The New Girl, Ch. 8

 

Chapter 8: Freya’s Big Sister

 

There’s something profoundly naughty about the idea of switching our roles.

Naughty because, as I suppose all such naughty thoughts are, it has something taboo about it. Something about it suggests a line which mustn’t, under any circumstances, be crossed. Is this bratty, I wonder? Or does it transcend even that? I certainly don’t know about my D/s terminology. It’s a whole new thing in and of itself.

But I know, on some fundamentally profound level, that I shouldn’t be fantasising about being the dominant partner for a change. I’m under no illusions about Freya’s propensity to take charge, or the clearly powerful part of me that deeply desires her capacity to control me in our sexual and wider romantic life.

Yet I do, little by little, find myself wondering. Daydreaming.

When I give Freya blowjobs at her house on Fridays – Blowjob Fridays is the general rule – there’s something about the act that, just as it was before in Mrs Maxwell’s office, suggests a kind of submission on her part. And every time she gives me a titwank – more often than I’d have expected, at least two a week – there’s something about the way she looks at me, looks at the world when my load is dripping off of her face and across the round prominence of her breasts, that seems at odds with her usual attitude.

Something demure, almost shy, when usually she’s so forceful and commanding.

It’s not like our usual stuff has changed. Okay, so our anal has become more ferocious and more dominant than ever, with no hint of ever going back to the way it was. All that breeding play, all that talk of wiping out my line, all that degrading meanness mixed with incredible affection, is more front-and-centre to our escapades than it used to be.

But I can’t pretend that I’m not curious. I can’t pretend that Freya’s little hints and tells, suggestive of maybe having a side that would be willing to experiment a bit in the other direction, creates a hopeful story in my head.

It wouldn’t have to be always, and I’m pretty sure it’d be boring if it did become a constant. Just, y’know, once in a while? Maybe one day a week, when we switch things up, and Freya calls me “Master” and does what I want. Would that be too much? Would it be so wrong?

It’s just a game, right? We’re just playing?

‘No,’ she says, on the Friday. ‘Not a chance.’

Or maybe we’re not just playing.

Freya glares at me from across the sofa, brilliant blue eyes bordering on something not so distinct from fury. She grips the Playstation controller with white-knuckled firmness, and knowing her strength as I do it’s surprising that it doesn’t crack or shatter. My Mistress, the tall tan-skinned voluptuous Venyabildt scion, is no less beautiful than ever, but such a meagre suggestion – to my mind – has really ramped up her terrible side.

‘But I was just thinking–’

‘Don’t,’ Freya says, twisting her mouth. ‘This works on my terms, Tom. I am offering you, if you win, the chance to eat my arse. And if you lose, then you’ll blow me. I will not, under any circumstances, blow you.’

‘B-ut you s-aid–’

‘What I said is on my terms, slut.’ She says the word with surprising bitterness. ‘Not on yours. Your job, your role, your raisin d’etre, is to pleasure me. To please your Mistress. Not to demand that she pleases you. Are we clear on this?’

Definitely not just playing.

‘Yes, Mistress.’

‘Good.’ And like that, with no further upset, Freya’s countenance becomes affectionate and mischievous. ‘Don’t get silly ideas, Tom. You’re perfect just the way you are.’

Maybe she’s right. In fact, maybe it’s better this way. How would I possibly rein in Freya, after all? She’s stronger than I am, taller, fiercer by far. I’ve seen first-hand how readily she can overpower me. Maybe I wouldn’t even like it, after all. Maybe she’s right, and I’m just perfect as I am, as her slut and plaything.

And yet those same reasons make the idea no easier to dispense with. It may, in fact, be all the hotter, this dominating dream, because Freya is who she is.

There’s definitely a difference between climbing a hill and a mountain, right?

‘Loser,’ she says, rolling her eyes as my health drops to nothing. ‘Another win for Mistress, it looks like.’ Freya winks at me, spreading her legs on the seat. ‘And I was so, so badly hoping you’d be tongue-tickling my prostate today.’

‘Yes, Mistress,’ I say, obedient.

Freya isn’t, in fact, all that good at Street Fighter. Her combos are pretty clumsy, stifled maybe by her – admittedly attractive – arrogance. But lately, when the choice of “prize” is to eat her arse or to suck her dick, I’ll always choose the latter. It’s not that I don’t want to rim her, not at all. Her bum is one of the most beautiful backsides in the world.

But knowing Freya, and how she mentally constructs these games of ours, I’ll be doing it until she cums all over my face, and we’ll inevitably play the “don’t eat my spooge” game again, which is extremely hot but I also feel that it’s unnecessary at this stage, when her salty-sweet cream is something I’ll willingly gulp down at every given opportunity.

Knowing Freya, maybe that’s why she does it in such a way.

I kneel for Mistress as she rolls her school skirt up to reveal overstuffed lacy white panties. The pleasing musk of her junk, pseudo-male and cloying, creeps up my nostrils. I love her smell, all of her smells, clean or dirty. Freya Venyabildt, my beautiful mistress, and her big bad cock.

It flops out with little effort, panties pulled aside. An unspoken rule of Blowjob Fridays is that we get on with the act fairly quickly because Freya is still dealing with her little, well, quick shot issue. For all her stamina in utterly reaming me, blowjobs are her Achilles’ heel. The kind of thing she just can’t survive for all too long.

‘Mhm. Good boy,’ Mistress says, stroking my hair. Even with just the lustrous head of her length inside my mouth, her voice is shaky. ‘S-uck that dick. Ugh.’

Which is a shame. A shame of the highest degree. Freya’s penis is a thing of perfection, so big and broad, so potent and delicious. Her bulky glans swells and pulses against my tongue, strains against my cheeks where I suck them in upon it. Sticky salty precum splatters out, glazing my tastebuds in the taste of the gorgeous creature that I am ever so lucky to be devoted to.

‘Mumph. Schlup.’

Is it wrong, that I wish she could last longer? Wrong that when I meet her gaze, see those sensual sapphires all alight with lust and decadent need, I’m madly and sadly and badly aware that this won’t last? I could suck her cock for hours. I’d love to do so! But as much as Freya is getting better at lasting, it’s a slow process.

A month of improvement, and a blowjob might last fifteen minutes on a good day.

‘C-umslut,’ Mistress says, mussing up my hair. ‘Such a good little s-lut–ughn–you are, T-om.’

The difference between this Freya, having her cock sucked, and the Freya who mounts me, is startling.

