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My flesh prickled. Each nerve ending fired in anticipation, in whichever part of my body he pursued. Whenever the jester stalled, it caused me to vibrate and grow more sensitive.
As Poet dragged his palms over my hips, I pictured those black enameled nails glinting. From there, he stroked my knees, easing them even farther apart. At length, I whimpered as his fingers brushed along my inner thighs, massaging the flesh lightly, like the most criminal of teases.
Finally, the mattress dipped. Poet hunkered forward, his hair grazing my skin. I gasped, feeling his head burrow into my core. Hot breath ghosted over my pussy and skimmed my clit, the effect saturating me.
Poet planted a soft kiss against my folds. My respirations hitched at the contact, and my core pounded with need. I braced myself for the unholy sensation of his tongue. Yet instead, the jester reeled himself away on a groan, then snuck backward.
Straightening between my legs, he whispered in a voice made of leather and silk, “Preserve your energy, sweeting.”
… all night long.
Just then, something smooth coasted up my inner thigh. My eyebrows furrowed, and an exhalation snagged in my throat. The object extended a considerable number of inches, not as short as a quill, nor as long as a pole. Yet it bore a similar rodlike shape, and despite the solid exterior, its touch was soft.
Poet traced my flesh with the item, sweeping it into the vent of my limbs. As it neared my cleft, I grasped the ribbons, my fingers wrapping around the fabric. This reaction caused the headboard to thump gently into the wall.
My respirations grew rough and erratic. Whatever it was, Poet was trailing the item toward my pussy. To my astonishment, arousal seeped from my body, and I felt the urge to expand my limbs until I no longer could.
Then it happened. A rounded surface made contact with my slit, its tip polished and rigid. A small yelp jumped off my tongue. In reflex, my rear bucked off the sheets, my feet jerking on their own ribbons, which only snared me firmer in place.
Poet halted the object. His mouth skated across my knee and whispered, “Yield, my thorn.”
His voice coaxed my frame back into the mattress, which earned me a hum of approval. With my body fully sprawled, the jester slowly rowed the object up and down my slot, his pace languid. All at once, a stunning type of pressure built, creating a pleasurable friction against the intimate flesh. A noise of appreciation curled from my lips, and my waist moved off its own volition, jutting toward the apparatus.
My jester rasped something under his breath and responded in kind. He swept the tip back and forth along my entrance, each time getting closer to my swollen clit. I whined and coiled, my knees falling wider, as if that might bring my pussy nearer to the rod.
It felt like … its shape reminded me of …
“Oh,” I keened, a bolt of pleasure streaking through my walls when Poet circled the object, using its peak to sketch the oval of my opening. Seasons, the stimulation throttled my body. Tingles spread over my scalp, and my pussy dripped as I writhed into the item.
And then I realized what it felt like, what its shape emulated. I thought of Poet’s cock, the broad head and slit at the top, the thick length, and hard width. The item in his grip was … was supposed to be a …
My memory strayed to the pleasure vault in Spring, then the sex trinkets stored in Poet’s wardrobe. He had used one on me before, but not like this.
Nonetheless, I liked it. Seasons help me, I liked it very much.
With my jester, what should feel sordid and vulgar never did. Rather, it felt innate and authentic. In his embrace, intimacy was playful and joyous, sensual and uninhibited, sexy and beautiful. They were the most genuine, most potent, most empowering emotions I’d ever known.
There was no place for embarrassment or repentance. To the contrary, it would be shameful to deny this.
Another moan shook from my mouth. I hoisted my hips toward the object, warmth cresting between my folds. I wanted it inside me, like I wanted him inside me, penetrating so deeply, so good.
Poet muttered another incomprehensible obscenity and skimmed the head up to my clit. He etched around the distended flesh, then feathered it over the apex. And I lost my faculties.
A gravely cry toppled out of me, followed by another, then another with each pass atop the stud. My pussy ached terribly, seeping freely now. The ribbons gripped my hands and ankles as I vaulted against the toy.
Poet alternated between swabbing my clit and tracing my cleft until I was sobbing. The disjointed noises spurred him on. At last, he took pity and pushed forward, using the tip to probe me.
My folds expanded, flaring for the object. With shallow jabs, the jester thrust the rod in and out, siphoning just so. Each time the shaft went a bit deeper, my pussy spread a tad wider, and my cries escalated.
I dug my heels into the mattress and took over, using the leverage to burrow down. A great moan vaulted from my throat as I straddled the object and sank around it fully. The solid length pistoned into me, and my soaked walls clutched its thick shape.
Then I began to ride it. My hips bobbed with abandon, wetness smothering the toy. Tied down, I relied on my lower body, pumping myself over and over.
“Good, Your Highness,” Poet urged. “Very good. Play with it. Fuck it as you’d like to fuck me.”
Emboldened, I lapped my core against the tool. My eyes continued to squeeze shut, darkness engulfing my vision, the sensations more extravagant because of it. I clamped around the rod and swayed on top of it. All the while, Poet stroked the item into me, his tempo gradual.
My blood spiraled, about to relinquish control of itself. The orgasm mounted, shoving me toward a precipice. Yet I resisted, my hands fisting the ribbons.
