—no pretense, no warm-up. Just heat and tongue and teeth, all-consuming, dizzying. Cate moans into it, fingers curling at the nape of your neck, hips canting forward until she’s rubbing against you in tight, slick little lines, chasing friction like a girl possessed.

The water drowns out almost everything else—but not the sounds you make. Low, wrecked groans in the back of your throat. The desperate exhale when Cate drags her nails down your back. The broken gasp when Cate whimpers, "Please," against your mouth.

You grab her harder.

Lift her higher.

And push in.

Cate cries out.

It’s not pain. It’s not even surprise. It’s relief. A breath she didn’t know she’d been holding finally released. Her back arches against the wall, head tipping up, neck bared, water rushing down her chest in waves as her cunt takes you, inch by inch, like she was made for you.

You groan into her shoulder.

“Fuck, you feel so good—”

Cate nods wildly, lost in sensation, grinding down to meet every thrust with a desperate little sob. It’s sloppy. No rhythm. Just need. The build-up from earlier, the teasing, the tension of holding it in—this is the fallout.

And god, Cate wants to drown in it.

She clings to you tighter, hands scrabbling across slippery shoulders, jaw slack, eyes glazed.

“Don’t stop,” she breathes. “Don’t—don’t you dare—”

“I won’t,” you promise, voice cracking. “I won’t. I’ve got you, baby.”

You fuck her against the wall, slow but deep, water cascading around you like a curtain. Holding her up the whole time, worshiping her like a religion, while Cate clings to you and moans your name like a spell. Cate’s moaning, babbling now—nothing coherent, just sounds, vowels stretched around pleasure too sharp to swallow. It’s messy. Loud. Dangerous.

And when she cums—

It’s like a wave breaking.

Full-body. Bone-deep. She spasms in your arms, nails digging in, mouth open in a silent cry as her orgasm crashes through her.

You curse and follow a moment later—slamming in hard once, twice, then groaning against Cate’s neck as you spill inside her, trembling with the force of it.

You stay like that for a long moment.

Clinging. Breathing. Trembling under the water, your skin pink from heat, your shared heartbeat thudding so loud Cate swears it echoes through the tile.

Eventually, Cate slumps against you, utterly wrecked.

You lean back just enough to kiss her, softer this time. Slower. Like thank you. Like I love you. Like always.

Cate sighs. “So…”

You kiss her temple. “So?”

“You’re definitely carrying me out of here.”

You grin against her skin. “Already planned on it.”

By the time they make it back to Cate’s dorm, she’s wearing your hoodie and a pair of borrowed shorts she’s practically swimming in. Her legs still wobble every time she takes the stairs. Her hair’s towel-dried, braided lazily down one side, and her cheeks are still flushed like her body doesn’t realize she’s out of the shower.

You look freshly fucked and unbothered. Smug, even, unlocking the door with your usual casual flair—backwards, balancing a smoothie Cate made you detour for (aka a bribe to get you out of the gym faster). The door shuts with a soft click.

Cate drops onto her bed dramatically, arms spread like a Victorian heroine fading away from scandal.

“I’m broken.”

You set the smoothie down and kick off your shoes. “You said that at the gym.”

“No,” Cate whines, “I was emotionally broken at the gym. This is muscular. My ass is sore. My hips are sore. My soul is sore. And my vagina has officially filed a lawsuit against you.”

You raise an eyebrow, crawling up the bed to hover over her.

“Poor baby,” you say, not sounding the least bit sorry. “What can I do to help?”

Cate squints up at you, lips pouting. “Massage. Obviously.”

You hum and lean in, your lips brushing the corner of Cate’s mouth. “That sounds suspiciously like a trap.”

Cate gasps, full offense. “I am too tired to trap you. I’m a victim. A sore, sweet, helpless little bunny who just needs her big strong girlfriend to—oh my god, are you laughing at me?”

You are, in fact, laughing. You press a kiss to Cate’s cheek as a peace offering.

“Alright, roll over.”

Cate blinks. “Wait, really?”

“I said I’d help, didn’t I?”

She does as she’s told, flopping face-down into the mattress and adjusting your hoodie so it rides up just enough to expose the small of her back.

She feels the bed dip. The press of thighs on either side of her hips.

Then—contact.

Warm hands. Firm, slow pressure. Your fingers kneading into the tight knots in her lower back like you know exactly where she’s sore (you do). Cate moans before she can stop herself.

“Fuuuuck,” she mumbles into her pillow. “Okay. Fine. You’re forgiven.”

You chuckle quietly and lean in, dragging your thumbs up Cate’s spine, slow and steady.

“You’re so dramatic.”

“I deserve it.”

“You’re also wet again.”

Cate yelps. “I am not!”

You trace her thumbs in little circles, just above her waistband now. “You are.”

Cate groans. “This was supposed to be a wholesome recovery massage.”

You lean down until your lips brush the shell of Cate’s ear.

“You sure about that?”

Cate turns her head slowly. Glares at you over her shoulder.

“Do you want to be the one who has to tell Andre why I missed our supe marketing presentation tomorrow?”

You shrug, looking way too relaxed for someone actively straddling your girlfriend.

“I’ll just tell him you pulled something.”

Cate squints. “Like a hamstring?”

“Like my dick, baby.”

Cate buries her face in the pillow and screams.

You laugh and lean down again, this time kissing her between the shoulder blades, soft and slow.

“I’ll behave,” you murmur. “Unless you ask me not to.”

Cate sighs. Turns her head again, already melting under the pressure of your hands as they work their way up to her shoulders.

“You’re ridiculous,” she whispers.

“You’re glowing.”

Cate smiles into the sheets. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

Cate lets out one more sigh. Reaches blindly behind her and laces your fingers together. Ending their familiar back and forth banter with an exasperated “Unfortunately.”

They fall asleep like that—limbs tangled, muscles sore, skin still sticky from sweat and smugness. Cate drifts off swearing she won’t be able to move in the morning.

She’s right.

When she stirs, it’s to the feeling of soft lips pressing against her forehead.

“Hey, baby,” you whisper, voice all gravel and heat, still damp from a shower. “I’m heading to the gym.”

Cate groans like she’s being personally wronged. Her body refuses to move. Her thighs ache. Her core twinges. Her entire lower half feels like it’s been tenderized.

“No,” she mumbles into the pillow. “Tell the gym I’m dead.”

You laugh quietly, still crouched down eye level with the bed, and kiss her again, slower this time. “I’ll be back in an hour. Two max.”

Cate blindly gropes for your arm, clutching you like a spoiled housecat. “Don’t goooo. I need you. I’m sore. I’m emotionally fragile. I might never walk again.”

“You said that last time.”

“I meant it last time.”

You manage to untangle yourself and walk toward the mini-fridge, pulling out an ice pack. You wrap it in a towel and pad back over, gently laying it across Cate’s hips like you’re offering penance.

Cate opens one eye. “You didn’t.”

You grin. “Recovery queen deserves proper care.”

“You’re disgusting,” Cate whispers, smiling despite herself.

“You love me,” you reply.

Cate just grumbles, already sinking back into the sheets, her face buried in the hoodie you left behind. The door clicks shut a minute later.

And for a little while, she is fine. Nestled in bed. Soft. Safe. Smelling like lavender and sleep and her stupid, hot gym rat of a girlfriend.

Until it happens.

It starts with a mirror selfie.

Nothing overtly sinful—your front-facing camera skills weren’t anything to write home about. Just you in the gym locker room, hair tied up messily, sports bra damp at the neckline, flushed and smirking. Your other hand still gripping the hem of your tank top, mid-lift, just enough to show the deep V of your abs and that trail Cate had once threatened to follow with her tongue for an hour straight.

Miss you, bunny, the caption read. Followed by a red heart. And then: Want me to pick up a smoothie for you or do you want something saltier?

Cate was curled up on the couch when she got it, feet tucked beneath her cashmere blanket, a candle flickering on the end table and some pointless prestige drama playing in the background while she attempted to journal. She’d chosen not to go to the gym this morning. Her legs were still wobbly from yesterday and she liked pretending she needed recovery time. Liked the ache. Liked knowing exactly why she was sore.

But now?

Now she regrets everything.

Her fingers twitched. She stared at the photo too long. Zoomed in. Zoomed in again. Tried not to make an actual sound when she noticed the slight bulge in your compression shorts and the barely-there smirk that meant you knew. Knew what you were doing. Knew exactly the fucking chaos this would cause.

[CATE] : you absolute whore.

[YOU] : your whore<3

[CATE] : i hope that mirror cracks from how obscene you're being. put your shirt back on, slut.

[CATE] : actually. don’t. i wanna suffer.

You sent another photo. This one angled from below—arm flexed, your bicep glistening, sweat trailing from your jaw down your neck and disappearing beneath the collar of your sports bra. Cate whimpered.

Not like a joke-whimper. A real one. Sharp and pathetic and high in her throat, the kind that made her press her thighs together like that would do anything.

She set her phone down for a full six seconds before picking it back up again. She needed to stay in control. She had pride. She had—

A video arrived.

Soundless. But it didn’t need sound. You at the squat rack, drenched and panting, the waistband of your shorts yanked a little lower so the tattoos on your hips peeked out. Your ass straining with every rep. Your thighs trembling. Cate nearly blacked out.

[CATE] : that’s it. i’m breaking up with you.

[YOU] : sure baby. just let me come home and fuck you first.

[CATE] : no because you don’t understand what you’ve done to me. i’m not even kidding. i was fine. i was journaling. i was lighting a candle. now i’m wet and insane and mad and in LOVE and it’s YOUR fault.

[CATE] : i’m gonna pass away. i’m gonna die and it’s gonna be because my girlfriend is too hot at the gym. they’re gonna find me curled up on the floor in your sweatshirt with a ruined pair of underwear and a locked phone that says "babe" with a devil emoji.

[CATE] : i hate you. i love you. i hate how much i love you.

Another photo. This one was blurry, you leaning against the wall post-workout, face flushed and hair sticking to your forehead, tongue out slightly. Cate shrieked into a pillow.

Then another message:

[YOU] : what if I just come home now and fuck you against the door. it’s good cardio.

[CATE] : what if you came home and i was waiting in just your shirt with my legs spread on the bed.

[YOU] : ...

[YOU] : i’m leaving the gym right now.

[CATE] : RUN don’t walk.

[CATE] : you better not stop for that smoothie unless you want me to drink it off you.

[CATE] : i’m so serious, babe. i’m gonna ruin your life when you walk through that door.

[CATE] : i’m gonna take one look at you and fall to my knees. i’m not even kidding. i’ll cry about it later. i’ll write it in my gratitude journal. i’ll tell marie it was a religious experience.

A pause.

[CATE] : i’m not wearing panties fyi.

You heart-reacted that one. And then sent a photo of you in the car, gym bag in the passenger seat, a visible sweat stain on your tank and your thumb hooked in your waistband.

[YOU] : 10 minutes.

Cate tossed her phone onto the couch and shot upright, bolting to her closet and muttering to herself like a woman possessed. She nearly tripped over her own feet in the process of tearing open her drawer to yank out the oldest, softest shirt you owned—the faded The Clash tee with the neck cut out—and slipped it on with nothing underneath. Her skin still smelled like lavender lotion. Her lip gloss was already smeared. She didn’t care.

By the time she perched herself on the bed—legs bare, shirt hitched up just enough to tease, a trembling hand running through her hair—she was panting.

And when the key turned in the door, she didn’t even flinch.

She just smiled.

Like the chaos had never happened.

Like she hadn’t spent the last twenty minutes sexting with the desperation of a woman in a Victorian novel and the vocabulary of a feral raccoon.

You stepped inside.

Stopped.

Stared.

“…Holy shit,” you said.

Cate tilted her head.

“Welcome home,” she purred.

She doesn’t even give you a second to blink.

The door clicks shut behind you, and Cate’s already sliding off the bed like a siren answering a call, bare thighs brushing soft fabric on the way down. The oversized shirt hangs just low enough to look modest if you squint—until she moves. Until she walks. Until the hem lifts with every step and you realize she’s wearing nothing underneath, just long legs and attitude and that look on her face. The one that says you’re fucked, and thank god for that.

You drop your keys.

Literally—just let them clatter to the floor. Your gym bag thumps down beside them, forgotten, because Cate’s already crossing the room with lazy, predatory grace, arms swinging loose at her sides, mouth wet and pink and curled into a grin that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“You made good time,” she says, voice sticky-sweet, breathy at the edges.

You can’t seem to answer. Your jaw works uselessly, eyes dragging from Cate’s legs to her mouth to her thighs again. You take a step forward—and Cate takes one back.

“Nope,” she says, wagging a finger. “You don’t get to touch me yet.”

You look like you might collapse.

Cate hums and tilts her head. “Do you have any idea what you did to me? Sitting here like a good little girlfriend, trying to hydrate and journal and center my fucking self—”

You groan, low and ragged, because you know where this is going.

Cate leans in. Lets her breath ghost over your flushed, sweat-slick collarbone. Doesn’t touch. Just…hovers. Her lips part like she’s going to bite, or beg, but she holds steady.

“You sent me a video, baby,” she whispers. “You sent me a video of your ass like it was a gift and then left me here to rot.”

“You said you weren’t coming with me today,” you rasp.

Cate gasps. Clutches her chest like she’s been stabbed.

“Are you seriously blaming me for your little thirst trap campaign?”

“I was motivating you!”

“You were edging me!” Cate hisses. “You were practically fucking me through the phone and you knew it, you smug, sweaty, sexy—” Her fingers curl in the front of your tank top and yank.

It comes off so fast it leaves you dizzy, gym-tired muscles on full display, your sports bra damp and clinging and halfway translucent from sweat. Cate moans. Like, full-bodied, completely unashamed.

And then she’s backing away again—retreating toward the bed with a coy little smirk, her legs long and bare, shirt swaying with every step.

“You want me?” she purrs.

You growl.

“Then get on your knees.”

You don't even hesitate. Just drop to your knees on the linoleum, tattoos flexing across your forearms as you sink down, eyes blazing with something feral. Cate’s breath catches. Her thighs press together. She feels a little dizzy.

“Oh my god,” she whispers. “You’re actually doing it.”

“You told me to,” you say, grinning as you prowl forward on hands and knees. “Didn’t want you to get mad again.”

Cate lets out a squeaky little noise that is definitely not a whimper. She turns on her heel. Giggling. Barefoot, flushed, glowing. And she knows you’re coming after her. Knows the second she takes another step that those strong arms are seconds behind her.

She only makes it two steps before she’s caught.

Your arms lock around her waist and lift, spinning her midair like she weighs nothing. Cate shrieks—then laughs—then melts entirely as her back hits the bathroom door and your mouth lands on hers, hot and hungry and tasting like salt and protein bars and power.

Cate clutches your shoulders. Wraps her legs around your waist. Grinds down on you like she’s got something to prove.

“You’re disgusting,” she gasps between kisses.

“You started it.”

“You sent it—”

“And you liked it.”

Cate bites her lower lip. Huffs. Pulls back enough to meet your eyes and says, soft and serious:

“I loved it.”

Your knees buckle a little.

Cate leans in again, nose brushing yours. “Now put me on the fucking bed and show me how much cardio means to you.”

You practically growl. Cate doesn’t flinch—just grins wicked and clutches tighter around your waist like she’s the one in control. Like she hasn’t been unraveling via text all morning. Like she’s not still wet from a single slow-motion video of squats.

She kisses you again—deeper this time. Sloppier. The kind of kiss that comes with years of muscle memory and barely-restrained chaos. Teeth clicking. Tongues sliding. Her fingers tangle in the sweat-damp roots of your hair and yank. Just a little.

“Take it off,” Cate whispers. “Everything.”

You groan into her neck. “You’re not even pretending to be patient anymore, huh?”

“Did you look patient in that locker room selfie?” Cate shoots back, writhing as her back thuds gently against the door again. “Take. It. Off.”

And you do.

The sports bra goes first—tugged over your head and flung somewhere in the direction of Cate’s shoe rack. Cate watches, wide-eyed, breathing hard, pupils blown as the ink blooms across your chest, the sleek sweat shining on your collarbones, the twitch of muscle down your stomach.

Then your hands slide up the backs of her thighs.

“Your turn.”

Cate huffs out a gasp when she’s lifted again—again—and you carry her across the room like a problem you’ve already solved. Tossing her gently onto the mattress and following close behind, caging her in with arms and scent and heat.

Cate reaches for you—hands greedy, eyes glassy—but you pin her wrists above her head with a grin that says no no no, you wanted this, remember?

Cate whines. Kicks her heels once into the bed.

“I hate when you’re strong,” she mutters.

“No you don’t.”

Cate pouts. “Fine. I don’t. But you better ruin me now.”

You kiss the corner of her mouth. Then her jaw. Her neck. Down, down, down, teeth scraping lightly where her pulse throbs.

“I plan to.”

The mattress dips under your weight, and Cate swears she feels it in her chest—a lurching, fluttering pull like gravity’s playing favorites. The room is warm with leftover sunlight, dust drifting in the slant of it, and all she can think is: this is gonna ruin me.

You kneel between her thighs and just look at her. Like you have all the time in the world. Like Cate isn’t already flushed and trembling in your shirt, the hem rucked up dangerously high from when she got tossed. She’s spread out like a bribe. Like bait. Like she wants to be caught again and again until the seams of her ego are split wide open.

You plant one hand beside her head, the other trailing slow down her side, lazy, possessive, making Cate shiver under the weight of your stare.

“Still mad at me?” you murmur.

Cate glares.

Then gasps when your palm drags up her bare thigh and slips just beneath the hem of her shirt, fingertips barely brushing.

“I haven’t decided,” Cate breathes.

Your smile turns mean. “Guess I’ll have to work harder.”

You lean down, lips ghosting over Cate’s collarbone, your mouth hot and slow as you kiss across it. Cate squirms—more from anticipation than anything else—her breathing shallow now, uneven. You haven't even touched her yet. Not really.

“Mm. You smell like lavender and…attitude,” you mutter, voice low and hungry.

“I lit a candle,” Cate says faintly. “For peace.”

You hum. “How’d that work out for you?”

Cate gasps again when your mouth finally seals around the hollow of her throat—wet and soft and insistent, sucking until Cate’s toes curl and she arches into the touch.

“It didn’t,” she whispers. “You broke me.”

Your tongue traces the mark you’ve left before you murmur, “Good.”

You mouth lower. Over Cate’s chest, her ribs, the curve of her waist. Each kiss is more than that—it’s a claim, a promise, a you’re mine. And Cate is. Pathetically, desperately, willingly.

The shirt rises with every movement, you pushing it up inch by inch with your nose, your chin, until Cate’s stomach is exposed and trembling, her nipples hard beneath the soft cotton. Cate whines and lifts her hips, trying to hurry the process along, but you only laugh.

“Impatient,” you tease.

“I’m suffering.”

“You started this.”

“I’m ending it.”

Cate sits up, grabs the hem of the shirt herself, and yanks it over her head in one smooth motion, hair spilling down around her shoulders as the fabric hits the floor.

You still.

Cate waits.

“You’re so—” you begin, but it’s too much. You just lean down and kiss her again, rougher this time, messier. Cate moans into it, lets her legs fall open around your waist and rolls her hips up, deliberate and slow, dragging the length of you against her core.

You break the kiss with a gasp and a curse.

“Fucking hell. You’re soaked.”

Cate’s lashes flutter. “Gee, I wonder why.”

That earns her a bite—gentle, but still sharp—at the corner of her jaw. You press her down again, both hands bracketing her face now, eyes dark with restraint.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Last chance. You want me to stop?”

Cate doesn’t hesitate. Just lifts her chin and whispers:

“If you stop, I’ll kill you.”

You laugh once—breathless—and kiss her like it’s the last time. Like you’ve been starving. Your hand slides down, between Cate’s legs, and when your fingers finally slip through slick heat, Cate cries out, body jolting against the mattress.

“Fuck, baby,” you murmur, voice thick with awe. “Look at you.”

Cate’s head falls back, mouth parted, hands fisting in the sheets. “Do something, please—”

“I am.” you stroke her slowly, deliberately, like you’re trying to memorize the way she feels. Your thumb circles gently, rhythm building, and Cate’s thighs twitch, her stomach tensing as her hips chase the motion.

She’s already close. Ridiculously close. It’s been hours of buildup and teasing and filthy texts and now you’re here, real, solid, hers.

“Baby—” she gasps. “Oh my god—”

“I got you,” you say, voice low and certain, like a vow. “Let go.”

Cate does.

With a sob and a shudder, her whole body arches, legs shaking, hands flying to grip your shoulders like she’ll fly away otherwise. The orgasm hits fast, sharp and overwhelming, and she wails, eyes squeezed shut, every nerve in her body lighting up like a struck match.

You don't stop. Kissing Cate through it, stroking her, murmuring praises that Cate barely registers over the white-noise buzz in her ears.

When she comes down, she’s breathless and boneless, limp against the mattress, hair sticking to her temple.

And you just grin.

“Round one,” you say.

Cate groans into a pillow. “I hate you.”

“You love me.” you exhale, always that specific reminder as if Cate ever really means it.

“I do, but I hate that I do.”

Your hand slides to her thigh again. Cate gasps.

“...Don’t you dare,” she warns, still shaking.

“Oh, I dare.”

Cate lies there flushed and trembling, skin damp, ribs fluttering under the weight of every ragged inhale. Her thighs twitch each time your hand so much as brushes her, and she tries to summon words—witty ones, sharp ones, anything—but her mouth just opens and closes uselessly.

Which is exactly when you lean in, kiss her slowly, and say into her mouth:

“I’m not nearly done with you.”

Cate’s breath catches. Her eyes flutter open, wide and glossy.

“Baby—”

But her protest is weak. Soft. The kind that wants to be ignored. And you know her too well to fall for it.

“Shh,” you murmur, nipping at her earlobe. “You said I ruined you, remember? So let me finish the job.”

Cate’s whole body arches when you grip her hips and flip her over in one seamless, devastating movement—face-first into the mattress, legs tangled in the sheets, breath hitching as she squirms instinctively.

“Fuck,” she gasps. “You’re such a dick.”

“And you,” you purr, dragging your nails down the backs of Cate’s thighs, slow and teasing, “are so bratty for someone who begged for this over text.”

“I didn’t beg,” Cate snaps, cheek smushed into the pillow.

You chuckle. “You literally said—and I quote—I’m gonna fall to my knees and cry about it later.”

Cate whines.

Then gasps—because your hands are spreading her open, thumbs pressed to the swell of her ass, mouth hovering just barely over her skin.

“Babe—baby, oh my god, don’t you—”

But it’s too late.

You dip your head and lick.

Cate screams.

She kicks once, purely out of instinct, but you just laugh against her and pin her hips down harder, holding her in place like this is what you were born to do. Cate moans—high and desperate and completely wrecked.

“You taste like heaven,” you mutter between strokes, voice low and reverent, tongue slick and hot and fucking ruthless against her cunt. Cate claws at the sheets. Her legs spread wider. Her brain short-circuits.

“You’re a menace,” she gasps, panting, sobbing. “You’re evil. I’m gonna die—”

But you don't stop.

You lick and suck and hum, nose brushing where Cate’s slick is dripping down her thighs, and Cate loses it. Her body is bucking, her hips trying to lift off the bed and run away and chase more all at once, but you’ve got her pinned—held—and it only makes her wetter.

It’s obscene, the sounds Cate is making. Loud, high, needy. The kind of sounds that would make someone blush if they weren’t already in the middle of this goddamn exorcism.

And then—

“C’mon, baby,” you murmur, lips slick, voice wrecked and hungry. “Let go for me again. Just like that. I got you.”

Cate sobs something that might be a curse or a prayer.

And then she’s cumming.

Harder than before. Sharper. Her body curls and convulses, mouth open in a silent scream, legs shaking so hard she nearly kicks the nightstand. She’s soaked. Sprawled. Utterly destroyed.

You press one last kiss to her inner thigh before finally—finally—climbing back up her body.

Cate doesn’t move.

She’s limp. Gone. Drenched in sweat and shaking all over, hair stuck to her neck, one hand barely lifting to grab your forearm and cling.

You settle beside her, wrap an arm around her waist, and pull her back into your chest, spooning her with all the tenderness in the world.

Cate sighs. Then groans. Then lets her head fall back against your shoulder.

“You’re evil.”

“I’m thorough.”

“I hate you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Cate doesn’t say anything for a moment. She just breathes. Soaks in the warmth and the scent and the feeling of your chest against her back.

Then she murmurs:

“…My legs don’t work.”

You smirk against her neck. “Perfect. Means you’re staying right here.”

You lie tangled in the ruins of the bed—sheets halfway to the floor, your discarded clothes kicked beneath the dresser, Cate’s hair a full disaster and her skin still glowing with sweat and leftover bliss.

You’re propped up on one elbow now, watching Cate like she might dissolve if you blink too long.

Cate covers her face with her hands.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she mumbles.

“You’re cute.”

“I’m devastated.”

“You’re glowing.”

“I haven’t walked right in over a year.”

You chuckle, low and proud, and lean in to press a kiss to Cate’s bare shoulder. “My bad.”

Cate cracks one eye open.

“You still smell like the gym.”

You shrug. “You like it.”

Cate rolls to her side and buries her face in your chest. “I’m never letting you go back there alone again.”

“What, you gonna chaperone me like a horny lifeguard?”

“Yup,” she mutters. “Gonna stand by the squat rack in six-inch heels and make direct eye contact with anyone who dares to look at you.”

You laugh and curl around her tighter. “You’re insane.”

“You’re welcome.”

You stay like that a long time—Cate tracing lazy patterns into your hip, you brushing sweat-damp curls back from her forehead, neither of you moving much except to breathe.

