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OOOOUHHHH GIRLLLL DON’T PLAYYY… this is MY typa shit.
Thoughts on milking Shadow Milk through his ass instead of riding him?
GET THE STRAP! GET THE STRAP
His reaction? At first, it’s pure mockery. His usual cocky, dramatic self—grinning wide, tossing his jester hat aside, pacing in a slow circle around you like you’ve just brought him a toy. "Ohhh~? What’s this, sweetheart? Planning on topping me tonight?"
He laughs—low, sharp, confident. But there’s a waver to it. Because even as he’s teasing, his eyes keep darting to the strap. The size. The intention. The fact that you’re serious.
Smut incoming/ MDNI
So now he’s already lying there, dramatic as ever—head tilted back against the pillows, legs lazily parted, chest rising and falling with slow, expectant breaths, and his lips curve into that familiar sharp grin. "Oh? So now you’re going to worship me first? I knew you couldn’t resist." He’s cocky. Smirking. Mocking you even as your fingers slide between his legs.
But the moment you touch him—properly, with care, with purpose—his voice catches. Just a little. His lashes flutter. And that grin? It wavers. "Nnghh… I— I was only teasing, you know—" You feel him tense under you. You press in deeper. Stroke over that tight ring of muscle, slow and teasing, coated in slick lube or your own spit—anything to make the glide smooth, comforting, perfect. He gasps. Bites his lip. His hips twitch against your hand. And now he’s trying to pretend he’s not into it."Y-you’re… hah… really taking your time, aren’t you? How generous of you—nnnghh—tch…" He’s a mess. Clenching around your fingers, squirming under your hand. "more—give me another one…" Trying to mask the way his hips are starting to roll down against your hand, seeking more. And that’s when you stop.You curl your finger just right, hit that sweet spot one more time, and then—Pull out.
Not roughly. Delicately. Teasingly. Cruelly slow.
"Ah ah—You think you can tell me what you want?" He’s trying to save face—just barely. His lips twitch in a half-smile, something strained and shaky. He wants to pretend he's still in control. "Aha… you’re being rather stern, aren’t you? I only meant to suggest—" Your grip closes around him. Firm. Tight. Your hand closes around his cock in warning. Enough to make him jerk, breath catching in his throat. His eyes go wide—lashes fluttering—his voice cutting off with a strangled, high-pitched breath. "Hh—!" You lean in close, breath ghosting over his cheek, your tone low and sharp like silk-wrapped steel: "I said. You don’t tell me what you want." You give him a slow, deliberate pump in your grip—enough to make his thighs tense and a sweet, helpless whimper catch in his throat. "If you beg before I tell you to, I’ll stop." "If you demand again, I won’t touch you at all."
Those words ring in his brain. And you squeeze—once. A reminder. A promise. His head tips back, breathless. His fingers curl in the sheets. You feel him throb in your hand, shivering under your control. "Y-you drive a hard bargain," he breathes, voice cracked but giddy beneath the heat. "But I’ll behave…Please."
He’s panting now, jaw tight, shoulders trembling—absolutely owned by the feel of your hand on him, and the knowledge that you’re in control of everything.
...
You guide him with care—hands still firm on his thighs, holding him open as you position yourself. The strap brushes against his entrance, slick and warm, and you feel his breath catch. His hands grip the sheets. "Ngh… wait—w-wait—"
But he’s not telling you to stop. He’s just overwhelmed. Already.
You smile. "Breathe," you murmur against his ear. "You said you could take it. Were you lying?" And oh, the way he shivers under that. The way his lashes flutter, and his lips part in a soundless, whimpering little gasp. "N-no. I wasn’t… I—I can…" So you press in, slowly, carefully. Until the tip slips past that delicate ring of muscle, and his whole body arches.
"Hhah—!" You don’t stop. Not yet. You rock in with slow, deliberate pressure—inch by inch, letting him feel every second of it.
"Ahhh—s-so full—so… ohhh…" You bottom out with a final push, your hips flush against his. His breath stutters in his throat. His thighs tremble. He’s quivering, his body clenching sweetly around you as if trying to adjust and beg for more all at once.
You pause. Let him feel it. Let him tremble. Let him want.
And then you start to move. Rhythmic. Slow. Deep.
Your hands pin his hips in place, guiding the pace—not letting him escape, not letting him rush. His breath comes in short, high whines, his voice soft and broken:
"Nghh… ngh… s-so good, I—it’s too much…" "No," you breathe against his throat. "This is what you begged for."
He moans—quiet, strangled—his fingers curling tight around your wrist, pleading for more even as his body struggles to handle it.
You adjust your angle. You thrust again—deeper, this time. You hit it." That spot.
And he breaks. "Hh-AHH—!" His back arches, his whole body tenses around you, "T-that—again—please—again—" You slam back in. Over and over, steady, deep, merciless—but not cruel. Claiming. Worshipful. "You're so tight," you whisper. "You take it so well… look at you. My perfect little thing." He can't speak anymore. Just moans. Just gasps.
Shadow Milk Cookie—Master of Mischief—has been reduced to your soft, gasping, needy puppet.
His thighs are shaking. His breath is shallow, stuttering out in hitched gasps. You feel the way his body tightens, writhes, pulls you in with every roll of your hips. "A-ahhh—nnngh, I—I can’t—" "Yes you can," you purr. "Be good for me. Let go."
And then—You grab him. Wrap your hand around his throbbing cock in a firm, practiced grip—stroking in time with your thrusts. And his entire body convulsed. His head snaps back, lips parted in a loud, broken moan that echoes off the walls. Then he cums...
Hard. Messy.
Rope after rope spilling over your hand, over his stomach, his voice trembling as he whimpers through the high. His chest heaves, flushed and slick, legs weak and twitching. "Nnnnhh... o-ohhh… oh witches..." He shudders, soft, overwhelmed gasps escaping him even after he finishes—his body still twitching around the strap buried deep inside him, clenching rhythmically in the aftershocks. You stay buried inside, holding him close as he melts into you, the last remnants of his pride dribbling away with every gentle breath. And when you lean down, kiss his temple, whisper,
"You did so well for me."
He just nods, eyes lidded. voice gone, and completely yours.
--
WHO MADE THAT MESS? YOU DID KIIIING, I MADE THAT MESS? YES KINGGG!!!