selene · unread · ext 926
Fuckslut On The Bedroom Floor
don’t get up until I say
Fuckslut · Brat Phone Sex · Slutty Phone Sex · Degradation · Tease & Denial Phone Sex · Confession · No Limits · Cock Control · Edging · Rough Sex · Dominant
You’re on my floor because the bed is mine and you haven’t earned it. Knees on the rug. Phone by your hand. I can hear you breathing like you already think this is going somewhere fast. It isn’t. I told you to take your cock out and leave it alone. If I hear skin, I hang up. Brat Phone Sex is me smiling while I say that. You can hear the smile. Don’t let it fool you.
Say it. Fuckslut. Not cute. Not quiet. I want it in your mouth before I let it be about me. I’m in a cropped tee and nothing else, sitting on the edge of the bed so I can look down at where you’d be. Blonde hair in a bad clip. Nails long, square, baby pink, one already chipped. Hand between my legs because I started without you. You don’t get to match me yet.
Slutty Phone Sex is the slower name. This one is meaner. Degradation fits. You’re hard and useless until I say otherwise. I tell you what you’d see if you looked up. Tee pushed up. Tits out. Fingers wet. I’d make you keep your hands on your thighs while I used your mouth. You’d try to grab my hips. I’d slap your wrist and sit heavier. That’s the picture. Stay in it.
Tease & Denial Phone Sex, since you keep twitching. One stroke. Only one. From the base up, stop under the head, hand off. Confession: I moan when you obey, and then I tell you not to get proud of it. No Limits on what I’ll say. Cock Control on what you do. Edging until your voice goes thin. If you beg too early I add another minute of nothing. Rough Sex is how I’d ride you if you made it to the bed. You are not on the bed.
Dominant isn’t a title I need. It’s me telling you to spit in your hand and still not stroke. You do it. I hear it. Good boy, and I say it like a joke so you don’t relax. I describe climbing over your face. Not sitting all the way. Just close enough that you can smell me and not taste me. You’d lift your chin. I’d pull back. You’d whine. I’d call you greedy and then give you one lick, one, and take it away. Your cock jumps. I hear that too.
Now you can stroke. Slow. I talk over it. I’d turn around and put my ass in your hands and make you spread me. I’d reach back and guide you in and then stop, halfway, so you feel how wet I am and how little you’re allowed to move. You’d try to thrust. I’d grind down and pin you. That’s the pace. Your fist does not get to be rougher than that. Match me. Slower. I said slower.
I’m fingering myself while I say it. Two fingers, then three, heel of my hand on my clit. You don’t get a count of how close I am. Fuckslut is what I call you when you leak on your own stomach and still ask permission. Say it again. With my name. I want to hear you admit what you are while I get myself off and you hold still at the edge. You hold. Barely. I can tell. I don’t care that it hurts a little. That’s the point of the floor.
I come first. You hear it. Not a performance, a real one, breath catching, bed creaking because I leaned back on one arm. I don’t let you go yet. I make you listen to me get my breath back. Then I say ten strokes, full ones, and stop. You do them. You sound wrecked on seven. You stop on ten because I will know. Hand off. Cock throbbing. Don’t you dare finish on the rug like I already said yes.
When I give it to you, I give it mean. Stroke. Don’t tidy it. Come on your stomach and tell me when it hits. You do. You curse. I laugh, soft, bratty, pleased. I tell you to swipe it up with two fingers and lick them. You hesitate. I wait. You do it. That’s better than the orgasm. I keep you on the line while you swallow and try to sound fine.
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Stay down. I’m still on the bed, tee crooked, fingers wet, smiling at the phone. If you call back tonight, you start on the floor again. You don’t ask for the bed. You say Fuckslut before I say hello. That’s the rule. Break it and I let it ring.
You’re a mess. I’m not. That’s Fuckslut when it’s me. I hang up while you’re still tasting yourself.
seen · 1:14am
Careful. I might act like a brat. You’ll still end up on the floor.
— Selene