Eventually:

“Hey,” Cate murmurs. “Be honest.”

“Mhm?”

“…Did you mean it? When you said you said you’d get on your knees for me?”

You blinked. Then smirk.

“I’d do it again right now if you asked.”

Cate blushes so hard it makes her toes curl.

“Oh my god,” she whines, hiding her face again. “Stop being hot, I’m tired.”

You just laugh softly behind her, pressing a lazy kiss to her shoulder like you didn’t just ruin Cate’s entire nervous system. Your hand settles low on Cate’s waist—light, possessive, infuriatingly gentle. Cate breathes in the warmth of it, lets herself go boneless for a moment, eyes fluttering shut.

Maybe she is tired. Maybe she’ll just lie here and bask in the afterglow until her legs stop shaking and her ego reboots.

Cate relaxes for a beat. Just a beat.

She tells herself she needs recovery time. That this is a temporary surrender.

But somewhere in the haze of post-orgasm fog, a darker urge begins to bubble.

Satisfaction, Cate decides, is a two-way street.

And her girlfriend? Still suspiciously smug for someone who hasn’t cum yet.

Still hard. Still untouched.

And that simply will not do.

Cate starts willing her body to cooperate.

Come on. Come on. Wake up. Get it together. We have a mission.

A tingle in her thigh. A pulse in her calves. Numbness fading like the slow return of memory.

It starts with a twitch.

A little one. Harmless. Just a flex of her foot beneath the sheets.

Then another.

Then Cate lifts her leg—testing, tentative—and finds she can. It’s not perfect. She’s still sore, obviously. Still shaking. But her blood is flowing again, and her brain has rebooted enough to remember exactly who she is.

Cate Dunlap.

Certified menace. Professional brat. Revenge artist.

You’re already dozing behind her, smug and sleepy, one arm draped possessively around her waist, the other folded beneath your cheek. Your breath is warm on Cate’s neck. Your heart beats steady and slow against Cate’s back. You smell like sweat and skin and the afterglow of being entirely too good at your job.

Cate wiggles her hips. Just a little.

You hum sleepily and pull her closer. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting,” Cate whispers innocently, tilting her head. “I’m finishing.”

You lift your head, just enough to blink down at her, eyes still half-lidded and dazed. “Your legs just stopped convulsing.”

Cate turns in your arms—slow, sinuous, wicked. Her hair is a mess, her cheeks are flushed, and there’s still a visible bite mark blooming on the side of her neck.

And she’s smiling.

“Exactly,” she purrs. “That was the reboot. Now it’s time to update the system.”

You groan. “Babe—”

Cate swings a leg over your waist, straddling you in one smooth motion, and presses a palm flat to your chest. “Nope. You don’t get to babe your way out of this. You fucked me into another dimension. I saw God. I screamed into a pillow. You sent me videos.”

You open your mouth to argue—then close it again.

Cate cocks her head. “That’s what I thought.”

Your hands fall to Cate’s thighs, gripping tight, and fuck if that doesn’t make Cate stutter for just a second. But she recovers fast. Leans in. Trails her fingers over your collarbone, down your sternum, watching you shiver.

“I should make you beg,” she says sweetly. “I should tie your hands and edge you until you scream my name into a pillow.”

You’re breathing harder now. Your grip on Cate’s thighs tightens.

“You wanna beg, baby?” Cate whispers, leaning down until her lips brush your ear. “Say please.”

And you do.

Immediately. Desperately. “Please.”

Cate shudders.

“Please what?”

“Please—” your voice cracks. “Cate, baby, please—”

“Oh, she’s already gone,” Cate coos, dragging her fingers further down your chest, slow and taunting. “You think you’re in control just because you’ve got arms like a Greek God and a tongue like a weapon? You think I didn’t spend the last half hour planning your demise?”

Your whole body arches.

“Hands up,” Cate orders.

You obey.

Cate leans back just enough to grind down against you, dragging herself over your lap with lazy, devastating friction—and the sound you make is criminal. Choked and half-feral, your eyes fluttering shut as your head falls back against the pillow.

Cate reaches down and wraps her hand around your cock—still rock hard, still aching—and squeezes just enough to make you tremble.

“Fuck,” you gasp. “I’m sorry—fuck, baby, I’m so sorry—”

Cate leans in, nose brushing hers. “You will be.”

And then she sinks down.

You cry out—sharp and broken, like the breath’s been punched out of your lungs—and Cate moans, head falling forward, fingers scrambling for your shoulders.

You both go still. Just for a second. Just to feel it. Cate stretched wide, full and shaking all over again, and you—already panting, trying not to lose it on the first thrust.

“I should make you wait,” Cate breathes.

You nod, wild-eyed. “You can, I’ll wait, I swear—”

Cate rolls her hips.

And that’s it.

You howl.

“Cate—baby—fuck, I’m gonna—please—”

“Shut up,” Cate whispers, moving again. “I’m getting revenge.”

Cate rides you slowly at first.

Painfully, deliberately slow.

Every motion is languid, controlled—hips rolling with surgical precision as her nails dig into your chest for balance, her hair falling around her shoulders in messy waves like some kind of glittering sex goddess. Her thighs tremble, but she doesn’t let it show. Not yet. This is performance art. This is justice.

You’re already writhing beneath her.

You’re so sensitive, Cate realizes with a savage kind of glee. All that post-gym adrenaline and afterglow has you completely undone. Your jaw is slack, your hands fists in the sheets above your head, your body arching desperately each time Cate sinks down and grinds her hips in a tight little circle.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, eyes rolling. “Cate—baby, please—please—”

Cate smiles. Beams, actually. Downright radiant with vengeance and love and power.

“You okay, sweet thing?” she coos, clenching just enough to make you jolt.

You whimper.

Cate leans forward and cups your face, thumb stroking over the edge of your jaw, so soft. So fucking tender.

“You were so cocky earlier,” she whispers, rocking her hips a little faster. “Sending me videos. Making me drool. Turning me into a mess.”

Your eyes flutter open, bright and glassy. Your breath catches.

Cate grinds down again—hard this time. Tight and deep. You choke.

“And now look at you,” Cate murmurs. “Begging me like it’s your last goddamn meal.”

“I’m—fuck, Cate, I’m—I can’t—”

“You can.”

Cate pulls back, sits up fully, her fingers trailing down your torso like she owns it—because she does. She’s glowing, sweat-damp and flushed, her thighs shaking but her pace picking up, and the second she starts bouncing in earnest—tight, hot, slick—all of your control shatters.

Your hands fly to Cate’s hips. Not to stop her. Not even to slow her. Just to hold on.

“Fuck—Cate—Cate—oh my god, baby, I’m gonna—”

“Already?” Cate gasps mockingly. “You’re gonna cum already? From this?”

You whine. Your whole body trembles. Cate leans in and whispers into your open mouth:

“You’re so easy for me, baby.”

You scream, cumming hard, head thrown back, every muscle in your body seizing as you pulse inside her. Cate keeps going—grinding through it, dragging it out, milking your cock until your voice breaks and you’re whimpering, twitching, begging without words.

Cate finally stills, body trembling from the effort, her knees sore, her throat dry—and you? Wrecked. Gutted. Melted across the bed in a sweaty, shaking heap of freckles and wide, ruined eyes.

Cate collapses on top of you, laughing breathlessly.

You don't move.

Not even a twitch.

After a long beat:

“…You okay down there?” Cate hums.

You groan. “I don’t know what year it is.”

Cate snorts.

You blindly pat her thigh. “I think you broke my soul.”

Cate kisses your chin. “Good. Maybe next time you’ll think twice before sending me thirst traps while I’m trying to manifest peace.”

You groan again, dragging a hand over your face.

“You’re insane.”

“You love that about me.”

“I do,” you sigh. “Which is also how I know you’re going to want cuddles in, like…thirty seconds.”

Cate blinks innocently. “Am I not already on your chest?”

“Yeah, and you’re going to want me to hold you and rub your back.”

Cate shrugs. “Revenge is exhausting.”

You laugh, hoarse and tender, and pull the blanket up around you both. Cate nuzzles in like she didn’t just fuck you into a new dimension out of revenge, drapes an arm over your waist and presses a kiss to your neck.

“Next time,” she whispers, smug and sleepy, “you’re crawling into my lap.”

You shudder.

“…Yes, baby.”

Cate wakes up with purpose.

You, tragically, do not.

You’re sprawled across the bed like a corpse, hair a disaster, mouth slightly open, arms flung wide like you’re still trying to hold onto Cate in your sleep. Your discarded hoodie is missing (Cate stole it), your neck is covered in fading hickeys (Cate’s fault), and your groan when Cate nudges you with a knee is so pitiful it makes her grin.

“Up,” Cate chirps, full ponytail and sports bra already on. “We’re late.”

You roll over and groan into the void. “It’s Saturday. What could we possibly be late for that’s not illegal?”

Cate straddles you casually. “Pilates.”

You still.

Then slowly look up, bleary-eyed and suspicious. “Come again?”

“Payback,” Cate says sweetly. “You made me do squats. You made me sweat. You fucked me til I couldn’t feel my legs. Now…you’re coming with me to the clean girl Olympics. Let’s go, muscle girl. Hope you like lemon water and thirty minutes of deep core stabilization.”

You let your head drop back onto the pillow. “I hate it here.”

An hour later, Cate’s glowing.

Her matching set is a dusty rose today. Her socks are tall and ribbed. Her hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail and she’s already finished her greens. She waves politely to the instructor like she’s not actively dragging her sulky, inked-up, entirely out-of-place girlfriend behind her like a surly mastiff on a leash.

You’re in a black tank and basketball shorts and a face like someone just told you not to curse anymore.

You unroll your mats.

Cate kisses your cheek and whispers, “Be good.”

You scowl. “I’m not flexible.”

Cate shrugs. “Then stretch, sweetheart.”

The instructor starts class with calm, meditative music and an affirmation. “Let’s begin by setting an intention,” she says gently. “Maybe today, your intention is to soften into discomfort.”

You grumble under your breath, “My intention is to make it out of here alive.”

Cate beams.

It’s downhill from there.

Within ten minutes, you’re pouring sweat.

Not from cardio. From trying to hold a leg in the air while engaging your transverse abs and smiling politely as if your hamstrings aren’t being held hostage.

Cate, meanwhile, is flawless.

Gliding between poses. Artfully pointed toes. Whispering encouragement with just enough smugness.

“You’re doing great,” she murmurs, watching you shake through a slow-motion teaser. “Almost as good as that one time I begged for mercy in the gym locker room.”

You growl. “You said we weren’t gonna talk about that in public.”

“Then hold your plank, sweetheart.”

You collapse.

Cate pouts. “Oh no. Is my big strong gym rat getting bested by a group of wellness influencers and one woman in a visor named Saffron?”

You flip her off without looking.

Cate claps politely. “Mindful expression. Love that.”

By the time class ends, Cate is relaxed and radiant.

You're dripping sweat, red in the face, flat on your back like someone just dropped a barbell on your pride.

Cate leans over her, cheeks flushed, hair gleaming, towel in hand.

“Want your lemon water now?” she offers, sickeningly sweet.

You groan. “I’m gonna need IV hydration.”

Cate kisses your forehead.

“Namaste,” she whispers.

You squint up at her like you’re going to commit a crime.

Cate just giggles and loops her arm through yours as you leave, every step of your walk to the smoothie bar filled with the kind of sore-legged vengeance Cate has waited years to taste.

You shuffle into the smoothie bar like you just got jumped in an alley by an angry pack of yoga moms.

Your tank is clinging to you in weird places. Your hair is sticking up in all directions. Your sports bra band is twisted, your calves are cramping, and you’re pretty sure the instructor winked at Cate while you were in a full-body suffering squat. Your thighs hurt in places you didn’t know had nerve endings.

Cate, on the other hand, looks like she just stepped off the set of a skincare ad.

She’s glowing. She’s glossy. Her ponytail swishes when she walks. Her cheeks are the perfect shade of rose and her legs don’t shake at all when she orders her green goddess superfood smoothie.

You collapse into a bench like a war widow. “I can’t feel my spine.”

Cate doesn’t even look at you. She just sips through her glass straw and goes, “Did you remember to engage your pelvic floor?”

You groan and let your head fall to the table. “I engaged with God and begged for death.”

Cate hums thoughtfully. “That’s funny. You didn’t have any complaints last night when I made you hold your legs at a 90-degree angle.”

A girl at the next table chokes on her açai bowl.

Cate smiles sweetly.

You lift your head just enough to glare. “You’re evil.”

Cate swings her legs, sipping her smoothie with the daintiest little slurp. “No. I’m thorough.”

Back at Cate’s dorm, you faceplant into Cate’s mattress, groaning like the dead.

Cate sits beside you, perched primly on her knees, now in a sweatshirt and tiny shorts with no real intention of being helpful.

“I require medical attention,” you whine into a pillow.

“You require a massage,” Cate says brightly.

“I require morphine.”

Cate climbs onto your hips and cracks her knuckles dramatically. “Lucky for you, I got a C+ in that Wellness Therapy Foundations elective. Now breathe in and try not to die.”

She pours a comically generous amount of lotion onto her palms, rubs them together with a thwap, and slaps her hands down on your back.

You yell into the mattress.

“Oh my God, you’re so tense,” Cate gasps.

“I’m tense because I just planked for thirty minutes while a woman named Saffron told me to ‘bloom into my core.’”

Cate starts kneading your shoulders with all the grace and technique of someone fluffing a throw pillow.

You groan. “You’re just pushing my skin around.”

“I’m redistributing the trauma,” Cate says. “Be grateful.”

She digs her thumbs in—way too hard—makes a pleased little hum, and leans over to kiss between your shoulder blades.

“You’re so dramatic,” she coos.

“You seduced me into Pilates.”

“I avenged myself. There’s a difference.”

You let out a pained moan as Cate works her way down to your lower back—badly, but enthusiastically.

“Okay but,” Cate says after a pause, trailing one finger along the line of your spine, “I was kinda hot doing reverse tabletop though, right?”

You don't answer right away.

Then: “…I got a boner during pigeon pose. So…yeah.”

Cate beams. “Mm…that’s all I needed to hear.”

The bass hits like a heartbeat you can climb inside. Lights strobe white and red over a sea of bodies, heat rising in waves, beer sticky on the floor. Cate is a carefully curated mess: a tee she stole from you slashed into a crop at her ribs, ripped fishnets, chunky platforms built to kick in teeth. Her midriff is left dangerously bare, belly-button ring glinting, the ink at her hip peeking from the low cut of her borderline indecent pleated skirt. A leash hangs from her belt—a matte black coil that leads back through the crowd to your collar—turning every step into a dare.

Cate glances over her shoulder. Eyeliner smudged on purpose, snakebites catching neon, that wicked little smile like a match’s first hiss.

“Keep up, daddy,” she mouths, and tugs.

You follow like the tide follows the moon—leather jacket open over a band tee, sweat shining the clean line of your throat, chain glinting. The collar sits low and ordinary-looking in the dark, but it’s not ordinary at all. The D-ring catches the light whenever Cate pulls, and Cate pulls a lot. She’s bratty about it—tiny tugs that say closer, closer until your chest is flush to Cate’s back and the pit swallows you whole.

The song detonates. Cate throws her hands up, hips already moving on the downbeat. The crowd surges and she presses back, slow and obscene, grinding along the hard line in your jeans. She does it like she’s unwrapping a gift she bought herself—luxuriously slow, wickedly patient. Your breath fans hot against Cate’s ear and Cate laughs, soft and delighted, rolling her hips again.

“Be good,” you say into her hair, which is hilarious because Cate’s never been.

Cate twists in your arms, tugging at the hem of your tee, slipping her hands beneath leather and cotton until her palms meet skin. Her fingers seek out the twin studs and pinch lightly, just enough to make you jerk and hiss.

“Sensitive,” Cate purrs, head tipping back to grin up at you.

“Because you asked me to pierce them,” you say, voice rough, like the bass has scraped it raw. “And because you never let them rest.”

Cate snickers, smug. “You love me when I’m mean.”

“Unfortunately.”

She turns back around, giving your pierced nipples a reprieve, though her grin says the mercy won’t last long. And it doesn’t—barely a minute passes before the bass drops again and Cate is pressing back harder, grinding in time with the beat. Her hand snakes behind her this time, palming you through denim, thumb stroking slow torture along the aching line she knows by heart. Your hips push forward helplessly. Cate shudders, then moans, unbothered by the press of strangers. Sweat slicks her collarbone, lipstick soon to be just as smeared as her eyeliner. She tilts her face to the side and you bite at her jaw, a warning, a plea.

“Not here,” you say, failing to sound stern and managing only desperation. “You’re—fuck—Cate.”

Cate laughs, sugar-sweet poison, and keeps moving just to hear that fuck again.

The singer screams. A thousand bodies jump. Cate uses the chaos to turn in your arms again, clutching your shoulders, riding your thigh. Your mouths crash together—lip rings cool for a blink before heat roars in. You kiss like you’re making a point, like every pass of your tongue is an argument Cate’s already conceded to. Cate’s knees go a little weak. She pulls the leash hand over hand until there’s no space left between you, until your collar is snug at your throat and Cate is breathless with wanting.

“Bathroom,” you mumble against her mouth.

Cate grins, evil. “No.”

“Where?”

Cate looks at the exit, at the electric sign buzzing faintly in the dark. She licks your bottom lip, flashing a grin so sinful it threatens to unravel you where you stand. “Car?” Cate says, as if it’s even a question. As if you would ever say no.

Your hand slides to the back of Cate’s neck, possessive. “Come on, then.”

Cate swivels, dragging you through the crowd by the leash, hips still swaying because she loves to suffer and loves to make you suffer more. The two of you stumble into the night like you’ve been spit out of a mouth—humid air, parking lot floodlights, the distant sound of the encore. Cate is laughing, high on power and need.

At the car, she doesn’t even bother with the back seat. She palms your keys out of your pocket and tosses them somewhere into the passenger footwell, then drops into your lap in the driver’s seat, skirt riding up to her waist as she straddles wide. The door slams and the world shrinks to fogging windows and frantic hands.

“Seat back,” Cate orders, and you fumble for the lever, the chair groaning as it slides. Cate catches the movement of your jacket, the flex in your forearms, the clink of chain at your throat. She grabs your tee, hauls it up, and mouths at one pierced nipple through the fabric of your bra, teeth catching the ring, tugging until your breath hits like a struck match.

“Fuck, baby.”

“Mhm.” Cate straightens and reaches between your bodies. The zipper sound is obscene in the quiet car, the way your cock springs free is worse. Cate strokes you once—slow, reverent—thumb smearing slick over the head. “You’re already so hard for me. Did I do that?”

You laugh helplessly. “Whaddya think?”

Cate kisses you again, filthy and sweet, and then lifts, lining you up. She’s soaked, underwear an afterthought that she shoves aside with an impatient tug. When she sinks down, it’s both homecoming and ruin. Her breath breaks. You swear so softly it almost sounds like prayer.

“Look at me,” Cate says, and you do—eyes gold in the parking lot light, mouth parted, knuckles already white on Cate’s hips. Cate takes you, slow at first just to feel the stretch, then deeper, rolling her hips like the music’s still under her skin. “God, baby. You feel—”

“Don’t tease.”

Cate’s smile is all teeth. “That’s literally my hobby.”

She’s not merciless, though. Not tonight. The pit has wound them both too tight. Cate sets a rhythm that says I want to more than I can, a hungry, relentless pace that drags noise out of both of you. The steering wheel knocks against Cate’s spine. Your hands guide her, then grip her ass and hold her down hard enough that Cate cries out and shivers.

“Say it,” you demand, voice ragged. “Say who you belong to.”

Cate leans in, panting into your mouth. “Your. Daddy’s girl. You put a collar on me and I’m done for.”

Your laugh breaks. You jerk up, thrusting, and Cate’s vision whites at the edges. She grabs at the leash where it hooks to her belt, wraps it around her fist and anchors herself, the symbol of her power turned to the anchor of her surrender. It’s dizzying. Perfect.

“Please,” she says, and it’s unclear whether she’s begging for more or mercy. Maybe both.

You give her more.

It’s messy and desperate, exactly the way Cate wanted it. She gets loud. You tell her to be quiet. Cate says make me and you put two fingers into her mouth. Cate sucks greedily, moaning around the taste of metal from your rings. The car rocks. A horn somewhere across the lot chirps. They don’t stop.

Cate cums first, as she usually does when she’s riding you like she wants to see God. It hits sharp, a bright white burst that steals her breath and gives it back in pieces. She bites down on your fingers and gasps, shuddering, thighs shaking against denim and leather. You chase, thrusting up through her aftershocks until Cate meets you halfway and clenches, purposeful, and you’re gone—crying out, hand fisted in the back of Cate’s hair, spilling deep. Cate doesn’t move, doesn’t let you go, just breathes into the crook of your neck and counts the wild leaps of your pulse against her lips.

For a while, there’s only the tick of the cooling engine and the hiss of your lungs. Cate eventually lifts her head, lashes spiky with sweat, lipstick a disaster. She’s glowing. Still trouble.

“Hi,” she whispers, affectionate and smug, and kisses the corner of your mouth.

“Hi.” Your laugh is hoarse. You swipe a thumb across Cate’s cheekbone, smearing eyeliner she has no hope of salvaging. “You’re a menace.”

“Mm.” Cate rocks lazily, just to feel the aftershocks make you twitch. Then she leans back enough to look at you properly and, as if it’s the most casual thought in the world, says: “You know what would make me feral?”

Your eyes narrow with wary amusement. “I’m afraid to ask.”

Cate smiles, slow and wicked. “If you got your tip pierced.”

You blink. Heat returns to your face so fast it’s almost comical. “Cate.”

“What?” Cate feigns innocence and fails spectacularly. She pins your wrists to the seat by your head—playful, declarative—then lowers her voice to something dark and sweet. “Just imagine it. I drop to my knees, and the first thing I feel against my tongue is a cool ring. I’m gentle because you just got it done. I breathe on it, watch you shiver. I lick around the bead, slide the metal along my lower lip, look up at you while you try not to cum from that alone.” She pauses to drag the tip of her tongue along her own teeth like she’s tasting the idea. “I bet I could make you shake with barely anything—slow strokes, the weight of it tapping against my tongue. And later, when you’re healed? I ride you and feel the ring drag every time you fill me, metal catching inside just right. I’d grind down and make the little piece of jewelry sing just for me.”

Your hands flex under Cate’s grip, breath hitching. “Jesus Christ.”

Cate’s grin turns delightfully cruel. She lets one hand go to slide underneath your tee again, finds a nipple ring and tugs—light, testing. Your hips jump up inside her helplessly. “You remember how crazy these made you for the first few days?” Cate croons. “How every brush of your shirt had you whimpering? Multiply it. I’d take such good care of you, daddy. Ice my mouth first, cool kisses, then warm you up with my throat. I’d be so careful. Until you asked nicely for mean.”

“You’re dreaming me up a torture maze,” you mutter, eyes blown. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Say you’ll think about it.” Cate’s voice goes soft at the edges, coaxing. She kisses you again, lazy and filthy, tongue brushing the groove of your lower lip. “Say you’ll let me worship you with silver.”

You stare at her for a long moment, looking equal parts ruined and helplessly in love. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“That’s not a no.”

You exhale, defeated. “I’ll think about it.”

Cate beams, triumphant and tender all at once. She releases your wrists and taps your nose. “Good girl.”

Your answering growl is proof you’re not that good. You sit up as much as Cate’s body allows and mouth along Cate’s neck, right where the collar would sit if it were hers. “You keep tugging on those nipple rings and we’re going back in there to finish what we started in the pit.”

“Promises, promises,” Cate says, preening, and slides her hands into your hair. She tugs, just enough to make your eyes flutter closed. “Drive me home, daddy. Or don’t. We could fog up these windows a second time, and then I can start a Pinterest board for your future dick jewelry.”

Your laugh is helpless and wrecked. “You’re not allowed on Pinterest unsupervised.”

“Collar me then.” Cate nips at your mouth.

Outside, the encore dissolves into applause. Inside, Cate rocks one last time—slow and claiming—before finally lifting off with a small, satisfied sound. She tugs her skirt down, steals your hoodie from the backseat to throw over herself and leans over to give the nipple rings a very gentle pinch through the fabric.

“See?” Cate hums, smug and doting. “You do like it.”

You fumble for the keys, still glassy-eyed. “Unfortunately.”

Cate tugs on the leash lightly, smiling. “Come on. I’m not finished ruining you yet.”

Cate swore she could taste the metal in the air the second they walked into the studio—cool, antiseptic, a promise. The walls were glossy black, framed flash sheets glittered with silver, every curve of jewelry a yes in her mind. She’d dressed for church: tiny plaid skirt, fishnets, a ribbed tank that said SAINT in cracked letters and showed off the dip of her sternum. You slowed at the counter to fill out forms.

“Name?” the piercer asked. He had gentle eyes and a voice that made everything sound reasonable.

You gave your name, then glanced at Cate because Cate needed it, the small indulgence of being looked at like an accomplice.

Cate floated up on giddy nerves and put her chin on your shoulder while you signed the waiver. “You can write Daddy if you want,” she murmured, low enough that only the metal might hear. “It’s the truth.”

Your smile hooked to one side, a flash of dimple. “If I write Daddy, he’s going to think I’m bringing a man back there.”

“Let him.” Cate nipped the shell of your ear. “Then he can be jealous like everyone else.”

The piercer took you into a sterilized back room and went through the usual talk—placement, size, jewelry options, healing time. Cate managed to be good for six whole minutes, nodding solemnly and humming agreement, until the words “four to eight weeks, no sex” landed like a slap.