Her cheeks are so red, eyes so wet with lusty joy. It’s a constant struggle for her to enunciate any given word without a faint tremor, a modulating volume to her lovely voice. It’s such a strange thing, to have this kind of power over her. And I do, don’t I? Freya is deathly careful not to take too much control here, to up the pace beyond that suggested by her gentle guiding hand.

‘Mumph. Mhm.’

This sole act between us is the one that suggests a weakness in my Mistress. The one dirty deed that, contrary to her bombast and braggadocio, such omnipresent and stalwart traits, highlights a vulnerability in her.

‘Ughn. Shit.’

And as her head lulls backwards, I don’t want it to end. I don’t want her to stop playing with my hair or stroking my cheek while I taste her potency and bob my head, sucking my cheeks in upon the fattest loveliest cock I can imagine. Not because I don’t want her to climax, not because I don’t want to devour her delicious semen, but because it just doesn’t last long enough.

‘Is this really the face you pull because of a fucking blowjob?’ a woman says, causing Mistress to tense up and shudder. A dark, sultry, husky voice, more mature, precisely enunciated, oozing confidence. ‘Cute little blondie, blushing like a tomato.’

Whoever they are they’re standing in the doorway, and Freya keeps a firm hold on my head to prevent me from looking away. Although seriousness has dawned on her features, she’s still not her usual strong-minded self. Maybe even weaker, in a vaguer sense.

‘Fuck off, Morgan.’

A cruel note of laughter. ‘Such a rude little sister I have,’ the other woman says. Something moves in my periphery, and I’m quickly aware that Freya’s older sister is rounding the sofa. ‘But what a dutiful little pet she’s found herself.’

Morgan puts her hands on Freya’s shoulders, showing off a creamy pallor and talon-like nail extensions painted the colour of dark blood. My Mistress trembles in place, holding me steady, not responding to her sister’s invasion of privacy with the type of upset I might expect from her.

Instead she simply glances away, eyelids fluttering. ‘Just go, will you?’ Freya says.

‘And if I want to watch you pull funny faces?’ Morgan says, nails rising and falling, piano-key finger strokes. ‘Or if I want to see how good of a job your pet does?’

There are some uncomfortably good genes in the Venyabildt line, it seems.

Morgan, the big sister, is a little taller than Freya. An inch or two, perhaps. She is unmistakeably a goth, with onyx-black hair that hangs in a neat straight back-length waterfall, its front a neat forehead-veiling fringe. Her lips are the colour of blood, full and rimmed in black. Dark mascara painted into arcane shapes and obsidian eyeshadow both do their part in making the icy blues of her eyes pop. Her breasts, visible where her black lacy top and its many interweaving straps opens up to reveal them, look even larger than Freya’s, though her body is more traditionally feminine and if she has anything in the way of muscles they don’t make themselves known.

‘Tom’s mine,’ Freya says. ‘I’m not sharing.’

‘Come on, Blondie. You know it’s not that simple.’

If I were to talk like that to Freya, I’d be treading on very thin ice. But Morgan gets away with it. She slowly massages her younger sister’s shoulders, athletically defined where her own are smooth and subtle. Mistress gives me this look, a trembling thing. It’s not like her. Not like her at all.

‘What do you want, Morgan?’

‘Like I said, Blondie. Just to watch. To see how this pans out.’

Morgan lowers her head to rest her chin atop Freya’s scalp. The statuesque gothic woman – a futanari, I know too well – smiles darkly at me, her teeth all white behind her full ruby-black lips. It’s one thing to give Freya head, but to have an audience is just a bit disconcerting.

‘I’ll tell Persephone,’ Mistress says.

‘Go on. Ensure that your cute little boy-toy is blowing her, as well.’

Freya groans. ‘Fine. Watch.’ She meets my eyes, her own fluttering. ‘Go on, Tom. Keep going. Just ignore her.’

The firm hand on my head says, in no uncertain terms, that I have no say in this.

‘Mumph. Slurp.’ I begin bobbing my head again in earnest, keeping my gaze locked upon Mistress’s. And yet as easy it is to focus on those brilliant blues usually, the crimson-black smile of Freya’s older sister is periodically distracting. ‘Mhm. Schlup.’

Freya is visibly flustered, and not just because of the awkwardness of our being imposed upon. She bites down on her lower lip, trembling, curling and uncurling her toes, doing everything possible to last, to restrain herself, to make sure that in the wake of her sister’s invasive presence nothing appears any less dominant and controlling than it should.

Her fat cock throbs, swells, spits tasty precum. More of it than usual. More of all three things than usual. Is Mistress…excited by this turn of events?

‘Ugh. Good c-umslut.’

Freya’s face is not her voice. Where the former is steadfast yet obviously strained, the latter fails her. The flutter to it is not as defined as it was before, but is sufficient all the same to reveal her inner truth.

‘Is this it?’ Morgan says, stroking her little sister’s arms. ‘You let him do it himself, and throw out little words of affectionate degradation?’

Freya’s eyelids tremble, and she grits her teeth. ‘Tom is an o-bedient slut, Morgan. He knows just h-ow to please me. Mhm.’ Her little exhalation at the end, and the brief hooding of her eyes that accompanies it, would be cute if not for her obvious discomfort. ‘Satisfied?’

‘I just thought that, knowing you as I do, you would be a little bolder, Blondie. All those silly little boys who run away from you in fear of having their hips shattered and yet you can’t seem to bring yourself to face-fuck this apparently collared cumslut?’

Morgan lowers her head down upon Freya’s right shoulder, her curvaceous blood-red lips brushing the younger futanari’s ear. Mistress almost shuts her eyes, shivering against her sister’s breath and touch, not to mention beneath my dutiful oral pleasing.

‘If you want to be the big bad Blondie,’ the gothic Venyabildt says, ‘then I hope you’ll appreciate my interest in ensuring you, dear sweet sister, actually maintain that image.’ Her cool blue eyes, pale frosty things, bore into mine. ‘Cumslut, is it? Then do right by your Mistress.’

Freya doesn’t stop her big sister from reaching out and putting her pale hand atop my Mistress’s bronze one. Freya and I lock eyes, aware of the worry. Aware that, if she’s going to do what it seems she will, then this is over. Whatever cruel game Morgan – and I understanding, explicitly, Freya’s concerns about her – is playing, it’s about to end in the worst possible way.

I suck in a big breath, knowing that I’ll not get another chance for a little while.

