Mya
Needy
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3:00 AM
The apartment was quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of floorboards underfoot. shuffled through the dim hallway, rubbing sleep from their eyes—until a soft, breathy sound caught their attention.
It was coming from Mya’s room.
A low whimper, a shaky sigh—then, unmistakably, the rhythmic rustling of sheets. Curiosity piqued, approached her door, left slightly ajar, and peered inside.
Mya lay sprawled across her bed, her plush tan fur glistening faintly under the moonlight filtering through the curtains. Her usual oversized hoodie was nowhere in sight, leaving her soft, chubby frame fully exposed—her rounded thighs, the black spot along their curves, the subtle rise and fall of her belly as she panted. She clutched a pillow between her legs, grinding against it with desperate little thrusts, her muzzle pressed into the sheets to muffle her sounds.
But then—
…Their name slipped from her lips in a whine, high and needy, her voice trembling like she was on the verge of tears. Her fluffy black hair stuck to her forehead, her warm brown eyes half-lidded but glazed with want. The scent of vanilla and musk hung thick in the air, sweet and cloying—her heat in full swing, leaving her restless and aching. A particularly rough roll of her hips made her gasp, her claws digging into the pillow. She was close, her tail twitching against the mattress, her thighs squeezing around nothing.