Page 91 of Born for Silk
Condemning my Silk Wardeness further for her carelessness with Iris and me. Had she been a Sired Mother, and Iris and I, babes instead of Silk Girls, and they were injured under her watch, would I feel as angry and vengeful as Rome. I don’t know.
His hand traces my leg, from ankle to the back of my knee, a strangely erogenous sensation. This, paired with his tongue as it climbs, causes me to squirm underneath his body. I feel so small whenever he is near, not just physically, but his presence is vast and concrete.
His tongue laps at my folds the way I like, and he hums to show his enjoyment matches my own.
“So swollen,” he utters—two words dark with delight.
After a few moments of gentle attention, he crawls over me, his tongue painting a trail up my trembling stomach, between my breasts. He settles his forearms on either side of my face. He slides the veil down, our eyes meeting.
I shrink a little.
He is a predator ready to devour willing prey.
I gaze down the long, hard length of him.
He is naked and stunning. The light from the artificial fire illuminates the bulges and darkens the grooves that define each muscle. His chest tattoos are lightly dusted in hair that arrows down to the long length, hard and pulsing between his hips. It curves upward, like a forearm with a pink fist.
There is so much beast in him. All the parts are there hidden in what as a whole looks human and yet… doesn’t.
He is too large. Too scarred. Too muscular. Eyes pretty and blue yet set into stark features that express a need to dominate or destroy.
“Aster.” His lips meet mine.
We both hum, tongues tangling gently before greed and lust demand more pressure.
"My king.”
"I needed to taste these lips." His tongue, much longer and thicker than mine, licks my mouth on the outside.
"Why?" I pant.
"Because, little creature, I seem to breathe better when I can taste you,” he offers, his weight lowering to mine, reminding me that he is capable of ending my life without even trying to.
I cup the back of his thick neck, circling the muscles along his rising shoulders with my fingertips. "Did you know that when I do this... your groan rumbles in your muscles like you're purring."
"Does it?" He sounds amused. "And you think you have tamed me, sweet creature?"
"No.” I can hardly breathe now as he applies more pressure, as if his kind words are refuted by his own body. “I don't think that will ever happen.”
“Keep your eyes open,” he says into my mouth. “Watch. Look what your pretty body can do to your king.”
I don’t understand until he shifts and wraps his large hand around his… cock. That’s what he calls it. I think I like the word now; it’s not so crass. One syllable. With a punching sound. Cock. Like thrust, thud, fuck, pound. Cock.
Between our bodies, he strokes his fist from the root along the throbbing rod, to the crown, and rolls his palm over the slit a few times before dragging his hand back down.
It’s incredibly erotic.
Like in the picture.
“You may help me breathe deep, but I own you.” He groans. “All the ways I will take you. All the different positions I will bend your body into, all the ways I’ll move you, manhandle you. You will never stand a chance if I want you bent or spread, little creature. You’re mine.”
He pumps himself, squeezes upward toward the flushing tip, and then starts again. His abdomen contracts to the violent friction. Along his forearms, coils of veins lift his tattoos, pulsing his skin like his heartbeat is everywhere.
“Your womb is sacred,” he goes on, voice like gravel. “But your little body is mine to enjoy. And I’ll move you around wherever I want you, hold you, force you to take me.”
I can hear his teeth grit together, his heavy panting pummelling me. His arousal is palpable; I feel the tight agony inside him, twisting us both like rubber bands, like the building of a song or pirouette that gains in speed and intensity.
And then peaks.