clarab45 - Tumblr blog

clarab45 · 22 days ago

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money talks. [ii]

pairings: sugar mommy!cassandra x fem!reader

preface: she spoils you like a vice, kisses like a promise, and loves you like you were always meant to be hers.

author's note: GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA IM BACK WITH SMUT, GOD DAMN I JUST CAN'T STAY NONCHALANT OH #cassandraicaanibeyours

wrn: lowecase, explicit content (minors & men dni) list: dom!cassandra ;; dom/sub dynamics ;; age gap (c: 40 ;; r: 20) ;; luxury kink (?) ;; praise kink ;; elegant degradation ;; power play ;; orgasm control ;; oral ;; strap-on sex ;; brat-taming ;; orgasm denial ;; light choking ;; bdsm (?).

navigation.

you think you're being slick.

you wear one of her silk robes while lounging on her bed. legs bare. hair still wet. the tv is on, but you’re not watching it. you’re watching the doorway. waiting for cassandra to come home.

she walks in, mid-call, still in her suit—jacket off, silk blouse tucked into slacks, heels still on. she stops short when she sees you.

you shift slightly. the robe parts at your thighs. her jaw tightens.

she finishes her call with cold efficiency. “postpone it. yes. something’s come up.” the second she ends the call, you purr, “miss me?”

she walks over slowly, eyes dark, controlled. dangerous.

“you’ve been playing with yourself, haven’t you?”

you blink. “no—”

she kneels on the bed, hands sliding up your thighs, and you gasp. her voice drops to a whisper, lips brushing your cheek: “liar.”

you whimper. she drags the robe open and sees everything. still untouched, but needy. dripping. waiting.

“hands behind your head.”

you obey. shivering. the air kisses your skin but her eyes? they devour you.

“you don’t get to touch yourself tonight.” a pause. “you get to watch me make you come. and if your hands drop once…” she leans in, voice like silk over steel— “i’ll edge you until morning.”

and then she starts. fingers soft at first. teasing. then hard. deep. rhythmic.

you cry out her name, hips bucking, thighs shaking—but your hands never fall. she watches every twitch. every moan. proud. powerful.

you’re nothing but a mess in her arms when she finally kisses you—deep, slow, like a reward.

“good girl.” and then, with a smirk— “that was just a warm-up.”

you’re bored. again.

cassandra’s been holed up in her study for over an hour. typing. reading. council papers stacked high. she barely even glanced at you when you brought her tea.

so you push your luck.

you slink into the room in one of her old silk dress shirts—bare-legged, of course—and crawl under her desk without a word.

her typing pauses. “darling.” low. warning.

you nuzzle her thigh.

“i missed you.”

she sighs. puts her pen down.

“if you start something you can’t finish, i will bend you over this desk. is that what you want?”

you don’t answer. just start easing her slacks open, eyes full of heat.

she spreads her knees with one tap of her heel. gives you access.

“you have five minutes.” a pause. “no sound.”

you do your best. you try.

you fail.

her fingers thread into your hair within moments, breath catching, hips shifting slightly—only slightly; cassandra kiramman never loses composure.

except when you do this. that thing with your tongue.

she tries to keep reading. really, she does. but her hands shake.

“keep going,” she hisses between clenched teeth, one hand pressing hard against the desk, the other tugging your hair tight. “don’t you dare stop.”

you don’t.

she finishes. shuddering. silent. gorgeous.

and when you sit back on your heels, cheeks flushed, she finally looks at you—eyes blown wide, dangerous and hungry.

“get up.” you blink.

she stands. sweeps the papers off the desk with one arm. “my turn.”

you don’t walk right for two days.

you’re lying on cassandra’s bed, barely covered by silk sheets, scrolling idly through your phone when she enters.

she says nothing at first—just sets a sleek black box down on the nightstand and starts unbuttoning her blouse with zero urgency.

you watch her, eyes narrowing.

“what’s that?”

she glances over her shoulder, cool and composed. “a gift.”

she steps out of her slacks next—perfect, toned legs, always in control, always devastating—and opens the box.

you sit up. blink.

it’s a strap-on. matte black. elegant. deadly. but what gets you breathless is what’s engraved in silver script across the base:

“property of c.k.”

you swallow. “that’s…”

she interrupts: “what you’ll be taking tonight.”

you don’t move.

she fastens it with the precision of someone who’s done this a thousand times—but the look in her eyes says this moment still matters. that you still make her feel things she doesn’t name.

she stalks over to the bed and tilts your chin up.

“hands above your head, baby. let me see you.”

you obey. the sheets fall.

her breath hitches—just for a second. then she climbs over you, eyes locked on yours.