Her hand shot up like she was in class. “Define sex.”

“Anything that causes friction or pressure.” The piercer didn’t blink. “You’ll thank me later.”

Cate, who was very pro-friction, made a tiny, strangled sound.

You reached behind and wrapped your fingers around Cate’s wrist. The touch was casual and devastating.

“Behave,” you said, soft. To the piercer: “We’ll do the curved barbell you recommended.”

Cate watched the prep like it was a sacrament. Gloves snapped. A glimmering needle. The antiseptic wipe painting your skin into a saint. Cate felt feral and tender all at once. She took your hand and kissed the back of it, then put that hand on her cheek like she could pin herself there forever.

“You sure?” she breathed.

Your eyes were already blown with adrenaline. “You asked me to.”

“I know.” Cate’s voice went sugary sweet, just a little wicked. “I’m depraved.”

“You’re honest.”

When it happened, it happened fast—measured breath, line of steel, a bright flash of pain that you rode like a wave, face gone still with focus. The piercer’s voice sounded far away: “Beautiful. Jewelry’s in.”

Cate felt the room tilt. Not from squeamishness, but from the sight of the small, gleaming curve seated where she’d imagined it for weeks, a glint of promise peeking out from soft, flushed skin. Her knees actually wobbled. She had to laugh at herself, open-mouthed and wild.

“Cate,” you warned, reading her expression.

“I’m fine,” Cate said, which was a lie and also histrionics. She pressed both hands over her own mouth and made a muffled, ecstatic noise. “I’m going to be—so respectful. So careful. I’m going to be saintly about this.”

The piercer ran you through aftercare—saline soaks, breathable underwear, no rough fabric, no bodies crashing together in the backseat of a car because someone couldn’t keep her hands to herself. Cate, who had in fact crashed bodies together in the seat of a car not forty-eight hours ago, nodded like a model student and somehow didn’t burst into flames.

Outside, the world was warm and loud. You moved gingerly, careful not to jostle things. Cate took the keys and drove, hands steady, heart not. She kept sneaking looks over, catching your profile: jaw set, lip caught between teeth, the faint proud wince of someone who did a brave thing because the person she loved asked and because she wanted it too.

At a red light, Cate reached over and threaded your fingers. “Baby,” she said, soft enough to slip beneath traffic. “You did so good.”

You squeezed back. “You asked me to,” you repeated, and the way you said it—like a vow, like a private joke—made Cate’s throat ache.

The first week was agony. Cate was a menace about being gentle. She hovered like a storm cloud with a halo. She read the aftercare sheet three times a day and kissed your hipbone as if it were sacred ground she was allowed to worship while the altar healed. She iced her mouth before she kissed anywhere that made you hiss. She soaked cotton rounds in saline and pressed them to sensitive skin with the focus of a surgeon. She bullied you into wearing soft joggers instead of denim: “No, babe, I’m sorry, I love your Levi’s with a religious fervor but they are not invited to this healing.”

You took it with long-suffering grace and bursts of laughter, texting her from the bathroom mirror: Your Pinterest board-ing needs to calm down.

Cate, sprawled on the bed with her legs up the headboard, replied: it needs to be fed. send a pic of my little ring<3

You: you’re on thin ice, saint.

Cate: oh? i can make it melt with my mouth when you’re healed.

By the end of week two, Cate had developed a new hobby: tugging your nipple rings every time she needed to release pressure. A tug in the kitchen while coffee dripped. A tug in a dressing room while you tried on a white tee that made you look like sex and sunshine. A tug while you were trying to produce a demo, Cate sliding onto your lap sideways and biting the silver through cotton until you hissed and buried your face in Cate’s neck.

“You’re going to end me before your new favorite toy can even play,” you mumbled, voice wrecked.

Cate stroked your hair. “Not end. Edify.”

You laughed into her throat. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm. That’s why you love me.”

By week five, Cate actually started behaving. It was terrifying for everyone. She didn’t grind against you while you watched late-night movies. Instead, she turned around and draped herself carefully, fingers stroking your arm instead of your waistband. She went into the pit alone with Emma and Marie and left early, twitchy and bored.

“You’re twitchy,” you told her when she crawled back into bed at midnight.

“I’m bored,” Cate said into your clavicle, sulky. “I miss you in my mouth.”

“I miss being in your mouth.”

You lay there breathing for a long time, the kind of quiet where love uses your ribs like wind chimes.

“Soon,” you said at last.

“Soon,” Cate echoed, and made a vow not to so much as think about bouncing until the piercer gave the green light.

He did, week seven and change, after a check that had Cate sitting on her hands so she wouldn’t clap out of sheer excitement. “Looks great,” he said. “No pain? No tenderness?”

You shook your head, calm but with that spark in your eyes like you were standing under a storm you wanted to let soak you. He gave the go-ahead. Cate somehow didn’t kiss him on the mouth. She dragged you home by the collar instead.

It was one of those honeyed evenings where light fell slow across the floorboards and the city noise softened to a purr. Cate closed the bedroom door with her foot and turned the lock, not because she thought anyone would interrupt but because ritual matters. She nudged you back to sit at the edge of the bed. She knelt like prayer, like sacrilege, like someone who’d been politely starving and was finally allowed to eat.

“Hands,” she said, and you gave them automatically, palms up in surrender. Cate put them on the headboard. “Stay.”

Your laugh was dry. “Yes, ma’am.”

Cate kissed both knees, then the inside of one, then the soft place where thigh met pelvis. “Tell me if it’s too much,” she said, voice soft. “If it feels weird. If you want me to slow down.”

You carded a hand through Cate’s hair, gentle, reassuring. “I’ll tell you.”

Cate exhaled, long and shivery, then drew you out of your joggers with the care of unveiling.  She eased your boxers down just as carefully, fingers lingering at the waistband as if savoring the reveal. Cate gasped softly at the sight. The barbell was so small, so perfect—a curve of silver catching the last of the daylight. Cate went hot all over.

“My pretty thing,” she whispered, leaned forward, and breathed across it first the way she’d promised. Your exhale went ragged. Cate threaded her fingers beneath your thighs and dragged you closer, all the brattiness in her body sublimated into reverence, and kissed the head—feather light, a hello. Then the shaft. Then the ring itself, a cool kiss that warmed against her lips.

She started gentle. She had meant it. Lips, tongue, a slow slide that let the new weight register—how it tapped against the roof of her mouth, how it clicked softly against her teeth when she hollowed her cheeks just a little, how it tugged at skin in a way that sent your breath stuttering. Cate learned it the way she learned songs, by ear and feel, by repetition, by the moment when her body said there and the world narrowed to a beat.

“Cate,” you said, soft and astonished. “Baby.”

Cate hummed around you, the sound traveling through metal and skin. She pulled off with a wet little gasp and looked up, chin slick, lipstick smudged into something sinful. “You like the way it sounds?”

You blinked, dazed. “It—sounds?”

“Listen.” Cate slid back down, slow. She took the bar in with the head, let the ball catch on the edge of her tongue, and flicked just enough that the metal kissed metal—jewelry against her tooth with a delicate, wicked click. You groaned like you’d been punched.

“Fuck.”

Cate smiled around you and went back to work in earnest. She paced herself with exquisite cruelty, staying just this side of too much, using the change in weight like a handle for sensation. When she slid down, the ring stroked her tongue and lifted as she rose. When she twisted, it tugged just slightly on the sensitive underside and you trembled like a livewire.

“Please,” you said, your voice pushed to the edge of sanity. Your hands were still dutiful on the headboard, knuckles white. “Cate, please.”

Cate took pity in the way she knew would ruin you both. She swallowed deeper and reached up with one hand to tug lightly at a nipple ring, twin violence sweet enough to make your hips jump off the bed. She moaned around you, greedy, and felt the way want shattered down to bone.

When you said “I’m—” it had that raw edge Cate liked best, all pretense stripped. Cate pulled off with a gasp and slid her hand around the base, squeezing, mean and kind.

“Not yet,” she said, voice gone hoarse. “I’m not finished worshipping.”

You made a noise like a prayer and a threat. “You’re tormenting me.”

Cate laughed, black-hearted and besotted. “You got jewelry for me,” she said, eyes bright. “Let me make it sing.”

She went back down, and this time she didn’t stop. She ruined you with a virtuoso’s patience, letting the new physics of metal do half the work, the rest done by her hunger and the weird, boundless love that made her want to tear the sky open just to see if it would bleed. She felt you tighten, felt the quiver go through your thighs, heard the first helpless cadence of pleasepleaseplease, and only then did she take her hand from the base, slide it lower to cradle, to open her throat and take everything you gave with a guttural, joyous sound.

You came like a storm breaking, voice wrecked, hands flying off the headboard to cup the back of Cate’s skull but not push, never push. Cate swallowed until she couldn’t, pulled back with a cough and a laugh, and licked the ring clean like it was a cherry pit, like she’d earned it.

For a long moment, Cate rested her cheek against your thigh and breathed. Your hand stroked her hair in dazed, reverent passes.

Finally, Cate tipped her head up, eyes glittering. “So?”

Your smile was slow and ruined. “I’m sending the piercer a fruit basket.”

Cate’s laugh cracked into something close to a sob. She crawled up and straddled your lap, bracing on your shoulders. “My brave daddy,” she murmured, kissing the line of your jaw, the dimple, the corner of your mouth. “My pretty, pierced girl.”

You caught her face, thumb pressing into the hollow beneath her cheekbone. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m in love with you.” Cate’s voice tripped. She didn’t care. “I’m also going to spend the next week tugging your nipple rings every time I walk by just to hear you gasp.”

You rolled your eyes like there wasn’t water in them. “You already do.”

“Mm.” Cate rocked forward, felt the soft kiss of metal against her and shivered. “And now I have a new toy to be painfully respectful of for exactly—” she glanced at the clock on the nightstand, wicked “—ten more minutes.”

Your bark of laughter was half warning, half surrender. You reached for Cate’s belt loops, hooking your fingers into them, and drew Cate down, your pierced cock warming against Cate’s belly. “You waited seven weeks,” you said, voice turned velvet, a thin-veiled threat. “I think you can survive ten more minutes.”

Cate nosed at your mouth. “You’ll have to keep me busy.”

“I can do that.” Your hands slid down, cupped her ass, promised. “I’m very motivated.”

Cate smiled like a sinner rewarded and kissed you—slow, in love, a little feral, exactly herself. Outside, the city gnawed at its lip ring and looked away. Inside, Cate tugged very gently at silver, and you made a sound that said everything worth hearing.

Cate is still soft-limbed and gleaming when you nudge her back on the pillows. The city has gone rosy at the edges. The last bands of light stripe the duvet, silvered enough to make Cate’s piercings wink like a secret. Your hands find her waistband, thumbs stroking the sharp points of her hipbones before tugging her jeans and panties down in one smooth pull. Cate arches her hips to make it easier, breath catching at the thought of being laid out for her girl in the dying light.

“Open,” you murmur, and Cate does, thighs falling apart easily, greedy. You kiss the inside of one knee, then the other, then drag your mouth up Cate’s inner thigh, slow enough to make Cate’s fingers scrabble at the sheets.

“You’re showing off,” Cate breathes, smiling and wrecked. “Daddy.”

“Practicing restraint,” you say, which is both a lie and a threat.

You mouth at Cate’s hip first, a claiming kiss to the hollow there, then press your palm to Cate’s belly and whisper, “Tell me if you want more or less.”

Cate laughs, breathy. “More, obviously.”

You hum, then bury your face like you’ve been waiting your whole life to live right here. The first drag of your tongue is reverent, a slow hello from bottom to top that makes Cate arch like a bow. The second is meaner—flattened, slower, a press that has Cate’s lashes fluttering and her mouth falling open around a broken oh. You part her with careful fingers and lick again, letting Cate grind up into her own pace if she wants it. Cate does. She always does.

“Fuck—babe—” Cate’s hand finds the back of your head, not pushing, just anchoring. “You always—God, right there—”

You smile into her, then get serious about it. Small circles. Then a flick. Then a long, patient drag of pressure that makes Cate breathless. You know Cate’s body like music—with muscle memory, with ears, with heart. When Cate starts to climb, you slide two fingers inside, palm turned up, slow and steady, stretching her open. The sound Cate makes is shameless and holy. You suck at Cate’s clit gently, then a little harder, then let go entirely.

Cate laughs, delirious. You go a shade filthier. Your fingers curl, finding the forward press of Cate’s front wall in a learned, tender hook. Cate’s thighs tremble. You suck again, wetter, and Cate seizes on a whimper, hips rolling up to meet your mouth. Your free hand braces over Cate’s hipbone, a soft pressure that turns Cate’s gasp into a needy, helpless sound.

“Fuck. Daddy. Don’t stop, don’t—”

You don't. You work her like a song you refuse to let end, letting Cate thrum and crest and break apart on your tongue, holding her through it with the press of your palm. Cate cums hard, a high, thin cry busted out of her chest, hips jerking, cunt clenching around your fingers like it’s trying to keep them—keep you—forever.

“Good girl,” you murmur into the sensitive slick, kissing the pulse of Cate’s climax as it shudders out. “That’s it. Give it to me.”

Cate’s laugh flutters and fails. She tugs at your hair until you look up, pupils bottomless from pleasure. There’s color in her cheeks and tears standing shiny at the corners of her eyes, the kind of wrecked that makes your ribs ache.

“Come here,” Cate whispers, voice ruined.

You kiss her slowly, letting Cate taste herself. Cate arches, greedy, catching your bottom lip between her teeth. When you settle over her, Cate peels her own hoodie off and tosses it blind, then scowls at the return of those pesky boxers. She shoves them down with graceless impatience, leaving you in nothing but your white tee.

“Wait,” you say, breathless and grinning, a little shaky because God, Cate. “I want to—”

You reach down and wrap your fingers around the base of yourself, a brief, grounding touch. The curved barbell glints—a small, wicked crescent at the underside of the head. Healed now, smooth, hot against your palm. Cate makes a sound that is not language.

“Thought you wanted careful,” you tease, because teasing is all that’s keeping your planet on its axis.

Cate smiles like sin. “I want careful,” she says, and then, huskier, “and I want it inside me.”

You kiss the corner of her mouth in a silent yes. You slide one hand under Cate’s knee and fold it higher, opening her up. Your other hand guides your cock to the slick, eager heat waiting. You rub there first, slow—just the head, just enough pressure to drag the metal across Cate’s inner rim. Cate shudders so hard her calf flexes against your shoulder.

“Is that…” you start, and can’t finish.

Cate’s laugh is a gasp. “You feel like a weapon.”

You swallow and nudge forward, just the tip, letting the ring kiss the entrance each time you rock back. Cate keens. The barbell strokes the tender threshold and then, with a small tilt of your hips, rides inside to greet the front wall with a delicate tap. Cate’s voice goes high and startled.

“Oh—oh, fuck, there, that—baby—”

“Yeah?” your voice is gone. You do it again, more sure, a shallow roll that sets the metal brushing the spot like a bell. Cate’s head tips back hard. She fists both hands in your shirt and drags you down until your chests press together, her mouth breaking open on a wordless sound. “Yeah,” you say again, in awe. “Okay.”

You slide in slowly, inch by inch, eyes locked on Cate’s, watching every twitch and flutter, stopping to breathe when Cate’s breath stutters. Cate nods, shivers, slides a hand down to tug at one of your nipple rings because she’s a menace even now. You groan and sink the rest of the way with that tug, the ring inside pressing forward and catching—perfect, obscene—on the place that makes Cate claw at your shoulders.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, dizzy.

Cate is panting, eyes glassy. “Move,” she begs, all polish stripped to hunger. “Please, daddy, fuck me—give it to me, I can take it.”

You don't deny her anything.

You start with shallow, precise thrusts, angling up and forward so the curve of the bar finds the front wall again and again. The sensation is…different. Better. The ring drags and taps inside, a tiny, devastating new feeling, and Cate responds like she’s been tuned to it, body clenching down on you every time it lands. You hold Cate’s knee higher, palm firm on the back of her thigh, and watch Cate come apart—snakebites gleaming with spit, eyes gone near-blind.

“God—God—baby, that’s—” Her voice breaks. “You’re—oh my God—”

“Look at me,” you say, breath ragged, and Cate's eyes instantly find hers. “There you go, pretty girl. Take me. Take all of it.”

Cate whimpers at the praise and drags her fingers up under your shirt to find metal again. She pinches a nipple ring lightly, exactly enough, and your hips stutter forward on reflex. The ring inside hits harder, Cate yelps, and now you’re laughing the kind of laugh that sounds like you’re drowning in it. “Right?” you pant. “You were right. This thing—fuck—this thing is so hot.”

Cate’s answering smile is shattered and smug, gone at the edges. “Knew you’d like the way I sound on it.”

“Obsessed,” you admit, hoarse. You pin Cate open and thrust a little deeper, the wet smack of skin and the delicate inner kiss of metal making Cate sob. You can’t stop saying it: “Obsessed.”

“Please—please—don’t stop,” Cate begs, voice gone whiny with how close she is. “Baby, I—oh—right there—there—”

You adjust a breath and keep her there, steady and merciless, hips rolling into the same place until Cate is shaking like a livewire. You lean down and mouth at Cate’s throat where a collar would sit, teeth scraping over skin, and feel Cate seize with it.

“Whose are you?” you ask, low and rough into that skin.

“Yours,” Cate gasps without hesitation. “Daddy’s girl, all yours—ohmygod—please—”

You growl and give her what she’s asking for. The tempo jumps, the rhythm turns greedy. The bedframe knocks against the wall. Cate makes the prettiest noise you’ve ever heard, a punched-out ah that goes softer until it turns into a broken little cry as her orgasm hits. She clamps around you and pulls, fluttering hard, and the bar hooks just right inside her, lighting her up until she’s arching so sharply her spine lifts off the bed.

“Eyes on me,” you say, and Cate tries, eyes wide, mouth open—wrecked. Holy. She cums and keeps coming, and you chase, fucking her through it, letting Cate’s cunt wring the last of your restraint out of you.

“Cum in me,” Cate pleads, drunk with it. “Please, I want you—want all of it—”

You break. You push deeper, the ring pressing mercilessly into that hot front wall, and spill with a groan that sounds like it’s been dragged from the core of you. Cate takes it, moaning, nails biting your back, hips rolling to keep the metal nudging that sweet spot until even the aftershocks make her whine.

For a long time it’s only breathing and the frantic, happy thud of your hearts. Your arms shake as you lower Cate’s knee and fold into her, careful not to crush. Cate cradles your head, kisses your hairline, trembles and laughs like she’s dizzy.

“Well?” Cate whispers after a minute, voice ruined, smugness soft as a kiss. “Am I a prophet, or what?”

You snort into her collarbone. “You’re a menace.” You lift your head to look at Cate, eyes blown wide and tender. “And you were right. That was—fuck. Cate. I saw God. She had perfectly winged eyeliner.”

Cate’s laugh breaks and brightens. Her fingers tug at a nipple ring, gentle. You flinch and grin at the same time. “My little goth miracle,” Cate says, adoring, and then tips her hips up to make the barbell press one more time, a cruel, soft aftershock that has you both hissing.

“Careful,” you warn, but you’re smiling like a fool.

“I am careful,” Cate says, feigning offense and failing. “I waited nearly eight weeks and the longest ten minutes of my life. I’m basically a nun.”

“Saint,” you correct, nudging your nose against Cate’s. “Said so on your shirt.”

Cate beams, wicked and unguarded, and tugs at the chain around your throat so you dip close enough to kiss. “Take me to mass again later,” she whispers against your mouth. “I want another sermon. The one where the little silver thing makes me cry.”

Your laugh is low and promising. “Oh, I’ll preach,” you say, rolling your hips lazily, the ring tapping inside like a benediction. “Until you see God.”

“Good,” Cate breathes, already gone soft and dangerous under you hands. “I like church.”

You pull out, and before Cate can mourn the loss, you’ve tumbled over—you flat on your back, Cate grinning as she takes her rightful throne on top. Cate drapes herself over you like a warm, smug blanket, all glittering sweat and smeared lipstick, and then—because worship demands ritual—she starts kissing her way south.

“Stay right there,” she murmurs against the notch of your collarbone, the words smile enough. “I need to love on my butch.”

You huff a laugh, wrecked and soft. “You already loved on your butch.”

“Mhm. But I’m going sightseeing.”

She mouths along the ridge of your clavicle, then the slope of your sternum, pausing only to give each nipple ring the gentlest hello—two feather-light kisses that make your exhale stutter. Cate is careful now, reverent in that way she gets after she’s been exquisitely filthy. Her hands are tender, thumbs smoothing sweat from the valley of ribs as if she’s polishing silver. She noses lower, planting a kiss over the small freckle to the left of your heart, another at the dip between ab lines, and then she arrives.

Your little happy trail—dark, soft, a road her mouth knows by heart—starts just beneath your navel and leads down in a neat, shameless arrow. Cate sighs like she’s found a field of wildflowers. “There you are,” she whispers, and presses her lips to the first little curl.

She follows the path slowly. Kiss, exhale, kiss. The salt of skin. The heat that still radiates off your belly. The way the downy hair tickles the bow of Cate’s upper lip when she drags it, lazy, back up toward your navel. Cate’s lipstick leaves ghost-pink moons—a dotted line for future tours. She pauses to set her mouth right over your belly button, sucking softly, grinning when you jolt and laugh breathlessly.

“Ticklish?” Cate teases, eyes bright, wickedness sanded gentle.

“A little,” you admit, voice soft. “Keep going.”

“Oh, I’m not stopping until I’ve kissed every mile of this highway.” Cate turns her face and rubs her cheek—catlike—along the trail, lips open to taste the heat, to breathe you in. “You smell like sweat and steel and me,” she murmurs, drunk with it. “My favorite cologne.”

Your hand drops to Cate’s hair, sliding through the pink strands with a slow, grateful stroke. Cate kisses the spot just above your waistline again, mouth soft, and glances down. The curved barbell at the tip glints, almost smug, a little crescent of moonlight caught in the last of the day. Cate’s breath hitches—not greedy now, just reverent.

“Hi, pretty thing,” she whispers to the silver, as if it can hear. “You did so good.”

You flush, bashful and proud all at once. “You’re talking to my jewelry.”

“I’m talking to my new favorite sound,” Cate says, eyes flicking up, sweet and feral. “And to the girl wearing it.”

She doesn’t crowd. She keeps her kisses high enough, right where the trail begins to darken near the base of your cock, and lets her fingers map the rest—one palm open over your hip, thumb drawing lazy circles into the bone. The other hand smoothing along the line where thigh meets pelvis, fond and possessive. She is careful with the bar, she is not careful with the worship. Every press of her mouth says mine. Every sigh says thank you.

“You’re so handsome like this,” Cate confesses, voice gone soft. “All sweat-slick and stupidly pretty, hair curling, nipples sensitive, happy trail looking like an arrow that points me home.” She kisses the little V of muscle where it cuts into your pelvis and then presses her chin on the flat of your stomach to look up. “Do you know how much I love you?”

Your smile widens slowly, utterly helpless. “I think I have a clue.”

“Wrong. Not even close.” Cate lifts to press a kiss over your navel again, then north, then just under the edge of your ribs. She dots them like stars. “It’s a disgusting amount. It’s a—cheesy tumblr poem amount.”

“God, not a tumblr poem,” you groan, grinning.

“A black-and-white grainy photo of your abs with the caption I learned faith from her mouth vibes.” Cate kisses the happy trail again, lingering, and her voice goes quiet at the seam of laughter and ache. “Hashtag, I love my butch so much it makes me stupid.”

Your hand stills in her hair. “Hey,” you say, soft. “Me too.”

For a while Cate does nothing but breathe and kiss, working the edge off your sensitivity with affection instead of friction. She continues to palm your hip, pressing her mouth to that small, tender spot at the top of your thigh, listening to the way your breath changes when she does. Every now and then she tilts her head and drags her nose down the happy trail like she’s scenting a path she never wants to forget.

“Stay with me,” you murmur, voice gone thick. “Right there.”

“I live here,” Cate answers, kissing the word into skin.

When she finally climbs back up, she takes the trail with her—kisses up the line, up the ridge of muscle, over your sternum to the chain at your throat. She kisses that too, then the pulse beneath it, then your mouth, slow and full, tasting salt and the smile she left there. Your arms open and Cate sinks into them with a content, spoiled sound, thigh thrown over hip, her hand sneaking under your tee to pinch a nipple ring with surgical delicacy once more.

You gasp, half-laughing, half-wrecked. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I’m in love,” Cate corrects, smirking into the kiss. “Which is the same thing but hotter.”

You nose her temple. “You kissed my happy trail like devotion.”

“It is devotion,” Cate says, matter-of-fact and a little teary, wiping at a mascara smear on your cheek with her thumb. “You’re my altar. I’m your menace. We’re ridiculous. It’s perfect.”

“Perfect,” you echo, pulling her even closer.

Cate hums, nestling, cheek to your chest, ear to the metronome of your heart. “I’m going to do it again in the morning,” she warns, already drowsy, already plotting. “The trail kissing. The ring compliments. The whole church service.”

You smile against her hair. “I’ll save you a pew at Sunday morning worship.”

“And a sermon?” Cate yawns, nuzzling lower to press one last kiss to the just-visible start of hair below your navel. “I like when you preach.”

Your hand curves at the back of Cate’s neck, sure and gentle. “I’ll preach,” you promise. “Start to finish.”

Cate sighs, happy and ruined and safe. “Amen.”

She sees it before you even say a word. Black leather. Silver buckle. D-ring in the center, right where it would press against her throat.

Cate halts in the doorway of your bedroom like she’s just spotted a trap.

“What the fuck is that.”

