Chapter Text
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Rhaenyra Targaryen had been called many things in her life— including lazy, insolent, disrespectful, spoiled, and probably dozens of others she had long since forgotten or filtered out.
Most of these descriptors had come directly from her father’s or stepmother's lips, part of scathing responses to convey their outrage at whatever minor indiscretion she had committed and offended them with on that particular day.
Rhaenyra didn’t think these labels were fair exactly, but it was true that the majority of her habits were far from what would be defined as ‘good behavior’ — if anything, they were the opposite. Even when she was just a girl. Even when she was just eight years old.
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She had been attempting to shirk the boring task her mother had assigned to her, on her eighth birthday of all days! A delightful morning spent opening presents was supposed to be followed by a dreadful afternoon of writing thank you notes, before the true celebrations began.
It was a sign of good manners, Aemma said, glaring slightly when Rhaenyra’s singular response was rolling her eyes. A show of poor manners, if there ever was one. And though Aemma never insulted her, she loved her daughter too much for that, she wasn’t blind either. And you would have to be in order to miss the silent tantrum that spread across the girl's face when it came to matters she disliked.
Rhaenyra thought it was stupid that she had to thank people for birthday presents at all when they couldn’t even be bothered to come to her party. Especially when she didn’t even like most of the presents.
Why did she have to put effort into thanking them when they didn’t even put effort into knowing her? They hadn’t earned her personalized thanks, at least not in her opinion, which was the opinion she valued more than any other.
She’d tapped her glittery gel pen against the pink cardstock for five minutes, staring intently at her clock, and watching the numbers change until she couldn’t take it anymore. Clearly, this was a waste of her precious time. It was her birthday, she shouldn’t have to do this, and she had other things to do! She wasn’t sure what they were, but they had to be more important than this.
Plus, she thought, a picture was worth a thousand words, that was surely more lengthy and personal than anything she could pen. And, not to mention, so much faster.
And so the tradition started — instead of spending hours scrawling repetitive letters, she pulled out her cell phone. It took less than ten minutes to take the two dozen selfies with the variety of toys and trinkets her extended family had sent her, and another five to forward them to the correct numbers and email addresses.
With a sigh, she lay back on her bed — figuring she could waste an hour or two fiddling with her phone before returning downstairs and claiming she had accomplished the task her mother had set for her.
She wasn’t expecting any responses—her aunts, uncles, and grandparents were old, and the likelihood of them even knowing how to open attached images seemed slim. So the chime of her phone came as a surprise — the message coming from her uncle.
Daemon: Is that a real smile?
She blinked at the text, scrolling back up to see the picture she sent—okay, her smile didn’t look totally genuine, but to be fair, he’d gotten her a stuffed cat which was lame. She couldn’t just say that, though. Despite what her mother thought she had some manners.
Rhaenyra: As real as the cat is :)
She sent it off, giggling to herself.
He didn’t reply.
But next year for her birthday? He got her a real kitten.
And he got a picture of her real smile in return.
It was the last real smile she gave anyone for a long time, given what happened to her mother in the following days.
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Rhaenyra wouldn’t say she had a good relationship with her uncle. Did they even interact enough for it to even be considered a relationship? She wasn’t sure—her experience with extended family was a limited thing, which had become nearly nonexistent as years passed.
Her family had fractured when she was still a baby, her grandfather dying without a will and forcing all his relatives to fight over the scraps of stock he left behind. Her father had come out victorious, but he had alienated himself in the process.
Things only got worse when her great-grandfather died, and willed his entire estate to her dad. She wasn’t complaining, she knew she was lucky, she lived the life of an heiress and had all the privilege that came with it. But sometimes, she resented the loneliness that came with it, too.
She used to have her parents on her side, or at least one parent, but then Aemma had died, and Viserys had remarried. Now he was a staunch supporter of her stepmother and more concerned with making new children than taking care of his existing one. She was shipped off to an expensive private school, forgotten by even her immediate family for months until her summer break came.
She was less lonely during the school months, but not by much. Friendships were hard when you were the wealthiest in class. People hated you for being rich or wanted to be friends with you because of it. She had to second guess the motives of everyone which was exhausting to the point where the mediocre friendships hardly seemed worth maintaining.
So even if her conversations with Daemon were short, they were more frequent than any interactions she had with her father, and more genuine than any she had with people her age.
