Being Jill Valentine’s partner is a mixed bag sometimes. On the one hand, she’s courageous, resourceful, well-connected, and unfathomably gorgeous. On the other hand, she’s constantly fighting mutated horrors, undead monstrosities, and international bioterrorists, and horrific mutated undead international bioterrorist monsters. Also, she’s a cop.

So, yeah. It’s sometimes a bit difficult to tell if being her significant other is a net gain for you or not. There are moments, when she’s dragging you with her because some fanatical organization bent on geopolitical destabilization has sicced a bunch of mutant lobsters on you, where you think that maybe it’s not exactly worth it to call her your “girlfriend.”

And then there are the times when she makes it really, really worth it. They usually come when she staggers to wherever your current home happens to be, exhausted and tired and sweaty after weeks if not months of securing worldwide security in the face of global threats, and flops onto your couch with a groan and a deep, bone-rattling sigh.

“Long day?” You’d ask, with all the half-interested inquisitiveness of a stay-at-home partner, ignoring the fact that she’s been gone for far longer than an eight-hour workday. The jab at domesticity is always intentional, and it always earns an exhausted eye-roll from Jill. 

“Fuck.” Jill would gasp, always, then snort as you shrugged your shoulders, never able to really muster up an appropriate response. She kills nigh-indestructible nightmarish fiends for a living and still comes home alive, if not always unharmed or un-traumatized: you could never really fault her for being overwhelmed.

Of course, her brief annoyance would always fade, because there was little that excited Jill Valentine more than returning to whatever realm of comparative safety and solitude you two might call “home.” And however tired she might be, there was one impulse that would always win out over her exhaustion.

That impulse was made all too clear by how she would follow-up her expletive by making a show of stretching out across your couch, extending her long legs, then inclining her back to jut out her rear towards you as she bent in a triangle-pose. 

Face-down, ass-up. And what an ass it was: round and full, with considerable heft beneath the black-blue jeans that she always wore just a little too low to fully cover up the top sliver of her buttcheeks. But the weight of it belied just how tight, taut, and muscular Jill’s ass actually was, even though it unfailingly offered up a plush tush to squeeze, slap, fondle and grope.

Then she’d yawn, and extend her fingers in a way that reminded you oddly of a cat or dog stretching out before a lounge. But at this point, Jill would always do one of two things: she’d keep her ass pointed at you, or she’d turn onto her back.

Today, it was the latter. Today, Jill smacked her lips and turned onto her back, lifting her hips to support as much of her weight on her abdomen as she could, the muscles of her abs tensing and twitching beneath the tension as her shirt rolled up and exposed her smooth, tight tummy. Her legs spread to distribute the weight, and she extended her arms as if to reach out. In the process, her tits, strained as they ever were beneath her tight tank top, and especially so with her white undershirt, wobbled and shook, visibly shuddering with the undulation of her torso as she slowly began to relax.

Then Jill licked her lips and let a naughty grin dash across her face. “Fuck my tits.”

You blinked. “Now?”

“Yes, now. Are you really gonna say no? To this?” Jill teased, lowering her hands so that her biceps were pressing against both sides of her covered chest. Even with gravity lending them a less-than-flattering curvature—she was on her back, after all—the pressure of Jill’s upper arms squishing against her breasts, forcing them together to deepen the already-generous dip of her cleavage, was a mouth-watering sight.

You said nothing, as shocked as the first time you’d beheld Jill flaunt her tits to you and asked you to slide your dick between them. You weren’t sure why you were surprised at this point: it was a common enough occurrence.

Not because you always asked for it, no, although you would have if it had ever been necessary. No, this was a common occurrence because while Jill Valentine was many things—a supercop, a master of unlocking, a world savior, a one-time-brainwashed supersoldier, and a tall drink of water—she was also the woman with the most insatiable, rapacious, overwhelming libido that you’d ever encountered. 

She hungered nigh-constantly for sexual satisfaction, to the point that you were shocked that she had the focus to complete any missions at all. She never failed to rapidly initiate coitus whenever the two of you had a moment alone. More than once, she’d straddled your lap while you both hid from some shuffling horror or another, and ridden you to an urgent, tense climax, until you painted her womb with your spunk as she covered your mouth to cover your moans and bit her lip to disguise her own hissing pleasure. 

