“Again.” He resumes licking, this time with his fingers lodged thickly inside me.
“I can’t take it! I’m too—”
He presses his hand back over my mouth and continues to lick and fuck me with his massive fingers. It feels amazing, but my clit is so sensitive—too sensitive.
I writhe and beg him to stop, which eventually takes the form of moaning behind his hand. I try to push his head away with both hands.
He removes his hand with a sigh that seems to travel all the way into me.
“What?”
Put your fingers back in meis the only thought I can form. “Um…” I say.
He presses my hands to my belly. “I will always find you, I will always take you.”
“Uh,” I breathe.
He smiles wickedly, then he pushes his fat tongue into my hole. I whimper. He draws it up over my clit. Down and up. I shudder with every pass. I’m raw, exposed.
He chases, and I retreat—bewildered, breathless. I don’t care about anything. Are people walking past? I don’t even care.
He’s chasing down that silvery feeling. I can’t hide. I’m shaking my head, ragged and weary. This is what it’s like to be at the mercy of a true predator, I think vaguely. He feels everything, uses everything. He doesn’t give me a chance.
At some point, my cries and protests turn to whispered begging. He claps his hand over my mouth again.
He has me. He will always take me. He’s toying with me, mastering me.
He seems utterly aware of this fact, just the way he seems to know everything.
He pushes his tongue into my hole. It feels giant and alive. He curls it, licking inside me. I imagine it’s his cock. I want him to stretch me, fill me, take me, use me, have me.
He pulls it out and drags it along my clit again—harshly.
I shudder ecstatically.
He has me, and he’s going to make me come again.
I can run, but I can’t hide. It seems unfair. Maybe it is. It doesn’t matter—he’s dragging his tongue over me yet again.
I can no longer take it, but I have to, over and over. I’m a creature dwelling in pure potential. I’m stranded at the tip of his tongue.
He stills and pulls away, turning his golden eyes to me.
He looks almost smug.
He sees everything. He sees that I’m right there, waiting for him, open and helpless as any being can be. I try to pull my wrists from his grip, wanting to grab his hair, make him come back. I need him. I’m crazy without him. I can’t beg him with my words or my hands, so I beg him with my eyes.
He seems satisfied with this. He lowers his face to me, applies his tongue back to my madly sensitive nub—knowingly, wickedly.
Pleasure erupts over me. He keeps me going, spinning. I’m crying behind his hand. He’s crossed so many lines. I can’t count how many. I don’t care.
I come, shattered and spinning.
He’s broken me somehow. And I like it. I want to be broken by him over and over. He rises up and kisses my neck, my cheek.
Eventually he untangles himself from me and stands, towering over me, darkly. “Everything about you is so beautiful to me,” he grates out.
I sit sprawled below him, barely comprehending his words. I don’t know what anything means; I just have this nameless surge of affection for him. My affection for him feels a little bit like madness.