The birthday texts had turned into something more when she was ten, and for the first time he texted her, months before she would even turn eleven. The unusual contact was prompted by the fact he wanted her Instagram username.
She told him she wasn’t allowed to have one, which was true. But he had prodded anyway.
Daemon: That doesn’t mean you don’t have one.
He was right. She did have one. But before she gave it to him, she asked why he wanted it.
Daemon: So I can know what you like.
Which was…fair. And sweet, almost to the point of making her cry. Her mother hadn’t been there that year to ask her what she liked or wanted for Christmas or her birthday. Her dad had given the task of buying presents to his assistant. Her stepmother didn’t even remember.
Somehow Daemon, a near stranger, was the only one who cared.
And he showed her that with his next gift—a bracelet that had little charms from all the countries she had visited and family vacations she had been on while her mother was still alive.
It was the most thoughtful gift she had ever been given. The sort of thing that would have required scrolling through her posts and seeking out individual charms that matched her captions. She swore to never take it off, and she didn’t, not until he bought her something even better.
(She had to wait years for that, though, the diamond and amethyst tennis bracelet she eventually grew to prefer had been an early graduation present.)
But for years it was her most worn piece of jewelry—right up until he gifted her a gold necklace with a delicate pendant in the shape of their family crest. She’d put it on when she was fourteen and never taken it off. Not even when she showered.
It served as a constant reminder of him, nestled between the budding cleavage she had at the time. Cleavage that grew as the years passed.
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(When she lost her virginity, the pendant had dragged across Criston’s chest as she moved down his body. It had hung heavy against her skin, when she blew him for the first time, just as it did when he entered her for the first time. When she moved atop him, it bounced against her breast with each thrust, a reminder of her uncle she couldn't escape, didn't WANT to escape, not even during this. Especially not during this.)
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At some point, she’d decided it was unfair, and she demanded his Instagram too. Despite the application's prevalence, she wouldn’t have expected her uncle to have one. Even for his differences—ones proven by his attentiveness and thoughtfulness, traits her father lacked—he was still her father’s brother. And her dad wouldn’t be able to navigate the app store to save his life.
But she figured he wouldn’t ask for hers unless he also had one. And she was so curious.
She knew nothing about him, except for the fact he took the time to send her presents. Most of her relatives had stopped bothering years ago. And even when they had…well, there was no comparison. Saying that Daemon sent her presents was an understatement because he did more than that, he took the time to send her things she would like. Somehow knowing what she would enjoy and what would suit her in a way that made her feel like he understood her.
And so she wanted to understand him too. At least a little bit.
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Since she knew so little about him, she didn’t really have expectations, not exactly.
Their interactions up until that point had largely been photographs of the gifts he’d sent. Mostly of her kitten-turned-cat, which she had named Syrax and dragged to her dorm despite their no-pets policy. She was wealthy enough to get away with it and happy to take advantage of that fact.
And then there was a beautiful bouquet of flowers. And a close-up of her nails—numerous ones, actually. The gift certificate she wished to thank him for had been very generous, keeping her fingers and toes manicured and polished twice a month for almost an entire semester.
And of course, snapshots of gold chains, charms, and pendants sitting atop her pale skin.
She didn’t really mind. Photos of her had started their correspondence, and the fact it remained one-sided, at least in the imagery department, was fine. It just meant she didn’t know what to expect from the feed of D.T.Rogue.
She had, however, definitely not been expecting this.
He was so fucking handsome! Like, unfairly hot. She knew that even as a not-yet-teenager who still thought boys were obnoxious—not worth talking to, or even looking at, at least when it came to the boys in her age range.
But him? He wasn’t a boy. He wasn’t her dad either, definitely not. He was something else. The sort of something you saw on movie posters and in magazines.
How was that possible?
She really thought he’d look like her dad —just a bit younger, and maybe in a bit better of shape. She didn’t realize he’d look like a model, unfairly fit with hair shorn short and a charming smirk on his face. She poured over the photos, admiring the slightly smug expression he often wore—making him look like he had a secret. Like he was teasing the viewer, or even teasing her through the screen of her iPhone.
The information offered by his account went beyond his face. It also included a little bio—and from it, she concluded he owned a security company in London.
His feed wasn’t focused on his work, though, but rather a seemingly thriving social life. It was full of pictures of him alongside equally stunning women at premieres, in clubs, and at parties. Scattered throughout were photos of hotel rooms, suits, skylines, and cocktails. His life and appearance couldn’t have been more different from her father's, save for the shared hair color.