You’re stretched out across the unmade bed, back propped against the headboard like you own the place—which you do, technically. The apartment lease is in your name. So is Cate, if you ask her on the right day. Your arms are inked, your shirt’s too tight, and the smirk you’re wearing is downright criminal.

“It’s for you,” you say simply, twirling the collar on one finger like a lasso. “C’mere.”

Cate folds her arms. “No.”

“You haven’t even heard the pitch yet.”

“I don’t need to hear the pitch. It jingles.”

“So do your bracelets.”

“I don’t wear my bracelets while stalking prey.”

You raise one brow. “The last time you ‘stalked prey,’ it was the Roomba.”

“It tried to bite me.”

“It’s programmed to avoid obstacles, babe.”

Cate sniffs. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see what I saw.”

You just laugh, low and affectionate, and sit up. The collar rests in your palm now, the soft leather curling inward on itself like a sleeping thing.

“Listen,” you say, quieter now. “You don’t have to wear it all the time. Just when I’m home. Just when I want you close.”

“Ah,” Cate says. “So you admit it’s about control.”

You shrug, shameless. “Maybe. You are my pup. And lately you’ve been sneaking off more than usual.”

“I’m exploring my environment.”

“You’re curling up on the couch to chew on my hoodie strings.”

Cate scowls. “They’re comforting.”

“I know,” you say, already smiling. “But I like knowing you’re safe. I like knowing you’re mine.”

The word lands like a stone in Cate’s stomach. Her breath stutters.

It’s not that she doesn’t want to belong to you—she does, viscerally, desperately, stupidly—but that’s precisely what makes this so hard. Because everything inside her is loud and feral and difficult. She doesn’t do obedience. She barely does compromise.

And now she’s being asked to sit still while you fasten a fucking collar around her neck.

“I’m not housebroken,” Cate warns.

Your eyes flick down to her thighs. “Yet.”

“Don’t.”

“Yet.”

Cate groans. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re wearing it,” you say, voice darkening just slightly. “One way or another.”

And Cate, god help her, feels her thighs press together.

They don’t talk after that. Not for a few minutes.

You move around the living room, casual as anything, flipping through a book you left on the coffee table like you didn’t just drop a live grenade between the two of you. Cate pretends to scroll through her phone, but she keeps missing letters when she types.

Because it’s on.

Because she didn’t say no.

And worse—because she’s still wearing it.

No fight. No tantrum. Just her, and a collar, and the sudden, mortifying realization that it’s not just hot. It’s nice.

And Cate’s not sure what to do with that.

It’s not uncomfortable.

Which is the most frustrating part.

It’s not itchy or stiff. You took her measurements beforehand—sneaky bitch—and the leather is soft, worn in, even lined on the inside. It’s loose enough not to pinch, snug enough to rest where her pulse flutters.

The D-ring sits against her throat like punctuation. Like a secret.

Cate kicks at the rug dramatically. “I hate it.”

You don't even look up from your laptop. “Do you.”

“It’s demeaning.”

You smirk. “And yet here you are. Collared. Spoiled. Loud as ever.”

Cate whines.

Later, when you go to shower, Cate sits on the edge of the bed and tugs at the D-ring with one finger. It clinks faintly in the quiet.

She stares down at it, conflicted.

The first time she really feels it—feels owned by it—is three days later. She’s sitting in your lap, straddling your thighs, mouths tangled up in something messy and open and desperate. You’re still in your button-down from work, sleeves rolled, collar undone. Cate’s wearing one of your old t-shirts and the damn collar.

Your hands are everywhere—hips, waist, thighs, one hand cupping her ass like you’ve earned the right. Cate’s riding a high of teasing and tension, tongue slick and eager against yours, when she feels it.

A tug.

Gentle. Intentional.

You hook one finger through the D-ring and pull.

Cate gasps into your mouth, body jerking forward on instinct. Her hips grind down without her permission. She swears she feels the thump of her own tail against the bed, stupid and traitorous.

“Oh,” she breathes, blinking. Dazed.

You grin, fingers still looped through the ring.

“Still hate it?” you ask.

Cate flushes scarlet. “I—shut up.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

And then you tug again—just a little. Just enough to make Cate feel it. Feel the tension. The way she’s anchored. Leashed.

Cate moans.

“Oh, you really like that,” you purr.

Cate tries to scowl, but it’s hard when she’s already panting. Already wet. Already grinding herself down on your lap like a fucking bitch in heat.

“This is humiliating,” she hisses.

You hum, nosing down her throat. “Yeah?”

Your hand slides under Cate’s shirt, palm flat against her stomach. You move slowly, almost indulgently, until your fingers dip under the waistband of Cate’s panties.

“Wanna know what’s even more humiliating?” You murmur, tongue teasing the shell of her ear.

Cate’s brain short-circuits. “Nghh?”

“You’re soaked.”

Cate makes a soft, wrecked sound as two fingers slide into her, already dripping. You don't even have to work for it—just push in slow and deep, your thumb pressing into her clit in lazy circles.

“You like it,” you whisper. “You like wearing my collar. You like being pulled. Guided. Fucked open like you’re mine.”

Cate whimpers, high-pitched and helpless.

“Say it,” you say, fucking her slow with your fingers. “Say it’s not that bad.”

Cate’s teeth sink into her lip. She rides your hand with trembling thighs, tail twitching wildly behind her.

“Baby—please—”

“Say it.”

Cate’s voice breaks. “It’s not that bad.”

“Not what I asked.”

Cate squirms. Her fingers claw weakly at your wrist, not to stop you—but to ground herself. She knows what you want. She knew the moment she felt that finger hook into the D-ring. You always make her say it. Not to humiliate her—but to own it. To claim it.

Cate’s breath shudders out of her. “Daddy—”

You don't let up. Just keep pressing slow, deep, curling in rhythm like you could coax the truth out of her body before the orgasm.

Cate tips her head back, gasping. “I like it,” she cries. “Fuck—I like it, okay?”

You hum your approval, curling your fingers just right, hitting the spot that makes Cate scream.

“Good girl.”

Cate’s body snaps. Her orgasm crashes over her like a wave, unstoppable and loud. She clutches at your shoulders, nails digging in, tail thumping and hips stuttering as she rides it out. She’s never cum this hard from fingers alone. It leaves her gasping, limp, skin flushed and damp.

You don't stop until you’ve wrung every last tremble out of her.

Cate collapses against your chest with a whimper, shivering. The collar is still tight around her throat, the D-ring still warm from where you touched it.

She doesn’t hate it anymore.

She thinks she actually might love it.

You stay tangled up for a while afterward—Cate nestled in your arms, purring like a satisfied little menace. You pet her hair gently, fingers brushing behind her ears, and Cate leans into it without thinking.

Her thighs are sticky. Her tail’s twitching with aftershocks. And her neck, beneath the collar, is warm and claimed.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur after a moment.

Cate hums. “I’m tired.”

“You’re cute.”

“Stop.”

You chuckle and press a kiss to the top of her head.

“You know I wasn’t gonna force you,” you say, softer now. “I just thought…maybe you’d like having something to ground you. Something that tells you you’re safe.”

Cate’s throat tightens.

She doesn't know how to say thank you for seeing me even when I’m snarling. She doesn't know how to say I trust you so much it terrifies me. So instead, she curls tighter into your and mumbles:

“You still can’t put me on a leash in public.”

You snort. “Not even a matching set?”

Cate looks up sharply. “You bought a leash?”

You raise both brows.

Cate groans. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“I wish I did.”

You grin. “You wearing the collar to bed or no?”

Cate pretends to think. Then shrugs and flops back onto the mattress, stretching like a cat. “Might as well.”

Her tail wags once.

Just once.

You see it and don't say a word.

Cate does not wear the collar out of the apartment.

That’s the rule. Her rule. You can tug on it, coo at her, ruin her entire existence in the privacy of your shared home, fine—but the second you step outside, it’s back to normal. She’s a person again. A girlfriend. Not your little mutt on a leash.

…Which is why, today, she’s definitely not technically wearing it.

Except she kind of…is.

It’s hidden under her mock neck sweater. It doesn’t show. She checked from every angle. Twice.

And yet—

“You wore it,” you whisper in her ear, grinning like the devil, as you stand shoulder to shoulder in the poetry section of a painfully hip used bookstore.

“Shut up,” Cate hisses, cheeks flaming.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said it like that.”

You hum, flipping a page in a tattered Bukowski collection. “Like what, pup?”

Cate nearly drops the vintage copy of Ariel she’s holding.

She hates that name. Loves it. Hates that she loves it.

“Please be normal,” she whispers, glancing around. There’s a couple nearby discussing Rilke and two college girls in chunky headphones flipping through zines.

You lean in closer, voice all smoke. “I am being normal. You’re the one wearing a collar under your sweater like a filthy little secret.”

Cate flushes deeper. Her thighs press together automatically.

“I will bark,” she threatens.

You turn to her, deadpan. “Will you?”

Cate hesitates.

“…No.”

“Good girl.”

Her knees buckle. She blames the rug.

You don’t linger after that.

The bookstore suddenly feels too warm. Too close. Cate pretends to be interested in a display of pastel paperbacks while her brain tries to reboot from that two-word detonation. She should’ve expected it. The tone. The smirk. The good girl that slips past your lips like it doesn’t mean anything.

Except it does.

It always does.

By the time they leave, Cate’s sweater feels too heavy and her jeans are clinging in the worst-best way. You carry the little shopping bag with her new book, hand casually brushing Cate’s as you walk. She keeps bumping into you on purpose. You keep letting her.

And Cate’s pretty sure she’s going to lose her mind before they even get to the next block.

It starts, as most of Cate’s downfalls do, with a look.

They're in line at the café. The place is crowded, loud enough to hide low voices but not whatever Cate is breathing out lately, which is mostly whines and pitiful gasps she tries to disguise as sighs. Her legs are crossed. Her tail is twitching in the tight space behind her. And you—menace that you are—have one hand resting on the small of her back, fingers barely brushing the hem of her sweater.

Just enough to remind her what she’s wearing underneath.

“You’re being dramatic,” you say, all innocence. “It’s just a collar.”

“You said you wouldn’t—” Cate’s voice cuts off as you press a little more firmly. “Baby.”

She’s soaked. Fully. It’s unbearable.

Every time the collar shifts, every time the D-ring brushes just slightly against her skin beneath the fabric, it’s like being reminded—tapped on the shoulder—I own you.

By the time you order, she’s trembling.

By the time you reach the table, she’s feral.

So when you lean in, nip at her earlobe, and barely brush a hand between her thighs under the table with a whisper of, “you’re soaked through, huh?”, Cate jerks to her feet like she’s been electrocuted.

“I need to pee,” she says too loudly.

You blinked. “Oh no,” you murmur with mock concern. “Are you gonna mark your territory, pup?”

Cate doesn’t respond.

She’s already marching to the bathroom.

It’s the lock clicking shut behind her that does it. That low finality of the latch. Your shadow behind her, your voice close and teasing.

“Could have just said you wanted me alone, sweetheart.”

Cate doesn’t answer. She just turns to face you.

“Take it off.”

You tilt your head. “The collar?”

Cate nods. Breathing fast. “Take it off.”

But you’re already moving forward, your finger lifting the hem of Cate’s sweater. Your other hand comes up, curls gently around the front of her throat.

You don't unbuckle it.

You hook your finger through the D-ring.

Tug.

Cate gasps, eyes fluttering, knees wobbling.

“Baby,” you purr. “You led me in here just to ask me to take it off? You sure that’s what you want?”

Cate whimpers, spine pressing into the stall door. She can’t move. Doesn’t want to.

You step closer. Crowd her in.

“You could’ve said something back at the table.”

“You were—” Cate swallows, voice cracking. “You were being mean.”

“I was keeping my good girl on edge.” Another tug. Cate’s thighs squeeze together. “And look where it got us.”

You lean in. Pressing your thigh between Cate’s legs.

Cate moans.

“Still wanna take it off?” you whisper.

Cate shakes her head, dizzy. “N-no.”

“No, what?”

“No, Daddy.”

You smile like a wolf, hand slipping under the waistband of Cate’s jeans, and she hisses at how wet she is. Cate squirms, one hand pressing to your shoulder like that might keep her upright.

You don't waste time. Just push her panties aside, sink two fingers into her with a slow, possessive curl. Your other hand stays hooked in the collar, keeping her steady, keeping her close.

“You were dripping in line,” you whisper. “You knew this was coming.”

Cate bites her lip, hard. Her tail’s thumping softly against the side of the stall now, helpless.

“Does my puppy want to cum?”

“Please,” Cate whispers. “Please, baby, I’ll—I’ll be so good—”

“You’re already good,” you croon. “Just mine. Just like this.”

Your fingers fuck her slow and deep. The leather collar creaks. Cate moans, one arm over her mouth, desperate not to cry out as she trembles apart.

She cums with a soft, choked sound against her own sleeve, face pressed into your shoulder. Her legs give. You hold her.

And the collar stays on.

Silence folds around you like silk. Cate’s still shaking—boneless, dazed, every breath catching on the tail-end of pleasure. Her brain is fogged with it. Her skin, glowing. But you don't move. Don’t speak. Don’t let go.

It’s only when Cate nuzzles in closer, breath warm against your neck, that she feels the shift.

The tension.

The want.

Cate’s still panting against your neck when she feels it.

Pressed tight against her hip, thick and unforgiving under stiff denim—you’re hard. Painfully so, by the way your breath is catching now, chest rising faster than before. You’re trying to hold it together, trying to focus on Cate, but your body’s betraying you.

Cate lifts her head, eyes glassy.

“…You didn’t cum?”

You shake your head once, jaw tense.

Cate blinks. “You—fuck. You’re so hard, baby.”

A beat passes.

Then you exhale like she’s been punched in the ribs. “Yeah. No shit.”

Cate reaches down instinctively, palm pressing flat over the bulge in your jeans. She feels the heat of it. Her breath catches.

“I can—can I help?” she whispers. “Please? Let me take care of you. I want to.”

Your eyes flash. You sway a little where you’re standing, still gripping the D-ring. “You just came.”

“I’m still on my knees,” Cate breathes.

And it’s true—she’s already sliding down, one hand trailing over your stomach, the other fumbling at your belt. Her thighs are shaky, her tail twitching in the narrow space between the toilet and the door, but she doesn’t care. She wants this. She needs this.

She tugs open your fly and watches the tension break across your face.

You hiss. “Fuck, Cate—”

“You’re so full, Daddy,” Cate coos, pupils blown wide. “Don’t you wanna put it in your good girl?”

Your hips jerk, knuckles white where they grip the stall divider.

“I was trying to be good,” you growl.

Cate smiles, dazed and drunk on the power of it all. “Don’t be. Be mean. Be messy.”

Her hand slips into your boxers, and she nearly moans at the size of you. Hard, flushed, leaking, already twitching in Cate’s grip. She strokes you slow, savoring the way your body shudders.

Cate kisses the base, tongue tracing the underside, breath hot and needy. “I want you to cum in my mouth,” she whispers. “Please.”

“Jesus Christ,” you gasp.

You fist one hand in Cate’s hair, gripping the collar with the other. And tug—not to control her, but to anchor yourself. Cate groans and takes you deeper, lips sealing around your tip, mouth eager and slick.

The first thrust makes you both gasp.

You just can’t help it. Your hips snap forward, and Cate lets you, hollowing her cheeks, gripping your thighs, working for it.

She moans around your cock, ears pinned, tail wagging helplessly.

“Fuck, baby—” you pant. “You’re so—fucking—good—”

Cate’s eyes roll back. She swallows again, messy now, spit pooling at the corners of her mouth, and she loves it. Loves how fast you fall apart, how needy you sounds when you’re close, how your thighs start to tremble—

“Gonna cum,” you warned, choking on it. “Shit, Cate, I’m gonna—”

You finish with a groan, low and punched-out, as Cate takes every drop. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t back off. Just sucks you through it like she’s starving for it, eyes fluttering shut with satisfaction.

You collapse forward against the stall door, panting.

Cate licks her lips.

The collar jingles.

“…So,” Cate says eventually, voice hoarse, cheek resting against your thigh. “That’s a yes to me wearing it in public again.”

You laugh, breathless. “That was a yes to you never taking it off.”

Cate nuzzles gently against your thigh, eyes fluttering shut.

She’s still on her knees.

Still trembling, but not from strain anymore—just soft little aftershocks, little waves of worship that she can’t hold back. She noses against your jeans, lips brushing the fabric as she exhales.

“Love you,” she whispers. Barely audible. “Love you so much.”

Your hand slips from the collar to her hair. Gentle now. Petting, soothing. Cate leans into it with a quiet, desperate noise.

“Fuck, baby,” you say, voice thick. “You wrecked me.”

Cate lets out a small, breathless laugh. “That was the goal.”

“You wanna go home?”

Cate nods, but then doesn’t move. Just stays curled at your feet, pressing her cheek against your thigh like it’s the only safe place in the world.

You don't rush her.

The car ride home is silent, tense in that charged, sticky way that follows sex but promises more. Cate’s sitting with her thighs pressed together so tight it’s almost painful. She can still feel the weight of your cock in her throat. She can still taste you on her tongue.

But worse—better—is the ache.

Between her legs.

Inside her.

Empty.

The kind of ache that pulses with every bump in the road, every shallow breath. Her panties are soaked. Her skin is flushed. Her collar feels tight now. Like it knows what she needs.

And you haven't touched her since you left the café.

Cate finally breaks the silence.

“I want you to fill me.”

Your knuckles tighten on the steering wheel.

Cate looks at you. Barely holding it together. “Please. I—I know you just came, but—I need it. I need you.”

You glance over at her, something wild behind your eyes.

“You need my cock, pup?”

Cate nods.

“I want you to fuck me,” she says, voice shaking. “I wanna feel you inside. I want you to push it in and not stop. I want—I want to be full. Claimed. Please.”

You growl low in your throat. “You want Daddy to breed you?”

Cate nearly cums just from the question.

They don’t even make it to the bedroom.

Cate’s already tearing her sweater off by the time the front door shuts. You slam her back into it, mouth hot and desperate against hers, fingers already yanking her panties down.

Cate gasps, moans into your mouth, legs lifting automatically around your waist.

“I’m gonna fuck you right here,” you growl, voice dark with promise. “Against the door. Like the needy little bitch you are.”

Cate whimpers, nodding frantically.

You pull your cock out again—hard all over again, just from Cate’s begging—and line it up, already soaking from earlier. Cate’s thighs twitch around your hips.

And then—

You push in.

All at once.

Cate screams.

Her nails dig into your back, head slamming back against the wood as she’s split open, filled to the hilt in one stroke. She can feel it in her gut, feel the stretch, the fullness, the claim.

“That’s it,” you pant, hand gripping her collar again. “That’s what you needed, huh?”

Cate sobs. “Yes.”

You fuck her hard—deep, deliberate, unrelenting—thrusting up into her like you’re carving your name into her body. Cate clings to you, mouth open, eyes rolling, the sound of her moans echoing off the door and into her own skull.

She’s gonna break.

She wants to.

“Say it,” you pant, tugging on the collar. “Say whose pussy this is.”

Cate gasps. “Yours. It’s yours. Always yours.”

You slam in harder. “Who do you belong to?”

“You,” Cate cries. “I’m yours—I’m yours, Daddy, please—please don’t stop—”

“Never stopping,” you growl. “Gonna fill you so good. Gonna make sure you feel me for days.”

And then she does.

Cate cums so hard she blacks out for a second, body convulsing around you, tail thudding against the door as her cunt clamps down, pulsing around your cock. She cries out again, wrecked and ruined and so fucking in love it’s ridiculous.

You follow with a groan, burying yourself as deep as you can go, hot and thick inside her, emptying out in long, desperate pulses.

Cate feels it.

And she sobs with relief.

When she comes back to earth, you’re still holding her.

Still buried inside her.

Still petting her hair like she’s something sacred.

Cate blinks blearily. “I wanna stay like this forever.”

You kiss her cheek. “I’ll keep you full as long as you want.”

Cate melts.

Cate’s not sure how long it takes you to make it to bed.

Her brain is soft and static-washed, floating somewhere between exhausted and high. Her body’s aching in all the best places—her throat, her thighs, her cunt. Every nerve hums with satisfaction. She feels used, thoroughly and lovingly claimed, and she doesn’t want to be anywhere but here.

She’s curled up on her side under the covers now, you’re pressed flush to her back, both of you naked and sticky with sweat. Still full. You never pulled out—just stayed there, buried deep, like letting go would break the spell. Cate can feel you, thick and warm inside her, not hard anymore but still there, and it’s enough to make her ache all over again.

Your arm is wrapped tight around her middle, palm splayed over her belly like you’re holding her in place.

Your hips are moving.

Not fast. Not greedy. Just…restless. A slow, lazy grind of your softening cock between her thighs, not quite fucking, just…rubbing. Wanting to be close. Wanting to stay inside her forever even if you can’t.

Cate hums, drunk on the heat of you.

“You’re still hard,” she mumbles, voice raw.

“Not my fault you feel so fucking good,” you murmur against her neck. “God, baby…”

You kiss her shoulder. The back of her ear. The leather at her throat.

Cate blushes, too wrecked to hide it. “You already fucked me.”

“I know,” you say softly, still rocking against her. “But I keep thinking about it. The way you took me.”

Your hand slides lower, down between Cate’s thighs where she’s still wet, still stretched open and sensitive. Your fingers brush the mess she left inside, leaking out, and Cate lets out a fragile moan.

“So full,” you whisper. “You’re still dripping, pup.”

Cate whines, pressing back against you. “That’s your fault.”

“Damn right it is.”

You keep grinding, slow and steady. It’s not about getting off. It’s about being close. About rubbing your scent into Cate’s skin, staying inside her in any way you can. Your voice gets quieter, sweeter.

“You were so good for me.”

Cate melts.

“Let me put the collar on,” you whisper, voice distant in your memory, hours ago. “Let me pull you close. Let me have you.”

And you had.

You still do.

“You didn’t stop me,” you murmur now, nuzzling behind her ear. “Not once. You let me in so easy. Took me so deep. Like you were meant to be mine.”

Cate’s eyes flutter. Her tail thumps weakly under the covers.

“You’re my perfect little pup,” you whisper. “So soft. So wet. So fucking obedient.”

Cate moans, arching against you with the smallest shift of her hips.

“I wasn’t trying to be obedient,” she breathes. “I just—fuck, I love you.”

“I know,” you murmur, hand cupping her belly again. “And I’m never letting you go.”

You kiss her again, and again, and again. Cate sighs under the weight of it. Under the rhythm of your rutting. Under the collar and the love and the safe, sweet ache of being used so thoroughly.

Eventually, you still.

You don't pull out.

Just hold her there, cock softening between your thighs, chest against her back, breath warm on her neck.

Cate drifts off like that. Messy and marked. Her belly cradled in your hands. The collar still snug around her throat.

And in the dark, with her pulse thudding low and steady beneath leather, she thinks—

I’ve never been safer than I am in her arms.

The sun’s just barely starting to filter through the blinds when Cate stirs.

She’s warm. Blankets tangled around her legs, one of your thighs slotted tight between hers, and her collar—still on—pressed snug around her neck like a second pulse.

She doesn’t remember falling asleep. Just the slow grind of your hips, your voice in her ear. You were so good for me. You’re mine. The feeling of being held so tightly it hurt.

Her whole body aches. Her thighs, her throat, her everything. But it’s the good kind—the kind she doesn’t want to fade yet.

She shifts slightly. Feels your hand tighten around her waist.

“Mmm,” Cate hums. “You’re still here.”

“Where else would I go?” you murmur, voice heavy with sleep.

Cate doesn’t answer right away.

She buries her face in your chest instead. Nuzzles beneath your collarbone, lips brushing warm skin. She feels so small here, tucked into you, anchored by the arms that never let go.

And then, softly—so softly it could almost be missed:

“I like being collared.”

Your breath stills.

Cate swallows. “I like…being yours. I like that you can tug me close. I like when it clinks, because it means you’re watching me. I like knowing I belong to someone.”

Your hand lifts slowly to her throat, thumb brushing over the leather.

Cate leans into it. Desperate.

“I like being owned,” she whispers. “By you. Only you.”

She kisses your chest once. Then again. Then clutches at your shirt like she’s afraid she’ll disappear.

“Don’t leave,” she says. “Not ever. Please.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper. “Not ever. Okay, baby?”

Cate nods against you. Her eyes sting.

There’s a long silence. Cate breathes through it. Soaks in it. And then—

“…Can we get more?”

You blink. “More what?”

“Collars,” Cate says quickly, peeking up at you. “Like…for different moods. Different outfits. Maybe one in red? Oh! And a white one for when I’m in my innocent little angel era.”

You laugh—soft, a little breathless, more fond than anything. You look down at your girl, glowing and ridiculous, and wonder how the hell you got here. Barely a week ago Cate was swearing up and down she’d never wear one—and now she’s bouncing with excitement, begging for a full collection.

Cate’s suddenly fully awake, perched on top of you like an excited housecat, tail swishing under the sheets.

“I could have one with gold hardware, and one that sparkles a little but still looks classy, and maybe a pink velvet one for Valentine’s Day, and then you could even get me a leash that matches—”

“Jeez, Cate. Slow down.”

Cate beams. “Pleaaaaase, Daddy?”

You groan and pull a pillow over your face.

“Why are you like this?”

Cate flops on top of you with a giggle. “Because you made me like this.”

You grumble something that sounds like spoiled mutt, but you’re smiling when you roll over and cage Cate beneath you again.

And when you tug on the D-ring, just a little—just enough to make her whine—it’s a promise.

Yes.

Always.

Whatever you want, puppy.

