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“You’re beautiful, Satya.”
If it’s possible, she feels her cheeks get even warmer at that. Her whole body is burning with guilty, embarrassing desire. The heat is frankly unpleasant, and should she start sweating it will become intolerable, but for now her attention is largely elsewhere.
It is focused on the soft, warm voice of the woman holding her. It is on that woman’s calloused hands gripping her hips with a strength belying her age. It is on the rough fibers of that woman’s jacket and how it feels to rub her fingers back and forth along the material.
Primarily it is on the thick head of the hard-light length Ana Amari is sporting, the thick head Satya is rolling herself against. The toy teases her clit through the barrier of her panties, and her breath becomes short and sharp every time. This is very enjoyable, and whenever she can force herself to look at the other woman’s face, the smile seems to indicate that Ana feels the same way.
She is trying not to focus on the fact that it should not be enjoyable. It should not be anything at all. What she is doing is unpardonable. But she thought that about the first looks and the first fantasies, and once she had already betrayed the woman she claims to love by thinking about this at all, it was horrifyingly easy to slide the rest of the way down that ravine of depravity.
So she avoids eye contact with her girlfriend’s mother when she can, and gets herself off on the toy she made explicitly for this purpose, and doesn’t think too hard about how flattering it is to hear Ana Amari call her beautiful.
One of Ana’s hands moves from her hip. Her fingers trace electric lines across Satya’s skin and toy with the hem of her panties before dipping underneath. She parts her bush and then spreads her lips with steady fingers. She has never touched Satya before, but somehow she seems to know exactly what to do. Satya wonders how many women have been in her place before. She tries not to linger on that thought, because it reminds her exactly what it is she is doing.
A finger rounds her entrance, and her attention is redirected again.
“You’re very wet,” Ana tells her with that same smile. Satya bites her lip and nods. “How would you like it inside, habibti?”
“I…” Satya swallows, makes eye contact for an instant and looks away again. “I would like it, but I can’t—I can’t—come—with penetration alone.”
Ana actually laughs then, a throaty chuckle that resounds pleasantly through the room and through Satya’s body. Her finger dips inside, just for an instant, and then strokes feather-light across her clit.
“Don’t be so focused on the end. Don’t worry about finishing. We have all night to make you orgasm, ya amar. Just enjoy every moment.”
Satya doesn’t know whether Ana actually knows that’s Fareeha’s preferred term of endearment or it’s merely an eerie similarity between mother and daughter. All she knows is it should not be as arousing as it is. And she is more focused on that, and on Ana’s face, than on the hand carefully pulling her panties aside. Then Ana’s now-damp fingers are back on her hip, and she pulls down and rocks up and—
“Oh,” Satya sighs, her head falling limply back as the length fills her swiftly and completely. She molded it to herself in the first place, crafted it to be the perfect size, and now it feels exquisite just to be full. She leverages her knees on the bed on either side of Ana to rock against it. Her clit can just barely rub against Ana’s stomach on each thrust, if she angles it right.
“You’re so quiet,” Ana notes, and perhaps it is not meant badly but it feels like an admonition. It is true; Satya is quiet, has been quiet ever since she was a girl learning her own body in a bed and room and life crafted and controlled by Vishkar. Even Fareeha, mouth hot and skillful against her core, cannot really coax sound from her.
But then Ana gently bends her backward, and her hips roll powerfully up into Satya, and she hits a place that makes Satya’s eyes roll back into her head, and she cannot hold back the sound that slips from her lips. It feels good to moan, and better when she watches Ana grin.
Ana repeats the motion, and then again, and then noise is pouring from Satya’s lips in an echo of the motion of Ana grinding up into her, and she lets her head hang limply back and her eyes close. There is just sensation, just the smell and touch of Ana Amari fucking her.
Ana bites at her nipple through the lacy bra still trapping her breasts, and when that earns her another high-pitched sound she takes it as an invitation to pull the garment up and get at Satya’s breasts properly.
“Please,” Satya manages, breathless, unsure what she’s begging for. She’s sweating now, damp with it, but even so she is more consumed by the teeth firmly toying with her nipple, and the toy nuzzled deep inside her, and her girlfriend’s mother effortlessly breaking her to pieces.
“Good girl,” Ana says. Her voice is low and lustful. And Satya keens, rational thought splintering, briefly wondering if maybe she can come like this after all.