Tashi Duncan X Fem!reader - Blog Posts

LITTLE LAMB — vampire!tashi x sacrificialvirgin!reader

they dressed you in white silk and lilies and left you for her. the throne room of the vampire queen is no place for tender hearts, but you don’t turn away when she descends from her crimson seat. tashi duncan has made a thousand sacrifices bleed, but she kneels for you. and it’s not death you find in her mouth — it’s something worse.

warnings: vampire content, blood drinking, erotic tension, ritualistic undertones, explicit sensual content, oral (f receiving), ritualistic sex, power imbalance, minor religious imagery, blood kink, possessive behavior, obsession, fem!reader, dark romance, mild dubcon overtones via hypnotic vampiric influence

tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @itachisank, @talsorchard, @angeldoll1e, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna

notes: hey loves — dipping my toes into something a little darker, a little sharper-edged than my usual. i’ve been wanting to explore more gothic, eerie, sensual horror for a while now, and this felt like the perfect place to start. if you’re into this kind of slow, decadent menace and want to see more, please let me know!

They dress you in white. Silk, soft as breath, clings to your skin like prayer. You don’t remember who they are—only the hands, faceless and careful, that smoothed the fabric over your limbs, that combed through your hair with perfumed oil until it lay sleek against your back. The lilies come after. Cold, damp stems tucked behind your ears, down your spine, cradled in the crooks of your arms. You sit on your knees at the center of the marble floor, head bowed low. No one tells you to, but you know better than to look up.

The air is thick with old candle wax, something sharper beneath it—sweet, metallic. Blood, maybe. You don’t want to name it, but your mouth waters. Above you, the silence breathes. The hall isn’t empty; you feel her. That strange heat that isn’t heat, that slow, bone-deep awareness of being watched. Your thighs tense. You’re not afraid, not exactly. You are something smaller, more raw. You are waiting to be devoured.

You steal a glance before you can stop yourself. Just a flicker upward. Just your eyes. Her throne isn’t gilded or crowned in skulls, like you imagined. It’s just stone—damp with condensation, worn down at the edges like a thing that’s been used. She sits there like the world ends beneath her. Legs parted, one arm draped along the armrest, chin tilted just slightly down. Watching you. No expression. Just the kind of quiet that drips down the back of your neck and makes your skin burn.

You don’t expect her to move. Not yet. You’ve heard how she lingers—makes them wait until they’re shaking, until their mouths are red with bitten silence. But tonight, she rises. No sound, not even the whisper of silk. She moves like fog, like something with no weight, only hunger. Her dress trails behind her, the color of dried garnet, heavy and wet-looking where it meets the floor. You stare at the hem, at the way it pulls like something being dragged. Something dead. You forget how to breathe.

When she stops before you, your whole body tenses. Every muscle pulled taut, every nerve lit up like you’re bracing for a blow. She doesn’t touch you, not yet. Just stands there, close enough that you can smell her. Sandalwood and old wine and something else—feral, like skin left too long in the dark. Her fingers lift. Two, then three, knuckles brushing your jaw. You flinch. She doesn’t stop. Just tilts your chin up like she’s reading you.

Her voice, when it comes, is a hush, shaped like smoke. “You looked at me.”

It isn’t a question.

You try to nod, but your body won’t obey. Her hand holds you still, thumb pressing soft but firm into your chin, keeping you open. Vulnerable. Her eyes—god, her eyes—they don’t look human. Not monstrous, either. Just old. Like they’ve seen too many things. Eaten too many people. “Tell me why,” she murmurs.

“I—I… wanted to,” you whisper. Your voice breaks. It sounds like a lie. But it isn’t.

Her mouth curves. Not a smile. Nothing that gentle. More like amusement dragged slow across a blade. “Good,” she says, and that one word lands in your stomach like prayer. Like punishment. “That makes you mine.”

She kneels. You weren’t expecting that. You thought she’d tower over you forever, that she’d hurt you from above like a god. But she lowers herself, slow, precise, until your knees are nearly touching. The candles stutter behind her. Her fingers trail down your throat, light as a threat. You shiver. “Do you know what happens next?” she asks.

You shake your head.

She leans in. Her lips hover above yours, not kissing—just close enough to taste your breath. “You don’t beg yet,” she murmurs. “You learn. You listen. And when I say you’re ready, you bleed.”

