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Fantasizing in the morning’s lecture may have been a mistake, Rose thinks, trotting down the hall. She swings her backpack off her shoulder and fishes her room key out of her snug jeans.
She drops her backpack before she can even shut the door, which swings shut with a cringe-inducingly loud thud. She shrugs at the noise, rips her t-shirt off over her head— no sense in getting it all sweaty — and wriggles out of her jeans. Her cell phone falls out of her pocket, but Rose can’t be bothered to scoop it up. She fairly dives onto her bed.
Thank god Janelle is out. If her class had been cancelled and she had been in their shared room, Rose would have had to retreat to a shower stall, to try to get off in complete silence while standing up. She would not have relished the challenge.
As it is, her roommate is mercifully absent, and she can grab her second pillow—the squashed, narrow one, with the crinkled lavender pillowcase—and shove it between her legs immediately. She’s not going to waste time taking off her bra and socks.
The position of her hands is by now second nature. One jams the pillow between her legs, holding its battered form along the length of her slit, and her fingertips press it down over the shaft of her clit.
Rose rocks her hips, testing, and lets out a long, slow, breath. There’s something about the heavy, diffuse pressure she gets this way— the leverage she can exert with the smallest curves of her spine —it’s satisfying, if no doubt ridiculous-looking. (She’s never gotten herself off in front of anyone; won’t, unless they masturbate the same way as she does.)
Now, to recapture the fantasy she’d been chewing over. Kanaya—darling Kanaya on her stockinged knees in the dark of a movie theater, popcorn kernels digging into her knees and patterned tights sticking to spilled soda. Kanaya poured into the dark space between one row of seats and another, face buried between Rose’s thighs.
Does Kanaya know that Rose suspects this, does she know that Rose hopes-wants-believes her girlfriend wants to service her in public, that she wants to try holding Kanaya’s head down with her legs, with her hands wrapped around her horns? Rose doesn’t know. She knows that the pressure against the back of her cunt and the slide of her cotton panties over her bare skin have her panting, that she keeps imagining the way Kanaya’s eyes would close and her face would flush as she acquiesced to sex in a dressing room.
When Rose imagines sliding two fingers into Kanaya, slippery heat wrapping them because Kanaya is so intolerably aroused by obeying Rose in this, when they could be caught at any second, she drives her hips into the pillow harder, trying to feel what Kanaya feels, grinding harder as she imagines Kanaya’s whimper. Her toes curl inside her thin socks; she turns her head to pant.
Kanaya bent over the couch in the common area, their only shield the nighttime—they’ve left the lights off, but if the RA were to pass by she’d catch them for sure, and Kanaya’s all the more sopping wet for it, eager for the troll-designed strap-on Rose is about to work into her (and it’ll be work for sure, the thing’s massive, stretching Kanaya’s tender nook wide so that she squirms and whines—)
Rose closes her legs tighter around the pillow and bares her teeth. Her bedframe is squeaking with her thrusts. She spares a moment to hope that it doesn’t thump against the thin wall, but— Kanaya, Kanaya, Kanaya—in the throes of orgasm, straddling a pail, head flung back, hot liquid pouring between Rose’s fingers—Kanaya pouring out jade-tinted light, her arousal broadcast for the world to see—leash and collar around her throat, naked except for designer heels, crawling to Rose, who stands tall in plain dark clothes and sneakers, Kanaya sitting up on her heels and begging to eat her out—
Rose buries her face against the mattress and shoves the pillow harder against herself, hips frantic, legs tensed and rigid. Her breath huffs out, muffled against the sheets, and she puts her tongue out to lick them, imagining it’s Kanaya’s fancy lingerie she’s licking through, saliva soaking the cheap fabric as she recreates Kanaya’s startled wail from the first time they’d tried this, the frantic scramble of her feet against Rose’s back, her slender burning body as Rose wrapped her arms around her, trapping Kanaya against her mouth.
Rose gasps, nearly too out of breath to go on. She’s so close, so close, and she mashes the pillow up against herself and grinds in tiny tight motions, scrabbling for an image to finish herself. She gets it with her hands around Kanaya’s neck, pressing, squeezing the brightness and the unlife from Kanaya as they tremble and jerk against each other, pierced by the same double-ended dildo, nothing but Yes Rose, Yes passing Kanaya’s slick black mouth. The bruises would float darkly on Kanaya’s rainbow-drinker skin, marking her for weeks.
“—fuck, fuck, Kanaya, oh—” Rose thrashes against the pillow, fingers clawing into it, and finally collapses back onto her stomach. She lies there, breathing hard, and begins to notice the coating of sweat cooling on her back, and the rumpled mess she’s made of her bed. The prospect of another orgasm or two is extremely tempting, but she will need to take another shower after this, and she must allow herself enough time before her next class.
Then she thinks about how Kanaya will be visiting next weekend, and about the kink checklist she has waiting in her email drafts.
Another orgasm or two will be barely sufficient to tide her over. Rose grins into the mattress. She can’t wait.