Tashi Duncan X F!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.

PTA MOM!TASHI HEADCANONS

pairing: pta mom!tashi x ptamom!fem!reader

warnings: explicit f/f oral sex (giving + receiving), rough fingering, overstimulation, power play, mild mommy kink energy (not explicit but heavily present in her dynamic as a controlling maternal figure), possessiveness / marking (biting, bruising, claiming behavior), masturbation (fem) with voyeuristic + obsessive undertones

⟡ tashi is the kind of mom who dominates the pta not by yelling, but with a smile that tells everyone she’s already ten steps ahead. her clipboard is color-coded. she has spreadsheets. she bakes things with just the right balance of pinterest aesthetic and genuine homemade warmth. the other moms admire her. fear her. talk about her in group chats. but you? you get the real version. the one who peels off her cardigan in your kitchen, kicks off her heels, and mutters “if i have to smile at one more bitch who calls my scones ambitious, i’m gonna scream.”

⟡ she’s got that casual, icy authority that makes people listen, even when she’s just asking someone to pass the almond milk. you’ve seen her make a man shut up mid-sentence with just a raised brow. but then she turns to you, softens just a little, and says, “you wanna ditch this meeting and go get drinks?” and you’re already grabbing your keys.

⟡ she touches you like you’re her pressure valve. not always sexual—though that comes later—but possessive. anchoring. a hand at the small of your back. fingertips brushing the inside of your wrist. her palm hot against your thigh when you sit next to each other at the pta fundraiser planning committee, perfectly hidden under the tablecloth. she doesn’t say anything. she doesn’t need to.

⟡ she masturbates to the thought of you while lily’s at art’s house. her legs tangled in the sheets. her back arched, whispering your name into her wrist. she fingers herself hard, mean, like she’s punishing herself for how badly she wants you. sometimes she lays your photo face down beside her, like that’ll help. it never does. she always flips it back over.

⟡ tashi knows how to fake warmth. she did it on tennis courts for years. she does it at every bake sale, every book fair, every damn halloween carnival. but you see the cracks. the nights when she comes over with a bottle of wine she won’t share and mascara smudged under her eyes. “i was supposed to be something,” she says once, almost under her breath. “i was supposed to be more.”

⟡ she eats pussy like it’s the only god left. slow at first, like she’s unwrapping a gift. reverent. her tongue is precise, clinical even—but then something breaks in her. she grabs your hips like she’s trying to hold on for dear life. hums into you. makes a mess. won’t stop until your legs are shaking and your fingers are tangled in her sweaty curls. “you’re gonna come again,” she pants, “don’t argue. i know you can, baby.”

⟡ she lets you touch her only when she’s desperate. not because she doesn’t want to. because she doesn’t know how to let go. when she does let you? she comes so hard she cries. her hands gripping the pillow. her thighs clamped around your head like she’s trying to shut the world out. after, she’s quiet. breathless. she never says thank you. just kisses you like she’s drowning.

⟡ she handles school politics like a pro. she knows who’s cheating on who, who’s laundering money through the auction fundraiser, and which mom has a wine habit that’s gone from “ha ha” to “someone should talk to her.” she doesn’t say anything out loud. just gives you the look during meetings. that look. the you-see-this-bullshit-too-right? look. and later, she vents it out in your passenger seat while you get drive-thru sodas and sit in silence like you’re both 16 again.

⟡ tashi doesn’t let people in. not really. but you’re in. whether she says it or not. she remembers how you take your coffee. picks you up little things from target—nothing flashy, but things that mean she’s been thinking about you even in the toothpaste aisle. if you get sick, she’s at your door in 30 minutes with soup and vicks vaporub like a military-grade wife. she doesn’t sit. she hovers. she glares at your thermometer like she can will the fever away.

⟡ she gives you orgasms like performance art. like they’re something she choreographed. one hand holding you open, the other pressing your chest flat to the bed. she doesn’t always talk, but when she does, it’s filth whispered like prayer. “so sweet like this. you know that? so good for me. bet you’d let me fuck you on the pta table if i asked real nice.”

⟡ she can be so gentle it makes your chest ache. she brushes your hair behind your ear while you talk. buys your favorite gum and keeps it in her purse. she’ll send you a picture of lily in a homemade costume and say “we did good.” when you call her impressive, she looks away. “i don’t know what i am anymore,” she says. “but i like you. that’s one thing i’m sure of.”

⟡ she bites when she wants to remember you. collarbone. hipbone. between your thighs. she won’t say she misses you, but she’ll leave a bruise the size of her mouth on the inside of your thigh and then text you a picture of it two days later: still mine.

⟡ she has a jealous streak she refuses to name. if another mom gets too close to you? she’ll step between you, hand on your lower back, and smile like a wolf in pearls. later, she’ll pin you to the bed and mutter, “she doesn’t know how to make you feel like this. only i do. tell me.” (you always do.)

⟡ aftercare is strange for her. she can’t say the sweet things. so she gets quiet. brings you water. tugs your shirt back over your head with gentle fingers. brushes your hair behind your ear. she doesn’t kiss you right away. just looks at you—long, searching—and says, “you okay?” in that too-casual voice that means please say yes. please need me back.

⟡ she hates not being useful. if she’s not planning, fixing, perfecting—she feels hollow. after she quit tennis, there was a period where she couldn’t get out of bed. not from sadness. from inertia. it scared her. so now she overbooks everything. overfunctions. overachieves. she only slows down around you. sometimes. when she feels safe enough.

⟡ she makes lily’s life feel curated and safe. she sews labels into her daughter’s jackets. she keeps the fridge stocked with exactly the kind of juice box lily likes and tracks the phases of the moon in case her daughter’s third-grade science class needs “enrichment.” and she’s not trying to win—except she always is. she wants lily to feel like everything in her world is managed and flawless, because tashi’s childhood was chaos, and she will not repeat it. “i’m not gonna give her an anxious mom. even if i have to fake peace every single day.”

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.