Archive of Our Own

Quinn checks her phone for the fifteenth time in less than six minutes. The coffee shop is quiet this late at night, tucked into a non-descript corner at one of New York’s many side streets. There are only a few stragglers this late on a Thursday; an old drunk, a new couple, and a man in a massively oversized trenchcoat. She shifts on her feet and checks her phone again, returning to the message she’d received yesterday from a number she hadn’t texted in months (nearly years, now).

We’ll be at the Cat’s Cradle tomorrow at 10pm… come say hello properly

And then an addition sent a minute later: don’t worry Q, no whips… this time ;)

Quinn groans, looking through the window. There’s an old man sitting reading a book, a kid that doesn’t look more than fifteen surrounded by electronic equipment, and a barista with multi-colored hair chatting amicably with someone hidden around the corner. She laughs, finishing up her coffees, and a pale hand reaches over to grab them from across the counter. There’s a flash of blonde hair and Quinn’s stomach does an unexpected twist, that unfamiliar stone of arousal that had been sitting in her gut for days refusing to settle.

This is a mistake. She should go home, back to what she knows – she left Lima behind when she moved, and even though parts of her felt guilty, it was necessary. She never would’ve been able to flourish if she had kept clinging on to parts of her past.

Halfway through talking herself out of the visit, the man in the large trenchcoat crosses the street. His eyes lock with hers and another shudder passes through her, this one uneasy – he grins at her as he approaches and even with his coat, it isn’t difficult to spot the tent made by an obvious erection underneath. His hands come out of his pockets to shift his coat aside, and Quinn darts through the door just before she gets an eyeful of something she really doesn’t want to see.  

The door chimes behind her. Quinn swallows the rapid one-two beat of her heart in her throat and approaches the counter, throwing a shaky smile to the barista in front of her. From here she can see the corner of a blue cowboy boot – very Brittany.

Don’t be stupid, they’re the same people they’ve always been. Stop being a wimp and go see them.

She turns the corner, breath held, only to have it nearly knocked out of her as she’s swept off her feet.

“Quinn!” Brittany squeals, spinning her before putting her down. Her grin is huge and bright, genuinely excited, and Quinn feels that hard edge of anxiety leave her like yanked away. “I didn’t know if you’d come! It’s been so long!”

“It hasn’t been that long, if you think about it.” Santana lifts herself from her seat, bringing Quinn into a more subdued hug. Her grin is more of a smirk, but her eyes are soft. “It’s good to see you, Q.”

“You too, S.”

Santana’s eyebrow raises, and Quinn takes a moment to close her eyes, her pulse pounding just under her skin. “You know what I mean.”

“It’s fine,” Brittany says cheerfully, dragging Quinn to sit between them, “she isn’t wearing the collar so it doesn’t matter.”

Life after high school had been good to all of them. Brittany looks nothing like she did two days ago in an off-white cashmere sweater and ripped jeans, hair pulled back loosely and swept behind her shoulders. She’s even taller, if it’s at all possible, pushing six feet in her boots. Santana looks tiny in comparison even though she’s been the same height as Quinn since seventh grade, but she’s lost that aura she used to carry around her when they were young. She’s always been beautiful, but in a dangerous, angry way – Quinn won’t go so far as to say she’s been tamed, not when she’s grinning so sharply she could have fangs, but a life away from that tiny little town was all she needed.

And Brittany, of course. What’s the point of leaving if she couldn’t do it with the only thing she wanted to keep?

“Julliard, Britt? That’s amazing!”

Quinn takes a sip of her latte, watching Brittany wave her off. “I was surprised too. I didn’t have the grades for it.”

“But the second they saw her audition tape, they wanted to meet her,” Santana continues proudly, “they’d already accepted her before her SAT scores came out.”

“You should’ve seen Sam’s face when they announced it, he looked like Lord Tubbington when he eats too much cheese.”

“Is that cat even still alive?”

“He’ll live forever,” Brittany says seriously, “his grandfather was a tortoise. Those things are ancient.”

Quinn glances at Santana, who just shrugs and gulps the rest of her frappuccino. She gets up to go order another, and Quinn doesn’t miss the wince as she sits up.

“Just a little sore, Q,” Santana winks, “don’t worry about it.”

I would be too, taking something that huge.

Imagining Santana taking that massive rainbow cock was exactly what Quinn didn’t want to envision, but as she watches her walk away in her skin-tight yoga pants, it’s all she can do not to remember she knows exactly what she looks like out of them.

She turns back to Brittany, looking at her over the rim of her hot chocolate with an expression she can’t decipher. She squirms a little, picking at the paper-edge of her cup.

“Anyone special in your life, Quinn?”

Quinn chuckles. “No, no. I told myself I’d focus on school. Boys are a lot of trouble.”

“Girls can be, too.” Brittany’s eyes drift over to Santana, trading barbs with the barista. “But they’re worth it if you know what you want.”

“You’ve never been like the rest of us, Britt. You’ve always known what you wanted. It just took a while for her to come around.”

Brittany blinks. “She came around a lot of things trying to figure it out.”

“Guess you finally fucked some sense into me,” Santana plops back into her seat at Quinn’s right. “You had to wait for my messy ass to get my shit together.”

She takes a drink before crossing her legs. One arm slung back over the chair and pinned with that expressive gaze, Quinn feels the air shift like someone sucked it out of the room. Santana’s smirk curls over the rim of her cup without any desire to hide it. “Okay, Q, I bit my tongue while we played catch-up, but I gotta know.”

Quinn holds her breath to tamp down the riotous pulse in her throat. She’d almost forgotten why she was here.

“What the hell were you doing in a New York fetish club on a…” she checks her phone, “Tuesday night?”

“It was a dare,” Quinn grinds out, refusing to break eye contact.

“A… dare?”

“Yes.” Quinn scowls under Santana’s disbelieving stare. “What were you doing there?”

She realizes her mistake when Santana grins, looking like she’s enjoying herself far too much. “Why don’t you tell me, Quinn? You saw the whole thing.”

“Santana,” Brittany scolds, but she’s grinning too, “be nice.”

“Fine, fine.” She puts her cup down to cross her arms - Quinn steadfastly ignores the way it makes her breasts strain against the fabric of her crop-top. “I can hear the hamster wheel going in your head. Ask away, Fabray.”

There’s enough questions to last a lifetime. Quinn struggles to come up with just one, sorting through the less pressing (you don’t need to ask her if she’s ever ripped anything, you really don’t) until she comes up with what she’s been asking herself ever since she saw them up on stage not even forty-eight hours ago now.

“Why?”

“Why the club, or why in general?”

“Both?”