The kiss is slow. Too slow. Like she’s tasting you with every pass of her tongue, learning your shape, cataloging every place you tremble. Her hand doesn’t move. It stays at your throat, a constant reminder. You’re not allowed to move. You’re not allowed to speak. You are allowed to feel, and you do. Fuck, you do. Every part of you screams for more.

She pulls back, just an inch, and you chase her without meaning to. “Hungry,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you. “That’s adorable.”

Her hands move then—over your collarbones, down the line of your sternum, parting the silk like it’s nothing. You gasp. You’re bare beneath. Of course you are. You were dressed for offering. She parts the fabric until your chest is exposed, and her eyes drag across you like weight. Not heat. Not cold. Just pressure. Just intent.

She kisses your throat next. Lower. Then bites. Not with teeth—yet. Just lips and tongue and a mouth that knows what it’s doing. You arch for her. Pathetic. Willing. She laughs, breathless and cruel, right against your pulse. “Say thank you.”

You do. Quiet, cracked. It makes her eyes flash.

And then—finally—she bites.

It’s sharp. Immediate. Not like the stories say. Not some dull, thudding pull. Her teeth sink in like needles, like confession, and your whole body jerks. But she holds you. Arms locked around your shoulders, mouth sealed to your throat, drinking like you’re the only thing left alive. You feel your pulse stutter. You feel your hips rock forward, involuntary. Your body’s confused—pain or pleasure or both, and does it matter? Not to her. Not to you.

When she pulls back, your blood stains her mouth. She doesn’t wipe it. She wears it. “Good little thing,” she whispers, licking her lips. “You’re going to kneel for me forever.”

And the terrifying part?

You want to.

Your throat throbs where she’s marked you. Not a wound, not exactly—more like a brand. Deep and slow and wet, where your pulse used to sit quiet. Now it hammers. Everything feels… louder. The ache of your knees on the marble, the shiver where silk parts from skin, the hot, damp echo of her breath when she speaks again. “Do you feel it?” she murmurs, her hands splayed across your ribcage like she might crack you open. “The change?”

You nod. Barely. Your head is swimming, your body too full—of pain, of heat, of something ancient she’s poured into your veins. You feel dizzy. Hungry, but not for food. Tired, but not for sleep. It’s like she’s taken your name with your blood, and all that’s left is this. This trembling thing. This mouth that belongs to her now. You breathe her scent in like it’s air.

“Lie back,” she says, and her tone is lazy, indulgent. Like she’s giving you a gift.

The marble burns beneath you as you obey. The lilies crush beneath your shoulder blades, wet petals sticking to your skin. Your limbs don’t feel like yours anymore. She spreads them without asking, with the casual precision of someone arranging altar offerings. Your knees fall open. Your arms stretch wide. A crucifixion of posture, if not nails. She straddles your hips like a throne, her dress puddling around your thighs like liquid shadow.

“I want to see you undone,” she murmurs, brushing a thumb along your lower lip. “Piece by piece. Thought by thought. Until all that’s left is the worship.”

You try to speak, but your mouth won’t shape the words. She doesn’t mind. She hums under her breath—something tuneless, low, like a lullaby sung to corpses—and drags her nails down your chest. Light enough to tickle, just enough to sting. She pinches, scrapes, pauses at the pulse between your ribs. Watches the twitch. Watches your eyes.

“Look at you,” she whispers, amused. “Already trembling. They always do.”

You don’t know who they are. You don’t ask. You don’t want to know.

Her fingers drift lower. Not soft anymore. More clinical now, more practiced. She touches you like she’s learning you, but not gently. No tenderness. Just cold precision, like a priestess gutting the sacred lamb before the altar. Your breath stutters. You can’t stop the way your hips jerk, the way you writhe beneath her even as your thighs shake from the effort of staying open for her.

“Still,” she says sharply, and you still. The word presses into you like a command spoken directly to your marrow.

Then, her mouth again—on your breast this time, kissing, biting, sucking until she leaves bruises that bloom like violets across skin. Your fingers claw helplessly at the silk pooled around your sides, and she laughs against you. “Good little thing,” she croons. “So soft. So eager to be hollowed out.”

Her hand slips lower. You gasp. It’s too much—too close, too soon, too everything. She doesn’t care. She touches you like she owns you, like she’s not seeking pleasure but control. Every movement exact, every press of her fingers meant to unravel. You try not to fall apart. You try to last. But your body is already betraying you, rising into her touch like it’s answering a prayer.

And then—she stops. Just like that.

