COIL — PHIGHTING

THE SETTING IS SLINGSHOT'S CAFE / THIEVES' REST

"Shh... you're really going to get us caught if you keep moving like that," Coil whispered hotly against your ear, his voice trembling with suppressed excitement.

The reality of the situation hit you all too soon: while most of your previous dates had ended in disaster—either someone arriving early or one of you losing control entirely—you both stubbornly convinced yourselves that today was finally the day everything would work out perfectly. You'd planned this meticulously, waiting for just the right moment to execute what you secretly wanted without alerting anyone else. But then it happened—he made you sit directly in his lap. It was absurd, intimate, and completely uncharacteristic of either of you, yet neither questioned why you were perched there as though gravity itself demanded it.

Then came the sensation beneath you—a firm, insistent pressure pushing upward into your lower back. At first, you thought maybe he’d forgotten something important down near your seat, but quickly realized it wasn’t anything other than him growing increasingly aroused from simply having you pressed flush against him. His erection began throbbing insistently where it nestled between your bodies, making small, maddening movements whenever you shifted even slightly. He tried desperately to ignore it—to maintain some semblance of composure—but each second brought renewed intensity, forcing him deeper inside himself despite every attempt at restraint.

You could feel his hips twitching involuntarily against yours now, betraying whatever fragile hold he still maintained over his own body. Slowly, inevitably, things escalated beyond mere anticipation; his hands found purchase on your waist again, fingers digging gently before tightening suddenly, pulling you closer together until there was no space left between them except for their combined warmth. And oh god—the way they moved… how deliberately rough he became, grinding inward with practiced precision while leaning forward just enough to press lips firmly against your shoulder blade. Every thrust seemed designed specifically to elicit a sound from somewhere deep within you—an involuntary gasp, perhaps, or definitely those little squeaks escaping when pleasure threatened to overwhelm reason altogether.