#maeve

She’s wearing nothing but a red silk robe, deep and glossy like spilled wine, and it’s tied so loosely that it might as well not be tied at all. The robe hangs open down the center of her body, showing the full, heavy curve of her boobs and the relaxed confidence of someone who knows exactly how hard she is to look away from.

Her nipples are visible in the warm light, her skin marked here and there with faint bruises from a fight she’s already forgotten about, because Maeve collects damage like it’s nothing. Her stomach’s strong and smooth, shadowed where the silk falls aside, every line of her body softened by the gold glow from the lamps.

Lower, the robe parts around her hips, exposing the dark, neatly trimmed bush between her thighs in a way that feels careless and deliberate at the same time. Her bare legs stretch out in front of her, long and powerful, one knee bent just enough to make the robe slip higher.

But it’s her thighs you can’t stop staring at, thick and strong and spread with lazy arrogance, like she already knows you’re thinking about climbing onto one.

You’re standing near the end of the bed in the lingerie she picked out weeks ago, the set she once said made you look too pretty to behave. It’s black lace with tiny gold details, delicate enough to look expensive and sheer enough to feel like a dare.

The bra barely hides anything, cupping your boobs in a way that makes Maeve’s eyes drag over you slowly, like she’s taking inventory of what belongs to her tonight. The garter straps sit high on your thighs, clipped to stockings that make your legs feel longer, softer, more exposed under her attention.

The panties are the worst part, or the best part, depending on how honest you’re willing to be. They’re crotchless, lace framing you instead of covering you, leaving you open beneath the pretty little illusion of being dressed.

Maeve notices, of course she notices, and the corner of her mouth twitches like she’s proud of you for wearing them without needing to be told twice.

For a while, neither of you says anything, because the silence between you has always been part of the game. Maeve’s older, more experienced, and far too practiced at acting like nothing touches her, while you’re still soft in places she pretends not to adore.

That difference used to make you nervous, not because she ever made you feel small, but because she carried herself like someone who’d already survived every mistake you were still learning how to make. She never rushed you, though, not once, even when her eyes went dark or her hand settled too low on your back in crowded elevators.

“You’re staring again,” she says now, voice low and amused, her thumb brushing along the armrest. You lift your chin, trying to look braver than you feel, and say, “You’re sitting there like you want me to.” Maeve’s smile is slow, wicked, and unbearably fond as she answers, “Maybe I do.”

You try to keep your eyes on her face after that, but it’s almost impossible when she’s sitting like that. Her robe slips another inch when she shifts, one thigh flexing beneath the silk, muscle moving under skin in a way that makes your mouth go dry.

She watches your gaze drop, watches it stay there, and doesn’t call you out right away. The pause is crueller than teasing, thick with heat and the soft hum of the city beyond the glass. You can feel yourself getting wet, embarrassingly aware of the way the open panties leave nothing to hide behind.

Maeve’s eyes flick down like she knows, like she can see every tiny reaction your body gives her before you’ve even admitted it to yourself. “Still shy after all this?” she asks, and your breath catches when she adds, “Cute.”

Your face burns, but you don’t look away this time. There’s no point pretending when your eyes are glued to the inside of her thighs, to the heavy ease of her body, to the dark hair between her legs and the robe slipping open around it.

Maeve laughs under her breath, low and rough, the kind of sound that lands straight between your legs. She lifts one hand and trails her fingers over her own thigh, not touching herself, just drawing your attention exactly where she wants it.

The movement’s slow, almost lazy, but your whole body reacts like she’s put her hands on you instead. “You always get quiet when you want something,” she says, eyes narrowed with amusement. You swallow hard, because the answer sits hot on your tongue, and all you manage is, “I want you.”

Something in Maeve’s expression softens before it sharpens again, like your honesty hits her somewhere deeper than she planned. She uncrosses her ankles and lets both feet settle flat against the floor, her robe falling open even more with the shift.

It should feel obscene, the way she lets you see so much of her, but on Maeve it feels like trust dressed up as arrogance.

Her boobs rise and fall with one slow breath, her nipples hardening slightly in the cool air of the suite, and her gaze stays fixed on you the entire time. You know she sees the way your thighs press together, the way your fingers twitch at your sides, the way your breathing keeps catching no matter how still you try to be.

“Come here, then,” she says, quieter now, almost gentle under the command. When you hesitate, she tilts her head and adds, “I’m not going to make you ask twice, sweetheart, but I do want to hear you ask once.”

You take one step closer, then another, each movement slow because the want feels bigger when you don’t rush it. “Maeve,” you whisper, and she hums like she loves the sound of her name in your mouth more than she’ll ever admit.

Her legs bracket the space in front of the chair, strong and inviting, and your attention keeps dropping back to them no matter how many times you try to be subtle. “Use your words,” she says, her hand lifting to your hip when you finally get close enough to touch.

You breathe in, shaky and hot, the crotchless lace making you feel obscene under her gaze as you say, “I want to ride your thigh.” Maeve’s fingers tighten just enough to pull you forward, guiding you over her bare leg until the heat of you brushes against her skin.

Then she flexes her thigh under you and smiles like a queen, murmuring, “Good girl, since you couldn’t stop staring at your throne, you might as well sit on it.”

You move before your bravery can run out, each step toward Maeve feeling slower than it should because she’s watching you like there’s nowhere in the world she’d rather look. The carpet’s soft beneath your bare feet, plush enough to make the suite feel quieter, warmer, sealed away from the city glittering behind her.

Your thighs brush together as you walk, and the smallest bit of friction makes your breath catch before you can hide it. The crotchless panties don’t protect you from anything, not from the air, not from Maeve’s stare, not from the way your own arousal has started to gather hot and obvious between your legs.

