Home Sweet Home

Emily closed the apartment door behind her and leaned against it with a satisfied sigh, dropping her bag on the floor. The whole flat smelled like her — like lavender and clean laundry and normalcy. But she smelled like cum. Magnificently, overwhelmingly like cum. She could taste it still, faintly, at the back of her throat. Could feel it crackling on her skin where it had dried into a stiff film. Her hair was practically a helmet at this point — the red strands fused together into clumpy, hardened ropes that crunched when she touched them.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the hallway mirror and winced. Okay, yeah. There was a difference between looking like a sexy cumslut and looking like... this. The dried cum had gone from that gorgeous glistening sheen to something closer to dried paste — flaky and yellowish-white in patches, cracking along her forehead and cheeks when she moved her facial muscles. Her hair looked like she'd styled it with actual glue. The damp spots on her blouse had dried into stiff, crusty patches that made the fabric stick to her skin uncomfortably.

She looked like she'd been left in a dumpster behind a porn studio. Not hot. Not hot at all.

Right, she said to herself, already peeling her blouse off as she walked toward the bathroom. Shower time.

The hot water hit her body and Emily groaned — not from displeasure, but from the sheer relief of feeling the crust dissolve and slide away. She watched the water run white at her feet as the cum melted off her skin, swirling down the drain in thick, milky streams. She worked her fingers through her hair under the spray, feeling the clumps separate strand by strand as the dried seed softened and released its hold. She had to shampoo three times before her hair stopped feeling stiff, before the water finally ran clear instead of cloudy.

She wasn't washing because the cum disgusted her — god no. She'd happily live coated in the stuff if she could. But dried cum wasn't sexy. Dried cum was crusty and flaky and it made her look like she had a skin condition. And Emily wanted to look her best. She wanted to look fuckable. She wanted men to see her and get hard, to want to use her, to imagine their cocks between her lips or buried in her tight little pussy. You couldn't inspire that kind of desire looking like a cum-crusted gremlin.

She lathered up with her body wash — some expensive floral thing Lena had bought her last Christmas — and scrubbed every inch. Her pussy was still slightly swollen and sensitive from the thorough fucking she'd received, and she hissed pleasantly when the loofah brushed over her clit. Her nipples were tender too, still puffy from all the squeezing and sucking. She cleaned between her legs thoroughly, feeling the last of the cum that had been deposited deep inside her wash away. A small part of her mourned its loss, but the rational part of her brain knew she'd have plenty more tomorrow.

Emily stepped out of the shower clean and pink and glowing. She toweled off — a real, clean towel this time, soft Egyptian cotton — and wrapped her wet hair up on top of her head. In the bathroom mirror, she looked like herself again. Pale, freckled skin. Bright green eyes. Full lips that curved naturally into a sweet smile that utterly betrayed what those lips had been wrapped around just an hour ago. She looked innocent. Wholesome, even.

That wouldn't do.

She padded naked into the bedroom, water droplets still clinging to her shoulders, and threw open her wardrobe. And then she stared.

What the fuck?

Every hanger held the same type of thing. Modest blouses with high necklines. Cardigans. Knee-length skirts. Sensible jeans — not the hip-hugging, ass-showing kind, but the relaxed-fit, mom-jean variety. Oversized sweaters. T-shirts that could double as tents. A few floral dresses that fell well below the knee, the kind her grandmother would approve of.

Emily rifled through rack after rack, growing increasingly horrified. Where was the cleavage? Where were the short skirts? Where were the tops that showed off her flat stomach, the jeans that made her ass look edible? Where was anything — literally anything — that communicated to the male population of King's Row that she was available, willing, and eager to service their cocks?

This is what I've been wearing? she muttered in disbelief, pulling out a chunky knit sweater and holding it at arm's length like it was contaminated. No wonder men never looked at me. I dressed like a fucking librarian.

She yanked open drawers. Practical cotton underwear. Sports bras. Sensible briefs in neutral colors. Not a single thong among them. She tossed them aside with growing frustration, pulling drawer after drawer open and finding nothing but prudish, modest, body-hiding garbage.

How had she lived like this? She had a gorgeous body — small but perfectly shaped tits with pretty pink nipples, a tiny waist, a round perky ass, legs that went on forever despite her petite frame. And she'd been hiding all of it under... under cardigans and mom jeans? For what? For whom?

Well, for Lena. Obviously. Because she'd been in a lesbian relationship and hadn't cared about attracting male attention. But even so — even for Lena — shouldn't she have owned something sexier than this? Something that showed she was a desirable woman, something—

Then her hand closed around something silky at the back of the bottom drawer, and Emily's eyes lit up.

Oh hello, she breathed, pulling the garment free.

It was lingerie. Not the practical, everyday kind — the kind meant to drive someone wild. Emily held it up and memories flooded back. She'd bought this set for their anniversary — hers and Lena's. A matching set in deep burgundy: a sheer lace bralette that was more decoration than support, with delicate straps that crisscrossed over the back and a cup so thin and translucent that her nipples would be perfectly visible through the fabric. And the matching panties — if you could even call them that — were barely a scrap of lace connected by thin strings that sat high on the hips, with a thong back that would disappear completely between her ass cheeks.

There was more underneath. A black set — a push-up bustier with garters and stockings, the kind that screamed fuck me without saying a word. A white babydoll nightie so sheer it might as well have been tissue paper, with a tiny matching g-string. A red lace teddy that was essentially just strategic strings holding small patches of fabric over the most critical areas.

