12. Ada #2
He moves me before I can brace. Face-down.
Hips up. His hands position me with the certainty of something arranging what it owns—which I am, for the purposes of this arrangement—and the angle of him inside me shifts completely as I move around his cock.
His tail wraps my waist in one smooth coil, warm and heavy, pulling my hips back and up.
His hands settle over it, gripping, holding me exactly where he's placed me.
Pinned from all sides. There is no direction I can move that isn't into him.
He drives in.
Nothing careful. Both hands and his tail holding me against him, driving in hard and deep.
The force of it jolts through my entire body—my breasts moving with each impact, my fingers scrabbling for purchase in the furs.
It fills the aerie. The slap of him against me—the heavy, rhythmic smack of his hips meeting my ass.
The wet rhythm of every thrust. His breath.
My voice, which has become something I don't recognize.
His wings flare wide above us, the membrane catching the canopy light, throwing shifting shadows across the furs. The light ripples with every thrust—his wings trembling, the membrane catching and releasing the sun, and the effect is like lying beneath water. Everything dappled and moving.
His cock on every stroke fills me completely—the shape of him pressing into the inside of me, the head driving forward, the girth stretching me open, the curl of him dragging against my G-spot on every withdrawal.
The friction is devastating. Wet, hot, his cock slick with three days of cum and my arousal.
I can hear it—the obscene, slick sound of his cock moving inside me, punctuated by the heavy slap of his hips.
Each thrust pushes the breath from my lungs.
Each withdrawal leaves me empty in a way that makes my body chase him, my hips tilting back to take him deeper on the next stroke.
He shifts the angle. Tilts my hips up with his hands—just a fraction, his grip repositioning me with the casual certainty of someone adjusting a tool—and the next thrust hits deeper.
A place I didn't know I had. The sound I make is not a word.
It is not even a syllable. It is something pulled from the bottom of my lungs.
"Don't stop," I say.
Which is what I said I'd never say. It's day three. I've said a lot of things I said I wouldn't.
"Tell me again," he says. Rough. Strained.
"Don't stop," I say again, louder, with his hips driving into mine.
He reaches under me and finds my clit. The next thrust hits the angle that breaks something open in my chest. I cry out—the sound ricocheting off the canopy walls, echoing back—and I have nothing left for embarrassment.
He keeps the angle. Pins me down with his weight and drives in.
His fingers on my clit, the slap of his body against mine constant and rhythmic.
I'm going to come. I'm past caring.
"That's it," he says, rough against my ear. His fingers press harder. "Come on my cock. I want to feel you—"
I come. Hard. My walls grip him in long clenching waves.
He groans—deep and wrecked—and drives harder through it.
I'm still clenching. He's still driving.
I am still gasping, still moaning, and it doesn't stop.
I dig my nails into the furs. He grabs my hip with one hand, pins me down, and keeps going.
He comes inside me.
The flood of heat—so much of it, pumping into me in thick pulses that land where I grip him.
Each pulse is distinct. I can count them—one, two, three, four—each one hotter than the last, his cock twitching against my G-spot with every spurt.
The cum fills me in stages, each pulse adding warmth and weight, the fullness expanding from my center outward until it's in my hips, in my lower back, in the ache of being so completely occupied.
His groan is long and wrecked against my hair, his whole body shuddering.
His wings snap open—a reflexive flare, the membrane catching the light, a shudder that runs through the cartilage and into the wingtips.
His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise.
He buries himself to the hilt and stays there, pulsing, pouring heat into me.
My body takes it and holds it. Greedily, which is the part I can't look at yet.
My walls grip him through every pulse, milking more, and the clenching is not voluntary.
My body wants this. My body is taking his cum the way a parched thing takes water—without restraint, without shame, with the single-minded focus of something that has found what it needs.
The knot seals it in. Swollen thick at my cunt, locking us together. The seal is absolute. Nothing in, nothing out. His cum is mine now, hot and heavy inside me, going nowhere. My walls pulse around him.
His cock doesn't stop moving. Even knotted, even spent, it rolls inside me—slow, restless, stroking my walls in long deliberate waves.
His cum is hot and thick inside me, sealed in by the knot, and his cock stirs through it.
The vibration starts—from the knot into my clit, through my walls, that relentless hum.
"Breed," he says against my neck. Low. Almost a growl. His hips roll in small circles, working the knot where it's seated.
A sound leaves me. My hips jerk back against him.
The vibration climbs with my clenching—I grip him and it spikes, I grip harder and it spikes again.
His cock strokes inside me through every clench, finding the spot, pressing.
I am moaning into the nest. The wet sounds of his cum inside me as his cock moves are obscene and I can hear every one.
"Enjoy that?" Rough. Low. Almost conversational.
I whimper something that isn't a word. My thighs are shaking. The orgasm is building from the vibration alone—the knot pressed against my clit from inside, his cock stroking my G-spot, his cum hot inside me.
He rolls us to our sides. His arms come around me from behind—his chest against my back, his tail winding around my waist—and his hands press flat against my stomach. Low. Where his cum is pooling inside me. He holds me there. His cock is still restless. Still stroking.
A breeze moves through the canopy, finding the gaps in the aerie wall.
Cool air across the sweat on my chest. The light is shifting—the afternoon gold going copper, the sun dropping behind the canopy line.
Somewhere below the aerie, a bird calls.
A long, falling note that goes out into the ruins and doesn't come back.
I come on the vibration. My walls clench hard around his cock, around the knot, around the cum sealed inside me. Something comes out of my mouth—loud enough that the bird goes silent. He rumbles against my neck. Satisfied. His tail tightens around my waist.
The orgasm doesn't stop. It rolls, crests, recedes, crests again. His cock strokes through every wave. The vibration won't stop climbing.
I've been going for three days. I will keep going until his rut gets what it needs. He won't let me fall in the meantime.
Below us: the edge of the nest. The long drop.
The decision I made. The woman who stepped off that ledge is still here, somewhere under the venom and the pleasure and the warm weight of his hands.
She doesn't want to step off anything anymore.
She doesn't know what she wants instead. That's its own kind of falling.
He flexes inside me hard against the spot. My breath catches. Already. Again. His hips are rolling, the knot shifting, and the next one building before the last one has finished.
Somewhere below the aerie, the bird calls again. That long, falling note that goes out into the ruins. This time, something answers it—a second voice, higher, from the far side of the canopy. The two songs braid together in the darkening air.
I come to birdsong, his cock deep inside me, his hands holding my hips, the knot vibrating against my clit. The noise tears out before I can stop it and the birds don't stop. The world goes on. The world doesn't care. There is something almost comforting about that.
I wonder if Alli noticed the wings. Whether she lay in the dark behind them and listened to the canopy the way I'm listening now. Whether she found something almost comforting about it too.