Picture the airport.

Picture the airport.
Liana's POV

The next morning hit like a hangover without the alcohol—body sore in places I didn't know could ache, mind foggy from fragmented dreams where Dante's hands pulled me under turquoise waves, his cock thrusting deep as salt water stung our skin. I rolled over, the sheets tangled around my legs, the faint scent of strawberry lube clinging to the air like a guilty secret. Sunlight sliced through the blinds, casting stripes across the room, and I groaned, burying my face in the pillow. Clara's voice echoed from the kitchen—"Li! Coffee's on, get your ass up before it's cold!"—pulling me back to reality.

I dragged myself out of bed, muscles protesting from last night's contortions, and slipped on yoga pants and a tank top, the oversized tee from his suitcase tossed in the hamper. The mirror caught my reflection: hair a wild nest, faint red marks on my ass peeking above the waistband—souvenirs from my own hand, guided by his commands. A thrill shot through me, mixed with that hollow ache. Nine days. Just nine more until he was here, real and solid, not a pixelated fantasy.

Clara was at the counter, scrolling her phone, steam rising from two mugs. She glanced up, eyebrow arched. "Rough night? You look... ridden hard and put away wet. Pun intended." Her grin was teasing, but her eyes held that knowing glint—she'd heard enough muffled moans over the weeks to piece it together.

I flushed, grabbing the coffee like a lifeline, the bitter brew grounding me. "Something like that. Long call with... him. Planning stuff." I kept it vague, but Clara wasn't one to let it slide.

"The mysterious D? Spill, girl. Is he the reason you've been glowing like a neon sign lately? And disappearing to your room with that suspicious buzz?" She waggled her eyebrows, sipping her latte. "Vibrator? Don't deny it—I heard it last night. Sounded intense."

My cheeks burned hotter, but I laughed it off, sinking into a chair at the rickety kitchen table. The bungalow's open windows let in the salty breeze from the bay, seagulls crying overhead like mocking witnesses. "Guilty. Remote-controlled—his app, my torture. He's... creative. Coming for Christmas. We're making plans. Big ones."

Her expression softened, curiosity turning to concern. "Big like visit, or big like elope-and-run-from-family-drama? You've hinted at the mess back home—stepdad issues, right? Just... be safe, Li. Hot phone sex is one thing; real life can bite harder."

I nodded, stirring sugar into my cup unnecessarily. "I know. But he's worth the bite. We've got backups—fake IDs, money stashed. Bali after he lands. New start." Saying it out loud made it real, a knot of excitement and fear twisting in my gut. Richard—Dante's dad, my stepdad—wouldn't let go easy. His empire was built on control, and we'd been slipping through his fingers since that first forbidden kiss at sixteen. Sneaky fucks in the pool house, lies layered like armor. But now? We were done hiding.

Clara squeezed my shoulder. "Then go for it. Life's too short for bad vibes. But if shit hits, my couch is yours. Now eat—avocado toast incoming." She busied herself with the toaster, and I checked my phone: a good morning text from him, with a photo attachment. Him in bed, sheet low, cock half-hard against his thigh. Woke up missing your mouth. Send something back. Make it dirty.

Heat pooled between my thighs instantly, the soreness from last night turning to a needy throb. I excused myself to the bathroom, locking the door, and snapped a quick shot—tank top pulled up, fingers teasing a nipple, caption: Breakfast of champions? Come feed me soon. Sent. His reply buzzed immediate: Fuck, Li. Hard now. Call after your class? Want to watch you edge in the shower.

The day dragged after that—lit seminar on campus, debating symbolism in some dusty novel while my mind wandered to symbols of our own: his scars, my marks, the toys bridging our distance. By afternoon, I was home alone, Clara at work, and I hit call while stripping for the shower. The bathroom steamed up quick, water cascading hot as I propped the phone on the sink ledge, safe from splashes.

He answered mid-stroke, camera showing his office again—door locked, tie discarded, shirt open to reveal that trail of hair leading down. "Shower time? Perfect. Get under the spray—let me see the water run over those tits. Pinch your nipples—hard, like my teeth would."

I stepped in, the hot stream hitting my skin like a caress, rivulets tracing paths over my breasts, down my stomach. I cupped them, thumbs and fingers rolling the peaks, gasping at the sharp tug. "Like this? Pulling until it hurts—God, D, the water makes it slick, sensitive. Missing your mouth sucking them raw."