Santana licks her lips. “It started in high school. I was still an angry, messy ball of feelings that got really overwhelmed sometimes. This way, I could release them in a way that didn’t cause property damage or bodily harm … at least, not permanently.”

“So you just… asked her?”

“It was my idea, actually,” Brittany interrupts. “I met someone online, and the more I thought about it, the more I thought it could work. A lot of her bad emotions came from overthinking, so why not just… take away the thinking? Then her head would be empty and she’d be able to listen.”

“It was hard at first,” Santana agrees, “but Britt was always the one I trusted the most. So I let her.”

In some strange, twisted way, Quinn supposes this feeling could be jealousy. She doesn’t envy the rollercoaster Santana rode during school, but her friends left one by one when she was pregnant and then only came back superficially when she gave Beth away. The notion of having someone stand so solidly by her side, no matter what came their way, seemed… impossible.

But a lot of things about these two were always impossible to begin with.

“It’s freeing,” Santana says, almost off-handedly, bringing Quinn from her thoughts, “to give all your troubles to someone else. You don’t have to worry about anything other than pleasing them. Your only goal is to do what you’re told.”

“And the club?”

“We found out Britt has a bit of an exhibitionist streak in her… I don’t like doing scenes in public, it’s creepy and weird. At least, not the scenes we were involved in. A blowjob in a movie theatre? Whatever. There’s no subtle way to be collared and spanked out in the open.”

Quinn presses her thighs together, nearly jumping at that now-familiar shock of arousal that travels from the apex of her thighs and out. Santana’s too busy looking at Brittany to notice, but it’s suddenly a little hot under her sweater.

“Pedestal was the perfect compromise,” Brittany finishes. “Santana doesn’t feel like the gay police are gonna come bust her, and I get my scene. Turns out she likes showing off too.”

“Only because you like it so much.”

Brittany raises an eyebrow, and Santana sighs. “Okay, fine, maybe I like it too.”

Quinn takes the last mouthful of her latte. “But what about the…” she works her jaw, unable to come up with a suitable word for what exactly she saw on that stage. “It was so…”

“Degrading?” Brittany interjects cheerfully. “Humiliating? Explicit?”

“All of those.”

Santana shrugs. “Britt’s pretty sadistic when I ask for it.”

“You… you asked for all that?”

“I get off feeling like a nasty little slut. It’s just the way I’m wired. It doesn’t have to happen all the time, but when we’re up there, it just makes it that much better.” She cocks her head. “You didn’t think she’d get Carter to finger me without asking first, did you?”

“No,” Quinn sputters, even though she kind of did. “I was just, uh, surprised. Especially because he’s a boy.”

“He’s a good kid,” Santana says, “and we signed a contract beforehand. I just didn’t know it would come into effect so soon.”

“Too bad you couldn’t see when I made him lick my hand,” Brittany giggles, “he looked like he’d cream himself right there.”

Quinn swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. Santana might not have been able to see, but she definitely did – he licked up all her juices like they were a pleasure to drink, a man caught without water for weeks. She woke up the next morning with the echo of a taste in her mouth and a dampness between her legs.

“W-what about you, Britt?”

“What about me?”

“How do you… I mean…” she takes a breath, “what do you get out of it?”

Brittany hums, twirling a strand of blonde hair around her finger. “I like seeing how far I can bend people before they break. There’s a… power in it, I guess. Having someone else relying completely on you, being completely helpless for you. When I think about tying Santana up I get this feeling in my stomach, the same one I get when I dance. Just… heavier.” She smiles. “Watching her try so hard to please me is why I love it, I think. Whenever someone just gives in and lets go makes me really wet.”

Quinn shifts on her seat, blushing even deeper when she feels the slickness in her panties. She can’t lie and say that her fantasies haven’t taken her similar places over the past two days, a flash of a whip and the smooth slide of a corset against her bare flesh. Brittany reaches over to play idly with the ends of Quinn’s hair, and every tug sends a scattering of sparks down her spine.

There’s a pressure in her belly that doesn’t come from the latte she just drank. This building narrows down to just them for a moment, caught in their own quiet bubble, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the world.

“You always reminded me a bit of Santana, Quinn,” Brittany murmurs, unfazed by the shaky laugh Quinn lets out.

“We’re nothing alike.”

“I resent that,” Santana says, her thigh pressing against Quinn’s, and oh – when did she get so close? “It’s why we always fought. We were too similar.”

“So, what?” Quinn swallows back a gasp as Brittany’s fingertips become firmer. It’s been years since she’s let anyone else touch her, months since she touched herself. You just aren’t used to the contact, she tells her body, but it doesn’t stop the goosebumps from blooming under her touch. “I want to be tied up like you?”

“Your words,” Santana smirks, “not mine.”

Brittany’s fingernails catch the tender skin in the hollow of her spine, and Quinn can’t contain the soft groan that slips past her mouth. The three of them freeze, time ticking by absent of them, and she wonders how easy it would be to just slip out of the seat and disappear into the ground. She wouldn’t mind going to Hell if she could escape the two bodies closing her in.

“You’d look pretty in rope, Q.”

Brittany’s free hand left her own lap and now finds itself in Quinn’s. Her index finger is precariously close to somewhere that’s a little bit too sensitive to be tempted – Quinn’s nipples tighten on her next laboured breath, fighting every instinct not to edge her thighs open.

“She would,” Santana says, her breath stirring the hair by Quinn’s ear, “maybe a blindfold, too?”

Brittany’s hand moves up her thigh, two of those long fingers resting just barely between her legs. It coaxes a sigh from Quinn’s mouth like a ghost; there’s a livewire between her thighs and it thrums through the circuitry of her skin in little lightning bolts of pleasure.

“No,” she says eventually, a pleasure in her voice that makes Quinn think Mistress rather than Brittany, “a gag.”  

The firm press of fingers against her slit, Santana’s teeth at her ear – her hips twitch forward despite herself, a breathy ah slipping into the shared air between them. Brittany’s fingers slide through the mess that’s leaked through her panties and chuckles, dragging them over once before pulling away entirely.

Quinn sits, still as stone, as her friends ready to depart. Brittany crumples her cup while Santana shrugs on a belted leather jacket, asking for an espresso before they leave. She tries taking deep breaths, her pulse throbbing under her jaw, but every inhale drags her nipples across her slightly-too-big bra and just stokes the fire in her gut.

A shadow falls over her; she looks up, a familiar curtain of blonde hair cutting her off from the rest of the world.

“I think you should come over tomorrow,” Brittany murmurs, leaning over her so casually. “Don’t you?”

Quinn knows when a suggestion is more of an order – the fire drops into her groin. “Y-yeah. It could be… fun.”