Cate’s bouncing.

Actually bouncing.

In public.

Her tail swishes behind her like a metronome on a sugar high, her fingers laced tight with yours as you step into the boutique—some little independent shop tucked downtown between a lingerie place and a vinyl store. It's all velvet curtains and gold hooks and curated kink displays, but it’s so pretty in here. Soft lights. Mirrors. A wall of collars color-coordinated like a rainbow.

Cate gasps audibly.

“Oh my God.”

You squeeze her hand. “See anything you like, pup?”

Cate is already halfway to the display.

There’s a pale pink leather collar with gold hardware. A velvet one in wine red. A minimalistic white one with a rose gold heart charm. A little set that comes with a matching leash and cuffs. Oh.

She spins around to face you, wide-eyed.

“Can I get more than one?”

You give her that soft, indulgent smile—the one that melts her insides and makes her squirm without even being touched.

“Baby,” you say, brushing your thumb over Cate’s knuckles. “You can get whatever you want.”

Cate actually whimpers.

“Really?”

“Really,” you murmur, kissing her temple. “Daddy’s buying. So go wild.”

She doesn’t have to be told twice.

She’s fluttering from display to display, giddy and greedy, trailing her fingers over satin and buckles and crystal-studded tags. She picks up a navy blue one with a little silver moon charm and gasps like it just told her a secret.

You lean against the wall, watching her with that look—that warm, proud, possessive look like you hung the stars just to watch Cate chase them.

“Try it on for me?” you murmur, and Cate instantly nods, hurrying back with it in hand.

You fit it around her throat with a quiet reverence, buckling it in the mirror. Cate watches herself, watches the way her lips part and her breath catches. How soft she looks. How owned.

She flushes.

“Pretty?” she asks, voice small.

Your hand slides around her waist. You kiss her neck, just above the collar. “Perfect.”

Cate melts.

By the time you’re done, Cate has five new collars in her little pink shopping bag. Plus two matching leashes. Plus a velvet-lined storage case.

Cate’s practically floating as they walk out of the store, clinging to your arm, the new white collar already around her neck. The tag glints in the sun. It says:

Property of Daddy

She hasn’t stopped blushing since.

You kiss her hair and tuck her closer.

“Worth it?” you murmur.

Cate beams. “Best shopping trip of my life.”

And when you whisper, “Wait ‘til I make you wear the red one to dinner,” Cate squeaks.

You don’t rush home—but Cate can barely sit still the whole ride back. Her tail won’t stop twitching under her skirt, and she keeps sneaking glances at the boutique bag like she can’t believe it’s real.

Your hand rests heavy on her thigh the whole time, calm and grounding, like you know.

Back at the apartment, the sun’s starting to dip. Cate insists on a shower first—wants to be clean, soft, perfect—and disappears into the bathroom with a collar cradled to her chest like treasure.

When she reemerges, glowing and warm and dewy-skinned, you’re already waiting.

No words. No commands. Just Cate’s instinct—deep and immediate—pulling her down to the floor.

Cate kneels at the foot of the bed, thighs parted, still a little damp from her shower. Her new collar—the white one, the “angel baby” one—is snug around her neck, rose gold tag gleaming. Her hair’s braided back. Her lips already look a little kiss-swollen.

She doesn’t say anything at first.

She just lets her cheek rest gently against your thigh, watching the slow rise and fall of your breath. Her hands are folded sweetly in her lap.

You’re watching her.

Quiet. Still.

Cate swallows. Then looks up.

“…Thank you for today.”

Your hand moves, lazy and slow, brushing hair from Cate’s forehead. “You already said that, sweetheart.”

“I know.” Cate noses at your thigh again. “But I mean it. No one’s ever taken care of me like you do.”

Your fingers trace the edge of the collar. Cate shivers.

“I wanted to,” you murmur. “You deserve it. All of it.”

Cate’s thighs press together. Her voice drops.

“Can I show you how much I loved it?”

Your jaw tightens.

Cate doesn’t wait for an answer. She presses a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh—then another, higher. Her hands slide up your legs slowly, reverently, until she’s unbuttoning your jeans and tugging them down just enough to reach what she really wants.

She moans softly when she sees how hard you already are.

“Daddy…”

She nuzzles against you through your boxers for a moment, breathing you in, then looks up again.

“Let me taste you.”

Your breath stutters. “You wanna say thank you with your mouth, pup?”

Cate nods eagerly. “Please.”

“Then go ahead...”

Cate doesn’t hesitate.

She peels your boxers down and immediately presses a kiss to your cock—slow and sweet and full of gratitude. It twitches against her lips. She licks a stripe up the side, worshipful, and then mouths the tip until you groan.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “You’re so good.”

Cate moans around you, already drooling.

This isn’t about teasing. It’s not about edging. She’s not trying to prove anything. She just wants to make you feel good. Wants to repay every touch, every kiss, every collar, with every inch of her mouth.

She takes you deeper. And deeper. Her throat stretches to accommodate you, eyes watering, but she loves it. Loves being full. Loves the way your hand finds the D-ring on her collar again and uses it to guide her—gently, reverently.

“Such a good girl,” you pant. “So pretty with your mouth full. Just for me.”

Cate whines, working harder. She wants to feel you shake. Wants to make you lose control.

She wraps her arms around your thighs to hold you close, tongue swirling, throat flexing.

“Not gonna last,” you groan. “You’re—fuck, you’re perfect—”

And then you’re cumming, sharp and sudden, a hand clutched in Cate’s hair, another fisted around her collar. Cate swallows every drop. Moaning as she does.

She stays there a while after, resting her cheek on your thigh again, kissing the skin softly.

You’re breathing like you just finished a marathon.

Cate smiles to herself.

She’s such a good girl.

Eventually, you lift your hand—brushing Cate’s hair back from her face, tender and trembling—and murmur, “Come here.”

Cate climbs into your lap like she belongs there. She always does. You tuck her in close, kiss her temple, whisper how perfect she is, how much you love her.

You move up the bed sometime after that, bodies heavy with satisfaction, muscles relaxed and humming. The lights stay dim. The air smells like warm skin and sweet sweat and love.

Cate’s curled into your chest like she was built to fit there.

The apartment’s quiet. The bags from the boutique are still stacked on the dresser, tags still hanging from new collars—except the one she’s wearing, of course. The white one. The good girl one.

Your fingers are tracing slow, lazy circles on her back, skimming up under the hem of her oversized sleep shirt. She’s half-asleep already, but Cate’s not ready to let go of the moment. Not yet.

She sighs into your chest. “You really bought me five collars.”

“You wanted five collars.”

Cate smiles. “You would’ve bought me ten.”

You kiss her forehead. “Of course I would.”

Cate presses a little closer. Hears your hearts sync up.

Then, quiet—like a prayer:

“…Can I wear one every night? To bed?”

Your hand stills.

Then squeezes her hip gently.

“You wanna sleep in a collar, baby?”

Cate nods against you. “It makes me feel safe. Like…I don’t know. Like even when we’re not touching, I still belong to you.”

You exhale slowly. Like you’ve been hit with something tender and deep and too good to process.

“You do,” you whisper. “You always will.”

Cate feels her throat tighten.

You tug her impossibly closer, bury your face in Cate’s hair, and hold her like you’re afraid she’ll vanish.

She doesn’t.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

Cate’s not fully awake when you start moving behind her.

It starts the way it always does—heat crawling up your spine, something low and throbbing between your legs, a dream you can’t quite hold onto. Something about Cate on her knees, whining around your cock, wearing that collar with the tag that says Property of Daddy.

You wake up already aching.

Already hard.

And Cate’s right there.

Soft little breaths escaping her as she nestles deeper into your hold. Your legs are tangled loosely, Cate’s bare thighs warm against yours. The collar still snug around her neck, slightly askew, the tag resting just beneath her jaw.

You groan softly.

You shift forward. Just slightly.

Press yourself against Cate’s lower back. Just feels it.

Cate stirs gently, thighs shifting, her tail brushing lazily across the sheets. Her mind is still half in the dream—something warm and heavy between her legs, your voice in her ear saying good girl, such a good girl, all mine. And when she breathes in, it’s real. All of it.

Your chest against her back. One hand curled over her hip. The other resting at her throat, thumb stroking gently over her collar.

She moans softly, eyelids fluttering.

You grind against her.

Once. Slow. Careful.

Cate exhales sharply.

“Mm—Daddy?”

You kiss her shoulder. “Sorry, baby. Had a dream. Couldn’t help it.”

Cate wiggles her hips. “Was I in it?”

“You’re in all of them.”

Cate giggles, still not quite awake. “What was I doing?”

You press closer. Rut again, slow and filthy. “Wearing your collar. Taking my cock like you were made for it.”

Cate smiles, slow and sleepy. “You already inside me?”

“Not yet.”

“Then fix it.”

She hears your breath catch, a low groan in the back of your throat. The hand on her hip slides down, between her legs, and Cate gasps at the slickness.

“Jesus, pup,” you murmur. “You’re soaked.”

Cate’s cheeks flush. “Dreamed about you, too.”

You don't tease her for it. Don’t say anything at all, really—just kiss her again, slower this time. Then you lift one of Cate’s legs gently, draping it over your own.

Cate shifts automatically, giving you everything.

When you finally push in, you both gasp.

It’s not frantic. Not wild. Just a long, slow stretch, inch by inch, like her body’s remembering what it’s like to be filled.

Cate’s tail twitches under the covers. “Oh my God.”

“You okay?” you whisper.

Cate nods, biting her lip. “Feels like it belongs in me.”

You groan, arms tightening around her. “It does.”

You stay like that for a minute—connected, quiet. Cate shifts slightly and the movement sends a warm pulse through her whole body.

You start to move.

Slow, gentle strokes. Deep and deliberate. Cate moans softly with each one, pressing back against you, trying to get more.

“Good girl,” you whisper, voice wrecked. “My perfect little pup.”

Cate shivers.

“I’ve got you,” you murmur, kissing the side of her neck. “You don’t have to do anything. Just let me take care of you.”

Cate’s eyes burn.

She buries her face in the pillow, one hand gripping the blanket, the other clutched over yours on her waist. Her body gives and gives and gives, and you just keep loving her deeper, fuller, better than she even knew she needed.

There’s no urgency. No pressure.

Just want.

You whisper to her the whole time. So good for me…taking me so well…love you so much, baby…

Cate sobs when she cums.

Quiet, choked little sounds into the sheets, her body pulsing around you like she’s trying to keep you there. And you stay. Hold her through it. Following with a deep groan as you spill inside her, hips pressed flush, forehead buried against Cate’s shoulder.

You stay like that for what feels like forever. Tied together. Breathing together.

Cate’s crying a little. Not loud. Just overwhelmed.

You wipe her tears away gently, kiss her cheek, whisper:

“I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.”

Cate clutches your hand and doesn’t let go.

These are Cate’s favorite kinds of mornings—the slow, soft, quiet ones that start with love instead of words. Cate waking up to be used, adored, filled. No teasing. No games. Just sleepy kisses and whispered praise and the rhythm of two people so hopelessly in love they can’t even dream without touching.

The sheets are still a mess when Cate finally peels herself out of bed.

Her thighs ache. Her cunt aches. Her heart’s doing that fuzzy thing where it keeps skipping beats every time she remembers you whispering I’ve got you while cumming inside her.

The collar’s still on. She hasn’t taken it off.

She doesn’t want to.

You’re sitting up against the headboard, hair a mess, lips kiss-swollen, eyes dark and soft and so stupidly in love Cate has to look away or she’ll cry again.

“I need a shower,” she says, voice hoarse.

You smirk. “I bet you do.”

“Not for that. Just to clean up.”

“Mhm.”

“I mean it.”

You raise your hands like you’re surrendering. “No funny business.”

“Swear it.”

“Scout’s honor.”

Cate glares. “You were never a scout.”

“Exactly.”

It starts normal.

Steam curling up around her. Cate standing under the water with her eyes closed, hands in her hair, trying to pretend her body doesn’t still feel like an overstimulated live wire.

You’re behind her. Rinsing her arms. Washing her hair with patient fingers. Whispering soft little things like you’re perfect and so proud of you, baby.

Cate leans back against your chest.

You kiss the nape of her neck.

“Just to clean up,” Cate whispers.

“Just to clean up,” you repeat, obediently.

Your hands slide down Cate’s arms. To her waist. To her hips.

Cate’s breath catches.

“You’re touching me.”

“You’re here,” you murmur. “How am I supposed to not touch you?”

Cate huffs.

Your fingers skim lower. Trace between her thighs, slow and indulgent.

Cate gasps. “Baby.”

“You’re still so wet, pup,” you say, voice dark. “Even after all that.”

“I said no funny business.”

You kiss her shoulder. “Is it funny if it’s sacred?”

Cate groans.

And then—quietly, trembling—“Just your fingers.”

You don't answer.

Just sink two fingers into her.

Cate moans so loud it echoes.

You never stood a chance.

Cate ends up with her hands braced against the tile, legs shaking, steam curling around her like a spell as you fuck her slow and deep with the whole length of your body pressed behind her.

Her collar’s soaked. Her hair’s dripping. Her voice is wrecked.

But when she cums again—with your fingers deep inside, your other hand rubbing tight circles over her clit, murmuring that’s it, cum for me again, you’re doing so good—she sobs her way through it, forehead pressed to the wall.

You kiss every inch of her you can reach.

Clean her. Hold her. Dry her off like she’s made of glass.

And Cate lets you.

Lets you do everything.

Because she’s never felt more loved than she does here. Dripping. Shivering. Collared. And completely, totally yours.

You towel off lazily, stealing kisses between slow movements—you kneeling to dry her legs like you’re worshiping her, Cate nuzzling into your shoulder with a quiet whine.

By the time you make it to the kitchen, the world feels calmer somehow. Softened. Cate pads barefoot across the floor while you slice fruit and drop bread into the toaster, one hand always drifting back to Cate’s waist, as if you can’t bear to stop touching her.

The apartment smells like strawberries and warmth. Cate still smells like you.

It took all of two minutes before Cate climbed into your lap like it was her god-given right. No invitation, no hesitation—just a sleepy pout and a soft little “move your plate, daddy” before settling right where she belonged. Now she’s perched there, legs draped over yours, damp hair tucked behind her ears, a fluffy sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder.

She’s warm. Cozy. Sore in all the right places.

The collar’s still on—today’s choice is the soft pink one with the gold buckle. She picked it out herself after the shower, smiling at her reflection as she buckled it like it was a necklace. A ritual. A promise.

You’ve got your arms around her waist, holding her close like always. There’s a half-eaten plate of fruit and toast on the table in front of you, but Cate’s more interested in feeding than eating.

Specifically: feeding you.

“Open,” she says sweetly, lifting a forkful of strawberry to your lips.

You hum. “You know I can feed myself, right?”

Cate giggles. “But I like taking care of you.”

You oblige, mouth opening, tongue flicking against the fork. Cate watches with wide eyes, cheeks pink, her thighs tightening slightly.

She shifts in your lap.

Innocently.

Just a little.

Just enough.

Your breath catches.

Cate leans in, presses a kiss to your cheek. “You okay, Daddy?”

You grit your teeth. “Pup.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re grinding on me.”

“No I’m not,” Cate says sweetly. “I’m just sitting.”

“You’re sitting like a brat with something to prove.”

Cate gives you the biggest, most innocent blue-eyed blink in her arsenal.

Then shifts her hips again. Slowly.

Deliberately.

The drag of her soaked panties over your cock—still half-hard, tucked up in your boxers—is unmistakable.

Cate hums. “That’s not my fault.”

You groan, low and dangerous.

Cate offers another bite of toast like nothing’s happening. “Say ‘ahhh.’”

You growl.

“Pup.”

Cate giggles again, softly this time, and leans forward to nuzzle her nose against your jaw. “What?”

“You’re being a menace.”

“I’m just saying thank you again.”

“With your cunt?”

Cate beams. “Is it working?”

You grab her hips with both hands. Still don’t move her.

“Do it again,” you say darkly. “Slow.”

Cate moans.

She grinds forward, deliberately now, dragging her soaked little panties over your cock until she can feel it twitch beneath her.

Her lashes flutter. “Mmm…Daddy…”

“You are so not eating breakfast like this.”

“I am,” Cate insists. “I’m a multitasker.”

And then—grinning, breathless, still holding the fork—

She moans as she rocks her hips again.

Innocent voice. Wicked smile. Tail twitching beneath her shirt.

“Now say ‘ahhh.’”

Cate doesn’t expect it to happen so fast.

One second, she’s smiling. Sweet and smug and sleepy-happy. Feeding you bites of toast and gently rolling her hips like she’s not actively making a mess of her panties.

The next—

Your chair scrapes back.

Cate squeaks as she’s lifted, suddenly weightless.

“Wait—”

“Uh-uh,” you say, voice low and firm. “You wanna act like a brat, you get treated like one.”

Cate giggles—nervous, breathless—but her thighs are already clenching. “Where are we—?”

You deposit her on the kitchen table with practiced ease. Toast plate and fruit bowl get pushed aside like irrelevant props. Cate’s sleep shirt rides up as she’s guided back with two hands and a growl.

Her breath catches.

The table’s cool beneath her skin. Her collar clinks.

“Baby—”

“Shh,” you say. “I’m being nice. You’re lucky I’m not bending you over the counter.”

Cate moans.

You step between her legs and yank her panties to the side.

“God, you’re soaked,” you murmur. “You wanted this.”

Cate nods fast. “I did. I do. Please, Daddy…”

Her voice breaks.

That’s all it takes.

You thrust in slow—so slow—but firm, sliding deep like you’re picking up exactly where you left off in bed. Cate gasps, body arching off the table, eyes rolling back as the stretch makes her thighs tremble.

Her legs wrap around your waist automatically. Her nails dig into your arms.

“Oh my God,” she whispers. “I’m—I’m so full, it’s—”

You lean down, pressing your foreheads together.

“You take me so well,” you say, voice raw with love. “Every time. Like you were made for it.”

Cate whines.

She wraps her arms around your neck. Kisses you. Desperate and messy and grateful.

And then you start moving.

Not rough. Not rushed.

Just deep.

Steady.

Claiming.

The table creaks beneath you, a slow back-and-forth rhythm, and Cate can barely breathe around the pleasure. It’s not just the way you fuck her—it’s the way you hold her. Like nothing else exists. Like Cate’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted and you’re not letting go.

“Feels so good,” Cate babbles. “Daddy—fuck—I love you—”

You kiss her again. Your hands cradle Cate’s jaw. Your thumbs stroke her cheeks.

“I love you more,” you whisper. “I’ll fuck you full every morning if it keeps that smile on your face.”

Cate sobs.

She cums with her back arched, legs tight, cunt fluttering around you like she never wants you to leave. You follow with a groan, hips stuttering, forehead buried against her shoulder as you spill inside her with a low, desperate sound.

You stay like that for a long time. Breathing hard. Clinging to each other.

Cate’s thighs are shaking. Her voice is gone. But she still manages to whisper, smile trembling—

“…You missed your toast.”

You chuckle.

“You’re better than breakfast.”

You don’t move. Not really. You stroke her back with the kind of reverence that makes Cate’s chest ache, while Cate blinks up at the ceiling like she’s trying to remember her own name. The room hums with heat and sweat and something quieter—something more permanent.

And then—

Cate shifts, just barely. Enough to feel it.

You’re twitching inside her. Still hard.

Still there.

Cate’s eyes flutter open, lips parted, brain barely rebooted.

“You’re—?”

You lean in, kiss her like you already know the question. “Didn’t finish all the way, baby. You’re just too tight.”

Cate moans.

“You can’t get hard again so fast,” she says, but it’s breathless. Weak. Already clenching around you without meaning to.

You smirk against her throat. “You were grinding on me all morning. You started this.”

Cate whines. “Was just being sweet…”

“You were being a menace,” you correct, pulling out slow and sinking back in with a groan. “You thought I wouldn’t notice how wet your panties were?”

Cate gasps.

“You wanted to get bred on my lap in the middle of breakfast, huh?” you murmur, hips starting to move again. “Wanted to make a mess and act like it was my fault.”

Cate claws at your shoulders. “I’m sorry—”

“No you’re not.”

“I’m not,” she cries. “I wanted it—I still want it—don’t stop, please—”

You chuckle, dark and low. “Didn’t plan to.”

Round four is slower. Deeper. Cate’s hips slide slightly on the table with every thrust, legs trembling as her body opens up for you again. The overstimulation is unbearable—but perfect. She’s soaked, raw, already full of you from the last two times, and still—

Still, she wants more.

You lean in close. Hook your finger gently through the collar again, guiding her. Owning her.

“You gonna cum for me again, pup?”

Cate nods, gasping. “I—I can’t help it—”

“Good. I love you like this.”

Your hands cradle Cate’s hips, dragging her closer to the edge of the table so you can thrust in deeper, harder now. Cate’s mouth falls open. Her eyes roll back.

“Want you to cum while you’re full of me,” you pant. “Want it dripping down your thighs while I fill you again.”

Cate screams her way through it.

She cums clutching you to her chest, tears slipping down her temples from how good it is—how overwhelming, how complete she feels with you inside her. Marked. Owned. Worshipped.

You follow with a groan, spilling deep again. Your cock jerks inside her, hot and heavy, and Cate feels it—feels every wave, every twitch.

You collapse together on the table, shaking.

Sticky. Breathless.

Perfect.

Cate presses her forehead to your shoulder and whispers:

“…I don’t think I can walk.”

You laugh against her skin. “Good. Then I get to carry you.”

Cate sighs, dreamy and wrecked. “Love you, Daddy.”

“Love you too, baby,” you murmur. “So fuckin’ much.”

Cate doesn’t remember getting picked up.

One second she’s sprawled out on the kitchen table, legs limp and shaking, arms loosely draped around your neck. The next, she’s floating.

Warm arms under her back. A kiss pressed to her hair. The soft promise of I’ve got you murmured again and again, even though she’s too wrecked to ask for it.

She nuzzles into your chest and lets herself be carried.

It’s quiet in the bathroom, just the rush of water filling the tub and the sound of her own breath—slow and trembling and so full of you. Cate’s still leaking. Still pulsing around nothing. Still wearing her soft pink collar like a trophy.

You lower her into the bath with infinite care.

The water’s already warm. Gentle. Eucalyptus-scented, because of course you remembered the bath salts Cate likes best. Cate sinks into it with a tiny sigh, thighs spreading slightly just from the stretch, her muscles aching in that perfectly ruined way.

You climb in behind her and pull her into your lap.

Cate melts instantly.

Her back presses to your chest, legs floating between yours, head tucked under your chin. Your arms wrap tight around her waist like a blanket.

No teasing. No tension.

Just holding.

“You okay?” you whisper against her temple.

Cate nods, boneless. “Mmmhm.”

“Hurting anywhere?”

Cate’s lips twitch. “Inside. In a good way.”

You kiss her cheek. “You were so good for me.”

Cate blushes. “You were so nice to me.”

You laugh softly, hand trailing down her stomach under the water.

“Nice, huh?”

Cate turns her head to kiss your collarbone. “You bought me five collars. And made breakfast. And then you bred me three times.”

You smirk. “That’s just love, baby.”

Cate sighs. “I love being yours.”

“I love you being mine.”

They stay like that for a while—Cate curled against your chest, tail lazily flicking in the water, You gently washing her with a sponge and the kind of reverence that makes Cate’s eyes sting.

Fingers in her hair. Gentle kisses behind her ears.

The whole world could end outside the bathroom and Cate wouldn’t notice.

By the time you towel her off and carry her back to bed, Cate’s basically nonverbal. She tugs the sheets up to her chin, collar still on, eyes fluttering as you press a kiss to her forehead.

“Sleep,” you whisper. “I’ve got you.”

Cate smiles.

Drifts off.

Soaked. Clean. Bred. Loved.

She didn’t mean to fall in love.

Not really, anyway. Cate Dunlap doesn’t do that kind of thing. She flirts, she teases, she curates whole personalities around the people she wants—becomes the version of herself they’ll crave the most, and then disappears when they get too close.

But you? You’re the kind of girl who gets close anyway. Who lingers in doorways and presses your mouth to Cate’s throat like you belong there. Who walks around Cate’s dorm shirtless and barefoot and beautiful, like you both didn’t agree this was supposed to be casual.

It’s not casual anymore.

Cate feels it when she’s alone. In the mornings, when she’s still in your shirt. At night, when she’s trying to write essays and ends up googling pink fuzzy handcuffs instead. It's worse when you’re not around. Cate finds herself circling back to everything you’ve done together. Everything you could do together. Every single position you two haven’t tried yet.

And then—there’s the other thing.

The way you touch her. Possessive. Reverent. Like you knows Cate is already yours and you’re just deciding how hard you want to prove it.

Cate bites her lip at the memory. Her own reflection stares back from the mirror—lips swollen, eyes wild, tank top slipping down one shoulder. You left a hickey on her ribcage last night. Had traced your tongue along the underside of Cate's breast and whispered something like mine against her skin.

Cate had pretended not to care.

She definitely came.

Now it’s a Thursday, and she’s pretending she doesn’t have her vibrator hidden under the pillow, pretending she’s not waiting to hear the knock on her door. She posted a thirst trap on her story an hour ago just to speed things along. It worked. You sent a fire emoji and a cryptic you up? that Cate didn’t bother answering.

Because she knew what would come next.

A knock.

Cate grins.

She opens the door in nothing but a robe. Silk. Pale pink.

Your jaw drops. “Holy shit.”

Cate shrugs like it’s no big deal. “You rang?”

You’re already crowding into her space. Cate lets you. It’s half the fun—being wanted. Being pinned. Your hands are already at her waist, gripping through silk, pulling her flush.

