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you assumed vi would be the one doing the fucking. obviously. with those smoldering blue eyes, bad girl persona, inked skin, sharp-tongued sarcasm. vi is the archetype of someone who gives, never submits. so you’re surprised when you get home at half past two in the morning, dead on your feet from a late shift, shoes sticky with beer, only to blearily register the rhythmic creak of vi’s bed frame.
frustration flickers first—so much for a good night’s sleep—but beneath it, curiosity stirs. vi never has girls over when you’re home, some unspoken rule of privacy. did she forget what time you were getting off work? is she so desperate for release that she’s willing to gamble on your absence?
that’s when you hear it. soft at first, but unmistakable. vi, whining. it’s not sultry, nor controlled—she’s breathless, whimpering like a bitch, blubbering about how much her pussy is being stretched.
”unghh! t-too big, holy fuck—it’s too big!”
your stomach tightens, heat coiling low in your belly. you shouldn’t be listening to this. you should walk away, crawl into bed, do anything else, exhibit at least a modicum of respect for your roommate. but your traitorous feet move on their own, carrying you closer to vi’s bedroom door, slow and weightless, like you’re drifting through a dream. it’s plausible that you’re just disoriented and hazy from exhaustion, or maybe it’s something else entirely. maybe it’s the thought of vi getting her cunt fucked open in the next room over.
”please—fuck, please—slow down, i can’t—!”
vi, begging? you almost don’t believe it. she’s ordinarily so self-assured, so bossy—giving orders, not taking them, and certainly not asking.
there’s a muffled response, low and firm, authoritative in a way that makes you lean in despite yourself. whatever’s said only causes vi to unravel further—sets her off into thin, lambish whines, so high and needy that they claw at you. to put it bluntly, she sounds whorish, utterly vulnerable, and it’s unlike any noise you’ve ever heard from vi before. with a hint of guilt, you realize there’s a sharp pulse of heat ringing through your clit, molten-hot desire buzzing underneath your skin.
”i’m gonna—gonna cum again, unghhh! shit, shit, shit! baby, please—“
belatedly, you notice just how loud vi’s being, and it poses the question; is this why vi never brings girls home when you’re around? maybe it was never about curtesy, but instead, so you wouldn’t hear the way they fuck her until she cries? how she squeals like a pig every time their cock bottoms out against her cervix? how she breaks under the right touch?
then; a sharp slap cuts through the air and vi yelps. you picture her hookup smacking their hand against her pert ass, and the thought alone fans the flames of your imagination instantaneously. is vi on her hands and knees, getting fucked like a dog, while her fat, round ass ripples from how brutally she’s being used? perhaps red handprints are mapped across her ass cheeks? is she going cross-eyed, properly slack-jawed and brainless from how well her pussy is being filled?
the bed frame slams against the wall, hard enough to rattle a picture frame in the hallway, and you nearly moan aloud at the thought of vi being pounded into the mattress—without an ounce of mercy, naturally. the imagery of it all is so vivid, so obscene, that it bypasses rational thought altogether. against all decent intention, your hand is already slipping past the waistband of your pants.
fuck, you need this. it’ll be fine. vi won’t know. she won’t know a thing.
your body betrays you, because your pussy is already immensely slick where your index finger dips inside, receptive in a way that causes you to gasp quietly. you feel shame burn in your chest, but it’s promptly drowned out when vi keens again.
“hnnggfff—fuck, fuuuuck! ahh, ahh, ahh!”
her cries are magnetic, like a siren’s call, drawing you closer, until you have your ear pressed against her door like the degenerate you are. everything is clearer now—the sharp hitch of vi’s breath; the wet, slurping schlick her cunt makes as it sucks greedily on cock; the relentless percussion, plap, plap, plap of vi’s ass colliding against their skin. it has your cunt leaking like a cracked sieve into the damp ruin of your underwear.
and, god—her ass.
you’ve seen vi’s ass perky and constrained in her skintight jeans, seen it half-hidden and jiggling indecently against the cotton fabric of her workout short-shorts, but you’ve never witnessed it bare. it would be unequivocally pornographic, you imagine; the fatty tissue of her bubble butt rippling as her cunt is fucked open again and again. you ache to take a peak, just once and you’ll (maybe) be satiated.
with your head tilted close to the door, you catch the unmistakable sound of wet, deliberate kisses being pressed into vi’s neck—sucking an array of burgundy, half-moon marks onto her pale skin, you predict. a sick and unbearable part of you glowers at the prospect of vi being covered in someone else’s claim, but your your pussy only gets wetter when she whines at the attention—high, nasally protests that suggest her neck is more sensitive than she lets on.
abruptly, vi squeals like she’s been scorned, all pitchy and girlish, ”ahhh, you’re so—deep! deep in my fucking stomach—hnnghhh!”
every muffled plea she makes burrows deep under your skin like a thorn, and your tender clit thrums with a solemn, insistent throb. your pussy is indubitably crying out for vi! and you try to satiate the ache by rubbing your fingers quicker against your clit, harder, when you start to wonder if this isn’t merely lust, but the perilous realization that you’re enamored with your roommate.
oh god. how will you ever be able to look at vi the same after this? after you know how raspy her whines become while she has her pussy played with? after you’ve heard the way she gasps like a balloon losing air—staccato and squeaky—while her tiny hole is stuffed to the brim? every sound she makes stabs right into your core and you feel fuckdrunk, delirious, high off their sex, despite being an unbidden listener.
then, albeit quickly, vi orgasms again—
“i’m—i’m cumming! ohhh, ohhhh, fuck! mmmghhh!”
it’s as if you’re tethered to her by some sort of cruel circuitry, a switch flipping inside you, because you follow in suit, coming in harsh, overwhelming waves. you’re gasping, squirming, flailing like a fish in shallow water, feebly attempting to muffle your noises behind your palm, with your other hand cradling your pussy. somewhere in the haze, you register the damp heat between your thighs, how egregiously soaked your underwear is.
once your orgasm subsides, clarity sets in; how could you do such a thing?—standing with your ear pressed against vi’s door, fingers sticky and pruned, realizing you just got off to the sound of your roommate being fucked. shame and exhilaration twists in your chest like a pretzel.
but even then, vi’s moans linger in your mind like a ghost. shame prickles at the edges of your pleasure, accompanied by something darker—an insidious pull that makes your fingers twitch with the urge to do it again.