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The club is crowded. L suspects it usually is, nice place like this, but on a cold Saturday night during the doldrums of a Sydney winter there aren’t many better prospects than a kink club. L likes places like this. They improve his deductive reasoning. He often comes when he’s stalling in a case. Something about watching the human body pushed towards its physical and psychological limit is meditative. Not that he’d ever disclose his day job to the other patrons. Then again, most of them would never ask.
Cross legged on the couch along the back wall L watches the scene unfolding on the massage tables. A magenta haired Domme has finished prepping her submissive’s thigh and has started the slow, laborious, work of threading small gauge needles through the skin to make a five pointed star.
The submissive focuses on breathing, eyes dazing off the towards the ceiling save the occasional wince as pushing the needle back up through the thigh skin proves more challenging than expected. When the needle slides smooth the submissive seems to melt off towards her personal god. The Domme, curled over her with a pair of latex gloves, dabs away a stream of blood and applies pressure. A brief pause before the next needle exits sterile packaging to enter the submissive’s skin.
L recrosses his ankles. It takes a little adjustment in his black suit pants. Kink clubs are one of the few occasions L will dress up for. Semi formal wear, in most cities, it a condition of entry and L respects these establishments enough not to spit at their simpler requests.
Adjusting the cuffs off his button down shirt, also black, he leans into his thighs. Another needle enters the skin. The submissive is coached to inhale deeply and exhale as the Domme comes up through the skin. More dabbing, more pressure…
The star as two points at this stage. Roughly eight needles in the skin. At this rate the submissive will have close to thirty when they hit five points. But she’s clearly floating, in her happy little zone, and the Domme has obviously done this before.
L lets himself float in the rhythm of the scene with them. Trancing into their focused breathing. Settled in the tip toeing tension of the moment he feels his brain seesawing away the crap of the last week.
He doesn’t think about cases while at the clubs. Not actively. But he often finds his brain is sizzling with new ideas and maybe even the grain of sand that will be the pearl of an epiphany later by the time he boards the Uber back to his hotel. It just happens for him.
One of the few things that works when he’s stuck.
He’s not the only one watching the scene. There are three scenes in progress currently; a wax scene, the needle scene and a heavy suspension rigging scene. With a lull in the heavy impact play conversation comes a little more naturally between the onlookers, though most of them are converged on the heaving breaths and shivers of the submissive in lingerie get covered in string cheese tails of hot wax across the dungeon.
L's attention darts, subconsciously, away from needle number ten as someone sits beside him at the couch. L refocuses on the needles for a second but something draws him back to the other side of the couch. The woman next to him is not attempting to engage him in conversation. She seems equally entranced by the scene, simply sitting for a more comfortable vantage, or maybe just to take a brief rest form standing in those six-inch heels.
She’s young. Younger than L. But not so young that—Well, L can tell just from the slackness of her shoulders that she feels perfectly at home within the confines of the dungeon. Probably a regular. Regular enough to feel safe and relaxed even almost completely naked.
She’s got a tight black latex pencil skirt that barely covers her crotch, shiny white thigh-high go-go boots with chunky heels, lounging back in an open lab coat. Her chest is covered in a strap harness that circles her breasts but doesn’t cover them. Her nipples are obscured only by two black cross pasties like two promises of buried pirate treasure.
She has her arms back along the couch, one leg crossed over the opposing knee.
The outfit comes first. But under the spectacle of it all she’s also quite pretty. Though, without the PVC and leather she’d probably look a little demure. Long chestnut hair in a tight high pony tail, matching amber eyes, feline features and pronounced collar and hips bones itching out from her outfit.
Her nails, near L’s shoulder, are bright pink. The index finger has a hello kitty decal stuck on it. And L suspects she didn’t apply that herself but she obviously feels enough warmth towards the artwork that she hasn’t stripped it for something more in line with her ensemble. Maybe she has enough friends at the club not to care about the pretentious of having to match from head to toe. When you got to enough kink events your outfits blur together. A less intentional mismatch that often leads to more exciting results.
