Page 114 of The Fake Divination Offense
This is certainly one hell of a show.
The tip of the dildo pushes through that first ring and both Bel and I whimper, his back arching in a fluid ripple as his tail keeps a steady pace.
“Good?” he asks, panting.
“Holy shit,” I say again. “So good. Gods, sweetheart, look at you. You’re artwork. So sexy, just for me.”
“Just for you,” Bel echoes, and I see the blankets move as he nods. “Just yours. Say it, please, Orok—”
“Mine, Bel. All mine. You gonna take that whole thing? You’ll have to, if you want to take me, too.Fuck, just like that—you know exactly what you’re doing to me, don’t you?”
His toes curl, ass flexing, and more of the not insubstantial dildo vanishes bit by bit inside him. Between his legs, his hard cock is trapped in his panties but he leaves it be, while I can’t touch my own cock at all either, ecstasy pelting my senses from every angle.
He groans wantonly and shudders, keeps the thrusting pace for a few more minutes before he peers over his shoulder at me again.
That tail continues fucking him like it’s got a mind of its own, and Bel’s face is glossy with sweat and drool already, his eyeliner and mascara smeared across his temple as he asks, “Am I ready? Please, can you fuck me now? I need—need you in me. I’ll go slow, I promise.”
I nod, because I can’t take anymore either.
He immediately scrambles up, holding the dildo in his ass as he moves to straddle me, andoh my gods. That tail. The things that tail can do. Holy shit, we are definitely exploring more ofthatlater, but for now, I help him move up my lap.
My thighs are too wide for him to fit his knees on either side of me, and I have a brief moment of panic mixed with mentally doing sex physics while I try to figure out how he’s going to ride me—because he’s clearly determined to ride me—when he tugs at my shoulders until I slide down the bed to lay flatter. He plants his knees on my stomach, his legs folded under him along the tops of my thighs, and does a test bounce, fucking that dildo the way he’ll fuck my cock.
His inhale falters, swollen lips rolling into his mouth in a moan.
“Yeah?” he asks, breathy and delirious. “This okay? Your shoulder okay?”
“My shoulder’s fine. This is—”
A hiss slips through his lips. He pulled the dildo out of his ass.
“Careful, sweetheart,” I gently chastise. “You’re supposed to take care of what’s mine. I don’t want you hurting. Go slow, okay? Fuck yourself open even more on me.”
That delirium, that dazed look—he’s only half hearing me, and honestly, I’m only half aware of what I’m saying.
The lube appears, and he coats my dick before tossing the bottle and dildo on the bedside table and grabbing my cock. With his tail.
Oh my gods.
Did not know I had such a tail kink.
Bel’s head throws back as he places me against his hole and sinks down. The tendons in his neck bulge, all the sculpted muscles of his athlete’s body straining to taut perfection. I can count the squares of his abs, the lean lines that fan across his pecs; I’m touching them, tracing them one by one, locked in a trance as he levers himself up, down, up again, whimpering and rocking his hips. His tail strangles the base of my cock and gods, that’s needed, needed because he lifts his hands into his hair, grips those strawberry curls, and moves his torso in a sinful undulation that shouldn’t be physically possible.None of this, of him, should be possible, but he is. He’s proof that gods do exist, and this, what we’re doing? This is how you worship. This is how you honor the divine.
“Sweetheart,” I gasp, stroking his side, up to his armpit, back down. “So perfect for me. You’re dancing, do you know that? You dance while we fuck. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, you writhing on me like my own performance. Dance for me, Bel. Make yourself feel good on me.”
He seats himself fully on my cock with a crackling shout, tail unwinding from the base, those twitching waves of motion flaring out to his limbs in jerks and spasms.
“S-so much d-deeper,” he manages, his eyes bursting open to lock on me like he needs that connection to orient himself. He runs his hands over his head, down his neck, his chest. His palms stop, lay flat on his stomach, and he groans, symphonic and indulgent. “I—I can feel you here. Oh my gods, Orok. You’re—”
He gives an experimental bounce and keens to the ceiling, tail lassoing around my ankle so snug I can feel the bite in my skin.
“Oh my gods,” he wails and fucks himself on me in earnest, toppling forward to brace his hands on my pecs.
I grip one of his wrists, letting him take what he needs from me, give everything to me. His eyes stay on mine as he launches both of us interstellar, and that connection becomes tangible, becomes binding.
Blood beats in my temples, in my thumb where it presses to his pulse point, harmonizing with the rhythm of his; we’re in tandem and sweeping each other away, matching intensities and driving each other higher.
It’s dangerous. If we’re both spiraling out, who will bring us back down?
