“Yes. Give me just a moment…”
Syrie groans, but she knows better than to try to go off on her own. I scrape the last section of hide to finish this round of stretching it, then I put my tools down and stretch my aching spine.
“Seriously, you could do with a little more clothing,” Syrie says, her gaze drawn, as it always seems to be, toward my cock.
“And you could do with a little less.”
“Well, you’re about to get your wish.”
My cock jumps at the realization that she’s right. I’m about to see Syrie completely naked. Drenched in water. “Let’s go.” I wave her toward the tree line.
She laughs. “Well, that certainly put a hitch in your step, didn’t it?”
I have no idea what that means, but all that matters is that she’s jogging to keep up with me now, as I rush us into the forest.
At the edge of the stream—I’ve picked a deep location that has plenty of pink moss—Syrie turns to look at me with her hands propped on her hips. “Any chance I can convince you to turn around?”
“And leave you vulnerable to any brusha viper that swims past? No. But I would be happy to wash your back. Or any other part of you.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Yet the enticing scent of her need teases my senses again. I don’t understand this woman. She clearly wants and needs to be mated, and she is clearly attracted to me. Yet she consistently denies both of us that pleasure.
With another of her quiet little huffs, Syrie steps into the stream, gasping over the cold temperature, still fully clothed.
“Is that how humans bathe?” I ask, perplexed. She implied, just minutes ago, that she would not be wearing her clothing in the stream.
“Wait for it…” she says with a smile. Then she visibly steels herself against the temperature and wades deeper. When the cold water hits the top of her rib cage, which is likely the deepest part of the stream, she slides her hands into the water and down her hips, and I watch the water ripple—obscuring the view—as she pulls first one leg, then the other, from her pants. “Can you wash your clothes with pink moss?” she asks. “I mean, I know you don’t wear any, but other members of your species do, right?”
I’m not sure how she knows that, if she’s not a tourist, but she’s right. “Yes. Just scrub the moss directly into your wet clothing, then fold the fabric over and rub it against itself.”
“I don’t suppose you could toss me a handful of pink moss?” She frowns. “I didn’t quite think this through.”
I gather a large handful of the moss, but instead of throwing it to her, I step into the stream.
“What are you doing?” Her voice has a familiar, wary edge to it—a tone that means she’s about to deny with her voice what her body is already telling me it wants. “Stay out there! I’m bathing.”
“As am I.”
“You bathed this morning.”
“Yes, then I worked up a sweat tanning that hide, and you make the stream look so damn refreshing. So, really, you have only yourself to blame.”
“Well…you’re just going to have to wait your turn,” she snaps, her gaze following me as I take another step, moving deeper into the water.
“Are you implying that the stream is only big enough for one of us to bathe in at a time?”
“No, I— Gah! Fine. Come bathe.”
“Or, I could clean your clothes for you, if you like, while you clean your body.”
“You are not washing my underwear,” she snaps as she accepts a portion of the pink moss from me. I watch while she scrubs at the tiny garment that is intended to hide her cunt from…from interested parties, I suppose, and when she’s satisfied, she holds the garment aloft and looks around, puzzled. “I don’t suppose you have a clothesline.”
“No, but we have tree branches.” None of which she can reach. So I take the garment from her—evidently I am allowed to touch it, now that it’s clean—and I wade toward the other side of the stream, where a low-hanging branch stretches over the water. I drape her “under wear” over the branch and turn back to find her spinning in a circle in the water, with her soft gray pants trailing out behind her.
“This seemed easier than trying to wash the whole thing with soap,” she explains. “I’ll just give them a good rinse.”
I frown as I scan the water around her. The fluttery motion of her pant legs in the water mimics the trashing of prey and might draw—
Sure enough, I spot the tell-tale squiggle of a snake making its way toward her from downstream, fighting the current. As quickly as I can, I move past the still-twirling human to place myself between her and the viper, as it valiantly fights the current. And when her back is turned toward me, I lunge through the water and snatch the snake from the surface, my teeth sinking through its leathery scales just behind its head, before it has a chance to even open its mouth. I bite down hard, and I feel its spine snap.
As Syrie turns toward me, still swirling her pants in the water, I hurl the dead snake toward the shore. Her gaze meets mine as the serpent’s corpse thunks onto the ground, and I can tell that she hasn't seen it by the smile she’s still wearing.
"I think that's clean enough," she declares. I hold out my hand and she drapes her wet clothing over it. I turn to hang her pants over the tree limb, and when I turn back, I find her standing naked in the stream, rubbing a handful of pink moss into her shirt, held in front of her chest. She's worked up enough lather, and for a couple of minutes I just watch her, marveling over the play of sunlight on her wet skin. She's beautiful, even though every inch of her skin is pale, smooth, and largely hairless. At least every bit I've had the opportunity to touch.
She looks up from her shirt and sees me watching, and the bashful smile she gives me warms me like the rays from the sun. Finished washing her shirt, she dunks it beneath the surface of the water, and suddenly her breasts are bared to me. They're plump, round and high, and, like the rest of her, oddly free of soft down. Her nipples are…strangely beautiful. They are large, with a broad, pinkish-brown ring around them. I need to know what her breasts feel like. The smooth, soft weight in my hands.