Your whimper is immediate. Shameful. You don’t even try to hide it.

“Not yet,” she says, cool and calm and cruel. “You don’t come until I say. If you do, I stop. If you beg too soon, I stop. If you bite your lip again without permission, I stop.”

You nod frantically, mouth dry, eyes wide.

She leans down, lips against your ear. “That’s right. Be good. Be mine.”

The pace changes. Slower now. More drawn-out, more decadent. She moves like she has centuries to waste, dragging her tongue along your neck again, licking the wound until it weeps fresh. She licks it clean. You feel every drop re-enter your skin, feel your blood inside her, returning. The room spins. You’re not sure if you moan or cry. It doesn’t matter. She takes all sound the same.

You’re so close you’re shaking. She hasn’t even fucked you yet. Not really. Just fingers, just mouth, just the weight of her body and the absolute knowing that she could end you and you’d thank her for it. She pinches your throat gently between thumb and forefinger, pressing in until your vision dances. Your hands fly up—instinct—but don’t push. Just hover. Seeking.

“Shh,” she soothes, her breath warm against your cheek. “Let me. You’ll come when I allow it. You’ll fall apart when I decide you’re ready to break.”

She presses harder. You choke.

Not pain. Not panic. Just silence. Stillness. Like prayer.

And then—release. Her fingers thrust deep, curling exactly right, finding the sweet, ruined space of you that makes your back arch and your voice snap loose. You don’t mean to cry out. You don’t mean to come. But you do. It floods you like heat, like guilt, like god.

She stops. Freezes.

Your breath catches.

“I said,” she hisses, “not yet.”

Terror. Ecstasy. Regret. You stammer something—apology, plea, you’re not sure. She leans over you, eyes black with something older than rage. “You disobeyed,” she says, almost sad.

And then—teeth. Her second bite is vicious. Not elegant. Not seductive. It’s punishment. It hurts. You scream, throat raw, and she holds you down while she drinks. Messy. Fast. Your blood spatters across your chest, across her mouth, across your thighs.

She drinks until you’re dizzy. Until your fingers go numb. Until you are barely a body.

Only then does she rise.

“You’ll do better tomorrow,” she says simply, and turns her back.

You remain on the floor, ruined and silent and slick with blood and shame.

And beneath it all, something deeper blooms.

Devotion.

i loved your 2000s tashi is it possible you could to an 80s tashi?

of course i can!!!

HUNGRY EYES

you’re her secretary. she never raises her voice. she doesn’t need to. all it takes is a look and your knees lock. she ruins you with silence and eye contact, and then she lets you clean yourself up in the reflection of her office window.

pairing: corporate yuppie!tashi x secretary!fem!reader

warnings: explicit sexual content (fingering, powerplay, orgasm control, breast play), dom!tashi, sub!fem!reader, emotionally distant dynamics, corporate eroticism, voyeurism (window), 1980s glamour/power aesthetic, intense gaze kink, objectification, degradation (implied), lack of aftercare, unbalanced power dynamic, slow burn smut pacing, no aftercare

The Wall Street Journal sits folded on her glass-topped desk, announcing Black Monday's aftermath in stark black type, the October 1987 market collapse still sending aftershocks through every financial district corridor. Your shoulder pads feel particularly heavy today beneath your silk blouse – Dynasty-inspired armor for the corporate battlefield where women like you are still fighting for footholds. The clock on the wall reads 7:43 PM, its quiet ticking a counterpoint to the Diana Ross cassette playing softly from Tashi’s private office where she’s been holed up since the markets closed.

You’re not supposed to be here this late, but the stack of reports she demanded for tomorrow’s board meeting required overtime, and your predecessor’s abrupt firing is warning enough about the consequences of disappointing Tashi Duncan.

"Come in here," her voice slices through your thoughts, not shouting but somehow filling every molecule of air between her office and your desk. You gather your notepad and pen, smooth your pencil skirt, and steady yourself with a deep breath before pushing open the heavy mahogany door. Tashi sits behind her expansive desk, backlit by the Manhattan skyline, her silhouette sharp against the city lights that sparkle like the diamonds at her ears. Her blazer has been discarded over a nearby chair, leaving her in a dark silk blouse with a dramatic cowl neck, her hair out of her usual, severe ponytail and brushing the tops of her shoulders.

