“I can’t.”
“Then stroke faster,” he says. “I want to see you touch yourself while thinking of me.”
My fingers fly over my clit, each stroke sending sparks of pleasure down my inner thighs. I’ve always just masturbated under the covers—never in front of another person, but the Boogie Man looks at me as though I’m the most fascinating woman in history.
I flutter in sync with his back and forth movements, my body wishing he was in the bathroom to fill me with that humongous cock.
“When I have lavished your cunt, you will be soft and soaking and aching for more,” he croons, making the four heads swell further. “Then you will take my cock.”
“But you’re massive,” I say with a gasp, my pussy spasming in anticipation.
The Boogie Man’s wings quiver as he smirks. “You can take it. You always could.”
My breath quickens.
“I would fuck you nice and slow. Deep strokes, just the way you like it.”
A whimper rises to the back of my throat.
“You will clench around my shaft and tell me you’ve never had anything so satisfying.”
Gulping, I sweep my gaze up and down his body. The Boogie Man’s slow thrusts are so hypnotic that I can almost picture him making love to me.
I want to slip my arms beneath his wings and cling onto his back. I want to dig my nails into his hard flesh as he soars through the air. The beginnings of an orgasm creep up on me, that tingly, quivery feeling of teetering over a precipice.
“Gentle at first,” he says. “When you cry for more, I would bend you over and pound into you with all my might. Would you like that, my love?
“Yes,” I whimper, my fingers rubbing harder, faster.
“You would feel so hot and tight around my thick cock,” he says.
An orgasm rips through my body in a series of cascading waves, and my eyes roll to the back of my head. The Boogie Man’s satisfied growls filter through the climax.
“Eyes on me,” he says, his voice a deep command.
I force my gaze back to the open window and breathe hard through the rest of my orgasm.
The Boogie Man braces one palm on the magical barrier while stroking his huge shaft with the other. He stares at me through blackened eyes, his features a mask of lust.
I study his technique. He runs his hand up the shaft and pauses just before the quartet of cockheads. Then he releases a hissing breath and makes three or four rapid tugs before stroking down to the base.
There is no sign of any balls, but I think that could be part of the curse. When he isn’t aroused, his cock disappears within the confines of the leathery pelt that makes up his lower half.
“Your fingers will never satisfy you the way I can,” he says, his voice hoarse.
He’s right.
My pleasure fades, yet my body aches for more.
The hand fondling my breast drops into the water, and I fumble around for one of the wands I’d placed in the bath.
“What are you doing?” the Boogie Man asks.
“I need to be filled.” My fingers wrap around the crystal, and I pull it out of the water.
It’s a pink, rose-quartz wand that’s shaped like a cylinder with the same rounded tip as a dildo.
“Is that how you satisfy yourself, wife?” He bares his teeth, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths.