BUT NO
F/F OMEGAVERSE LIKE
ALPHA LADIES WITH COCKS (OR TENTACLES OR WHATEVER) KNOTTING DESPERATE PANTING HOT AND WET OMEGA GIRLS
pleaSE PLEaSE PLEASE
So, Michi had a pretty crappy week last week, and I decided to do something nice for her.
Not totally sure about this, because femslash isn’t really my thing and I’m not sure how well it took, but I hope you guys enjoy!
Jonnie bends over the back of the chair, whimpering, her arse in the air. She’s been all over the city today, because Sherlock insisted she needed her for this case despite Jonnie being in heat. Only the dildo Sherlock put inside her before they left this morning has kept her able to do anything more functional than fall to her knees and beg Sherlock to knot her.
Though she did that once or twice.
Sherlock presses one slim hand to the small of Jonnie’s back, keeping her stable while she removes the dildo. It’s big, keeping her stretched; she can feel it waggling deep inside her while Sherlock twists and works it out of her. The movements make her vagina flutter, and she whimpers again and arches her back, automatically straining for it to plunge back into her. When the thick knotted base of it clears her entrance, it stretches her wide open, and a gush of slick, clear fluid spills down her thighs and nylons.
She keens in protest at the sudden, excruciating emptiness.
Behind her, she can hear Sherlock, rustling around in her clothes. “Hurry. Please!” The second half of the syllable rises up into her sinuses, coming out more like a whine than a word. She hates that, hates sounding so weak and desperate and needy, like she isn’t a grown damned woman who can look after herself, but oh god, her cunt throbs and clenches, demanding a knot, and all she can do is gasp and squirm at the voracious need that rips through her in its wake.
With a snarl, Sherlock comes down on her from behind, using her height advantage to pin Jonnie down over the top of the chair. Jonnie wriggles and struggles under her, because Christ it feels good; Sherlock’s weight and warmth and the soft/hard of her body and the roundness of her breasts pushing down against Jonnie’s shoulder blades. Her cock, her cock, oh god where is—
And then it’s there, rigid and almost searingly hot against the delicate tissues of her vulva, so good the way it pushes into her and spreads her open. She writhes and claws, needing more, needing purchase, needing—hell, she just needs to express how fucking <i>perfect</i> it feels.
Sherlock catches her wrists and pins them down, laughing at the desperate sound that comes out of Jonnie’s mouth at being restrained. “You feel so good,” she murmurs in that rich, sultry voice of hers. “You need this so badly, don’t you? I can feel you squeezing me. How many times have I made you come today? But your body is clinging to my cock like you’ll die of thirst if I don’t fill you with my come.”
Jonnie squeezes her eyes shut and pants beneath her.
All she has headspace for is the slow, steady thrust of Sherlock’s cock in and out of her, the sound and sensation of squishing fluid and the slide and drag of the frenulum against her inner walls. The way Sherlock’s movements rock their bodies together, pushing Jonnie forward till she feels helplessly off-kilter, kept in place only by Sherlock’s weight.
She’s shaking, quaking taut at the edge of orgasm, straining to fall forward over it, but Sherlock keeps her there, balanced there at the edge with her cock moving insistent, deep and slow in and out of her, until Jonnie’s squirming, twisting against the hold on her wrists and the weight on her back and the length impaling her, making animal noises of need that barely even sound like her voice.
“Mine.” Sherlock’s growl sounds smug. She punctuates it with a thrust that prods the tip of her deliciously against Jonnie’s g-spot.
She arches her back, pushing her rump up pleadingly for more, and is rewarded with a short, sharp thrust against the same spot that barely withdraws before pushing deeper into her. Yes, yes, please, she thinks, but her brain and mouth seem to have lost their connection. The only noise she makes is a high moan.
“Out there all day,” Sherlock keeps going, every other word marked with another of those short thrusts, “surrounded by people. The way they looked at you, did you see them? You smelled so good. They could all smell you. They wanted you. But I’m the only one who gets to have you.” This time she pulls partway out before thrusting in again, hard and demanding. More hot liquid comes squishing out to trail down Jonnie’s legs. “Aren’t I?”
Jonnie makes a low noise of submission and bows her head forward, her short-bobbed hair parting to either side. Bite her, yes, her alpha marking her and no one else. She doesn’t want anybody else except her Sherlock.
Sherlock exhales in a noisy shudder, and then: pleasure, lighting up like a bright stinging constellation painted across Jonnie’s skin. The bite of Sherlock’s slender, strong fingers around her wrists; the bite of Sherlock’s sharp teeth at the point where her trapezius muscles meet at the nape of her neck. Pleasure rising like a sea surge up through her body, pushing deeper into her bones with each long, slow stroke of Sherlock’s cock. Stoking Jonnie’s heat till a fine sheen of sweat lubricates the movement of their bodies together, their scents blending into a sweet combined musk, the clean floral scent of Sherlock’s hair tumbling around Jonnie’s face.
Jonnie’s shaking, her climax rattling her bones like dice in a bag. Sherlock is panting harshly over her, moving hard on and in her, and then Jonnie cries out as the knot begins to swell, forces her wide open, makes her clench down on its bulk inside her until she and Sherlock both shout together in the wracking throes of a second, shattering orgasm.
Once her muscles release their vise grip on themselves, Jonnie goes limp, letting her muscles relax and stretch to accommodate the knot that’s still holding her open with a sparkling sensation in her pelvis. It’s a little too prickly to be pleasure, a little too shimmery to be pain. She shifts a little under Sherlock’s sweaty weight, trying to adjust.
“Hmmm.”
“Hm?” Sherlock barely sounds conscious.
Jonnie shifts again, trying to find a more comfortable way to be draped over the back of a chair. “You should probably have thought this one through a bit more.”
“Mmf.” It never ceases to be a miracle of nature how a woman as lanky and pointy as Sherlock can somehow turn into a floppy blanket when she sprawls over Jonnie’s back.
And then one hand comes up to settle in Jonnie’s hair with soft, leisurely strokes. Right. They can figure out how to move in a few minutes.