And yet it's every word that parts from Aki's filthy mouth that soils her thighs, her grimy fingers stuffed inside Denji's exposed cunt, her handiwork that's drawn continuous moans from her sore throat as the very essence of her heats, and aches, and craves for more. More delicious friction, more of Aki's touch: the good, the bad, the even worse. If Denji's nasty, what does that say about the person who willingly submerges her hands in all her mess?
Without consciously realizing it, Denji bounces on her curved finger, hips rocking, cries hiccuping from her chest like she was born for exactly this. To suffer her degradation, to sing for it — a music box just for Aki.
It's madness. She never thought she'd be into getting punched down and called names by her superior. When she imagines Makima sweet talking her, it's always rich honey in her ears, nice things, romantic things, but maybe it's the dissonance of hearing Aki's every day impatience and irritation mingled in with an uncommon breathlessness to her voice as she serves to fulfill Denji's need. Maybe that's what's getting her off, what keeps her trapped in the frantic movement of their bodies, froth gathering at the rim of where her hole and the stretch of Aki's two digits meet. Lathering the entirety of her palm at this point.
Aki's right. She probably could squirt. ]
Make me —
[ That's what she begins to say, forceful, like it's a challenge, but then Aki strokes in deep at one particular spot and her mouth twists into a grimace, her gaze staggering upwards for a split second. ]
Hnngh, please, please, make me —
[ She licks her tongue up Aki's cheek, knee pushing its way into the apex of Aki's own legs, like she's pressuring her on. Begging Aki to sully her even further, past the brink. ]
no subject
And yet it's every word that parts from Aki's filthy mouth that soils her thighs, her grimy fingers stuffed inside Denji's exposed cunt, her handiwork that's drawn continuous moans from her sore throat as the very essence of her heats, and aches, and craves for more. More delicious friction, more of Aki's touch: the good, the bad, the even worse. If Denji's nasty, what does that say about the person who willingly submerges her hands in all her mess?
Without consciously realizing it, Denji bounces on her curved finger, hips rocking, cries hiccuping from her chest like she was born for exactly this. To suffer her degradation, to sing for it — a music box just for Aki.
It's madness. She never thought she'd be into getting punched down and called names by her superior. When she imagines Makima sweet talking her, it's always rich honey in her ears, nice things, romantic things, but maybe it's the dissonance of hearing Aki's every day impatience and irritation mingled in with an uncommon breathlessness to her voice as she serves to fulfill Denji's need. Maybe that's what's getting her off, what keeps her trapped in the frantic movement of their bodies, froth gathering at the rim of where her hole and the stretch of Aki's two digits meet. Lathering the entirety of her palm at this point.
Aki's right. She probably could squirt. ]
Make me —
[ That's what she begins to say, forceful, like it's a challenge, but then Aki strokes in deep at one particular spot and her mouth twists into a grimace, her gaze staggering upwards for a split second. ]
Hnngh, please, please, make me —
[ She licks her tongue up Aki's cheek, knee pushing its way into the apex of Aki's own legs, like she's pressuring her on. Begging Aki to sully her even further, past the brink. ]