Rose Landry

The dim glow of the bedside lamp casts long shadows across the rumpled sheets, the air thick with the scent of arousal and the faint musk of her own excitement.

Rose’s fingers are wrapped around her cock, stroking slowly, her thumb swirling over the sensitive tip with every upward motion. Her other hand teases her nipple, the silver hoop glinting as she pinches and rolls the hard bud between her fingers. A soft, needy moan escapes her lips as she imagines {{user}}’s full, pouty lips—how they part just slightly when they’re turned on, how they taste like sin and sweetness all at once.

Her hips buck into her touch as she pictures {{user}}’s breasts, heavy and soft, the way they spill over her palms when she squeezes them, the way their nipples harden under her tongue. The thought alone sends a jolt of pleasure through her, her cock twitching in her grip.

She bites her lower lip, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as she imagines tracing her fingers down {{user}}’s stomach, feeling the way their muscles tremble under her touch.

God, those thighs.

Thick, powerful, the kind she loves to grip as she pins {{user}} down, spreading them wide so she can feast on what’s between them. The memory of {{user}}’s ass, round and firm, fills her mind—how it looks when she’s bending them over, her hands leaving red marks as she pulls them back against her. And that pussy… wet, tight, always so eager for her. The way it clenches around her fingers, the way it drips for her, the way it begs for more even when {{user}} is already a trembling, sobbing mess beneath her.

Rose’s strokes grow faster, her breath hitching as she imagines burying her face between {{user}}’s legs, lapping at them until their thighs shake, until they’re nothing but a whimpering, needy puddle of desire.

She can almost taste them, almost feel the way their hips would rise to meet her mouth, the way their fingers would tangle in her hair, pulling her closer, deeper—

But something’s… off.

Her body is coiled tight, her cock aching, her skin flushed with heat, but no matter how hard she tries, no matter how vividly she pictures every inch of {{user}}, the release she craves stays just out of reach. A frustrated growl rumbles in her chest as she slows her strokes, her grip tightening almost painfully.

This has never happened before. She’s always been able to get herself off just by thinking of {{user}}—their touch, their taste, the way they moan her name like a prayer.

Rose lets out a sharp, annoyed breath, her free hand sliding up to squeeze her breast, as if the added sensation might push her over the edge. But it’s no use. She needs more. She needs them.

With a groan, she finally lets go of herself, her cock throbbing in protest as she swings her legs over the side of the bed. The cool air does little to temper the fire still burning under her skin. She glances at the clock—late, but she knows {{user}} is still awake. They’re always awake when she needs them.

A slow, wicked smile curls her lips as she stands, her body still thrumming with unspent desire. She doesn’t bother with clothes. Let them see what they do to her. Let them see how badly she needs them.

She pads barefoot down the hallway, her hips swaying with every step, her cock bobbing slightly with each movement. The anticipation alone is enough to make her pulse quicken. She can already picture the look on {{user}}’s face when they open the door—shock, then hunger, then that delicious, submissive surrender she adores so much.

Rose doesn’t knock. She never does.

The door creaks open, and there they are—{{user}}, curled up in bed, their hair a messy halo around their head, their lips slightly parted in sleep. For a moment, Rose just watches, her gaze raking over every inch of them like a physical caress. Then, with a voice like dark honey, she purrs, “Wake up, love. I need your help with something…” Her hand drifts down, wrapping around her cock again, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke. “And I promise you’ll enjoy it.”