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dray4short · 2 months ago

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Taste You

! CONTENT ! ! Smut, begging, teasing, cunnilingus, edging, use of "cum", binder mentioned, porn without plot, aftercare, established relationship, Sam calls you "love" ! I think that's it, tell me if there's anything else y'all need a warning for

Pairing: Sam Carpenter x FTM reader Dynamic: Dom!Sam Sub!Reader Summary: Sam goes down on you and makes you beg for release A/N: Been waiting to write for a while, REQS OPEN BTW and Masterlist incoming

You’re not sure when she flipped the switch on you.

One moment, Sam was curled beside you on the couch, fingers lazily toying with the rings on your hand, her head on your shoulder like she didn’t have a single intention beyond relaxing into your side. But then her thigh shifted—pressing between your legs a little too deliberately—and her teeth scraped your neck like she knew.

Now, you’re on your back.

Your shirt is bunched up just beneath your chest, binder tossed somewhere across the room, your body aching with how exposed it feels. Sam has her thighs straddling your hips, her hands planted firmly on either side of your head like a cage, and her eyes locked on yours with a look that pins you in place harder than her grip ever could.

You're flushed. Twitching under her. And she knows it.

“Such a mess already,” she murmurs, her voice too casual for the way your body’s trembling beneath her. “Barely touched you.”

You bite down hard on your lip, trying not to buck up into her. Your fists clench at the sheets. Every part of you is screaming for more—friction, pressure, something—but she’s holding you there with that same cruel patience she always uses when she really wants to see you come apart.

“Sam…”

It’s half a plea, half a warning.

But all she does is smile—small, soft, devastating—and dip her head down to kiss just beneath your jaw. Then lower. The slope of your throat. The curve of your chest. Every inch of you she passes makes your skin burn hotter, your thighs twitch wider.

You gasp when her fingers slide along the inside of your leg, teasing just close enough to make you jerk.

And then she pulls away.

Not far. Just enough. Enough to make you groan in frustration, to push your hips up instinctively, only to be met with the press of her palm against your lower stomach, holding you still.

“Not yet,” she whispers, and it’s maddening. “You’re not ready.”

You are. God, you are. But you don’t say it. Your voice is stuck somewhere in your throat and your head’s already spinning from how wound up you are. She knows that. Of course she knows that. But still, her hand just rests there—firm, steady, unmoving—like she’s daring you to disobey her.

And you almost do. Your whole body pulses with the need to chase something you know she’s not going to give you yet.

She leans in again, this time slow, her lips trailing lower, her breath hot and devastating. Her mouth barely grazes where you want her most before she pulls back again, tongue wetting her lips like she’s tasting the moment.

“You’re shaking,” she says quietly.

You are. You’re so close and she hasn’t even touched you properly yet.

But she doesn’t let you finish. Not even when your hips arch into empty air. Not even when you gasp, loud and broken.

Instead, she shifts back, settles between your thighs, her palms spreading your legs wider like she owns every inch of you. And then she just looks at you—devouring you, loving you—and it makes your whole body clench with need.

“You're gonna stay right here,” she murmurs. “Until I say you can fall.”

And you will. You’ll beg if she makes you. You’ll wait through every cruel stroke of her tongue, every teasing whisper, every brush of her fingers that never quite tips you over.

Because she owns this part of you. And you love every goddamn second of it.

Your legs are trembling.

Sam hasn’t even started yet, not really, but you can feel every second of this in your bones. Your nerves are on fire, your muscles clenching with every shift of her weight between your thighs. She's staring up at you like she could devour you whole—and part of you thinks she might.

Then her hands slide up.

Her thumbs press into the creases where your hips meet your thighs, spreading you open wider, grounding you there—helpless and pulsing under her. You try to breathe. You try to hold it together.

And then she leans in.

The first drag of her tongue is slow. Purposeful. It's barely even pressure, just enough to make your stomach jump, to make you feel the heat of her mouth without giving into it. You twitch. She holds your hips down harder.

One more stroke. Higher this time. Right over where you're sensitive, throbbing, aching—and you let out a sound that isn’t a word. It’s a broken, breathless whimper.

“Fuck, love,” she murmurs against you. Her breath is hot. Her voice drops low. “You taste so good when you’re like this.”

You barely hear her. Everything is tightening, your chest, your fists, your thighs. The ache is blinding. Your whole body’s trying to lean into her mouth but she keeps you pinned, won’t let you move. Won’t let you finish.

Her tongue circles slow and cruel, never enough pressure to push you over. You’re soaked. Dripping. You can feel it trailing down, can hear it each time her mouth finds you again. And again.

You don’t even know how long it lasts. Your mind is haze and tension. You’re shaking hard now, every muscle in your stomach drawn tight, every breath a ragged pull of heat and need and helplessness.

Your hips buck up without warning—and she pulls away.

Just a few inches. Just enough to leave you grinding against nothing, panting, aching.

Your vision blurs.

“Baby…” you gasp. “Please—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” she says, voice soft and infuriating. Her fingers stroke lightly along your thigh, almost like praise. “You’re doing so good.”