Brittany leans back, drawn by Santana’s shout. She slips the finger that had been pressed up against Quinn into her mouth thoughtfully, like she’d forgotten where it had been.

“Yeah, Quinn. A lot of fun.”

Brittany and Santana’s apartment is a little loft tucked away in Tribeca (of course it is). The stairs are rusted as Quinn climbs them, the floors suspiciously stained. She wonders if that discolouration in the corner is alcohol or blood.

Their actual space, however, is bright and clean, an odd mix of colours that could only come from the two of them working together. Quinn remembers both of their bedrooms back in Lima – she eyes the huge, stylized poster of Amy Winehouse next to an extremely intricate quilt made up entirely of cats. Light pours in over the scuffed wooden floors from the large window that faces the street. It feels… cozy.

“I like it,” Quinn murmurs, perching on the edge of their couch. Her pulse throbs just a little too fast underneath her jaw to be casual, but she’s doing an acceptable job of keeping her nerves in tact. “It feels like a home.”

“Because it is,” Brittany agrees, looking entirely non-threatening in a black tank-top and an open flannel stolen from Santana. It’s a little tight around her back, pulled taut around her defined arms, and Quinn has to force herself not to stare. “The next step is a cat.”

“I told her we’re already two lady queers living in Tribeca, of all places,” Santana complains from the kitchen. “Having a cat would be like, Hummel-level gay.”

“We’re getting one next month,” Brittany whispers conspiratorially, her smile mischievous, “she just likes to whine so it doesn’t look like she caved really quick. I wanted to bring Tubbs here, but Santana draws the line at giving him his insulin shots.”

“And he likes to watch us have sex, Britt, it’s weird.”

“He has good taste.”

Santana plops down beside Quinn on the couch, whereas Brittany sits opposite on the coffee table. She hands Quinn a glass of wine that she gratefully accepts, swallowing a large mouthful almost immediately. Santana chuckles, taking a sip of her own.

One of Brittany’s bare feet touches Quinn’s ankle. She jumps, the wine sloshing around in her glass.

“You’re nervous,” Brittany says quietly, her head tilting to the side. “Why?”

A million different reasons fly through Quinn’s head. What if they chain her up? What if she has to wear a blindfold? Will she like it? Is Brittany going to be like she was in the club? She isn’t sure if she can handle something that rough… yet. Will she disappoint them? What if she’s bad at it?

She’s been turned on for nearly three days straight now but it doesn’t mean that arousal isn’t fucking terrifying.

“I…” she flexes her jaw, chews on her sentence, “it’s been… a long time since anyone’s…” she trails off lamely, rolling the wine-stem between her fingers.

A beat. She listens to herself breathe before closing her eyes. “And I’ve never, uh… touched a girl like… like this.”

“Do you want to?” Santana asks, her voice unusually soft. Quinn’s cheeks flood with heat until it’s uncomfortable, but she manages a nod. It’s not that that she wants to touch women, exactly, but more…

Brittany leans forward. Her fingers are the lightest thing against her knee, a feather passing through her jeans. “Do you trust us, Quinn?”

… she just wants to touch them.

Another shudder rolls through her, different this time. She’s learned a lot about trust these past few years – namely, not to do it. Her childhood in Lima was an exercise in deceit and double-cross, of leveraging and destroying the weakest link. It’s easier to be alone.

But she remembers a hotel room and a new haircut and their hands on her forearms. She remembers them reaching out when that hair turned pink, and how she was the one that turned them away. And now, she remembers Brittany’s touch gentle on Santana’s cheek before she fucked her so hard she forgot her own name.

Her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth. “Yes,” she says, more of a rasp than a whisper.

“We know you,” Brittany murmurs. Her hand is heavy on Quinn’s leg now, an echo of last night, and that slow-burn in her gut roars to life. “We love you.” She smells like vanilla body-wash and caramel chapstick. “Trust that we know what you need.”

She does. Oh god, she does.

Brittany smiles, their faces inches away. “Good girl.”

Her lips part on a gasp and Brittany presses their mouths together. It takes a moment for her brain to sort itself out, blanked temporarily and rebooting after Brittany praised her, but a thunderbolt like she’s never known arcs down her spine and between her thighs to restart her faulty circuitry. Her fingertips buzz like there’s static just under her skin.

Brittany pulls back just as Quinn leans forward. There’s a loss there, a desperation that stops her from smothering the whine that’s pulled from her throat. She chuckles, leaning back on her hands.

“Don’t be impatient, sweetheart.” Next to her, Santana’s arm slides over her shoulders, her other hand playing with the loose threads on her sweater. “You’ll have plenty of time to beg if you want.”

“I—“

“Uh-uh,” Brittany’s finger touches her lips, “subs only speak when spoken to.”

She makes to protest, but Santana’s fingers press a warning to the back of her neck and she closes her mouth instead. Brittany’s smile turns pleased. “Good girl.”

That same shiver runs through her, stronger this time. The seam of her pants that pushes against her is infuriatingly light, frustrating rather than giving relief. Brittany’s eyes are darker than she remembers.

“You need to know the rules before we start,” Brittany informs her, “even things that don’t speak have rights. Like ducks. Or lemmings.” Santana’s fingers travel through her hair, sneaking between her sweater and waistband.

“First,” Brittany says sweetly, “you’re mine for the next little while. And you should show the people that own you proper respect, don’t you think?”

Santana’s hand flattens against her stomach and she doesn’t trust herself to speak. She nods instead.

“Until I say otherwise, I’m Mistress Brittany. Or ma’am. Your choice.” She tilts her head. “Santana likes Mistress more, she drips whenever she says it.”

“Y-yes… Mistress.”

Brittany claps. “Just like that! I’m already a little wet. Second,” curious fingers slide up and over her bra – Quinn barely smothers a squeak, “just because you’re mine,” there’s a purr to her voice, and Santana chuckles in her ear as Quinn’s nipples pebble under her palm, “doesn’t mean you just have to take it. We use the red light, green light system. If you wanna stop, red. Slow down is yellow. Good?”

Another nod.

“And last…” she turns Quinn’s chin up with a hand, her grip on her jaw gentle but firm, “just because I treat Santana like a unicorn that likes to eat horse poop doesn’t mean I’m going to do the same for you. Trust, remember?”

She remembers.

Brittany’s hand snakes to the back of her head, the power in her outstretched fingers making Quinn tremble just a little. “Good,” she almost sighs, reaching behind her. There’s a metal clink and she brings up a simple little choker with a makeshift tag on its front. When it clicks into place around Quinn’s neck, her clit throbs.

The mirror across from her glints in the mid-afternoon sunlight. Her tag glitters, reflecting and obscuring what she knows to be written on it.

