Page 15 of CurVy 13

I moan.

He groans.

I lift my hips to meet them and even… allow my body to enjoy it. I’ll separate the two pieces of me.

Sever them right now.

There is me.

Then there is my body.

I don’t understand this mindset, or whether it’s good or bad, but it feels like a survival instinct buried deep. A mother lifting a two-ton car to save a baby… that kind of thing.

“Can I taste you, baby?”

Can I do this?

I nod, widening my thighs for him. He is vital to staying alive, fed, and being treated well; I can just feel it. Vulnerability flows from him, but volatility stirs through that force, so I have to keep my cool. Be smart.

As I pull his face down, I thread my finger through his dark hair, pretending there is love in my touch. Even better, if he’s between my legs, he can’t stare at the rolls of my stomach. I try desperately not to think about being so utterly exposed to him or the parts I twitch to cover.

That won’t help my act.

He manoeuvres quickly, kneeling, able to get down on his elbows and press his face between my thighs. His jeans and the sleeves of his black shirt are already damp from the water pooling on the shower floor.

With his fingers still inside me, his lips meet my pussy and suck with not an inkling of hesitation. I hate it, but it’s a nice change from Oliver’s one-lick attempts.

He gently frenches my pussy with a skilled tongue and mouth, but even if he were an amateur, the playful eagerness in his motion is enough to send me into a spin.

I stroke his hair when he uses his tongue to lap at the clean juices being drawn from me by his fingers.

A moan tumbles through my lips as the primitive sensation climbs from his working fingers and lapping tongue up my spine, a long, slow building of something out of my control.

But that’s okay, Vallie.

This is your body.

Not your mind.

They’ll never have your mind.

“A contralto,” he murmurs into my pussy, before sliding his finger out to feed his tongue more of my juices.

Donnie said he was a pianist.

Even though it’s partly water leaking from me, my juices mingle in that clear liquid, and he seems dehydrated as fuck. And he’s coming off more like Beethoven the dog than Beethoven, one of the greatest composers.

“I’ll make you a soprano, baby.”

He rotates his hand so his fingers twist inside me, his thumb angled down and edging between my arse cheeks.

Squeezing the dark strands on his crown, enough to burn his scalp with my defiance, fear, resistance, and uncertainty, I make my feelings known but don’t stop him.

I don’t stop him when he uses the fluid from my pussy to massage around that new place, or when he uses his wide shoulders to push my thighs further apart.

I don’t say a word when he edges an entire thick thumb into my puckering hole or starts to fuck me in both places. But I can’t quell the throaty cry that breaks through my uncertain lips.

“That’s it. You like feeding me your pussy, don’t you? You like me taking care of you, baby.” He lifts his head and grins, his mouth devilish with child-like wonder, dripping with silky clear juices. “I’m going to be so good to you.”

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