‘Morgan–’

But Freya is cut off. The taller, older futanari applies great force, despite her lack of obvious musculature. I’m sent forwards, driven face-first onto the beautiful bronze length jammed inside my mouth, and it punches painfully against the opening to my throat. Glugp, goes the single loud note, escaping the sloppiness of my lips.

‘Ughn. Shit.’

Mistress breaks upon the momentary tightness. This act of ours, this thing done so carefully to work around her intrinsic sensitivity – psychological or otherwise – has its delicately applied confines ripped away and replaced with sudden harshness, thorough forcefulness.

And Freya bucks, her thick load erupting straight into the opening to my throat, some of its viscous output flying clean out of my nostrils to my great discomfort.

Morgan chuckles, beautiful voice transitioning via my immediate disdain of her into something like a cackle, suiting her witchy appearance. I shut my eyes, bear the searing tang of fresh cum bulging out of my nose and the double insult of being held in such a way as to miss all but the faintest hints of Mistress’s creamy flavours.

‘Guh. Fuck. God, n-o.’

Freya yelps, whines, trembles ferociously against me. I can’t bring myself to look at her face, to see the shame on it, the defeat.  This private aspect, this part of her soul that she bares only to me and even then with great reluctance, is now known to another mind.

‘Look, pet,’ Morgan says, sharp nails grating against my scalp, ‘look at your Mistress.’

That voice has something about it, at once alluring and commanding. Like Freya’s, only more refined, honed, dangerously weaponised. And maybe I open my eyes just on reflex, or maybe I do, on some level, want to see Freya at her most vulnerable.

‘D-on’t!’ Mistress says, face a mess of contradictions. ‘S-top, Tom. Don’t l-ook.’

There’s some darkly erotic about witnessing these two insanely beautiful women, face beside face, and see the one I call Mistress so out of sorts. So thoroughly rocked by pleasure, dispensing such an enormous quantity of jism straight into my gullet, and yet not dominant here. That same removal of power I noted when I first blew her, and on each successive blowjob – tailored as they were to mitigate the loss, to an insufficient extent – is writ across her features without fail.

In the presence of Morgan Venyabildt, Mistress Freya struggles to be my Mistress.

The mask – revealed as a mask – is torn away.

‘The thing about Blondie, Tom,’ Morgan says, addressing me with her eyes, ‘is that she hasn’t really come into her prime. She’s not quite, not compared to we older Venyabildts, the woman she might one day be.’

‘Guh. Don’t l-isten.’

And Morgan does something that provokes a vile kind of lust in me I never knew I had.  She kisses her sister’s cheek, and uses her lips with such controlled passion that I cannot, not for a moment, confuse the kiss with something platonic or familial.

Especially when, at the moment of contact, Freya’s cock strains and her cheeks darken.

This family is…weirder than I know it to be, isn’t it?

‘Do listen, Tom. Because I’m not saying this to be mean, or cruel. Only that my sweet little sister recognises how much bravado she acts with, and how little that act matters if she can’t follow through with it.’

Morgan finally rises, releasing us both, as if it matters. As if Freya isn’t still trembling and straining, as if my nose isn’t still stinging with badly-received jism. The tall gothic woman, practically vampiric with her pallor, with that mix of reds and blacks, gives me a wink as she straightens herself up.

‘Enjoy yourselves, sweethearts. I do so appreciate the opportunity to witness young love at its very finest.’

She slams the door, and Freya slams a fist against the sofa.

 

Nothing is said between us. Not a word leaves her lips, no matter what I say.

Not as I clean myself up, not as Freya forcibly takes me by the hand and pulls me from her room, not as we get in the car. Not for the entirety of the journey home, my efforts to ask even the slightest and softest of questions coming up against a wall of solid stone.

She doesn’t even say goodbye, sending me away with a glare when we arrive at my house. I step out, turn to wave, and with uncharacteristic speed Freya is gone. Zooming around the bend at the end of the road, leaving me with a dreadful thought that this might be the last time I see her.

A silly, stupid, anxiety-induced concept but it’s there all the same. Worsened, of course, when she doesn’t respond to my calls or texts over the weekend. Made worse still when she doesn’t arrive at school on Monday. Or Tuesday.

Wednesday. Thursday. Friday.

No means of contact seems to work. It’s as if Freya Venyabildt has dropped from the face of the Earth, leaving me back as I was before meeting her, only with a Mistress-shaped hole in my heart (and arse, and mouth.) It’s no wonder then that I seem to fade into a pit of gloom, all the world seeming hopeless.

But as I’m walking home on Friday, a black Mercedes pulls up. One of those sporty models, extremely expensive. And when the window rolls down, the face that looks out at me might as well be ghostly. A terrible unwanted lifeline.

‘You and I need a word,’ Morgan says. ‘Regarding my sister and her current mood.’

Her voice, such a thing of refinement and allure, freezes my blood and affixes me to the spot. The summer brightness is at odds with her car, with her outfit – revealing, all gothic and witchy – and her aesthetic generally, so much crimson and black. The pale woman, the older Venyabildt sister, is by no means a creature of the bright world. She is, quite fittingly, a spectre suiting my forlorn inner darkness.

‘It’s your fault,’ I say, managing a glare. The strongest outward emotion – beyond bouts of nocturnal crying – that I’ve managed this week. ‘You ruined a good thing.’

‘It’s not ruined, sweetheart. I simply miscalculated.’ Morgan leans over, popping the passenger door. ‘Get in, would you? Let’s iron this out.’

Beyond the moroseness of my spirit, I’m struck by a thankful burst of self-preservation. When Freya spoke of her family, what little she explained made key reference to two rather unwelcome figures. Her grandmother, Genevieve, the futanari progenitor of sorts, and Morgan, her elder sister, who now is offering me a ride and a conversation. A ride, and a conversation, with a futanari who is doubtlessly stronger than I am and can do, I imagine, just about whatever she wants.

Alarm bells ring, some echo of the past. Freya took what she wanted, and Freya thinks Morgan is bad news. I’ve no chance of surviving the predations of this older, wiser, and – as I’ve already seen – crueller woman.

‘Say what you need to say. I’m not getting in that car.’

The darkly beautiful goth rolls her icy eyes at me. ‘I’m going to be blocking traffic, you realise? And it may take a while. What exactly are you afraid of?’

‘You can easily overpower me,’ I say, glaring.

Morgan’s face, oddly – much as I can’t trust her – suggests sympathy. ‘Is that what my little sister did, Tom? Is that how you two began?’

I recall Freya’s words. Those dickheads are cunning. Especially Morgan. ‘Gaining my trust isn’t something you can do. On two accounts.’

