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Rory gives no further instruction, and for that I’m strangely relieved. I move at my pace, drawing on my intuition to guide me to completion. My fingers are slick against my clit, alternating between circles both speedy and slow. I throw my head back, revealing a bitten throat, my hair skimming the backs of my shoulders. I breathe out, cool and long, and allow my eyes to flutter shut. Warmth pools in my belly, radiating to my cunt like the needy fingers stretched across my lower lips that search for release. As I stoke the flame inside me, the library grows hotter and hotter. I’m sweaty and naked andwatched— and these factors should be recipe enough for this to become a performance, for me to exaggerate the act of showgirl to the three horny chiefs in front of me, who can’t believe their luck that I’m doing this. But compared to Rory’s stream of pornographic male smut, this is sheer innocence. Just a girl, touching herself in the open, no tricks or tactics, just loving being led by pure, simple pleasure.
“Ye’re lookin’ so pretty up there, sassenach,” Finlay whispers warmly, and I smile. “Like a statue o’ a goddess.”
Other than me, the library is utterly silent. It’s as though I command the whole space, taking it up with my breath and my small, fallen moans. The energy is different, lighter than before. This is a space of serene female power that others are forced through the energy in the room to respect, as the three men here submit to me in silent fascination. There is no darkness here. There is no twisted lust or wanton machismo or needless game-playing hierarchies, only me and the power of my body reigning over my willing subjects.
My fingertips crank me closer and closer toward the edge. My body arches, my head is sharply angled. Legs begin to close automatically, trapping and tightening my hand by my clit, as I sense the telltale burn of orgasm building inside. My fingers stroke and milk the wet depth of my cunt. It should feel worse than it is. It should feel as degrading as Rory’s earlier words to Danny.
But here, hypnotizing all of them with the sway of my breasts and the crook of my hands, a literal level above their watchful eyes, I am empowered.
I am not just a statue of a goddess.
I am the goddess herself, V-shaped and victorious.
I cry out into the library, no palm against my mouth this time. My pleasure is released for all to hear, a wild, lingering moan, as though I were in the forest or on the island, not this strict old castle with its endless rules. But its ancient energy, its strange magic, imbues me, and something mystical and binding crawls up my nerves to steel me. The hushed spell is broken, but still no one moves or stops me, captivated as pleasure engulfs. This is the show, so beautiful and natural and powerful, that it required no sultry performance beforehand. No flirting, no dancing, just me, because I am enough. Orgasm, with its all-revealing power, erodes facades and washes away sly games, to leave only the raw human behind, panting and shuddering and cleansed anew.
My back slants onto the table, my legs dangling from the edge. Beneath me, the table feels wet — from sweat and, perhaps, something more. My eyes remain tightly shut as pleasure encapsulates me for long moments beyond my first peak, the kind of lingering, drawn-out female pleasure men unknowingly chase but whose clumsy hands will never grasp, and in my happy delirium, as orgasm grips my lower belly fiercely, it’s rare to have moments like this, when I think to myself that I fucking love being a woman.
It feels as though I’m drifting, like I’m back on that wooden rowboat, bobbing dreamily across the loch. The rest of the world hasn’t permeated yet. My eyes are still shut, my vision behind it swimming in complete, soothing darkness.
Then Rory says, “Lick her clean.”
“Eh, D-boy’s done enough. I’ll take this, if ye dinnae mind.”
Firm fingers part my thighs. I’m so relaxed, I worry I may slip straight off the table. Calloused fingertips trace the seams of my legs, before soft hair tickles my inner thighs. Finlay’s breath whispers secret love notes against my cunt, inhaling me, before planting his lips against mine. His tongue is a hot whip against me, an over-stimulation I don’t deny myself, and I wriggle on top of the wood again, clutching Finlay’s thick messy hair. He sups me, painting me in flat wet stripes, dragging his seeking dart of a tongue inside me for more. He doesn’t hold back in his worship. I arch myself into his mouth, wanting him to devour me whole. He licks and licks, obliging yet fierce, and one more hot wicked lash against my clit is enough for my whole body to tremble and explode into stars.
My eyes fly open then, and I swear for a moment I see celestial patterns. Through my second orgasm, I see lines and shapes, sketch-like, of the entire mechanism of the world. And then, just as quickly as my mind had come to terms with it, it fades as though it had never revealed itself to me at all. Finlay’s mouth is ceaseless against me until I tug at his hair, causing me to mewl and moan. He runs kisses up and down my thighs, his hands cupped firm around my seated backside, stroking the plumpness of my spread curves as though obsessed.
The world is tender. It is abundant and generous. I feel this for certain, deep in my marrow, just as I’d seen patterns in the air I couldn’t discern.
We are our own bubble. United, we are more powerful than everyone put together. Because no one else has this kind of patience and love. No one else has been blessed with magic like us.
We’re superior.
I honestly believe it.
Special. Important. Victorious.
I allow my heart rate to return somewhere closer to normal levels. It is determined to defy me, taking long, quiet minutes while Finlay lounges calmly, cat-like and happy, between my spread thighs. Danny remains bare-naked and uncaring about it, his majestic cock twitching and glinting in the candlelight as though craving more to plunder.
Rory meets my gaze, still mostly unreadable, but with a small, fond smile he can never quite disguise in soft moments like these, when I lie ruined and unrecoverable. He doesn’t speak — to speak would be to shatter the spell, the calm heady peace of the aftermath that we fight through our rioting bodies to achieve, but I sense the question in his eyes:Did you enjoy? And so, slowly, with my legs framing Finlay and my fingers wrapping coils within his thick black hair, I nod.
This is what sex is about. The sleepy peace that soothes and descends like stardust afterward.
The nighttime tide washing in a new world.
And then we are no longer shielded from this cruel world. Like the sudden ripping of a curtain, a most unwelcome voice says in a tone of complete horror, “Good God.”
27
“However many of you there are, get into my classroomnow.”
From the depths of the bookshelves, Dr. Moncrieff doesn’t know where to look. The illusions we’d shared of freedom, of the castle protecting us, of female power, are shattered. I automatically hide myself, my body, with my hands. The only part of me growing more visible are the whites of my widening eyes.
Rory leaps from his chair and snarls, “Get your eyes off my girlfriend!”
“Get your girlfriend off the table!”
“I don’tgetmy girlfriend to do anything,” Rory retorts coolly, in a way that makes my heart thrum. “She does as she pleases.”
