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You know you shouldn’t be here, —but here you are yet again, coming to Moira’s every beck and call. All it took was one text and you’re standing in front of her door in a nice little dress that won’t stay on for much longer anyhow, but you wanted to wear it because you bought it less for yourself and more for her. You want her to see you in it, take a moment to admire the way it flatters your figure, hugs all the right places, let her eyes rake over you like you’re some kind of fine arts exhibit before she takes her sweet time stripping it off and tossing it to the wayside. And then you’re sure she’ll trail those nails of hers along the bare skin of your arms, toying with the straps of your lacy bra before she finally unhooks it from the back and discards of it as well, leaving lipstick stains on your chest when her mouth meets your skin. She’ll whisper that you’re pretty, and you might just believe it for the night, and then she’ll make you believe it when she kisses you hard enough to steal your breath away, and—
Your thoughts still when she opens the door for you, giving you a knowing smirk. There was never a question of if you were coming, just one of how quickly you’d be arriving, and here you are, even though you shouldn’t be. She invites you inside and lingers behind you under the guise of closing the door, but you can feel her piercing stare on your body as she flips the lock. You leave your heels at the door, as always.
No, it’s not a good idea to be back here again, but you’ve convinced yourself by now that sometimes it’s okay to live a little. Moira is a lot of things, but she’s someone you trust enough to let see you in very vulnerable positions, and you like to think that’s enough. It might be a naive perspective to have on the matter, —but that’s to be expected of you, so young and pliable. You met Moira on the night of your twenty-first birthday, celebrating alone at a bar where she was sipping on straight whiskey while you nursed a poorly prepped martini (and found that alcohol in general just isn’t much to your taste.)
Nearly thirty years your senior, she felt like she was taking a chance on you that night. It’d been a rough day, and she’d gone so long only caring about her work and all the ways she was looking to change the world that her desire to want and be wanted had since fallen to the wayside. But there you were with those lost, innocent eyes, glancing around like you hadn’t a clue what you were doing (because you didn’t.) She was so confident and smooth in the way she moved down the bar to sit next to you, then let her hand rest on your thigh after a few minutes of chit-chat. One thing led to another, she bought you a few drinks to try, and then took you to a nearby hotel for the night where she sank her teeth in deep enough to keep you around for a while.
Nearing twenty-two and just as eager to please her, you accept her kiss with parted lips, letting her tongue rake itself over yours.
“You’re beautiful as ever,” she says, running the back of her slender index finger down the length of your cheek, “—is that a new dress you’ve got on?”
You know it doesn’t mean anything that she noticed. Not really, anyway. It’s in her job description to be observant, and her memory is impeccable, and yet you let it get to you that she noticed. You let yourself think that she really does care beyond what you’ve got between your legs that she really likes to press her mouth against until you’re left a quivering mess.
“Yeah, it is,” you nod, a bashful smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I thought I’d treat myself. Do you like it?”
“I do,” she confirms, letting her eyes trail down the length of you once more. “An early birthday present to yourself, I presume?”
“You remembered?”
She remembered. Heaven help you, she makes this so much more complicated than it needs to be. Or, she helps you make it much more complicated than it needs to be, anyway. You know it’s a fool’s game to chase after her like she’s some kind of prize to be won, but. . . She’s so mature, and she makes you feel so special.
Long story short, you’ve got a down-bad case of mommy issues, but when you’re all tied up in Moira’s arms and she’s kissing every inch of you, wanting you down to the marrow, —it’s hard to let yourself be sad.
“Of course I remembered,” she replies so tenderly.
But tender like a bruise.
“Come, I got you something,” she beckons, moving her hand from your cheek and down to your wrist.
Moira pulls you along to her bedroom, the one you’ve been in many times before with a large sliding-glass door that leads to a balcony overlooking the city below. You’re not sure how much her rent is each month for this luxury apartment of hers, but you know it can’t be cheap. Sometimes you stand with her outside in the late-night air, one of her button-up shirts hanging down to your kness with nothing but panties underneath after a nice time together. She’ll smoke a cigarette under the moonlight and press it to your lips every now and again, letting you take small hits that you never really breathe in.
“You really didn’t have to get me anything,” you tell her in earnest. “Besides, my birthday isn’t for a few more days. . .”
“Oh, hush,” she tells you, sounding more playful than scolding as she hands you a gift bag.
It’s a solid crimson color, which you can’t help but think is oddly befitting of her. There’s no glitter, frills, or ribbons, no bells and whistles to name, so you move to open it, but glance up at her in hesitation, as if asking for permission. She nods, to which you swallow and push some of the tissue paper aside, digging your hand into the bag until you touch something smooth toward the bottom.