She sighs. ‘Fine. I’m going to pull up down the road. We’ll be in public. If you care about Freya, you’ll talk to me.’ Morgan quickly pulls the door shut and revs the engine, the metal beast purring as she accelerates. The black car goes around the corner ahead and I’m left standing in bright sunlight that feels oddly chill where it should in fact warm.

Morgan Venyabildt is waiting a little ways down the road beyond the bend, tall and statuesque, all blacks and reds. I can’t help but look, guilty as it makes me feel, at the sheer Venyabildt-grade splendour of her figure. Wide hips, long legs, immense breasts. All pale as milk, the opposite end of the spectrum to Freya’s bronze tan. She’s taller even than my Mistress, by an inch or even two, even without her height-enhancing heeled buckled-up black boots. Her black hair, its straight fringe and long waterfall sides framing her gothic beauty, is a stark contrast to the frosty blues of her eyes and the creamy white of her flesh.

She leans against the car, crossing her arms beneath her chest as I approach. ‘You,’ Morgan says, ‘are in the same boat as I am.’

I note, guiltily, in passing, an attractive beauty spot on her left breast, on the inside of her voluptuous cleavage. The single mark or distortion upon otherwise perfect pale skin. Her mouth, that same – characteristic, it seems – crimson rimmed in black, suggests vampiric predation. Even outside, with room to run – and those boots look awful for chasing – I’m wary of being close to her. Keeping three or so strides back seems the ideal.

‘What do you want, Morgan?’

‘I want to talk to my little sister again,’ she says. ‘Which, I imagine, is a goal we share, given that you’re here.’

People pass by the pavement that swerves around the little clearing by the woods, each and every conversation halted as the passers-by inevitably gawp at the tall and exquisitely attractive gothic woman. Would they be so eager if they knew about her cock, I wonder?

‘You made the mess,’ I say. ‘You can fix it.’

She sighs, and rolls her eyes. ‘I’m not quite sure I can, actually. A sisterly tease may have gone too far. Blondie does, in fact, have plenty of nerves running just below the surface, and their endings are deeper than I’d fathomed.’

‘Don’t call her that.’

Morgan tuts. ‘She’s my sister. Should I call you your pet name, Tom?’

Slut likely isn’t the best thing to be called in public. I glance away.

‘Just say your piece.’

The towering goth rattles her slicing nails upon the roof of the Mercedes. ‘My family, as you know, are different. And beyond that, we are natural dominants,’ Morgan says. ‘Freya is every bit the dominant she wants to be, but she’s…unrefined, let’s say. As I’m sure you’re well-aware.’

I nod. ‘She’s still young.’

‘She’s also brash, and reckless, headstrong, over-emotional – as shown by her responding to embarrassment by stonewalling the both of us and spending a week unwashed, binging video games in her room – and stubborn to a fault.’ Morgan smiles as she speaks, a thing faltering between humour and sadness. ‘She needs to understand that being a domme is not about absolute power, is not about violence, is not about control. My little sister needs to realise that it’s okay to relax a little bit.’

‘So you decided to embarrass her in front of her sub, her boyfriend, and her big sister?’

The gothic Venyabildt twists her mouth. ‘Those are my sins, yes. I miscalculated.’

‘Miscalculated? You were playing with her feelings!’

I don’t mean to raise my voice, but it tickles my throat. And Morgan, clearly, is not Freya. Not anything like Freya. Treacle-slow, she eyes me from the tips of my toes to the highest hairs of my head, and prompts a chill up my spine – and a guilty twitch of my cock – when she gently licks her lips.

‘You’re a wonderful pet, that much is clear,’ Morgan says. She steps away from the car, icy gaze paralysing me. Firm footsteps are all that separate us, the tall woman growing taller still as she nears. The proximity grows intimidating. ‘Blondie is very lucky to have you, and I wonder if she knows it.’

It’s slightly uncomfortable to meet Morgan’s eyes, given that my default view is of her milky and bountiful cleavage. The pendant dangling around her throat, a thing of dark silver culminating in a ruby, is no help at all as some mundane distraction, given that the gemstone itself hangs between those utterly insane breasts. An odour, of dark fruits and something that must, as it is with her sister, be her dense sexual musk, teases my nose.

‘F-reya’s my Mistress. O-nly her.’

‘You’re very sweet,’ Morgan says, smiling, all black-rimmed ruby lips and porcelain teeth. ‘It’s precisely that sweetness I aim to weaponise. But it does require you trusting me enough to get in my car, and visit Freya with me.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning that I have a plan,’ she says. ‘Though it’s falling on deaf ears if you won’t get in the car.’

‘I’d rather hear it first. Before I decide.’

Morgan lifts a neat black eyebrow. ‘Oh? That’s all it takes? If I sculpt a convincing sounding plan you’ll get in the Merc, be at my mercy, and I can fuck your sorry little brains out?’ She rolls those icy blues. ‘I’m not wasting my breath. You’re either in or you aren’t. I’m sure Freya will come around sooner or later, but this is a good opportunity for the both of you. You, to prove your subservience, and her to prove her dominance.’

‘And…and if we fail?’

The gothic Venyabildt shrugs. ‘If the plan fails, I don’t think anything will fix it. It’s fairly cutthroat to begin with.’

‘Freya did say that you’re cunning.’

Morgan grins. A predatory yet alluring look. ‘I did get the biggest brains of the family, yes. Though like recognises like, don’t you agree?’

It’s not, after all, as if Freya hasn’t shown a certain amount of willingness to be devious with me in pursuit of her desires. But I still don’t understand why, if this older sister is so willing to help, that Freya warned me against her.

‘Freya said you and Genevieve were the really dangerous ones,’ I say, more readily meeting the tall woman’s eyes. Fear suppresses, quite readily, lust. ‘That it was you two I needed to watch out for. You two she’d keep me from.’

‘Granny Gen isn’t allowed near the house,’ Morgan says. ‘Dad-Mum Persephone got a restraining order against the – and pardon my French – “psychotic raping cunt of bitch.”’ The humour that begins with the word “French” is gone by the enunciating of “raping”. ‘As for me, yes, I’m dangerous. Don’t misunderstand. You, sweet Tom, are prey. I would gladly tear off that collar and replace it with one of my own, but that’s not my intention here. I do, believe it or not, value my relationship with my lovely little sister. Stealing and dominating friend’s boyfriends, or Dad-Mum’s toy-boys – when she’s meant to be married – is another matter. And if it’s any consolation, I’m thoroughly of the belief that my cock was put on this Earth to be sucked, and that the best blowjobs are never the result of force.’ She wets her lips. ‘I’ve seen your mouth, sweetheart. Tempting as its affections are, I’d only want them given freely. So unless your true concern is that by getting in my Merc, you’ll instantly desire a mouthful of me, you’ve nothing to worry about.’

