radiothebook Chapter 514 - Tigress Squirting like Squirrel
Chapter 514 - Tigress Squirting like Squirrel
She was losing her mind.
The thought arrived with complete clarity, which is itself evidence of a mind that has not yet fully gone — ’I am losing my mind’ — and then the next thrust arrived and the thought dissolved and was replaced by something that was not a thought at all, just heat moving upward through every meridian she had simultaneously.
’’His cock from this angle is — it’s hitting — I can’t — my legs are — why won’t they—’’
Her thighs were trying to close.
His hands under her knees kept them open.
The specific frustration of that — of wanting to close against the overwhelming sensitivity and being denied even that much shelter — compounded everything until the sensation had nowhere to go but up.
Her second orgasm hit different.
Slower to the peak. Fuller at the summit.
Her back arched away from his chest, her spine curving forward, her ass pressing hard back against his hips as if she could get more of what was wrecking her by pushing into it — the body’s paradox, wanting more of the thing that was too much — and her voice came out in a long, falling note.
"AAAHNN~—"
Her pussy gushed.
Down his shaft, over his balls, soaking both of them, the warmth of it running down her inner thighs and falling onto the silk below in a thin, continuous stream.
He didn’t slow.
He bounced her.
Literally — hands moving from her knees to her hips, lifting her and dropping her, using her own weight against her, letting gravity drive her down onto his cock and then lifting her back to do it again, the impact of each descent landing with a wet, resonant ’PLAP’ that she felt in her jaw.
’PLAP! PLAP! PLAP!’
"HIEKK~!! — OUNGH~!! — HAAHH — stop — don’t — AANGHH~!!"
Her hands left his thighs.
Found his forearms.
Her nails — the tiger clan’s reinforced nails, capable of scoring stone — dug in.
He didn’t flinch.
He bounced her harder.
’PLAP! PLAP! PAAH!’
"NMMPH~!! MNH — MNH — HNGH~!! BASTARD — I’LL — AAANGHH~!!"
Her third orgasm came on the heels of the second with the inconsiderate timing of something that doesn’t check whether you’ve recovered before arriving.
Her tail lashed.
Her whole body contracted around him — from the outside, the arc of her spine; from the inside, the clenching grip of walls that had stopped being involuntary and started being ’specific’, learned, her body already knowing the shape of what it wanted and taking it.
He slowed.
Let her breathe.
Let her come down from the edge enough to have a thought again — the specific mercy of a man who understands that the next thing requires a woman who is present and not simply gone.
She was still sitting on him. Still full of him.
Her head had fallen forward, the silver hair hanging, her breathing ragged and wet and unashamed in a way that the tiger clan’s seven formal vocabularies for dignity had nothing left to address.
"...I hate you," she said.
Breathless.
Unconvincing.
"I hate you so much."
His hands moved from her hips.
Slid forward, over her belly, down.
One hand spread flat against her lower abdomen — feeling the slight fullness there, his seed from earlier still warm inside her — and the other found her entrance where they joined and pressed lightly, just to feel the stretch of her around him from the outside, the obscene thinness of the skin between his fingers and his cock.
She made a sound.
Small. Involuntary. Not a protest.
"Good," he said.
And lifted her off.
"Wh—"
She made the sound of the empty immediately — the specific hitch of a woman who has been full for long enough that the absence of it registers as a problem — and her hands reached back instinctively before she caught them.
He turned her again.
Face down this time, forward over the silk, her palms catching her, her knees finding the bed — and his hand at the small of her back pressing down, a single decisive pressure that said ’stay’.
Her ass rose.
Both full cheeks, the skin still flushed from the bouncing, the silver hair of her tail trailing over her lower back as the tail itself curled upward out of the way with the resigned cooperation of something that has learned the evening’s geometry.
He placed himself.
Not where he’d been.
’Below’ where he’d been.
Sabrina’s body registered it before her mind did.
The specific angle. The different place. The press of him against somewhere that had never been pressed before — narrower, tighter, the ring of muscle that twitched away from contact on instinct—
"Wait—"
"Here goes," he said.
"Your little tight hole."
He pushed.
"AAANGHH—!!"
Slow.
He did it ’slowly’ — not from hesitation, from the specific cultivator’s knowledge that slow here was both crueler and kinder simultaneously, that the nerve density at this entrance made speed an enemy of the experience rather than a tool — threading himself inward through the resistance, the muscle opening reluctantly, millimeter by millimeter, her body making the sounds of something being taken apart carefully.
"H—haahh — too big — that’s too — it’s too big for there — stop — stop—"
Her elbows hit the silk.
Her forehead followed.
Both fists pressed against the silk as if pressing the bed would help any of the things that needed help.
He didn’t stop.
He pressed in, and in, and in.
Her ass swallowed him the way something swallows something that has no business being swallowed — desperately, completely, the ring of muscle fluttering around his shaft in a series of clenching protests that served primarily to make his cock aware of every inch of the journey.
He stopped with his hips against her ass.
Fully seated.
Her ass cheeks, spread by the position, pressing soft and warm against the front of his thighs.
He stayed still.
Let her breathe.
Let the muscle adjust to what had been asked of it.
She was crying.
Genuine tears, the small quiet kind, pressing from her closed eyes into the silk.
Not from pain alone — the cultivation qi he’d threaded into her walls had taken the worst of the structural consequence — but from the ’sensation’ of it, the specific overwhelming fullness of having both her places claimed in sequence, the way her body had lost the ability to process the stimulation separately and had started processing all of it as one continuous wave.
"Bastard," she said, into the silk.
"You absolute bastard."
"Don’t move — don’t you dare move—"
He moved.
’PAH!’
"HAAAANGHH~!!"
’PAH! PAH!’
"OUNGH~!! HNGH~!! NNH~!!"
The sound of his hips against her ass was different here — fuller, deeper, the resonance of flesh on flesh with more surface area, her cheeks meeting his thighs on every stroke with a wet, solid ’CLAP’ that rang through the garden like something being struck repeatedly in the same place.
’CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!’
Her ass rippled.
Both cheeks, every impact, the fat and muscle of them sending waves outward from the point of contact, her whole backside in continuous motion — bouncing on the return, clapping on the strike, the skin going steadily redder from the accumulated impact.
"HAAHH~!! — S-stop — it’s — AAANGHH~!! — too deep — it’s pressing against — why is it pressing—"
Her internal world was beyond vocabulary.
’’His cock in there — it’s pressing against — from the other side I can feel — my own pussy feeling him through the wall — like two things—’’
The sensation of him in her ass pressing against the front wall of her pussy from behind — separated by the thinnest partition of her own body — created a fullness that had no outside referent.
She had nothing to compare this to.
She was not going to survive this.
She was absolutely not going to admit to him that she was not going to survive this.
’PAH PAH PAAH!’
"HIEKK~!! AAAHNN~!! HNGH — HNGH — HNGH~!!"
Each thrust shorter, harder, his hips driving forward with the specific rhythm of a man approaching the edge and choosing to drive toward it rather than maintain distance from it.
His hands on her hips had stopped being gentle six thrusts ago.
The grip was fingers-deep, both thumbs bracketing her tailbone, her ass held exactly where he wanted it and angled exactly as he wanted it and the only authority she had over any of it was her voice, which was currently operating independently of her will and producing a continuous, shameless melody of sounds that she would spend significant time being mortified about later.
Not now.
Now her fourth orgasm was arriving with the casual devastation of a thing that doesn’t check whether the previous three have been processed yet.
’PAAH!! PAAH!!’
"AANGHH~!! AAAHH — AAAHNN — BASTARD — BASTARD — DON’T — HNGH~!!"