Hotaru
“I aim to be unique in my praises,” she grins, the side of her mouth brushing Maeve’s warm skin as she speaks. Her guarded heart shies away from the domesticity of the moment, relieved when the younger woman flips them on the rug and dispels the vulnerability Hotaru had succumbed to. Nate and Sunjata are far from the first to have betrayed and burned her the way they have after all. Hotaru has historically never been lucky in love, and so she lingers in these tepid waters of sex and teasing, far from the dark waters and the undertow she knows lives there.
The scar Maeve kisses is a raised one, silvery and knotted. Hotaru only knows the stories of the worst ones, so battered is her canvas, but that doesn’t dissuade her. “Some of those stories are too dark for moments like this,” her tone gently fends off the Madame’s curiosity; in time perhaps, but not here, not where those stories can taint this simplistic pleasant moment.
So starved for touch, her skin jumps beneath every trailing kiss, finding it difficult to restrain herself as every glancing touch sparks a fire across thousands of connected nerves. The mouth that embraces is her hot and slick, suckling encouragingly until her nipples are stiff peaks at the mercy of her tongue. Hotaru whines, soft and long, and one hand drops to fist the rug. She is not overly sensitive there, but it’s enough. The exploratory fingers however garner a much stronger response as they ghost over the lips of her cunt, already slick to the point of coating her inner thighs from where she’d clenched them together in her own pleasure while eating Maeve out. The searching gaze is clear mimicry of her own, intent on returning the favor of teasing and drawing out begging words. Hotaru is more than ready to give them, though she is docile and slack, almost obediently waiting instead of trying to demand. “Please Maeve,” she murmurs over the crackle of the logs in the fire, utilizing the Madame’s name like a weapon. “I want to feel your fingers. Your tongue. Whatever you will give me.” A shame her toys are in the bedroom then, though a part of her is grateful that this is a simplistic introduction of their physicality together. No frills. Just each other.
The scar Maeve kisses is a raised one, silvery and knotted. Hotaru only knows the stories of the worst ones, so battered is her canvas, but that doesn’t dissuade her. “Some of those stories are too dark for moments like this,” her tone gently fends off the Madame’s curiosity; in time perhaps, but not here, not where those stories can taint this simplistic pleasant moment.
So starved for touch, her skin jumps beneath every trailing kiss, finding it difficult to restrain herself as every glancing touch sparks a fire across thousands of connected nerves. The mouth that embraces is her hot and slick, suckling encouragingly until her nipples are stiff peaks at the mercy of her tongue. Hotaru whines, soft and long, and one hand drops to fist the rug. She is not overly sensitive there, but it’s enough. The exploratory fingers however garner a much stronger response as they ghost over the lips of her cunt, already slick to the point of coating her inner thighs from where she’d clenched them together in her own pleasure while eating Maeve out. The searching gaze is clear mimicry of her own, intent on returning the favor of teasing and drawing out begging words. Hotaru is more than ready to give them, though she is docile and slack, almost obediently waiting instead of trying to demand. “Please Maeve,” she murmurs over the crackle of the logs in the fire, utilizing the Madame’s name like a weapon. “I want to feel your fingers. Your tongue. Whatever you will give me.” A shame her toys are in the bedroom then, though a part of her is grateful that this is a simplistic introduction of their physicality together. No frills. Just each other.
soak me in your moonshine
and fuck me on fire
and fuck me on fire