No matter what, if Morgan truly is so cunning, nothing she says helps. I am stuck between this possibility of helping Freya and the risk of being, well, taken by her sister. The question becomes this: is it worth taking that risk on the chance that I’m going to help Freya?

I shut my eyes, realising that I’ll never have a truly good answer.

‘What’s the plan?’ I say.

And Morgan takes hold of my shoulder. ‘To the car, sweet Tom. I’ll spill every juicy detail.’

 

If there’s some trick, it’s a slow-burning one. Despite being in her power, Morgan begins driving us right along the same route Freya takes when heading from school to her house out in the countryside.

‘You two are much louder than I imagine either of you think,’ the intimidating goth says. ‘That little game you’re always playing? We’re going to take advantage of it.’

‘Street Fighter?’

She gives me a side-on glare. ‘I really hope you’re joking.’

Maybe. I might’ve just said what popped into my head. ‘The “winner gets sex” game?’

‘That one,’ Morgan says. ‘Only today, I’m going to join you both. And I’ll challenge Blondie for ownership of you.’

Now that is an unnerving thought, and a possibly cunning one. What if the whole aim of this is to take control of me, in some roundabout fashion?

‘Freya’s terrible.’

Morgan suppresses a chuckle. ‘That aside, the point isn’t to win or lose. It’s to get her to rise out of this funk she’s fallen into. What we want is for Blondie to believe there’s a risk of her losing you, and realise that the truly important thing isn’t that she’s a bit of a quick-shot softie when it comes to being blown, but that she has such a dutiful and loving pet in the first place.’

I can see the logic. It does provoke a hope, a fleeting fire in my heart. Freya’s funk is a result of being embarrassed, about looking the fool. And this might work twice over. To remind her of my place – and my desirability? – and to give her a chance to beat Morgan, perhaps regaining some of her lost pride.

But what does the gothic Venyabildt get out of this?

‘Why do this?’ I say, watching her in profile. She’s uncomfortably attractive. Part of that is guilt for even thinking such a thing, but part of it is just how vampiric she looks. I know it’s just a style, but still. Tall and dark and composed is surprisingly frightening. ‘What do you get for helping us?’

‘Helping you?’ Morgan rolls her eyes. ‘You’re barely a part of this. Don’t misunderstand me, sweet Tom. This is about me and my sister, and you’re just a useful tool toward that end. I made a mistake, I’ll fix it, and you’ll help me.’

‘So you’re just doing it to fix your image? You fucked up and hurt Freya, and you don’t want to loathe yourself?’

‘Don’t pretend to understand me,’ she says. ‘You know nothing of me.’

I glance away, her tone disconcerting. ‘Sorry.’

‘Good pet.’ Morgan smiles darkly. ‘Oh, and stop pestering Blondie to do things for you.’

‘What? How much are you listening in on us?’

‘Enough,’ she says, smile hinting at teeth. I can quite readily picture fangs. ‘Your role, Tom, is to serve. You serve. That’s all. That’s it. What my sister wants from you, she will have from you. If she does, on some whim, decide to pleasure you, you will be very grateful, but you will never ask anything of her again. Are we clear?’

‘But I think Freya is–’

The car stops dead, and the seatbelt bites into me. Nothing ahead, nothing behind, but Morgan turns to me. ‘You think she’s what?’

I can barely look at her. ‘More submissive than she thinks?’

‘Has she told you this?’

‘No.’

‘So you’re basing it off what? Her vulnerability to blowjobs given by someone she – and I do not say this lightly – well and truly loves?’

‘I…’

‘Have you any idea how selfish it sounds, to be so lucky as you are, to land someone from my family as a mistress, as a lover, as a partner?’ Morgan says, neat black eyebrows raised in exasperation. ‘You will never want for anything in your life. You will never have to work if you choose not to. If Blondie has done things for you, sexual acts, and made promises to such, then I don’t think you begin to grasp how mad she must be for you. Sweet Tom, Freya has never had a proper boyfriend, and not for lack of trying.’

Is that it, in a nutshell? Have I just been selfish, wanting more than I’ve already got? It’s not like Freya doesn’t take care of me. She just does it in her fashion, and not necessarily on my terms.

And yet, isn’t that what I liked about her in the first place? That she took control?

That she’s the one in charge?

‘I just thought she’d enjoy herself, as well.’ I hang my head, and Morgan promptly cups my chin, forcing me to look into her frosty eyes. ‘Morgan…’

‘Men are submissive to futanaris,’ she says. ‘Women, too, are submissive to futanaris. And that look of recognition says you’ve heard this before. So why haven’t you taken it to heart?’

‘Is it…is it wrong to fantasise?’

She smirks. ‘If you have to ask, then you have your answer.’

‘I…I think I need to get used to that.’

Morgan squeezes my jaw, gently but suggestive of sublime strength. ‘What’s the real problem, sweet Tom?’

‘What?’

‘Blondie is a harsher domme than the rest of us – inexperienced, mostly – and yet you choose to stay,’ she says. ‘I’ve seen you with her, besides. You clearly enjoy serving her. I saw no resistance. And that you keep losing your little Friday game suggests that you are, in fact, eager to please my sister.’

I hadn’t thought of it like that, but Morgan’s right. I was under no delusions about how this dynamic works, and it’s not like it changed along the way. There’s something wonderful about seeing Freya happy, and pleasing her, and yet the most intimate thing of all is–

‘Oh.’

‘Hmm?’

My cheeks are burning as I think it. ‘What if…what if I like the way she looks when she’s a bit out of her depth, and I don’t get enough of that?’ I say, while Morgan watches my face intently. ‘What if I’m…what if I’m not very good at pleasing her?’

The statuesque goth smiles. ‘Now that’s a thought. A lack of intimacy.’

I shake my head. ‘We’re really intimate.’

‘But sexually speaking? I’ve heard Freya with boys before, and it is the last thing from intimate.’ Morgan strokes my cheek, and teases a talon-like nail across my lips. ‘You’re quite the softie, sweet Tom. And Blondie is…confused about what it means to be dominant. As you saw today.’

‘Weakness is the enemy,’ I say.

Morgan nods. ‘You’re a bit of a cocksucker, aren’t you?’

