Yet I would not injure her for anything in the world.
“Let’s just try it.” Syrie thrusts back against my finger again, and another groan escapes her throat. “Okay?”
I’ve never wanted anything more in my life. So I withdraw my finger and slide it down to that fascinating little button human women come equipped with, and I circle it a few times, the way I’ve learned that she likes.
She moans. And that’s all the patience I have.
I position myself at her entrance and rub the head of my cock back and forth, coating it with her slick fluids, while she groans and thrusts against me, trying to tempt me toward penetration, just like a Fetoji woman would. But when I press forward, rather than pulling away to snarl at me—to begin the mating dance—she goes very, very still. So I press in a little farther.
Sylvie gasps. Her tight little body sucks at me, struggling to stretch around my girth, and while I’m worried that she might be in pain, the sensation is the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt. She’s gripping my head. Pulsing around it as her body fights to accept it.
“Are you okay?” I growl, praying she says yes. Hoping with every shred of my own self-control that she doesn’t ask me to stop.
“Yes,” she says through clenched teeth. “Just give me a second.” Her body continues to suck at me, trying to draw me farther in, and then, suddenly, she pushes her hips back, slowly forcing more of her tight sheath down over me. “Oh, fuck,” she whispers, reaching out with her hands to grip the opposite edge of the table. To brace herself. “More. But slowly.”
So I push forward again, watching in tortured fascination as my cock disappears into her body, her muscles stretched tight around me, thinned out at her opening with the strain. I pull back a little, slowly lubricating my length with her fluids, then I press in again, steadily, while her groan becomes a throaty sound of pleasure.
But then I hit the end of her passage, and she flinches.
“You’re too small,” I inform her gently, trying in vain to screen disappointment from my voice. “I will withdraw.”
“Wait, why? You have to have the whole thing in?”
“Yes. I need to be able to thrust freely. But it’s okay. I am happy to stimulate your quick-start—”
She twists to look at me, and the sight of her looking back over her shoulder, straining to see where my length is stuffed inside her, makes my cock jerk. Which draws another raw moan from her throat. “It’s okay. We’re just getting warmed up. My body will…lengthen. With arousal.”
The thought makes my length jump again. “When?”
Her brows furrow. “When things really get going. Just… You know…” She pulls forward, slowly unsheathing my cock, and I groan. It feels amazing, yet odd. Fetoji women don’t generally move much during sex. They prefer to be mounted in the traditional sense and fucked to orgasm. Several times. But I’m starting to think things are more different with human women than their similar anatomy might indicate.
Syrie pushes back against me, slowly enveloping my cock again, and I grab her hips out of instinct. Preparing to thrust deep inside her a few times and release my seed when she reaches orgasm. But then I realize, for the second time in less than a minute that that can’t happen if I can’t bury my cock all the way inside her.
What if my stroking brings her to a climax I cannot follow, because I cannot fit inside her? Because I cannot thrust with…abandon?
Yet she doesn’t stop pushing. And when she’s taken all she can, to my utter astonishment, she begins to pull away again, until she’s fucking me, as if I’m the one being mounted. As if she expects this to last…much longer than I’m accustomed to.
I have no idea what’s going on, but it feels amazing. So I just hold onto her hips and let her ride my cock, swallowing my frustration at my inability to fit completely inside her, because her moans seem to indicate that she doesn’t mind one bit.
But then she stops and looks back at me again, propped on her elbows now. “Lohr?”
Shame and need fill my growl. Her tiny body is an exquisite torment, making my balls swell with unfulfilled need. Delaying her pleasure. “I cannot bring either of us to climax until I am fully seated inside you. If you would like to stop—”
“No!” She looks horrified by the thought. “I don’t want you to come yet! I want you to fuck me. Put that enormous cock to work.”
“You don’t want us to orgasm?” I don’t understand what’s happening.
“I mean, ultimately that’s the goal. But we’ve just started!”
