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They fall into Yolanda’s apartment in a mess of fumbling hands and sloppy mouths, with the sort of wet, greedy kisses that always make Trinity feel as if she’s being picked apart at the seams. Yolanda has her fingers of one hand fisted in the collar of Trinity’s shirt and she’s palming Trinity’s ass with the other, kissing her jaw and nipping at her neck as she does, backing her further and further into the darkened hallway. Yolanda always kisses her like this, touches her like this—hungry and impatient and possessive, like she’s moments away from tearing Trinity’s clothes off and fucking her right there and then.
“Been needing you all night.” Yolanda sinks her teeth into the sensitive flesh of Trinity’s earlobe and walks them back into the living room, either not noticing or choosing to ignore the way Trinity staggers. Trinity suspects it’s the latter. She suspects Yolanda doesn’t care if she trips or falls or if her heart is beating so hard she can hear blood rushing in her ears, as long as she does as she’s told. And God, will she ever. “Pants down and bend over the couch. Don’t move.”
She’s still wearing her shoes, still giddy from the wine at dinner, still wanting a little more foreplay before they get to the main event, but when Yolanda gives her a little shove and disappears into the bedroom, Trinity begins unbuckling her belt with the sort of frantic, spastic energy she usually reserves for life-saving measures at work. Shoves her pants down with the same urgency she’d use to perform CPR and arranges herself over the back of the long, low couch where they watch movies and read and entertain friends and Yolanda eats her pussy until she’s begging her to stop. Being exposed like this used to freak her out. She didn’t like the idea that anyone could come up behind her when she’s vulnerable, that it would take her a few seconds to right herself and kick out and start screaming. It had taken a few weeks of Yolanda building up her tolerance to it—leaving her on all fours on the kitchen floor or having her lie face-down on the bed with her back to the door, going about her day while Trinity lay prone and helpless and entirely unprotected—to get comfortable with the idea. It still freaks her out a little, especially when Yolanda is a little drunk and a lot keyed-up, but it doesn’t scare her anymore.
“You know damn well I meant underwear too, Dr. Santos.” Yolanda’s heels tick on the floor as she returns to the living room, heels she doesn’t bother stepping out of as she comes up behind Trinity and slaps her ass. Trinity reaches for the waistband of her boxers, because despite the fact that she did know damn well Yolanda meant her underwear too, she’d left them up, knowing exactly what Yolanda’s reaction would be. She blames it on the bottle of red they’d split over dinner, the creme brulee they’d split for dessert, the fact that Yolanda had been rubbing her ankle with the sole of her stockinged foot all night. Anything but the fact that she wanted to feel the crack of Yolanda’s palm against the curve of her ass. Yolanda just bats her fingers away, bracelets jangling, and slaps her again. “Find something to hold onto.”
Trinity, after a moment, reaches for one of the throw pillows strewn on the couch cushions, digging her fingers into it as Yolanda drops to one knee behind her and drags her boxers down in the sort of brusque, matter-of-fact way she does just about everything. Cool air on her exposed cunt makes her shudder and the warmth of Yolanda’s breath against it makes her shudder even more, and she braces herself for the slick, wet feel of Yolanda’s tongue on her clit or the press of two of her fingers if she doesn’t feel like smearing her lipstick, shutting her eyes tight.
They immediately fly open when Yolanda licks a long stripe up her ass, ignoring the warmth of her cunt, short nails carving little half-moons into the pale flesh of her thighs as she works the tip of her tongue into Trinity’s ass and spreads her legs open a little wider. Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. Fucking fuck.
“Baby,” Trinity pants, fisting the pillow so hard she thinks she might pop it, might cover the living room in a snowfall of feathers and down, toes curling against the carpet while Yolanda opens her up a bit more, just a bit, just enough. The sound is worse than the sound of Yolanda’s tongue in her pussy, because at least when Yolanda eats her pussy she knows what lewd, squelching noises to expect; here she can’t be sure what the next sound will be, can’t know if it’s the strangled moan escaping her own lips or the wet (not wet, not really, but spit-slick, muffled by the unfamiliar) flick of Yolanda’s tongue against her hole or the way Yolanda makes a low, pleased noise at the back of her throat as she works her open. “Baby, hang on, I don’t—”
“Shh,” Yolanda hushes her, the vibration sending sparks dancing up Trinity’s spine. She pulls away from Trinity, just enough to be able to speak, and Trinity can’t decide whether to crane her neck to try and make eye contact or to bury her face in the throw pillow she’s currently strangling to death so she doesn’t have to meet Yolanda’s gaze. “I do. Just relax.”