But as willing as she seems to let me look, I know better than to touch without express invitation.
She rinses her shirt under the water, then she pulls it up and wrings it out, and this time I don't look away from her as I hang her garment over the limb. “May I have some more moss?" she asks. I divide the bundle I have left into two clumps, and I hand her one of them.
I make lather between my hands as I watch her, and when she’s made enough of her own, she begins to rub it down the length of one arm. I step forward, unable to resist this opportunity. “Please.” I hold up my soapy hands. “May I wash you? I swear I will not mistake this for a request to mate with you. I just… I would love to touch you.”
Her gaze softens, and she seems to be considering my request. “Yes,” she finally says. “Yes, I guess that would be okay.”
I step closer, and as she stares up at me, I realize she’s holding her breath. Her heart is pounding so hard, I can see her pulse jiggle in her breasts. She closes her eyes, and I resist the urge to bend down and kiss her. Instead, I move behind her, and I gently rub my sweet-scented, pinkish lather over her back, working my way up her shoulders.
Syrie moans at my firm touch. “God, that feels good." The sounds she makes as I work my way down her arms and up her neck make my cock ache like it has never ached before. But I resist the urge to press it against her. To take advantage of this moment and show her how badly I want her. She knows. She will let me know, in no uncertain terms, when she's ready. Until then, I wait.
When my lather has been exhausted, I tug her gently toward the shore, exposing more and more of her as the water recedes, until she stands only calf deep in the stream. I pluck another handful of moss and lather my hands again, then I run them over her lower back and her hips, then over the tantalizingly smooth globes of her firm, round ass.
She groans when I sl
ide one hand between her cheeks, and I want to linger there. I want to venture lower. But I will not take advantage, no matter how inviting her soft little noises sound. I soap up the backs of her thighs, applying pressure with my fingers because she seems to like that, but I am careful to keep my claws fully retracted, though I cannot completely enclose the points.
Again, I grab a fresh handful of pink moss, and this time I move around to her front as I wet it and rub it into a lather. Which is when I see the one small thatch of body hair she does have—it can’t really be called fur—right at the juncture of her thighs, trailing down over her sex. Hiding it from me. I felt some of this before, when I had her pinned to my table—the memory hardens my already excruciatingly stiff cock—but this is the first time I’ve seen her completely bared to my sight.
Syrie looks up at me, and her eyes are oddly dilated. She smells delicious again, which means the stream isn’t the only thing making her wet right now. Her mouth drops open as I release the used moss into the water. Then I reach for her.
She gasps as I soap up the fronts of her shoulders and glide my hands across her collarbones to meet at that little dip in the middle. Then I slowly slide my hands over the tops of her breasts and around to the sides, avoiding her beautiful, large, fascinating nipples as I wash the undersides. Lingering. Daring, briefly, to lift her breasts and test their weight.
Syrie moans and arches toward me. Her eyes are closed now, her head thrown back a little, and I don’t think she understands the effect that these delicious little sounds are having on me. I hesitate for a moment, but then I decide I would be negligent in my duties if I avoid her nipples, just because they’ve tightened into tight little peaks. So I slide my hands up, slowly, until my slick palms rub over the hard little buds.
“Oh, god,” she moans. “Do it again.”
Happy to oblige, I rub her nipples in soft circles with my palms, still slick with fragrant lather.
“Oh, fuck me,” she groans, and I’m not sure whether this is the very request I’ve been waiting for, or another of her cruel uses of the word, just to test my patience.
I am accustomed to the back and forth of the mating dance. Fetoji women often present themselves, begging for attention, dramatically swishing their tails to the side to expose their female openings to the male whose cock they wish to experience, only to snarl and snap at him when he tries to mount. That snapping—especially if she actually manages to trap my flesh between her teeth—is incredibly arousing.
Some women do this five or six times, in the span of half an hour, before they are truly ready to be mounted, and every tease—every arousing snarl and nip—pushes a man closer and closer to desperation, until his release begins to leak from the tip of his cock.
In the past, I’ve considered my patience generous, for enduring such a prolonged session of foreplay, but Syrie has pushed me further than anything I would have thought, before, that I could endure. I’ve been waiting for four days for her to present herself, in whatever way human women do that. To beg for my cock, even if she can’t nip at me with her blunt teeth or tease me with a provocative snarl.
And now…
Syrie groans when I move on from her breasts, lathering her ribcage and her narrow waist. Then the flat expanse of her stomach and the dramatic flare of her hips. Her body is built of exaggerated curves that Fetoji women rarely have.
She groans when I lean back for a fresh handful of moss, and I lather quickly, because I am just as impatient as she is. I discard the moss in the stream and reach for her again, clutching at her hips for a moment as I pull her closer. Then I stare down into her eyes as my right hand slides slowly over her mound.
Syrie is holding her breath, her brown eyes dilated with need for me. And damn, I want to touch her. But I hesitate just below her mound, because—
“What’s wrong?” she whispers, her dark brows drawing low over her eyes.
“You’re…different than a Fetoji woman. You have more…flesh.”