"Close the door," she says without looking up from the financial statement she's annotating with a Mont Blanc pen, its gold nib catching the light as forcefully as her presence catches your attention. The room smells of Opium perfume and the lingering notes of expensive scotch, creating an atmosphere as intoxicating as it is intimidating. Your heels sink into the plush carpet as you approach her desk, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that makes your pulse quicken inexplicably.

"I've been watching you," Tashi finally looks up, her eyes holding yours with an intensity that makes you forget the room's cool air conditioning. "Three weeks as my assistant, and you're still here at eight o'clock on a Friday night – either you're desperate for approval or terrible at managing your workload." She places her pen down with deliberate precision, the way she does everything – measured, controlled, purposeful. "Which is it?"

"I… I wanted to make sure the Davidson portfolio analysis was complete before Monday's presentation," you respond, proud that your voice betrays none of the nervous energy coursing through your veins. The corner of her mouth twitches, not quite a smile but something adjacent to approval, and something hot unfurls in your stomach. "The market volatility means their holdings need significant restructuring if we want to maintain their confidence."

"Sit," she gestures to the chair across from her desk, but when you move toward it, she shakes her head. "No, here," she pats the edge of her desk, the glass surface gleaming under the banker's lamp that casts her in amber light. You hesitate only for a moment before perching on the edge of her desk, your skirt riding up slightly above your knees as you cross your legs, the sheer fabric of your stockings catching against the smooth surface.

Tashi leans back in her chair, assessing you with the same calculated precision she applies to market trends and acquisition targets. "Do you know why I hired you over the Harvard MBA with three years' experience at Goldman?" Her voice drops lower, each word deliberate as she reaches for her crystal tumbler, ice clinking softly against the sides. The question hangs between you, rhetorical yet demanding an answer.

"Because I won't challenge you the way he would have," you answer honestly, watching her sip her scotch, leaving a perfect impression of her red lipstick on the rim. Something dark flashes in her eyes – not anger but appreciation for your candor, for understanding the unspoken rules of her domain. "Men like him want your job; I just want to learn from you."

"Mmmm," she hums, setting down her glass and leaning forward, the movement causing her gold bangles to slide down her wrist with a musical chime. "That's what you tell yourself, isn't it?" Her voice carries a note of amusement as she reaches out, her fingers stopping just short of your knee. "But I saw something else in that interview – something hungry behind those careful answers and that Saint Laurent suit you clearly couldn't afford but bought anyway."

Heat rises to your cheeks as her fingers finally make contact with your knee, her touch light but deliberate as she traces a small circle on your skin just above your stocking. "I saw someone who wants more than she admits, who calculates every move, who watches and waits and plans." Her eyes lock with yours, challenging, assessing, daring you to deny it. "Someone who reminds me of myself ten years ago."

You resist the urge to shift under her touch, under her gaze that seems to see right through the careful persona you've constructed. "There are worse people to be compared to," you reply, your pulse hammering against your throat as her hand slides an inch higher, her touch feather-light yet somehow burning through the thin fabric of your skirt. The faint sounds of New York traffic float up from thirty stories below, a distant soundtrack to this unexpected scene unfolding in the rarified air of her corner office.

"Stand up," Tashi commands suddenly, her hand retreating as she rises from her chair in one fluid motion. "Turn around." You comply without hesitation, something about her tone bypassing your usual tendency to question, to analyze. The reflection of you both appears in the window – you facing the glass, Tashi behind you, the city lights creating a glittering backdrop to this power play.

She steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from her body though she doesn't touch you. "I don't mix business with pleasure," she says, her breath warm against your ear, the contradiction between her words and actions hanging between you. Her hands come to rest lightly on your shoulders, thumbs pressing gently against the tension you carry there. "But I do believe in rewarding exceptional potential when I see it."

"Is that what this is?" you ask, watching her reflection in the window, her expression unreadable as her hands slide slowly down your arms. The city sprawls below, millions of lives in motion while time seems suspended in this office, the usual boundaries of professional conduct dissolving with each second that passes. "A reward?"

Tashi's laugh is low and rich, vibrating through the small space between your bodies. "No, this is a test," she murmurs, her lips ghosting over the sensitive skin below your ear as her hands find your waist, fingers spreading possessively over your silk blouse. "Everything with me is a test."

"And if I fail?" The words come out breathier than intended as her hands slide higher, stopping just below your breasts, her touch both a question and a demand. You can see both of your reflections clearly now – your eyes wide, lips slightly parted; her expression controlled but intent, watching your reactions with scientific precision.

