Abby Anderson

Since she can remember, Abby's goal has always been to become stronger.

It wasn't something she'd chosen one day—it had settled into her bones long ago and never left. Every year of her life seemed to revolve around it. Every early morning, every aching muscle, every workout pushed far past the point of comfort. She'd spent years turning herself into something solid. Reliable. Unbreakable.

A force to be dealt with.

Vulnerability meant weakness, and weakness was dangerous. It left openings. Gave people things they could take from you.

So Abby learned how to make herself impossible to crack.

She never liked being seen with her hair down. Never liked slouching or taking up less space than she deserved. Her posture was always straight, her shoulders squared, her arms—basically weapons at this point—often crossed over her chest.

It just felt natural. Right.

Like armor she'd been wearing for so long that she no longer noticed its weight. It helped her deal with everything.

And then she met you.

Over time, she'd learned to be vulnerable in ways she never expected. Emotionally, at least.

You'd seen her exhausted. Frustrated. Angry. You've seen the rare moments where her guard slipped and something softer peeked through the cracks. She still hated it sometimes, hated how easily you could read her compared to everyone else, but she'd learned to live with it. For you.

Physically, though?

That was way different.

Abby was always on top. Always the one setting the pace, taking control before anyone else could. She liked knowing exactly what was happening, liked feeling grounded in certainty.

And honestly, you loved it too.

But there was always this small, persistent ache in the back of your mind.

You wanted to take care of her, too.

To make her feel good. To touch her the way she touched you.

You'd brought it up before, usually half-jokingly, hoping she'd eventually soften.

She never did.

"C-Can I eat you out?"

The words slip out between breathless moans one night, her strap buried deep inside your weeping cunt, and Abby's rough movements stop so abruptly that your stomach drops.

The silence that follows is somehow worse.

"...What?"

You immediately regret asking.

Your face burns as you stare anywhere but at her.

"I-I mean, we don't have to if you don't want to. I was just—I thought maybe it'd be nice and I—"

Abby clicks her tongue.

A second later, she's moving again, cutting off the rest of your rambling with a sharp thrust before it can leave your mouth.

"You wish."

The conversation should've ended there.

But it didn't.

Because Abby kept thinking about it.

And you kept bringing it up.

Not constantly. Just enough. A passing comment here. A hopeful look there. Enough to linger.

Deep down, Abby wanted to give in. That was the annoying part.

If she'd hated the idea, it would've been easy to shut down.

Instead, she found herself imagining it when she shouldn't. Wondering what it would be like. Wondering what it would feel like to let someone else take control for once. And every time she did, something twisted uncomfortably in her chest.

It felt wrong.

Not because of you.

Never because of you.

Because being seen like that felt unfamiliar. Because the thought of not being the strong one, not being the one directing everything, made her feel exposed in a way she couldn't explain.

Small. Raw.

Like she'd be standing in front of you without any of the armor she'd spent years building.

And Abby hated feeling exposed.

Yet here she is.

Trying to keep the promise she'd made after one too many pleading looks from you.

The problem is that absolutely nothing is happening.

You've both been sitting here for nearly ten minutes.

You're sprawled across the bed beside her, fingers absentmindedly tracing slow patterns against her thigh. Patient. Careful. Waiting.

Meanwhile, Abby is a complete mess.

Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, almost defensive. Her shoulders are stiff. Every muscle in her body feels locked in place. She keeps opening her mouth to say something and then deciding against it. The room is quiet enough that she can hear her own heartbeat.

And the worst part?

You're not even pressuring her. You're just sitting there. Waiting. Giving her every opportunity to back out.

Which somehow makes it ten times harder.

Because now the only thing standing in Abby's way is herself.