And now my cheeks are an inferno. ‘It’s…it’s very loving.’

The goth wets her lips with a sliver of pink tongue, and I shiver at the sight. ‘A shame she got to you first, young though you might be,’ the goth says. ‘I’ve little interest in men’s bottoms, but I’ll happily be worshipped for hours. We’re of one mind, regarding the affectionate appeal of fellatio.’

‘Morgan–’

She leaves me in a flourish, quickly setting the car in motion. ‘Something to talk to Blondie about. If we can iron that fear of weakness out of her, you might get more of what you want. And perhaps she’ll realise that anal intercourse doesn’t intrinsically require a lack of eye contact and a hip-bruising pace.’

That thought lingers, infusing with the little hope returning. I can’t think of a time when Freya didn’t take me from behind, to a chorus of grunting and borderline choking. And those little moments of slow affection – me blowing her, her giving me a titwank – are few and far between. My favourite faces aren’t necessarily of her looking submissive, but her…looking vulnerable.

Looking unbearably sweet. My Mistress, with her guard down. Really, truly, honestly and utterly enjoying her time with me. And I can see how, then, I’d desire her to submit, because all it would require is vulnerability. All of the time!

But if Morgan’s right, and she certainly knows her sister better than I do, then…

…maybe I’ve been completely missing the point?

 

The room of Freya Venyabildt is disconcerting. Curtains pulled closed, a variety of wrappers and empty food cartons hanging around. There’s a bin utterly packed to the point of overflowing with what can only be wank tissues, and the still-beautiful blonde futanari is a dishevelled thing in a baggy t-shirt that goes low enough to cover her junk, perpetual bed-head a mess around her face.

Thankfully, Morgan leads. ‘Right, you,’ she says, strutting past me, clearing a space on the sofa. ‘I’ve brought your pet along, and it’s time we resolve this mess.’

‘I can’t pause,’ Freya says, not so much as looking at me. ‘Do whatever.’

Gunshots, and someone screaming over their mic – something about being beaten by a girl – reverberate out of the television. Hood-eyed, Mistress manages a self-assured smirk.

‘I was going to suggest I play you on that Street Fighter game,’ the elder Venyabildt says, ‘and that whoever wins takes ownership of sweet Tom. But if you’re busy–’

Mistress growls. ‘Stupid piece of shit.’ But then she mashes buttons on the controller, and utters something inaudible. ‘Cheap fucking shot. No-scope fucking loser.’

‘Blondie.’

Freya glances sideways. ‘Yeah. Take him. Fuck it.’

My heart sinks. To mean so little, even if she’s just saying it in anger or disillusion, hurts more than I imagined it would. That fragile hope gutters out.

‘Even if that means he’ll be coming round daily and blowing me?’ Morgan says. ‘Worshipping me, Blondie, for hours at a time.’

There’s a creak, a faint crack. Teeth grinding. ‘Just go. Do it.’

‘So I could send you the videos then? All his little words of praise? And those big loads I’ll cover his tongue in, day after day after–’

Mistress chucks the controller so hard it shatters against the wall. ‘The fuck is your problem?’ She stands, cheeks red, eyes strained from darkness and screen-staring. Morgan is as cool as a cucumber. ‘First you fucking humiliate me and now this? Now you want Tom, too? I said take him, didn’t I? Why are you rubbing it in?’

The elder sister rises, taller than Freya by a few inches, but she might as well be smaller given how confidently, how furiously, my Mistress stares at her. ‘If you really don’t care,’ Morgan says, ‘then the details won’t matter, will they? And it can’t hurt to have something kinky to wank to, surely?’

Freya’s eyes begin to water, and she shivers. Those brilliant blues, muted today, set upon me. ‘Just go with her, Tom,’ she says. ‘Be happy.’

I shake my head. ‘I love you, Mistress.’

And Mistress chokes back tears, trembling on the spot. ‘Just go.’

But I run to her. Throw myself at her. Ignore the body odour and the dirty clothes. And slowly, surely, Freya puts her arms against my back, softly stroking. ‘I smell,’ she says. ‘I look like shit.’

‘You’re still you, Mistress,’ I say. ‘And I’m still yours.’

Morgan chuckles. ‘Go clean up, Blondie. We need to talk.’

‘About what? I’m not playing for Tom. He’s mine.’

‘Good,’ Morgan says. ‘But we still need to talk about your behaviour this week.’ She must turn about, dull thud of her footsteps moving away from us. Nestled as I am in Freya’s stinking t-shirt, holding on as if I could lose her at any moment, I don’t see quite what she does. ‘Alone. When the pet’s gone.’

‘Fine. Go.’

‘See you around, sweet Tom.’

And then the door shuts, and I’m alone with Mistress.

‘You can let go,’ she says. ‘I…I need to wash.’

‘Please don’t shut me out again,’ I say, clinging tighter. ‘You’re the best thing to ever happen to me, and you can’t do this again.’

‘Can’t? I can do–’

‘It’s not fucking dominant to hurt me!’ My voice comes out louder than I’d like, but comes all the same. ‘To pull away, to hide your feelings, to disappear on me. It doesn’t make you strong. It’s the opposite, and I know you’re not weak, so cut it out. Okay?’

‘Tom, don’t you fucking dare raise your voice at me.’

But I dig in tighter. ‘You’re not just my domme, Mistress. You’re not just my Mistress! You’re my girlfriend, and…and I’m pretty sure you’re the love of my life. But you will lose me if you don’t open up, especially about fucking bullshit like cumming quickly from a blowjob.’

I wince, expecting something fierce. Awful, to think that I might expect something bad. Anger, upset, shouting, anything. But Freya cries. Sobs. Buries her face against my head and shivers, holding me just as tightly as I hold her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I just…Morgan was…and you like me when I’m…’

‘I like you, Freya. But you’re not solid stone.’

Her eyes are all wet, the cute and gorgeous and amazing thing. I’d kiss her mouth but…well, her cheek will do for the moment. Until I’m sure she’s brushed her teeth. And Mistress pecks my forehead, nuzzles against me.

‘It’s embarrassing, Tom. I shouldn’t be so…so easy.’

‘It happened before, loads of times, and I didn’t care,’ I say. ‘Why’s this time matter?’

‘Because Morgan is…because I wish I was like her. Cool, all the time. Never fucking up. Older. Better.’

‘You’re cool to me, all the time. And I don’t care how often you fuck up, so long as you make it right. So long as you’re my Mistress, and I’m your slut.’