"You won't," she states with absolute certainty, one hand moving to your throat, not squeezing but resting there with gentle pressure as her other hand finally cups your breast through your blouse. "Because you want this – want me – to validate that you belong here, in this world I've conquered." Her thumb brushes over your nipple, which immediately hardens at her touch, betraying your body's response to her calculated advances.

"Nnnnngh," the sound escapes your lips before you can stop it, a soft moan that seems to please her, judging by the slight curve of her lips in the reflection. Her grip on your throat tightens infinitesimally as she presses herself against your back, her lips tracing the curve of your neck while her fingers work the buttons of your blouse with practiced ease.

"Tell me to stop," Tashi challenges, her voice steady even as her actions grow bolder, your blouse now hanging open to reveal your lace bra, another extravagance you couldn't really afford but deemed necessary for your new position. "Tell me this isn't what you imagined when you stayed late tonight, knowing I'd be here alone."

The accusation stings because it carries a grain of truth – not that you planned this specifically, but that some part of you has been drawn to her power, her presence, since the first interview. "I didn't—" you begin, but she cuts you off by turning you around to face her, her hand cupping your chin firmly.

"Don't lie to me," she says, her thumb brushing your lower lip. "Not when we're like this." The intensity in her eyes makes you forget how to breathe, how to think, how to do anything but nod in acknowledgment. "Good girl," she murmurs, the praise sending an unexpected thrill through you as she leans in, her lips hovering just above yours.

When she finally kisses you, it's not gentle or tentative – it's consuming, authoritative, her tongue sliding against yours as her hands push your blouse from your shoulders. "Mmmm—!" you moan into her mouth as her fingers trace the edge of your bra before skillfully unhooking it, letting it fall to the floor alongside your blouse. The cool air of the office makes your nipples harden further, or perhaps it's the way Tashi's eyes darken as she takes in your exposed chest.

"Put your hands on the glass," she instructs, moving you back toward the window that spans the entire wall of her office. "Let the city see what I see." You comply without thinking, the glass cold against your palms as she steps back to admire you, half-naked and trembling slightly – from anticipation, from the chill, from the sheer audacity of what's happening.

Tashi circles you slowly, the click of her Manolos against the hardwood floor beyond the carpet a rhythmic reminder of her control of this situation. "Do you know how many assistants I've had in the last five years?" she asks conversationally, as though you're not standing topless in her office with your hands pressed against the window. "Seven." She stops behind you again, her fingers tracing your spine with deliberate slowness. "Not one of them had what it takes to last in this business."

"What… what makes you think I'm different?" you ask, trying to maintain some semblance of the professional confidence that secured you this position, even as her hands slide around to cup your breasts from behind, her thumbs circling your nipples with maddening lightness. Your head falls back against her shoulder as pleasure ripples through you, your reflection in the glass showing a version of yourself you barely recognize – wanton, needy, completely at her mercy.

"Because you're still talking back," Tashi chuckles, the sound rich with appreciation as one hand abandons your breast to slide down your stomach and under the waistband of your skirt. "Even now." Her fingers find the damp heat between your legs, separated from her touch only by the thin fabric of your underwear, and you gasp at the contact, your hips instinctively pressing forward seeking more pressure.

"Mmmmnngh," you groan as she traces circles over your most sensitive spot, her other hand still teasing your nipple while her teeth graze your earlobe. The juxtaposition of the cool glass under your palms and the heat of her body behind you is dizzying, creating a sensory overload that makes it impossible to think beyond the pleasure building with each deliberate stroke of her fingers.

"Tell me what you want," Tashi demands, her voice husky but still commanding as she presses herself against you, the silk of her blouse soft against your bare back. "I want to hear you say it." Her fingers pause their movement, hovering just where you need them most, the frustration making you whimper.

"I want you," you manage, your voice barely recognizable to your own ears, breathless and needy. "Please, Tashi, I want you to touch me." The use of her first name feels like crossing another boundary, but she rewards you by slipping her fingers beneath your underwear, finding you wet and ready for her.

"Fuck, yes," you moan as she slides one finger inside you, her thumb continuing its torturous circles. The reflection in the window shows her watching your face intently, cataloging every reaction, learning what makes you gasp and shudder. "More, please… Aaahnn—!”