L turns his attention back to needle number twelve.
“It’s great, isn’t it?” She says.
At first L’s not sure she’s talking to him but when he turns to her, she meets his gaze. He finds himself appreciating the confidence of having such subtle make up.
“It’s wonderful,” L leans forward into his thighs. “You can tell they know what they’re doing.”
“Lela is a doctor in her day job. She ran a skillshare a couple of months ago about needle play. Really good stuff.”
“I love watching skilled people do things they’re passionate about.” L says.
“Beautiful,” she agrees.
“Have you ever done it?”
“I’ve been talking to Lela about doing a scene soon.” She replies, careful to specify; “but as the top, not the canvass.”
“Quite a power trip, don’t you think?”
“I bet.” She chuckles. “You?”
“Not really my kink,” L licks his teeth. “But I’m an easily pleased voyeur.”
She twitters again, an easy going laugh, her posture open and inviting.
“You’re a regular,” L vocalizes his conclusion.
“Yeah, been in the scene for about two years. I’m surprised I don’t recognize your face.”
L catches the question with a hum. “I’m just passing through, for work, my regular haunts are in London.”
“How do we rank, compared to London?”
“Good as any,” L shrugs. “Like I said- easily pleased.”
She hums.
They watch the fourth point of the star form in silence.
“So what’s your poison?” L wonders.
“Always fun to guess,” she grins knowingly. “I’m more involved in the age play community honestly. I love kink, in general, but lifestyle wise that’s more my vibe.”
“I wouldn’t have picked you,” L admits. “Caregiver or little?”
“Caregiver.”
“Interesting.”
“You?”
“I- uh—” L gets briefly distracted by the uncapping of another needle. “Rope, impact and chastity are my more pronounced vices. But I’ve never really made 24/7 work. Hard to find the right person for my career.”
“Right, of course…” She slides her arms off the back of the couch to curl her hands in her lap with her head gently tilted as they watch the remaining needles make their home in the submissive.
L’s never quite so talkative as at a kink club. People appreciate their anonymity here and dungeons are notoriously dry events for safety reasons so people aren’t clouded by drugs or liquor and making the worst of all possible conversation options.
The final needle makes it’s home and L is tempted to clap.
Lela praises her submissive, all without compromising the sanctity of her antibacterial gloves, and one of their associates shuffles forward to help by taking some photos of the steely star for social media.
Then, slowly, they start the equally meditative process of removing the needles and sanitizing the wound. Turning down, starting to unwind, the submissive dazing with her hands folded on her naked stomach.
“You mentioned impact?” The woman next to L says.
“I did.”
“Giving or receiving?”
“Both.”
“I’d like to spank you,” she says. “Thoughts?”
L is not as surprised as he might be otherwise. Kinky women seem to like him a lot better than vanilla women.
Meeting her gaze he considers it. “I’d like that.”
It’s a little risky. He doesn’t know this woman and he certainly doesn’t know her credentials. But she carries herself in such a way that he trusts her implicitly when she says she knows what she’s doing. Rolling back his sleeves he rises to his feet, offering her his hand.
She takes it, letting him help her up, “I brought some things. Come pick what you want?”
L lets her tuck her hand in the crook of his elbow and follows her to the cubbies where handbags and play kits are stored. She pulls down a bundle of toys from beside her crossbody bag and fans them out for him. A leather paddle, long and narrow, in pastel pink, a cane and a braided handled crop.
L rubs his chin, leaning their heads together in the quiet corner. She’s almost his height in her heels. But her size does nothing to mask the weight of her presence.
“Yes,” L taps the pink paddle, “and yes.” He taps the cane.
“Traffic lights?”
“Yes, please.”
“Marks, yes or no?”
“Yes. Potentially.” L offers. “But I don’t bruise easily.”