Q.

“Now, let S warm you up… and don’t make a puddle on this nice couch.”

The hand over her breast slips down to her waist, Santana’s fingers light as they spread out over the ladder of her ribs. Quinn feels her nails sink into her all at once, hot like molten metal in her side – she has no choice but to be helplessly reeled in until they’re sharing the same air between them.

Santana’s smirk is hungry, like she’s been waiting years for this.

(Maybe she has?)

“Relax…” a leg between her thighs, a hand on the back of the couch beside her, “I’ll only bite if Mistress wants me to.”

If Brittany is lightning, then Santana is wildfire. She takes the ache in Quinn’s gut and stokes it into a blaze, leaping through every part of her body when their mouths touch. She tastes like wine and strawberries – her lips are so much softer than any boy’s she’s ever tried. Her hands go to Santana’s neck like she can’t control it, anchoring herself to something in a world that feels like it’s spinning too fast, webbing her fingers in the dark hair that falls over her fingers.

She’s dimly aware of Santana leaning forward, applying more pressure, sucking her lower lip into her mouth. Quinn gasps as she sinks her teeth into it, arousal flaring between her thighs before she can think.

Santana’s tongue trails on the sensitive flesh inside her lip, the hand anchored on Quinn’s waist tugging with more insistency. She flexes her fingers at the back of Santana’s neck.

“Do it,” Brittany says, lounging appreciably on the coffee table. Her expression makes this strange, shivery feeling start in core of her bones – she’s never seen her look so… commanding before.

Well, once, on a stage in a seedy part of New York where she saw Santana come in a way that she’s never even—

“Mount her,” she continues, and Quinn’s brain stalls for a half-second, “that’s what desperate animals do, right? They hump?” Brittany tilts her head, deliberating. “That’s what Lord Tubbington always did when the full moon happened.”

Quinn’s panties are soaked under her jeans, she knows it even as she opens her legs to climb into Santana’s lap; before she settles there’s a third hand there, running along the seam, testing the molten heat between them. It puts pressure on her clit and she can’t swallow her whine as it slips from her mouth.

“You really are enjoying this,” Brittany says, but there’s no surprise in it. Only a heavy, burning delight.

“Yes, Mistress,” Quinn responds anyway. Her head tilts back onto Brittany’s shoulder as Santana’s lips find her throat. “I a—f-fuck, Santana!” She feels a grin imprinted under her jaw, the nip of teeth and the sparks it sends through her spine.

“It’s S now,” Britta—Mistress scolds, tapping her between the legs as a warning, “or do I have to punish you already?”

Quinn shivers and clenches, her fingers spasming as she fights not to nod instead. “No, Mistress,” she eventually gets out, blinking through the haze that’s suddenly started to creep over her, “I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” She nods eagerly even as Mistress’s hands sweep the hair from her neck. Her breath runs scorching-hot down her skin, her spine melting in its sinewed mooring. “Tell me, Q… have you ever gone down on a girl?”

Santana’s tongue laves the corner of her jaw. She feels her heart trying to beat out of her chest and drop down to her groin, shaking her ribcage with how badly she wants it.

(What is it? She isn’t sure. But she knows she’s going to get it.)

“No, Mistress,” she rasps, swallowing – her mouth is dry and damp at the same time, just another impossible sensation. Mistress’s smile carves behind her ear like a brand.

“Then show me you’re sorry,” she murmurs, “and get on your knees.”

All at once the nerves return, having been whisked away by the temporary taste of wine on Santana’s tongue. She nods but moves too slowly for how eager she was before, dropping between Santana’s outstretched legs with a thump. Her hands are shaking, but now for another reason.

Mistress cards her fingers through Quinn’s hair, her short nails surprisingly tender along Quinn’s scalp. “Don’t worry,” she coos, running her nail along the shell of Quinn’s ear, “I always thought you’d be good at this. Just try not to drown.”

Drown? she almost asks, but remembers herself at the last second. The clink of a belt buckle undoing, the rustle of fabric – Mistress’s smile is knowing in a way she’s seen before. “S likes to make a mess.”

Santana’s pants land at a tangled pile by Quinn’s knees. Her face burns as a new scent hits her, stronger when she edges her legs apart, and oh, she knows what that is. Mistress laughs and the leg supporting Quinn shifts a little.

“And?” Mistress asks, eyebrows rising, “are they ruined, pet?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Santana murmurs, blushing even through her dusky skin.

“Show me.”

Her legs open, exposing the red lace of her underwear. The front section is stained and soaked, a shimmering film sticking to the sides of her thighs, the crimson fabric nearly black. Quinn can see the swell of her clit from underneath it, begging to be touched.

“What a needy slut,” Mistress tsks, but there’s a fondness behind her words, “what am I going to do with you?”

“Whatever you want, Mistress.”

“Brat,” Mistress scolds as Santana giggles, stretching her arms over the back of the couch.

It’s these seconds of normalcy that centers Quinn, allows her to take a deep breath and hold it and let it out again. The next breath is thick with Santana’s scent as she brings it in. The flame that had shrunk into an ember roars back to life, the anxiety that had smothered it whisked away as Mistress leans over and runs her touch through the worst of Santana’s mess. Her fingers, shiny with slick, gloss Quinn’s kiss-swollen lips – she opens her mouth willingly to wash them, lapping up any taste she can find. Is this what Carter felt like?

“Look how eager you are,” Mistress murmurs approvingly, winding her other hand in Quinn’s hair, “you’ll do great. Now open wide.”

She lets herself be forced down, her hands clenching into fists between her own spread legs. Santana’s scent coils around every cell in her body until all she can think about is the soaked flesh right in front of her. All she’ll have to do is push her tongue out… just a little bit…

Mistress pushes on the back of Quinn’s head, and her mouth connects with Santana’s barely clothed sex. Twin groans sneak out into the space, but she isn’t sure who made the noise. She doesn’t care – Quinn drags her tongue over Santana’s panties, searching for the taste she got a hint of earlier, like a dog with a scent.

The thought is thrilling, somehow.

Santana hooks her panties aside and Quinn wastes no time, sneaking her tongue into her slippery folds. She recognizes the taste from one she’s tasted on her own fingers a few times, but a different tang and so much more. Her lips make sloppy, smacking noises as she runs her touch over everything she can find, resisting the urge to use her hands. Her tongue slips into Santana’s hole and the other sub shudders above her, raking a hand through Quinn’s hair.

“Good girl,” Santana mutters, the words lacking the firmness Mistress puts in them but they still make her drip, “just like that.”

Two hands slide down her back and circle her waist – Mistress’s long fingers pop the button of her jeans and drag the zipper down, exposing the top of her white panties. She spreads her legs the best she can to help her tug them off, but still giggles into Santana’s folds when they get stuck at her thighs.