She isn’t exactly sure how she’s meant to relax in these conditions, but she does as she’s told anyway, shutting her eyes and trying to brace herself against the back of the couch so she doesn’t topple over when her knees inevitably give way. Yolanda gives the curve of her ass a conciliatory pat and returns to her task, holding her open with both hands and beginning to stretch her out again. Trinity’s cunt is beginning to weep down the inside of her thigh, so sorely neglected she can feel her heartbeat in her clit, but Yolanda ignores it entirely, though Trinity is certain Yolanda can see and feel and smell how fucking wet she is. It feels like its own form of torture—Yolanda’s tongue is so, so close to brushing against her pussy, so close that the way she’s not doing it feels deliberate, but she won’t touch her, just gets Trinity’s ass slick and wet with her spit and, apparently satisfied, sinks her teeth into flesh she’s already reddened with her palm and bites down until it stings. Then she stands, still in her heels, the hem of her dress brushing the backs of Trinity’s knees, and cups her hand beneath Trinity’s mouth.
Trinity, instinctively, knowing exactly what that cupped hand is ordering her to do, spits into Yolanda’s palm. Immediately she spits into it again, sucking as much moisture from her mouth as she possibly can, because this is likely going to be all the lube she’s going to get and she’s not—well, she’s not frightened, exactly, she’s never frightened of Yolanda, never has been and never will be, but the prospect of being fucked in the ass with nothing but spit as lube makes her heart leap into her throat. So, she spits, until her tongue feels like sandpaper and tastes like the wine they drank with dinner, and only when she feels like she can’t possibly muster up any more spit does Yolanda draw her hand back.
“Take a deep breath,” Yolanda tells her, bracing one hand on her hip and rubbing her thumb over the small of her back. Trinity is just grateful it’s the hand she hadn’t used to slick herself up, mostly because she’s still mostly dressed and the tails of her shirt are still hanging down next to her thighs and she has neither the time nor the inclination to send it in to be dry-cleaned because Yolanda decided to use the most expensive shirt she owns as a towel. She takes a deep breath through her nose, out through her mouth, and waits.
The wet silicone against her hole startles her, just a little, but Yolanda doesn’t stop. Trinity doesn’t want her to. If they’re going to do this, then they’ll do it right, with the unfamiliar burn in her muscles as her body struggles to accommodate the girth of Yolanda’s cock and the strange, startling pressure that seems to push all the air out of her lungs and leave room for nothing else inside her. She crams her knuckles between her teeth and tries to keep breathing, even as tears spring up behind her eyes, even as it aches and stings and consumes her entirely, She groans against her hand, already feeling her knees start to sway, feeling herself clench against Yolanda as if her body is begging her to take it out, get it out, that’s not where she’s meant to be, but the thing is that it is where she’s meant to be. Yolanda is meant to be in every part of her, under her skin, in her veins, tucked in the little space above her tricuspid valve and tugging at her hypothalamus every time their eyes meet. Every part of her is Yolanda’s too and so she grits her teeth against the hot, prickling, foreign pain and groans again when Yolanda’s hips meet hers.
“Hurts?” Yolanda drapes herself across Trinity’s back, the buttons on the front of her dress pressing into her spine through the fabric of her shirt. It’s a stupid question. Yolanda knows it hurts, she wouldn’t be asking if she thought otherwise, she knows it hurts and it’s painful and it’s erotic and intimate and it’s everything, that it’s the most intense thing Trinity thinks she’s ever felt, that she can feel every little ridge of the cock Yolanda picked (and that the cock she did pick was one of the bigger ones, not one that she should use for fucking someone in the ass for the first time), that it makes her feel like her entire body is something for Yolanda to chew up and spit out. Yolanda kisses the back of her neck, nosing at the nape, no doubt leaving lipstick all over Trinity’s skin, and repeats the question in a breath against her flesh.
“Yes,” Trinity manages, though even that barely makes it past her lips, and feels Yolanda smile.
“Poor puppy,” Yolanda croons, moving a lock of Trinity’s sweat-dampened hair away from her neck to keep kissing it. “Should I stop?”
Another stupid question. Yolanda wouldn’t stop even if Trinity asked her to. Wouldn’t stop with a gun to her fucking head. She wants so she takes and Trinity would let her take anything she wanted and they both know it. Trinity shakes her head frantically and Yolanda laughs, low and raspy into her neck, using a hand against the back of the couch to push herself back into a standing position and winding the fingers of the other into Trinity’s hair. “Didn’t think so. Keep breathing.”
