"My pussy," I gasp, the explicit word torn from me by desperation. "Please touch my pussy. I'm so empty, so wet for you."
"Such a good girl, asking for what you need." His voice is rough with barely controlled desire. "Let me give you exactly what you're begging for."
The vine between my legs finally makes contact, and I scream at the intensity of sensation. But this isn't a normal touch—the flower at the vine's tip releases something directly onto my clit that makes pleasure spike through me like lightning.
"What is that?" I sob as the sensation builds beyond anything I've ever felt.
"Concentrated fertility magic," he explains, his voice strained. "Designed to maximize omega pleasure during heat. Your body is going to respond in ways you never imagined possible."
He's right. The magic flowing from the flowers makes every nerve ending come alive, turning simple touches into almost unbearable pleasure. When another vine joins the first, sliding along my folds and coating them with more of the magical nectar, I think I might die from the intensity.
"I'm going to come," I gasp, my body already beginning to tighten. "Please, I'm going to?—"
"Come for me," he commands, and the authority in his voice pushes me over the edge.
The orgasm crashes through me with devastating force, making me arch off the table as pleasure tears through my entire nervous system. But the magical nectar doesn't let it end—wave after wave of sensation crashes through me until I'm screaming his name and clawing at the table's surface.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, watching me fall apart. "Absolutely magnificent. But that was just the beginning."
Just the beginning? I can barely catch my breath, can barely think through the aftershocks still racing through me. But already I can feel my body building toward something even more intense.
The vines haven't stopped their exploration. If anything, they've become more focused, more determined. While I'm still trembling from the first orgasm, they begin working in perfect coordination. One circles my clit with maddening precision while another trails along my entrance, teasing me with the promise of penetration.
"Please," I beg, spreading my thighs wider in shameless invitation. "I need something inside me. I need to be filled."
"Not yet," he says firmly, and the denial makes me whimper with frustration. "First, I want to taste you."
The words make me freeze. "Taste me?"
He notices my shock immediately, his golden eyes studying my face. "What's wrong, little omega?"
"Men don't..." I flush bright red, unable to finish the sentence. "In the human territories, men don't do that. It's considered... beneath them."
Something dark and possessive flashes in his eyes. "Then human males are fools who don't deserve omega pleasure." His voice carries centuries of authority and absolute certainty. "Most Fae alphas agree with your human territories—they consider using their mouths beneath them, a sign of submission to their omegas."
"Then why?—"
"Because the Vine Court is different," he explains, his hands stroking possessively along my thighs. "We understand that feminine honey is the source of all fertility magic. We drink from the well of omega pleasure because it enhances our power, makes our magic stronger. What other courts see as submission, we recognize as the key to true dominance."
The explanation makes my head spin with its implications. "You drink from...?"
"The nectar between your thighs," he says bluntly, making me flush even deeper. "Your slick, your release—it's liquid fertility magic, little omega. And I am going to worship it properly."
His words are shocking, explicit, but there's something in his tone that makes me understand this isn't just about pleasure. This is about magic, about power, about the very essence of what makes his court unique.
"I could make you come a dozen times with my mouth," he continues, "and you would still be the one begging and submitting. There is nothing submissive about controlling your pleasure so completely that you forget your own name."
Before I can respond, his mouth is between my legs, but the approach is nothing like I expected. Instead of immediate intensity, he begins with something that feels almost... ceremonial. His lips press gentle kisses to my inner thighs, his breath warm against my fevered skin.
"Let me show you what the Vine Court truly understands," he murmurs against my flesh.
The first touch of his tongue against my entrance makes me gasp—it's longer than any human tongue should be, thick and incredibly warm. He drags it slowly up my slit, collecting my slick with obvious appreciation, and I can feel every textured ridge along its surface.
"Perfect," he breathes against my clit, and I can hear genuine awe in his voice. "Pure fertility magic, concentrated and virgin-fresh. Do you feel that?"
I do feel something—a tingling that starts where his tongue touches me and spreads outward like warm honey. But more than that, I can feel how different he is. His tongue curves and flexes in ways that shouldn't be possible, finding spots along my folds that make me arch desperately.
When he pushes it inside me, I scream. It's thick enough that I feel stretched, long enough that it reaches places I didn't know existed. The way it moves is nothing like a finger—it curls and twists with its own intelligence, stroking my inner walls with perfect precision.