You didn’t always like the baggage attached to the word, but, well…Jill Valentine was a massive slut. Not in the sense of “fuck everyone and anyone,” though, frankly, you would’t have minded if she did—it’d save your balls some effort, that was for sure—but in the sense of “able to wrench cumshots out of you with frightening speed using any hole, or stretch of skin that she could imagine.” 

She was a throat-slut, guzzling your cum with greedy gulps as she kissed rings of lipstick onto the base of your dick and flicked her tongue out to lick your balls while her nostrils nestled your pubic hair; she was a butt-slut, whose asshole served as a tight, warm, gripping sleeve around your cock until you had no choice but to blow your load into her butt while your nuts plapped her pussy or her upturned asscheeks; and, well, she never failed to milk your balls dry when her pussy lips were clenching your cock with enough force to make you whine as you painted her womb white.

Jill Valentine was, in short, the most depraved, needy, desperate whore you’d ever known, bordering on actual nymphomania, and there was pretty much nothing about her body that was off-limits when it came to getting herself off…and getting her the cumshots she craved. You’d lost count of the times she’d shamelessly slurped and smooched your dick right after you’d dragged it out of her ass, and you’d never even kept track of how many times she’d stuffed her face into your balls to get herself off on the salty scent of your scrotum.

If entering her wasn’t an option, or not something she immediately yearned for, well, her mighty thighs could always rub a load out of your length, and her armpits, upraised or folded down, served as a sweaty surface upon which to rub your rod and coat with your cum. Her buttcheeks, squashed together, made a perfect valley to fuck, and her tits were always open and available to smother your prick between their soft suppleness. To say nothing of if she just…wanted your dick dragged across her belly, or slapped across her face.

And if Jill was in more of a giving mood, well, her tongue was agile, and her lips were soft, and she had an uncanny talent for wringing desperate cumshots out of you when she was applying her mouth to your ass, with or without her hands on your dick. It was almost embarrassing how urgently she could force you to blow just by stuffing her tongue up your butt and making out with your rear, especially when she hoisted your hips up so she was eating your ass with her nose in your nutsack, but she never mocked you for being a quick shot when being rimmed. She just licked it up and asked for more.

So, uh, yeah. Jill Valentine was a lot. A lot to love, and who had a lot to give, and who demanded a lot of you. Not just sexually. But mostly sexually. It wasn’t the only reason you stuck around, and the ferocity of her licentiousness was itself almost an incentive to try to break things off…

But even as you recalled all this, and gave her no reply, she stood up, and leaned forward, resting her hands on the couch with her knees on the cushions, her lips level with your covered navel. She winked—that damn wink—and moaned with whorish, practiced, easy shamelessness, her tits hanging down and forming a deep, sweaty, engrossing, impossibly inviting hole for you to slide your dick into. 

With a body like that, why wouldn’t you want to stay by her side? Maybe you didn’t have exclusive access to her—what happened on her missions was her business—but hell if you’d ever pass up the chance to bang Jill Valentine.

“How can I say no?” You grinned, surging with confidence as you undid your belt and pulled your pants down to present her with her long-sought prize. As your length flopped out into the open, not yet half-hard but already stiffening, Jill’s eyes lit up, and her mouth pursed in an anticipating kiss as the head of your dick nudged her lips.

You didn’t intend to fuck Jill’s face, but there was nothing wrong with a little preparation. It was a sentiment she recognized, as she planted one sloppy, glossy, drooling kiss onto the tip of your cock, then chuckled as it twitched and throbbed, growing until it was brushing her nose and she could take a long, deep sniff of the thick tip of your prick. It was a familiar gesture, but always a welcome one, and you groaned and felt your ballsack tense, a flash of pleasure running through you from your crotch, zipping up your spine until the pleasant warm blossomed out in your cheeks in a red blush.

It was the last encouragement you needed before you felt ready to tug up your shirt over your head, brace your hands on Jill’s hair, and slide your dick down into her cleavage. The two layers of fabric she has on her top, plus her bra, served as a fine cushion for the underside of your cock, though the true softness came from her big, squishy pillowy tits. They’re never-endingly plush, endlessly supple, and radiate warmth and slick sweatiness such that, as you get closer to burying yourself balls-deep in her breasts, you almost can’t tell a difference between fucking Jill’s tits and plowing her pussy. 

