This is not what she expected. No part of this is what she expected. If she is honest with herself - and she will not be - she had expected to suffer stonefaced through this night, and to bear with uncomplicated resentment the duty that her sex places on her; she had expected him to be scornful and rough and perhaps to hurt her; but she had not expected to enjoy it this way. She had not expected that his mouth and hands and the weight of his body over her would drag such animal need from the armoured shell of her courtesy, or that pleasure would come no matter whether she wanted it or not. This does not, she realises with something close to horror, feel at all like duty - and if it is duty, then it is one that she would gladly discharge for the rest of tonight and many nights to come.
His tongue laps insistently against her nipple, her vision blurring for a moment as her eyes lose their focus. Something is stirring inside her, something vast and shapeless and powerful; something that threatens to overtake her, the way that urges have overtaken duty. The hand in his hair clenches into a fist, tight enough that it must hurt him, but nothing is further from her mind than that. All she can think, tinged with wonder and awe and something edging between joy and fear, is yesyesyesyesyes, as his fingers curl inside her and the rough press of his knuckle aches against her stiff and swollen clit. Yesyesyesyesyes, and overlapping, toomuchstoptoomuch, and neither reaches her tongue, which will offer nothing clearer than a low, lingering cry that has no words at all, as her eyes screw shut and her head tips back and her heart thunders in her ears, her whole body moving like a wave against his hand, chasing that terrifying, all-encompassing pleasure. She will not flee from it, will not flee from him or from the fear of dishonour; and in deciding that, it seems to her that she stops for a moment, that everything stills, before orgasm crashes down on her with a force she is not entirely ready for, and with what she suspects is embarrassing speed.
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sforzinda
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Date: 2022-01-09 05:29 pm (UTC)His tongue laps insistently against her nipple, her vision blurring for a moment as her eyes lose their focus. Something is stirring inside her, something vast and shapeless and powerful; something that threatens to overtake her, the way that urges have overtaken duty. The hand in his hair clenches into a fist, tight enough that it must hurt him, but nothing is further from her mind than that. All she can think, tinged with wonder and awe and something edging between joy and fear, is yesyesyesyesyes, as his fingers curl inside her and the rough press of his knuckle aches against her stiff and swollen clit. Yesyesyesyesyes, and overlapping, toomuchstoptoomuch, and neither reaches her tongue, which will offer nothing clearer than a low, lingering cry that has no words at all, as her eyes screw shut and her head tips back and her heart thunders in her ears, her whole body moving like a wave against his hand, chasing that terrifying, all-encompassing pleasure. She will not flee from it, will not flee from him or from the fear of dishonour; and in deciding that, it seems to her that she stops for a moment, that everything stills, before orgasm crashes down on her with a force she is not entirely ready for, and with what she suspects is embarrassing speed.