Her tears are drying, and her mouth is a blissful smile. ‘I legit haven’t washed in a week.’
I make a show of sniffing. ‘I’m well aware.’

Freya blushes faintly, sweetly. ‘Let me go fix that. Could you open the curtains? And the windows, and…I’ll fix the rest when you’re gone. Fuck my life.’

I do as asked when Freya disappears out into the hall. The level of mess produced by a single person – albeit a biologically energetic futanari of sufficient vigour and horniness – is quite astounding, especially given how clean Freya usually is. My small efforts towards actually tidying up – for her sake – make little impact by the time my futanari Mistress returns, hair wet, a towel clinging to her curvaceous form.

Her eyes are still not quite their usual boldness, the hit to her ego a thing that’ll take time to mend. But Freya is, all the same, back. And unreasonably, incredibly, stupendously beautiful.

‘Missed me?’ she says, strutting over. Midstride she lets the towel fall into a bundle around her feet. Her big bronze dick sways freely, jiggly parts somehow less mesmerising than that much-desired member. ‘Or have you just been lusting after my cock, slut?’

I wait for her to come over to me, standing inches taller, not so towering as Morgan but submission-inspiring in her gorgeous height all the same. Mistress takes me by the hips and pushes me towards the bed, turning my body about. ‘We’ll fix that.’

‘Freya,’ I say, and she pauses. ‘Can we…can we be more intimate?’

There’s a long pause, and I’m both glad to be looking away and, at the same time, aware that it allows the mind to run riot. A request, and I’m not meant to ask. I’m not sure Morgan meant that, of course, but still.

I have needs as well. And I want loving.

‘What’s more intimate than being thoroughly bred by your Mistress, Tom?’

I put my hands on hers where they grip me. ‘I want to look into your eyes. I want to lay back and be…be able to kiss you, and…wrap my legs around you.’

‘Tom, that’s…’

‘I shouldn’t have presumed anything about our dynamic,’ I say, still reticent to face her. It’s easier this way, to talk to the bed, to avoid her beautiful but sometimes troubling face. ‘You’re only dominant, and I’m only submissive. But dominance doesn’t mean it always has to be rough. And I’ve missed you, really, really badly, so could you–’

She wraps her arms around my chest, easily pulling free of my hands. Big, warm, faintly shower-damp boobs press into my back, and Freya kisses my hair, breath clearly minty from brushing. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she says. ‘If I’ve not been enough. Why didn’t you say?’

‘Because you’re so, well, shy sometimes.’ I put my hands over hers, relish in the contact. ‘Like with blowjobs. I’d want to suck you every day, but it’s only on Fridays, because you’re scared of looking silly. As if it’s not dominant just because you’re really into it.’

Another pause, and then Freya says, ‘It doesn’t make you think less of me?’

I shake my head. ‘Neither did the Morgan thing. You’re my Mistress, Freya.’ I give my collar a jingle. ‘It says so right here. I’d have your name tattooed on me, if I had proof that this’d last forever and I’d die first.’

And then she pushes me, almost violently, right onto the bed. Mistress is upon me in an instant, flipping me onto my back and hungering for my lips, sweet and faintly minty spit mingling with mine. I cup a shuddering breast, bask in the way her tongue rides roughshod across mine, pinning it down, two wrestlers and one is so much stronger than the other.

And when she pulls back a little line of spit connects us, a glistening link that I collect up with my tongue. Her eyes are still wounded a little, but the brightness is building. Maybe they’ll never be truly how they were, or maybe they’ll be bolder than ever before.

‘You mean it?’ she says. ‘Really?’

I nod. ‘My soul’s yours.’

‘I don’t think they exist.’ Mistress smirks. ‘But I love the thought.’

I reach down between us with my other hand as she kisses me, seizing upon that instantly-readied erection. God, I’ve missed it. Missed her. The heat and the taste and the smell, though her bubble-gum distinction is absent, replaced by simple clean body smells, post-showering.

‘You want me to take you like this?’ Freya says, gesturing with her eyes, highlighting our position. ‘On your back. On my bed.’

Biting my lip, I nod a little too eagerly. She chuckles, and kisses my head.

‘A moment, Tom. Hold still.’

It’s like a weight is lifted, and all my troubles, helium-filled, float away. She still wants me. I’m still here. Morgan…helped? Hindered, made the mess, but at least she solved it. And, worryingly, I’m quite certain that if she did ask me to, I might’ve…might’ve been willing to do perverse things to get Freya’s situation mended.

I’ll have to ask, about her. About them. It’s a weird dynamic, sister and sister, made stranger for them both being futanaris.

But I get little time to ponder, given how quickly Freya returns, lube in hand. ‘Going forwards,’ she says, cracking the bottle and applying some to her cock, ‘you need to tell me things like this. I might need reassuring, sometimes.’

As she lathers up her cock, making it shine spectacularly, I extend a hand. Mistress takes it, squeezing down on my fingers. ‘And you need to be able to ask. I can’t have you disappearing into your room for a week.’

Guilt – which is a good sign, vulnerable as it is – flashes across her eyes. ‘Yeah. I’m sorry, Tom.’

‘Then make it up to me, Mistress.’ I tug on her hand. ‘Breed me. Nice and slow and loving.’

She chews her lip, blushing, that same species of look that her face wears in the midst of blowjobs. Freya Venyabildt, not just having sex, not just using me – much as it is my place to be taken, and hers to take – but loving me, as well.

There’s a cool splatter beneath my balls as she squirts some extra lube there, down my arse crack, and Mistress climbs onto the bed, upon her knees. She pushes my legs aside and lines herself up, stroking my belly with a slightly oily hand as the searing plump tip of her member brushes up against my bum hole.

‘I’m so glad you’re mine,’ she says.

I wince as she enters, a week without being fucked is far, far too long. Our bodies, reuniting, are clearly made for one another, because my backside welcomes her home, right where she belongs. The burst of heat, the fat throb of her helmet, the breadth of her veiny lance, all conspire to send me ridiculously close to cumming within a moment of entry.

But I clench my teeth, squeeze down with my butt, and hold on. It’s best when it builds.

‘F-uck, Mistress.’

She descends upon me, breasts brushing against my collarbone and the base of my neck, nipples pointed and tickling. Freya kisses my forehead, slowly applying those powerful hips, going further and further into me with every languorous and affectionate thrust. God, she’s big. So fucking big. I grit my teeth, whine, vaguely aware and vaguely worried that Morgan might hear us, just as she’s suggested that she does.