That was something of an exaggeration—there was an entirely different tension and squeeze to wrapping her cunt around your cock versus her boobs around your dick—but it was a compelling comparison nonetheless. If Jill Valentine’s tits felt this natural to fuck, then it simply made sense for you to plunge your cock into her cleavage as often as possible. That wouldn’t necessarily change anything about your existing regimen of banging her bust, since it was tied with her ass for the part of her body that you cum onto and into more often than anything else, but it was damn affirming to finally notice, and gave you fresh motivation to shove your shaft down into Jill’s squished-together boobs. 

As you pumped forward and down with renewed vigor, Jill moaned greedily, pushing her biceps closer to her tits to form a tighter tunnel for your dick. It took a long, slow, slippery slide to shove your dick as deep into her cleavage as you could, but every second was a delightfully drawn-out moment of heat, softness, sweat and tension, as you felt your cock wrapped all the more fully in Jill’s magnificently big breasts.

And then, at last, you had done it. You’d stuffed your dick balls-deep down Jill Valentine’s cleavage, and she was left groaning eagerly in between stolen kisses on your bellybutton, her nose nestling into your stomach as she settled into the perfect position for you to bang her bust from above. Said posture required her to lean forward more fully, almost perpendicular with your back, but you didn’t mind: you couldn’t see her tits, but you could feel them, and in exchange you got an eyeful of her ass in her painted-on jeans. 

Fuck, Jill had a huge fucking butt. It didn’t matter that she was wearing denim: you could actually see the curve of each individual asscheek, her pants were so tight. It helped that they lay low enough on her hips that you could see the upper lines of her buttcheeks, and get a peek down at her panties between the jeans and her skin, but the fact that you could see as much as you did was a testament to the sheer size of Jill Valentine’s backside.

Then she dragged her tongue in a circle in your bellybutton, and you yelped and dragged your dick halfway out of her cleavage. Only halfway—her hand darted out to stop you exiting any more even if you hadn’t stopped yourself—but it was enough of a departure from the all-encompassingly wonderful grip of Jill’s breasts that you were kicked into gear. There’d been enough lounging: it was time to properly plow her plump boobs as hard as you could.

So you did. You jerked your hips to and fro, forward and back, sawing your dick in between Jill Valentine’s pressed-together tits as she returned her arms to their usual position of putting pressure on the sides of her chest. Each time you thrust forward, her lips kissed your bellybutton, and she snuffled into your stomach, tickling your skin as your pubic hair tickled her clavicle when you bottomed out. 

It was difficult to figure out what to focus on more. Should your attention linger on the sliding, salty sweat that served as ample lubrication for your ferocious fucking, or the enveloping heat that made for an impossibly inviting journey forward? Should you try to center your focus on her peppered kisses, licks, and sniffles into your belly and skin, little stimulations and tickles to reward you for going balls-deep, ever time, or instead engross yourself in the audible slap slap slap of your nutsack smacking her boobs, making them wobble and shudder and shake? 

It was impossible to decide on any one factor. There was too much to revel in, too much to adore, too much to enjoy. Trying to single one out was a doomed proposition, but trying to indulge in all of it was just asking for you to cum too hard, too fast, and too much. 

Then again, Jill had never minded when you erupted early, so long as you gave her enough spunk to satisfy her for even a little bit, and judging by the tension growing in your crotch, and the increasing raggedness of your breath, you were going to give her a big load. It made sense: the only thing that could match the euphoric, transcendental experience of fucking Jill Valentine’s huge tits was the heavenly sensation of plowing into her asshole, and even if you weren’t actually fucking her butt, you had a fantastic view of her thick rear, trapped as it was in her too-tight, low-slung jeans. That wasn’t nearly as good, but it was a damn fine visual aid, fit to push you over the edge.