We have? But she’s swallowed my cock with her body at least a dozen times already…
“Please,” she begs, arching her hips so she can slide her hand beneath her stomach. Suddenly I feel her fingers brush the base of my cock, and I realize she’s circling her own button. Her…clitoris. “Please, Lohr. Fuck me.”
So I begin to move, as foreign and frustrating as the sensation is. The lack of complete penetration. But the rest of it—her body squeezing me mercilessly—feels so good. So unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.
Soon, I lose myself in the sensation, gripping her hips while I plunge into her frantically, careful not to crash against the sensitive end of her passage. This prolonged thrusting is both frustrating and exhilarating. The delay of orgasm—that endless climb toward an unreachable peak—is a brutal kind of bliss.
And suddenly, finally, I feel her tight opening clench around the base of my cock.
I groan, astonished by the utter satisfaction of this moment. “It fits.”
“I mean, it’s still really tight, but yes,” she pants, trying to pull away. To tempt me into thrusting again and triggering her release. But I’m not ready to spill inside her yet. I don’t want to move. I don’t want this to end, because as long as this eternal act of copulation is taking, she may not let me back inside her in a few minutes, as a woman of my own species would.
She may not be ready again for an hour.
“Lohr, please,” she begs, still working her own little pleasure button. “I need you to fuck me.” And suddenly I worry that despite her demands, she can orgasm on her own. That women of her species may not need a man for that, thanks to that little button. That even if I stand perfectly still, she may still orgasm around my cock, bringing me to climax before I am ready for this to end, and that will all be my own fault.
“Please,” she says again.
So I pull her hand out from beneath her body, and she whines when I pin it to the table at her side. “No,” I snarl. And when she goes still beneath me, my balls begin to tighten, begging for release, because as stirring as her self-stimulation was, her submission beneath me is the most arousing thing I’ve ever felt in my life.
I didn’t even have to bite her.
“I will bring your release,” I growl. Then, while she whines her protest, I withdraw, until only my tip is left inside her tight little passage, my free hand on her hip so that she cannot thrust back at me. So that she cannot take control of this moment.
I give her a few shallow thrusts, working myself slowly in and out, and to my delight, more moisture floods her passage to ease my way. So I let go of her hip and pin her to the table with my hand on her spine. Then I shove my way back inside her in one rough stroke.
“God, yes,” she moans, still trying to thrust at me. And though my balls ache and my cock has never been harder in my life, though I stroke into her over and over, her orgasm does not come. And she does not care. She is not ready for this to be over.
And finally, I understand. Her body is not stimulated in the same way a Fetoji woman’s body would be, demanding release for us both almost immediately. Perhaps, despite her “quick-start button,” she is less sensitive on the inside.
For whatever reason, Syrie seems to expect sex to last much longer than a Fetoji woman would be capable of, and her body is built to accommodate that idea. Which means I can keep thrusting. Which also seems to mean that this brutal, prolonged climb toward orgasm will eve
ntually reach an enormous peak.
Intrigued—liberated—I begin to thrust in earnest, earning a sweet little moan with each stroke. Pushing myself incrementally closer to orgasm with every movement. Soon, I realize a growl is building in my throat, and the closer I come to release, the louder and deeper it becomes.
“Fuck,” I grind out, as I slam into her, and I realize she’s drenched and dripping around my cock. Is she close? I have never needed to come worse in my entire life.
“Faster,” she demands, and I snarl at her attempt to exert control. “Please,” she whines, when her demand inspires no mercy from me. “Lohr, I need to come.”
And she needs me for that.
A growl rumbles up my throat, and I slam into her, giving her the speed she begged for. Groaning when her already tight little passage begins to constrict brutally around me.
“Oh, god, I’m going to come,” she moans. Then she cries out as her muscles begin to spasm around me, in a fluttery dance of ecstasy.
Oh, fuck, I’ve never felt anything like this.
