whatupbuttercup | PSL Catchall with Conjurechaos

He is going to do her in with these simple, perfect requests. To be fucked, to be cared for, to be kissed. All of these are within her power to fulfill. And she wants them. Suddenly, badly the way she has not wanted in years and years. The newness of this territory they explore does not resound with any other memories of any other person. First Jaskier makes it known that both he and Yennefer are refugees of the same heartbreak, then he proposes that they rinse the sadness in alcohol. After he tells her that this is is his chosen path in life. There is no way she could ever go back to seeing him as only an insufferable, fawning dolt. A songbird, a treasure, a man that is so very, very enthralling.

Fuck. Could she already be in love with him?

Critical thinking is not allowed. Jaskier is kissing her too thoroughly for that. Her tongue touching and dancing with his own, stealing the breath from her lungs. Can you draw out loneliness with a kiss and expel it? It's like she has forgotten the sensation. Her heart is light and eager. A little noise gets lost in her throat. "My, my. You work fast." The way his body shifts and trembles, she pets over his chest, one pec to the next and lightly scratches down over his belly. "And doing so very, very well on your own." Her nose rubs against his. A little peck at the corner of his mouth.

Her praise truly gets to him, makes him eager and wanting, and he leans just so as she pulls away after that pack, a faint and distracted attempt to reclaim her lips. His abs burn, though, and he is finally forced to drop his arm back onto the bedding, to prop himself up and reclaim the best angle to prepare himself. His eyes are closed, he cannot remember closing them, and cannot seem to open them.

His focus is elsewhere.

The lubricant she has provided is, truly, very, very good. It clings and slides and seems to have made a slick, friction-less film over his skin. He doesn't even bother fetching the bottle when he twists his hand and sinks a third finger into himself. That--that makes his hips jolt and tremble, his cock rising red and pink between them--he laughs breathlessly.

How lucky he is, that he shall be straining before she even sinks into him. Oh, he will be mad with want of her her and her touches before long. Somehow, he thinks she will like that.

"What can I say," he breathes and keens just slightly as he stretches himself. "I am inspired by you, and an inspired artist can work wonders."

Her fingertips linger on his belly still--the places she has scratched tingle and he wishes she would do it again.

Admiring him now working with his eyes closed, the small lines in his brow are hardly an indicator of age, he lays before her so trusting. Yennefer kisses him again. Half committed, teasing and trailing. Tonight he had his breathing tested, best not suffocate the poor man. The soft, wet sound of his fingers working his tense body open is it's own lewd sort of music.

"Do you practice on your own?" Her lips smile and her tone is teasing. "I can see you have a natural skill." Teasing though her voice has gone lower and more rough. Yennefer's fingers draw lazy lines over him. A sigil or a runes, nothing harmful. Symbols of good luck and fortune. They are not charged with magic, more a want. May he be this perfect for all time. Her soft hand smooths down to his thigh before scratching up it's length. The pressure only draws shallow red lines, no blood.

"You're a sight, Jaskier." Shivering, and tense, nearly all of his small fingers fitting. Another kiss, still no savagery. "I want you so."

He laughs around a shaky moan and cracks an eye open to catch sight of her. His expression dips, humor and smiles drawn away by a pinched, nearly pained look of pleasure as his fingers ghost across his prostate. He hadn't been aiming for it, but the pressure, the spark of sensation and need it shoots through him, is enough to have his cock hardened to straining between his legs.

"What is a bard without practice?" He asks against her lips, huffs a quiet laugh, and then his humor is overshadowed entirely by the breathy, strained quality of his exhale. It catches on a high throaty sound and he breathes out a thin stream as he pauses the work of his fingers and nearly draws them free.

He has practiced this on his own, though he does not do this too often. There is less satisfaction to be had in fucking one's self open on an immobile appendage. He has always enjoyed sex for the company more than the actual acts or the sensations that followed. Alone it...leaves him to his thoughts.

He would prefer not to think at all.

"Tell me, my sweetling, am I ready for you?" His question has a whine in it. He will continue, will try to add his fourth finger if she advises it, but he is already trembling. He wants her to remain above him as she is now, to drive into him, wants to watch her breasts bounce and her hair drape over them both like a curtain of darkest night--

"As ready as I can be--" he ammends, soppy and tender with his want and infatuation.

"And I have heard many a time what practice brings." Perfection already lies with Jaskier. The connection is automatic. Yennefer hesitates to say so much. He is handsome. Beautiful. Lovely. Words sprouting out of nothing like flowers. That is another means that he inspires in her. "So accomplished," her eyes blatantly linger on the work of his hand.

Ready? She has a thoughtful, long hum. Instead of more petting, she denies him of no other touch beyond the sweep of her hair on his torso as she reaches for the cock. "I have never been a patient woman. ...and you are too delicious to resist any more."

