When she reaches up to tug at Deanna’s blouse, Deanna slaps her down. She, and she alone, will decide when it comes off. She brings her uneven lips down to the girl’s breasts, and takes first one nipple, and then the other, into her mouth. She bites and licks and teases, and it’s gratifying to hear the girl moan underneath her. Less so when she seems to enjoy the biting, though, but Deanna’s own nipples are hard beneath her blouse and heat is gathering between her legs in a way it hasn’t in far too long. She’s rough, clawing at the girl’s too-smooth skin, shredding her jumpsuit, leaving dark, heavy bite marks up her sides. She still just moans and grinds and laughs, and Deanna can feel a sick, rugged anger rising in her throat.
“Shut up!” she screams. “Shut up!”
The girl looks up at her with devil eyes, and they’re the kind of eyes that have seen so much more than her age lets on. They’re angled like a cat’s, and Deanna doesn’t even know if there’s such a thing as animals like that anymore. Her lower lip is swollen a little from Deanna’s earlier attack, but the smile she wears is indulgent and confident and infuriating. Deanna slaps her, hard, and then again. Her head jerks, she hisses in pain, but the smile is back in seconds and the eyes, her damned eyes, are still fixed in that challenging stare.
“What’s wrong with you?” She can hear the clip of her accent becoming more forced, and it’s a response to these damned Americans, always has been. If there’s one thing that hits them all in the same place, it’s a powerful, angry woman with a British accent. But the damn girl beneath her doesn’t know enough to react, and she laughs again, she laughs, she laughs, she laughs.
“Poor Madame Domino,” she purrs, and Deanna wants to rip her tongue out. “Bet you got so lonely out here, all on your own.”
Deanna doesn’t let her say another word. She wriggles downwards, stripping her out of the jumpsuit completely, and not hesitating before she brings her face up to the other woman’s cunt. She smells fresh and young, even if the scent’s a little stale, and this is where Deanna knows she can shine because she had a lot of experience before the bombs fell, and two hundred years to ruminate and ponder has only given her new ideas.
The bitch bucks and moans beneath her, and finally, finally, she can feel her caving in. Her hands find Deanna’s head, pressing her down, and Deanna swipes at her hands, grabbing her wrists, pinning her down. She arches her hips then instead, and Deanna gets a face full of flesh she wasn’t expecting. She nips at the sensitive skin, rolling the girl’s clit between her teeth harshly. The girl hisses, yelps, groans, but Deanna doesn’t stop. Beg, she thinks, beg, you wilful bitch.
Experience and Treachery 2/3
“Shut up!” she screams. “Shut up!”
The girl looks up at her with devil eyes, and they’re the kind of eyes that have seen so much more than her age lets on. They’re angled like a cat’s, and Deanna doesn’t even know if there’s such a thing as animals like that anymore. Her lower lip is swollen a little from Deanna’s earlier attack, but the smile she wears is indulgent and confident and infuriating. Deanna slaps her, hard, and then again. Her head jerks, she hisses in pain, but the smile is back in seconds and the eyes, her damned eyes, are still fixed in that challenging stare.
“What’s wrong with you?” She can hear the clip of her accent becoming more forced, and it’s a response to these damned Americans, always has been. If there’s one thing that hits them all in the same place, it’s a powerful, angry woman with a British accent. But the damn girl beneath her doesn’t know enough to react, and she laughs again, she laughs, she laughs, she laughs.
“Poor Madame Domino,” she purrs, and Deanna wants to rip her tongue out. “Bet you got so lonely out here, all on your own.”
Deanna doesn’t let her say another word. She wriggles downwards, stripping her out of the jumpsuit completely, and not hesitating before she brings her face up to the other woman’s cunt. She smells fresh and young, even if the scent’s a little stale, and this is where Deanna knows she can shine because she had a lot of experience before the bombs fell, and two hundred years to ruminate and ponder has only given her new ideas.
The bitch bucks and moans beneath her, and finally, finally, she can feel her caving in. Her hands find Deanna’s head, pressing her down, and Deanna swipes at her hands, grabbing her wrists, pinning her down. She arches her hips then instead, and Deanna gets a face full of flesh she wasn’t expecting. She nips at the sensitive skin, rolling the girl’s clit between her teeth harshly. The girl hisses, yelps, groans, but Deanna doesn’t stop. Beg, she thinks, beg, you wilful bitch.