You know you’re wet, not just a little, not in a way you can pretend away with nervous laughter or a shift of your hips. Maeve knows it too, and from her chair, she’s thinking you look almost painfully pretty like this, all lace and nerves and open want. She keeps her face calm, but there’s heat gathering low in her stomach, sharp enough to make her thighs tense beneath the red silk robe.

Maeve doesn’t even try to hide the way her eyes drop. They move slowly, deliberately, from your face to your chest, over the black lace cupping your boobs, down the soft line of your stomach, then lower. Her gaze catches exactly where you knew it would, and the heat in your cheeks gets so bad you almost stop walking.

She sees the slick shine between your thighs, the way your pussy’s already wet enough to make the crotchless lace feel obscene, the way your body’s betrayed you before she’s even touched you properly. “Look at you,” she says, voice lower now, rough around the edges in a way that makes your knees feel weak.

Maeve’s thinking about how easy it would be to pull you down, how good you’d feel against her thigh, how much she wants to make you ruin that pretty little set she likes so much. “All that staring,” she adds, dragging her thumb over her own thigh, “and you’re already soaked.”

You swallow, but your mouth feels useless, too dry for how wet the rest of you feels. “Maeve,” you whisper, and it comes out softer than you meant it to, more of a plea than a warning. Her eyes lift immediately, dark and amused, and something in her expression sharpens like you’ve made a mistake she’s been waiting to correct.

“No,” she says, calm enough to make your stomach flip. “Try again.” You blink at her, breath catching, and Maeve tilts her head with that lazy, dangerous patience she only uses when she knows she has you cornered.

She’s aroused by the confusion on your face, by how sweetly your lips part, by the way you’re already wet and still somehow shy enough to need reminding. “Not Maeve right now,” she says, thumb still stroking her thigh, “mommy.”

The word hits you so hard your thighs press together without permission. Maeve sees it, of course she does, and the corner of her mouth curves like your body just answered for you. “Mommy,” you whisper, quieter this time, and it sounds so much needier than her name did.

Maeve’s breath changes for half a second, barely noticeable, but you catch it because you’re looking at her like she’s the only thing keeping you upright. From where she’s sitting, she thinks you might be the prettiest thing she’s ever ruined, all soft obedience and trembling heat wrapped in black lace.

It makes her wet too, slowly and insistently, her own arousal building beneath the open robe while she forces herself to stay relaxed in the chair. “Better,” she murmurs, voice rougher now, “come here.”

By the time you’re close enough for her to touch, you can feel the warmth of her body coming off her in slow waves. She doesn’t grab you right away, and somehow that’s worse, because Maeve could pull you in with one hand if she wanted to.

Instead, she lets you come to her, lets you stand between her open legs while her eyes climb back up to your face. Her thighs are right there, strong and bare beneath the parted robe, one of them angled like an invitation you’ve been aching toward since the moment you walked in.

You try not to look again, but you do, of course you do, because her legs are impossible and she knows it. Maeve feels a pulse of satisfaction at that, something possessive and hot, because she likes knowing you want the part of her she’s been showing off all night. “Still thinking about it, sweetheart?” she asks.

You nod before you can make yourself answer properly. The movement makes your hair shift over your shoulder, and Maeve’s gaze follows that too, slow and possessive, like she’s memorizing every nervous little detail. “Say it,” she tells you, one hand finally reaching out to settle on your hip.

Her palm’s warm through the lace at your side, firm enough to remind you how easy it would be for her to guide you exactly where she wants you. You breathe in, but it trembles halfway down, because her thumb has started stroking over the strap at your hip in lazy little passes.

The pressure tugs the panties slightly, making the open fabric frame your wet pussy even more, and Maeve’s thoughts snag on the glossy, needy look of you. “I want your thigh, mommy,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Maeve’s eyes darken at that, and for a moment the whole room narrows down to her hand on your hip and the space between your legs.

“Yeah?” she asks, soft enough that it almost sounds gentle. Her other hand slides up your thigh, stopping just short of where you’re aching, her fingertips brushing the edge of the lace without giving you what you want.

You jerk a little, not enough to move away, just enough for her to feel it. Maeve feels her own body answer, heat pooling low as she imagines your slick spreading over her skin, imagines you losing that careful little composure one grind at a time.

“You’re making a mess already,” she says, and the words make your stomach drop in the best, worst way. You know she’s right, because you can feel yourself slick and exposed, wet enough that sitting on her thigh will leave proof on all that strong bare muscle.

Maeve guides you closer with a slow pull, her fingers pressing into your hip as if she’s deciding exactly how patient she wants to be. You step between her thighs fully, one knee almost brushing the chair, the heat of her bare leg so close it makes your whole body ache.

She looks up at you from under her lashes, red silk slipping wider around her body, her robe open enough that you can see the dark, trimmed hair between her legs and the shameless spread of her thighs.

There’s something devastating about her like this, powerful and half-undone, letting you see the softness beneath all the armor while still making you feel like you’re the one being hunted.

Maeve’s thinking that she wants your mouth, your sounds, the slick little grind of you against her, but most of all she wants to watch you choose it.

Your hands hover for a second before they settle on her shoulders, careful at first, then firmer when she gives you that approving little hum. “There you go,” she murmurs, flexing her thigh beneath you, “sit on mommy’s thigh and make yourself pretty for me.”

Maeve watches you lower yourself onto her thigh, and for one rare second, the room goes quiet inside her head. She’s used to noise, cameras, questions, people wanting pieces of her until there’s nothing left but the part they paid to see.

But this is different, because you’re not looking at the legend or the brand or the woman in gold. You’re looking at her like she’s flesh, heat, want, something real enough to touch. The first slick press of your pussy against her bare thigh makes Maeve’s fingers tighten at your hips before she can stop herself.

