13. Say Please #2
I do not stop.
I take her there at the pace her body is asking for.
Flat of my tongue. Then the point. Then I suck her clit and she swears.
My hand at her hip holding her down, because her body is trying to push up into my mouth faster than I am going to let her.
My tail steady at her other thigh. Two fingers slide into her — tight, soaked — and I curl them while I lick.
The rosettes at my forearms release the scent compounds at full saturation.
Her pulse is climbing, climbing, and she is saying my name in a register that is closer, each time, to correct.
She reaches a hand down.
Her fingers in my hair. Not an anchor — a guide. She is running the rhythm. I am the male delivering.
“Tael — slower — wait — don’t you dare—“
“Sweetheart. You do not get to come yet. Not until you ask.”
“Tael — I said slower—“
“Copy.”
I slow.
She is close. I can read the close in her pulse and in the small sound she is making through her teeth and in the tightening around my fingers. I slow further. I make her wait. I lick around her clit and do not give her the pressure she wants.
She grinds against my mouth.
“Tael.”
“Tell me what you want.”
“I want to come.”
“Ask me.”
Her pupils blow.
I watch the moment a female who has been directing traffic for ten minutes realizes that asking is a different register, and is a register she is going to have to use.
Her jaw works.
“Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please let me come, Tael. Please. I need it. I have needed it since the airlock. Please—“
“Good girl.”
It falls against her pulse on the inside of her thigh.
Low. Wrecked. Her body gives — the whole thing, the nervous system, the breath, the sound out of her mouth that is my name said correctly, the consonant landing, the first time tonight she has fully produced the Draelith shape.
She comes on my tongue. I keep licking through it.
She tries to close her thighs. My tail does not let her.
She comes for me on good girl.
I do not let her down. My mouth does not stop. My tail holds her thigh. The purr keeps going. She is coming, and her hand in my hair is no longer a grip but an anchor, and her voice is not her security-counter voice anymore. It is broken. It is mine.
When she settles — breath shaking, hand loose — I lift my head. Wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Let her watch.
“Still undecided, sweetheart?”
“Shut up, Tael.”
“Noted. You came on my face and your cream is the most delicious gift.”
I kiss my way up her body.
Her thigh. Her hipbone. Her ribs. The underside of her breast. My mouth at her nipple, canine grazing, the purr through her sternum.
Her whole chest flushed. Her stomach. The hollow of her navel.
The pulse at the underside of her jaw. Her collarbone.
The hollow at her throat. I leave a mark there. She gasps.
Her hand comes up to my throat. The exact spot where the bond-mark would sit if she set it.
The pad of her thumb against my pulse.
“I know where the spot is.”
“I know you do.”
“I wanted you to know that I know.”
“I know you know. Put your thumb there again and I am going to want to bite you so badly I forget how to be good.”
Her dark eyes on mine. Her thumb at my pulse. The weight of her thumb at the place where my biology would, with her permission, form the bond-mark.
She does not press.
She does not claim.
She lets me feel the pad of her thumb there for three full seconds, and she takes her hand away.
She pushes me onto my back.
Her hand flat on my chest. She swings her leg over me. My cock slaps against her cunt. She is still soaked. She drags herself along the length of me, and we both swear.
“My turn, Tael.”
“Noted.”
She takes a moment. Her dark eyes on mine. Her fingers trace down from the rosette at my sternum — the small path a female takes when she is getting to know the body she is going to take — down my abdomen, across my hip, and then lower.
Her hand on me.
The careful realisation of a female whose body has just confirmed, by direct tactile evidence, what her hand at the console guessed at.
“You are—“
“I am, sweetheart.”
“Bigger than—“
“Yes. And you are going to take all of it.”
Her thumb traces up the ridges. Her eyes come up to mine. Mouth parted.
“You are going to ruin me for anyone else.”
“I know, sweetheart. That is the point.”
“That was not a question.”
I smirk in response as I watch her come to terms with the fact.
Her jaw tightens. Her chin comes up. The operational-command posture I have seen her deploy in Flossie’s office.
“Then ruin me, Tael.”
“Copy.”
She lines me up. The head of my cock notches against her. She sinks down at her own pace, slow — inch by inch, the ridges catching, her breath catching, her hand at my chest tightening.
She stops halfway.
Her eyes close.
“Give me a second.”
“Take it. Breathe. You can take me.”
“Tael — the ridges—“
“Every one of them is going to drag inside you when you move.”
She breathes. She sinks the rest of the way.
The sound she makes when I am in her to the hilt is a sound I am going to be hearing every quiet minute for the rest of my life. Tight. Hot. Perfect. I have to count breaths so I do not come immediately.
She stops. She breathes.
“You are filling—“
“I was built for you, Natalie. I told you. Your cunt was built to take this cock and you are going to prove it.”
Her hands flat against my chest. Her hips roll the first time — testing, the slight movement where her body is learning a new configuration. Her breath catches on the ridges. She rolls again. Harder.
She makes a sound.
“Oh — Tael—“
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Every time I move I—“
“I know.”
“Feel every—“
“I know.”
“Ridge.”
I smirk.
“Ride them. Use me.”
She moves.
My hands at her hips. Her hair falling forward.
Her hips setting a pace that is hers. My tail wraps the small of her back — supporting, holding her at the angle she has chosen, not interfering.
The purr is in hers now through every point of contact.
I watch my cock disappear into her on every downstroke and I will not survive this.
She runs it for the first minute. The second minute she softens. Her jaw, which has been set in the command posture, loosens. Her eyes half-close. Her hips keep moving, but the driving is going out of the rhythm. She is less interested in running and more interested in feeling.
“Tael.”
“Sweetheart.”
“I — I don’t want to run it anymore.”
I hear the admission in the small tone her voice goes when she is not in command and does not know what to do with the not-in-command.
“Then don’t, Natalie. I will take it from here. I will fuck you until you cannot form a sentence.”
She stops. She nods. Her hands flat. Her eyes closed.
I sit up.
Her on my lap. My arm at her back. My mouth at her breast. The angle change puts me deeper. She makes a sound that is new even tonight.
Her hand at the back of my head. My canine at her nipple. The purr at full through her sternum. The ridges at a new angle.
I set the rhythm.
Slow. Hard. Deep. The pace I have been wanting to set for ninety minutes and which she has handed me the authority to run. She makes sounds into my shoulder. Her fingernails at my back. Her hips meeting mine at the rhythm I am setting.
“Tael?”
“I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
“I can’t — I can’t think—“
“You do not have to think. You only have to take it.”
“Oh—“
“You are going to come for me, Natalie. On my cock this time. I want to feel it.”
“Tael—“
“Look at me.”
She looks at me.
“Good girl.”
Said into her mouth at the moment her pupils blow and her body tightens around me and she goes over — arching, sound out of her, my name in her mouth at the full Draelith shape, her thighs locking around my waist, her fingernails at my back.
She comes so hard I feel every pulse of it around my cock.
She comes apart in my lap.
I do not come.
I told her I would not come before her and I am not going to. The discipline is killing me. My balls ache. I hold.
When she is down enough to speak, she puts her forehead at my shoulder.
“I can’t—“
“Can’t what.”
“I can’t keep up with you.”
“You do not have to keep up with me.”
“You — you have not even come yet.”
“I am in no hurry. I am going to fuck you through another one first.”
She laughs.
The small laugh of a female that she just come apart twice and is alive enough to find my operational patience ridiculous.