Emily remembered buying each one. She remembered the way Lena's eyes had gone wide, the way her mouth had fallen open, the way she'd practically tackled Emily onto the bed the first time she'd worn the burgundy set. She'd bought them exclusively for Lena. For Lena's eyes only. As if only her girlfriend deserved to see her like this.

What was I thinking? Emily laughed, shaking her head at her own foolishness. Hiding this body from men. Keeping it reserved for one person. What a waste. What an absolute crime.

She unwrapped the towel from her hair and let her damp red locks fall around her shoulders, then pulled on the burgundy set. The bralette cupped her small breasts like gentle hands, the lace scratching pleasantly against her still-sensitive nipples. She adjusted the straps, pulling them tight so the cups pressed flush against her tits, the dark pink of her areolae clearly visible through the sheer fabric. The panties slid up her smooth legs and she settled them on her hips, the thin strings cutting into the soft flesh slightly, the tiny triangle of lace in front barely covering her mound. She could feel the thong nestling between her ass cheeks, the thin strip of fabric pressing against her asshole and running along her slit.

Emily turned to the full-length mirror in the bedroom and her breath caught.

Oh, fuck me.

She looked... incredible. The burgundy lace contrasted beautifully with her pale, freckled skin. Her red hair — still damp and darker than usual — fell in waves over her bare shoulders. The bralette made her small tits look delicate and perfect, her nipples two hard little points pressing eagerly against the sheer fabric. Her stomach was flat and toned, her waist narrow, her hips flaring out just enough to give her that feminine curve. The panties sat low, the strings emphasizing the lines of her hip bones, and when she turned — god, that ass. Round and firm and completely bare, the burgundy thong nothing but a thin line disappearing between her cheeks.

She struck a pose — one hand on her hip, chest pushed forward. Then another — turned sideways, back arched, ass thrust out. She looked like a Victoria's Secret model. No — she looked better than that. She looked like a girl in a porno. She looked like the kind of girl men jerked off to. The kind of girl who got bent over and fucked stupid. The kind of girl who took loads to the face with a grateful smile.

Emily's pussy throbbed as she stared at her own reflection, and her mind immediately filled with cocks.

She imagined a man standing behind her — tall, broad-shouldered — his thick cock pressing against the thin strip of her thong, pushing it aside to rub his swollen head along her slit. She imagined him grabbing her hips, those thin burgundy strings cutting into his fingers as he pulled her back onto his shaft. She imagined watching in this very mirror as he sank into her, inch by thick inch, her mouth falling open in a silent moan, her small tits bouncing in their lace cups with every thrust.

Or maybe two men. One behind her, one in front. She could see it perfectly in the mirror — herself on her knees, the bralette pulled down to free her tits, one cock stuffing her mouth while another spread her pussy open from behind. The lace panties pushed to the side, stretched and ruined, because they couldn't even wait to take them off her before using her holes.

Emily pressed her thighs together, feeling the dampness already building between them. Her clit pulsed against the thin lace, and she had to resist the urge to slide her hand down and touch herself. She could feel her pussy getting wet, the moisture starting to darken the tiny triangle of burgundy fabric between her legs.

She turned again, admiring herself from every angle. The way the garter straps from the other set would frame her ass. The way stockings would make her legs look endless. She pulled out the black bustier set and held it against herself, imagining walking into the cum bath dressed like this. Imagining the glory hole cocks twitching and throbbing at the sight of her in stockings and garters, her tits spilling over the top of the corset, her pussy bare and wet and ready.

I need to go shopping, she said firmly to her reflection. Tomorrow. Short skirts. Low-cut tops. Things that show off what I have. Things that make men hard.

But for tonight — tonight she had the lingerie. And tonight she was waiting for Lena.

Emily felt a flutter of excitement in her stomach as she settled onto the couch, tucking her bare legs beneath her. Lena would be home soon — she always got back around this time after a mission. And Emily found herself hoping — desperately, wetly hoping — that Lena would walk through that door in the same state Emily had been in an hour ago. Covered. Glazed. Dripping with evidence of what she'd been doing.

She imagined the door opening and Tracer stumbling in, her spiky brown hair matted with cum, her face streaked white, her chronal accelerator harness sticky with it. Her tight leggings soaked through at the crotch, cum leaking down her thighs. That goofy, satisfied grin on her face — the same grin Emily had worn walking home. Maybe she'd smell like cum too. Maybe she'd taste like it if Emily kissed her.

Emily's pussy clenched at the thought. She wanted to lick it off Lena's face. She wanted to taste other men's cum on Lena's tongue. She wanted to peel those sticky leggings off her girlfriend's legs and bury her face between Lena's thighs and eat the cum out of her freshly-fucked pussy, slurping every drop that some anonymous cock had pumped inside her.

She squeezed her thighs together and whimpered softly. The lace of her panties was thoroughly damp now, clinging to her swollen lips. She could feel her clit throbbing with every heartbeat.

Come home covered in cum, baby, Emily whispered to the empty apartment, her green eyes fixed on the door. Come home smelling like cock. Show me what a good little slut you've been.

She adjusted herself on the couch, the movement making the thong shift against her sensitive pussy, and she bit her lip at the friction. The apartment was quiet except for the soft tick of the clock on the wall. Evening light slanted through the windows, casting Emily in warm gold as she sat there in her sheer burgundy lingerie — freshly showered, freshly converted, freshly obsessed with cock — waiting for her girlfriend to come home.

She hoped Lena had had as good a day as she had.