You’re so wet that she feels it immediately, warm and glossy, spreading over her skin with the tiniest shake of your body. Maeve’s breath goes shallow, and she thinks, almost viciously, that she wants to see just how messy you can make yourself on her.

She keeps her face composed because she likes watching you unravel first. It’s cruel, maybe, but Maeve’s always had a thing for control, especially when control is the only part of her life that still feels like it belongs to her.

Your hands grip her shoulders, delicate at first, then harder when your hips twitch without permission. She notices that too, notices everything, the tremble in your thighs, the little catch in your breath, the way your mouth opens around a sound you’re trying not to make.

“There,” Maeve murmurs, voice low, her thumb stroking your hip through the lace. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” She feels your wetness smear against her thigh again, and there’s a hot pulse between her own legs that makes her jaw tense.

You nod too quickly, too sweetly, and Maeve’s chest tightens with something dangerously close to affection. She’s always thought you look prettiest when you forget how to pretend, when all that softness spills out of you and leaves you honest.

Tonight, dressed in her favourite lingerie, open and trembling on her thigh, you look like every bad decision she’s ever wanted to make twice. Her robe has slipped farther open, red silk pooling around her waist and sliding off one shoulder, but she barely cares about covering herself.

She wants you to see her too, wants your eyes on her boobs, her stomach, her spread thighs, the trimmed dark hair between them. Maeve wants to be wanted without the cameras, without the script, without someone telling her what that want should look like. When you whisper, “Maeve,” she clicks her tongue softly and tilts your chin up.

“Careful,” she says, and her voice is gentle enough to make the correction worse. She sees your eyes go wide, sees the way your hips stutter against her thigh as if the reminder alone touches something needy inside you.

“What did I tell you to call me?” Maeve asks, letting one hand slide from your chin to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there like a warning. The word comes out of you shaky and small, “Mommy.” Maeve feels it hit her low, filthy and sharp, and she has to fight not to pull you down harder.

“Good girl,” she says, because she knows what that praise does to you, and because she’s starting to need the sound of you reacting to it. Her own arousal is becoming impossible to ignore, slick heat gathering between her thighs beneath the robe, making her feel almost as exposed as you are.

She guides your hips before you can overthink it, hands firm but slow, teaching your body the rhythm she wants. Forward, back, just enough pressure to make your breath break, just enough friction to make your thighs tense around her leg.

Maeve watches the exact moment it starts feeling too good for you to hide, when your lashes flutter and your fingers dig into her shoulders. There’s a shine on her thigh now, proof of you, proof that the lace is useless and your body’s been begging long before your mouth caught up.

She loves it more than she should. It makes something possessive in her purr, ugly and satisfied, because the world gets the performance, but she gets this. She gets you wet and needy on her thigh, whispering mommy like it’s the only name she’s ever had.

Maeve leans back in the chair, not because she’s unaffected, but because she wants a better view. Your body moves over her in tiny, desperate rolls, the crotchless panties framing your pussy while you grind against her bare skin.

She can see the slick glide of you each time your hips move, can feel the heat of it soaking into her thigh, and it makes her swallow a groan. She thinks about putting her mouth on you, about spreading you open with her fingers and tasting exactly how worked up you’ve gotten.

But not yet. Not when you’re making such pretty little noises from something as simple as her thigh. “Look at you,” she says, rougher now, “you’re making such a mess for mommy.”

Your reaction nearly ruins her. You whimper, small and embarrassed, and Maeve feels your hips press down harder like your body’s chasing the praise even while your face burns. She likes that contradiction in you, the shy mouth and the shameless body, the way you try to hide while dripping all over her.

Her hand slips to your lower back and pushes you closer, making the angle meaner, making the friction hit exactly where you need it.

Maeve feels you jolt, and the sound you make drags a low laugh out of her. “There it is,” she murmurs, eyes fixed on your face. “Don’t run from it now, sweetheart.”

Inside, Maeve’s less composed than she looks. She’s wet, aching, and painfully aware of how open her own robe is, how close your knee is to where she wants pressure.

Every little grind of your body against her thigh makes her think about dragging you down between her legs after, letting you see what you’ve done to her too.

She wants your mouth on her, wants your hands shaking against her hips, wants to stop pretending she’s above begging when you know better than anyone that she isn’t. But for now, she keeps you where you are, because watching you use her feels like worship in reverse.

It makes her feel powerful and wanted and soft in a way she’ll deny later if anyone asks. Maeve tightens her grip on your hips, flexes her thigh beneath your soaked pussy, and says, “That’s it, baby, ride it like you mean it.”

The next grind steals the breath right out of your mouth. Maeve’s thigh is firm beneath you, warm and slick now, every slow roll of your hips dragging your bare pussy over hard muscle in a way that makes your whole body tremble.

There’s no fabric to soften it, no barrier to pretend this is anything less than filthy, just your wet cunt sliding over her skin while the ruined lace frames the mess you’re making. The pressure catches your clit each time you move forward, sharp and sweet, enough to make your knees tighten around her leg.

You can feel how wet you’ve made her, how your slick spreads with every desperate little rock, and the knowledge only makes you grind down harder. Maeve watches your face like she’s waiting for the exact moment you stop being embarrassed and start needing it. “There you go,” she says, voice thick with amusement, “look at you using mommy’s thigh like you’ve been thinking about it all night.”

You try to answer her, but the only thing that leaves you is a breathy little sound that makes her fingers dig into your hips. Maeve smiles like she’s won something and pulls you down harder, forcing the pressure right where you need it.