She was kind of infatuated.
She might have started, occasionally, commenting on his photos.
And in turn, he started commenting on hers.
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She got a pair of earrings for her sixteenth birthday, amethysts set in gold to match her eyes, or so she assumed. The stones were brilliant, full of as many colors as her irises, while the elaborate settings shone like her long blonde lashes.
She may have taken nearly a hundred photos before finding one she was satisfied with sending—in it, her lips were slightly parted and you could see the dip of her collarbone. It wasn’t provocative, exactly, but it showed off her full mouth and pale skin, two traits she was often complimented on.
None of those compliments seemed to matter though, compared to Daemon’s.
Daemon: Pretty jewels can’t compare to you, they do suit you.
And then, that night, he posted the photo on his stories – the text across it was burned into her memory.
D.T.Rogue Look at my most perfect girl x
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When she was seventeen, it was a pair of Louboutins.
Her birthday fell on a Saturday and she was a bit tipsy by the time they arrived mid-afternoon. She had been gleeful upon opening them—her finger tracing the black border of the shoebox while she let the anticipation build because she knew the contents would be the opposite of a disappointment.
She was right.
It was a classic black pump, the sort of thing that went with everything but was high enough to be impractical to wear at all. They were sitting shoes, or maybe even laying down shoes, given the sex appeal that came with black leather and heels.
The black leather was soft against her skin, but the size was off, she had realized that when putting them on—and she had wondered just for a moment if Daemon had lost his touch. But she shouldn’t have doubted him, he had simply accounted for the fact they ran small, a consideration she was shocked any man would make. And as she slipped them onto her feet, the fit was nothing less than perfect.
She’d posed in a doorway—after squealing about the way they made her legs look miles long. The shoes themselves may not have been the star of her outfit, but the effect they had on her bare legs very much was. After all, she was dressed in nothing but a nightshirt that skimmed her thighs, leaving every inch of her smooth legs on display.
Laena—her friend first and cousin second—had come to visit for Rhaenyra’s birthday. As one of the few who knew who had given Rhaenyra the gift, she was all too happy to help by taking a picture.
Laena declared it “Hot” —so hot, in fact, that they got distracted by kissing, among other things. She didn’t come up for air, or dinner, and only got around to actually sending the photo when it was nearly midnight.
His response came less than a minute later.
Daemon: You were naughty for keeping me waiting.
Daemon: So naughty you probably don’t have anything on under that shirt, hm?
She had bitten her lip, considering what she typed before ultimately sending it. She could always blame the alcohol and late hour for her response, even though the statement was true.
Rhaenyra: right now I don’t have anything on at all :-)
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The luxury of the La Perla box was impossible to ignore. The cardboard felt almost velvety under her fingers as she worked up the motivation to open it. She was no stranger to the brand's catalog—or stores, even. She’d spent hours giggling and trying on lingerie in their dimly lit fitting room when she made trips to the city.
She had never actually bought anything, though. She could afford it—or rather her unlimited visa could, but Viserys scanned the statements each month and it was a purchase she did not want to explain to her father of all people.
So, she knew what would be inside, or she could make a pretty good guess, but she was still nervous as she slashed the tape of the shipping box. She paused to chew on her nail before taking a deep breath and finally lifting the lid — revealing printed paper sealed with a monogrammed sticker that provided another brief moment of suspense.
With a sigh, she ripped the paper, her patience was shredded and it showed in the way she hastily tore the tissue paper.
Oh.
She knew he had good taste. It was a fact that would be obvious to anyone who glanced at his Instagram feed —from the sharp suits, hotel suites, and even swimsuit models, he clearly cared about appearances. He knew what looked good, and surrounded himself by nothing less. He’d never sent her anything less, either.
He’d never sent her something like this though.
But she had never been eighteen before, either.
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The black lace wouldn’t leave much to the imagination, the delicate cups were obviously made for show rather than structure. Not that she really needed it—she had youth on her side, a fact that made her breasts sit high no matter their generous size. She probably should have been nervous about what the scraps would expose when worn, but she felt quite the opposite in reality. She was eager, and not just because the silk felt luxurious against her fingertips.
As she removed the bra from the box, she was greeted by additional treasures —a garter belt, and matching pair of panties. They weren’t particularly high cut, she realized, as she slid them over her hips. They could even be considered modest except…they were entirely made from lace, small patches of black satin serving as the only preservation for her modesty.