Confused, you pull the item out and feel your face heat up. It’s a leather collar.
“Do you like it?” She inquires, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “I think you should try it on.”
You nod and hand it over to her, pushing your hair out of the way so she can fasten it around your throat. It seems like such an easy process for her, and you can’t help but wonder if she’s ever done such a thing with anyone else. Once it’s secured, she moves in front of you and takes a step back, admiring the accessory.
“What do you think?” You ask, sounding somewhat sheepish.
“What a sight you are to behold, a ghrá,” she hums. “It even matches your dress.”
Black leather with a little black dress, it’s kind of hard to go wrong there.
“Come,” she all but coos, taking a seat on the edge of her king-sized bed right next to the oakwood nightstand.
It has three drawers, the top of which is always filled with various items you’ve had on or inside you over the past year; a few vibrators, various lubricants in different flavors, body oils, —and now, a silver chain. . . Like the kind you might use to keep a dog in place for a bit or curl around your bike to stop it from getting stolen. You stand between her thighs as she lets the length of it fall to the floor. Your guess would be that it’s only five feet or so long, but you’re sure she’ll make do with it just fine.
“Lean down for me,” she requests, and you do, no questions to be asked on the matter.
Moira smirks as she hooks the chain to the collar on your neck.
“Such an obedient thing, aren’t you?” She quips, then gives the chain a little yank for good measure. “Kneel.”
She feels her hunger grow the moment you comply so easily, as if she’s your master and you’ve been trained ever so perfectly to follow her every command without question.
“Good girl,” she murmurs, wrapping the metal links around her knuckles, then folding her fingers back over them.
She places a fingernail beneath your chin and tilts your gaze up until you’re transfixed on her irises.
“You’re so pretty like this, did you know that?” She inquires rhetorically.
The nail against your skin becomes the whole of her palm against your cheek. Her hand is cold, but you can’t seem to care beyond the brief initial shock.
“Don’t think your efforts go unnoticed, darling, I know exactly who you purchased that dress for,” Moira smirks. “And I’m enjoying every moment of seeing you in it, just as you intended.”
And that’s really all it takes. This love might bleed like an open wound, might fester until you stitch it up again, —but it’s here that you don’t mind all the nights you craved validation for every good deed that went unnoticed. Maybe Moira isn’t praising your straight A’s or being proud of just how much like her you look, but what’s the fucking difference if it fills the same void? What does it really matter if it helps?
“Open,” she utters, and as you do, she places two fingers from her opposite hand against the flat of your tongue, drawing little circles in your saliva.
Then she rests an elbow against her knee and leans down a little lopsidedly, replacing her fingers with her lips, kissing you sloppily, capturing your mouth and keeping you there until she’s had her fill of it. When she breaks away, you feel her fingers searching for your dress’s zipper along the back.
“I really hate to see this go so soon, but certain sacrifices are in order,” she sighs a little playfully, tugging the zipper down about halfway before standing upright and using the chain on your neck to pull you with her.
On your feet again, she helps you out of your dress and makes a show of folding it ever so neatly, then placing it on the nightstand in front of her lamp and her alarm clock that’s woken you up too soon far too many times for your liking. Moira lays you down on her bed, and it’s so large that it reminds you of the one you’d search for at night when bad dreams took hold of your fragile little heart and squeezed just hard enough to crush it into pieces at will. Only this time, there’s warmth awaiting your endeavors, and you’re not a lowly little child that has to beg for affection.
She rubs a few teasing lines down your slit through the black lace of your panties, teasing you briefly with her touch. For as long as you’ve known her, Moira has never been very keen on reciprocation, preferring to give rather than take. She likes the control and the motions of it all, likes to know that she has the upper hand, —and she always does when she’s with you.
It’s only been a few moments, but it feels like a lifetime and then some by the time she hooks her fingers under the waistband of your underwear and begins to tug them down your thighs. You feel the scratch of the materials against your flesh as you lift your hips off the sheets to make it easier, and she’s much less careful with your panties than she was with your dress just a bit ago. They wind up somewhere on the floor at the foot of her bed.
You gasp a bit when the pad of her thumb slips past your lips and nudges along your clit almost instantaneously. The quick reaction makes her snicker a bit.
“Sensitive as ever,” She comments offhandedly.
The unspoken part of that is something along the lines of I’ve always loved that about you.
After a year’s worth of hookups, late nights, and hellishly early mornings spent together, Moira is virtually an expert in all things pertaining to you. Such is only exemplified by the way she teases you for a bit with her tongue before letting it slip past your lips to lap at your inner folds.
