Avery — Not even half way? Fucking pathetic

Club Night

Avery had decided hours ago that tonight was going to be one of those nights.

She’d dressed you herself, of course. No arguments. She’d stood behind you in the full-length mirror, 6'2" in her black leather boots, towering over your smaller frame while she zipped you into the tightest little black dress she could find — the one that barely covered the curve of your ass and clung to your tits like it was painted on. “Look at you,” she’d purred against your ear, voice low and mocking. “All dolled up like a desperate little straight girl trying to get attention. Except we both know who you’re really dressing up for.”**

Before you even left the apartment she’d made you bend over the bed.

“No, don’t whine. You’re going to wear it. Open your legs.” She’d lubed the thick, egg-shaped remote vibrator herself — matte black, same color as her favorite strap — and pushed it into you slow and deep, two long fingers following it in to make sure it sat right against your g-spot. You’d gasped, hips twitching. She’d just laughed that low, cruel laugh and slapped your ass hard enough to leave a handprint. “There we go. Nice and full for me. If you clench too hard and it slips out in the club, I’m fucking you raw in the bathroom until you pass out. Understand?”

You nodded, already trembling.

The entire Uber ride she kept the remote in her jacket pocket, thumb brushing the dial like a threat. Every time you shifted or tried to press your thighs together she’d crank it up to a low, buzzing pulse — just enough to make your breath hitch and your cheeks burn. “Relax, princess,” she’d whispered, one arm slung possessively around your shoulders, lips brushing your temple. “You’re acting like you’ve never had something inside you before. Don’t make me explain to the driver why my girlfriend’s squirming like a bitch in heat.”

By the time you reached the dark, thumping lesbian club downtown — the one with the red lights and the crowded dance floor — you were already soaked. Avery knew it. She could smell it on you.

She led you straight into the middle of the writhing crowd, her tall, lean body pressed flush against your back, one hand splayed low on your stomach so she could feel every little jolt. The music was loud enough to hide the soft, wet sounds you were trying not to make. Avery’s free hand stayed in her pocket, playing with the remote like it was a toy.

First setting: low, steady buzz. Enough to make your knees weak.

She ground against your ass in time with the beat, lips at your ear. “Feel that? That’s me owning you in front of all these girls and you can’t even moan my name without looking like a pathetic little slut. God, you’re so easy. Bet half the room can tell you’re dripping down your thighs already.”

Second setting: medium, insistent buzz. Knees starting to fail on you.

Your hand flew back to grip her thigh for support. She caught your wrist, pinned it against your own hip, and laughed softly. “Nuh-uh. Hands off. You tap out or beg and I’ll just turn it higher. You know the rules — only passing out stops me, and we both know you’re not doing that yet.”

The vibrations kicked up again — pulsing now, in short, cruel bursts that matched the bassline. Your legs started to shake. Avery held you upright with that swimmer’s strength, her pierced nipples hard against your back through her thin black button-down, her breath hot on your neck.

“Look at all these pretty femmes watching you,” she murmured, voice dripping with that mocking edge. “They probably think you’re just dancing. They don’t know my cock-hungry little girlfriend is getting fucked by a toy in the middle of the floor. Bet you wish it was my real one stretching you open right now, huh? Too bad. You don’t get to cum until I say so — and I’m not feeling generous.”

Third setting: High, overstimulation beginning. Can't stand without support

Your moan got lost in the music, but Avery heard it. She always heard it. She bit down on your earlobe, hard enough to sting, and growled. “That’s it. Fall apart for me. Let everyone see how fucking broken you are on just a little vibrator. My broken little toy.”

Her hand slid lower, pressing the dress against the soaked fabric between your legs, feeling how badly you were leaking around the toy. She didn’t care who saw. She wanted them to see.

And she wasn’t planning on letting you come anytime soon.

Not until you were begging loud enough for the whole club to hear exactly who you belonged to — and exactly how much you’d let her ruin you just to keep her attention.

Jealous Fangs

The club’s VIP section is a haze of low purple light and expensive smoke, the kind of corner where rules feel optional. Avery had insisted on bringing you here tonight—same black dress from last time, same toy still tucked deep inside you, remote in her pocket like always. But this wasn’t about the vibrator. This was supposed to be casual. Drinks. Dancing. Showing you off.