I bend down, pressing my entire torso against hers, pinning her as I slam into her. As I lose myself in the feel of her orgasm. As my balls tighten toward the base of my cock and I feel pleasure about to erupt. And as I finally shoot into her—as my release washes over me in an almost violent rush of euphoria—I sweep her hair aside and bite down on the back of her neck, just hard enough hold her in place. Bracing for her reaction.
I’ve already told her I don’t want to breed, but some women refuse to accept that in the moment. Some just forget and try to pull away too soon.
“Ow!” she whines as my teeth sink into her, but just as with a woman of my own species, the mild discomfort of the restraint doesn’t interrupt her pleasure. She’s moaning again and thrusting back at me before her complaint even fades from my ears.
Her eagerness draws a desperate growl from me. I thrust again, still shooting my seed deep inside her, over and over. I’ve never come so hard. Or for so long. Something about her body—about being inside her—has changed the entire act of sex for me.
Finally, I expend the last of my seed, and I lay panting on top of her, while she is spread out beneath me. Exhausted.
“Ow…” She wines again, and when she tries to twist her head—to free herself from the grip of my jaw—I bite down harder. “Ow, stop it!” she shrieks, and her scent changes. “Let me go!” The acrid bite of fear washes over me as it pours from her.
That’s not supposed to happen. She’s not supposed to be afraid. A Fetoji woman may be pissed when I refuse to withdraw immediately, but she wouldn’t be scared. Something is wrong here. It’s like she doesn’t understand what I’m—
Fuck. Fuck.
I release her neck, but I keep her pinned with my weight, immobile, my hands wrapped around her arms. “I can’t. You have to be still for a few minutes, Syrie,” I whisper against her ear. “Please, just be still,” I beg her. If my hunch is right, I don’t want to have to explain this to her until I’ve safely withdrawn.
“No! Let me up!” She thrashes her arms, thrusting against me with her hips in a bid for her freedom. So I growl and bite down on her neck again.
Instantly she goes still. Her instinct to submit is much stronger than I expected. But then I feel her body heave beneath me, and I realize she’s crying. My little mouse is terrified.
Guilt washes over me. I purr, hoping the sound will soothe her, as I run one hand down her side and over her hip, then back up, stroking her. Trying, wordlessly, to comfort her, while my tail strokes her leg.
“Please,” she begs, and her fear is breaking my heart. And when I still don’t let her up—when I can’t—my sweet little mouse begins to fight in earnest.
I recognize this desperate battle. She will fight for her freedom until she hurts herself. So I press her even harder into the table, my cock still hard and throbbing inside her. “Just one more minute, sweet girl.” I purr louder, resisting the urge to bite her neck again. To use any more force than necessary.
Somehow, she gains a little leverage, and she tries to pull herself away from my cock. Then she shrieks and goes stiff beneath me. “Ow, fuck, that hurts! What’s happening? What are you doing to me?”
“I promise I’m not doing anything to you. Not on purpose,” I insist. But she’s trembling beneath me. “You have to hold still for a moment and just listen to me. Okay?”
“Okay,” she says in a tearful whisper. Because she really has no choice.
“Earlier, in the stream, I asked you if the men of your species have cocks similar to mine, and you said yes. But now I realize I didn’t ask enough questions. Syrie, human men…do their cocks have barbs?”
“Barbs?” she whines, confirming my fear. “On their dicks? No. Why would they—” She goes very still, suddenly. Even her breathing becomes shallow. “Does yours have barbs?”
“Of course. And if I pull out, they will scrape you from the inside.”
“Oh my god!” she sobs.
I purr again, stroking my hand down her side as I keep her pinned. “Shhh… I’m not going to do that. I am not going to hurt you. I would never. I just need you to hold still long enough for the barbs to retract. Every time you…wriggle, you prolong things.” I stroke her again, petting her torso from rib cage to hip. Trying to soothe her. “Okay?”
“Okay,” she says again. She sniffles one more time, and I see her wipe tears from her face. And for a couple of minutes, I purr, letting the soothing vibrations rumble against her back. I run my hands over every inch of her skin that I can touch, marveling at the smooth expanses—completely absent of down—while I keep her calm.
