Chapter 8 - It's a Good Cock

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I'm greedy tonight. I know it before I reach the grotto, before the ceiba roots swallow me into the blue-green dark. My thighs are sore from last time and I don't care. I want more.

He's where I left him. Spread against the stone, wrapped in my vines, those amber eyes finding me the second I slip through the entrance. The thorns dig against his throat. Each breath shifts the vine-bands. He is held by my magic, my work, my captured monster.

"Miss me?" I say, and my voice comes out steady. I have been building this self and she fits better now. The performance comes easier now.

He grunts. One syllable. His eyes follow me as I pull the string bra off and drop it on the moss. The thong follows. Naked, and I don't cover myself this time. Let him look. I want him to look.

I straddle him and take him in my hand, soft and warming. I fix that. Slow strokes, my thumb finding the ridge below the head, and I watch his face while I work. His jaw locks. The throat-vine tightens against his swallow and the thorns bite his skin and something low in me goes tight.

He gets hard in my grip and the size of him still hits me, the thickness filling my fist and past it. I line myself up. Sink down. The stretch burns and I like the burn now, the way my body opens around something it shouldn't be able to take.

"You're mine," I tell him. Not shaking this time. I mean it. "Say it."

He looks at me with those amber eyes and something in them shifts.

"Yours," he says, low, one word.

My stomach flips and I almost lose the rhythm before I find it.

I set the pace slow, rolling my hips, hands flat on his chest where the vine-bands cross. The moss is soft under my knees. His body is rigid underneath me, every muscle corded, and I love that, the restraint in him while I take what I want.

"There," I tell him. "Stay."

He stays.

I ride him until I come the first time. It starts deep and grinds higher and I lean back, hands on his thighs, and take it. My hips stutter. My back arches. The sound I make is loud in the grotto and I don't muffle it. Let the jungle hear.

I don't stop.

His breathing changes, faster and rougher. The vines at his wrists creak and I see his fingers digging into the moss, gouging. His cock throbs inside me and I know he's close. I slow down. Almost stop. Hold him right at the edge, my hips barely moving, and watch his face break apart.

"Hold," I say. "You finish when I say you finish."

His chest heaves. A sound comes out of him, low and guttural. He could snap these vines. He doesn't. He is asking.

I let him. I speed up, grinding down, and he surges under me, every muscle locking. The vine at his throat strains. Thorns press white marks into his skin. He empties into me with a shudder that runs through us both and I feel it, hot, deep, and I cannot let go of him because this monster is mine, all mine.

I climb off and wait, watching the sweat cool on his chest and the rise of his breathing slow. Then I take him in my hand again.

His eyes widen, barely, and the amber flares.

"Again," I say. "We're not done."

"You heard me."

The second time takes longer. I use my mouth, my hands, his body responding even when his breath is still ragged from the last one. I learn things. The spot below his navel that makes his stomach jump. The way his cock twitches when I drag my nails across his hip. I am making a map of him and no one else will ever have it.

I take him again. Harder this time. I brace my hands on the root-wall behind his head and ride him with my whole body, the slap of skin on skin echoing off stone. My breasts press against his face, sliding across his mouth, catching on his tusks. The ivory is smooth and warm against my skin and I should be afraid of those tusks but I am not afraid of anything tonight. I press closer, my nipple dragging across his lower lip, and his breath is hot against my chest and his amber eyes look up at me from between my breasts and his mouth opens and he does not bite. My prisoner. My monster. Pinned under me with my body in his face and all he can do is breathe me in.

Something moves along the wall. A vine, curling, thickening against the stone. Another near the entrance, creeping across the floor toward us. The thorns on his body look sharper than I remember.

I come again and dissolve. My arms give out and I collapse forward onto his chest, his cock still buried in me, my face against his neck.

The ground vibrates.

I go still. He goes still. His head turns toward the entrance, sharp, fast, and I feel the tension change in his body, the wrong kind, alert and hunting.

Something massive moves past the grotto mouth. The light from the fungi dims as a shadow blocks it, slow, heavy, feet that don't quite sound like feet. The ground hums with each step. A troll. Right there. Close enough that I can smell it, cold stone and hide and old blood.

I am on top of him. He is inside me. We are both slick with sweat and sex and the most dangerous thing in the Itzince is ten feet from the entrance.

I don't breathe.

It passes. The shadow moves, the ground stops humming, the fungi brighten again. The jungle comes back, frogs and the high drone of insects.

I look down at him. He looks up at me. His amber eyes are wide and his mouth twitches. The tusks shift.

I crack first. The laugh comes out of me silent, shaking, my whole body convulsing on top of him. He follows. A sound I have never heard from him before, low and broken, laughing. The most feared orc on the border, wrapped in my vines, his cock still in me, laughing because we nearly died in the middle of it.

The performance breaks. My shoulders drop. The commanding voice, everything I have been holding in place since I dragged him here, is gone. I am Etzin, the runt, naked on top of a monster in a cave, laughing so hard my ribs hurt. If the others saw me now, they would call it proof. Not warrior enough. Not hard enough. Wrong all the way through.

And he grins. Tusks, fangs, the whole terrible face of him, and I hold his gaze.

I hold his gaze.

"Little jaguar," he says. Low, rough from the laughing. He has never called me that out loud before.

"What did you call me?"

"Little jaguar." He says it again like he's tasting the words. "You are sitting on me with a troll outside and you did not run."

"You're tied up," I say. But I'm grinning. The warrior voice is gone and I'm grinning. "Where would I run?"

"You could have run. You stayed on my cock instead."

"It's a good cock."

The laugh that comes out of him shakes his whole chest and I feel it inside me.

The laughter fades but neither of us looks away.

"How long are you keeping me here," he says. His voice is deep, that low gravel that I feel in my thighs more than I hear. He is still inside me and I can feel him pulse with each heartbeat.

"As long as I want," I say. "You are mine."

I put my hand on his face. His skin is rough, warm, scarred along the jaw. The laughter is gone from both of us and something else is in its place. I don't move my hand. I don't know why I don't move my hand.

The vines along the walls keep growing. I am watching him.