The garter belt hooked around her waist, adding a bit of opacity from its place beneath the panties, while the tabs hung uselessly around her thighs. Even if they weren’t serving a function at that moment, the straps dangling straps added a certain sexiness and contrast to the softness of the lace.
She was impressed, as she did up the bra hooks, to find that it fit perfectly. She wasn’t sure how he had guessed. How he knew. But he did. The underwire was flush against her chest, lace miraculously lifting her breasts despite the minuscule straps. Her nipples were hidden by the density of the lace, but cleavage was on display, spilling over the delicate cups in a way even she thought was fucking hot.
She ruffled her hair, slipped on the stilettos he bought her last year, and positioned herself in front of the mirror with her phone.
His response was a single word.
Daemon: Fuck.
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It was as if the gates had opened now that she was eighteen. Daemon stopped waiting for birthdays, or occasions of any significance. Boxes appeared at her doorstep weekly — containing everything from a tube of lipstick, to a set of lingerie, and even silk sheets…
She sent a photo following every gift. The more modest ones ended up in his stories, teasing text spanning the screen, implying she was something more to him than just a niece.
The provocative ones he saved for himself. She had asked him about this once, asked what he did with them. His response had been swift and made heat pool in her cunt.
Daemon: Look at them and think about what I'd like to do to you.
After the months—the year, really—of frequent presents that had followed her eighteenth birthday, she wasn’t sure that anything special would come on this day. Their pattern had shifted, and perhaps the new normal of weekly presents meant little importance would be placed on the day of her birth.
But she shouldn’t have underestimated him, it would have been unlike him to forget.
She puzzled over the box — surely it must be jewelry, given its size. But it wasn’t like she lacked adornment —the charm bracelet lived in a box on her dresses, replaced by a tennis bracelet that sparkled given the dozens of diamonds its gold settings held. Amethysts still decorated her ears, and the pendant bearing her family crest had been joined by a new necklace just a few months prior.
The tiny alternating diamonds and amethysts sat high on her neck and couldn’t be hidden the way her pendant was. It was visible in every photo taken of her and with every outfit she had worn since receiving it. She wasn’t sure if he meant for it to feel like a mark of ownership, but sometimes she felt a bit like a pet that had been collared.
That didn’t mean she had any desire to take it off, though.
But anyway—with her ears, neck, and wrist already embellished, what was left? A ring? The thought made her heart flutter —but no, that was absurd. Despite the models he frequently showed off, she was pretty sure he was already married, anyway.
Her brow creased as the lid was removed, falling from her fingers while her eyes narrowed at what was beneath. She didn’t recognize them at first —the gold barbells pierced through velvet, tipped with prong-set amethysts surrounded by diamonds. They had to be made to match her earrings and necklace, she thought, even though she received them three years ago.
Had he planned this, even then? She swallowed, mouth feeling dry at the thought, while another part of her felt slightly wet.
Because these weren’t for simple ear piercings.
She bit her lip, fingers brushing across the bars to further appreciate their beauty. Because they were beautiful. She wanted to wear them for him, just like she wore everything else.
And he obviously wanted that too. A folded piece of cardstock at the bottom of the small box listed an appointment time, an address, and the name Mysaria.
The early arrival of the present gave Rhaenyra plenty of time to make the one-hour journey by train—maybe even too much time. She had felt antsy and nervous and sought comfort through the internet by reading other people's experiences—a bad idea. She had googled enough to get freaked out while also, annoyingly, learning that seeking liquid courage before the appointment would be a big no-no.
But she trusted Daemon. He wanted this, and she wanted it too, just as she wanted everything he was willing to give her.
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The store was clearly expecting her—buzzing her in before she had even rang the bell. The decor and minimal displays screamed upscale and expensive and she was grateful she wasn’t given much time to look around, even if she was curious about just how expensive the sparkling pieces behind glass were.
Mysaria quickly introduced herself, before informing Rhaenyra that, “We do piercings in the back.” Her lightly accented words were followed by a sultry smile—not teasing, but knowing. Rhaenyra nodded and bounced on her heels, a show of her nerves before she followed the woman into a surprisingly clinical room.
She was not expecting something resembling a doctor's office to be hidden behind the damask-printed walls of the ritzy store. Mysaria laughed when she said that, “I’m happy to sacrifice style in favor of providing clients with a safe and sterile experience.”
Rhaenyra could appreciate that. Given that, like, needles were going to be involved.