Her frown deepens. “Is that a problem? Because you didn’t seem to think it was when—”
“No. Of course not.” I don’t think so, anyway. Please, I beg the universe. Let our biology be compatible. How can it not be, when her body has kept me in a constant state of arousal for four fucking days? “Men of your species have cocks not too dissimilar from mine, I assume?” I step back, inviting her to look again.
She nods. “Perhaps not quite that…generous.”
“Then I don’t see why we wouldn’t be compatible.” And I’m eager to prove that theory. I’ve promised her that I will make no assumptions about this bath, and I mean that, but I am now more eager than ever to take the opportunity to explore her body.
I reach for her again, and again I slowly slide my hand over her mound, until I reach that split in her flesh. This time when I hesitate, staring down at her in concern, despite the constant throb that is my own cock, she smiles. “Your women don’t have labia?”
“No. What does it—they?—do?”
“They’re just sort of…protective. Because things are delicate down there. And sensitive.”
“Things?”
“Your women don’t have clitorises either, do they?”
I frown as I access the definition. “A sensitive bundle of nerves, that delivers pleasure for a woman during sex.”
She laughs. “Yes. It’s like a literal pleasure button. It likes to be touched. Gently.”
“You feel pleasure on the outside of your sex?” What kind of marvel is this? Why does she not press this button herself, all day long? If I had such a button…
“On the inside as well. But the clit is like a quick-start button. It gets things going quickly, without too much work.”
“And I’m just supposed to…press it?” I ask. She laughs again, and this time I scowl. It’s not my fault that her anatomy is foreign to me, while the reverse is not true. “Sorry. No, you don’t just push it. I guess I used ‘literal’ wrong. You kind of…rub it. Up and down, or in little circles.”
“And that stimulates a female? So that she might present herself for mating?”
“Um…yes. Or she might not. She might want to just…feel good. Which might make her want to return the favor.”
Her words make my balls ache as if they will explode, but I’m not sure I fully understand what “returning the favor” would entail. However, I am eager to find out if I can please her well enough to make her want her to do this favor. Whatever it is.
“And may I… May I…press your ‘quick-start’ button?”
“That would be… I believe the phrase you used was ‘exceedingly kind.’”
I want to be kind to her. I want to be so kind I blow her mind. But I’ve never even seen this little button of hers, and I don’t want to disappoint her. Or hurt her.
“Claws sheathed,” she says. “It’s very sensitive, down there.”
“Of course.” Though that worries me for another reason, entirely.
When I hesitate, Syrie reaches up to slide one hand around my neck, tugging me down until her mouth meets mine. And as her lips part, inviting me in, she takes my wrist and plants my hand on her lower stomach, then slowly slides it over her mound again, until my index finger parts these fascinating and warm lower lips of hers.
Her hand disappears, and I stroke into her mouth with my tongue while my finger ventures a little lower. And there it is. A firm little bit of flesh. I touch it, experimentally, and she groans into my mouth.
My balls throb, and the release I’ve been holding back for days begins to leak from my tip. She is aroused, even beyond her obvious desire for my cock, by this little bud of flesh. This miracle of an organ, planted right between her legs. Right where any man would gladly spend the rest of his life.
I stroke my finger over it, and her hips twitch, arching toward me. So I do it again, in a circular motion, this time.
“Oh, god,” she moans against my lips. So I begin to circle her little bud in earnest, as I stroke my
tongue into her mouth, tasting her over and over. Rasping my tongue against hers.
She moans, and I thrust my cock against her hip. I can’t help it. I am desperate to feel her touch exploring me, as I am exploring her. Maybe, if I please her with my hands, she will bend over to present me with her cunt. Maybe she will finally let me bury myself deep, deep inside her.
8
Syrie
Holy fuck, Lohr catches on quickly. For a man who’s never seen a clit before, he certainly is eager to master it. And despite my determination not to pay for his kindness with my body, I am more than willing to take what he’s offering, so long as it’s an equal exchange. So long as I can return the favor.
I’ve been staring at his cock for days now, and I’m dying to know what it feels like.
“Oh, god,” I moan, pulling away from his mouth as that delicious spiral of pleasure begins to build. My toes curl in the silt at the bottom of the stream, and I wish I could feel it through the gel on my feet. “More,” I beg, clutching at his arms. My forehead pressed against his deliciously fuzzy, massively muscled pec. “Faster. Please,” I pant.
Lohr slides his free hand beneath my knee and lifts my leg, holding it in place without a hint of effort. Opening me wider, to give him better access. I can’t really move now, and I am completely exposed. Dependent upon him for balance. And somehow, that makes me horny as fuck.
“You are very aroused,” he informs me, as his finger begins to move faster, circling my clit at just the right speed, but with too little pressure.
“Nothing gets by you. Harder,” I beg. “Please…”
“But you said—”
“Harder!” I snap. “I’m so fucking close.” And before I can feel bad about my demanding tone, a snarl rips free from his throat, and his finger presses harder against the side of my clit, circling it like he’s been doing this all his damn life. “Yes,” I whisper, as my hips arch toward him. “Oh, god, just a little more.”
The Lion and the Mouse Page 8