Putting the crop back she tucks the other implements in one hand and proffers her other hand for his. Submitting he lets her lace their fingers, leashing him with their joint hands, as she leads them back to the couches.
“Are you comfortable with going over my lap?” She asks.
“I won’t be too heavy?”
“Not even if you were sopping wet, Darling.” She snorts.
L snorts, letting her sit down with her implements to one side. She pats her thighs and, hesitating, he asks—
“Pants or…?”
“I want your bare bottom.” She smirks, rubbing where skirt and thigh and boot all congeal on her legs.
L chuckles, heart skipping up a beat, and starts unbuckling his pants. The venue is no penetrative sex but nudity is not off the table.
Settling into position across the couch and across her lap, L almost feels selfish for taking over one of the couches. But, then again, L is a selfish beast and he quickly forgets the tired little feet of his fellow voyeurs at his acting dominant rubs her smooth, soft, palm over the swell of his ass. Feeling him out.
“You’re so pale, baby.” She teases. “Pink, then red, then black and blue?”
L chuckles, resting his chin on his forearms. “Whatever pleases you Miss.”
“Oh, you’re sweet,” she twitters, gripping one cheek hard and squeezing him like he’s a piece of meat. “How long does that usually last?”
“What makes you think I’m a rude submissive?”
“They usually are when they don’t bruise easily,” she chuckles, picking up the paddle.
“Oh, so you caught that?”
“I suspected.” She rues, stroking the cool leather along his skin to both warm the components in this puzzle and intensify his anticipation.
L takes a deep breath that tenses up the length of his spine as he prepares himself for the first volley. He’s always liked the pain and pressure of pushing his physical limits. It reminds him he’s alive. Something about the same thrill-seeking behaviour that makes him a good detective.
She switches back to her hand and L hesitates, body not sure if it should tense or ease.
“I’ll make you a deal,” she says. “I will stop whenever you say Red, or Please Mommy.”
L’s guts tighten. The delicious prospect of humiliation meeting pain. It’s not his usual cocktail but it promises an electric kick.
“Deal?” She asks.
“Deal.” He agrees.
Her fingers trace, teasing, down the cleft of his cheeks. Appraising.
She grips his ass again, nails almost biting, and he makes the mistake of relaxing into a laugh when—
Crack.
The first hit comes from her open palm. Hard and fast with a strength that’s not so unnatural but he’s so unprepared for it she pulls a gasp out of him.
L pants, chest heaving, as his brain catches up with the physical.
He can feel her smirking.
And, grinning, he begins to realize his little twenty-something Domme is sadistic.
Crack.
The second blow is less surprising than the first but she alternate’s cheeks. Slapping some heat into his awakening lower body. Her hand is warm, and her form is practiced. She knows just how to hit to make that crisp sound L likes to hear. L buries his face and steadies into the breathing pace of a runner preparing for a marathon. This is not going to end quickly.
Her hands clap against his bottom. She alternates cheeks and trails down the backs of his meatier upper thighs. She warms him up, making the skin tingle and flush but not really hurt. Just laying the foundation for a much bigger project.
“Colour, baby?”
“Green.” L sighs happily.
His head is starting to hum into focus with his body, a rare experience for him but a delightfully relaxing one for a man who often feels like his meat suit is a prison.
She spanks him, open palmed, hard.
“Colour?” She checks, gauging his endurance.
“Green.”
She twitters, clearly happy he’s open to a little abuse.
Rubbing the small of his back under his shirt with her other hand she switches to pick up the paddle again. Long, narrow and leathery it’s cold again and the first hit to his warm skin is a delightful contrast of temperatures that makes L’s body tense anew.
She hits once, cracking.
And the second time is much harder.
L bites a gasp.
“Colour?” She gauges.
“G-Green,” he fumbles.
“Are you sure?” She tests, rubbing the cold leather against his tingling ass.
“Green.” He nods.