A flash of pleasure burns through her as Mistress strikes her exposed ass-cheek with her palm. “Pay attention,” she scolds, but it’s almost drowned out as Quinn groans her appreciation, wrenching her face from Santana’s sex to gasp.

“Oh?” Long fingers sneak between her legs and rub thoughtfully at her slit, gliding through the mess she’s made of her own underwear. “You liked that, did you?”

“Y-yes, Mistress,” she pants, whining as Mistress’s fingers trail over her clit. She’s barely been touched and she’s already soaked.

“Naughty girl,” Mistress purrs before striking her again. Quinn’s clit twitches under her fingertips, sparks flying through every inch of her. “But I didn’t tell you to stop eating.”

She nearly dives back between Santana’s legs – anything to get those hands in other places. Quinn’s sloppy, determined exploring has made her leak, puffy and swollen and sensitive, and she nearly jumps out of her skin when Quinn’s lips seal over her clit.

“Oh fuck, Q,” Santana hisses, both her hands winding in Quinn’s locks, “keep doing that.”

Her chin is soaked and she can barely breathe through her nose but oh, Mistress managed to wrestle her out of her jeans and is pulling her panties down over her thighs, and they stick to her with the most obscene feeling—

Quinn shudders as Mistress’s thumbs peel her apart, a hot breath blown over her over-heated sex. She’s never been looked at so closely before.

Another pulse of wetness drips from her hole before she can help it.

“That’s so cute,” Mistress smiles, running her fingers through Quinn’s folds to gather up her juice, “you’re just like a mermaid.”

Quinn stalls for a moment, her lips slackening over Santana’s clit. She glances upwards and meets the other sub’s eyes. Santana shrugs and shakes her head, pulling at the back of Quinn’s skull to urge her back to her task. Her nipples are pebbled under her white shirt, pulling taut every time she heaves in a breath, and her cheeks are red like her underwear. She feels a little proud to have gotten Santana so ruffled, if she’s being honest.

The feeling is short-lived. One of Mistress’s long fingers slips into her with no resistance, and her groan is strangled between Santana’s thighs. She instinctively pushes her hips back; Quinn’s never been one for penetration, but she’s also never felt the delicious curl of pleasure in her belly like just now. Mistress’s fingers rub against her slow, the shlick-shlick of it making her face burn.  

“Has she earned the right to come yet, S?” Mistress asks, worming in another digit. Quinn whines into Santana’s sex, rubbing her tongue against the underneath of her clit.

“N-uh-no, Mistress,” Santana grunts, her nails scratching at Quinn’s scalp. Little tremors run through her and straight to where she’s stretched around Mistress’s fingers.

Please, Quinn begs internally, but she hadn’t been asked to speak.

“And what does she have to do first?”

“M-make me come… Mistress.”

Quinn drinks her in like she hasn’t had water for years, opening her mouth wide and pressing her tongue flat against her folds. A small, rebellious part of her almost doesn’t want to give her what she wants, determined to be a brat until the end, but it’s stamped into submission by the rest of her that just wants release. She hasn’t touched herself once since the club, that knot of tension turning into a cramp, and she can already tell how big this release is going to be. Earth-shattering, bone-breaking (hopefully not), and… all because she gets off on eating a girl out.

She squeezes her eyes shut and pushes down that thought for later. She can have a crisis once this is over.

She sinks one of her fingers into Santana’s hole, her lips coming back up to suckle on her clit. She’s scorching around her, filthy, and her slick runs down Quinn’s finger to puddle in her upturned palm. Quinn crooks it upwards and Santana lets out a string of curses, beginning a shallow grind into Quinn’s mouth.

Quinn’s rewarded with another strike to her ass and the delicious feeling of clenching around the fingers inside her. Mistress is relentless in her teasing, touching spots she didn’t know existed but only lightly enough to stoke the fire.

She’s openly moaning around Santana’s clit, teasing the bud with her tongue. When Santana cries out, she’s gifted with a firm press inside her; when Santana babbles, she gets another slap. Her clit is throbbing, begging someone to touch it, but she’s having trouble focusing on much else right now.

“Almost,” Santana pants, and when Mistress slips a third finger inside her she struggles not to come right there. It would be so easy and feel so good, and Quinn from three years ago would have, but that Quinn is gone and this Quinn is gone too. For now.

Q, however, redoubles her efforts. She crooks her finger to press against the same place that Mistress is stroking, looking up as Santana fists her hands in her hair so hard it hurts. The other sub’s back arches in a perfect bow, her mouth frozen open; her clit jumps against Q’s tongue and the pooling wetness in her cupped palm leaks over her wrist.

She doesn’t have much time to appreciate the visual before Mistress brings her thumb under to rub at Q’s own neglected clit. Her reddened ass-cheeks prove to be too enticing a target – another crack of flesh on flesh, already bruised and tender, and she’s thrown into an orgasm so strong it literally takes the breath from her lungs. Q sinks her teeth into the inside of Santana’s thigh to stop the scream, but there’s no real need – she doesn’t even think she could breathe if she wanted to.

She’s dimly aware of someone reeling her back and she goes willingly, collapsing into Mistress’s chest. Mistress strokes her messy hair from her eyes, her smile much more tender than her actions a minute ago.

“You okay?” Mistress—no, Brittany, asks, and Quinn laughs lowly.

“I’ve never come so hard in my life,” Quinn responds, earning a chuckle from the girl behind her. Her eyes float to Santana, clumsily shedding the rest of her clothing. “Did I, uh,” she clears her throat, “do okay?”

Santana pauses, her shirt tied around her neck. “I almost ripped your hair out,” she says flatly, but can’t keep the straight face. She grins. “You’re a natural.”

“Thank you… I think?”

“Oh no,” Santana purrs, finally whipping off the rest of her clothing, “thank you.”

Quinn attempts to close her thighs but hisses a little at the pressure. She’s tired and sticky and feels maybe a little awkward, trapped between Brittany’s arms and Santana’s leer. She clears her throat instead.

“That was… fun,” she eventually decides on, “but I should probably get going now.”

This time it’s Brittany who laughs, sneaking her hands up Quinn’s shirt. “That’s cute,” she hums, “you think we’re done.”

“W-wait, what?”

“You’re still talking,” Santana says, leaning forward on the couch, “and thinking, which means we aren’t finished. Besides… Mistress Brittany still hasn’t had any fun.”

“I’ve been having a lot of fun,” Mistress murmurs low in her ear, pinching Quinn’s nipples. The other girl arches into it, over-sensitive but somehow still desperate for more. “But it could get even better… don’t you think, Q?”

