Page 15 of Gyft

“Yes, I’m Gyft. Now, keep wifing my cock.” Another groan erupts and her hand freezes, as if she’s just become aware she’s working it.

I sigh, feeling the loss. “Too soon? I knew it was too good to be true. Come, then. Let’s wash you.”

I flatten my palm on top of her chest—over her delectable double-breasts—and push her under the cascading water.

She splutters, then I yelp as she reaches for my cock and uses it to pull me under the spray with her.

“Gentle, my bride. You act as if you own it already.” Technically, I guess she does. And the thought isn’t as abhorrent as I thought it might be.

I reach for the cleanser and press a bubble into my palms, then squeeze them to burst it. A million soft suds begin to fizz, and I bring my hands up to the crown of her head. Gently I rub the lather in, massaging her scalp.

Bride closes her eyes and moans.

A smile twitches my lips. She’s an odd creature but her actions are adorable.

Softly, I rub it into her face and she keeps her eyes closed as if allowing it, so I spread it over her eyelids too.

Since her eyes are squeezed tightly shut, I take the opportunity to spread the soft soap over the two lonesome breasts. She doesn’t slap my hand this time, probably because she’s afraid to open her eyes. But now, I can look my feel. I can touch what’s mine, and see the tight buds of her nipples pucker.

I trail my finger down the cleft of her single cleavage. “I find this attractive. Simple. Elegant. Now it seems as if three breasts on a chest are cluttered.” I frown. That can’t be a good sign. How can I prefer my bride when I haven’t even had her?

I run the soap into the under crease of her breasts, loving the way her breath hitches with my touch. She wants me.

“How much more can you take?” I croon, as I trace a path down to the V between her legs. More thatch covers that area, like the one on top her head, but it’s darker and more mysterious in the area between her legs.

“What is this for? Do you need warmth here? Like a... wilderness beast?”

A groan answers me as I tug gently on the small strip of fur. And then I fully explore her body, separating the folds of skin that are thicker than those of our females. There are double folds, again like the double-breasts. I’m surprised that herposia, the nub of sensitivity, is at the top of the folds instead of inside.

I circle it. “Is it too sensitive to touch directly? Being on the outside of your body?” I ask, but of course she can’t answer me. For the first time, I wished we knew each other’s languages. I reach behind her and soap the area between her cheeks, which makes her gasp a little and push me away. But I simply tut.

“My bride, we must get you clean everywhere, yes? If you’re not exhausted, I’d like to—” I feel myself deflate. I can’t possibly lie with my bride tonight. Not until we can understand each other and I can explain that it is a one-time only fling.

And how much I will enjoy it.

And how much I will make sure she enjoys it.

Until then, it’s hands off.

She steps back into the spray and I soap myself while I watch her rinse. Droplets of water cascade down her body, over her mounds. Then slowly bead on her delectable nipples.

Her fingers look graceful, even though, like her breasts, she’s missing one. She smooths the water from her face, and over her skull.

“My hair’s so soft,” she says. “My skin. Damn, that soap is the bomb. Better than anything I’ve used.” Her eyes pop open. “How did I not notice you have a tail?”

Not sure what she’s saying but her eyes land on her ankle, where my tail slowly rubs back and forth. It’s like it has a mind of its own, taking over, inching its own way up her leg to explore the musky warmth buried between her thighs.

“I know, I know. We must be good until you can understand me. My tail won’t go any higher than this.”

I sigh and switch off the spray, then switch on the warmers. Red lamps bring instant heat and I reach for a squirt of oil, rubbing it between my palms as I smooth the liquid from her skin. The droplets mix with the light oil, absorbing as I rub.

“I got this, I got this,” she says, pushing my hands away. Ahh, she also realizes it’s hard to endure each other’s touch without taking more.

I wrap her in a robe that hangs over the bathroom hook, reaching for one also. I usher her out into the bedroom, the entire time wondering how I’m going to ask the farmer for dinner without my bride at my side. How will I make her understand to stay hidden up here?

A soft knock sounds at the door and before I can bark out that we’re busy, Bride runs to the door and flings it open.

“Hi, I’m Olivia. The one under the hood.”

---