 This story is part of Tagg After Dark, a sapphic erotica collection exclusively for readers 18+.Â
Just jumping in? This is the final part of a 4 part story. Go back and read part 1, part 2, and part 3 before you continue!
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CW: a gun
She pushes her body flush against mine, and my legs spread open willingly, lovingly, waiting in anticipation for her thigh shoved between them. This is my favorite part. All her composure and controlled restraint dissipates in these moments, when I get her so worked up that all she can do is rut against me like I’m the only thing that matters. I relish her wild, animalistic groans, muffled unsuccessfully into my neck where she teeths aimlessly at the skin, like she’s trying to ground herself. The more control she loses, the more in control I feel; the only time I feel like I have the upper hand is when she’s using me for her own pleasure. It should be debasing and humiliating, but it feels like a success every time, the way her thrusts grow sloppier and more desperate.
I can’t help but whisper in her ear, just inches from my mouth. “You can’t help yourself, can you? You like this just as much as I do, puppy. Maybe even more.”
She shudders, sighs, bites down hard enough to break flesh. I don’t know if it’s my words or the taste of my blood, but she cums soon after. I know because she gets so quiet, so still. I convince myself that I can feel her cunt throbbing even through all the layers of denim and cotton and soft silicone. My mouth waters just at the thought, and I fumble for her belt. “Let me,” I beg, unabashed, but she shakes her head and pulls away. Our bodies are sticky when they part, and the loss of warmth makes me shiver all over.
And there she is again: guarded eyes, set jaw, post-orgasm embarrassment. Her carefully crafted walls are back up in an instant. If one of us is a prey animal, it certainly isn’t me. She’s a master of disguise and concealment, and she never lets her guard down, and she spooks like a deer. I can already see her preparing to run away, ears perked for the first sign of a twig snapping, so I change the subject.
“Will you teach me how to shoot?” I ask, still breathless, pulling my dress back down.
A smile breaks her cautious expression. “I don’t think they’re in the business of giving gun licenses to people who are likely to put them in their mouths.”
“But it’s a sex thing, not a suicide thing,” I protest, and then another thought comes to mind. “Wait—was it loaded? Just then?”
She thinks for a second, and actually has the decency to look guilty. “Shit. Yeah. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say, secretly thrilled. Danger is no longer something that concerns me. Not because I trust her, but because the opposite. Because I know there’s no version of us that doesn’t end up with me getting hurt, and every time I walk away with only flesh wounds, I become more determined to go back. Some people stick their hands into the mouths of lions and crocodiles and pose for pictures, smiling and safe. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be the first bunny to be cradled gently in the jaws of a wolf. Wrapped up in her tongue like a blanket.
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