Page 26 of Satisfied By the Slime
I sold my pride about thirty seconds ago for whatever this is.
“Maisie.” His voice vibrates through every point of contact. I feel my name in my spine, my stomach, the soles of my feet. “It’s okay to let go.”
I’m already there.
The edge of it rises up under me like a wave and I feel my whole body clench against him. He responds, pressure surging to meet the contraction, matching it, amplifying it, mixing with my wet arousal.
I come so hard my knees buckle.
The only thing holding me up is him and the table and my own white-knuckled grip on the edge.
My body convulses in rolling waves, each one met with a pulse of warmth that extends the peak. I’m shaking and gaspingand the orgasm just keeps going, fed by his attention, sustained by the way he reads each aftershock and gives it exactly enough pressure to crest again.
I come twice.
Three times.
Or maybe once, for a very long time.
The boundaries blur.
By the end, I’ve collapsed forward on the table with my cheek pressed against the cool surface and my mouth open in a desperate gasp.
He gentles. The intensity recedes by degrees, his warmth spreading thin and soft across my skin like a blanket being drawn up. The pulsing slows, matching my breathing.
I can feel him against the length of my back, warm and heavy. Somewhere deep in his form something is beating in a slow rhythm that presses against my back.
A pulse.
His version of a heartbeat.
Or a purr.
Or something I have no word for because nothing in my life has prepared me for this.
I lie there.
My body is ringing like a struck bell and every muscle I own has gone liquid and I feel cracked open in a way that is both amazing and terrifying.
Against my back, his colors are doing something.
I can see the reflection in the glossy surface of the table: deep, saturated waves of teal bleeding into gold flashing in a violet so rich it looks almost black.
He’s lit up like a galaxy.
Whatever just happened to me happened to him too, in whatever way a slime experiences the first voluntary touch of his existence turning intothis.
I close my eyes. My fingers unclench from the table edge one by one.
The first coherent thought I have is about the calendula—specifically, whether the jar actually fell, because dried calendula petals are eleven dollarsa pound.
I lift my head and peer sideways.
The jar is tilted but intact.
I let out a shaky breath that breaks into something halfway between a laugh and a sob. My face is still pressed into my arms and I can’t seem to lift it.
“Oz.”