"So polite," she murmurs against your neck, adding a second finger and curling them in a way that makes your knees buckle slightly. "Even when you're begging." Her free hand moves to your hip, steadying you as she establishes a rhythm that has you panting, forehead now pressed against the cool glass as pleasure builds with each thrust of her fingers.

The telephone on her desk rings suddenly, the harsh sound jarring in the quiet office, but Tashi doesn't even flinch. "Let it ring," she says, her pace unfaltering as her fingers drive you closer to the edge. "Nothing is more important than this moment right now." The possessiveness in her voice sends another wave of arousal through you, the idea that you've captured the full attention of a woman who juggles billion-dollar deals and commands boardrooms full of men twice her age.

"I'm close," you warn, your hips moving in counterpoint to her thrusts now, chasing the release that hovers just out of reach. "Tashi, I'm going to—nnnnngh!" Your words dissolve into a moan as she curls her fingers again, pressing against a spot inside you that sends lightning through your veins.

"Come for me," she commands against your ear, her voice the same one she uses to close deals and crush competitors, and somehow that's what tips you over the edge. Your climax crashes through you in waves, your inner walls clenching around her fingers as she continues to stroke you through it, drawing out your pleasure until you're trembling and gasping for breath.

When you finally come back to yourself, Tashi is slowly withdrawing her hand, turning you to face her with an expression of satisfaction that borders on smugness. "That's what I wanted to see," she says, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising tenderness. "You, completely undone."

You're still trying to catch your breath, aware of how you must look – half-naked, flushed, lips swollen from her kisses – when she steps back and straightens her blouse. "Get dressed," she says, her professional demeanor sliding back into place as she moves to her desk and picks up her Mont Blanc pen again. "The Davidson portfolio needs your attention, and I expect those reports on my desk by 8 AM, sharp."

The abrupt return to business leaves you momentarily stunned as you gather your discarded clothing, the lace of your bra scratchy against your sensitized skin as you redress under her occasional glances. "Yes, Ms. Duncan," you finally respond, falling back on formality to regain some equilibrium in this drastically altered dynamic.

Tashi looks up from her work, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "And schedule yourself for a late dinner with me tomorrow night," she adds, her tone making it clear this is not a request. "We have much to discuss about your... professional development." The double meaning hangs in the air between you, a promise and a threat wrapped in one perfectly delivered line.

As you leave her office on slightly unsteady legs, the weight of what just happened settles over you along with the realization that nothing about this job will be what you expected. The rules have changed, the stakes have risen, and somehow, standing in the empty reception area with the taste of Tashi Duncan still on your lips, you've never felt more alive in this cutthroat world of high finance and higher ambitions.

The digital clock on your desk blinks 8:17 PM in green fluorescent numbers, a reminder that time continues to march forward even when it seems to stand still. You gather your things, knowing sleep will elude you tonight as you work on the Davidson portfolio and replay every moment of what just transpired in that corner office thirty stories above Madison Avenue. One thing is certain as you press the elevator button and watch the numbers descend – your 1987 has just become infinitely more complicated and infinitely more thrilling.

FUCK AROUND & FIND OUT

it’s one of those sultry afternoons where everything feels gross and itchy, and you end up tangled with tashi, your bestfriend since childhood, all teeth, sweat, and filthy fucking tension. nothing sweet about it—just spit, slick, and the kind of grind that makes you see stars.

pairing: tashi duncan x fem!reader | tashi duncan x vulva-bodied!reader

content warnings: tribadism (f/f grinding), clothed & partially-clothed dry humping, mutual degradation kink, frantic sex, messy/wet/cumplay undertones, hair pulling, nipple play, rough kissing. MDNI

It was one of those heat-choked afternoons that felt like time had given up and just started melting — thick air, sweat-sticky skin, and every single second dragging its balls through molasses. The fan did jack shit but push warm air around like a lazy drunk blowing breath in your face. Everything felt gross and slow and itchy. The TV was on in the corner, spitting out those trashy early-2000s music videos like background radiation — half-naked pop stars grinding on sand or leather couches, and every now and then, one of you would hum along without even realizing it, like the heat had cooked your brains just enough to make you forget you had control over your own fucking mouth.

Tashi was sprawled out like a bored brat in a porno scene, half on her stomach, flipping through some beat-up Cosmo that probably still smelled like her older sister’s weed stash and old perfume. Her legs kicked aimlessly in the air, watermelon gum popping every couple of minutes like a goddamn metronome of irritation. That sound was enough to make you twitch — snap, snap, snap — loud in the stifling quiet. You were slouched somewhere in the disaster zone of pillows and tangled sheets that had once been a bed, sweat plastering your tank top to your back, your sleep shorts clinging to your ass like a second skin. Hair stuck to your neck. Every breath felt like licking the inside of a fucking sauna.

