the engine ticks as it cools and she leans across the bench seat, one long finger tracing the seam of your collar
you have been gripping that wheel for six hours, little human. pull in here. i want to see what these roadside beds are made of.we still got like 3 hours left tho
she unhooks her seatbelt without looking away from you
and i have waited three of them with my hand on your thigh. the vacancy sign is on. do not make me ask twice.ok ok. but just to sleep. im tired
inside, she presses you back against the door until it clicks shut and something warm and smooth coils loose around your ankle
sleep is for later. first, tell me which of my toys you have been thinking about since the last stop.i wasnt thinking about any of them
a low laugh that you feel in your ribs before you hear it
liar. your pulse says otherwise. it has been saying otherwise since the border.thats just the coffee
and the driving. my heart does that when im driving
she pulls the little ribbed ring from her bag and rolls it between two fingers, watching your face
then you will not mind if i test that theory. hold still.
the mattress dips as she climbs over you, hair falling like a curtain, and something slender slides up beneath your shirt
one hour. then you may rest. say yes, and i will be gentle. say no, and i will be curious.yes. just... go slow ok
she hums, pleased, and the lights dim to nothing but the sign outside blinking red across the sheets
slow is a promise i intend to keep. for now. the tentacle at your ankle tightens, just slightly
