“Please...”
“Please what? Specific requests.”
“Touch me properly.”
“Where?”
The clinical discussion while his tentacle works my breast creates cognitive dissonance that somehow intensifies everything. Having to voice what I want makes me more aware of the wanting.
“Between my legs. My clit. Please.”
“Since female asks so sweetly.”
His fingers finally move where I need them, but the touch is still light. He traces around my clit without touching directly, and the anticipation is maddening. When he finally makes contact, it's just the briefest brush, but I nearly come from that alone.
“Still sensitive from yesterday,” he observes. “This one must be careful. Gentle.”
“I don't need gentle.”
“Female needs what this one decides female needs.” But there's playfulness in the statement, not dominance. “Trust this one's control.”
He builds me slowly, methodically. His fingers work my clit in patterns that seem random but probably aren't. The tentacle on my breast continues its pulsing suction. Another tentacle moves to my other breast, matching the rhythm. But everything is measured, controlled, the opposite of yesterday's chaos.
When a tentacle finally moves between my legs, I'm so ready I nearly sob with relief. But even then, he's careful. The tentacle is one of the smaller ones, not a breeding tentacle. It pushes inside slowly, letting me feel every inch.
“This pace frustrates?” he asks when I whimper.
“Yes. No. Both.”
“Good. Frustration builds better pleasure. Watch.”
The tentacle inside me begins to move, but not thrusting. It undulates, creating waves of pressure that hit different spots in sequence. The suckers activate one at a time, creating a rippling sensation that makes thought impossible.
But he stops just before I climax.
“No!” The protest tears from me.
“Control,” he reminds me. “This one decides when female peaks. Trust.”
He builds me again, using slightly different techniques. This time the tentacle twists as it moves, creating a spiral of sensation. His fingers on my clit speed up, then slow, then speed again. The random pattern keeps me from predicting, from bracing.
Again, just before climax, he stops.
“I hate you,” I gasp, but there's no heat in it.
“Female hates? Or female's body craves more intense peak?” He sounds genuinely amused now. “This one can stop entirely if female truly wishes.”
“Don't you dare.”
“Then female endures. Trusts.”
The third build is different. He adds a second tentacle inside me, stretching me wider. They work in opposition, one pushing deep while the other withdraws. The suckers create overlapping patterns of suction that make my inner walls flutter constantly.
This time, when the climax approaches, he doesn't stop. But he doesn't speed up either. Maintains the exact same pace as I tip over the edge.
The orgasm is completely different from the frenzy ones. Those were explosive, violent, almost painful in intensity. This builds from deep inside, spreading outward in waves that seem to go on forever. I'm aware of every pulse, every clench, every wave of pleasure as it crests and crashes and crests again.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs against my neck. “Female's pleasure is beautiful when not desperate. When chosen rather than forced.”