So she keeps to the new intensity. Articulate smacks cracking his ass with the paddle that’s starting to match his body heat. Her rotation around his skin keeps the thrum of the pain bearable even as she intensifies the force of her blows.
Clever woman, skilled woman…
L’s body is starting to sing and, burying his face in his arms, his breath comes quicker.
She lays the paddle across his ass cheeks, tracing between his legs to tease his balls. “I can feel you getting hard on my thigh baby, you like that?”
“Ah-huh,” L pants. His cock twitches as she pays it even cursory attention. And as she draws it into the orbit of the scene his body wants her to hit him harder implicitly. “Green.” He whispers. “Green.”
He can sense her grin and she resumes paddling him in crisp, clear, strokes.
She never asks him to count.
She’s going to stop when she’s ready. Not at some arbitrary number.
And he loves her for it already.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
L’s shoulders heave with his breathing.
They might have an audience. He doesn’t know. His eyes are firmly shut.
She pauses, paddle balanced in her fingers, as her thumb teases his asshole. Just rubbing in a way that make’s L’s cock leak against her velvety thigh. He ruts his hips a little, feeling himself start to rock, trying to get his cock against her skin instead of her shiny skirt.
With the tease perking him into another depth she resumes paddling, starting to intensify her focus on one particular zone. The thrum of the pain, dull and widespread, starts to narrow and intensify. But, panting, L is practically presenting himself at this point.
He wants to lift his ass higher into her paddle, but he’s drawn to rutting against her thigh with his cock at the same time.
“Colour, baby boy?” She calls.
Crack.
Crack.
“Gre-en!” He chokes, face rubbing into his arm as he tosses his hair.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
The ring of the paddle is all he can hear.
It drowns out his own heartbeat.
Everything ticking to the pace of her blows as that spot on his ass starts to bubble from stinging to aching to stabbing as she lays a bruise into him slowly, slowly—
The pain starts to crest. Higher.
Good pain starts to crest, and L knows himself well enough to know it can quickly become bad pain.
“Mommy!” He gasps mechanically, lifting his head wild-eyed. “Mommy, please! Mommy—”
Crack.
One last slap and she withdraws the paddle.
Like cutting a chord L slumps forward, heaving.
Handling him delicately one her hands smooths up the small of his back, disappearing up the line of his cold spine under his shirt, while the other teases at the backs of his thighs and balls. Rocking him in the heat of the good pain and the lust.
Moaning, gathering his breath, L starts to come down.
But all he wants to do is cum against her thigh.
He hasn’t been this aroused in—
Well.
The last time he jacked off, fourteen days ago, he had M&M crumbs on his shirt and he did it at his desk. At 7am. Between coffees and wadding his hand clean with a stuffy Kleenex. Hardly erotic. Perfectly perfunctory.
As he tries to steady himself back to breathing evenly he chides that they haven’t negotiated an orgasm. It would be improper of her to give him one. Even if he wants it now, you should never negotiate mid scene. He knows that. But he wants to cum on her silky thighs.
She doesn’t rush him or prompt him with words. She just softens to holding the back of one knee and tracing circles in his spine with her nails.
When L lifts his head groggily she helps him sit up next to her. He’s too fuzzy headed to pull his pants up yet but one of their onlookers has a bottle of water and his acting Domme uncaps it with her teeth and delicately coaxes him to sipping.
“Good?” She wraps her arm around his shoulder, rubbing his upper arm.
“Great.” He moans.
Twittering, pleased, she kisses his cheekbone tenderly.
“Ryuzaki,” L lies, saluting the water bottle at her with a coy smile.
She laughs. “Light.”
“Hi Light,” he slumps his forehead into hers, nuzzling their noses.
She grins wide, toothy.
“Any chance I could get your number?” He says.