The friction makes your head tip back, your mouth falling open as heat sparks low in your stomach and curls through your thighs. It’s messy and humiliating, the slick slide of your pussy against her bare skin loud enough in the quiet room that you want to hide your face. Maeve doesn’t let you.

She catches your chin with two fingers, dragging your gaze back down to hers while you keep rocking helplessly against her. “Don’t look away,” she tells you, low and mean-soft, “I want to see exactly what my thigh does to that pretty pussy.”

Your hands tighten on her shoulders, fingers curling into warm skin and red silk, but Maeve’s attention shifts lower. Her eyes drop to your chest, to the black lace bra still holding your boobs up so prettily for her, and her mouth curves with intent.

“These have been distracting me,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you, before her hands slide up your sides. She tugs the cups down without any real patience, pulling the lace beneath your boobs until your nipples spill free into the cool air. The sudden exposure makes you gasp, especially when your body jerks and grinds harder against her thigh at the same time.

Maeve notices that too, because of course she does, and her laugh is low enough to make your clit throb. “Sensitive little thing,” she says, brushing her thumbs over both nipples, “you’re leaking all over me and still getting worked up over this?”

Her thumbs circle your nipples slowly at first, almost tender, and somehow that makes it worse. Each pass sends a tight little pulse through you, dragging pleasure from your chest straight down to where you’re grinding, until your body can’t decide which feeling to chase.

You whimper her name, then catch yourself too late, because Maeve’s eyes snap up with that dangerous look. She pinches one nipple just enough to make you jolt. “What was that?” she asks, voice calm, but her hands don’t stop.

Your hips stutter against her thigh, slick and needy, the pressure catching your clit so perfectly that your answer comes out broken. “Mommy,” you breathe, and Maeve’s smile turns satisfied as she says, “Better, baby.”

Then she leans forward and spits directly onto one of your nipples. The sight of it, the feel of it, warm and sudden and obscene, makes your whole body clench so hard you nearly slip against her thigh. Maeve rubs it in with her thumb, spreading it over the tight bud before lowering her mouth to you.

The first pull of her lips around your nipple makes you cry out, your hips bucking down against her leg without permission. She sucks slowly, wet and deliberate, tongue flicking over you while her other hand keeps you steady at the waist.

The sensation is too much layered together, her mouth on your chest, her thigh between your legs, her hands holding you exactly where she wants you. “That’s it,” she murmurs against your skin, “grind on me while I suck on these pretty tits.”

You do exactly what she says because you don’t know how not to. Your hips roll faster, messier, dragging your swollen clit over her slick thigh while her mouth moves from one nipple to the other.

She spits again before sucking the other one into her mouth, and the dirty sound you make feels like it’s dragged out of somewhere deep and helpless.

Maeve groans around you, and the vibration makes your spine arch, pushing your chest closer to her mouth. Your pussy slides against her with a wet, needy rhythm, and you can feel the orgasm starting to build, hotter now, less gentle, tightening every muscle low in your belly.

“Mommy,” you gasp, fingers slipping into her hair before you can stop yourself. Maeve bites lightly at your nipple, just enough to make you shudder, then says, “You’re close, aren’t you?”

You nod too quickly, too desperate to lie, your thighs trembling around hers while your hips keep moving. “Please,” you breathe, and then louder when she doesn’t answer fast enough, “please, mommy, I’m so close.”

Maeve pulls back from your chest, lips wet, eyes dark, your nipples shiny from her mouth and spit. She looks down between your bodies, watching your pussy grind over her thigh, watching the slick smear you’ve left all over her skin.

“Fuck, you’re pretty like this,” she says, voice rough enough to sound almost ruined. Her hands move back to your hips and guide you harder, making each stroke longer, meaner, perfect. “Ask properly,” she says, “tell mommy what you need.”

You’re beyond pride by then, shaking so badly you can barely keep yourself upright. “Please let me cum,” you beg, grinding down hard enough that your clit catches and makes your voice crack. “Please, mommy, please, I’ll be good, I just need to cum on your thigh.”

Maeve’s expression flickers, hunger and affection tangled together, and then she pulls you close enough that her mouth brushes your throat. “Yes,” she says, low against your skin, “cum for me.”

The permission snaps something loose in you instantly, your body locking up as pleasure hits hard and bright, spilling through you in hot waves. Maeve holds you through it, thigh flexed beneath your soaked pussy, whispering, “That’s it, baby, make a mess on mommy, give it all to me.”

Your orgasm leaves you trembling against her, thighs shaking around Maeve’s leg while your pussy keeps pulsing helplessly on her skin. For a few seconds, you can’t do anything except breathe through it, forehead falling against her shoulder as the aftershocks roll through you.

Maeve’s hands stay on your hips, not letting you collapse, not letting you pull away from the wet mess you’ve made on her thigh. You can feel it beneath you, slick and warm, your cunt still pressed against the muscle she kept flexing until you broke for her.

She kisses the side of your neck, slow and almost sweet, except her voice is still rough when she says, “That’s it, baby, breathe for me.” You try, but every little inhale comes out shaky because your clit is still too sensitive,

still rubbing faintly against her every time your body twitches. Maeve laughs softly into your skin and murmurs, “Look at you, came so hard you forgot how to sit up.”

You whine at that, embarrassed, but she only holds you tighter. Her thumb strokes through the slick on your hip where the lace has shifted, and the casual filth of it makes your stomach flutter all over again.

Your bra is still tugged down under your boobs, nipples wet and swollen from her mouth, cool air making them ache after the heat of her tongue.

Maeve pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dragging over your ruined chest, your parted lips, the messy way you’re still perched on her thigh. “Pretty fucking thing,” she says, almost under her breath, like she’s talking to herself and not you.

