didn’t help me with it, I knew he was still struggling with stopping the insanity. There’s a boost to a girl’s ego. He was thinking rationally while I was kissing his brains out.
Real desperation filled me, then. I got his pants open, spread apart, and his manhood sprang free. The head of it was slippery wet, bounced off my hand. I made a mistake--trying to get his pants down more. It made him get a hold of me, pull his head back, and look me in the eye.
“Look at us,” he said.
I was looking, wanting to cry. “Let me make love to you, the way you did me.”
“Puss--”
“Letha.” I had to get him to stop calling me cat, puss. I had to get him buried inside of me again, where he could forget everything but the way we fit together. “It’s Letha.”
He conceded that. “Letha.”
“Just let me love you.” Yes, I sounded desperate. It’s not really cat nature to want to please someone else. I’d never felt like that before. Rejection was something I did to people. Not received.
I tried to pull my hands free, but he held tight, brought them up between us, in fists. Held them to his chest. His burly, massive, wiry-haired chest. I realized that the fight was fruitless. I sighed into him, buried my head against the meat there. So bulky. I loved that!
Tried to breathe. Tried not to cry.
He put his chin on the top of my head, let loose of my hands, and wrapped his arms around me.
There’s no telling how long he held me like that. All I know is that, eventually, I smiled to myself, curled up into his neck practically with a purr and let him be strong.
Until he couldn’t stand it anymore.
My hands slowly found their way to his waist, rested a minute, maybe two or three. Slow seduction. No fast moves.
I exhaled on his throat, tasted, sighed against him.
Felt his arms tighten, his fingers stiffen. Heard him groan when I flicked my tongue out under his jaw, and purred louder. I don’t know how his knees stood it. All I can say is...garou are built different. His stamina is a...monumental thing. I had to climb up on his lap, one tiny, easing movement at a time.
When I slid down onto his shaft, I don’t think he realized what I was doing. I distracted him with kisses, touches, slow lip-slides over his throat, his cheek, up to his temples. Buried his nose against my chest again as I rose up. He just held tight. Didn’t give back.
But he let me settle.
That came with some serious, spreading pain. Had I been so...hot earlier that I didn’t realize how tight the fit was? The wince eeked from the corners of my lips.
He whispered, “See what I mean?”
“Shh.”
His mighty hands spanned my back, gradually finding their way to my hips. I can’t tell you how slow we moved. I was afraid he’d make me stop. And I think he was afraid to hurt me.
But a man is only a man. His self-restraint is only so tightly wound up. You can unravel it, given the right approach. With Bark, I realized that I couldn’t drag him kicking and screaming. I had to ease him into the water until he couldn’t turn back. Still, he let me do the work.
Nothing, nothing has ever given me more satisfaction than the feel of him erupting inside of me, crying out with an, “Aaah!” as his fingers bit into my hips, and he held me down, kept me from riding up one more time.
I found out what a turn-on it was to swallow someone’s gasp of climax. To fill it with my tongue. To perpetrate after-play that makes your head spin.
He fell back then . Carried me with him, still impaled, totally engrossed in being on top of him. And he rolled me, showing me what it felt like to be pumped. Thank Gaia for the lubrication he’d already shot into me. And for the bearskin rug beneath us. I found myself clutching at it, grunting with every solid
Real desperation filled me, then. I got his pants open, spread apart, and his manhood sprang free. The head of it was slippery wet, bounced off my hand. I made a mistake--trying to get his pants down more. It made him get a hold of me, pull his head back, and look me in the eye.
“Look at us,” he said.
I was looking, wanting to cry. “Let me make love to you, the way you did me.”
“Puss--”
“Letha.” I had to get him to stop calling me cat, puss. I had to get him buried inside of me again, where he could forget everything but the way we fit together. “It’s Letha.”
He conceded that. “Letha.”
“Just let me love you.” Yes, I sounded desperate. It’s not really cat nature to want to please someone else. I’d never felt like that before. Rejection was something I did to people. Not received.
I tried to pull my hands free, but he held tight, brought them up between us, in fists. Held them to his chest. His burly, massive, wiry-haired chest. I realized that the fight was fruitless. I sighed into him, buried my head against the meat there. So bulky. I loved that!
Tried to breathe. Tried not to cry.
He put his chin on the top of my head, let loose of my hands, and wrapped his arms around me.
There’s no telling how long he held me like that. All I know is that, eventually, I smiled to myself, curled up into his neck practically with a purr and let him be strong.
Until he couldn’t stand it anymore.
My hands slowly found their way to his waist, rested a minute, maybe two or three. Slow seduction. No fast moves.
I exhaled on his throat, tasted, sighed against him.
Felt his arms tighten, his fingers stiffen. Heard him groan when I flicked my tongue out under his jaw, and purred louder. I don’t know how his knees stood it. All I can say is...garou are built different. His stamina is a...monumental thing. I had to climb up on his lap, one tiny, easing movement at a time.
When I slid down onto his shaft, I don’t think he realized what I was doing. I distracted him with kisses, touches, slow lip-slides over his throat, his cheek, up to his temples. Buried his nose against my chest again as I rose up. He just held tight. Didn’t give back.
But he let me settle.
That came with some serious, spreading pain. Had I been so...hot earlier that I didn’t realize how tight the fit was? The wince eeked from the corners of my lips.
He whispered, “See what I mean?”
“Shh.”
His mighty hands spanned my back, gradually finding their way to my hips. I can’t tell you how slow we moved. I was afraid he’d make me stop. And I think he was afraid to hurt me.
But a man is only a man. His self-restraint is only so tightly wound up. You can unravel it, given the right approach. With Bark, I realized that I couldn’t drag him kicking and screaming. I had to ease him into the water until he couldn’t turn back. Still, he let me do the work.
Nothing, nothing has ever given me more satisfaction than the feel of him erupting inside of me, crying out with an, “Aaah!” as his fingers bit into my hips, and he held me down, kept me from riding up one more time.
I found out what a turn-on it was to swallow someone’s gasp of climax. To fill it with my tongue. To perpetrate after-play that makes your head spin.
He fell back then . Carried me with him, still impaled, totally engrossed in being on top of him. And he rolled me, showing me what it felt like to be pumped. Thank Gaia for the lubrication he’d already shot into me. And for the bearskin rug beneath us. I found myself clutching at it, grunting with every solid
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