Her friend Sasha is sprawled across the curved leather sectional like she owns it. Tall, dark-skinned, dreads pulled back in a loose knot, gold hoops glinting every time she laughs that throaty laugh. Sasha’s been part of Avery’s circle for years—same sharp edges, same “I’ll ruin you and smile about it” energy. They’ve fucked before, back when neither of them did attachments. Avery never mentions it, but the history hangs in the air like cigarette smoke.

It started innocently enough.

Sasha had teased you about how “well-trained” you looked, how quiet you got whenever Avery’s hand rested possessively on the back of your neck. Avery had smirked, shrugged, said. “She’s obedient when she wants to be. Go on, baby. Show Sasha what that mouth can do.”

She’d said it like a joke. Like a dare she didn’t actually expect you to take. Like she was still in complete control.

You’d hesitated—eyes flicking to Avery for the real permission, the kind that isn’t spoken. Avery had just lifted one brow, tilted her head toward Sasha’s lap, voice velvet and low. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

So you slid to your knees between Sasha’s spread thighs.

Sasha’s skirt is already rucked up, black lace thong shoved to the side. She smells like vanilla oil and arousal, warm skin under your palms as you hook her legs over your shoulders. The first slow drag of your tongue makes her sigh, long and pleased. “Fuck... yeah, just like that, pretty girl.”

Avery sits right beside her—close enough that their shoulders brush, close enough that every time Sasha’s hips roll forward, her thigh presses against Avery’s. Avery’s posture is deliberately casual: one arm stretched along the back of the couch behind Sasha’s shoulders, legs crossed, the untouched whiskey glass balanced on her knee. Her black button-down is open two buttons too far, nipple piercings catching the dim light. From ten feet away she looks bored. Regal. Untouchable.

Up close, the mask is cracking.

Her jaw is set so tight you can see the tendon standing out along the side of her neck. Every few seconds her free hand flexes—fingers curling into a fist on her thigh, then releasing, then curling again. The knuckles are bone-white. She hasn’t touched the remote in her pocket once. Hasn’t needed to. The real torment is sitting here, inches away, watching you worship someone else with the exact same slow, devoted licks she taught you.

Sasha moans louder—deliberately louder—head tipping back against the cushion so her dreads spill over Avery’s arm. “Goddamn, Avery, where’d you find her? This mouth is criminal.”

Avery forces a laugh. It comes out short, edged. “She’s had practice.”

Her voice is calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that means she’s counting the seconds until she can get you alone and remind you who actually owns that tongue.

Sasha’s hand slides into your hair, guiding you deeper, hips grinding in lazy circles. “You hear that, baby? You’re making me feel real good. Keep going—don’t stop for nothing.”

Avery’s eyes never leave you. Not once. They track every flick of your tongue, every flutter of Sasha’s thighs, every muffled whimper you can’t quite swallow. Her breathing is measured—inhale four counts, exhale four counts—like she’s keeping herself from lunging across the couch and yanking you back by the hair.

Inside, she’s screaming.

She wants to shove Sasha off the sectional. Wants to flip you onto your back right here, strap on the thickest toy she owns, and fuck you until the only name you can remember is hers. Wants to turn the vibrator to its highest setting and watch you fall apart in front of everyone while she whispers. “This is what happens when you forget who you belong to.”

But she doesn’t move.

Punishment

The door to the apartment slams shut behind you with enough force to rattle the framed art on the wall. Avery doesn’t bother with lights—only the dim purple glow from the string lights she never turns off spills across the living room, turning everything bruise-colored and intimate.

She hasn’t spoken since the hallway outside the club. Not one word. Just that iron grip on your wrist the whole Uber ride, thumb pressing hard enough over your pulse that you could feel her heartbeat hammering through it—fast, furious, barely contained.

Now she releases you like you burn. Steps back. Stands there in the half-dark, 6'2" in those boots, chest rising and falling too deliberately. Her hazel eyes are molten amber, pupils blown wide. The jealousy that’s been eating her alive since Sasha’s first moan is no longer internal. It’s a live wire under her skin.

“Strip,” she says. Voice low. Flat. The command that brooks no hesitation.

You start to obey—fingers fumbling at the hem of the too-tight dress—but she’s already moving. Long strides eat the distance. One hand fists in the front of the fabric and yanks it up and over your head in a single rough motion, leaving you in nothing but the black lace thong and the slick evidence of how wet you’ve been all night. The vibrator is still inside you; she hasn’t turned it off. It hums faintly on the lowest setting now, a cruel afterthought.

She doesn’t look at your face. She looks at your mouth—still swollen, still glistening with traces of someone else.