Then her gaze drops between your bodies, and you follow it before you can stop yourself. Her thigh is shiny with you, a visible smear of arousal spread across her skin, and the sight makes you hide your face against her shoulder with a broken little sound.

“No,” Maeve says, catching your chin before you can disappear fully. Her fingers are firm, not painful, just enough to make you look back down at what you did. “Don’t get shy after soaking my thigh like that.”

Your face burns so badly it feels unfair, but your eyes stay where she wants them, fixed on the glossy mess between your legs. She slides two fingers through it slowly, gathering your slick off her own skin, and your breath catches when she lifts them between you.

“See that?” she asks, voice low and filthy, turning her fingers so the light catches the wet shine. You nod, throat tight, too ruined to pretend you don’t love the way she’s making you look. Maeve’s mouth curves, and she presses those fingers to your lips with a soft, cruel, “Open.”

You do, because there’s no part of you left that wants to disobey her. Her fingers slide onto your tongue, tasting like you and the faint salt of her skin, and the sound she makes when your lips close around them goes straight between your thighs.

You suck them clean slowly, eyes watering from how intensely she’s watching you, how open her robe still is, how her own thighs have shifted wider beneath you. That’s when you notice it properly, the way Maeve’s breathing has changed, the way her stomach tightens, the way she’s wet too.

The red silk has fallen open enough that you can see the dark hair between her legs, and beneath it, the shine of her own arousal glistening where she’s been pretending to be patient. Your mouth goes slack around her fingers. Maeve sees you notice and smiles like she’s been waiting for it.

“Yeah,” she says, withdrawing her fingers from your mouth with a slow drag over your lower lip. “You did that.” The words make your body throb, even through the oversensitivity, even with your orgasm still melting your bones.

She leans back in the chair again, letting the robe fall open wider, giving you a better look because Maeve is never shy when she wants to be wanted. Her cunt is wet, framed by the trimmed dark hair you’d been staring at earlier, and the sight of her aroused because of you makes your head feel light.

You shift on her thigh without meaning to, and the sudden rub against your overstimulated clit makes you gasp. Maeve catches the sound instantly, eyes narrowing with satisfaction. “Still sensitive?” she asks, and when you nod, she hums, “Good.”

Her hands move from your hips to your waist, lifting you just enough to slide you off her thigh and down between her legs. Your knees hit the plush carpet, and the position makes your whole body go hot with want all over again.

Maeve looks unreal above you, robe open, boobs bare, one hand resting on the arm of the chair while the other strokes your cheek. There’s something softer in her face now, but it doesn’t make her any less devastating.

“You wanted to stare so badly,” she says, voice thick, “now do something useful with that pretty mouth.” You lean in before she has to tell you twice, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh first, right where your slick is still drying on her skin. Maeve’s breath catches, and the tiny break in her control makes you feel brave enough to kiss higher.

The closer you get, the more you can smell her arousal, warm and intimate and enough to make your mouth water. You drag your lips along her inner thigh, slow because you want to feel the way her muscles tense under you.

Maeve’s fingers slide into your hair, not forcing you, just holding on like she needs something to ground herself. “Don’t tease too much,” she warns, but there’s a rasp in her voice that tells you she likes it.

You glance up at her from between her legs, and the sight makes her jaw tighten. “Careful,” she says, though her hips shift toward your mouth like she’s betraying herself. You smile against her skin and whisper, “Yes, mommy.”

Maeve groans at that, low and wrecked, and her grip in your hair tightens. The sound gives you permission, or maybe it just ruins your last bit of restraint, because you finally put your mouth on her. The first taste of her makes your eyes flutter, and Maeve’s head tips back against the chair with a sharp exhale.

She’s wet against your tongue, warm and slick, and the moment you lick through her properly, her thighs tense on either side of your head. “Fuck,” she mutters, no polish left in it, no queenly distance, just need. You do it again, slower, greedy now that you know what she sounds like when you get it right.

Maeve feels the orgasm take shape before it fully hits, low and heavy, pulling tight through her stomach while your fingers keep curling inside her. She tries to hold onto the last thread of control, but you’ve got your mouth sealed around her clit and your fingers buried deep enough to make that impossible.

“Fuck, baby,” she breathes, voice cracking in a way that makes your whole body shiver against the carpet. Your eyes flick up to her, wet and eager, and the sight of you looking so ruined while you’re still eating her out sends another brutal wave of heat through her.

You don’t stop, not even when her thighs clamp tighter around your head, not even when her grip in your hair turns rougher. You just moan against her pussy like you want her to use you through it. “That’s it,” she pants, hips lifting into your mouth, “keep going, don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop.”

You whimper your answer into her cunt, the sound muffled and desperate, your fingers moving faster when you feel her start to shake. Maeve’s back arches off the chair, red silk slipping lower around her waist, her boobs rising with each broken breath as the first hard pulse of pleasure tears through her.

Her orgasm hits deep, sudden and messy, forcing a low, wrecked groan out of her chest. She comes against your tongue, soaking your mouth while your fingers keep stroking her through every sharp, trembling wave.

You drink her down eagerly, lips and chin slick, swallowing everything she gives you like you’ve been waiting for it all night. Maeve looks down just in time to see the way your eyes flutter closed when you taste her, and something in her goes almost feral at the devotion of it. “Greedy little thing,” she gasps, voice ruined, “you like mommy’s cum that much?”

You nod without lifting your mouth away from her. It’s clumsy and needy, your lips still pressed to her pussy, tongue dragging through her wet folds to catch every bit of her. “Mhm,” you hum, and the vibration makes Maeve jolt so hard her fingers twist in your hair.

You’re aching again, your own pussy throbbing with every sound she makes, every twitch of her thighs around your head. Without thinking, you start rocking your hips against the carpet, small at first, then more desperate when the pressure sparks through you.

