Page 25 of Satisfied By the Slime
“Maisie, tell mewhat you want.”
“I don’t—” My fingers drag against the tabletop. “I don’t know how to say it.”
“Try.”
The word hangs there, gentle and immovable.
I press my face into my arms.
My shirt has ridden up where his warmth spread past the hem. Every nerve ending I own is awake and straining toward him, and he’s reading every single one.
Cataloging what makes me tense and what makes me melt.
Adjusting in real time with a precision that borders on obscene.
“Lower,” I say into my arms. “Go lower.”
He obeys.
Warm, liquid weight slides beneath the waistband of my leggings with a fluidity that no hand could replicate. Conforming to the shape of me as he finds it.
I gasp so hard the table shakes.
He’s warm and slick and impossibly thorough. Spreading across the swell of my hips, the curve of my ass. Tracing the creasewhere my thigh meets my body with an attention so focused I can feel it like a gaze.
“Oh, God.” My voice runs on a frequency below language. “Oh, that’s—”
“I know.” Soft. Almost reverent. “I can feel it.”
Of course he can. Every microshift, every clench, every degree of heat my body is throwing off. He’s reading me the way a seismograph reads the earth, and right now the earth is shaking.
His warmth slips between my thighs and I stop thinking in sentences.
He finds me with the same deliberate precision he used on my spine, and the comparison ends there. This is nothing like therapeutic relief. This is a warm, living intelligence pressing itself against the most sensitive part of my body andlearningit in real time.
He spreads across me in a slick, pulsing wave that conforms to every fold and nerve ending between my legs.
I feel him discover what makes my breath hitch and immediately domore of it. Pressure building and releasing in a rhythm that runs just ahead of my own pulse, coaxing me forward.
“There,” I breathe when he finally reaches my clit. My hips are moving. I’m grinding against the table like an animal in heat and I can’t stop, I don’t want to stop. “Right there, don’t—”
He focuses.
The diffuse warmth narrows to a single point of concentrated, rolling pressure exactly where I need it. Then it widens again in a slow, devastating bloom that covers everything. Then it narrows again.
Pulse. Bloom.
My thighs are shaking.
The worktable is creaking under my grip.
Somewhere behind me a jar rattles against the shelf and I don’t care.
I care about the heat between my legs and the way it keeps building, tightening, winding toward something enormous.
He’s everywhere.
Inside my leggings, spread across my hips. A warm current tracing the cleft of my ass and another working my clit with a focused, rhythmic insistence that would be embarrassing if I had any pride left.