“We don’t usually pierce with outside jewelry, but these were commissioned from a friend,” Mysaria said, admiring the pieces that Rhaenyra had received that morning. They looked even more sparkly in the overly bright fluorescent lighting of the exam-esque room, and though she hadn’t doubted the quality, the fact even a high-end jeweler was impressed by them said a lot.
Rhaenyra watched her transfer them from their velvet cushion to a small metal tray, which was then transferred to the autoclave. A few beeps followed before she turned back to Rhaenyra, informing her that her uncle had set everything up when he booked the appointment, but she still needed to fill out some forms.
Rhaenyra was glad for the distraction, as she tapped her information into the iPad—checking boxes confirming she’d eaten in advance, that she hadn’t consumed alcohol in the last six hours (unfortunately true), and that she would follow their aftercare instructions. A photo of her ID was inputted, her signature was scrawled, and the submit button was hit.
She finished all too soon, and the care guide pamphlet Mysaria offered was too short to keep her distracted for long. Plus, she found it hard to focus on the words while her nerves loomed--eventually giving up on the task and focusing on taking deep breaths to calm herself while she waited for the swoosh of the machine sterilization to finish.
Mysaria threw a smirk at her as she gathered the necessary supplies, moving alcohol pads, marking pens, and needles onto a clean tray. She was thorough in washing her hands and drying them before slipping on gloves with a snap and asking Rhaenyra to remove her shirt.
It was weird having gloved fingers touch her breasts—the sensation of touch there was familiar, but the feeling of nitrile was not. The woman was both gentle, confident, and impersonal. Rhaenyra was young enough that breast exams hadn’t been a big part of her check-ups, but she imagined the approach to that would be similar.
Mysaria took her work seriously, marking the placement on each side and then stepping back to examine and re-mark when necessary. She talked Rhaenyra through the process, too, which eased her nerves slightly.
Depth and symmetry were the most crucial parts of placement, she gathered, and she appreciated the commitment to getting it right. But she shivered slightly, at the wipe of alcohol against her nipples, and again at the repeated press of the marker. Even the precise nib felt harsher than what she was used to—though, honestly not unpleasant.
The whimper she let out a moment later wasn’t one of pain, and the knowing look Mysaria gave her in response made it clear she was both aware and unsurprised by the reaction.
“You’ll be even more sensitive after.” The older woman promised, and Rhaenyra wasn’t sure if that was a threat or promise.
Definitely a threat, she thought, a minute later, as she grit her teeth —fingers clawing into the plasticity cloth of the bench below her. She managed to bite back tears, but only barely. It fucking hurt and then she had to suffer through it again. She was shaking by the time it was done, adrenaline thrumming through her–but not enough to staunch the pain.
She squirmed as bits of blood were wiped away, feeling rather faint from the whole process. She didn’t mind blood—well, not her own blood, but she felt like an outsider watching the experience rather than the person experiencing it, and it was hard to correlate the pink tinge of the gauze as something that came from her.
She sighed in relief when Mysaria finally told her it was over, her mind seeming to settle deeper in her body with each second and breath that passed. The ache in her chest was noticeable, but it was a constant sort of thing she found far more bearable than the shock of a two-millimeter-wide needle passing through the most sensitive bits of her breasts.
The woman looked removed her gloves and gave Rhaenyra an easy smile as she asked, “Do you want a picture?”
Rhaenyra nodded because despite everything, despite the pain, she did.
She tried, and failed, to muster up a smile for the picture. Even with her best efforts she looked on the verge of tears, her fingers still gripping the bench and her posture leaving a lot to be desired. However, her breasts did look fantastic, even if they were more exposed here than in any other image in her camera roll, much less any she had sent Daemon.
The photos she sent him were provocative, sure—far more explicit than one would usually share amongst family. But they didn’t show more than a skimpy bikini would, even when they suggested she was wearing even less than that.
But this was nudity. It was different. More personal. More intimate. She wasn’t shy about her body, and it wasn’t insecurity that made her second guess things. She was just worried about his reaction. What if she was taking things too far, and quite literally showing him too much?
But he wouldn’t have sent her jewelry for her nipples unless he wanted—and expected—to see how they looked on her.
Her hesitation as her finger hovered over Daemon’s name was interrupted by Mysaria, who still occupied the room.
She was smiling, still giving Rhaenyra a knowing look and a nod of encouragement, “He’ll love it.” She said, confidently.