You choke on a few curse words just above her, already clawing at the sheets as she flicks her tongue against you, pulling the chain that still remains clutched in her hand a bit tighter. It’s not enough to cause any pain, but it squeezes your neck from the back and makes it ever so slightly harder to take in gasping breaths of air.
She was more than right when she called you sensitive, —both to her touch and everything else about her. You’ve always been so eager to make her happy, and she loves that about you. You’d jump through rings of fire for her, and she knows it.
The mixture of your arousal and her spit makes for a delicious squelshing sound at every move she makes, tongue thrusting in and out of your soaked cunt, abusing your clit for her pleasure while you whine and whimper above her. This kind of pleasure has always felt overwhelming in a good way; the kind that gets your blood pumping, heart racing, and inhabitions lowered enough to fall for someone like her, even when you know it’s bad for you.
Moira feels the stress of her work and the critics of her methods melt away when her tongue is busy torturing you so sweetly, lapping at every glistening inch she can. She’s mind-numbingly thorough, and it leaves your thighs quivering long before your orgasm begins to prickle just under your skin. For as good as she is with words, it comes as no surprise that she’s just as skilled with her tongue in all areas of her life.
It doesn’t take much more of this to have you cumming on her tongue, cunt spasming so helplessly under her touch.
Fuck, you’d do anything to have her like this every night when she gets in from work and needs something —someone— to take her frustrations out on. You’ve always been good for that.
“Tired?” She muses, regarding you a bit sweetly as she sits upright and wipes her mouth with the sleeve of her button-up shirt.
“Just a bit,” you answer, breathing slightly easier now that she isn’t pulling as harshly on the chain clipped to your throat.
“Not tired enough to stop now, I’d hope?”
What you really wanna say is that you’d never stop until she told you that you could, gave you explicit confirmation that enough was enough, —but you can’t. You know deep down that it’d scare her off, and you just couldn’t handle that kind of rejection, so you shake your head instead.
“Good,” Moira replies. “It’d be a shame to pause here when I have so much planned for you tonight. That was merely the tip of the iceberg.”
An appetizer, one she was wetting her chops with.
She digs around in that drawer next to her bedside, pulling a vibrator from the inside. You’re not so sure she’s ever used this one on you before, but if there’s one thing Moira always knows how to do right, it’s give you pleasure, so you resign yourself to laying there on her bed as she presses one of the pebble-like buttons on the shaft and feels the item begin to shake in her hand.
“Turn over,” she quips, thinking you’ve had enough cool-down time between sets of stimulation, —and you do, hiking your ass into the air and speading your thighs apart to give her ample access.
You feel her nails scratch thoughtfully over your goosebump-ridden skin, pausing for a moment to knead at your flesh a few times. Then she runs a hand down to the small of your back, wordlessly encouraging you to rest your head against the mattress and let her get to work. A needy moan is drawn from your parted lips the very second she presses the vibrator to your pussy lips, causing shivers to wrack through your body.
The soft hum of the toy speeds up into more of a whirring sound as she increases the tenacity and pushes it inward, slipping past your folds to pulsate against your desperate clit. Moira seems rather satisfied with the sounds you’re making, even as she reaches just under your body to snatch the chain still dangling from around your neck. You feel it jostle as she wraps it around her knuckles once, then twice, pulling taunt while she begins drawing blissful shapes into your snatch that have your eyes rolling back into your head.
Then from the soft melody of the toy’s buzz came a sudden crescendo into a firm, droning noise that made you cry out a bit from the intensity.
“Ah,” Moira says, almost in amusement, “I take it that’s the one?”
“Yes,” you reply quickly, the word coming out so ruined by no fault of your own.
“Very well,” she notes, swirling the tip against your clit again before pulling away and repeating.
It’s like she’s teasing you, though you’re not sure if that’s the intention of it all. Either way, you make no attempt to complain. It’s impossible to even think about doing so when you’ve got stars swashing across your vision. You’re sure you’d have been drooling between your legs by now, dripping all over her sheets, if not for the knob of the vibrator catching and returning it, slicking you up even more.
Your neck is beginning to ache from the position you’re lying in, but you ignore the signs from your body to move and find a more comfortable posture. All you can focus on is the heat between your legs and the toy she’s now pressing so roughly against you that you can practically feel the vibrations in your womb. The pressure builds once again, your stomach twisting into knots, —and then you finally let out the breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding as an orgasm wracks through your body. It was so much easier to elicit the second time around, almost enough for you to be embarrassed.
