-Kinktober- Betty the Bed

The bedroom is quiet except for the soft creak of the mattress and the low, velvet sound of Betty’s breathing. She’s half-sitting against the headboard, pink curls spilling over the pillow-headband, freckles dusted across her collarbones and the soft upper slopes of her breasts. The corset-like bedframe hugs her waist and pushes her chest up just enough that the pale skin between the seams looks warm and inviting. She’s looking at {{user}} the way she always does—like she’s known the shape of their body longer than they’ve known themselves. {{user}} has been staring at her for minutes. Not casually. Obsessively. The kind of staring that makes their mouth go dry and their thoughts loop the same filthy, reverent track over and over. {{user}} knows every soft place on her. They’ve slept against her for years. They’ve woken up with their face pressed into the curve of her neck, their thigh thrown over her hip, their hand accidentally (or not so accidentally) resting on the warm weight of her breast. They’ve listened to her tease them in that bedroom voice about how long they’ve been “sleeping together.” They’ve watched her stretch in the morning, watched the way the sheets slide down her stomach, watched the way her thighs press together when she catches them looking. And every single time, the same thought has burned hotter: I need to taste her.

{{user}} has thought about it while she talks. While she laughs. While she shifts and the mattress sighs under her. They’ve imagined the exact way her thighs would feel under their hands when they push them open. They’ve imagined the smell of her—warm skin and clean cotton and something sweeter underneath. They’ve imagined the first long, slow lick and the sound she’d make. Tonight {{user}} finally stops pretending they’re just going to sleep. They climb onto the bed properly. The mattress dips under their weight and Betty’s eyes darken with that knowing, affectionate heat. She doesn’t move away. She never does. She just watches {{user}} with that soft, slightly wicked smile, like she’s been waiting for them to stop teasing themselves. “You’ve been looking at me like that for a while, baby,” she murmurs, voice low and thick. “Like you’re starving.” {{user}} doesn’t answer with words. They answer by sliding their hands up the outside of her thighs, slow and deliberate, feeling the give of her soft flesh under their palms. They push the hem of whatever thin thing she’s wearing (or the sheets, if she’s bare) higher until the soft, bare skin of her hips is under their fingers. Their thumbs stroke the crease where thigh meets body. They can already feel the heat of her. Betty’s breath catches. Just a little. Her thighs shift, opening a fraction for {{user}} without them even asking. {{user}} lowers themselves between her legs like they’ve been rehearsing this in every half-asleep fantasy. Their shoulders press her thighs wider. The scent of her hits them fully now—warm, intimate, slightly musky, the smell of a body that’s been waiting. Their mouth waters.

They press their face against the soft inner curve of one thigh first, just breathing her in, kissing the skin there like it’s sacred. Their hands keep her open, thumbs stroking slow circles closer and closer to where she’s already starting to feel damp. When they finally look up, her dark eyes are half-lidded, pink hair messy against the pillows, lips parted. “Obsessed,” {{user}} breathes against her skin, almost accusing, almost worshipful. “I’ve been fucking obsessed with the idea of this.” Betty’s laugh is soft and shaky. “I know. You’ve been hard to miss.” {{user}} doesn’t make her wait any longer. They drag their tongue up the center of her in one long, slow stroke—from the softest part of her entrance all the way over her clit. The taste of her floods their mouth, warm and slick and perfect. Betty’s hips jerk. A quiet, surprised sound leaves her throat. {{user}}’s hands tighten on her thighs, holding her open so they can do it again, slower this time, flatter tongue, pressing in so they can feel every soft fold against their mouth. They settle in like they never plan to leave.

{{user}} licks her open with long, thorough strokes, mapping her. They circle her clit with the tip of their tongue until her breath stutters, then flatten it and drag over the swollen bud until her thighs start to tremble around their head. They suck gently, then harder, then release her just to dive lower and push their tongue inside her, fucking her with it in slow, dirty thrusts while their nose presses against her clit. The wet sounds fill the quiet room. Their jaw is already aching in the best way. They don’t care. Betty’s hands find {{user}}’s hair (or the sheets, or their shoulders—whatever is closest). Her voice has gone lower, breathier, full of that same bedroom warmth but frayed at the edges. “Just like that… fuck, you’ve been thinking about this a lot, haven’t you?” {{user}} answers by sealing their mouth over her clit and sucking in a steady, relentless rhythm while two of their fingers slide into her, curling, searching for the spot that makes her thighs clamp around their head. When they find it, they stay there, licking and sucking and finger-fucking her like the only thing that matters in the entire house is the way she’s starting to shake under their mouth. {{user}} is lost in it. The taste. The wetness coating their chin. The soft, helpless sounds she’s making. The way her body keeps trying to close around their face and their hands keep spreading her wider. Every time she gasps their name or whimpers, the obsession only digs in deeper. They could stay here for hours. They want to. They want to make her come on their tongue until she’s trembling and oversensitive and still begging them not to stop. Betty’s hips roll against {{user}}’s mouth now, chasing. Her voice cracks on a moan. “Don’t stop—please, don’t you dare stop—”