But it wasn’t quite enough. You were pumping your hips towards her with everything you had, ramming your dick into Jill’s cleavage as if you were trying to pummel her into submission with every harsh, full-forced strike into her chest and face, and while it was going to get you off before too long, it wasn’t going to get you blasting with unprecedented urgency. You couldn’t get enough of Jill’s soft, squishy, sweaty hot tits around your dick, and there was nothing about this that you didn’t love, but the final trigger to make you pop rapidly was missing.

And she knew it. She fucking knew it. She made it obvious when, after a particularly desperate moan from your lips, and a stuttered, faltering shove of your shaft into her cleavage, she looked up at you.

Jill fucking Valentine looked up at you, with your dick between her boobs, and flashed you a naughty, taunting wink. In the same instant, she moaned whorishly, pouring all of her considerable sluttiness into that single sound, and then stuck her tongue out and let her eyes cross, nostrils flaring. A stream of drool oozed down from her tongue and stretched between her mouth and your belly, then pooled down between her tits until it was mixing with her sweat to serve as even more lubrication for your frantic titfucking.

It was a crude expression, and a simple one, but holy fuck if it didn’t work. It was a stark reminder of just how hopelessly slutty Jill Valentine could be, and how much of a huge whore she was willing to reduce herself to if it meant getting every bit of lurid gratification that she wanted. It was shameless to the extreme, and you fucking loved it.

With your fingers digging into her soft brown hair, and with a hoarse cry escaping your lips, you erupted. You hosed down Jill’s tits, glazing her skin and painting her chest white with every powerful pump of spunk. Every time you spurted, you sprayed more rich, white, warm cream onto her breasts, and into her cleavage, and onto her chin and neck. You didn’t stop thrusting, even as your balls pulsed and seized up, and with every thrust you forced more of your cum deeper into her endless cleavage, until it was streaking her belly through her shirt and staining her top around her bellybutton. You filled her cleavage with so much spunk that it felt like you were trying to breed her fat fucking tits, and even then you just splurted even more, desperate to empty your balls into Jill’s boobs.

And still you rawed forward and back, churning the cum you were hosing her down with into a frothing, bubbling mess. Through it all, Jill shuddered and shook and moaned and whined, wiggling her ass as her arms rocked and tried to stay steady, with that same mindbroken expression stamped across her face. You had no fucking doubt she was finding her own peak, all thanks to the vigor of your thrusts, the weight of your balls, the stiffness of your dick, and the hot fluid being poured and pumped onto her tits and stomach. 

When you stopped, it was with a long, exasperated, long-suffering sigh. You had no desire to slide your dick out from Jill’s spunked, slick, rawly-rammed cleavage, but you needed to in order to see what came next. It was with a squelch and a slurping sound that your cum-coated cock escaped Jill’s tits, and popped free to nudge her lips, still half-hard as you took in huge gulps of air.

Jill looked like she’d had a couple of cartons of milk poured onto her top. Thick white fluid was painting her glossy tits and staining and streaking her clothes, and coated her chin and neck, and more of it dripped and oozed down in streaks that hung and snapped and splattered the couch. 

That had been one of the most powerful orgasms of your life, and for a brief moment, you thought Jill herself had been overwhelmed. But only a moment: once a few heartbeats had passed with that absurd expression still frozen on her features, Jill blinked, and grinned hungrily, licking spunk off her lips and darting forward to messily make out with your spunk-soaked cockhead. Your shaft, still oversensitive, throbbed and twitched and protested the too-soon stimulation. You hissed between your teeth, and clenched your hands in her hair, and Jill simply hummed around your cock, tongue swirling to slobber and slurp up as much spunk as she could, until she pulled off with a pop and another showy, unabashed moan.

“Good fucking work.” Jill groaned, smiling, and pressed her cheek against your cock, the head of your dick nudging an eyelid and coming to rest over her brow. 

“I’ll give you twenty minutes, and then this,” she emphasized the word by contorting her lips to kiss the side of your half-soft shaft, “is going to split my ass in half. Then it’ll be going right between my lips, and then down my throat until I’m kissing your balls. In that order. Got it?”

You nod, strained but excited, and she murmurs happily, nuzzling into your cock like it’s the most comforting thing in the world. And perhaps it is. Jill Valentine is a shameless slut, and a rapacious whore, and the most demanding sexual partner you could ever imagine, but you wouldn’t trade her for the world.