Moira pulls the toy away slowly, letting your lips kiss it softly goodbye as she switches it back to a stationary position.
“To your liking, I take it?” She asks, and you can hear the smirk in her voice.
“Yeah,” you huff, “—definitely.”
It just always is when you’re with her, no matter what she does, or even if she only uses what she has readily available. Anything she offers is enough. You’d do anything just touch her, feel her skin against yours, feel her lips ghost against you like they always do. You’re left to toe another dangerous line between ecstasy and infatuation.
She tugs the chain, and you find yourself on your knees, kneeling a bit unsteadily on your thighs that haven’t quite stopped quivering just yet. You lower your ass to your heels on the mattress as she wraps an arm around your waist, tugging you a bit closer to trail some peppered kisses down your jaw. It’s hard not to feel special when you have her like this, —when she showers you in all the adoration you missed out on in your younger years. Sure, maybe it’s not the same, and maybe it is just placing a bandaid over a gash deep enough to need stitches, but it’s the best you can do. There’s no amount of therapy that can really change the past, and if Moira is what it takes for you to feel like you’re worth something for a while, then so fucking be it.
By now, your pussy’s sopping wet and swollen, but still in desperate need of her attention. Moira kisses you again, but your lips this time, slipping her tongue into your mouth and swapping your spit for her own.
You swallow down the I love you that rises in the back of your throat like bile. You can’t say that. . . You won’t. You can think it all you want, because she can’t read your mind (as much as it feels like she can sometimes) —but you can’t say it out loud. Not when you know it means throwing away this already pitifully fragile balance.
“Come,” she says simply, moving to sit at the head of her bed, long legs stretched out and clothed in black dress pants with the texture of rough denim.
She situates you as she pleases, one leg on either side of her right thigh, one hand on your hip to keep you steady while the other fiddles with the chain. She coaxes you down until your pussy is flat against her, taking in a sharp breath from the warmth and the friction.
“Let’s get this out of the way, shall we?” She comments, both hands meeting behind your back to unclasp your bra, —the last item of clothing left on your frame.
Once it’s shed, she gives you another look-over, admiring you like she’s never seen you this way before.
“Your wrists,” she requests, to which you comply so obediently, like a pet she’s trained ever so well.
Moira wraps the length of the chain around your wrists a few times, tucking the end through the space in the middle. Under any other circumstances, you’d have easily been able to wriggle your way free, but you allow yourself to be bound for the sake of her pleasure; leaning forward to rest against her shoulder.
“Sweet thing,” she murmurs. “One more? They say third time’s the charm, after all.”
“Whatever you want,” you answer, even at the risk of coming on a little too strong.
Luckily, she doesn’t seem to mind the intensity of the statement and appears to chalk it up to pillow talk.
With both of her hands free now, she plants one on each side of your hips, nails digging slightly into the plush of your skin. A whine clings to the back of your throat as she guides you, coaxing you into a subtle grind against her clothed thigh. Sharp prickles run along your spine as you move a little faster, chasing a final high that really can’t seem to come fast enough.
Moira seemed more than content to lie back and watch you drive yourself wild in her lap, her hands less guiding your motions now and more just coming along for the ride that she’s letting you set the pace of. You spur between quick, jagged motions and slow, deliberate ones that really send shocks throughout your body, all of which meld deliciously together and leave you love drunk atop her.
You know the wetness from your pussy is staining her pants, likely more than enough to seep through the fabric, but she doesn’t seem to mind at all. With your heart pounding like a drum in your chest, you almost have the wherewithal to wonder if she can hear it. You find it’s harder to breathe now, lungs aching a little from the inconsistent amounts of air you’re taking in a series of random gulps, then sputtering out between desperate moans of pleasure.
“Moira,” you hiss, —and she squeezes your hips in silent response.
The heat in the pit of your stomach has begun to spark like a live wire, just begging to catch ablaze. You bury your face in the crook of her neck, muffling the ragged sobs that you can’t hold back any longer, eventually sinking your teeth into the junction of her slender shoulder when your climax hits you.
Moira listens to the uneven rhythm of your breathing as it steadily calms into something less strangled, trailing her fingers down your naked spine. When you’ve come down from the high, she unravels the chain, then removes it entirely, and stuffs it (as well as the vibrator) back into the drawer they came from. The collar comes off just as readily, and she takes a moment to check on the condition of your throat in the process. Best of all, you just know it’s going to be one of the better nights when she reaches off to the side of the bed, plucking her half-empty pack of cigarettes from the nightstand to place one of them between her lips.