The lingerie digs into your hips, your ruined cunt still oversensitive from riding her thigh earlier, but you can’t stop yourself. Maeve notices almost immediately, because of course she does, and her blown-out eyes sharpen through the haze of her orgasm.

“Oh,” she says, breathless and darkly amused, “look at you.” You freeze for half a second, embarrassed, but your mouth stays on her and your hips betray you by grinding down again.

Maeve’s laugh breaks into a groan when your tongue licks over her clit, too sensitive now, but she doesn’t push you away. Her hand slides from your hair to your cheek, smearing your face with the wetness coating your lips.

“You’re humping the floor while you swallow mommy down?” she asks, voice thick with disbelief and hunger. Your cheeks burn, but the humiliation only makes your pussy clench harder, your hips pressing into the carpet again in a helpless little roll. You pull back just enough to whisper, “Can’t help it, you taste so good.”

Maeve’s eyes shut for a second, like the words hit her harder than your mouth did. “Jesus,” she mutters, dragging in a shaky breath as your fingers slip out of her slowly, coated and glistening.

You immediately bring them to your mouth, cleaning her off your own fingers without being told, and Maeve watches like she’s considering ruining you all over again.

“You’re filthy,” she says, but it sounds like praise. “You’re so fucking filthy for me.” You nod, lips shiny, voice soft and wrecked as you say, “Only for you, mommy.”

Maeve’s stomach tightens again despite how sensitive she is, because you sound too sweet to be saying something that obscene. It makes her want to keep you there until you’re shaking apart beneath her gaze.

You lean back in, unable to resist, and lick her pussy again, slower this time, cleaning the slick from her folds with soft, worshipful strokes. Maeve hisses through her teeth, thighs twitching around you, one hand gripping the armrest hard enough to make it creak.

“Sensitive,” she warns, but her hips still tilt toward your mouth. You glance up at her with your lips pressed to her, and the look in your eyes makes the warning useless. She’s still flushed from coming, still wet and open, trimmed dark hair damp from your mouth, her cunt glistening under the low hotel light.

You lick her again, gentle but greedy, and grind down against the carpet with a broken little moan. “Mommy,” you breathe against her, “you’re making me wet again.”

Maeve’s expression turns sharp, satisfied, almost cruel in its affection. “Again?” she echoes, pushing damp hair back from your forehead so she can see your face properly. “Baby, you never stopped.”

Your breath catches, because she’s right, and because the way she says it makes your hips rut harder against the floor. Maeve watches the movement, watches your body chase friction while your mouth stays devoted between her legs, and her voice drops lower.

“Does licking my pussy turn you on that much?” she asks. You nod quickly, too needy to pretend, and press a kiss to her inner thigh before whispering, “Yes, mommy.” Her thumb strokes your cheek, tender and filthy all at once, as she murmurs, “Then keep going.”

So you do. You lick her clean like you’re starving, swallowing every trace of her while your hips move against the carpet in helpless, needy little rolls. The friction isn’t enough, not really, but it’s something, and something is all your body needs when Maeve’s watching you with that ruined, possessive look.

Every time your clit catches against the pressure, your mouth falters for half a second, and Maeve notices every single time. “Don’t get distracted,” she says, still breathless, still recovering, but somehow fully in control again.

“You wanted to taste me, so taste me.” You whine, nodding, licking back into her with renewed hunger while your thighs tremble behind you. Maeve’s fingers tighten in your hair again, and she smiles down at you like a queen on her throne, whispering, “That’s my good girl.”

“Your good girl,” you agree, voice muffled against Maeve’s pussy, the words soft and ruined as you lick the last of her juices from her folds. Your mouth moves slowly now, tender where you’d been greedy before, dragging your tongue through every slick little place she’s still wet for you.

Maeve’s thighs twitch around your head, her body still too sensitive, but she doesn’t push you away. She watches you from above with flushed cheeks and parted lips, red silk tangled around her hips, sweat shining faintly along her collarbones from how hard she came.

There’s a damp warmth between both of your bodies now, the hotel air thick with sex, perfume, and the heat of skin pressed too close for too long. You’re sweating too, your chest rising hard in the pulled-down bra, nipples still wet from her mouth earlier, thighs sticky from your own arousal and the carpet beneath you.

Maeve thinks you look obscene and angelic at once, mouth shiny with her, eyes hazy, still trying to be good even while you’re humping the floor for friction.

When you finally lift your head, Maeve doesn’t give you time to feel shy about it. She hooks her fingers under your chin and pulls you up toward her, strong enough that your knees leave the carpet before you fully realize you’re moving.

You stumble into her lap, breathless and messy, and then her mouth is on yours. The kiss is filthy from the start, all tongue and heat, Maeve tasting herself on your lips with a rough sound that vibrates straight through you.

She kisses you like she wants proof, like she wants to know exactly how eager you were to swallow her down. From Maeve’s side, the taste of herself in your mouth nearly wrecks her all over again,

because it’s intimate in a way nothing staged or polished could ever be. She thinks, mine, with a sharpness that surprises even her, and her hands drag you closer until your sweaty bodies press together.

You melt into her immediately, because there’s nowhere else you want to be. Your bare pussy brushes against her stomach as you settle over her, the crotchless panties useless and twisted at your hips, leaving slick smears on her skin every time you move.

Maeve groans into your mouth when she feels it, one hand sliding down your back to pull your hips in tighter. You’re still wet, embarrassingly so, and the pressure of her body against yours makes your clit throb with that raw, post-orgasm sensitivity.

She can feel you trembling, feel the way your thighs tense around her lap, feel the needy little rock you try to hide while kissing her. “Still aching?” she murmurs against your mouth, lips brushing yours with every word. You nod, breath catching, and whisper, “I need you, mommy.”