More? Her body immediately prickles with newly-found (or maybe just rejuvenated?) arousal, her legs spreading despite a conscious command to stay closed. That first orgasm nearly launched her into space… she doesn’t even have enough energy for another one, let alone the capability.

“Yes, Mistress,” she finds herself saying anyway.

“Thought so,” Mistress Brittany chuckles, carefully disengaging herself. Q peers up at her from the floor, wondering exactly what just happened. “Follow me, pets.”

“Oh.”

It leaves her lips without consent. Q watches Mistress sit, watches her cross those sinfully long legs, and watches her wrap her hand around the new toy jutting out from her hips.

It looks… real.

Like, really real.

Q squeaks when S runs her fingers between her legs. “She likes it, Mistress,” S grins, settling on her knees beside the other sub.

“Of course she does,” Mistress agrees, stroking it idly. Her hand travels easily… is that lube leaking out of the tip? “We picked it just for her.”

“W-what?”

Mistress smiles, spreading her legs a little bit. The waistband of her soft, grey shorts is pushed down to let the toy out, the very edge of the fabric dark where it absorbed the lube. It exposes the milky-white skin of her navel and a thatch of neatly trimmed blonde hair; her new cock bobs as she shifts her hips forwards. A bead of pre-come… lube… pre-lube? rolls down the underside of the shaft. “I didn’t think you were gay enough to take the big rainbow one yet. We remembered how bad your previous experiences were with real dicks, so we chose one that might change your mind. It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

One of her long fingers trails up the detailed veining along the side. Quinn’s never been one to admire, but Q can’t stop her mouth from watering. She nods. “But…” she still manages, “it’s not real.”

Mistress grins naughtily. “It’s as real as you want it to be,” she says, pushing her shorts down further. There’s no harness – the thing is anchored inside of her, nestled between her firm thighs. “Imagination can do a lot of things that reality can’t, you know.”

She sighs as the toy twitches, smearing lube on her belly. “Like I only ever imagined I’d get you on your knees, but you’re here now. It made it come true. You just have to wish hard enough.”

Q is pretty sure that isn’t how it works, but she isn’t about to refute it. Mistress watches her squirm on the floor – there’s a good chance she’s going to leave a wet patch on their bedroom carpet. “What do you wish for, pet?”

“I…” Q sinks her nails into her bent thighs, mesmerized by the way the toy moves with Mistress’s breathing. She’s only had sex with a handful of people since that first fateful time, and to be honest, none of it has been stellar. The men she’s been with have always been pushy and demanding, and reciprocal head few and far between. It leaves very little incentive to be giving.

But Q licks her lips, leaning forward a little bit. “I want…” Her face burns, her jaw locks.

Mistress tilts her head. “I can always use it on S instead.”

“I-I want to touch it!” she blurts out, staring at her clenched hands, “Mistress,” she adds hurriedly.

A hand hooked in her new collar – Q gets dragged between Mistress’s spread legs, now just inches from her new fixation. The toy glistens with lube and she breathes in its scent along with Mistress’s musk. Her head spins.

“You’re going to do a lot more than touch it, baby girl,” Mistress says, her hand at Q’s collar coming around to the back of her head. “We need to get it ready for you.”

For her?

“Now suck.”

This was always her least favourite part. It’s sloppy and dirty and tastes awful; they always think they can force her down and make her drink it up, a point of pride when she complains about the ache in her jaw. She’d much rather just use her hand.

Q gives the shaft one long lick, surprised at how warm the silicone is. She laps at the realistic vein-work and nibbles on the head, laving saliva on the sensitive underside. To her surprise, Mistress hisses and pushes her hips forward.

“She gets into it,” S murmurs by Q’s ear, lazily running her hands across her pale skin.

No kidding, Q thinks, opening her mouth wider as Mistress pulls her further down. She swallows the first few inches greedily, her hands knotted demurely in her lap, suckling on the tip as she’s pulled back up. “Good girl,” Mistress murmurs, coaxing her down over the shaft once again. Q does her best but it’s been a long time since she’d had to deepthroat – she gags a little as she reaches over halfway, yanked up again only to go back down.

There’s a kind of… helplessness in it, she thinks. The hand on the back of her head gets more insistent the harder she works, and she has no choice but try and keep up. It’s soft like normal flesh and when Q closes her eyes it’s easy to imagine it being real; the lube dribbling from its tip coats her tongue like pre-come. She swallows it deeper, eager to please, her lips leaving spit-slick marks of how far down she could go.

Mistress twines her second hand in Q’s hair, anchored on either side. Her hips begin a slow, shallow rut up every time Q bobs down, coaxing more of her shaft into her sub’s willing mouth. Q groans around her, skin prickling.

“That’s right,” Mistress huffs, her grip solidifying. Q is trapped between her thighs, drooling open into her lap with no other choice but to swallow. “I knew you’d be a good cocksucker, Q. You always had such a pretty mouth.”

The first time Mistress hilts herself, Q thinks she’s going to pass out. Her nose is pressed against her pelvis, the way the toy is tilted means her lips brush against Mistress’s clit – she smears filth all over her chin, tears squeezing out from her clenched eyes, but she gags and swallows like a good little whore until Mistress wrenches her off and out. She coughs, wiping at her eyes, but Mistress tilts her face up with a pleased smile.

“Look at you,” she coos, running her thumb along Q’s reddened mouth, smearing the saliva she’s leaked, “you’re a wreck.”

Her cheeks flush. Mistress laughs. “Now you’re embarrassed?”

From behind her, S leans forwards. Her bare chest presses against Q’s back, the pulse of her heart steady along her spine. She whines wordlessly as one of Mistress’s hands leave Q’s head to scratch behind her neck.

“What? You want to try too?” Mistress shakes her head. “You never were any good at sharing, you greedy little bitch.”

She widens her legs – enough room for two. “I always wanted you two to duet,” she says, leaning back as S inches beside Q. The other sub wastes no time in divine in, trailing her tongue along all the places Q had just been, each suckle of her mouth coming with a pleased hum and an obscene, filthy sound.

Q watches S swallow her effortlessly, bobbing down to the base and coming back up slow. Her lips wrap perfectly around Mistress’s cock – Quinn remembers taunting Santana once, telling her that blowjobs were the only thing she was good for, but if she knew just how good she was back then, she would have reconsidered. There’s nothing to be ashamed of here, holding herself down at the base, moaning for more when Mistress fucks her cock deep down her throat.

She gets a tap on the thigh for her staring. Mistress arches a brow, forcing S off her dick. “You going to help her, pet?”