Rhaenyra appreciated the reassurance, though she still had one slight hurdle to get over before pressing send.
“I’m a wreck.” She argued, glaring at the image of herself, teary eyes and crumpled face. But the older woman just shook her head, “And he’ll get off on the fact he wrecked you.” Her tone was insistent, spoken with the confidence of a seductress who had been practicing her art for as long as Rhaenyra had been alive.
Rhaenyra would be a fool to ignore her.
She pressed send.
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Daemon’s response came while she was in the car back to her dorm.
Daemon: Perfect.
Daemon: Wish I could kiss them better x
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Her twentieth birthday fell on a Sunday and she was blessedly alone in the apartment. Which was good, because she wasn’t sure how to process…this.
She reached for her phone, firing off the text before she could think.
Rhaenyra: it’s too big
She bit her lip as she watched the message become marked as read, then followed by the dots indicating typing.
Daemon: Have I ever gotten your size wrong before?
No, she thought, he hadn’t. But he’d also never bought her a dildo before.
She had been very curious about what would show up at her doorstep today. Would he want her to get something else pierced? Fuck, would she go through with it if he did? Probably.
It couldn’t be normal jewelry, flowers, clothing, underwear, chocolate, or gift cards—no, those he no longer reserved for her birthday, and he never repeated birthday gifts unless it was to improve upon them. And given the quality of what she currently wore, she found it hard to imagine he could improve upon much of anything at all.
The cardboard was unbranded, marked with a royal mail label, her address, and nothing else. The flaps opened to reveal a black box—which was heavy for its size but had no other hint at what was inside.
Even if there had been hints, she would have missed them.
Because she never expected this.
The thing was monstrous, a tapered silicone appendage with a bulbous head and weighty base. The dark purple color was somewhat attractive, but it didn’t make it less threatening.
She stroked it, admitting that it did feel quite pleasant in her hand. It was solid, clearly high quality, unlike the offerings she’d gotten from amazon that were probably too porous to be bodysafe.
The head was softer than the base, like it was meant to conform to her, and realistic veins ran the length of it, forming subtle ridges that could only add to the pleasure it offered.
She couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel —how much she could get inside of her. If its head would press where she was most sensitive, or if its girth would hurt or feel good. Or both.
She hadn’t had a boyfriend in a while, hadn’t ever had something like this inside her. But she found herself wanting it, wanting to prove she could take it.
Wanting to show Daemon that she could take it.
Because fuck, if he sent this to her, then he wanted to see her try. And that thought—knowing he thought of her like that—was enough to make her wet.
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It was his fingers she imagined, as she warmed herself up.
It was his name whispered on her lips, as it brushed her folds.
Because she imagined it was his cock, too. Head splitting her open until she was stretched and sobbing. The size distracted her, as did the way her body wrapped around it, as if trying to take it deeper. It gave her false confidence, and she didn't hesitate before seating herself fully on the silicone length.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She was too shocked by the weight of it inside of her to move at first. Too shocked by the fact it fit inside her at all, if she was honest. But there was a strange sense of pride in that, buried beneath the stretch. And beneath that, there was…pleasure.
God, so much pleasure.
It ached but it was a good ache. It was the type you arched into. And when she did that.
Ohmygod.
She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, grinding down against the base and moaning at every shift of the object inside her. It was addicting, feeling that full, and being responsible for that feeling in a way she never had been with a partner, at least not fully.
The press of it was inescapable, and with every clench and movement, she came closer to coming.
It felt like…there were sparks inside her, a tingling feeling she grew desperate to chase. And when she reached it, it didn’t dissipate, it intensified, and then she was coming and coming again.
She was breathless when she came back to herself. Her vision was a little blurry as she scrambled for her phone—her fingers wet with her own release as she entered the passcode. The photo was blurry too, she thought, but it was clear enough. Swathes of her pale stomach were visible, palm pressed against her belly, folds parted and cunt speared on the purple cock – only the base of which was visible.
She sent it, then let out a sob as she pulled the object from her soaking cunt. Muscles clenched down desperately as if offended to be left empty, even though they ached from being overly full. The contrast of sensations was confusing, leaving her wanting more while being painfully oversensitive.
She didn’t feel capable of doing much but laying there, panting and naked on her bed as she attempted to catch her breath. She closed her eyes, sleep approaching too quickly for her to be bothered to check her phone when it chimed...
Her last thought that night was that she couldn’t wait until next year.
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