“God,” you groan, mouth against her neck. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“You like the robe?”

“I like what’s under it more.”

Cate hums, lets her knee nudge between your thighs. “You gonna say hi first, or just try to fuck me against the door again?”

You grin. “Hi.”

Then kiss her.

It doesn’t take long for you two to stumble back into Cate’s dorm, clothes trailing behind like breadcrumbs. Cate’s breathless when she lands on the bed, robe untied, legs parted shamelessly.

You look like you’ve been hit by a freight train.

“You’re so fucking hot,” you say, crawling up between Cate’s thighs. “Do you know what you do to me?”

Cate arches a brow. “Tell me.”

You don't. You show her.

Cate moans when she’s touched—soft, needy, already wet. You murmur something about how she’s always like this for you, how it’s criminal, how you can’t think when Cate looks at you like that.

Cate locks her ankles behind your back.

“Fuck me like you mean it,” she whispers.

You do.

Later, much later, Cate’s still catching her breath—legs sore, sheets ruined, mouth raw from kisses. She watches you lie back, shirtless and smug, arm slung over your face like you’re trying to recover from war.

Cate should get up. Shower. Reapply her lip balm.

Instead, she sits up on her knees, straddles your lap, and leans down until your faces are only inches apart.

“Hey,” she says sweetly.

You crack an eye open.

Cate brushes a hand down your chest. “Do you wanna get me pregnant?”

You choke.

Cate just giggles, delighted.

“I mean,” she teases, dragging her nails down your stomach, “I’ve been thinking about it.”

You're wide-eyed now. “Cate—”

“I showed my friends a picture of you,” Cate continues, unfazed. “They high-fived me. Said your genetics were elite. And I mean—look at you.”

She leans closer, lips brushing your jaw.

“I might let you knock me up…if you love me right,” she whispers.

You groan.

“That’s not funny.”

Cate grins. “I think it is.”

“You’re dangerous,” you mutter, rolling over so you’re on top again. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Cate licks into your mouth, tugging at your hair. “Worse. Gonna lock you down for life.”

Neither of you say I love you.

Not yet.

But Cate can feel it every time you stay the night. Every time you wash her hair for her, or make coffee in her dorm, or leave your dumb Converse on the doormat like they live here now.

Cate’s not even mad.

In fact, one night she reaches for the fuzzy pink handcuffs she bought as a joke and holds them up with a lazy little smile.

Your pupils blow wide.

“You’re not serious,” you say, voice rough.

Cate tilts her head. “What if I am?”

Your breath catches.

Cate tosses them onto the bed, crawls toward you like a cat. “You love me,” she sings softly, “don’t you, baby?”

“I—”

Cate straddles your lap, slides her arms around your neck. “Say it.”

You swallow hard.

Then whisper, “Yeah. Fuck. I do.”

Cate kisses you.

You’re still not official—not technically. You haven’t had the talk. There’s no label, no Instagram posts, no toothbrush in the other’s dorm (though Cate’s left her lip gloss and your sweatshirt smells like her perfume). But the tension hums with inevitability. Cate feels it when you pull her in like she belongs there. When she gets called baby in that wrecked, reverent voice.

So Cate still plays coy in public—keeps her hands to herself, lets you stew when other people flirt with her. It’s not malicious, not really. It’s just that Cate wants to be claimed. Wants to be known.

Wants you to say it out loud: mine.

Sometimes, when you’re alone, you do.

Other times, Cate coaxes it out of you.

“You like me?” she’ll whisper, mouth hot against your collarbone.

“Yeah.”

“How much?”

You groan. “Enough to fuck a baby into you if you keep talking like that.”

Cate smirks.

And one day, she catches herself staring at you from across the room—shirtless again, working on your guitar, humming to yourself like you’re alone—and the thought hits her so hard it nearly knocks the wind out of her.

You’re the one I want.

Not just to fuck. Not just to tease. Not just to break hearts with—but to build a future for.

Cate blinks.

She thinks of matching tattoos. Of shared apartments. Of tiny shoes lined up by the door.

Cate bites her lip.

Maybe she’ll bring it up tomorrow.

But tonight?

Tonight she lets you wreck her. Lets you kiss every inch of skin like you’ll never get the chance again. Cate trembles under your hands. Moans like her life depends on it. Drags nails down your back and tells you, softly, breathlessly:

“You’re the only one.”

You look up, flushed and reverent.

“Prove it,” you whisper.

Cate does.

And Cate lets herself believe in forever.

Because even though they’re not official. (Yet.)

Cate’s never been one to wait her turn.

When she said “I just might let you knock me up” it wasn’t just a line—it was a threat. A challenge. A fantasy she’s started seriously considering. Because if you won’t call her your girlfriend, maybe you’ll call her mommy. She figures it’s a shortcut to commitment, that just might come in the form of an accidentally-on-purpose missed pill.

And the worst part? She’s not even sure it’s a joke anymore.

Cate thinks about your genetics. Your hands, your jaw, the jut of your hips, the square of your shoulders. The way you kiss like you want to stay. And suddenly, it’s not just dirty talk. It’s a question: What would happen if I made this real? Would you run? Or would you stay, lock Cate down, and love her so hard you never even think about leaving?

Cate’s betting on the latter.

Cate doesn’t mean to do it.

(That’s a lie. She definitely means to.)

It starts with a missed pill. One. She notices it the next morning—sees the little blue dot still nestled in its perfect plastic curve—and doesn’t bother catching up. Doesn’t panic. Doesn’t even blink.

You’ve already kissed her that day. Called her baby. Bit her shoulder hard enough to bruise and whispered I’m so obsessed with you it’s fucked up.

So really, what’s one little pill?

What’s three?

What’s a week?

Cate doesn’t bring it up. Of course she doesn’t. She flirts. She giggles. She rides you like she owns you. She wraps her arms around your neck afterward and traces little hearts into your skin.

“You’re so good to me,” she purrs one night, forehead pressed to your chest.

Your fingers drift through her hair, lazy and gentle. “Of course I am.”

Cate closes her eyes and lets herself sink into it. Into the warmth of you. The steadiness. The deep, unwavering way you hold her like she’s something precious.

Something worth protecting.

You start doing it raw.

That’s not new. Cate let it happen the first time you begged—desperate, trembling, practically crying as you came inside her.

You both swore it was just a one-time thing.

It’s not.

Now it’s every time. Cate always opens her legs with a soft sigh, lips parted, lashes fluttering. You can do whatever you want to me, she whispers, and you fucking do.

Cate doesn’t say the word. Doesn’t have to. She lets you press a hand to her belly after, lets you whisper mine mine mine with your whole body still shaking.

Cate is already tracking her cycle.

She buys prenatal vitamins on the low. Uses her powers on the pharmacist so they don’t look too closely at her age or her ID. She starts eating fruit. Drinking less. Cuts caffeine—not that you notice. You’re too busy being in love.

Cate keeps a straight face through it all.

But every time she lets you come inside her, she bites her lip and thinks, Go ahead, baby. Let’s see how serious you are.

The first time she gets queasy, she blames the sushi.

The second time, she blames the heat.

By the fifth morning she’s brushing her teeth and gagging over the sink, she buys a test.

It’s digital. No room for interpretation.

Cate sits on the bathroom floor in her tiny silk pajama set and watches the little screen load like it’s a bomb ticking down.

And then—

PREGNANT.

Her hands are shaking.

She starts to laugh.

She doesn’t tell you right away.

Not because she’s scared. She’s not. She’s just savoring it.

She watches you pace around her dorm in nothing but boxers, all tattoos and attitude, swigging orange juice from the carton like a goddamn husband.

Cate touches her own stomach when you aren't looking.

She’s got something you don't know about yet. Something that might ruin everything—or make it real.

Finally, she cracks.

She waits until you’re stretched out on the couch, shirt riding up, one arm flung over your eyes like you’re too hot to function.

Cate pads over, climbs into your lap, and sits on you.

You grunt. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I have something to tell you.”

You lift your arm, meet her eyes. “Okay?”

Cate reaches behind her back, pulls the test from her robe pocket, and presses it into your palm.

You stare.

Cate doesn’t look away.

There’s a long, impossible silence.

Then—

“You’re kidding.”

Cate doesn’t smile.

“I’m not.”

You sit bolt upright, nearly dumping her onto the floor.

“Cate.”

Cate shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Oops?”

You stare at her, jaw clenched, hands shaking. “Are you serious?”

Cate leans in. “Dead serious.”

“Are you actually pregnant right now?”

She tilts her head. “You said you loved me.”

“I do—”

Cate kisses you. Slow. Deep. Possessive.

When she pulls back, she murmurs, “Good. Then I’m yours. All the way.”

You're breathing like you just ran ten miles.

Cate traces her fingers down your chest. “You gonna keep me now, daddy?”

You groan, tipping your head back.

Cate smiles.

She’s never felt more powerful in her life.

The days that follow are a blur of shock and tenderness.

You spiral, of course. You buy seven more pregnancy tests, forcing Cate to take them all. You read every label in the grocery store, start making Cate smoothies with spinach and chia seeds.

Cate lets you panic. Lets you overcompensate. It’s cute, honestly.

And it only takes three days before you start curling around her belly like it’s sacred. Whisper into it. Kiss her navel like you’re already in love with something you made together.

Cate watches you do it one night—watched you tremble with it—and realizes she’s already won.

She was never scared of keeping you.

She was scared you wouldn’t want to be kept.

But now?

Now you look at her like she hung the fucking moon. You bring her flowers and prenatal vitamins in the same trip. Tuck her into bed and brush her hair behind her ear and say things like our baby without choking on it.

Cate doesn’t say I love you.

But one night she pulls your hand over her belly, kisses your neck, and whispers:

“You should’ve pulled out.”

You growl.

Cate grins.

She knows it’s a little evil. The timing. The secrecy. The way she pulled you closer without ever asking permission.

But Cate Dunlap has never played fair. And she knows—deep in her twisted, complicated heart—that no one will ever love her like you do.

And now?

Now she has proof.

One of her was cute.

But two?

Cate’s gonna look so fucking good with a baby on her hip and a ring on her finger.

She curls into your side, satisfied.

And falls asleep with her hand over her stomach.

You had never been particularly good at school, but you’ve always managed to keep your head above water—barely. You could bullshit an essay, sweet-talk your way through a presentation, and skate by with a solid B-minus, easy. But nothing in the world—nothing in any class, ever—had prepared you for this.

For Cate.

It started as it always did: Cate strolling into Advanced Supe Ethics ten minutes late, all honey-blonde hair and soft little sighs, her scent trailing behind her like the promise of a storm. You pretended not to notice. Kept your head down, pen scrawling nonsense across your battered notebook, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. You’d developed all these little coping mechanisms to ignore the intoxicating scent of your omega—count backwards from one hundred, tap your boot against the floor, doodle until your page was black with ink. None of it mattered. None of it worked.

Not when Cate slid into the seat right in front of you, so close you could see the damp patch at the base of her neck, just where her perfume had settled into her skin. Sweet, powdery, impossible. You tried to breathe through your mouth. Didn’t work. Your senses went haywire anyway. You could taste Cate’s scent—honey, peaches, a cinnamon warmth that made your mouth water and your stomach clench. You’d have given anything for a breeze, a distraction, a fucking fire drill.

Professor Avery droned on at the front of the class about supe legislation, but your focus had dissolved into static. Cate kept shifting in her seat, bare thigh crossing over bare thigh, skirt riding just a little higher every time she moved. She must’ve known what she was doing. God, she had to know. Cate always knew. And you—you were just a puppet strung along by pheromones and wishful thinking.

By the twenty-minute mark, you were sweating. Your palms slipping against the edge of your desk, jaw locked so tight it hurt, your cock swelling uncomfortably against the seam of your jeans. It would be fine, you told yourself, just ride it out, it always passed, you were stronger than this. Except Cate leaned forward to scribble something, and her hair fell over her shoulder, and her scent hit you like a freight train.

You whimpered. Out loud. Thank god the class was talking, no one seemed to notice, but Cate’s head twitched like she’d heard it. Or maybe she’d just felt it—Cate always felt when you were watching, when you were wanting. You tried to force your eyes back to your notes, but your vision was swimming, hot and hazy. All you could think about was getting your hands on Cate, mouth on her throat, rutting into her like an animal, making her—

Fuck. Fuck.

You’re leaking. Wetness pooling beneath the waistband of your boxers, sticky and hot. Your thighs trembled under the desk. You squeezed them together, desperate, frantic, but it only made it worse. Cate uncapped her lip balm and swiped it across her mouth, and you nearly blacked out.

And then—then Cate’s scent hit a sharp, sweet peak. Maybe she was going into heat, maybe she just wanted to watch you squirm. Maybe she was just cruel. You would have begged, would have dropped to your knees and begged right there in the middle of the goddamn classroom if you could. Instead, you squeezed your thighs tighter, knuckles white, biting back a sob.

You came.

Just like that—shuddering, panting, biting your own wrist to stay quiet. Hot, sticky release flooding your boxers, throbbing between your legs, shame spiraling through your chest. It felt endless. Overwhelming. Humiliating. Your eyes fluttered shut, a silent, desperate prayer that no one would notice, that no one would smell your embarrassment over the reek of Cate’s scent.

Cate turned, just barely, blue eyes catching yours over her shoulder. Slow, sly smile. Like she’d known the whole time. Like she’d planned it.

You stared down at the ruined front of your jeans, heat crawling up your neck, and prayed for the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

But Cate just looked away, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, her scent curling around you like a chain.

You barely heard the end of class over the rushing in your ears, the sticky discomfort soaking through your jeans, the humiliation grinding raw against your nerves. As soon as Professor Avery dismissed class, you shot up from your seat, careful to keep your bag slung low, praying no one would notice. Cate, still sitting, gave you a slow, knowing glance, all eyelashes and parted lips—like she’d already read every filthy thought in your head.

You bolted.

Shoulder-checking through the hall, muttering apologies, vision swimming, you barely made it to the first-floor bathroom before panic started to close in. The door banged shut behind you. Empty, thank god. You stumbled to the sinks, twisting on the cold water, hands shaking so badly you could barely get your fingers under the tap. You splashed your face, heart jackhammering, trying to will away the red flush crawling up your cheeks, the shame gnawing at your insides.

But it was no use. The mess in your jeans was humiliating, obscene—sticky, wet, spreading in a way that no amount of frantic scrubbing could fix. You grabbed fistfuls of paper towels, dabbing at the front of your pants, but it only made the wet patch worse. The scent of your own release—sharp, salt-slick, undeniably alpha—mixed with Cate’s lingering honey-warmth on your skin, making your stomach clench all over again.

Get it together. Just—get it together.

You glanced at yourself in the grimy mirror. Freckles standing out against burning cheeks, hair a wild tangle. You looked like someone who’d just come apart, desperate and feral. You wanted to crawl into a hole. Instead, you ducked your head and power-walked to the end stall, shoving your backpack inside ahead of you and locking the door with trembling fingers.

Alone. Sort of safe. Maybe.

You peeled your jeans down with a hiss, boxers sticking wetly to your thighs. Everything was sticky, soaked, ruined—there was no hiding it, not from anyone with a nose worth a damn. You balled up your underwear, wadding it into a knot of shame, heart pounding so hard you could barely breathe. Your skin prickled, every nerve-ending raw and exposed. You tried to clean up—wipes from your backpack, paper towels from the dispenser—swiping desperately at your skin, at your jeans, at the evidence of just how badly your omega had broken you.

You weren't going to make it through the day. Hell, you might not make it out of this stall.

You braced your head against the cold tile, squeezing your eyes shut, breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth. You tried to ignore the desperate ache between your legs, the memory of Cate’s scent, the way your body was already threatening to betray you all over again. It didn’t help. You felt wrung out, pathetic, ruined in the most humiliating way.

Then you heard it.

The bathroom door creaked open—soft, deliberate, too quiet for anyone but an omega who’d learned how to move unseen. Your breath caught, muscles locking up, nerves sparking with panic and—god, want. There was no mistaking the scent that drifted in with her: warm honey and cinnamon, thick and golden and unmistakably Cate. It rolled over you in a wave, sweet and spiced and sharp enough to make your knees go weak, jeans tangled around her ankles.

Footsteps clicked across the tile, slow, unhurried, each one a countdown. Cate never hurried. She took her time, always—especially when you needed her to do the opposite. The footsteps stopped, dead center outside your stall. A shadow spilled across the floor, small and poised, perfect even in dirty bathroom light.

The door thudded shut, the lock clicking into place with a finality that echoed down your spine. Cate’s scent was everywhere now, flooding the air, winding through the mess you had made of yourself. It was taunting—merciless. Deliberate.

Your heart hammered, each beat shuddering through your body, making you even more aware of how utterly exposed you were. You tried to will yourself invisible, breath coming in tiny, desperate bursts. No point. Cate would smell your arousal, the shame and the wreckage—would know exactly what you’d done, what you’d become in the space of a single class.

For a long, stretched-out moment, Cate said nothing. Just lingered, her presence a weight against the thin partition, her scent crawling under the door and into your lungs, branding you from the inside out.

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing your body to cooperate, to steady itself, to not give away how much you needed—needed—Cate, even now. But it was useless. Cate was there. Cate knew. Cate always knew.

The silence was a dare. You swallowed, fists clenching in the damp fabric of your ruined boxers, and waited for Cate to make the next move—knowing, in your bones, that nothing you did would ever be enough to hide what you’d done, what you were.

And god, if Cate opened that stall door—if she so much as whispered your name—you knew you’d come undone all over again.

The silence twisted, hot and endless, Cate’s scent growing heavier until you could barely think. You pressed herself back against the cold stall, half hoping to disappear into the tile. The sound of Cate’s fingers rapping gently on the door—two lazy taps, then the softest, most mocking sigh—nearly undid you all over again.

“You going to let me in, or do I have to crawl under?” Cate’s voice was velvet-smooth. There was laughter in it, but there was something darker, too. Curiosity, hunger, that particular brand of cruel kindness only Cate could manage.

Your hands shook as you fumbled with the lock, every movement mortifyingly loud in the cramped stall. You meant to keep your eyes on your knees, to apologize, to beg for mercy if you had to—but Cate didn’t even wait for the door to open all the way. She slipped inside, crowding into your space, closing the door behind her with a decisive click.

Cate’s gaze slid down, slow and appraising, taking in the mess of your boxers balled in your fist, the dark patch at the front of your crumpled jeans, the flush burning up your throat. For a second, neither of you spoke. Cate just stood there, every inch the omega you could never stop craving—golden hair tumbling loose around her shoulders, blue eyes aglow, mouth pursed in amusement.

“Well,” Cate drawled, leaning in until her scent was all you could breathe, “that didn’t take much, did it?”

You swallowed, too ashamed to answer, unable to hide the tremor in your hands. Cate reached out, slow as honey, and plucked the ruined boxers from your grip—holding them up with one delicate finger, eyes alight with wicked delight.

“You really couldn’t wait? Not even until after class?” Cate tsked, her voice sweet and unhurried, even as her free hand slid up your bare thigh, tracing the sticky evidence of your humiliation.

Your breath hitched. “Cate—please, I—”

“Oh, don’t beg,” Cate murmured, pressing her body in close, caging you against the back of the stall. “You don’t have to. You’re so easy for me, aren’t you? My good little alpha.” She dropped your boxers back into your hands, then cradled your face, tilting it up, forcing you to meet her gaze.

It was unbearable, the way Cate looked at you. Like she could see through every bravado and bluster, straight to the shivering, desperate thing underneath. Cate’s thumb swept over your cheekbone, achingly gentle.

“You want to be good for me?” Cate whispered.

You nodded, too ruined for words. You wanted to sink into the floor, to disappear—but even more than that, you wanted Cate to do whatever she wanted. To ruin you completely, again and again.

Cate smiled, slow and satisfied, and then, with infuriating calm, she dropped to her knees in the cramped stall.

Your pulse hammered in your throat. You gripped the metal divider behind you, trying not to shake. Cate pushed your knees apart, not bothering to ask, not caring that they were half-tangled in your jeans. Cate’s hands were soft and sure, guiding you back onto the toilet, spreading you wide, baring every last inch of sticky, humiliating need.

“God, you’re pathetic,” Cate said, but her voice was soft, almost reverent. “All that control you pretend to have, and one whiff of me—look at you.”

You tried to look away, but Cate caught your chin, making you watch as she leaned in—slow, deliberate, gaze never leaving your face. Cate’s breath was hot against your hip, her mouth inches from your leaking cock, her tongue darting out to taste the mess still smeared across your skin.

You nearly sobbed. “Cate, fuck, please—”

Cate shushed you, biting down on your thigh, just enough to sting. “You don’t get to cum again until I say so,” she murmured, licking a long stripe up your cock, gathering the taste of your humiliation like a reward. “You want to be good? Prove it.”

You nodded frantically, breath ragged, vision blurring at the edges as Cate’s mouth closed around you—hot, wet, unforgiving. Cate didn’t give you time to adjust, didn’t spare you a second of mercy. She sucked hard, taking you deep, swallowing around you with practiced ease. Her fingers dug into your hips, keeping you pinned, helpless.

It was too much. Too soon, too intense, too public, even with the stall door locked and the sound of Cate’s mouth echoing obscenely off the tile. You tried to hold back, tried to remember how to breathe, but Cate was everywhere—her scent in your lungs, her tongue tracing every ridge and vein, her eyes never leaving your face.

Cate hummed, low and satisfied, as if she could taste every shiver of embarrassment, every desperate, ruined plea. You whimpered, biting down on your fist, tears stinging your eyes as Cate drove you higher, higher, until your vision went white and all you could do was choke on Cate’s name.

But Cate pulled back, just enough, letting you tremble on the edge—so close, so desperate it hurt.

“Not yet,” Cate breathed, her lips slick with your shame. “I want you to remember this, alpha. How easy you break for me. How much you need me.”

You were already nodding, pleading, but Cate silenced you with a finger pressed to your lips—a promise and a threat all at once.

“Good girl,” Cate whispered, before sinking back down, intent on wringing every last drop of control from her alpha, in this filthy, sacred space she’d claimed for her own.

You let yourself fall—helpless, grateful, and absolutely, devastatingly Cate’s.

Your world shrank to the cramped, tile-walled stall and Cate’s relentless mouth. Your thighs were shaking, pressed wide by Cate’s hands—you couldn’t have closed them if you tried. Cate worked you with an easy, devastating rhythm, every flick of her tongue and drag of her lips calculated to drive you past humiliation and straight into surrender.

Cate pulled back only to breathe, blue eyes full of wicked amusement as she stroked your cock with her spit-slick hand. “You look so wrecked,” she whispered, her thumb teasing the swollen head, gathering the mess there and smearing it down your shaft. “You know everyone could smell what you did in class, right? You don’t think anyone noticed you running out? Poor thing…”

You shuddered, shame and want so tangled up it was impossible to tell which was which. “Please, Cate,” you gasped, your voice ragged, needy. “Please, I—can’t—”

“Oh, I know,” Cate crooned, soft and mocking all at once. She squeezed, just enough to make your hips buck, then pressed her other hand flat over your lower belly, holding you down. “You’re so close. All you had to do was ask.”

She ducked back down, tongue swirling, lips sealing over the tip as she sucked—hard, merciless. You tried to muffle yourself, but a whimper still escaped, echoing off the bathroom walls. Your whole body was wound tight, desperate, helpless. Cate’s nails scraped lightly down your thighs, anchoring you, claiming you.

When Cate pulled off again, her lips were swollen, glistening, her breathing quick and shallow. She didn’t look triumphant—she looked hungry, like your need had only stoked her own.

“Do you want to cum?” Cate asked, voice honey-sweet and deadly serious, like she might deny it just to watch you shatter a little more.

You nodded frantically, unable to form words. Your vision swam, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

“Say it,” Cate insisted, thumb pressing just below the head, just enough to keep you teetering at the edge. “Tell me what you need.”

You sucked in a breath, and when you spoke, it was barely more than a broken whine. “Need you, Cate, please—let me cum, please, I need you, I can’t—”

“That’s my good girl.” Cate grinned, feral and radiant. Then she took you back into her mouth all at once, relentless, sucking and swallowing, never letting up.

It took barely a heartbeat. Your hips jerked, a strangled sound escaping your lips, your whole body arching off the seat as you came hard—hot, desperate, ruined—into Cate’s waiting mouth. Cate didn’t flinch. She took it all, throat working, hands gripping you so tight it almost hurt. She didn’t stop until you were shaking, boneless, every ounce of tension bled out of you, leaving you soft and spent and so exposed you could hardly breathe.

Cate drew back, licking her lips, a smear of slick on her chin. She looked impossibly smug, but there was a softness in her gaze, too—a satisfaction, a tenderness reserved only for you.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then stood and wedged herself onto your lap, not caring about the mess or the cramped quarters. She tucked herself under your chin, arms winding tight around your shoulders, her scent a warm, dizzying cloud.

For a long moment, they didn’t move. Your heart pounded. Your hands, shaking, settled at Cate’s waist—like you needed proof Cate was really there, that she wasn’t just a fever dream conjured by shame and longing.

Cate sighed, threading her fingers through your hair. “You’re such an idiot,” she murmured, but her tone was impossibly fond. “You could’ve just asked.”

You managed a weak, wry smile, breath ghosting over Cate’s ear. “Didn’t want to make a scene.”

Cate snorted, laughter muffled against her neck. “You came in your pants in the middle of class, babe. Scene’s already made.”

You groaned, burying your face in Cate’s shoulder, but Cate only held you tighter, tracing slow, soothing circles over your back.

“God, you’re evil,” you said, voice muffled, the edges of humiliation already softening in Cate’s arms.