“i want you to remember who you belong to.”

and then she enters you. deep. steady. unrelenting.

each thrust is measured. controlled. her hands grip your hips like she owns them—because she does. her voice never loses that perfect pitch of command.

“look at me.” you try.

“say it.” “say what—?”

“who owns this body?”

you’re panting. shaking. tears welling from too much, too good, too cassandra.

“y-you do.”

she smirks. “that’s right.”

and just to prove it—she goes harder.

you lose count of how many times she makes you come. how many praises she whispers between bites and kisses and slow, brutal rolls of her hips.

later, when you’re limp and sweaty in her arms, she kisses your shoulder and murmurs:

“next time, i’ll get you one that says 'spoiled brat'. fits even better.”

it’s been a brutal week.

your shoulders ache. your feet hurt. your brain? absolute mush.

cassandra notices before you even say a word.

you walk through the door, ready to collapse—and she’s already there. in a robe. hair pinned. a glass of wine in one hand and a slow, knowing smile on her lips.

“go to the bath, baby.” you blink. “now. i ran it for you.”

you obey.

the tub is enormous—white marble, candles glowing low, lavender oil glistening on the surface. she steps in behind you. sinks in close. pulls you against her chest like you’re something fragile.

you melt.

her hands begin working your shoulders—soft, skilled, whispering comfort with every touch.

you let out a sigh. “you always know what i need.”

her lips brush your temple. “i know how to take care of what’s mine.”

then—slowly—her hands start moving lower.

fingers tracing your collarbones. your ribs. down between your legs.

you twitch. gasp.

she hums in your ear. “shh, let me.”

two fingers slip in. the water ripples. your legs float open, instinctive, your back arching against her.

she holds you tight. kisses your neck. keeps her rhythm steady.

you try to speak—but she whispers, “don’t. you’ve done enough this week. let me worship you.”

and she does.

her fingers work you open with maddening skill, other hand keeping you grounded, breathy praises slipping past her lips like wine:

“so soft.”“so perfect.”“you don’t even know what you do to me.”

you come with a cry—thighs shaking, water splashing, cassandra still holding you like you’re divine.

she doesn’t stop kissing your jaw, your shoulder, your spine.

you barely whisper, “thank you,” and she smiles into your skin.

“we’re not done, baby. not until i drain every drop of stress from your body.”

she told you.

“no short dresses tonight.” her tone was calm. almost casual. “i don’t like sharing.”

but you couldn’t resist. you wore the red one—the one with the slit up to your hip, the one that made even you blush in the mirror.

cassandra didn’t say a word at the gala. not when eyes lingered on you. not when someone had the audacity to flirt. not even when you leaned in, playful: “jealous, mommy?”

she just smiled.

the kind of smile that promised consequences.

now you’re home.

you barely step inside before her voice cuts through the hallway: “bedroom. now.”

you obey.

she follows. silent. focused.

from the drawer, she pulls out a long, deep red velvet belt. you recognize it. it matches the robe she wore your first night together.

“hands on the headboard.” you hesitate. “now.”

she ties your wrists with the belt—tight, but not painful. intentional.

then she steps back and just watches you. legs spread. dress bunched at your waist. lips parted. you’re flushed. breathing hard. needy.

but she doesn’t touch.

she sits in a chair across from the bed. crosses her legs. tilts her head.

“beg.”

your throat goes dry. “c-cassandra, please—”

“no. not like that. i want full sentences. i want desperation. you wanted eyes on you tonight, baby?” a beat. “now you earn mine.”

you squirm. moan. plead. beg with every filthy word you know, voice cracking, hips twitching—

she watches the whole time. controlled. composed.

finally, she rises. walks over. “such a greedy little thing,” she whispers as she finally touches you, fingers dragging through your slick heat. “all dressed up like a whore, but still mine.”

she doesn’t let you come until you’re crying. shaking. completely, beautifully ruined.

then she kisses your wrist where the velvet rests.

“next time, baby? obey.”

it’s after midnight.

you thought she just needed to “grab some paperwork,” but the second you step into her private office—city lights glowing behind the glass walls, soft jazz playing low—you feel it.

the shift.

she locks the door behind you.

turns slowly.

“on the desk. now.”

you hesitate. swallow.

her heels click across the floor.

“i won’t ask twice.”

you scramble onto the desk, heart pounding. the surface is cold against your thighs. the wood groans under you.

she takes her time removing her coat. her gloves. rolling up her sleeves. then she approaches, eyes blazing—pulls your legs open, slow and deliberate.

“you’ve been distracting me all day.” she drags a finger up your thigh. “thinking i wouldn’t notice the way you look at me when i’m on the phone?”

you gasp as her thumb brushes over your heat—bare, soaked, needy. she hums. “look at that. so desperate already.”

she leans over you, one hand pressing flat on your stomach to pin you down, the other slipping inside—slow at first, then curling hard.

your back arches.

