Being Spanked With The Backside Of Your Hairbrush .. It’s The Closest Thing To Him As You Whimper,

If you’re a man who’s grossed out by period sex, you’re a coward

Period sex to distract me from / help my cramps pretty please?

Aww, so cute

Me and big brother! ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ `ྀི꒱ა

Brain Stuff. You’re hunched over your desk, the glow of your laptop screen casting shadows across your cluttered apartment. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, ready to type the next paragraph of your dissertation — something about neural plasticity in machine learning models. It’s brilliant stuff, the kind of work that’s gotten you whispers of “genius” from your PhD advisors. You’re in the zone, your brain firing on all cylinders, when the front door clicks open.

“Hey, babe,” comes his voice, low and casual, like he doesn’t know what it does to you. Your boyfriend steps inside, shedding his jacket. He’s got that easy grin, the one that makes your stomach tighten. You glance up, meaning to say something sharp and witty, but he’s already peeling off his shirt, revealing the lean muscle underneath. Your mouth goes dry. The words you were about to type — something about synaptic pruning — slip away like sand through your fingers.

“Missed you today,” he says, crossing the room. He’s close now, close enough that you can smell the faint spice of his cologne. Your pulse kicks up, and you try to focus on the screen. You’re a goddamn scholar, you can handle this. But then he leans over your shoulder, his breath brushing your ear, and says, “What’s my smart girl working on?”

Your brain stutters. “Uh… it’s, um…” You squint at the screen, but the words lose their meaning. Neural what? Plasticity? Fuck, you know this. You wrote fifteen pages on it yesterday. His hand slides onto your shoulder, thumb brushing your neck, and your IQ takes a nosedive. “It’s… brain stuff,” you manage, voice small. You hate how stupid you sound, how you can feel your own brilliance leaking out of you as he closes the distance.

He chuckles, soft and loving, and that sound alone makes your thighs clench. “Brain stuff, huh? Tell me more.” His fingers dip lower, tracing the edge of your tank top, and you try — God, you try — to string a sentence together. “It’s about… how brains… change?” Your voice lilts up like a question, and you want to scream. You’re not some ditzy undergrad; you’re a fucking PhD candidate. But his hands are on your chest now, cupping you through your shirt, and your thoughts scatter like dropped marbles.

“C’mon, babe,” he teases, turning your chair to face him. “You’re usually so quick.” He’s smirking, and you hate how much you love it. You open your mouth to snap back, to prove you’ve still got it, but then he’s kissing you — hard, messy, all tongue and heat — and your mind goes blank. Not fuzzy, not slow, just empty. You kiss him back, hands fumbling to his waist, and all you can think is cock. One word, looping like a broken record.

He pulls you up, backing you toward the couch, and you trip over your own feet. Normally you’d curse yourself for being clumsy, but right now you just giggle — high pitched, brainless. “You’re so hot,” you blurt, and it’s the most coherent thing you’ve said in minutes. He grins, shoving his jeans down, and when you see him— hard, thick, right there — your knees buckle. You drop to the cushions, staring up at him, mouth slack. You should be analyzing data right now, not drooling like some horny idiot.

“Fuck, look at you,” he mutters, climbing over you. His hands yank your shorts off. You’re already so wet. You try to focus, one last chance to claw back a shred of intellect. “Wait, I — I need to finish—” you start, but then he’s pushing inside you, slow and deliberate, and the rest of the sentence evaporates. Your head lolls back, a moan spilling out instead. You feel him stretch you, fill you, and your brain shuts down completely. “Oh… oh God,” you whimper, legs wrapping around him on instinct.

He starts moving, thrusting deep, and you’re gone. No more dissertation, no more research — just his cock, slamming into you, turning you into a panting, writhing mess. “Tell me something smart,” he pants against your neck, mocking you now, and you want to, you need to, to prove you’re not this dumb slut he’s turning you into. “Th-the brain… it… f-fuck, it d—” You can’t finish. Every thrust scrambles your thoughts more, until you’re babbling nonsense, hips bucking to meet him.

You’re frustrated, somewhere deep down, because you know this isn’t you. You’ve presented at conferences, dismantled arguments from tenured professors, but right now you can’t even remember your own name. “Please,” you gasp, not sure what you’re begging for — him to stop, or keep going, or something else entirely. He grabs your hips, angles himself deeper, and you stop caring. “Sho… haaard…” you slur, drooling over the syllables, “sho… deeeep…”

He laughs, a low rumble. “That’s my girl. Just let go.” And you do, you can’t hold on anymore. He fucks you harder, faster, and you’re nothing but heat and need, whimpering every time he bottoms out. Your nails dig into his back, and you’re close — so close — then he groans, loud and guttural, and you feel his hot cum pour into every crevice. You climax alongside each other.

It’s instant. The second his cum hits you, it’s like a switch flips. Your vision clears, your breathing steadies, and your brain kicks back into gear. Synaptic pruning. Neural plasticity. Machine learning models. You blink up at him, still slick with sweat, and push him off with a shaky hand. “Rude,” you say, voice sharp again. He flops beside you, grinning, while you stagger to your desk, naked, his cum dripping down your thigh. You sit down, pull up your dissertation, and start typing like nothing happened — sentences crisp, ideas flowing.

“Welcome back, genius,” he calls, still sprawled on the couch, annoyingly smug. You don’t even look at him, but your lips twitch. Just ignore him, you’re back, and you’ve got work to finish. At least until he gets hard again.