L’s head is crystal clear in the Uber home. He taps away at his smart phone with his thumbs. In a tsunami wave of easing pressure his brain clicks over, faster and faster, the lock-stop of the last few days of case work falling away. It was the hair stylist. He can see it now. The spider web is entirely visible, illuminated in the street lights the Uber passes heading back to L’s inner-city penthouse.
He slots the pieces into place. A, to B, to C, to D… All the puzzle pieces of evidence sliding into a perfect line. Just as crisp as Light’s spanks. He smirks to himself, leaning against the elevator wall as he heads upstairs, phone tucked in his pocket.
He compiles his case report until about 10am the following Saturday morning. Then, fishing his phone off the charger, he thumbs Light’s contact in his phone. It’s probably a fake name, at least not enough to search, but all of that is irrelevant if he doesn’t want to see her again?
Who is he kidding? Of course, he wants to see her again. At least lick the cookie till all the cream is gone. He’s a thrill seeker, yes, but L is also addicted to rubbing the hot spot of his own base pleasures. Too many sweets, not enough sleep, he never really grew out of being a teenager in that way. Some people find that repulsive for a nearly thirty-year-old man, but L doesn’t fuck those people.
[It’s Ryuzaki. Would you consider another scene? I’m in Sydney for another few months.]
The triple ellipses flicker, momentarily, but Light is quick fingered and hardly hesitant.
[I would. I would love to do another scene. But I feel I should be totally upfront about certain things first.] She declares.
[Go ahead.]
[I don’t feel comfortable volunteering this information to strangers, especially not in person, but I’m a trans woman. So if that changes things, no pressure.]
L licks his teeth.
He’s torn.
Yes, he can understand not offering that information upfront to a stranger. People can become violent in such circumstances. Especially what looks like a cis man. On some level it makes sense that Light would protect herself.
Meanwhile, not to say Light owes L anything, but if you’re going to play with someone that usually implies a degree of transparency. At least on relevant topics. L suspects Light is smart enough to know that. Maybe she just didn’t see this as relevant content? Especially with safety concerns. Is this part of a bigger picture? Does Light drive cis men crazy and then soothe herself with how hard they begged for her if they reject her the next day when the truth comes out?
No, surely not. L’s mind can certainly picture it, but L’s mind is also accustomed to picturing violent crime scenes.
Then again, crazy or not, does it matter? L doesn’t care that Light is trans. So it doesn’t dampen his attraction and, long term, he’s going back to London. He’s not looking for anything like a serious commitment. Just a few weeks fucking, at most, what does it matter if she is crazy?
[That’s fine.] L replies after a moment of deliberation. [You’re stunning. Should we meet to discuss play rules?]
[That sounds very practical. I’d like that.]
[Dinner perhaps? My treat.]
[Dinner, sure. But Mommy should pay.] She teases.
L snorts. [Then you can pick the venue. I’m near George St.]
L appreciates he can probably pay a great deal more than Light. Which is why he usually offers to foot the bill for peace of mind. Choosing his preferred venue is his default but if Light is going to be stubborn, he can indulge her this time. Next time will be different he tells himself.
Monday evening the restaurant is nice. An upscale Italian place but not anything excessive or exclusive. L will admit to turning his nose up a little. Still it’s decidedly nicer than L was expecting Light to fork out for. She’s got to be early twenties. He likes to hope she’s not stupid enough to bankrupt herself but it’s none of his business.
“Would you consider switching?” L asks as they pass the garlic bread back and forth.
“No.” Light replies.
L hesitates.
“I understand if that’s a deal breaker.” Light appreciates. “But I’m a Domme. Plain and simple. If you want me to submit, we won’t have a good time.”
“Fine,” L shrugs lopsidedly. “But I can be quite a demanding, uppity, bottom.”
“Good.” Light smiles. “I like brats.”
“Not a brat, necessarily.”
“Sounds like a brat.” Light sips her drink.
L frowns, holding back. “For the record, I’m not really interested in ageplay.”
“That’s fine. Would you care if your humiliation was ageplay themed?” Light asks.