That’s what snaps the last of Maeve’s patience. Her mouth leaves yours only to drag down your jaw, then your neck, kissing hot and open-mouthed over sweat-damp skin. You tip your head back for her before she asks, giving her access like your body already knows what she wants.

Maeve’s lips move over your throat slowly at first, almost sweet, then her teeth catch just beneath your pulse and make you gasp. She feels the sound against her mouth and smiles into your skin, biting a little harder, not enough to hurt badly, just enough to leave a mark you’ll feel later.

Your hands clutch at her shoulders, nails pressing into muscle, and Maeve’s thoughts go hazy with the satisfaction of having you shaking in her lap. “Pretty baby,” she mutters into your neck, “all wet again just from tasting me.”

You try to answer, but Maeve’s hand slides up and wraps around your throat before the words come together. Her grip isn’t there to steal your air, not fully, just firm enough to hold your attention and make your whole body go still.

Your eyes flutter, and Maeve feels the way you react instantly, pussy clenching against nothing, breath catching beneath her palm. She watches your face carefully because she always does, reading the heat in your eyes, the way your lips part, the way you lean into it instead of away.

“Look at me,” she says, voice low and steady, and you do, dazed and desperate. The moment your gaze locks with hers, her other hand slips between your thighs. Before you can brace for it, she shoves two fingers inside you.

The sound you make is broken, sharp, and helpless. Your whole body jerks in her lap, cunt stretching around her fingers while her hand stays wrapped around your throat, keeping you close enough that you can’t hide from her face.

Maeve feels how wet you are immediately, hot and slick, swallowing her fingers like you’ve been waiting for it since the second she pulled you up. It makes her own stomach tighten, makes heat flare between her thighs again even though she’s still sensitive from your mouth.

“Fuck,” she breathes, almost to herself, because you’re so soft and soaked around her that it ruins the little control she’d gathered back. You clutch at her wrist, not to pull her away, just because you need something to hold while she fills you without warning. “Mommy,” you gasp, throat moving under her palm, “oh my god.”

Maeve smiles like that’s exactly what she wanted to hear. She keeps her fingers buried inside you for a second, letting your body flutter around them, letting you feel the sudden fullness while her thumb strokes once along the side of your throat.

“There she is,” she murmurs, eyes dark as she watches you try to breathe through the shock of it. Then she starts moving, slow at first, dragging her fingers out just enough to push them back in deep. Your hips chase her hand immediately, needy and shameless, slick spreading over her knuckles with every thrust.

From your side, it feels like too much after everything, like your body’s already been wrung out and she’s still finding places to make you ache. From Maeve’s, it feels like owning every sound you make, every clench, every soft little collapse of your face when she curls her fingers just right.

“Is this what you needed?” she asks, mouth back at your neck, kissing over the mark she left before biting another one lower. You nod frantically, sweat cooling across your chest while her robe rubs against your skin,

the silk damp where your bodies press together. Her fingers fuck into you harder, not rushed, just confident, every stroke slick and deep enough to make your thighs shake around her.

“Use your words,” Maeve says, tightening her hand at your throat just enough to make your focus snap back to her. “Yes, mommy,” you choke out, voice thin and wrecked, “needed your fingers, needed you so bad.”

Maeve groans against your neck like the confession gets under her skin. “I know, baby,” she says, curling her fingers until your whole body arches, “I can feel how badly you need me.”

Maeve doesn’t let you drift away from it, not even for a second. Her hand stays at your throat, firm enough to hold you still but careful enough that you can breathe around the pressure. The other keeps two fingers deep inside you, slick to the knuckle, moving with a slow confidence that makes your thighs tremble around her lap.

“There you go,” she murmurs, eyes locked on yours as she curls them just right. Your breath breaks into a whine, and she feels your pussy clench hard around her fingers.

Maeve’s stomach tightens at the feeling, arousal sparking low again even though she’s still sensitive from your mouth. “That’s the spot, isn’t it?” she says, voice rough and pleased. You nod quickly, too ruined for pride, and she smiles like she’s proud of how easily your body tells on you.

You can barely hold yourself up, one hand clinging to her shoulder while the other wraps around her wrist. It isn’t to stop her, and Maeve knows that because your hips keep rolling down onto her fingers every time she pulls back.

The wet sound of her fucking you fills the quiet suite, obscene and soft under the hum of the city beyond the glass. Your chest is still bare from where she pulled your bra down, nipples swollen and damp from her mouth, rising and falling with every shaky breath.

Sweat beads along your collarbones and between your boobs, making your skin glow under the hotel lights. Maeve watches it all with a greedy kind of focus, memorizing the way pleasure makes you sloppy. “You look so fucking pretty like this,” she tells you. “All messy and desperate on mommy’s fingers.”

The praise hits so hard your eyes flutter. Maeve feels the reaction instantly, feels your cunt grip tighter around her fingers like your body’s trying to pull her deeper. “Oh, you liked that,” she says, and there’s a smile in her voice even before you open your eyes again. You try to answer, but her fingers curl and your words dissolve into a gasp.

She leans in, mouth brushing the corner of yours without giving you a proper kiss. “Don’t worry, baby,” she whispers. “You don’t have to think.” Her thumb strokes the side of your throat once, gentle beneath the command. “Just take it and let mommy make you cum.”

Your body obeys before your mind catches up. Your hips rock harder, grinding down with every thrust of her fingers, chasing the pressure until your thighs start shaking for real.

Maeve’s robe is damp where your body presses against hers, red silk sticking to both of you in the heat of the room. She can feel your slick running over her hand, coating her palm, making every stroke smoother and deeper.