“keep your eyes open.” her other hand curls gently around your throat. “i want to see how ruined you look when you come on my desk.”

and you do.

you scream for her. the kind of orgasm that leaves you trembling. she doesn’t stop. not right away.

just slows her fingers. leans in. kisses the corner of your mouth.

“messy little thing.” a pause. “good thing i brought clean panties for you. you’re going to need them.”

the room is dim.

your wrists are bound in soft leather cuffs—not tight, but firm. restrained. trusted. a silk blindfold covers your eyes, and your mouth is full with a soft gag she slipped in with a whisper:

“you talk too much, baby. let me show you what to do instead.”

you’re naked. vulnerable. every breath shaky. every sound amplified.

and then—you hear her heels.

click. click. slow.

the bed dips. fingers trail up your calf. you jolt. whimper.

“i love how sensitive you get when you can’t see me,” she murmurs, her voice right by your ear, rich and syrup-slow. “it’s adorable.”

you try to arch toward her. to speak. to beg. but you can’t.

just a muffled moan. a twist of the wrist. a helpless pulse between your thighs.

“don’t worry,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to your neck, “you’ll still come as many times as i want you to.”

she starts with her hands. fingertips ghosting over your thighs. your ribs. your breasts. barely touching. watching you squirm.

then her mouth—warm, skilled, possessive—trails after.

you shake. cry out. muffled. desperate.

her fingers finally push inside and you almost sob. it’s too much. too little. you can’t even see her, and somehow it makes it worse. more intense.

her breath fans against your ear again.

“feel that?” a deep thrust. “that’s mine.” another. “and that.” another. “and that.”

you come hard, with a cry so raw even the gag can’t muffle it.

she doesn’t stop.

doesn’t untie you.

just whispers, low and reverent: “such a good girl. and you didn’t even need to say a word.”

you're spent.

you’re trembling, used, pulsing—every nerve singing from everything cassandra’s done to you tonight. the praise. the possession. the way she looked at you like you were the only thing she’d ever needed.

she doesn't speak right away. just strokes your thighs with soft, reverent hands. you feel the shift—dominant intensity melting into something quieter. more dangerous.

devotion.

she lifts you gently into her lap. you curl instinctively into her—eyes glassy, breath shallow.

“that’s it,” she murmurs, brushing damp hair off your cheek. “let me take care of you, sweetheart.”

you hum weakly. whisper her name.

and then—she pulls a small, velvet box from the nightstand. opens it.

inside: a collar. custom. sleek black leather, stitched in gold, with a delicate tag that simply reads: “c.k.’s.”

your lips part.

“cass—”

“shh,” she interrupts softly. “let me.”

she wraps it around your neck slowly, carefully. her fingers linger on the clasp. she kisses just below it before locking it in place.

“you don’t have to do anything tonight.”“you don’t have to be anything.”“just mine.”

you nod. tears pricking the corners of your eyes. not from pain. from how safe you feel.

she lays you down on the sheets she warmed while you were gone. spooned behind you, arms wrapped tight around your body, fingers tracing soft circles on your stomach.

the collar presses into your throat—gentle. present.

you whisper: “i love you.”

she kisses your shoulder.

“i know.”

a pause. then, quiet and certain:

“i’d give this whole city up for you.”

you fall asleep in her arms.

and for the first time in your life—you dream without fear.

bonus:

she says it casually.

while stroking your thighs, lazy in the afterglow of dinner, her voice low like wine dripping down velvet.

“i’m going to spend the next few hours with my head between your legs.” a beat. “you don’t get to come unless i say. and you don’t get to stop me until i’m finished.”

you laugh—nervous, breathy. “you’re joking.”

her nails dig into your thighs, just barely.

“does it look like i’m joking, baby?”

she doesn’t give you time to answer. just lowers herself to the sheets. spreads your thighs like she’s flipping open a holy text.

and worships.

long. slow. brutal.

it’s not just about getting you off—though she does, repeatedly.

it’s the way she takes her time.

tongue tracing every fold, every twitch. her lips kissing your thighs like blessings. her breath hot, her hums possessive. you beg. you sob. you scream.

she never rushes. never uses her hands. just that perfect mouth and an obscene amount of patience.

when you cum the first time, you’re shaking. the second, you’re limp. the third, your vision blurs.

she doesn’t stop.

“that’s two. you can take one more, can’t you?” she purrs. you whimper. nod. barely.

she smiles.

and dives back in.

by the end of the third hour, you’re a mess of tears, slick, and kisses pressed shakily to her temple while you whisper: “please… no more…”

she finally looks up. glowing. wrecked from pleasure she didn’t even receive. and says, smugly:

“i’ll stop——once i get one more from you.”

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