Page 55 of The Wild Man
“So wet,” he groans against my ear. “I like wetness. My thing feel good to you, momor?”
“Cock,” I moan, barely able to get the word out. “Your thing is called a cock. Say it.”
“Cock.” I shiver at the rough note in his voice. “My cock feel good?”
“Yes. So so good.”
He bites the side of my throat. “What this?” He shoves his fingers deeper inside me, sliding them along his cock.
“Pussy.”
“My cock feel good feed my pussy.”
I grind myself down on him. “My pussy,” I whimper.
He lifts me up and slams me back down hard, digging his fingers in deeper.
“My pussy, momor. Always mine.”
He puts his palm over my breast, cupping it fully. “What this?”
I can barely form the words past the intense pleasure consuming me. “Breasts. Or boobs. Or tits. Whichever you prefer.”
“My tits, momor.” He squeezes the plump flesh. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to emphasize his point. “Mine.” He jams his hips upward.
He shifts his hand over until it lays over my pounding heart. “This mine, too. Tell me.”
I don’t want to say the word, but whether I refuse him or give him what he wants, I’m afraid it’s too late.
I can deny it until I’m blue in the face, but it won’t change the fact that his claim is true.
I am his. Every single inch of me.
“Yours.”
eighteen
Wild Man
I stand close behind and to the side of my female, my attention focused on the look on her face. Her expression is serious, as if she’s really concentrating on what she’s doing. Her eyebrows are a straight line and her lips are parted with the tip of her tongue touching the bottom one.
I desperately want to take that tongue between my lips and taste her, but she’s still keeping her mouth from me.
But that’s fine. She’ll give me what I want.
Momor suddenly straightens, her back going stiff and her eyes tracking movement in the knee deep water we’re in. A moment later, her hand darts forward, the spear she’s holding dunking beneath the clear surface.
She pulls it out and spins to face me, grinning so big her cheeks puff out.
“I did it!” she shouts, holding up a wiggling fish speared on the end.
I chuckle. “Good, momor.” I still struggle with finding my words, but they’re coming easier with each day. “Dinner for you.” I pluck the fish from the spear and toss it on the bank. “Again. Dinner for me.”
She turns back, lifting the arm holding the spear, ready to stab another fish.
My eyes slide down her back and over the roundness of her backside. I want to go to her and shove myself inside her tight hole. To rut in her wetness until she squeezes me, and I shoot my seed in her womb.
Cock and pussy. That’s what she called my thing and the place between her legs. I like the words, and from the way my female’s breathing picks up when I use them, she likes them too. Or she likes when I say them.