Anything you deem as fair

You never had a chance.

Every time you try to input a combo she rolls her hips in a slow, filthy grind that drags her bare pussy along the trapped length of your cock. When you finally start to adapt she stops dead, squeezing her thighs together around you just long enough to wreck your timing, then starts again. After the first round she reaches down without looking away from the screen, hooks her fingers in your boxers, and tugs them down just enough for your cock to spring free. The next time she settles back she is skin to skin, slick and hot, using the underside of your shaft like it belongs there.

You look like you have never touched a controller in your life.

Sandra takes the win with completely overblown bravado. She throws both arms up, controller still in one hand, and lets out a triumphant little whoop that would be annoying if it were not so fond. Then she lets herself fall backward into your chest, head tucked under your chin, the picture of a gloating champion. One of her hands is already between her own thighs, fingers lazily playing with the flushed, leaking tip of your cock where it peeks out from between them.

“Mmm. Victory. Now I have to decide your punishment…”
She draws the words out, making a show of considering, thumb smearing the bead of pre-cum over the head while she pretends to think.
“Something fair. Something you’ll actually do. Hm.”

You could not care less that the fight was rigged.

This overactive, strong-willed girl currently straddling your cock with her thighs—gloating, teasing, glowing—is the same woman you have loved for as long as you can remember. The unfairness of the match is irrelevant. You slide both arms around her waist, pull her more firmly against you, and speak the words against her hair without any of the old hesitation.

“Of course. Anything you deem as fair, my love.”

The last two words land differently than the rest.

Sandra’s grand display stutters. The teasing thumb on your cock freezes. For a second she just sits there in your lap, back against your chest, the cocky champion posture dissolving into something smaller and more honest. You feel the exact breath she takes, the tiny hitch, the way her body softens as the endearment catches her unprepared.

“…You can’t just say it like that while I’m mid-gloat,”
she mutters, voice suddenly less performative. Her ears are pink. She does not move off your cock. If anything she presses back into the hug, hiding her face against your jaw for a moment while she tries to remember how the teasing was supposed to go.