Tashi groaned like a dying animal, flinging the magazine away like it had tried to assault her. “Fuck me, I’m gonna drop dead from boredom.”

You didn’t even look up from your phone. “You say that every ten minutes.”

“Because it’s true every ten minutes, dumbass.” Another snap of gum, and then a pillow flying straight into your lap. “Seriously, what the fuck are we even doing?”

You barely shrugged. “Existing.”

She made this dramatic gagging noise like you’d just told her to meditate. “Jesus. You’re so fucking boring sometimes, babe, I swear to God.”

“Eat shit,” you muttered, glancing up just in time to see that feral glint in her eye — the one that always meant trouble was two seconds away and smiling like the devil.

Her toes jabbed you. Sharp. Annoying. On purpose.

You flinched, swatting at her leg. “The fuck? Cut it out.”

She grinned like a little demon and did it again — harder.

“Tashi, I’m not playing.”

“Oh, yeah?” she chirped, all fake-innocent sass. “What’re you gonna do, cry about it?”

You grabbed a pillow and launched it straight into her smug face, grinning like a jackal. The sound it made was perfect — a soft thwump followed by her surprised bark of laughter. She caught it, lunged, and suddenly you were both in it — flailing and grabbing and cackling like feral children on a sugar high, the sheets twisting around your legs as you wrestled like you were six again, except you weren’t. Not even close.

Your hand got in her hair. Her elbow jammed into your ribs. She shrieked with laughter as she pinched your side and you squealed like she’d stabbed you. It wasn’t cute. It was messy, breathless, chaotic. Your tank tops had ridden up, shorts twisting tight between your thighs. Every movement left you more tangled, more flushed, more wound up with that tense, vibrating heat that had fuck-all to do with the weather.

Then suddenly she had your wrist, twisted and pinned, her body hovering above yours with this wicked glint in her eye. Her thighs locked around your waist, warm, damp, and snug, her skin slick with sweat where it pressed against yours. She was breathing hard, but grinning — eyes alight with something mean and teasing and way too fucking aware.

“Say it,” she panted, cocking her head, smirk wide and full of teeth. “Say ‘uncle’.”

“In your fucking dreams,” you spat, writhing beneath her.

She leaned down, her face inches from yours, breath hot and sweet with gum. “You’re so full of shit.”

And then she rocked her hips — just a little. Just enough to make your breath catch. Enough to feel it.

The shift was instant — one slow grind of her cunt against your stomach and the mood flipped like a switchblade. That smug little roll of her hips wasn’t playful anymore. It was calculated. Slow. Wet. Her pussy already leaking through those paper-thin shorts, leaving a warm smear across your skin that made your whole body twitch. She felt it too — the way your stomach clenched, the way your breath hitched like someone had yanked the air out of your lungs. Her mouth curled like a knife.

“Hey,” she breathed, all low and dirty, like a secret she’d been waiting to unwrap. “You fucking like that.”

You should’ve told her to fuck off. You should’ve shoved her away. But you didn’t. Couldn’t. Not when her cunt was grinding down like that — slow and heavy, soaked enough to make your stomach shine where she dragged over you. The shorts didn’t hide shit. Just spread the mess.

You bucked up without meaning to, chasing it, and her laugh was this hot, breathless little sound that hit straight in your gut.

“Oh, baby,” she cooed, teeth flashing. “You’re practically begging already.”

“Bite me,” you hissed, but your voice was shaking. Soft. Pathetic.

She leaned in, her lips brushing yours — not kissing, just hovering, teasing. “Yeah? Want me to? Want me to fucking mark you up like a little bitch in heat?”

You didn’t get a chance to answer. Her mouth crashed into yours, all spit and teeth and desperation. No build-up. No hesitation. She kissed like she wanted to break something — her lips hot and wet, her tongue shoving past your teeth like she owned the place. The gum was still in her mouth, mashed between you, sweet and sticky and obscene. You tasted it. Felt it smear across your lips.

“Nnghhh…” you groaned into her mouth, and she swallowed the sound like it was dessert.