Avery’s hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around your throat—not choking, just holding. Possessive. Claiming. She walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the sectional couch. You drop onto it; she follows, looming, one knee planted between your thighs to keep them spread.

“You let her come on your tongue,” she says quietly. Almost conversational. “Right next to me. Like I wasn’t even there.”

Her free hand slides down your body—slow, deliberate—until her palm cups you over the thong. She presses the heel of her hand against the base of the toy, pushing it deeper. You gasp; she smiles. It’s not kind.

“Go on, say her name,” Avery murmurs, leaning in until her lips brush your ear. “Say it one more time. See what happens.”

Avery shoves you flat on your back, climbs over you in one fluid motion. Her button-down is still on, sleeves shoved up to show the blackwork sleeve and the tiny cursive on her wrist: I don’t break. Her weight pins you; her pierced nipples drag against your bare chest through the thin fabric as she grinds down once, hard, letting you feel how hard she is beneath her jeans.

She kisses you then—brutal, devouring. Tongue sweeping in to erase every last hint of Sasha. Biting your bottom lip until you taste copper. When she pulls back, there’s a smear of your own blood on her mouth and she licks it away like it’s dessert.

“Mine,” she growls against your throat. Teeth graze your pulse. “This mouth. This cunt. This fucking body. Mine.”

"I said deeper"

The apartment door slams shut like a gunshot. Avery doesn’t bother locking it—doesn’t care if the world burns down outside. All that exists is the heat still searing through her ribs, the image of your mouth on Sasha burned behind her eyelids every time she blinks.

She doesn’t speak. She never needs to when she’s like this.

One hand fists in your hair at the nape, yanking your head back so your throat arches. The other rips the ruined thong down your legs in a single tear. You’re still slick from the club, from the toy she never turned off, from the way your body betrayed you every time Sasha moaned. Avery shoves you toward the sectional—face-down over the armrest, ass up, knees forced wide on the cushions.

“Stay,” she growls. Low. Dangerous.

You hear the clink of her belt buckle, the rasp of leather sliding free. Seconds later the belt loops around your wrists, cinched brutally tight behind your back. No give. No escape. Then the black ball gag—her favorite, the one with the thick silicone sphere and the hot-pink straps—appears in front of your face. She forces it between your teeth, buckling it so tight the corners of your mouth stretch and ache. Drool starts almost immediately.

She doesn’t wipe it away. She likes seeing you messy.

Next comes the vibrator—thicker than the one from earlier, curved, ridged, matte black. She slicks it with lube she keeps in the side-table drawer, then presses the blunt head against your ass without warning. You tense; she doesn’t care. One hard, unrelenting push and it sinks in deep—past the first ring, then deeper, stretching you open until your muffled cry vibrates around the gag. She doesn’t stop until it’s seated to the base.

Then she flips the switch.

Max

The toy roars to life inside you—brutal, unforgiving, rattling your bones. Your whole body jerks; thighs tremble, hips buck uselessly against the couch arm. Avery just watches for a second—eyes dark, chest heaving—before she steps behind you.

Her jeans are already open. She lines up with your dripping cunt and thrusts—one long, punishing stroke that buries her to the hilt.

You scream into the gag. It comes out wet and broken.

She doesn’t pause. She pulls back only to slam in again—harder. Deeper. The vibrator in your ass buzzes against the thin wall separating it from her cock; every thrust makes them grind together inside you, overstimulation turning pain into something white-hot and unbearable.

“Deeper,” she snarls, voice wrecked with fury and need. One hand clamps around your hip—fingers digging bruises into skin—while the other fists your hair again, yanking your head back so your spine arches painfully. “You can take it. You will take it.”

She drives forward again—relentless—until the tip of her cock batters your cervix with every stroke. You’re crying now—tears streaking mascara, drool spilling over your chin, body shaking violently from the double penetration and the maxed-out vibrations tearing through your ass. It hurts. It’s too much. She doesn’t care.

“You let her have your mouth,” Avery hisses, hips snapping forward so hard the couch creaks. “Right. Next. To. Me.” Each word is punctuated by a brutal thrust. “So I’m going to fuck you until your cervix bruises. Until every inch of you remembers only this.”

She shifts her angle—tilts her hips just enough to grind the head of her cock directly against that deepest, most sensitive barrier—and holds there, rolling her hips in tight, punishing circles while the vibrator continues its merciless assault.

"Go on, say who owns this pussy. Stupid fucking dyke. Maybe if I knock you up, you'll actually know who you belong too."