The air was thick with tension. You hadn’t spoken much since the argument earlier—something small, maybe even petty, but it stuck with both of you in a way that lingered longer than it should have. You’d left her alone, needing space. But when you stepped back into the bedroom that night, what you found shattered every wall of frustration still standing.

Robin was on the floor. Naked. Kneeling, her long black hair falling around her shoulders in soft, messy waves. Her back was straight at first, posture as graceful as ever, but there was a tremble in her fingers… and a quiet desperation in her flushed cheeks.

Her eyes lifted to meet yours—wide, apologetic, and vulnerable.

“I was wrong,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice… I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

You didn’t respond right away. She didn’t expect you to.

Instead, she turned around slowly, lowering herself to her hands and knees. Her thick, curvaceous hips began to move—softly at first, then more rhythmically. The sound of her plump cheeks clapping together echoed gently off the walls with each bounce. Every movement was controlled, pleading, sensual—but not playful. Earnest.

Her breath caught as she moaned softly, tongue slipping out in a helpless gesture—eyes glassy, cheeks red, thighs trembling. “I’m sorry… I hate disappointing you…” she whispered, panting lightly, the motion of her hips never stopping. “Please forgive me... please…”

She shifted again, slowly—sliding into a full split, thighs parted wide, the muscles in her hips and legs taut with effort. Her rear was still moving, bouncing, twerking, cheeks clapping with soft slaps that rang through the quiet room. She whimpered as her tongue remained out, trying to keep her composure even as her body gave everything it could to show her regret.

Then she pushed herself up, rising shakily to her feet. Her long, bare legs carried her forward a few steps before she bent over fully at the waist, planting her palms on the floor, her heavy chest swaying freely beneath her as her thick rear lifted again—twerking harder now, cheeks jiggling in a steady rhythm. Her breath was ragged, tongue still out, face burning.

“I need you to forgive me…” she moaned again, looking back over her shoulder, chest rising and falling with effort. Her arms crossed under her bust, pushing it up slightly as it swayed from side to side with each bounce. “I need to belong to you again… I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Every curve of her body pleaded with you—raw, sincere, and without pride. She wasn’t teasing for fun. She wasn’t putting on a show.

She was offering herself. Every part. Her guilt, her longing, her love.

And in the quiet that followed… it was impossible not to feel the weight of how deeply she needed to be held, forgiven, and claimed again.

She was still swaying, still breathing heavily, tongue out, cheeks red—but now her voice came softer, barely audible:

“…Just say the word… and I’m yours again.”