She’s given Trinity just enough time to get used to the intrusion, Trinity realises, enough time that it doesn’t ache quite as badly when she pulls halfway out of Trinity’s ass and slides back in, that the pressure has started to make her cunt weep again. It still hurts, still feels alien and unfamiliar, still feels like something Yolanda shouldn’t be doing, something Trinity shouldn’t be letting her do, but after several strokes, after her body has grown accustomed to the feeling, the pain gives way to a strange pleasure. Real pleasure, sure, but the pleasure of prodding a hole where a tooth should be, of picking at a scab, of rubbing a knot out of a muscle. The pleasure that comes from scratching a bug bite or sitting down after a long shift. Her favourite kind. The kind of pleasure that refuses to be nothing but pain.
“Look at you.” Yolanda tugs her hair, forcing her to crane her neck up and lift her head from where she’s made a cushion of her forearms as Yolanda fucks her. The television across the room is darkened, half a mirror, and Trinity can just barely make out their outlines in the reflection. Mostly she can see them move: how Yolanda’s hair bounces with each thrust, how her own body responds to each of Yolanda’s movements with a shuddering jolt back against her cock, the way her back arches obscenely, as if she can’t get enough. She can’t. She could never get enough of Yolanda. They could be together for the rest of their lives, should be together for the rest of their lives, and it still wouldn’t be enough. Nothing could ever be enough. She supposes this is a start.
“One day I’ll make you come like this,” Yolanda says, tugging at her hair again, fucking into her so hard that Trinity can feel it in every single one of her nerve endings, from the tips of the hair wound into Yolanda’s fist to the toes that are curling and uncurling into the carpet reflexively, her entire body on fire and burning her alive. “I can make sure you’ll only be able to come with my cock in your ass. Make it so nothing else, no one else, can ever make you come. Only me. Only this.”
Trinity whimpers, still squeezing the life out of the throw pillow, imagining it, imagining walking around all day knowing the only way she’ll ever be able to get off is with the feeling of Yolanda’s cock in her ass. God, will she ever be able to walk around again? Her knees have mostly given out, the only thing keeping her upright is the back of the couch under her stomach, she feels entirely boneless, like she’s been steadily melted into a puddle of pain and pleasure and the intersection between them, and Yolanda snakes one arm around her waist and cups her cunt in one palm as she keeps thrusting.
She’s impossibly, obscenely, exceedingly wet, so wet that she can feel herself leak into Yolanda’s hand, and it takes one, two, three strokes of Yolanda’s thumb against her clit to send stars dancing in front of her eyes as she shatters to pieces beneath the weight of Yolanda’s touch. A tear squeezes its way past her lids as she sags against the couch, supporting herself with nothing but that and her tippy-toes against the rug. She shudders and whines and clenches around Yolanda’s cock and wishes more than anything that Yolanda could feel it, even as her thrusts slow and then stop. Trinity, through a haze of tears and gummy lashes and an orgasm she can taste on her tongue, watches in the television’s dim reflection as Yolanda brings that thumb to her mouth and sucks it clean.
“I think you’re trying to kill me,” Trinity tells her once she can form words again, head hanging down over the couch because she doesn’t think she has enough strength to straighten up. Yolanda laughs, patting the curve of her ass again as she begins to unfasten the harness she’d slid on over her dress. Seems inefficient to Trinity, but even when she did top, she certainly didn’t wear dresses.
“If I was trying to kill you, Dr. Santos, you’d be dead.” Yolanda discards the harness, thank God, because Trinity doesn’t want to see the state of it, and lifts one of Trinity’s legs over the back of the couch. It sends her toppling onto the cushions, her entire body so achy and sore she can’t do much more than let herself fall onto the couch and remain where she falls, limbs sprawled, and Yolanda comes around and sits down the way you’re meant to sit, tugging Trinity’s feet into her lap. “Are you dead?”
“Yes,” Trinity says, draping her forearm over her eyes as Yolanda kisses the sole of her foot and drops it back into her lap. Another laugh, this one far lighter than the last, and Trinity grins up at the ceiling. “I’ll have to call in dead tomorrow.”
“It’s Thanksgiving tomorrow,” Yolanda points out, rubbing her ankle, and Trinity groans. Fuck, she’s going to have to treat third-degree turkey burns with a limp.