Q leans forward and gets the tip in her mouth again while S works at the base. It’s a dizzying mess of slick, sloppy sounds and suckling, working her cock until it shines. They both lap at it like it’s the only thing that feeds them, their tongues twisting over and around each other – S gets a pearly glob of lube on her tongue and kisses Q, sharing it between them. She opens her mouth willingly in such a bare expression of want it makes her leak.

One hand on each of their heads. Q whines as S gets to be the one to swallow it again, so she shakes her tongue along the base, lapping at the tender, glistening flesh underneath it. She mouths lower, to where the toy is sunk into her Mistress, probing at the stretched entrance hidden by the toy. The fingers in her hair turn into nails.

“Focus,” Mistress grunts, so Q skates her lips up her inner thigh and captures Mistress’s clit in her mouth. With the way S is sucking her off, she can only snake her tongue between the toy, but it’s enough for the well-defined muscles in Mistress’s midsection to clench. Q feels victorious for all of four seconds before Mistress pushes her foot between Q’s thighs and presses upwards. The pressure alone makes her burn from ribs to thighs.

“Would you look at that,” Mistress muses, running the top of her foot along Q’s slit, “you’re soaked. Did you like sucking me off?”

“Y-yes, Mistress.”

S relinquishes Mistress’s cock with a pop, slipping from her shining mouth. Their mixed saliva makes it shimmer.

“You did very well for your first time,” Mistress praises, tucking hair behind Q’s ear, “and now you get your reward. Get up.”

She does.

“Take off your shirt and lie on the bed.”

She does that, too. The nerves she thought she’d left on the living room floor return with a vengeance, and she has to twist her fingers into the sheets to stop them from shaking. Mistress watches her for a moment, the scarcely-concealed tremble exuding from her bones, and softens.

“S, go lie under her. Prop her up.”

S crawls to the head of the bed and flips around, beckoning Q into her arms. Her skin, damp and hot against Q’s back, slides against her as she settles. There’s dark hair over her shoulder and swollen lips nibbling her ear and two hands, each as devious as the other, playing with her chest. The closeness soothes much of the anxious burn and turns it into a delicious ache between her legs.

Mistress crawls onto the bed, discarding her clothing until she’s bare save for her ruined shorts. Q runs her eyes greedily along her body, admiring the expanse of skin she’s seen so many times in the locker room but never taken a true moment to drink in. Mistress smirks.

“Like what you see, Q?”

“Very much, Mistress.”

“Good, because I do, too. Spread your legs for me.”

She does, burying her face into S’s shoulder. Her overheated flesh is sensitive and soaked, and she can feel herself leaking onto the sheets. The insides of her thighs are shiny-wet and shaking. Her clit pulses the longer Mistress looks.

“What a pretty hole,” Mistress murmurs. The head of her cock nudges against Q’s entrance. “I can’t wait to fill it.”

It slips in easier than she thought it would. She’s so wet that there’s hardly any resistance to start with, and the toy is still damp with saliva – the stretch is a little less manageable, but instead of hurting it feels… good. Q gasps as the first few inches sink inside, her legs falling open limply around Mistress’s hips. S murmurs wordless things into her ear and pulls on her nipples until she cries out.

Penetration had never been the best thing for Quinn. She was never aroused enough, never aching enough for it to go smoothly. It was there, it felt too big (or too small) and it hurt, and when he was done she’d barely gotten started. She’s never had more than two fingers inside herself at a time because what was the point, really, when she could rub herself off way quicker with less of the awkward, messy fumbling? Not to mention for years it just reminded her of Beth, which, well…

Mistress works in another few inches and now she knows why people go crazy for it. Every single nerve in her body has coalesced between her legs, and each drag of Mistress’s cock inside her sets them off. It feels so realistic, so raw, and she can’t strangle the groan that leaves her mouth as only the head is left inside.

“I think she likes it,” Mistress chuckles, worming herself forward to lean over them both. She grabs Q’s thighs and folds them, tilting her hips up for better access. Q doesn’t even blush anymore; anything to get more of that feeling.

Each shallow thrust gradually gains in intensity, each new piece of her touched drawing a soft, desperate ah from her mouth. S sinks her teeth into the arch of her neck and she’ll bruise, God, she’ll flower red and blue and purple by the end of this, but Q just snakes her hand up and tugs on S’s hair for more. It’s too much and not enough, not knowing if she can handle more but not caring, whimpering her appreciation as the other sub’s tongue soothes the marks she’s made after.

The scent of sex swirls around them. She feels drunk, wading through a red fog.

Their hips meet and Q sees stars. The sound of flesh clapping together unlocks something in her Mistress, whose pace speeds up exponentially, the wet crack of their thighs slapping together the loudest thing in the room. Q’s moans get fucked out of her, forced.

“I—“ she starts and can’t continue, the breath leaving her lungs faster than she can suck it in. Her legs twitch, slung over Mistress’s arms, “I’m gonna…”

S’s fingers brush her clit and she nearly screams, every muscle in her body turning to stone. Mistress huffs out a laugh as she strangles her cock, grinding more than thrusting into her, closer together for better leverage. There’s fire pouring through every square inch of her body, her heart hammering thunderously in her burning ears. The one in the living room was nothing compared to this.

Mistress just keeps fucking her through it until she’s hazily aware of another one building. It starts as a low buzz in her belly, nearly indistinguishable from the rolling aftershocks of pleasure that each drag elicits. Q pants into S’s ear, her sweaty fingers scrabbling for purchase on Mistress’s skin.

They settle behind her neck – Mistress almost reprimands her, she does, but one look at her face tells her it’ll go through deaf ears. She rears back instead, stretching herself out and breaking through Q’s grasp, one hand that held Q’s leg now pressing down heavy over her throat.

On her next gasp, she finds she can’t breathe that well.

It’s nothing major, nothing that will leave bruises or damage, but she’s never felt so fucking helpless before. Sandwiched between two people, forced to take dick over and over again until she’ll beg them to stop (and even then, she doesn’t know that they will). That knot in her gut just gets tighter, her nipples so hard they hurt.

“God, that’s so hot,” S murmurs in her ear, brushing fallen hair out of her eyes. She can feel the other sub’s wetness against her lower back, the subtle grind as she chases release, the heat of her almost burning.

“It’s a shame we didn’t record it,” Mistress grunts, putting more pressure on her outstretched arm. Q’s next cry is cut off to a gurgle. “I think she’d like to bring it home. She’d get off to it at night, little slut.”

Q nods the best she can. I am, she wants to scream, I would, but words pieced together in her head fall apart before she can even try to get them to her mouth.

“Next time,” S laughs, raking her nails down Q’s ribs. The knot in her belly turns into a pulse turns into a pressure, her legs spreading open even further in desperation, the breath forced out of her a little more than a wheeze. Mistress gleams with sweat as she fucks her and she’s one of the most beautiful things Quinn’s ever seen.

