GOOD GIRL. (NSFW) - Taylor Swift

getyouback

cw: toxic, jealousy, possessiveness, some slut-shaming

also: praise, crying, multiple orgasms, strap-ons... absolutely filthy for almost 10k words

enjoy!

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thirteen women. forty days now.

taylor never liked proving the media right, though she supposed it was mildly true, the vitriol they spat at her like a snake sinking its venom into tender flesh. thirteen women in forty-two days was an outrageous number, even for her, the arithmomaniac. of course, the tabloids had no real clue of those goings-on, or, at least, there had not been any tmz article with the title: TAYLOR SWIFT FUCKS THREE WOMEN BACK TO BACK AMID COCAINE FRENZY—or something like that.

half of it would have been true; she had indeed fucked three women back to back one of these past nights, but she had not been on coke that night. so, it was more like two-thirds true. each woman, like the cocaine, was a feeble attempt—not to forget a particular woman, but to save taylor's fragile ego and wounded pride that she could simply not forget that woman.

now, it was a redhead, so the fourteenth. jesus, i'm fucked up, taylor thought, at least somewhat self-aware, absentminded as she drove her fingers in and out of the moaning mess underneath her, who clung to her arms annoyingly.

"can you be a little gentler with that?" taylor asked, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice and refraining from even attempting to get the girl's name right. the only thing she could possibly remember about her is that she had a great ass, one that taylor had grabbed an hour or two earlier, as if catching a fish by the hook. and the nameless thing nodded, but only dug her nails deeper into taylor's arms, moaned louder, and locked her legs around the woman on top of her like this was supposed to be intimate.

taylor renewed her fingers' efforts, adding a third, not for enthusiasm to please her 'partner' (she could hardly be called that), but for an eagerness to have this end already. she supposed her stamina had just worn out, because two girls ago she was still devouring each of them with an impressive voracity.

"oh, oh, oh! fuck," something along those lines, the girl screamed, and finally reached her climax. taylor was not cruel enough to not let the redhead's breath steady before she untangled their limbs and rolled off of her to sit up against the headboard.

"you can go. my guy outside'll make sure you have a ride home, just give him your address," taylor said, reaching for the glass of cold water on the nightstand, ignoring the woman's hurt and confused, still dazed from the orgasm, look. they sat in silence for probably ten seconds while taylor pulled out her phone and started looking through her emails, until the woman stood up, gathered her clothes, and left. she didn't even see her out. she probably enjoyed the cool feeling of the condensation sliding from the glass and off her fingers more than the sex.

instead, as the front door to taylor's london penthouse slammed shut, and, if she cared to focus, the echo of tiny sobs disappeared with the girl, her thumb hovered over the green find my app, where she knew your location still lay dormant, just as hers did. a mutual, silent agreement, or, plainly, an indication that you were not nearly as creepy as her and completely forgot about it. it was not particularly creepy to stalk a girlfriend, per se, but an ex... even taylor knew that was questionable. she clicked on it anyway.

next, she clicked on your icon, and the app automatically zoomed past her location to settle on a red drop pin. she zoomed in now, aware of how hunched she was over her phone, staring at it like a complete psychopath. when the street came into view, she thought momentarily that you were in some kind of auto shop, but another store appeared below your red pin.