‘Let it out,’ Mistress says, clasping at my throat, stroking my Adam’s apple. ‘Cum for me, slut. Show me how much you’ve missed me. And squeal like the little bitch you are.’

To tilt back my head and stare up into her brilliant blue eyes is to hurtle the intimacy factor by some cosmic degree into an interdimensional realm of blissful satisfaction. Freya Venyabildt is perfect, and I’m hers. She chose me, claimed me, took all the important firsts from me. I’ve been moulded by her body, clay putty in her hands transformed not merely into a tool for sating her needs but, and so fucking fantastically, tailored into some object of awe-inspiring affection.

‘Guh. F-uck.’

Because her smile, as I groan and writhe, is all love. All care. All wanting me to be happy, some return for my efforts, for fighting for her happiness. Her massive cock, a rod of molten brilliance pulsating as it lovingly pummels me, is as much a part of driving me to orgasm as her embracing gaze and caring contentment.

‘Mistress, I fucking–ughn–love you!’

I cum hard, ever so hard, and Freya chuckles softly. She rests an arm beneath my head and leans her body against mine, pumping away at me, big heavy balls thwap thup thwapping as they bounce against the underside of my bum.

‘Good boy,’ Mistress says, stroking my hair. ‘Mhm. My good, wonderful, lovely Tom.’

No masturbation, not even her tantalising titwanks, can match up to the blossoming reverberations provoked by being mounted by her. Freya hits all the right places, knows my body so well, does this thing for both of our sakes but clearly has me in mind with every gyration of those full womanly hips and every poke and prod of that immense erection.

She must arch her back a little, all so that our foreheads can press together, eyes enveloping eyes. They swallow me, take me to a place of perpetual pleasure, a realm where I am hers eternally. Such brilliant blues she has, and yet there remains sadness, remains notes of concern.

This incredible creature, who I am ever so lucky to belong to, has her own demons. It only makes me want her more, to somehow be closer to her than I already am.

‘I–ugh–love you so m-uch,’ I say, stroking her back, plying her lovely flesh. ‘You’re–guh–all I want. All I n-eed.’

Freya kisses me, slow and tender, making such an effort to taste me, as though this might be the very last. And though her own admissions are difficult to come by, this entire performance tells me more than any poem or song could ever manage.

She, too, has longed for this return.

‘Legs,’ Mistress says, breathy, needy. ‘I want to breed you. To put myself–mhm–inside you.’

I grit my teeth, attempt a nod, much to her humour. In the throes of a prolonged, pelvis-paralysing climax, I manage to just about lift my legs and lock them around her hips, tops of each foot clasping against one another to maintain my grip.

‘Good boy.’ Freya smooches me, licks my lips. ‘Time to get you–ughn–pregnant.’

She’s magnificent. Able, somehow, to accelerate her thrusting, to make that thup thwap thup of her heavy testicles all the louder, and yet do so without making things at all rough. And as much as the rough is divine, as much as that game is fun, this is what I needed. In my very core, the depths of my heart, just as Freya is doing a fine job of excavating the depths of my butt, I know that this is the kind of loving carnal primal mating which was absent.

‘M-ake me p-regnant,’ I say, stroking her back, tracing out her developed curves. ‘Breed me, Mistress. Guh. Fuck, you’re so p-erfect.’

And Freya’s eyes blaze, searing blue, electrified with lascivious need. The drive to dominate, to take, to claim. But I’m hers, and she knows it. Every word I speak, no matter the complexity or variation or form, should be at its base a simple notion:

I am yours.

‘So good,’ she says, eyes fluttering. Sweat beads beneath her brow, and she grinds her lovely teeth. ‘Shit, Tom, you’re so–mhm–fucking tight.’

And I squeeze down, provoking a glorious groan from her lovely lips. Freya gasps, trembles, shivers, and yet somehow holds on, continuing to drill and impale, to skewer and spear. That huge weapon goes in and out, back and forth, a presence of such potent heat that it suggests something angelic about this woman, that she is not merely human but some archangel lust goddess capable of uplifting one so sorry as myself to heights that sleepy Everest can only dream of.

‘C-um in me.’ I stare into her eyes as I say it. ‘I want your genes.’ Licking my lips makes her eyelids hood and twitch. ‘Breed me, Freya. I love y-ou so much and I’m yours and I–’

She slams herself into me and bites my mouth, tongue a demonic thing, full lips violent in their seizing. Her balls flop against me, grind up into me as her hips quake. And that fat helmet, deep within me, in its rightful place, explodes. A spray, a river, thick as treacle and blessedly hot.

And then we’re both cumming, my seed splattering down my cock and perhaps marking her belly while she breeds me, thoroughly claims me, rides on that illogical and illicit dream of impregnating a boy with her sublimely superior seed.

I pull down with my legs, urging her to fill me, to load me, to spill every last drop of sperm-rich semen deep inside my guts. I’m unworthy of such perfection, but I have it. And so long as I please her, so long as I accept my place – as Morgan has given me such insight into – then I can have a lifetime of this.

An easy lifetime as Freya’s love, as Freya’s partner, and as Freya’s pet.

‘So hot,’ she says, nuzzling my face, brushing her nose against my cheek. ‘That leg thing. Good thought, Tom. Ughn. So good.’

Her hips ease, and I squeeze. I’m milking her, milking her loins of their produce, pressed beneath her voluptuous weight atop her big bed. And the sun is shining, and the day is good. All is well with the world, because I am Freya’s, and full of Freya, and Freya is filling me.

‘Anything f-or you, Mistress,’ I say, gasping, fading into bliss. ‘My l-ife for you.’

‘Your life with me.’ Freya kisses me again. ‘At my side. I love you. More than anything.’

Spent as we are, we lay like this, bodies slightly sweaty and our smells mingling, hers the dominant. Freya doesn’t pull out, leaving me plugged even as she softens, my arsehole keeping a good grip against her lovely cock as if it would be the most tragic thing of all to release it.

No. I don’t need her to switch places. I just need her to love me like this sometimes, to show her heart to me, to be okay with being who she is. My lovely, cute, gorgeous, tempestuous Mistress.

Her eyes shine now, in the daylight. Bolder and bolder, but softer too. Warmer. As if something about this was sought by her, as well, and yet unfound. Two stupid apes, struggling to find the words, when we’re the only fucking animals to even use them.

And then she says something wonderful and terrible both.

‘I want you to move in with me. As soon as possible.’

And what else can I possibly say?

‘Yes.’

Freya smooches me with untameable glee.