Page 41 of Satisfied By the Slime
Her thumb moves, a small stroke across my surface, experimental, and the oil lets her slide through the topmost layerof me, her fingertip dipping just beneath the boundary between my outside and my inside.
The sensation is extraordinary.
Intimate in a way I have no framework for.
Her touch inside me, just barely, just the pad of her thumb breaching the surface tension, and I feel her warmth and her pulse from the inside now, cradled in my own body.
I go very still.
She looks up at me.
Her eyes are dark, the pupils wide, and the flush on her cheeks has deepened.
“Is that okay?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Does it feel—”
“Yes.”
She almost smiles.
Her other hand comes up, also slick with coconut oil, and she presses both palms flat against my chest. The oil lets her sink in, just slightly, her hands disappearing to the first knuckle into my surface.
The warmth of her radiates inward through my whole body, and I feel every line of her palms, every whorl of her fingerprints, every part of her hands mapped in perfect detail.
I let my surface thin where she touches.
Warm where her blood runs closest. Give where she pushes.
Her fingers curl and press deeper, and I thicken around them, holding her hands in me the way water holds a stone.
“Oz.”
Her voice is quiet, and my name in her mouth does something to me. A tightening through my center, a focusing of everything I am into the space between us.
I lower my head until my face is level with hers.
I have shaped something close to a mouth, and I use it to find the side of her throat, the long line of tendon and pulse that I cataloged yesterday when she fell asleep against meon the couch.
My surface meets her skin, and I feel the vibration of her breath, the quickening of her heart, the heat pooling at the base of her jaw.
She tilts her head to give me room.
A small, deliberate offering.
I press closer, and my mouth softens against her throat, warming to match the fever-heat of her skin.
A sound escapes her, low and involuntary, and I feel it in my mouth before I hear it.
Her hands push deeper into my chest.
Her fingers spread, exploring the density of me, and I respond to each movement, firming where she grips, softening where she strokes.
She pulls one hand free and it comes away trailing threads of teal and gold that stretch between us and snap, misting into nothing.
She stares at her hand, at the shimmer on her oil-slicked skin, and then she puts it back, pushing in further than before.