L considers that. “No,” he decides. “That’s fine.”
Why not?
Might make an interesting story.
And if it’s her strength…
Another trap.
Number five, technically. Or maybe six?
She laid a lot in the first few days and L stumbled his scrawny ass into all of them. He doesn’t know it yet but, in a few days’ time, he’ll be begging for her to play Mommy fulltime.
Crack.
Crack.
L’s bones rattle in his arms. He can see stars. His whole body is heaving and quivering with the snap of her wooden hairbrush on his ass. His eyes cross as he splits his mouth open to yelp—
“Please Mommy! Please!”
She stops, arms suspended where it’s raised mid strike. Poised to land.
Lowering her arm Light helps him to sit between her slender thighs. He sags back into her warm tits, head thrown back against her shoulder, and hiccups through his gasping inhalations. He thought he might cry that time. Half with ecstasy.
She nuzzles his cheek bone from behind hands folded over his belly with the hairbrush still prised in her fingers. His hands fumbles down, ready to hook around his cock and stroke, palm, but she cracks the wooden hairbrush against his knuckles and L yelps.
“H-hey!”
“Let Mommy touch,” she croons into his ear.
He moan-groans and eases his head back.
The cock ring at the base of his shaft pulsates with pressure.
“Hands behind your back.” Light drawls. “No touching.”
L shuffles up a little in her arms, tucking his hands behind his back against her belly, holding his wrists in opposing hands as her manicured nails swirl circles over his thighs.
Her hands slide up his thighs, curling around his cock, both at once. Petting him, one hand dipping to cradle his balls, the other strokes from balls to the head of his shaft wringing out the precum drooling from the slit.
“My baby boy,” Light croons. “You’re such a good boy for Mommy.”
L moans, eyes clenching shut.
She starts to pump his cock slowly. Her hand increasingly slick from his own pre-cum as she lathers it against her palm.
“You’re too little too play with this.”
L whines but—
“You’ve got to let Mommy take care of you.” She coaxes, stroking. “Little boys need their Mummies to touch them just right. Go on baby, spread your legs a little more.”
“That’s mortifying,” L groans, even as he hooks his knees over her thighs to spread his legs wider under her inspection. Her hands wickedly smooth and teasing.
“Colour?” Light clicks her tongue in challenge.
L grits his teeth.
“Colour?” She squeezes his balls hard enough to make him gasp.
“Green.” He gasps.
“Look at how messy you’re getting!” She giggles. “You can’t possibly walk around like this. You’ll get you underwear soaking wet.”
L chews his lip.
He’s so mad at her.
She’s so fucking evil.
But her hands, oh god her hands…
“You need a diaper—”
“No!” L whines.
“Yes,” Light chews his earlobe, rubbing his hipbone as she pumps his cock. “Mommy will put your diaper on, so you don’t make a mess.”
“I’m not a baby.” L stutters through the declaration.
Light’s thumb idles on his head, swirling back and forth. “You’re Mommy’s baby boy.”
L groans, hips arching into her hand, wanting her to do something. Anything.
“You’re Mommy’s—”
“I’m Mommy’s little boy.” He mumbles.
She starts again, stroking deliciously slow up and down his cock. “You’re Mommy’s little slut.”
“I’m—Oh—”
She swirls a fingernail in his foreskin, just so—
“I’m Mommy’s little slut!” L moans, pulling his head forward just to throw if back against her shoulder.
“Good boy,” she laughs, voice dropping lower and buttery as she purrs; “my good boy.”
L moans, his whole chest tight, as she strokes him along the edge of orgasm.
“Look at this poor, achy, little boy ass.” She tuts, sliding the hand down his balls, across his perineum, to rub at his hole. It’s slick enough with sweat and his ass is tingling from his spanking in such a way that he flexes for her enough that she can tease the tip of her index finger into him without lube.
L moans like he’s been shot.
Witch.