Cate kissed your temple, her touch impossibly gentle after everything. “Maybe. But you love it.” A beat. “You love me.”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. Not when Cate’s heart beat so steady under your palm, not when you could still taste Cate’s scent in every breath.

Cate nudged you, soft and insistent, until you finally looked up. Your eyes met, both of you undone.

“I love you,” Cate said, quiet and certain. No cruelty in it now, only truth.

Your answer was a kiss—soft, shaky, grateful. Cate melted into you, sighing into your mouth, letting the world outside the stall dissolve.

Eventually, they untangled themselves, Cate smoothing down your hair, you tucking Cate’s shirt back into her skirt with hands that wouldn’t quite steady. Cate helped you clean up—her own handkerchief, delicate and absurdly expensive, dabbing at sticky skin and damp jeans with clinical care. You let her, too tired to protest, basking in the small humiliations that now felt like intimacy.

But Cate wasn’t finished. She reached into her bag—her impossibly pretty, monogrammed tote—and with a triumphant little flourish produced a neatly folded pair of black boxers and, even more impossibly, a clean pair of dark jeans.

You stared. “You—What? How—”

Cate arched a perfectly sculpted brow, “Oh, come on. You think I don’t notice the way you fall apart around me? I figured we’d get to this point sooner or later. And you—” she poked your chest for emphasis, “—are nothing if not predictable, baby.”

You gawked, then groaned, pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes. “You’re evil. Actually evil.”

Cate just grinned, tucking the clean clothes into your lap, leaning in to murmur, “Only for you, baby.”

You shook your head, half-laughing, half-aghast, but the warmth in your chest was unmistakable. “How long have you been carrying those around?”

Cate tapped her chin, eyes wide and innocent. “Mmm, maybe since the first time you nearly bit through your pen in Freshman Chemistry. You’ve always had such a tell.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed, weak with affection and humiliation. “You’re the worst.”

Cate winked, already stuffing your ruined boxers and jeans into a ziplock bag she’d fished from her tote. “You love it.”

You took the clean boxers and jeans with shaking hands, pulling them on as Cate watched, smug and satisfied. As you fastened the zipper, Cate leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your jaw. “Next time,” she whispered, “maybe try to last until after class. Or don’t. I kind of like you like this.”

You rolled your eyes, tugged Cate into a hug, and let yourself bask in the strange, perfect safety of being so thoroughly undone by the only person you’d ever let see you this way.

When Cate opened the stall, her gaze darted up and down the empty bathroom. She smoothed her skirt, checked her lipstick, then shot you a wicked grin over her shoulder. “If you want to try for round two,” she murmured, “I’ll leave my door unlocked tonight.”

You tried for a glare, but it melted into something softer, more reverent. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Dunlap.”

Cate only winked. “Promise.”

Together, you stepped out into the blinding, ordinary hallway—Cate radiant, you still trembling and raw, both of you marked by what had happened. But for once, you didn’t care if the whole school could smell what you’d done.

Cate had picked the movie, obviously.

A glossy, mid-budget romance set in Italy, complete with tragic misunderstandings, sun-drenched kisses, and a guy who looked like he’d been genetically engineered in a vineyard. It wasn’t award-worthy, not even close, but Cate had read the reviews. It was the kind of film designed to make you feel something soft and safe, the kind where no one got exploded or eviscerated. The kind of movie she didn’t get to see much of growing up—too frivolous, too emotional, her mother would say.

So she drags you to the Friday night screening because she wants this. Because she’s had a shit week. Because sometimes you just need to see someone get their heart broken under a Tuscan sunset and then kiss someone else in the rain twenty minutes later. And because you always come with her. Even when you grumble about it the whole drive there.

“She’s not even that hot,” you say, looking at the poster outside the theatre. Your fingers are laced with Cate’s, rings cool against Cate’s knuckles.

Cate doesn’t look at the poster. She looks at you. “You’re such a liar.”

You shrug. “Okay. Maybe a little hot. Like, librarian-hot. But still. That guy looks like he’s made of ravioli.”

Cate snorts. “You wish you were made of ravioli.”

“I wish you were made of ravioli,” you shoot back, tugging her closer. “So I could eat you.”

Cate rolls her eyes, blushing hard anyway. “You’re disgusting.”

“And yet you’re still holding my hand,” you sing, smug as hell, as you cross the lobby toward concessions. Cate doesn’t answer. Just squeezes your fingers tighter.

You do this every time. Play the reluctant tagalong in public, even though you’re the one who always gets the tickets ahead of time. Even though you already have the AMC app on your phone. Even though you remember Cate’s exact popcorn order without asking—extra butter, layered, just a sprinkle of parmesan cheese powder and a cherry coke slushie with two straws. So you can share. Duh.

“Need anything else, princess?” you tease while waiting in line, hips bumping together. Your hand slides down, casually tugging at the hem of Cate’s coat like you own it. Like you own her. “Maybe a soft pretzel? One of those little hot dogs you hate but always steal from me anyway?”

Cate hums. “Mmm. I think I just need you to behave.”

You lean in like you’re about to whisper something sweet. Then nip her ear instead.

Cate yelps. Shoves you off. “Babe.”

You’re already grinning, unapologetic. “Just making sure your senses are fully engaged for this cinematic masterpiece.”

They sit toward the back—you like the aisle seat, and Cate likes being able to lean on you without thinking. The theater is only half-full, mostly older women and bored couples. Cate settles into her seat, adjusts her coat, and lets herself exhale.

The movie starts with a sweeping overhead shot of Florence. Cate’s already misty-eyed five minutes in.

It doesn’t last long.

Because you?

You don't care about the movie.

Didn’t care when Cate sent you the link to the trailer earlier that week (“It’s not your usual thing, but it looks romantic…”). Didn’t care when you bought the tickets in advance. Didn’t care when you pulled into the theater parking lot and made your predictable chick-flick joke. Didn’t even try to pretend once you were inside.

Because you have exactly one thing on your mind tonight, and it’s sitting beside you in a peach cashmere sweater, smelling like overpriced perfume and kissing you between sips of slushie.

Cate looks so good.

Like, distractingly good. High ponytail. Gold hoops. The kind of glossy, smug mouth that begs to be kissed stupid. Really, you shouldn’t have been expected to pay attention with Cate looking like that.

The second the previews end, you’ve got a hand on her.

Not even sneaky about it—just spread your fingers over Cate’s knee like you belong there. Like this is your girl, and you’re bored, and your girlfriend is so warm and soft and bratty when she tries to pretend she’s annoyed.

Cate whispers, “Do not start.”

You don't even flinch. Just let your palm drift up, slow and deliberate, until you feel Cate stiffen beside you. Until her thigh tightens under your touch.

“I’m literally just sitting here,” you whisper back. “You’re so reactive.”

Cate grits her teeth. Keeps her eyes glued to the screen.

Fine, you think. We’re doing this the hard way.

You drape your arm around the back of Cate’s chair, casual and lazy. Twirl a piece of her ponytail around one finger. Then lean in until your lips are grazing the shell of Cate’s ear.

“You wore this little sweater on purpose,” you murmur. “Didn’t you?”

Cate exhales hard. Doesn’t respond.

You nuzzle lower, nose pressing into Cate’s neck. Your hand trails beneath the hem of the sweater, warm against bare skin now, brushing just below Cate’s ribcage.

Cate jerks slightly when your thumb swipes just beneath the wire of her bra. Her hips involuntarily shift forward.

“Tell me to stop,” you say, quieter now, lips brushing Cate’s jaw.

Cate stays silent.

And that’s all the permission you need.

You kiss her temple once, softly, reverently. Then mutter: “That’s my girl.”

You start small. Thumb rubbing circles beneath the cashmere. Pressing little kisses into Cate’s neck until you feel your girlfriend melt into you, breath hitching every few seconds.

Then you dip lower. Just a little. Palm flattening against Cate’s stomach. Your pinky grazing the waistband of her jeans.

Cate’s legs squeeze together.

“Baby,” she whispers, panicked and breathless. “You’re gonna get us kicked out.”

You kiss her again, slower this time. Right below the ear. “Then be quiet.”

Cate glares at you.

But she doesn’t move away. Not exactly. Just settles back in her seat with a sharp exhale, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the screen like she can force her brain to absorb the plot through sheer willpower. She tries to ignore you. Tries to will her body into submission.

The couple is arguing again—something about a passport and a missed opportunity—but it sounds muffled, distant. Background noise to the growing heat pooling low in her stomach.

You shift beside her, palm still pressed against Cate’s stomach like it belongs there. Your fingers don’t move, not exactly—but they twitch, just enough to remind Cate they’re still there. Just enough to make her shiver. You’re not teasing anymore—you don't have to. The contact is maddeningly casual, like you’re completely unaware of the storm you’re stirring.

But Cate knows better.

She can feel the grin radiating off you without even looking. That awful, smug certainty. That particular brand of quiet mischief you wear when you know you’ve already won, when you can feel Cate’s pulse stuttering and hear the way her thighs press together for dear life. Like you know Cate is one more breath away from unraveling.

And still, your hand stays there.

Steady.

Unmoving.

Cate inhales slowly. Tries to calm herself.

She can do this. She can sit through the movie. She can ignore her girlfriend beside her. She can keep her composure.

Cate glares at you. But she doesn’t move away.

You take that as permission—of course you do.

You lean in again, slower this time, brushing your lips against Cate’s jaw. Then lower. Featherlight kisses beneath her ear, down the curve of her neck, each one lazier than the last. Like you’re not just trying to get a reaction—but collecting them. The way Cate’s breath catches. The way her hips shift, almost involuntarily. The way her hand twitches against the armrest, caught between slapping you away and pulling you closer.

And all the while, your hand drifts lower. From mid-thigh to just above the knee. Then back up, a little bolder. Your thumb strokes the inseam of Cate’s jeans, slow, like you’re testing how far you can go before Cate cracks.

It’s not far.

Cate jerks her shoulder, suddenly, hard enough to break the contact. “Stop,” she hisses, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. “Seriously.”

You pulled away, unbothered, lips still parted from where they’d just been pressed to her skin. “Touchy,” you murmur, mock-innocent. “Wonder what’s got you so worked up.”

Cate focuses on the screen again. Tries to pretend her heart isn’t slamming. That she isn’t soaked. That she hasn’t considered, in detail, how fast she could drag you into the bathroom.

But instead—because she’s civilized, and because her entire nervous system is short-circuiting—Cate shrugs off her coat and spreads it delicately over her lap.

She tells herself she’s just cold.

That’s it. Just a little chill in the theater. Climate control issues. Nothing to do with the fact that you’ve been slowly, methodically pressing your hand all over Cate’s body for the past thirty minutes like it’s some sort of fucked-up challenge. Like you’re not in public. Like Cate isn’t one well-timed touch away from breaking her own self-control.

She shifts in her seat, subtly. Her sweater rides up a little.

You notice immediately, a low sound escapes you, barely audible, and Cate feels it in her spine.

“Cold?” you murmur, lip brushing the curve of Cate’s ear.

Cate’s voice is stiff. “A little.”

“Mm. Lucky me.”

Cate glares. “Don’t.”

But it’s already too late.

Your hand slips under the coat like it belongs there. Like it’s not a goddamn crime scene waiting to happen. Your touch is light at first—just resting on Cate’s thigh again, no movement, no pressure. But it simmers. A quiet, devastating weight. Like a storm cloud behind the ribs.

Cate stares at the screen, unblinking, while her heart tries to claw its way out of her chest.

Onscreen, the couple is dancing in a piazza. There are twinkle lights. Strings swell.

Cate’s teeth sink into the inside of her cheek.

You shift beside her, ever so slightly, fingers dipping just an inch lower, ghosting over denim. Then circling. Then pressing—so gentle it almost doesn’t count.

Cate’s breath hitches.

She fists her hands in her coat and curls her toes in her shoes.

“Still cold?” you whisper, voice thick with amusement.

Cate turns her head, eyes glassy. “You’re going to hell.”

Your grin is all teeth. “You first.”

Cate lets out a sound. Just a little one. A soft, strangled whimper she immediately swallows down—but not fast enough.

Two rows up, a woman turns and shushes them.

Cate freezes.

Absolute mortification courses through her like electricity. Her ears go hot. Her vision swims. She tugs her coat higher over her lap like that’ll somehow erase the shame of getting felt up during a Tuesday night showing of some stupid rom-com.

You don't flinch. Don’t remove your hand.

Cate doesn’t make eye contact.

The two of you sit like that—frozen, guilty, burning—until the woman turns back around.

And then—then—Cate finally breaks.

She exhales. Closes her eyes. Whispers, “Fuck it.”

Your breath catches.

Cate turns her head. Meets your gaze. And that’s all it takes.

Your lips crash together—quick, messy, filthy. Cate kisses like she’s trying to shut you up, teeth catching on your bottom lip, hand curling in your shirt like an anchor.

You moan into her mouth, hand sliding fully between Cate’s thighs, and neither of you are watching the movie anymore.

Cate tries to keep quiet. Really. But your hand is still under her coat, moving slowly, and your mouth is hot and open and everywhere, and Cate is barely hanging on.

At one point, she whines—an honest-to-God whine. And you groan.

Cate slaps a hand over her own mouth.

You kiss her cheek. “Yeah. You’re so cold.”

Cate doesn't answer. She can’t. Her thighs are shaking. Her coat feels like a furnace on her lap. The screen is a blur of Italian countryside and romantic resolution, but Cate couldn’t follow it if her life depended on it. Her entire body is humming—tight and coiled and teetering on the edge of something that feels both humiliating and inevitable.

She needs a second. Needs to get away. Regroup. Pull herself together before she does something completely insane.

So she untangles herself.

Quietly. Carefully.

Cate tries to leave.

Tries to gather what little dignity she has left—sweater wrinkled, coat clutched in a death grip, thighs trembling—and escape.

The bathroom. That’s the plan. Five minutes of cold water, a locked stall, and a prayer. She doesn’t even need to finish. Just to breathe. Just to stop shaking.

But you don't let go.

Not when Cate tugs at your wrist. Not when she tries to sit forward. Not even when she whispers, "Please," low and wrecked and raw.

Your grip just tightens.

“You’re not going anywhere,” you say, voice velvet-dark and so, so smug. “You started this.”

Cate glares at you, cheeks bright pink, eyes shining. “You started this.”

You shrug. “And I’m gonna finish it.”

Your hand slips back under the coat like it never left. Like it was always there, rightfully and inevitably. You find Cate’s button, the zipper, the heat. Cate’s already soaked—has been for the last thirty minutes—and you moan under your breath like it’s hurting you not to taste.

Cate’s breath stutters. She turns her face away. “This is—this is—”

“Shh,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to her temple. “No one’s watching. Just let go.”

Cate squeezes her eyes shut.

And then you touch her.

Really touch her. Not just teasing anymore. Not gentle. Just perfect.

Two fingers. Slow circles. Pressure that builds and builds like a storm tightening in her spine.

Cate bites down on the collar of her sweater to keep from crying out. Her thighs snap shut instinctively—but you’re right there, murmuring filth against her ear, coaxing her open again, pulling her apart piece by piece.

“You’re gonna make a mess in your jeans,” you whisper, teeth grazing her earlobe. “You gonna cum for me, baby?”

Cate whimpers.

Her fingers clutch the armrest. Her chest heaves. And when she finally tips, it’s full-body and silent—eyes wide open, mouth parted in a soundless cry, hand clenched in your hoodie like a lifeline.

Her orgasm shudders through her in waves, slow and rolling and devastating.

She slumps back in her seat, trembling. Boneless. Gone.

You hold her the whole time.

The credits roll.

The lights come up.

Cate still hasn’t moved.

Her coat is wrinkled beyond repair. Her hair is a disaster. Her lip gloss is absolutely gone. She can feel the mess in her jeans. And you—God, you—are sitting next to her like you just aced a test, sipping at your shared slushie and looking very proud of yourself.

Neither of you remembers what the fuck happened in Tuscany.

Cate finally turns her head.

“Don’t,” she croaks.

You grin. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t say anything.”

You raise both eyebrows. “I didn’t even—”

Cate smacks your arm. “I swear to God, asshole.”

You snort, reaching over to straighten the collar of Cate’s sweater. “You’re so pretty when you cum.”

“Babe.”

“I mean it. Like, glowing. Post-credit scene worthy.”

Cate groans. Covers her face with both hands.

You lean in and kiss the side of her neck. “Wanna go home?”

Cate doesn’t answer. Just nods.

You take her hand and drag her out of the theater, trembling thighs and all.

The car is quiet.

Cate hasn’t spoken since you left the theater.

You keep sneaking glances over, expecting another half-hearted glare, a flushed reprimand, maybe a scandalized little "You’re the worst person I know." Something to feed your ego. But nothing comes.

Cate’s just…sitting there.

Face turned toward the window. Eyes unreadable. One hand in her lap. The other curled tight around the passenger door handle, knuckles white. Her lip is still swollen from being kissed too hard. Her thighs are pressed together like she’s trying to contain something.

You bite back a grin. “You okay over there, sunshine?”

Cate doesn’t respond.

Just shifts in her seat. Adjusts her coat.

Silent.

You chuckle to yourself, cocky and warm, fingers tapping the wheel like you’ve won something.

Which is exactly the mistake Cate’s been waiting for.

It starts with her hand.

Quiet. Casual. Sliding across the center console with feigned laziness.

She rests it lightly on your thigh.

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “What’s this?”

Cate still doesn’t answer.

Just squeezes.

You glance down. Then at her. “You good?”

Cate hums softly. Low. Dangerous. Then curls her fingers just a little deeper into the denim between your legs.

Your breath catches. “Cate—”

“I’m cold,” Cate says simply, repeating her lie from earlier with poisonous sweetness. “Just keeping warm.”

And then—before you can react—Cate pops open her seatbelt and leans over.

She steadies herself on the center console, hands already undoing your fly.

“Woah—what are you—Cate, baby, we’re in traffic—”

“No we’re not,” Cate murmurs, pressing her mouth to the side of your throat. “We’re on a long stretch of highway and there’s no one behind us.”

You open your mouth—want to say as if that’s any safer, want to object, or beg, or something—

But then Cate’s hand slides into your boxers, immediate, hot and sure and perfectly cruel.

You jerk the wheel a little.

“Holy fuck.”

Cate smiles.

For the next three miles, you forget how to breathe.

Cate is deliberate with it. Every stroke, every squeeze, timed to the rhythm of the road. She kisses your neck like she’s being sweet—like this is some romantic gesture instead of revenge. Her voice is sugar-soft, whispering filth against her skin.

“You made me cum in a movie theater,” she breathes.

You groan.

“You didn’t even let me leave.”

“Fuck—”

“Now you’re gonna finish in the driver’s seat.”

“Jesus Christ—”

“That’s not my name.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Cate nips at your ear. “Focus on your driving. We don’t wanna get pulled over.”

You whine. Actually whine. Your hips lift into Cate’s hand, helpless, desperate. You try to focus on the road—as if that was even remotely possible—but your vision keeps blurring. The lights of the city are a smear. Your knuckles are white on the wheel.

Cate licks at the curve of her jaw. “Gonna cum for me?”

You nod wildly. “Yes—yes—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Good girl.”

And that’s it.

That’s all it takes.

You gasp—loud, broken, body tensing like a taut wire—and cum into Cate’s hand with a desperate whimper, the car swerving ever so slightly in your grip.

You barely make it to the exit.

Cate leans back against the seat, smug and glowing, wiping her hand daintily on a napkin from the glove box.

“You okay, sunshine?” Cate teases.

You practically slump over the wheel.

“I’m never letting you pick the movie again.”

Cate grins. “You say that every time.”

The red light that follows the exit stretches unnaturally long.

You’re breathing like you just ran a marathon—jaw slack, eyes wide, hands trembling slightly against the wheel. Cate, radiant and unbothered in the passenger seat, is still smoothing her hair like she didn’t just wreck her girlfriend while in motion.

You try to speak.

Fail.

Try again.

“…I think I died.”

Cate tilts her head, biting back a smile. “I’d say rest in peace, but you’re still gripping the wheel like it’s a crucifix.”

You whimper. “I almost crashed the fucking car.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Oh my God.”

“I told you to breathe.”

“You told me to finish in the driver’s seat.”

Cate shrugs. “And you did. You’re welcome.”

You make a strangled noise and veers off at the next turn, tires crunching over gravel as you pull into the nearest parking lot—a mostly empty strip mall glowing faintly under dead neon. The car lurches to a stop.

Silence.

Cate watches you, amused. “You good?”

“No,” you say immediately. “No, I’m not good. I just got jerked off on the highway like a fucking truck stop whore by the love of my life and I can’t feel my legs.”

Cate preens. “Love of your life?”

You groan. “Shut up.”

You slump forward, forehead against the wheel. “I saw heaven. I touched it. There was light and harps and an old guy in a robe welcoming me home.”

Cate pats her knee. “Aw. Baby’s first religious experience.”

You lift your head, eyes glassy. “What did you do to me.”

“Nothing you didn’t deserve.”

“Cate.”

“Hm?”

“I’m still hard.”

Cate cackles.

You slap her arm. “You can’t just do that to someone and then sit there like a Bond villain drinking from my slushie!”

Cate sips from the straw, completely unbothered. “Well technically, it’s our slushie, baby.”

You groan again. “I need a cigarette. Or a prayer. Or a sensory deprivation tank.”

Cate leans over, runs a hand through your sweaty hair, voice devastatingly sweet. “You need to pull yourself together so we can get back to your dorm. Because I’m not done with you yet.”

You make a sound that’s basically a whimper if it married a threat.

You shift in your seat. Wince. “You’re actually going to kill me.”

Cate just grins and sucks on the straw again.

You slouch deeper into the seat, still blinking like you just got struck by lightning. Your shirt is rumpled, your fly is still undone, and your thighs are visibly shaking.

Cate finishes the slushie with a satisfied little slurp.

You groan.

“I can’t feel my legs.”

Cate hums. “You said that already.”

“No but like—really. They’re tingling. My knees are soup. My bones are jelly. I’m fucked.”

Cate reaches out and squeezes your thigh, sweetly. “You’re fine.”

“I’m not fine. I’m unwell. I’m spiritually compromised.”

You groan again, dramatically, dragging a hand down your face.

Cate smirks, raising a brow in amusement. “So what—you’re just gonna sit here until your soul reattaches to your body?”

You blink at her. Slow. Wide-eyed.

Then she says it.

Voice all soft, mock-serious, the smirk already forming:

“…My legs are trembling. I can’t possibly drive any further.”

Cate narrows her eyes.

You shift in your seat, twisting toward the backseat. “Tragic, really. Guess we’ll just have to make do.”

Cate stares. “Make do.”

You’re already crawling back there.

“I’m literally still recovering,” you add, tossing a hoodie across the seat like it’s a mattress. “I think I need some help. Possibly a ride.”

Cate scoffs, heat already pooling low in her stomach. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You said you weren’t done with me,” you purr, now reclining across the backseat like a martyr, legs spread, hoodie under your head like a pillow. “Well, come on then. Do your worst.”

Cate shuts the glovebox. Unclips her seatbelt.

And climbs into the backseat.

With the slow, terrible grace of someone who knows exactly what she’s capable of.

She kneels over your lap, palms braced on either side of your shoulders, eyes flickering down to where you’re already half-hard again, breath shallow. The backseat isn’t built for this—too narrow, too cramped, too visible—but that only makes Cate smile harder.

“Oh, baby,” Cate murmurs. “You sure you can handle me twice in one night?”

You grin.

“You know I can, Dunlap.”

You stretch out. Jeans shimmed halfway down your thighs, spare hoodie bunched beneath your head, hair damp with sweat. You’re panting already, pupils blown wide, thighs parted like you’re begging—like you want Cate to take you apart.

Cate hovers above you, calm and collected. Rolls her sleeves up slow, like she’s clocking in for overtime. Like this is business.

Then, still holding eye contact, she reaches down. Unbuttons her jeans. Slides them down her legs inch by inch, deliberate and unhurried, until they’re bunched at her knees and kicked aside without a word. Her panties are still on—barely. But it’s enough to make you whimper as Cate straddles you.

She grinds down once, slow.

You gasp—head snapping back, hips bucking, voice rough with desperation: “God yes—you’re perfect—fuck, I love you—”

Cate smiles. Sharp. Sweet. Devastating.

“Oh?” she purrs, grinding again, this time meaner, dragging her hips down slow and steady while her hands pin your wrists above your head. “You love me now?”

You’re panting like a prayer as the soaked fabric of Cate’s panties drags agonizingly slow over your cock. “I’ve always loved you. Fuck.”

Cate leans in, teeth grazing your throat. “Say it again.”

“I love you.”

Cate reaches between you to tug her panties to the side and sinks herself down onto you with one swift motion. You try to muffle the sound—bite your lip, clench your teeth, something—but it still escapes you, a low, wrecked moan that fills the car like a confession.

The movements are harder now, rough and rhythmically cruel, as Cate uses the whole length of her body to ride. To claim. To break.

You shudder. Try to buck up, try to meet her rhythm, but Cate holds you down. Hands pressing into your chest, your shoulders, your hips. No escape.

“I said,” Cate growls, voice low and perfect and terrifying, “say it again.”

“I love you,” you gasp. “I love you—fuck, baby—”

“Louder.”

“I fucking LOVE YOU—”

Cate’s nails dig into your hips. She keeps moving—relentless, hips working in long, brutal strokes until you’re trembling, lip bitten raw, whole body thrashing beneath her.

And the sounds—the obscene slap of skin on skin, the fogged windows, the whimpering—it's all too much.

You grab at her—shoulders, thighs, anything you can reach—but Cate’s pace doesn’t change. She’s focused. Possessed. Riding like she’s got something to prove.