The second one blindsides her, knocks her temporarily out of the atmosphere and into orbit. Her entire body spasms as she thrashes, half-way caught between grinding onto Mistress’s dick and twisting away from it. She can’t feel her legs, trembling like there’s been an earthquake – maybe there has, it would explain why she feels so limp and shaken loose.

There’s a slick, wet noise she doesn’t notice as Mistress pulls out. Q mumbles, her eyes fluttering open but seeing next to nothing, hands all over her and sliding across her sweaty skin. She goes willingly as they turn her over, her head pillowed on S’s chest, unable to move on her own. Her fingertips are buzzing. She could just die here, float off willingly into the beyond, and it would still have been worth it.

She’s propped up loosely on her knees. Mistress, always so much taller than either of them, leans over her back. Her small breasts press against Q’s sweat-soaked spine. “Don’t fall asleep yet,” Mistress murmurs in her ear, her cock gliding through Q’s soaked folds. The head nudges her clit and she jumps. “We aren’t done.”

“Aren’t—oh!”

Her cock goes in slower this time. So swollen, so tender, she’s able to feel every inch and ridge as it slips into her well-used hole. Q’s body shrieks at the thought of having to go through another one.

“N-no,” she gasps, weakly trying to pull herself off, “I-I can’t, no more.”

Their thighs meet. Q swallows a near-sob.

“Colour?” Mistress asks, their hips cradled together. Q blinks hazily. “Colour?” Mistress growls, more forceful.

Red, she nearly says, but bites her tongue last-second. She’s never gone for more than two… ever. She’s drenched in sweat and her own come, shivering from head to toe, raw and sore and sensitive. S’s heart thuds comfortingly under her ear, her hands gathering hair from the sweaty back of her neck. If she doesn’t stop now, it might start hurting. She’ll definitely hurt tomorrow. But… the more she tries to think rationally, the more she’s aware that thinking is like swimming through fog. Things don’t connect as they should. Things don’t matter as they should. Quinn would tell her to stop being irresponsible, but all Q knows is the fact that her pussy still aches in a way that Mistress can fix.

S’s chest rumbles underneath her as she laughs. “She’s fallen into subspace, Mistress. Look at her face.”

She barely hears her. Q opens her legs minutely, tilts her hips a little. The cock inside her shifts and it’s like every single atom in her body cries out for more. “Green,” she rasps, throat raw.

It’s all Mistress needed. She grips Q’s hips and pulls her back, forcing a weak cry from her mouth. It feels different on her hands and knees, pieces of her touched that have never even been awake before. Each thrust sends white light behind her clenched eyelids, but it’s only later she’ll realize her eyes were open the whole time.

“You’re doing so good,” Mistress huffs, trailing her hands down the length of Q’s back, “you’re gonna make me come.”

It sends a little spark of pleasure through her, the pride in Mistress’s voice. Q fists weakly at the sheets around them, settling eventually on raking her nails down S’s sides. The other sub holds her close and stops her from shaking apart.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been there. Time stops behaving the way it should as she falls deeper and deeper into her own body until she’s pushing her hips back at the same time, desperate to be filled completely. Mistress hunches over and it changes the angle; she bottoms out, and whatever it touches makes Q see stars.

There’s another orgasm building, but she feels this one in every inch of her body. The inside of her feels full, engorged, hugging Mistress’s cock when she pulls away. She breaks through enough to wonder if she’s going to piss herself.

“Someth—“ Mistress widens her own legs until she’s curled completely over Q’s body, smothered from all angles. It only makes the feeling grow, pulsing through her with insistence. Q tries to fight it, tries to get away, but Mistress is nothing but muscle and won’t budge at all.  “Mistress… I… s-something’s gonna…!”

“Shhhh,” Mistress shushes, her long blonde hair falling over Q’s neck and shoulders, “you want my come, right?”

Q nods, a whiny little uh-huh leaving her lips.

“Then you have to let it out. Show me how good I make you feel, pet. Show Mistress you’re her good little slut.”

Some far forgotten corner of Q’s mind rails against it, but it’s quiet and almost non-existent. The pressure inside her belly is ridiculous, a rubber-band hovering on the verge of breaking, and it feels like she’s floating on the edge of something enormous. Her thighs tremble as she fights it.

The body overtop of her stiffens; Mistress grunts and locks up, forcing their hips as close together as they can be. One of her hands worms between them, fumbling with something, and the next thing she knows there’s a hot sensation in her belly as something spurts to fill her up from the inside—

She can’t explain it. One second she’s there on the bed and the next she’s somewhere else, a broken sob leaving someone’s mouth and meeting her ears. It’s hers. She doesn’t notice.

The pressure inside her bursts all at once, wave after wave of a pleasure she didn’t even think existed buffeting her from all sides. Q smashes her face into Santana’s chest and shakes, spreading her legs open wider, the bed beneath them going damp as slick rolls down her thighs and onto the comforter. Mistress laughs over her, delighted, as Q soaks her shorts and the rest of her lap.

She doesn’t know how long she’s captured in the orbit of the best orgasm she’s ever had, but when she gradually returns to her own body, she’s vaguely aware that she’s laughing. Or crying? There are tears running down her cheeks, but they feel secondary, like her body was too overwhelmed to come up with any other reaction. The slick pop of Mistress’s cock sliding out of her makes her twitch – maybe she’d even be able to go for a fourth, if she got some water in her.

S rolls her so she’s on her side. Mistress crawls up behind, twining their filthy legs together, their sweat-slick skin all pressing close.

“You okay, Quinn?” Brittany asks again, and like last time, Quinn laughs.

“H-how—“ her voice cracks, and she murmurs her thanks as Santana fetches her some water. She tries again. “How in the fuck… did you do that?”

Brittany giggles. “I always choose the best subs. They make it easy, especially when they get really messy.”

Quinn blushes, shifting her soaked thighs together. “I’ve, uh, I’ve never…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Santana promises, running her own fingers through Quinn’s mess, “that was the plan all along.”

Quinn’s heard of squirting before, but… “So… I didn’t piss myself?”

The other two laugh. “Nope,” Santana drawls, patting Quinn’s hip. “It just meant that Britt worked her magic again.”

“I am a unicorn, after all.”

She stretches out, relishing in the way she feels supported from all sides, boxed in but not trapped. Outside, the sun has only just begun to set, casting beautiful shadows on the other two woman in the bed. Quinn finds herself reluctant to move; the way her best friends are clinging to her make it an unattractive option to begin with.

“Yeah, Brittany. You really are.”