“I'm going to make you understand what your body really needs.” His forked tongue slides out. “This, for instance.”
He doesn't touch me with it. Just lets me see, lets my imagination fill in what it might feel like. The tongue moves independently, both forks testing the air, and I can see it vibrating slightly. A tool designed for very specific tasks.
“Please,” I hear myself say. “Please use that on me.”
“Where specifically?”
“You know where.”
“Say it.”
“Between my legs. Use your tongue between my legs.”
“To do what?”
The question breaks something loose in my chest. “To make me come. Please make me come. I can't—I've tried everything—my fingers don't work—nothing works except?—”
“Except me.”
“Yes.”
He rises from his crouch, and for a moment I think he's going to give me what I begged for. Instead, he approaches slowly, each step calculated to build anticipation. When he reaches me, he doesn't touch me with his hands or his mouth.
His breath ghosts across the junction of my neck and shoulder. The response is immediate, overwhelming. My head lolls back, striking the stone with a dull thud I don't seem to feel. A low, guttural sound escapes me—part pleasure, part pain—as my body convulses against the wall.
I'm coming just from his breath, and the realization is as terrifying as it is relieving.
“One,” he says against my skin, the word vibrating through me. “So responsive already.”
Before I can recover, he's moving. Hands on my shoulders, pressing me back against the smooth stone wall. My legs can barely hold me up, but he supports my weight easily while his mouth finds my throat.
Not biting. Just pressure, heat, the promise of teeth that could tear but choose not to. His tongue traces along my pulse point—just the tip of one fork—and another wave crashes through me.
“Two.”
This time I'm ready for it, but ready doesn't help. The sensation builds from that single point of contact, spreading through my nervous system like wildfire. My hands scrabble at his shoulders, claws finding purchase in scales that shift from smooth to rough depending on the angle.
“Please,” I manage between gasps. “More.”
“Tell me exactly what you want more of.”
“Your tongue. I want your tongue on me.”
“Where on you?”
“Everywhere. Anywhere. Just—please?—”
He drops to his knees in front of me, hands gripping my thighs. The position should make me feel powerful—him kneeling, me standing. Instead, I feel more helpless than ever. He's in control even from his knees, choosing exactly when and how to touch me.
“Spread your legs.”
I comply immediately, no thought of resistance. He studies me with clinical interest, like he's memorizing every detail.
“Perfect,” he murmurs. “Your body knows what it needs even if you refuse to admit it.”
When his breath hits me there—warm air across over sensitized flesh—the third wave crashes through me harder thanthe first two. My legs give out completely, but his hands keep me upright, pinned against the wall.
“Three. Look at you, coming apart from just my breath. Let's see what happens when I actually touch you.”