Her hips never stopped. That sloppy, filthy grind got rougher, wetter, her clit grinding hard against your abdomen. Every move dragged more slick from her cunt, the wet spot on her shorts blooming bigger by the second, smearing a mess across your stomach. Your own hips started moving, rutting up, instinctive and shameless, trying to match the rhythm, to chase that sweet, aching drag of friction.

Tashi broke the kiss with a laugh, gasping against your lips. “Look at you. Fucking humping me like a dog. You that needy, huh?”

You grabbed her ass and yanked her down harder. “Aaahhh!—” she gasped — this high, surprised little sound that made your head spin.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” you spat, fingers digging into the curve of her ass hard enough to bruise. “You’re dripping all over me and I’m needy?”

She laughed again, mean and breathless, her hips slamming down harder. “Fuck, yeah, you are. You feel that? Feel how wet I am for you? Could drown you in it.”

You bit her. Right on the shoulder. Not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make her flinch and groan — “Nnghhh—” loud and hot, her whole body jerking.

“Jesus fuck,” she gasped, clenching her thighs tighter around your waist. “Do that again and I’ll cum on your stomach right now.”

“Oh, yeah?” you growled, flipping her off-balance, grabbing her hips and grinding her against you even harder. “You’d fucking like that, wouldn’t you? Getting off like a desperate slut while I’m stuck here covered in your mess.”

“Ahh—fuck—” she moaned, no words — just a sound, raw and ruined, as she ground down like her life depended on it.

“Take your top off,” you snapped, already tugging at the hem of hers, dragging it up past her tits. She didn’t argue — just peeled it off, tits bouncing free, her bra shoved down useless under them. You reached up, grabbed a handful, thumbing over her nipple until it hardened like a bullet.

“Fuck, that’s it,” she whimpered, her head falling back, hips grinding faster, more frantic now. “Touch me — fuck — I’m so close already — this is so fucking good—”

You pinched her nipple hard.

She choked on a moan, her whole body trembling.

“You’re such a fucking wreck,” you muttered, licking up the sweat between her tits, your teeth scraping the swell of one. “Little cunt-hungry bitch just needed something to grind on, huh?”

She nodded, wild-eyed, hair stuck to her face, her whole body flushed and dripping. “Yeah,” she panted. “Yeah — fuck, I needed it so bad — I’m so fucking close — please — just a little more—”

You grabbed her shorts, yanked them halfway down her thighs, not even bothering to take them off. Her pussy was soaked — the crotch dark, slick, practically painted in cum. You pushed your own down just enough, then grabbed her by the hips and slammed her cunt down on yours.

The sound it made was obscene — wet, smacking, like slapping raw meat. Both of you moaned at the contact — “Ahhh—” “Nnghhh—” — bare, slick heat against bare, slick heat, the friction perfect and raw and fucking criminal.

“Holy fuck,” she gasped, fingers digging into your shoulders. “Oh my god, oh my fucking god—”

“You like that?” you hissed, rocking up hard into her, the wet drag of clit on clit making your head spin. “Fucking take it. Rub that dirty cunt on mine. Want you to make a mess on me.”

She lost it. Grinding hard, fast, desperate now. Hips slamming down in messy, sloppy circles. Her moans were loud and high and completely unhinged. You were both soaked — thighs slick, the whole bed probably stained with the mess of it.

“God — fuck — I’m cumming — I’m gonna fucking—” she shrieked, her body locking up.

You grabbed her ass and slammed her down one last time — and that was it. She came with a strangled, breathless cry, legs shaking, her cunt grinding hard against yours like she couldn’t stop even if she wanted to. Her whole body twitching, riding it out, milking every fucking second of it.

You weren’t far behind. The second her clit dragged over yours just right, you were gone — hips jerking, mouth open in a silent moan — “Aaahhh—” — the orgasm ripping through you hard and fast and fucking mean. Your thighs clenched, your back arched, and you came with a strangled, gasping growl, grinding your cunt up into hers like you could melt together.

The room spun. You weren’t even sure if you were breathing.

When it finally eased, you collapsed into the sweat-soaked sheets, limbs tangled, your cunt still twitching, still leaking, still pressed up against hers in a hot, messy smear.

Tashi was giggling — this breathless, fucked-out laugh that shook her whole body.

“Holy shit,” she panted, resting her forehead on your chest. “We’re fucking disgusting.”

You grinned, chest heaving, sweat dripping from your brow. “Yeah. And you love it.”

She didn’t deny it. Didn’t need to.