#sorry about all the lucienne butt content?????? i'm having a moment.

[cosmictapestry]

REQUESTS ARE OPEN AGAIN??? HELL YEAH IT FEELS LIKE MY BIRTHDAY <33333

may we have A37, please? 👉👈

A37. lucienne orgasm control

i have like five ahead of this one but listen..... listen......... i am in. the state of mind. for this one

morphienne prompt list + fills here

"Are you doing alright?" he asks her, conversationally, with three fingers stuffed in her cunt.

Lucienne makes a sound like a woman tortured, garbled and muffled by the couch cushions. She's on her belly, wrists bound with silken rope and tied to the arm of the couch, her hips in her lord's lap, ankles bound as well. She's naked, shivering and sweating.

Her lord is cool and calm and fully clothed. He shifts his fingers, flexing the middle between the ring and pointer, grinding so exquisitely that Lucienne can only tremble and will away a wail.

He stops, hums soothingly, fingers spread and stroking, his other hand kneading and petting the swell of one buttock. He's been at this for a while now, idly playing with her body, unraveling her softly. "Lucienne?"

She mumbles and shifts and manages, at length, in a voice wrecked with her choked-off moans, "it's good."

Lord Morpheus hums again, approving, and he grips her buttock to spread her open and watch the way her cunt grips his fingers as he grinds them out, then back in, twisting, torturous. Tears build in her eyes; she can feel herself leaking and spasming around him, can hear the squelching of his fingers. "You clench so tightly when you get close," Lord Morpheus murmurs. "Did you know that?"

Lucienne doesn't know if she's actually expected to answer, but luckily he seems satisfied with her muffled keening. He plunges his fingers and circles them, strokes her walls, then withdraws them entirely with an pronounced pop, leaving Lucienne bereft and open, fluttering. He rubs the pads of his fingers over her folds, parts them to spread her. The air is cool on the hot slick flesh that he plays with, tickles, dips his fingertips into. "But I don't think I'm ready to let you come yet."

Lucienne shakes and jerks and tries to rock back on his fingers, but he stills her with his unoccupied hand squeezing her hip, pressed her down on his lap. "Patience, Lucienne," he chides. His thumb circles her cunt, draws slick up to stroke over her arsehole.

An idea occurs to her. "Would you—" Lucienne swallows, focuses, finds her lord's hands have stilled while he listens. Her face burns. "Might you—spit?"

He hums quiet puzzlement, and, shoulders hunching up to her ears in embarrassment, Lucienne imagines it, and thinks he's quite unlikely to oblige. She jolts, then, when she hears him, and feels the coinciding hot splatter of his spit on her arsehole, feels it begin to roll. She's still reeling from the obscenity of the act when he swipes his thumb through the spit and pushes it inside her.

Lucienne's bound feet kick up and she gasps, whines, quivers as his thumb works in, softening the tightness of her insides, and his other fingers resume rubbing her folds. Lord Morpheus bends down, lays a kiss on the back of her neck. "Alright?"

Lucienne nods frantically. Sweet man, dear brave trusting lord, giving her just what she asks for, and she sobs and perhaps mentions her appreciation, and begs for whatever else he might have in mind.

He gives a little huff of laughter, straightens up again. Her arms are so tense they strain in their bindings, and her belly heaves with the easy slide of his fingers back into her. He pistons in and out of her arse, in and out of her cunt. She's so full, sparking with sensation, arching up, shameless and desperate—

And his other hand strikes her sharp and quick under the curve of her arse, makes her jolt and sob out a cry and clench and drool helplessly. Her glasses went from askew to missing completely at some point. She only notices now with her arse in the air and her nerves alight.

Lord Morpheus rubs the stinging heat of his handprint, murmurs soothingly to her. "You're alright," her lord whispers, then delivers another strike on the other cheek. She's so wet that when she writhes his hand nearly slips out of her. "Good girl, just try to stay still, you're alright."

This is how her afterlife ends, quite possibly. Tears and sweat dampen the couch cushions and the fabric drags roughly on her nipples and she tries to drag herself up on her elbows to escape some of the stimulation but he drags her back flat on his lap, thrusts his fingers in deep, moves them so slowly, not enough to finish her. "Is it too much?" he asks. Another tap makes her howl and struggle. "Do you want me to let you come?"

"Please," she begs, "my lord, my lord, my lord—"

"I would keep you like this," he tells her. He bends over her again, presses his head to the back of hers, his hair tickling her scalp and his breath hot on her neck. "Just so I could see it. You open up so beautifully for me, Lucienne." His little finger works its way into her cunt, spreads with the others so she can feel cool air inside herself. His thumb presses down and in, mercilessly, and she imagines she can feel it meeting his other fingers.

He works her like that for a few more torturous seconds. She is incoherent, mumbling, entire body sweat-slick and trembling-tense. "I'm going to let you come now," he says. As an afterthought, "what do you say?"

"Thank you," Lucienne manages, and again when his fingers move faster, and again when he licks the back of her neck, and again when he growls and moves his free arm to lie across her back and shove her down hard, pin her to him, and again while she kicks and squeals and fights and seizes and finally goes still and gushes, and she keeps mouthing it when she is beyond all capability for higher thought.

She floats, then, quivering in the aftershocks, soaked and whimpering and vaguely aware of continued stroking inside her that stills and withdraws and leaves her empty. Steady pressure holds her down, keeps her safe. "Almost took my fingers with you," she hears her lord say. His lips press to the back of her head, his hand pets her thigh. "You did not have to thank me, that was rather mean."

Lucienne snorts and giggles and pushes her face down into the couch and can feel him grinning. "I loved it," she mumbles.