Page 90 of Florescentia

His movements were at no point forceful or violent, despite what his beastly appearance might suggest. They were warm, tender. Everything he was making me feel was with my human body in mind, even if perhaps he was having fun striking the fear of the stars into me at first.

The member filled all of me, moving slightly, but most of it a slow, sensual grinding. Even with the piercing spikes, the phallus’s flesh was hot and wet against my sensitive places.

I squirmed with it instead of away from it this time. It was the perfect texture, slightly tough but wet enough to not be coarse. There was even a gentle vibration coming from the member.

Altair made another noise, more of a bestial whimper, a deep pant as his body curled around mine. He was absolutely gigantic, his head resting against the sofa armrest. My hands touched his chest. The seam of his second mouth started at his sternum, extending down to his pelvic bone. Thank the stars it was closed, or I might have been afraid of being eaten right here in a moment of careless pleasure.

That pleasure heightened as I closed my eyes, focusing on the sensitivity. It was such a strange feeling, the fullness inside. It almost made the friction more intense.

“Altair!” I gasped for him as if I were drowning, and only his name could bring life to my lungs. I bucked my hips against the touch, holding on to him as if to brace myself. “Ah . . . please . . .”

I worked myself into a rhythm, and it seemed his primal groans became more frequent, his grip tightening.

Just the thought of pleasuring myself on such an ungodly monster brought a curdle of shame to my gut, which only bloomed into some forbidden pleasure I had never thought of. Courting such a thing should have been unimaginable, disgusting, yet I was fulfilled, free of judgment. Or possibly, the allure of it all was the taboo. That his desire wasn’t transactional, just pure, primal lust.

Then suddenly it was electric, a shock shooting from my pelvis up to the back of my neck. My body tensed and my legs squeezed against his hips. I broke one of my nails while digging them into his body.

His large hand gripped my hip, thrusting deep. He buried his head against my shoulder, the other hand holding the back of my skull. Then the thrusts became harder, the restraint seemingly gone as he helped himself. The hand on my head kept it from hitting the arm of the sofa, his claw stinging as it dug beneath the skin. The shots of pain emphasized the pleasure, putting my head in a dizzying euphoria I could never have imagined.

I was small, for once. Overpowered, yet in control enough to know that if I uttered the words, he would stop.

A hot pumping gave me a feverish sweat, his cock pulsing routinely, fast, then at a slower pace. My stomach had a small swelling before the hotness leaked out, spilling down to the cushion under my backside.

As the pulsating sensation wore off, a deep-seated shame took over, brought to me by clarity of mind. I covered my face, my legs shaking from the exertion.

His body shrank, and he pulled out his cock. Which only led to more fluid spilling out.

I closed my legs tight, then the dip of a more normal-size body beside me.

His arms pulled me into him, his head touching mine. With a deep breath, I relaxed, tipping my head into him.

Another rumbling, but it was as human a sound as ever.

“Are you hungry?” I unshielded my face.

His head rested against a pillow, already staring at me by the time I laid my eyes on him. His black markings were sleek with a slight dewiness, like it had been just as much work for him as it was for my own body.

He shrugged, and there was a grumble again.

I raised my brow.

“Well, based on that appetizer,” he said, smiling, “I could just eat you.”

“Worked up an appetite, then?”

“Very much so.” He wrapped his arms around me and rested his chin on my head. There was almost a purr coming from him, the hum of a live wire, pure voltage.

I was embarrassed to admit that being held like this felt good. Some part of me wanted to be ashamed, to cover up. By the stars, I could melt like marmalade right into his skin. The gentle touch, the shock wearing off, the sound of someone else’s heart, their breathing.

But even with comfort came the cost of my conscience. Before, it was easy. These things had no faces; they couldn’t speak. But this one was different. And the guilt was eating me from the inside. If, cosmos forbid, my husband’s soul was looking at us, would he feel hurt? Betrayed? It was like I was contradicting myself left and right for personal pleasures.

I didn’t know if I could forgive myself, if my mind ever fully came back around.

The stars were brighter tonight. It might also have been that I was still lightheaded. No matter, it was peaceful.

The copper roof stained my nightgown with its green patina, but the metal was cool against the hot evening air.

The best thing to eat in the middle of the night was street food. The carts were always open, a light always on for those stumbling through the streets drunk and looking for a quick bite on the walk home. I ate fried sweet corn. It was a battered, spiced corn deep-fried into bite-size pieces. It had come with a cold apple cider.