Page 132 of That’s My Orc, Tusk Off

Sliding out, he drove forward again.

My moan shot out.

“Better?” he asked.

“So much.”

He started pumping. In and out. The friction made me gasp.

“Good?” he asked.

“Very good.”

He set a steady rhythm, rocking into me while I held on. Each thrust dragged his ridges against me in ways that made my vocabulary disappear. In, the ridges caught. Out, they dragged. The friction was everywhere, constant, maddening.

But I needed more, something I couldn’t name.

“Harder,” I said.

His control cracked. He withdrew almost completely, then thrust back in.

I cried out.

“Like that?” he asked, his voice strained.

The ridges moved in waves along his length, each one vibrating independently as he thrust.

“Yes. Just like that.”

He did it again and again, building momentum until the bed shook with each thrust.

But I still wasn’t where I needed to be.

“Wait,” I said.

He stopped, concern crossing his face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” I pushed his chest. “Can we try something different?”

“What do you need?”

“I want to turn over.”

His eyes darkened. “You mean on your hands and knees?”

“Yes.”

He withdrew carefully and helped me flip over, his hands steadying me as I got into position. Then he was behind me, his hands gripping my hips, lining himself up again.

He pushed forward slowly, and I dropped my head, clinging to the sheets.

“Alright?” he asked.

“Perfect.”

He started moving, his hips driving deeper. From this angle, every thrust made my elbows nearly give out. When his ridges started vibrating again, my arms gave way, and I dropped to my forearms, making the angle even deeper.

His grip on my hips tightened. “I’m trying to hold on. Feels so good.”