And finally, I feel the tiny barbs on the tip of my cock fold flat again.
“Okay,” I whisper into her ear, my nose pressed into her hair. “I’m going to pull out now.”
She tenses around me. Beneath me. “Are you sure? I mean, how can you—?”
“It’s fine. It’s over, I promise. This will feel just like when I was thrusting in and out, and there was no pain. Okay?”
She nods. “Okay.”
I stand, lifting my weight from her, then I start pulling out slowly, so she can feel for herself that it doesn’t hurt. When she relaxes beneath me, I withdraw completely and step away from her.
Sylvie pushes herself off the table and turns. Her pale skin is flushed, her eyes swollen with tears. Her large, soft breasts red from rubbing against the table.
I feel like an ass. How could I not have realized?
I pull her into a hug, her head on my shoulder, and at first she stiffens. Then she relaxes into me and her thin arms wrap around my torso. “I’m sorry,” I growl into the top of her head. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize that your men are anatomically different until it was too late.”
“I didn’t see any barbs,” she says into my chest, and the fact that she’s still pressed against me—that she hasn’t pushed me away—makes a new warmth blossom in my chest, like a bloom growing in the desert. Sprouting against all odds.
I want to protect it. Nurture it. But I know that would be a futile effort. She’s leaving, as soon as she can flag down a shuttle or someone comes looking for her.
“I had you in my mouth, just for a second, and I didn’t feel any barbs.”
“They’re difficult to see and feel, normally,” I explain as I finally let her go. “They’re very small, and they lie flat until the very end of an orgasm.” I pour clean water from the open water pouch into two antler cups and hand her one of them. She gulps the contents, so I pour her more. When our thirst is slaked, I tug her toward the bed, and to my relief, she lies down next to me without complaint. Without hesitation.
“Well, that’s a shame,” she says, as her head settles onto my shoulder. As my arm winds around her back to settle onto her hip. “Because that was awesome, right up to the end. But I guess we can’t do that again.”
“Of course we can. If you want,” I tell her. “You just have to be really stil
l at the end, until the barbs recede. I would have warned you beforehand, if I’d realized you didn’t know.”
Her laugh carries no humor. It’s more like a harsh huff. “If you had, I would never have let you inside me.”
“I still would have told you.” I squeeze her closer. “I need you to know that. I would never have sprung that on you, on purpose.”
She nods, her hair catching on the fine fuzz covering my shoulder. “I don’t really understand it, from an evolutionary perspective. I mean, sex feels good so that people want to do it. That’s to ensure propagation of the species. Any species. But that hinges upon pleasure, as an incentive. Right?”
I shrug. I’ve never heard it put like that, but it makes sense.
“So, if sex hurts Fetoji women, what’s the incentive to…have it? I mean, childbirth already hurts, right? So, why would—” She stops talking and shakes her head again. “I mean, I guess if you want a kid, you want a kid. My mom said that you don’t really remember the pain of childbirth, once it’s over, because you’re too busy loving your new baby. But if sex always hurts, how does anyone even get to that point?”
I sit up and tug her upright with me. Then I hook my hands beneath her knees and pull her closer, facing me, so that her legs are wrapped around my hips. Mostly, I just want to keep her close. But I also want to explain this to her, face to face. So she can see the truth of it. “Sex isn’t all pain for Fetoji women. You’re right,” I tell her. “If it were only pain, they probably wouldn’t want to do it.”
She nods. “I mean, they already have to face life with no clit. It’s really starting to sound to me like your women got the short end of the sex stick.” She giggles, and I’m caught off-guard by her sudden smile. The beauty of it makes me catch my breath. “Get it? Sex stick?” she points at my cock, which is still relatively stiff, with her this close to me. “It’s a joke.”
“My ‘sex stick’ is not short,” I insist, and she only giggles harder.
“It certainly is not,” she agrees, still smiling. “Maybe that’s part of the incentive.”
The Lion and the Mouse Page 10