You whimper. Because of course she’d say that now. When you’re straining, twitching, flushed down your chest. She says it like you aren’t already unraveling right beneath her.

And then—God—her mouth is on you again. More pressure this time. More intent. You can feel the difference. Her lips wrap tighter, her tongue flicking fast, rhythmic—and you think this is it, she’s going to let you—

But no.

She stops again. Just before the edge. Just before you break.

You're sobbing her name now, shaking so bad it feels like your body’s not even under your own control anymore. Everything throbs. Everything hurts in the best, most unbearable way.

And she’s still holding your hips down like you’re hers.

“Not yet,” she breathes. “I want you ruined first.”

You don't know how much more you can take.

You're wrecked. Every nerve is on fire, your thighs shaking with the effort not to grind into her mouth, not to beg again. And Sam? Sam is calm, so calm, like she hasn’t just pulled you back from the edge three different times, like she hasn’t been watching your body twist and tremble under her for what feels like hours.

Your chest rises and falls fast, your skin damp with sweat, flushed all the way down. Your fingers dig into the sheets, into your own thighs, anywhere you can hold onto as you pant and writhe, aching for her to finish what she started.

She watches you.

God, she loves this—loves seeing you come undone like this, leaking down your thighs, lips parted and eyes wild, too overwhelmed to even form real words anymore.

And then she softens.

Her hands slide up your body, slow and deliberate, resting over your ribs, your stomach. She leans in again, mouth close enough that you feel the warmth of her breath.

“You’ve been so good for me,” she whispers, pressing a kiss right at the crease of your hip. “So fucking sweet, baby…”

Your head falls back against the mattress. You moan her name, helpless, trembling with it.

Then her mouth finds you again—and this time, there’s no holding back.

It’s firm. Hungry. Her tongue moves with purpose now, drawing circles, flicking over that aching spot again and again and again until your whole body is rising, tightening, curling toward her mouth with a cry. You can’t stop it. Can’t slow it. You’re already too far gone.

Your hips jerk, a broken sound leaving your throat, your hands flying to her hair, gripping tight as your body finally, finally lets go.

You cum hard.

Harder than you meant to, than you thought you could after being edged so long. Your thighs clamp around her head, back arching, your cries raw and desperate as you ride every pulse of it with your whole body.

And Sam doesn’t stop.

Not even a little.

Her grip on your thighs tightens as she rides you through it, her mouth unrelenting, tongue drawing more and more from you until your body’s twitching with aftershocks, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes, your voice a wreck of gasps and broken praise.

You’re barely holding on.

Everything’s wet. You. Her. The sheets beneath you. You can feel yourself leaking down her chin, dripping onto her fingers where they hold you open.

And when she finally pulls back, she looks wrecked too. Her lips swollen, her cheeks flushed, eyes wild with pride and hunger as she crawls up over your body to kiss you—

You taste yourself on her tongue.

She moans into your mouth. And you, shaking and breathless, kiss her back like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

“Think you can go again?” she whispers, barely giving you room to breathe.

And the thing is?

You probably could. Because after that?

You’re not just ruined.

You’re hers.

You're still trembling when she finally eases off of you. Your chest is rising too fast, and your fingers are cramping from how tightly you were gripping the sheets. You can’t even speak yet—not really. All you can do is lie there, boneless, flushed, and blinking up at the ceiling as your heart races in your ears.

Sam’s weight settles beside you on the bed, and without a word, she reaches for you.

Not to start again.

Just to hold.

She curls up against you like she’s fitting puzzle pieces back together—her thigh hooked over yours, her hand splayed over your chest where your heart’s still pounding. She presses her nose to your neck, kissing the skin there with so much gentleness it almost breaks you more than the orgasm did.

"Hey," she murmurs, voice rough with affection. “Still with me?”

You nod—or try to. You think it might come out more like a whimper, but she gets it. She always does. One of her arms snakes around your waist, tugging you closer as she nuzzles her way under your chin, letting you melt into her warmth.

Her fingers trail up and down your side in soft, lazy patterns, just enough to ground you.

"You did so good for me, baby..." she breathes, kissing the corner of your jaw.

You finally manage to turn your face into her hair, your lips brushing her temple. She smells like warmth, like skin and sweat and comfort. You feel her hand move to the side of your face, thumb brushing just beneath your eye where the tears dried.

"Too much?" she asks gently.

You shake your head and whisper, “Not even close.”

She smiles. You can feel it. Her lips press to your cheek, then your nose, then your mouth—soft kisses, dotting you like she’s trying to memorize every inch. Her hand finds yours and interlaces your fingers, resting them against your chest.

“Want water?” she asks. “Or a blanket? I can clean us up, just say the word.”

“Just... stay.”

That’s all you need right now. Her warmth. Her weight. The safety of her arms around you after giving her everything.

She hums and pulls the thin sheet up over both of you, tucking it gently under your chin like she always does. Her legs tangle with yours, and she keeps whispering to you—soft things, soothing things. You’re not even sure what she’s saying half the time, just that her voice is slow and calm and low, and it keeps you grounded.

You fall asleep like that.

Nude, spent, and warm in her arms, your heartbeat finally matching hers.

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