Then he says, “There are depths I haven’t reached yet.”
An offer. His tendrils pause against my spine, waiting, pressing without pushing.
“Yes,” I say. “God, yes.”
His body slips under my shirt.
He takes his time. Every inch of skin mapped slowly, deliberately, his warm mass flowing over me while I stand trembling in his grip.
Then he strips me.
My shirt lifts over my head. My shorts drag down my legs, his tendrils catching the fabric and pulling it away. The morning air hits my skin for half a second beforehis heat covers me again. I’m standing in my living room wearing nothing but the thin light through the window and the shifting colors rolling across Oz’s surface.
He’s savoring this.
He knows I’m desperate. I can feel his awareness of my racing pulse, the wet heat building between my thighs, the way my body leans into him.
And still he takes his time.
His form gathers low.
Mass concentrates below his center, thickening with deliberate intent. Two extensions push out from his body, shaped and specific, formed from all the reading he’s done of what I crave.
Cocks is too simple a word.
They’re glossy and alive, shimmering with violet and gold, a bright pulse visible through them like light through deep water.
And they’re enormous.
I stare.
The sound that escapes me is somewhere between a gasp and a whine.
Oz goes still again. Waiting, the question clear in his quiet.
“Yes,” I say. “Please.”
His gold patterns flare.
He lifts me, his body flowing under me, shaping into a seat that cradles my hips and thighs, taking all my weight. My legs dangle, my back pressed to his chest.
Suspended in him. Held up like something precious, and the utter helplessness of it rockets through me, sharp and bright.
The first cock presses against my pussy.
Slow. So slow I want to whimper. The head of it parts me open inch by inch, and I can feel every ridge of him, every shifting texture, the warmth radiating from inside his body into the walls of my pussy.
He’s reading me as he goes. I know this because he stops precisely when my breath hitches, holds there, lets me adjust, then pushes deeper the second my body softens around him.
“Here,” he says, and a tendril brushes the exact spot on my inner thighwhere my muscle is clenching. The tension releases, and he slides in another two inches, and the sound I make is animal as I’m spread wide open with his cock deep inside me.
He fills me completely. The stretch borders on too much, the kind of full that makes your brain go quiet, and I can feel him pulsing inside me, that slow heartbeat now throbbing against my walls.
Then he thrusts.
The first stroke pulls out slow and pushes back in deep, and my whole body jolts in his grip. His substance holds me tighter in response, tendrils locking around my hips, my thighs, anchoring me so I can’t squirm away from the intensity. The second cock presses against my ass, slick with something he’s producing, warm and impossibly smooth.
He goes still.