The feel of it turns her on more than she expects, because there’s nothing polished about you now. You’re all heat, wetness, need, and broken little sounds against her mouth. “Listen to yourself,” she murmurs, kissing your cheek. “That’s what needing me sounds like.”

You whimper at that, embarrassed and turned on so sharply that it almost hurts. Maeve tightens her grip on your throat by a fraction, just enough to bring your attention back to her face. “Eyes on me,” she says.

You force your eyes open, and she looks devastating beneath you, flushed from her own orgasm, lips swollen, hair mussed, robe open around her body. She’s sweating too, a fine shine on her chest and stomach, proof that she’s not as untouchable as she pretends.

That thought makes your pussy clench again, and Maeve’s eyes darken because she feels it. “There’s my girl,” she says, dragging her fingers out slow before pushing them back in deep. “You’re so close, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp, the word cracking on the way out. Your forehead drops toward hers, but she keeps you upright with the hand at your throat, making sure she can see every second of you falling apart.

“Please, mommy,” you beg, breathless and shaking. “Please, I’m close.” Maeve’s own breath catches at how sweet you sound begging for it, so needy and ruined and still trying to be good for her.

She curls her fingers harder, pressing into that spot inside you until your whole body jolts. “I know, baby,” she says, voice low and filthy. “I can feel you squeezing me.” Her mouth brushes yours as she adds, “Go on, make a mess on my fingers.”

The permission snaps through you like a lit fuse. Your orgasm rises so fast you barely have time to breathe before it takes over, hot and violent and blinding. Your thighs lock around her lap, hips jerking against her hand as your pussy pulses around her fingers.

Maeve holds you through it, hand steady at your throat, the other buried inside you while you cum hard enough to shake. “That’s it,” she talks you through it, voice softer now but still commanding. “Good girl, just like that.”

You cry out against her mouth, body trembling as pleasure rolls through you in wave after wave. Maeve watches your face the entire time, awed despite herself, thinking there’s no camera in the world that could make her feel as powerful as this.

She keeps her fingers inside you until the worst of the shaking passes. Not moving now, just holding you full while your body flutters helplessly around her.

You make a tiny, broken sound when she finally eases them out, and Maeve kisses it off your lips before it can turn embarrassed. “I’ve got you,” she says immediately, the shift in her voice subtle but unmistakable. Her hand leaves your throat and moves to the back of your neck, warm and grounding.

She cups you there while her other hand rests on your hip, keeping you close against her. You’re boneless in her lap, sweaty and sticky and still pulsing with aftershocks. Maeve’s expression softens as she looks at you, all the sharp edges folding inward for once.

“You with me?” she asks, brushing damp hair back from your face. You nod, but it’s weak, so she waits until you manage words. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m here.” Maeve hums, satisfied, then presses a slow kiss to your forehead.

Her lips linger there longer than they need to, and it makes your chest feel tender in a way the orgasm didn’t. “Good,” she says quietly. “Stay with me, sweetheart.” She shifts carefully, strong arms gathering you closer so your trembling body isn’t doing any work.

For a while, she just holds you. The suite feels different now, less like a stage and more like a room two people have ruined together. The sheets are still too white, the skyline still glittering, the whiskey still untouched, but none of it matters with Maeve’s arms around you.

Your sweat cools slowly against her skin, and she rubs your back in steady circles until your breathing evens out. You tuck your face into her neck, catching the scent of her perfume,

her skin, and the faint trace of sex still clinging to both of you. Maeve’s fingers are gentle now, combing through your hair instead of gripping it. “You did so well,” she murmurs. “So good for me.”

You make a soft, embarrassed sound, and Maeve smiles against your temple. “Don’t hide,” she says, but there’s no bite to it this time. “Not from me.” She reaches for the robe with one hand and pulls it around both of you as best she can, covering your bare chest and cooling skin.

The silk is warm from her body, and you sink into it without thinking. Maeve notices the tiny shiver that runs through you and immediately tightens her arms. “Cold?” she asks. You nod against her shoulder, and she kisses your hair. “I’ll get you cleaned up first, then we’re getting under the covers.”

She lifts you like you weigh nothing, but she does it carefully, one arm under your thighs and the other around your back. The movement makes you whine from sensitivity, and Maeve pauses right away.

“Too much?” she asks, searching your face. “Just sensitive,” you whisper. Her mouth softens, and she kisses your cheek before carrying you to the bed. “I know, baby,” she says. “No more teasing.”

She lays you down on the sheets with ridiculous gentleness for someone who’d had her fingers inside you minutes ago. Then she disappears only long enough to wet a warm cloth in the bathroom.

When she comes back, her armour is still on the floor and the red robe is loose around her body, but her whole focus is on you. She cleans between your thighs slowly, avoiding anything too sensitive unless you guide her closer. Every time you twitch, she pauses and checks your face before continuing. “You’re okay,” she murmurs, more promise than question.

“I’ve got you.” You watch her through heavy eyes, still dazed from pleasure and affection, and whisper, “You’re being soft.” Maeve glances up, a small, tired smile tugging at her mouth. “Don’t tell anyone,” she says, and you laugh quietly enough that it turns into a sigh.

After she’s done, she tosses the cloth aside and climbs into bed beside you. She pulls the ruined lingerie straps back into place just enough that nothing digs into your skin, then tugs the sheets over both of you. You curl into her immediately, cheek pressed to her chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart beneath all that strength.

Maeve wraps one arm around your waist and keeps the other hand at the back of your head, holding you like something precious. “Water in a minute,” she says when she feels you getting sleepy. “Then sleep.”

You hum in protest, and she kisses your forehead again. “Don’t argue with mommy after she just made you cum that hard,” she murmurs. You smile against her skin, soft and spent, and let her keep you there.