Fucking witch.
She always does this.
“You need me to fuck you.” She plants pointedly.
“I-I—” He pants, gathering his breath. “I need you to fuck me.”
“Hmm?” She tuts.
“I need you to fuck me, Mommy.”
“That’s it,” she croons, “good boy. You’re going to feel so good around Mommy’s cock.”
L feels himself start to ache, not the fun ache either. Every part of him needy and tense.
“Stand up.” She pulls her hands back to rub his spread thighs. “Bend over the couch so Mommy can slick up your little ass and fuck you.”
L whimpers staggering to his deer legs. He starts to unfold his arms from behind his back but Light grips his forearms and tuts.
“You don’t need those. Why would you need those?” She chides. “Bend over, baby.”
She rises to follow him around the couch and L throws himself forward. The arm of the sofa presses into his stomach, rubbing against his cock at the curve, and his cheek rests, panting, into the seat cushion. Saddling up behind him, unclasping the lube bottle, she purrs to herself as she slathers up her fingers.
They’re cold when they rub, circling, at L’s hole. They’re not much warmer when she starts wriggling them into him with practiced motions. He hiccups, rutting his hips against the arm of the couch uselessly in time with her shallow thrusts, but with the cock-ring holding him back it hardly helps. He can’t even steady himself with his arms behind his back. Well—He could. His arms aren’t tied. But if he dared she’d probably smack his ass black and edge him for another twelve hours.
She doesn’t have a heart.
She’s evil.
Her hand, still sticky with lube, coils in his hair and jerks his head back. Elongating his neck, making him fumble, she lines up her perfect cock with her other hand and starts rubbing the head against his hole.
“How much do you love Mommy?” She grins viciously.
Bitch.
Fucking—
She even has a perfect cock.
Evil fucking—
“I love Mommy so much!” L pants, teeth clenching through a moan as she sinks into him.
“Good boy,” she sighs happily as he engulfs her cock. “Tight little boy.”
She presses his face back down into the couch and starts to fuck him in earnest.
“Do you get to have opinions?” Her balls slap against the backs of his thighs.
“N-No Mommy.”
“Are you going to cum from getting your little ass fucked?”
“Yes Mommy.” He rasps, praying—
“Who’s my little slut?”
“I am!” L yelps.
And then, all at once—
“Ooh!” L unhinges as she releases the cock ring and his whole-body spasms.
He’s a seizing, quivering, mess.
She’s still fucking him as he comes down.
He’s limp, stuck to the couch, when she grabs his ass with her nails and withdraws.
“Sit.” She orders.
He fumbles, half falling, and sits on the couch.
Putting one foot on the seat next to his knee she pumps her cock once, twice—
And cums across his face.
He blinks at her, panting hard, her cum running down his cheeks.
Laughing again she leans down, hands on her knees, and kissing the top of his sweaty head.
“Good job.” She sighs, pure indulgence.
L would ask to clean the cum off his face but he knows she’ll say no.
She’s a bitch.
She wants him to fall asleep with it drying on his cheeks.
Tossing herself down on the couch next to him however, she pulls him into her arms and sprawls back. Hand in his hair she guide his head with one hand, rubbing the nipple of her perfect tit against his lips with the other hand.
“Go on baby.” She orders. “My treat.”
L doesn’t resist. Just opens his mouth to suck at her pert little nipple as she sags in her arms. Sprawled, smug, she pats his hair and encourages him to suck her dry breasts hard. Useless but persistent.
Light Yagami.
That’s her name.
L stole her license one of the rare showers she took at his penthouse where she wasn’t fucking his throat. He needed to know if evil had a surname.
She’s a psychotic bitch.
L’s learnt that, these past four months.
But he’s also realizing he’s helplessly enchanted.
He never wants this woman to leave. To stop fucking him. He’s delayed returning to London twice already and, next week, he’s looking at a penthouse to buy.
God, what has he gotten himself into?