Like this is penance.

Like she owns you.

And you? You let her.

Let her take everything. Let Cate fuck you dumb. You’re whispering between gasps, voice shredded: “Please—please—don’t stop—need you so bad—I’m yours—yours—yours—”

Cate grabs your face.

Forces you to look her in the eye.

Then rides you through it—right to the edge, right to the trembling, shattered finish line—until you’re gasping, crying out, choking on your own breath as you fall apart for her again. And Cate just keeps going.

Because she can.

Because you love it.

Because Cate Dunlap doesn’t fuck around when she’s in charge.

And by the time you finally collapse—blissed-out and ruined, heart pounding against your chest, eyes unfocused—Cate is glowing.

Breathless. Proud. Possessive.

Cate leans in, presses a kiss to your collarbone.

Then whispers, smug as ever:

“Now that’s how you shut a butch up.”

For a moment, there’s only the sound of your joint breathing—shallow, shaky, uneven. Cate doesn’t move. Just stays there, pulsing with afterglow and pride, her hands braced on your chest, her body still slick with effort.

You’ve gone pliant beneath her. Eyes closed. Arms limp. Mouth parted like you’re still trying to remember how air works.

The windows are fogged straight to hell.

Cate’s still straddling you, but the motion’s long since stopped—her hips slowing, softening, until she’s just there, settled warm over your stomach, watching her girlfriend come back to earth in real time.

You’ve got one arm flung over your face, mouth slack, hair sticking to your forehead. Your chest rises and falls in heavy, uneven waves. You look wrecked—not just fucked out, but rebooting. Like someone shook your soul loose and you’re still waiting for it to settle back into place.

Cate leans down and kisses you once, feather-light, then pats your chest.

“Good girl,” she whispers.

You make a sound—not even a real word. Just a whimpering, hoarse little sigh of surrender.

Cate giggles.

And with the kind of catlike grace that should be illegal post-orgasm, she slowly climbs off, pulls her jeans back on, and shimmies up to the front seat.

You watch her go, dazed and still spread eagle across the backseat like an abandoned doll.

Cate flips the visor down. Smooths her hair. Reapplies her lip gloss with the precision of a sniper. She’s glowing. Effortless. Like she just stepped out of a spa instead of riding her girlfriend to apocalyptic ruin in a parking lot.

You groan into the hoodie beneath you. “How the fuck do you recover so fast.”

Cate clicks the lip gloss shut. “Hydration. Good posture. Ruthless efficiency.”

“You’re a demon.”

Cate turns slightly, admiring her reflection in the rearview mirror. “I prefer the term succubus.”

You groan again, dragging both hands over your face. “I’m still gonna haunt you for this.”

Cate raises an eyebrow. “Is that a threat, or a promise?”

You just glare. But it’s half-hearted at best.

Cate finishes fixing her hair, then reaches over and drops a fresh napkin onto your bare stomach like a blessing.

“Clean yourself up, sweetheart. I’m taking us to McDonald’s.”

You blink up at her.

“You mean drive-thru, right?”

Cate smiles.

“No, I mean I’m walking in there looking like a dewy little angel while you limp behind me like a lesbian scarecrow. Let’s go.”

They make it to the McDonald’s fifteen minutes later.

Cate’s the one driving now—of course she is. She’s fully recovered, sitting upright, hair re-clipped, lip gloss flawless, humming along to the radio like she didn’t just commit a sex felony in a public parking lot.

You, by contrast, look wrecked.

You’re curled into the passenger seat with your hoodie pulled over your head like a shroud. One sock is missing. Your jeans are still unzipped. There’s a faint red flush continuing to work its way down your neck, and every time the car hits a bump, you lets out a quiet, involuntary “fuck” like a ghost being exorcised.

Cate glances over at you. Smiles sweetly.

“How you doin’, sunshine?”

You groan. “I need ice cream.”

Cate arches a brow. “Oh?”

“A McFlurry,” you mutter. “Please. I deserve one. You owe me one.”

Cate bites back a laugh. “I owe you?”

“You assaulted me with your pussy.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“I’m begging you. M&M. Extra M.”

Cate smirks, turning into the drive-thru. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m dying.”

The speaker crackles.

“Hi, welcome to McDonald’s. What can I get for you?”

Cate leans casually out the window, eyes still locked on your glassy, half-lidded stare. “Hi! Can I get a large fry, six-piece nugget, and a regular Coke?”

You tug at her sleeve. “Cate.”

Cate glances at you. “And a small water.”

You practically screech. “CATE.”

The speaker is silent for a beat.

“Would you like anything else?” the employee asks warily.

Cate sighs, dramatically. “Fine. And one M&M McFlurry for the whimpering pile of post-coital rubble next to me.”

There’s another pause.

“…I’m sorry, what size?”

“Large,” you croak from the passenger seat. “Please. Please. I’m going to pass away.”

Cate hands over her card at the window. Taps her fingers on the door. “You know, this is the second time tonight you’ve said you were gonna die. Should I be worried?”

“I saw God and she had your face.”

Cate beams.

“I know.”

They pull forward. The poor teen at the next window does a double take when he sees the pair of you—Cate glowing like she just walked out of a Lush commercial, and you. A crumpled tangle of limbs and regret in the passenger seat, looking like you need a trauma blanket and an exorcism.

“Uh,” the cashier says, handing over the Coke, “you okay, man?”

You grab the McFlurry like it’s holy communion. “No.”

Cate sips her drink. “She’ll live.”

You moan into the spoon on the first bite, eyes fluttering shut. “I don’t deserve you.”

Cate hums. “Correct.”

The two of you park in the corner of the lot.

Not far from the building, just enough to be out of sight. Cate flicks the engine off and turns in her seat, legs tucked up, fry box resting in her lap like a prize. You’re still unraveling, slowly peeling back your hoodie like you’re emerging from hibernation.

“You look like you just survived a natural disaster,” Cate says, taking a fry.

You blink at her with red-rimmed eyes. “You were the natural disaster.”

Cate pops the fry in her mouth. “Aw. Flattery.”

You flop toward her like a corpse. “I need comfort.”

“Oh, now you want comfort?”

“You rode me to death. I deserve softness.”

Cate considers it. Then opens her arms.

You immediately crawl over the console—knees catching on the cupholders, limbs a mess—until you’re draped across Cate’s lap with a sigh like a dying Victorian widow. Your face buries into Cate’s stomach.

Cate smiles.

Runs her fingers gently through your sweat-damp hair, brushing it back off your forehead. “You really are so dramatic.”

“M’legs don’t work.”

“You’ll recover.”

Cate picks up a fry and holds it in front of your mouth.

“Say ‘ah.’”

You groan. “You’re insufferable.”

Cate wiggles the fry. “Open up, sweet girl.”

You grumble, but open your mouth anyway. Cate feeds you, smug and satisfied.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you mutter around the bite.

“I literally brought you back to life. You’re welcome.”

“I think I should sue.”

Cate pats your cheek. “You moaned my name like a dying prayer. That holds up in court.”

You hide your face in Cate’s lap, groaning.

Cate giggles. Twirls a strand of hair around her finger. “Okay, okay. Do you want to finish your McFlurry?”

A hand weakly emerges from her thigh. “Yes please.”

Cate hands it over, resting it carefully in front of you. You scarf it down like a child with a fever.

You sit like that for a while—windows cracked, soft music from the radio drifting around you, city lights painting faint halos in the windshield. Cate strokes your hair. You breathe in sync with her. The air smells like salt and sugar and sweat.

“Cate,” you murmur after a few minutes. “I really do love you.”

Cate looks down. Kisses your temple.

“I know.”

Cate knew better than to act out. But that was half the point.

She'd felt it brewing all day—the restless ache under her skin, the twitchy agitation that never settled unless you were touching her, praising her, filling her. The kind of bratty need that made her fidget during lectures, sigh too loudly in the library, and snap at waiters for no good reason. you called it her “bad bunny mood.” Cate called it being chronically underfucked.

And tonight? She wanted to be caught.

So she dressed deliberately. The pink silk set—the one you always ruined first. Lace-soft and barely-there, it clung to her hips and cupped her tits just enough to look obscene. She spent twenty minutes curling her hair, touching up her gloss, and perfecting the innocent doe-eyed look she’d pretend wasn’t calculated.

Then came the accessories.

The collar clicked shut with a quiet finality. Gold hardware, buttery leather, engraved tag. Her name, her role, her claim.

Cate looked at herself in the mirror. Tilted her head. Smirked.

She added the bunny ears last.

By the time you walked in, Cate was already wet.

And now, with her legs parted and your hand curled around her throat, she could barely keep up the act. Everything inside her had gone soft and starved.

“Poor thing,” you murmured against her skin. “So desperate to get my attention.”

Cate bit back a whimper. Her pride flickered—bright, petulant, brief. “You should’ve given it to me sooner.”

You chuckled darkly and dragged your thumb across Cate’s lower lip. “No. You like it better like this.”

She did.

She really, really did.

Cate melted into the kiss when it came—rough and claiming, teeth knocking and breath shared. You kissed like you wanted to own her from the inside out. And Cate let you. Opened her mouth, arched her back, ground down into the hard ridge pressed against her cunt with a breathless moan.

God. She was already so wet she could feel it dripping onto your thigh.

“Look at you,” you growled, pushing the lingerie to the side with impatient fingers. “You’re soaked. Did my little bunny get off on the idea of being punished?”

Cate nodded, flushed and squirming. “I made a mess on the rug waiting for you.”

Your eyes darkened. “That rug’s handmade, baby.”

Cate grinned. “So punish me.”

Cate trembled where she knelt—hands bound behind her back in soft pink cuffs, her cheek pressed to the plush white carpet that would definitely smell like sex tomorrow. Her legs were spread wide, tail plug snug and teasing at the base of her spine, lingerie askew and soaked.

She should’ve been embarrassed.

Instead, she felt perfect.

You hadn’t touched her properly yet.

That was the punishment. Not the cuffs. Not the waiting. Not even the spanking she knew was coming. No—the punishment was the silence.

You knelt behind her like a predator. Calm. Unhurried. Fingers tracing lazy circles across Cate’s ass, dipping low and brushing—just barely—against her slick, swollen folds. Enough to make her whimper. Never enough to satisfy.

“Do you know how pretty you look like this?” you murmured. “Rug-burned knees. Dripping like a bitch in heat. All dolled up for me.”

Cate swallowed a moan. “Then fuck me already.”

A sharp smack echoed through the room. Cate gasped as the impact burned hot across her ass.

“What was that?” your voice was like smoke—soft, slow, and dangerous.

Cate blinked fast. “Please. I meant please.”

“Better.”

Another slap. Then a third. Cate rocked forward with each one, tits dragging against the carpet, her body shuddering with need. The tail plug bounced lightly between her cheeks, a humiliating reminder of how deep into this she already was.

And you weren't done.

A finger—just one—slid along Cate’s folds, gathering the mess she’d already made. Cate tried to lean into the touch, but you pulled away instantly, hand gripping her hip to keep her still.

“Not yet, bunny. You’ll take what I give you. When I give it.”

Cate’s whole body spasmed. “Yes, Daddy.”

You leaned forward then, breath ghosting hot against Cate’s ear. “Tell me what you did wrong.”

Cate whimpered, blinking through the haze. “I played without permission.”

“That’s right. And?”

“I came without you.”

You tutted, dragging your nails gently down Cate’s spine. “Naughty little thing. Did you rub that pretty pussy against the pillow while I was gone?”

Cate hesitated.

Smack.

She gasped. “Yes!”

“Did you wear your tail and ears just so I’d have to punish you?”

“Yes. Yes, Daddy. Please—please, I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I swear—”

You laughed—low and amused and far too calm. You reached between Cate’s thighs again and pushed two fingers into her, slow but unrelenting. Cate cried out, mouth falling open against the carpet, her walls clenching down with helpless need.

But you didn’t move.

Just let them sit there. Buried deep. Waiting.

Cate sobbed softly. “Please—please move—please, I need—”

“You’ll cum on my fingers when I say,” you said flatly. “Not before.”

You began to thrust. Shallow at first. Deliberate. Your other hand reached under Cate’s body to toy with her clit, slow little circles that made Cate see stars.

Cate was unraveling. Moaning. Grinding down. Her arms twisted in the cuffs behind her back, thighs trembling. She could barely keep upright.

Every touch was orchestrated. You never gave her enough to fall over the edge. Just enough to hover—to ache.

“You wanted to be reminded who owns this cunt?” you growled, fucking her faster now. “You wanted to act out like a little whore, so I’d come home and break you open?”

Cate sobbed again, choking on her own moans. “Yes—fuck, yes—please, please, I’m yours, I’m—”

“Say it.”

“I’m yours. I’m your bunny. I’m your slut, Daddy—please let me cum—”

Another finger joined the first two. Cate screamed.

“That’s it,” you hissed, pounding into her with ruthless precision. “Take it. Take everything I give you. Don’t you dare hold back.”

Cate’s orgasm hit like a grenade. Her back arched, her knees gave out, and her vision went white. She screamed her release into the carpet, shaking so violently she nearly collapsed onto her side. Her cuffs twisted awkwardly, her whole body twitching with aftershocks.

You didn’t stop.

Even as Cate sobbed through it, your fingers kept working her—relentless, demanding, making sure she knew who she belonged to.

It was only when Cate whimpered, raw and broken—“No more, Daddy, please, it’s too much”—that you finally eased up.

Gently now, you slid your fingers out. Kissed the marks you’d left across Cate’s hips. Released the cuffs.

“Shhh,” you whispered. “You did so good. So, so good for me. My perfect bunny.”

Cate collapsed into your arms, boneless and breathless, still sniffling.

And you held her. Wiped her tears. Kissed her forehead.

There was a reverence to it—this quiet aftermath. This hush of worship and recovery.

Cate buried her face into your neck and whispered, “I love being your bunny.”

You kissed her temple and murmured, “You were made for it.”

Cate’s still panting when you lift her gently off the carpet and settle her on trembling knees. Her arms fall limp around your neck as she clings, a limp little doll in pink silk, her thighs soaked and her ears lopsided from all the shaking.

You brush damp hair off her flushed face and smile.

“You okay, baby?”

Cate lets out a pathetic, breathy moan. “No.”

That makes you chuckle. “No?”

Cate shakes her head. Her lips brush your ear, voice breaking like a prayer. “I need your cock. Please. I—I want it so bad.”

You still.

Cate looks up, eyes glassy and pleading, her voice barely a whisper. “I want to be filled, Daddy. Want you to fuck me until I cry.”

Oh, that does it.

You kiss her, filthy and possessive, and then stand—carrying Cate like she weighs nothing, dropping her down onto the bed and pushing her thighs apart.

Cate gasps when she sees you. Cock flushed, thick, already leaking for her. God. You’re so hard.

You don't waste time.

You grab Cate’s ankles and haul her down the bed until her ass is right at the edge, tail plug still in, cunt twitching and needy. Cate’s whining now, hands reaching, back arching, already trying to rock against air.

“You really want it?” you ask, stroking yourself slowly.

Cate’s nodding like a madwoman. “Yes, yes, yes, please, Daddy—need your cock, need it in me, wanna be your fucktoy—”

You press the head against her soaked entrance. “Then say it. Say what you are.”

Cate’s moan breaks on the words.

“I’m your bunny. Your toy. Your slut. Your—your hole, Daddy, please—fuck me—”

Cate sobs when you push inside her—no resistance, no hesitation, just the smooth, perfect slide of your cock stretching her open. She was still trembling from her last orgasm, cunt slick and oversensitive, her body already fucked loose by your fingers.

But this—this was what she needed.

“F-fuck,” she gasps, clutching at the sheets, thighs twitching as you sink all the way in. Your hips pressed flush to Cate’s, the base of your cock grinding against Cate’s soaked folds.

Cate was already full. Too full. But not nearly enough.

You didn’t move. Not at first.

Just held her there, impaled on your cock, panting like you were trying to memorize the way Cate felt around you.

Cate squirmed. Whimpered. “Daddy…”

You leaned over her, hand sliding to Cate’s throat, thumb stroking lightly over her collar.

“Say it again.”

Cate’s whole body shivered. “I’m your bunny.”

“Who do you belong to?”

“You,” she breathed. “I belong to you.”

“That’s right.”

And then you moved.

One smooth pull-back, then a brutal thrust forward that made Cate cry out—a broken, high-pitched sound that echoed off the walls. She clawed at the sheets, back arching, eyes fluttering shut as you started to fuck her in earnest.

Hard. Deep. Possessive.

Each stroke punched a moan out of her lungs, her whole body rocking with every thrust. Her ears slipped sideways, her collar jingled, and her tail plug shifted with every bounce of her hips.

She was ruined. Feral. Gone.

“Look at you,” you growled, voice ragged. “My perfect little hole. You’re fucking made for this.”

Cate moaned something unintelligible, hands fisting in the bedding as her thighs spread wider. “So good—fuck—so big, Daddy—can feel you everywhere—”

You slapped her thigh. “Keep it open, baby. Let me see how pretty you take it.”

Cate obeyed instantly, hips tilting up, desperate to give you everything.

She was already close again. She could feel it—building low in her stomach, coiling tight. The friction of your cock. The slick slap of their bodies. The low, filthy sounds you made when Cate clenched around you just right.

“You’re gonna cum again, aren’t you?” you whispered, licking a stripe up Cate’s neck. “That greedy cunt’s twitching already.”

Cate nodded frantically. “Please—I can’t—I need—fuck, Daddy, please let me—”

“Cum for me,” you growled. “Cream all over my cock, bunny.”

Cate shattered.

Her orgasm hit like a tidal wave—violent and overwhelming, her whole body locking up as she screamed your name. Her thighs convulsed, her cunt clenching down around your cock like it didn’t want to let go, her hands flailing for something to hold.

You didn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop.

“Good girl,” you murmured, still fucking her through it. “God, you’re perfect. Look at you soaking the sheets.”

Cate was crying now. Actual tears. Her lip trembled, her body limp beneath the onslaught, but her voice was still begging.

“More,” she whispered. “Please—don’t stop, don’t stop, I can take it—”

You groaned, pulling her up into your lap without pulling out. Cate whimpered, legs falling open across your thighs as she was manhandled into a new position—straddling you now, face to face, your thick cock still buried to the hilt.

Cate sobbed again, arms looping around your neck.

“I’ve got you,” you said, soft now. “Ride it, baby. Show me how much you love my cock.”

Cate obeyed.

She bounced weakly at first, crying into your shoulder, her slick thighs slapping wetly against your lap. The friction was heaven. The way the angle changed—the way she could grind her clit against your skin, the way she could rock back on that perfect, merciless cock—it was too much.

It wasn’t enough.

Your hands gripped her hips, guiding her. Setting the pace. Pushing her down harder with each bounce.

Cate was wailing. Babbling nonsense.

“Too good—can’t—can’t stop—need it, need it so bad—Daddy, I love your cock, please, fuck me forever—”

You kissed her hard. Bit her lower lip. Tugged on her bunny ears.

“You’re not gonna be able to walk after this,” you warned.

Cate moaned, bouncing faster. “Don’t care.”

“You’re gonna make a mess.”

“I wanna make a mess—wanna ruin your cock, wanna ruin the sheets—wanna ruin me—”

You grabbed her by the throat again, tilting her head back. Your other hand reached down between your bodies and rubbed quick, tight circles against Cate’s clit.

It sent her spiraling.

She came again, for the third time, her whole body seizing in your arms. She screamed herself hoarse, legs spasming, cunt clenching so hard she nearly pushed your cock out.

You held her through it. Rocked her. Kissed her hair.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered. “You’re mine.”

Cate collapsed against you, twitching and gasping, her thighs slick and trembling, her cunt fluttering around the still-throbbing cock inside her.

You stayed like that for a moment—pressed together, breathing hard.

Then you eased her down onto the pillows. Pulled out slow, watching the way Cate’s folds clung to your cock, how her slick dripped down to the base. You left her tail plug in.

Just for fun.

Cate blinked slowly, dazed. Her voice was barely a whisper.

“Did I do good?”

You smiled. Crawled up beside her and kissed her cheek. “You were perfect, bunny.”

Cate let out a soft whimper and curled into her chest.

“I wanna do it again.”

You laughed, brushing damp hair off her forehead. “Tomorrow.”

Cate pouted.

But her eyes were already fluttering shut. Her body was boneless. Her ears were crushed under her cheek. She looked wrecked. Fucked-out. Owned.

You kissed her temple again. “Daddy’s not going anywhere.”

Cate sighed, half-asleep already.

“Mine,” she mumbled.

And you just whispered back:

“Always.”

Cate was quiet after.

That was how you always knew she’d gotten what she needed. Not from the moaning, or the begging, or even the trembling sobs when she came. But the silence. The soft, floaty hush that filled her chest like cotton.

Cate in subspace was a different creature altogether.

She blinked slow. Moved slower. No sass. No brattiness. Just sleepy obedience, every bone in her body humming with contentment.

“Drink,” you said, holding out a bottle of water.

Cate took it wordlessly, still curled on her side in the wreck of your bed, her skin flushed and shimmering, inner thighs sticky and pink. Her collar had been loosened; her cuffs lay discarded on the floor. But her ears were still on. And her tail was still in.

You watched her drink. Could tell Cate was already slipping into what you called nesting mode—the rare, soft haze that came after you had properly wrecked her. When Cate stopped trying to act like a spoiled brat and just became your bunny.

Sure enough, as soon as she finished drinking, Cate rolled slowly off the bed and onto the floor with a soft flop.

You raised a brow. “What’re you doing, baby?”

Cate didn’t answer. She crawled—on hands and knees, naked but for her ears and tail—toward the corner of the room, where the laundry pile had spilled out of the basket hours ago. You watched, fascinated, as Cate began tugging items out with single-minded focus.

Your hoodie. A throw blanket. One of your old t-shirts. A pair of soft flannel pajama pants.

Cate dragged them all into a messy pile. Then, still silent, she curled up in the middle of it—knees tucked in, head resting on the hoodie like it was a pillow, tail peeking out behind her.

You stood at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, watching her.

“You nesting again?”

Cate let out a soft little hum.

“Baby…”

“I need it,” Cate mumbled, finally speaking. “I need a safe spot. For bunny mode.”

You smiled despite yourself. This wasn’t new. The nest was a thing. It happened every time Cate got absolutely wrecked. She never wanted to sleep in the bed. She wanted the nest—a soft little cocoon of your scent and warmth where she could disappear into submission and feel held even when you weren’t touching her.

You stepped closer and crouched down beside her. Cate blinked up at you, eyes glassy and half-lidded.

“Are you okay?”

Cate nodded slowly. “Mmhm. Just…need you nearby. While I finish making it.”

You ran your fingers gently through Cate’s hair, brushing it behind her ear. “It’s kind of a mess, sweetheart.”

Cate pouted. “It’s a process. I’m still gathering materials.”

You snorted. “You sound like a cartoon squirrel.”

“Shut up,” Cate mumbled, tugging one of your hoodies tighter around her. “Bunnies need nests too.”

You chuckled and stood up. “Hang on.”

You disappeared for a moment, and Cate could hear drawers opening. When you returned, you dropped an armful of soft things into Cate’s lap—a second hoodie, a plush blanket from the couch, and one of your favorite oversized t-shirts.

Cate lit up like a child on Christmas morning. “Oh my god. Daddy, this is premium nesting material.”

You laughed. “Only the best for my bunny.”

Cate immediately began rearranging, piling the shirts and hoodies into a donut shape and fluffing the blanket around her like a shell. She grunted softly when something slipped out of place, her brows furrowed in intense concentration.

You sat back on the bed and just watched, legs dangling over the edge.

“You know, you could just get in the bed.”

Cate made a noise. A very specific, whiny, outraged bunny noise.

You raised both hands. “Okay, okay. I forgot. Nests are sacred.”

Cate sighed dramatically. “They are.”

You tilted your head. “You want company in there?”

Cate looked up, hopeful. “Will you fit?”

“I can try.”

Cate giggled through the process of you carefully wedging yourself into the nest beside her—Cate yelping every time a hoodie was displaced, or a blanket lost structural integrity. Eventually, you ended up spooning in the middle of it, Cate curled tightly into your chest, her legs tangled between yours, her ears twitching softly with every movement.

You wrapped an arm around her waist. “Better?”

Cate hummed. “Perfect.”

They laid there in warm, hazy silence.

Cate felt weightless. Boneless. Her brain was still quiet, floating in that golden subspace where everything felt soft and safe and perfect. Your scent was everywhere. Your warmth. Your hands. Your heartbeat.

Cate nuzzled closer, burrowing under your chin.

“I like it when you let me be bunny for real,” she whispered.

You smiled, kissing her temple. “You are my bunny. Always.”

Cate exhaled, slow and deep.

“Even when I’m bratty?”

“Especially when you’re bratty.”

Cate giggled, sleepy and sweet. “You’re a really good Daddy.”

You brushed her thumb over Cate’s collar. “You’re a really good bunny.”

Cate smiled, eyes already falling shut.

“I’m gonna make a better nest next time,” she mumbled. “I think I need more of your shirts. And maybe a stuffed animal.”

You grinned into her hair. “Noted.”

“Maybe one that looks like you.”

You snorted. “A stuffed me?”

Cate yawned. “Mhm. So I don’t miss you when you leave for work.”

Your chest went tight.

You held her closer.

“You’re not gonna need a stuffed anything,” you said. “You’ve got me.”

Cate didn’t answer. She was already asleep—ears askew, tail nestled against your thigh, fingers curled loosely in the hem of your t-shirt.

You stayed awake a while longer.

Watching her.

Petting her hair.

Guarding the nest.