“Don’t like that, Merlin?”
“Would rather fuck you,” I mumble, dropping my head back on my arms.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, because I’m going to fuck you,” Nimue says, pushing my hips back down so that now my toy-sheathed penis is trapped between my stomach and the lounge. The pressure is insane, and it’s all I can do not to thrust into it.
“Besides,” she adds, “you haven’t earned me yet today. You haven’t proved that you’ll cherish it.”
“I would, I would cherish it,” I plead and then groan as I feel her straddle my legs. The cool heft of her toy cock rests against the seam of my buttocks, and her added weight drives my hips—and therefore my cock—deeper into the slick cinch of the fake pussy.
I shudder.
She laughs. “I think you can’t even hold back from fucking a silicone cunt, Merlin. How could you truly appreciate my perfect one instead? It would be like giving champagne to a dog.”
To prove her point, she rocks her hips forward over me, which make my own surge forward again, simulating a thrust.
More groans from me. More thrusts from her as she forces me to degrade myself by fucking the toy.
It only serves to fuel the humiliation. Nimue doing this to show that I don’t deserve her body, that I’m beneath her and too bestial to appreciate it, and then I’m proving her right by moaning for this cheap replacement instead. Her fingers find my dark entrance again, and the humiliation doubles, trebles.
But the shame breaks and eddies around the tender patience in her voice when she repeats, “Breathe,” and presses the blunt tip of her toy against my hole.
I try to breathe.
It doesn’t work.
The stretch is unholy, dark and forsaken, and I arch and pant underneath her at the push.
Shh shh shh, she shushes, and then when that doesn’t settle me, she says—still tenderly—“Bite your arm, Merlin.”
I bite my arm.
The hard column slowly goes inside me, and I fuss and fret underneath her, caught between the inexorable glide of Nimue’s cock and the squeezing slick of the toy cunt, literally trapped between pain and pleasure. She finally cases herself completely in my ass, and carefully lays herself over the top of me, her long, sleek limbs sweetly covering my own. She gives an experimental thrust from this position, which nudges against my prostate and of course sends my erection stroking inside the fake pussy. All at once the dirty, belly-clenching discomfort becomes clamorous pleasure before it shimmers back into pain.
I shudder. And shudder some more.
Nimue strokes my shoulders and arms, she finds my jaw—tight from biting my arm—and caresses that too. “How does it feel?”
I stop biting my arm. “Like I’m being fucked in the ass,” I hiss out, and she laughs. Hums to herself as she gives another thrust and the pain-pleasure-pain cycle flares up again.
Shh shh shh, she says as I whimper.
Again and again it goes, and she’s slow enough to keep me from feeling like this is more punitive than exploratory, but fast enough to keep it just on the edge of torment.
Even so, the pain-pleasure-pain cycle begins to morph and shift, until the pain ebbs nearly completely away and all that’s left is this…this feeling. It feels too elemental to truly be labeled pleasure, too unfamiliar to be comfortable, and yet it churns inside my belly, it tightens and snarls in a place I’ve never really felt before. A place between Nimue’s cock and my own, a secret place in the cradle of my groin that I never could have found without this.
My blood is hot, hot with animal lust, and I’ve never felt more like a beast than now, with Nimue stretched out on top of me, filling my private place, and my cock fucking into something tight and wet, and I’m panting and grunting, truly like a beast at work, and that’s when Nimue leans down and whispers in my ear, “Tell me about our first life together.”
I’m mindless now, just needing to be fucked until I erupt inside this substitute pussy, and so I murmur, “Take it with a kiss,” even though I know if she does, it very well could be the last of my sight, the last few drops of magic left in my well.
But I don’t even care anymore. Nothing matters, nothing matters except for her and her and her.
She can have it all, as long as I can have her, for however short a time.
“I want you to tell me. Without magic.”
“S’easier,” I mumble, my head rolling on my arms now. Bleeding Christ, I’m so close, I’m so close. “S’easier with magic.”
She sounds unhappy when she speaks, and that clears my head somewhat. Even after everything—or perhaps because of everything—the thought of her unhappiness scrapes at my heart.