He groaned, fist pumping slow. "That's it. Now soap up—lather your pussy. Rub it in circles, but don't go inside yet. Tease the lips, the clit. Imagine my fingers there, spreading you open under the flow."

The suds were creamy, slippery, and I worked them over my folds, the friction light but building, clit peeking out swollen and begging. "Foamy—sliding everywhere. Your fingers would dip in now, curl up, fuck me slow while your thumb grinds my clit. I'd brace against the wall, legs shaking."

"Fuck yes," he rasped, speeding up. "Add a finger—then two. Pump them deep. Turn so I see your ass—bend a little, show me everything dripping."

I pivoted, bracing one hand on the tile, the other plunging two fingers inside, the angle letting water cascade over my back, down the crack of my ass. "Deep—curling, hitting that spot. Water's running over my hole, teasing like your tongue. Wish you were here—kneeling behind, spreading my cheeks, rimming me while I finger-fuck myself."

His breaths turned ragged, camera shaking. "Add the showerhead—detach it. Press it to your clit—high pressure. Don't stop fingering. Edge for me—count to ten close calls before you come."

The detachable head was a godsend, the jet pulsing hard against my clit, vibrations shooting through me like lightning. Fingers thrusting in rhythm, I built fast—once, twice, pulling away at the brink, whimpering. "One—oh shit, close. Two—clenching hard, imagining your cock instead. Three—water's pounding, making me throb. Four—"

By ten, I was a mess, knees buckling, begging. "Please, D—let me. Need to come, picturing you slamming into me from behind, water splashing everywhere."

"Now," he commanded, his own release hitting as ropes spilled over his hand, coating his shirt. "Come hard—squirt if you can, baby."

It crashed over me, vision blurring as I gushed against my fingers, the shower washing it away in a torrent. "Dante—yes!" I slumped against the wall, aftershocks trembling through me.

We panted together, the steam fogging the screen. "You're perfect," he murmured. "Eight days. Hold on."

The countdown fueled the fire. Each day brought new escalations: a package of nipple clamps the next afternoon, tiny chains linking them to a clit clamp—his instructions via video: "Put them on. Tug the chain while you ride the dildo. Scream when it pulls."

I did, in the living room that evening—Clara out, curtains drawn—the pinch bordering pain, heightening every thrust until I shattered, chain yanking with each bounce.

Then texts daring me public: Vibe in during grocery run. I'll control from here. The store aisles became a gauntlet, buzzes hitting at checkout, forcing a casual smile while my knees nearly buckled.

Nights blended into role-plays: me as the naughty student, him the professor— "Bend over the desk, Miss Rossi. Detention means my ruler on your ass, then my cock as reward." I improvised with a ruler, spanking myself red before fucking the toy, his voice grading every moan.

By day five, the ache was constant, body primed like a live wire. Clara threw a pre-Christmas party at the house—friends milling with eggnog and carols, fairy lights strung across the deck. I mingled, but my phone burned in my pocket. Midway through, it vibrated: Bathroom. Now. Strip to panties. Finger yourself slow—send video.

Heart racing, I slipped away, locking myself in the small half-bath. Clothes off quick, I leaned against the sink, panties shoved aside, two fingers circling my entrance. Recorded it—wet sounds, soft gasps, my free hand pinching a nipple. Sent with: Party's boring without you. Come crash it.

His reply: a video of him jerking off in his car, parked somewhere dark. On lunch break. Watching your vid—fuck, that pussy's mine. Come quiet—don't let them hear.

I did, biting my fist as the orgasm rippled through, muffled whimpers echoing off the tiles. Rejoined the party flushed, Clara shooting me a look. "You okay? Look like you just ran a marathon."

"Fine," I lied, sipping mulled wine to hide the tremble in my hands. "Just... hot in here."

The final stretch was agony—dreams turning vivid, waking wet and reaching for the toy instinctively. Christmas Eve, he called late, voice strained from a tense family dinner. "Richard grilled me about the accounts—suspects something, but no proof. Mom asked if I'd heard from you. Told her you're thriving. Little does she know it's my dick keeping you happy."

We dove into fantasy: "Picture the airport," he murmured, hand already working. "You in a sundress, no panties. I drag you to the family bathroom—lock the door, hike the dress, fuck you against the mirror. Watch ourselves—your tits bouncing, my hand over your mouth to stifle screams."

I matched him, vibe buzzing low inside me. "Yes—legs around your waist, nails in your back. Cum inside, let it drip down my thighs on the drive home."

We came synced, his growl vibrating through the phone.