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Love How Bittersweet It Tastes

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You make me wanna make mistakes
Love how bittersweet it tastes

- Tove Styrke, Mistakes


Margaery’s grandmother had always advised her to do seven impossible things before breakfast. So here was Margaery, pulling up her knickers after a phenomenal, universe-realigning, vagina-spraining orgasm in Professor Cersei Lannister’s office.

And it was only Monday.

“That was grand,” Margaery remarked, more breathless than she would have liked.

It couldn’t be helped, though. Margaery was still seeing stars. Her cunt was still sucking in fortifying breaths. Her clit was doing a one-woman standing ovation and sobbing out for an encore.

“I should hope so,” came Cersei’s almost lazy reply.

Margaery allowed herself a satisfied little smirk. No one would have expected such a languid tone from Dr. Lannister.

Professor Cersei Lannister was notorious for being the terror economics professor. She could stride in to 8:00 lectures with too-alert eyes. Undergrads quaked in terror as she lectured in a curt, no-nonsense tone, hurtling out facts that they were too anxious to note down. No, she didn’t email the slides. She fully expected you to cramp your hand. No one wanted to take her classes, but everyone needed to because of credits. And everyone wanted to as well because her lectures were just too good, and everyone and their parents were salivating for just a glimmer of connection to someone born into the Lannister Inc. and married to the Baratheon Group.

Margaery smoothed her skirt from where it was bunched up around her waist. “Well, it was. Almost as grand as your chair.”

It was a chair verging on the hideous for an office chair, frankly speaking. Obviously custom-made, aggressively crimson upholstery, its armrests tipped with golden lions. It took itself much too seriously, and in a much too obvious way.

To amend her less than generous thoughts, Margaery added, “Do you want me to get you off?”

Cersei simply leaned back on her chair and crossed her legs, still fully clothed in a burgundy trouser suit.

Margaery bit down on her irritation again. She wanted to ask what Cersei got from this, since Margaery had been the only one coming since this started. Margaery could upturn a lady’s, or a guy’s, world too.

Notable amongst those brought to their knees, in this instance, would be Cersei’s son Joffrey.

Margaery reached down to fetch her tights from the floor. She perched back on the desk as she took her time to roll it up a leg. She tilted her head to consider.

She knew Cersei hated it when Margaery dawdled.

Breakfast was very important to Margaery. A proper breakfast – a cup of Highgarden gold rice, eggs and bacon, a whole pomelo, and black coffee. None of those fruit-cubes only diets. Those were just naff. A proper breakfast helped Margaery think superbly early in the day, and also maintained her pleasantly curvy 36C – 30 – 42 figure.

She had measured, all right. Margaery liked being precise.

But today, the first impossible thing she did was to not have breakfast first thing in the morning. Cersei’s Monday class started at eight, and Margaery had to be there as the TA. But Cersei had been booked for a consultation at seven-thirty, annoyingly enough. Who even did early morning consultations with their professors?

To be clear, Margaery had only started fucking Cersei this semester. Margaery was no longer an undergrad, and now there was no chance that she would have Cersei as professor for when she took another econ elective. Otherwise, that would be just shoddy.

Another impossible thing was today’s choice of underwear. A black bra with the tiniest cherry-red bow, Margaery had decided, would go well with a horrid-cute pair of pink knickers with cake prints.

Cersei had stared at the cake print over Margaery’s crotch before abruptly pushing back her ostentatious office chair from between Margaery’s thighs.

“Take it off,” she had commanded. Margaery had laughed and laughed.

Another impossible thing was, of course, being in Cersei’s office a little before seven in a Monday morning. Before Margaery could have a proper breakfast to fuel her higher mental faculties. It was the only possible explanation for why she was showing such commitment for this – this. Whatever this was.


Oh, don’t go there. Oh, don't. Goosebumps raked though Margaery’s arms.

Though Margaery had to admit that what had just happened was almost as good as a full breakfast.

Margaery’s head thrown back against the hastily-cleared desk top, the closed blinds blurring in her vision.

Two of Cersei’s fingers fucking her so good, deep hard relentless strokes as if Margaery’s cunt contained gold and Cersei was the fucking greedy Lannister that she was, with her thumb firmly on Margaery’s clit.

Cersei’s hot breath ghosting over Margaery’s clit, never putting her mouth on Margaery, always never putting her mouth on Margaery, the bitch, before moving on to the plump flesh of Margaery’s inner thigh.

Margaery’s inner thigh bitten, and when Margaery had keened and wailed and her hands had shot out to anchor herself on the edges of the desk, Cersei had half-whispered, “Good girl.”

Another impossible thing was discovering a kink and not having had the chance to process it, before Margaery was coming so hard that she slid a few inches across the desk.


That was that.

Margaery was keen to do that again. And again and again.

She was also keen to dash out of here, have a good proper breakfast, maybe dunk her head in her cup of black coffee, and wonder what all this was saying about herself.

Cersei was married to a man whose affairs were splashed across headlines. There had been brief whispers years ago about her and her twin brother, for gods’ sakes.

Not to mention, Cersei was seventeen years older. She was Margaery’s ex-boyfriend’s mother. And Margaery had come so hard that the stars in her vision turned to tears in her eyes – it was that good when she’d heard “good girl.”

Cersei was briskly patting out sanitizer on to her palm. “I have a student coming in here in five minutes.”

Gods, Margaery thought, half-resenting and half-admiring. The only thing passing for dishevelment in Cersei’s appearance was a few strands floating away from her fashionable hair twist.

I could be like her. Like her, but better. Much better.

“Okay.” Margaery jumped down from the desk. “I’ll text you this time.”

Cersei’s red lips curled. “You’re welcome to do so. As long as you don’t ring me.”

Margaery was standing over Cersei now, who was still sitting on that lion chair. Who had always fucked Margaery whilst sitting on that chair, because of course Cersei wouldn’t bother to kneel on the floor.

Margaery felt her tits push forward when she slightly bent down. She caressed Cersei’s arm. Margaery smiled from beneath her eyelashes. “I want to fuck you.”

Cersei’s eyes might be amused, but Margaery didn’t miss the way her nostrils flared a little.

“Is being soundly fucked not enough?” Cersei asked, rather tartly.

Margaery’s enticing caress tightened into a grip. She let Cersei have a taste of nails. “What do you say to me riding your face? Or you could ride mine. I could fuck you with my tongue.”

Cersei firmly shook her arm free. She sat up from her sprawl, her eyes suddenly bright green with something sharp.

“I don’t think so,” she told Margaery. Their faces were too close. “I will tell you what you could do. You could text me. Suggest the time and date. Then you could spread yourself open for me, like a good girl, or bend over, I don’t care. As long as you’re ready for me to fuck you.”

Margaery refused to straighten up and put a distance between them. Her cunt was breathing hard again, salivating. A naughty girl. A good girl. Cersei knew. The bitch knew, with that smug little smile of hers.

Margaery said, “So you dislike being fucked?”

Cersei drew back a bit, and stood from her chair. She towered over Margaery. “I have a student coming in here any moment now. I will see you later, Miss Tyrell.”

Margaery couldn’t stop herself from slanting up a sweet, goading smile at Cersei.


Halfway down the almost-empty corridor, she came upon Sansa Stark.

Sweet and shy Sansa Stark, whom Margaery had fucked last semester. A third year now, Margaery remembered, taking a Literature and History double. Margaery herself was in the Political Science department, but here they both were in a white-tiled and glass-walled Econ corridor. That was what happened when both your families were oligarchs.

“Sansa, sweetling,” greeted Margaery. She noted the book and index cards in Sansa’s arm, and the dove-grey backpack slung over one shoulder. “You’re so diligent. Off to a consultation?”

Sansa was red-cheeked, as she always was when talking to Margaery. “Yes. With Dr. Lannister. For my paper.”

Margaery fought to keep the wry amusement from bubbling over to the surface. “I didn’t know you’re taking econ courses.” Sansa definitely wasn’t in the two classes Margaery TAs for Cersei.

“Yes. Yes, for my elective.” Sansa bit her lip then smiled at Margaery. Bless her, she was too cute sometimes. So earnest.

“Do you know the way to her office? Because I can assist you.”

“Oh no – I mean, I know. It’s on her syllabus. It’s all right, thank you.”

Margaery amiably shook her head. She looped her arm around Sansa’s. “It’s not a bother to me. I can show you to her office. You know I’m very fond of you, Sansa.”