The leather trappings resting on her skin move and she crawls over Jaskier. He must lay on the bedding alone now. Yennefer takes to kneeling at his spread legs, she takes a hold of the cock to set it into the tethers. It is a simple task, mundane nearly which is way she prefers to watch his hole clutch and shiver. Her fingers run down the length of the cool, dark surface of the shaft and she sighs lit gives her pleasure. "You're ready for me, dearheart. I know you are."

Before any other actions come into play she procures the vial and trickles it's contents down the black cock as she strokes from root to tip. A final assurance on her part that no harm will come to her dear, dear friend.

She leaves him bereft and Jaskier sighs, wistfully, fitfully, as he draws his fingers out of himself. His slicked hand, for most of his hand has been covered by the movements against himself, settles loosely around his own cock and he watches, through half-lidded, fascinated eyes, as she sets her cock into place.

Her sigh is acting, but he shivers nonetheless, as though she had drawn those delicate fingertips over him instead.

Jaskier suddenly has the image of her as an actress, stalking the stage and projecting the breadth of her emotions and tone across an eager, rapt audience. It takes so little to envision it, the way fire would rise in her face, the way she would look clad in characters, wearing costume as much as the facade of some other fictional life. That she would breathe life into those pale constructs like the breath of chaos itself.

His hand flutters as the slick and swollen flesh of his hole does and he sighs, dreamily at her.

"Then come, take me," Jaskier encourages, an edge of neediness to his voice. "Please?"

Allowing a person to truly see you, to catch on to your ways and whims is dangerous business for a sorceress. Jaskier in his haze of passion already can see that yes, she is an actress. Not ever to be bothered with decorum or manners and always wearing her heart on her sleeve does not free her from feeling remorse, or wanting acceptance. The years have show it is better to hide that. Her pride is real. Yennefer has the immortality that the ascension provides and with it a mind committed to success she earns. Success is measured not with applause. Accolades are acceptable.

She wants to be admired. Her reflection in his beautiful eyes is not the draw, it's his gaze. The heat, the want. It's hers and hers only. There is power in that. Her hands firmly grasp at both of Jaskier's knees. "Yes, dearheart. Yes." Her knees spread and she guides her body to bend over him, their anatomy is different and some shifting and wiggling is required. Her cock prods his. The sultry severity of her expression crackles as a giggle comes up in her throat.

"How good you are," Yennefer props her weight on one arm and reaches down, deliberately tracing Jaskier's cock with her impressive black piece before guiding it where it needs to be. "No wonder the Continent whispers about you." Laid back over the pillows glossed with sweat and flushed in shades of red and pink. The first motion is careful, not to say slow. She had seen how far he got on his own.

Her praise keeps his flush pink and delicate across his face, he beams at her as she moves over him, and his heart jumps and skips as she giggles with her joy. Melitele she is...so beautiful. She draws that unyeilding black phallus over his cock and then murmurs as she sinks into him.

His smile falls away into an expression of silent, overwhelming, consuming sensation. He looks pained but the way his hips arch and press toward hers, the way his hands reach and grab at her arms, at her hips, at anything he can graze hands over--those are not at all the actions of a man in pain. His moan is low and loud and, if this is his reaction to the first slow thrust, there is no chance that anyone in this building or the next will not know how well she fucks him.

It was almost a pity he'd been smothered by her mouth when he last came, he was so given to dramatics, but he does not regret the silence in his last orgasm.

Her hips come up against the back of his thighs and his fingers claw at the sheets, holding tight as he adjusts to the size and stretch of her cock. Fuck--fuck--it is bigger than he is used to, it had not seemed so when he looked at it, but it had been some time since he had seen a cock that was not his own. It was easy to forget that he was large, apparently, and that something larger than him would drive all sense from him.

The muscles in his stomach flutter, convulse just slightly as he acclimates, and he exhales a voiced sigh once he's ready. His breath shakes and he thinks, with a hoarse chuckle, that it is funny.

"It feels like your cock is in my throat, love," he muses, dazed and driven to distraction. "Fuck, please, please--"

He doesn't even know what he wants, for her to grind into him or draw out and drive in. He wants everything, all of it, and he is losing his words.

"A little more than, oohh." Speaking him through the action is just a bonus. Jaskier knows what to do. The magnitude of sadness, the depth she had only begun to see clearly means that his life had a vacancy. A vulgar but true though that it was just waiting to be filled. He asked for that person to be Yennefer.

She peppers his face in kisses. Brief and erratic. Her breathing is not even and she would have to be dead to not be moved. The cock is almost engulfed. Her cunt clenches on nothing. Keeping her legs spread makes her more aware of how wet he makes her just lying back and taking. And not a limp fish, no, no. The way he touches on her like he is adrift at sea in a storm and she is the only thing keeping him afloat.

"It can be in your throat if that is what you wish." The edge of her smile could be wicked if she lets it. "Later." Pinning him to the bed and treating the Golden Fawn patrons to a concert is a better action.

Yennefer rocks her hips forward, giving him that grind he so wanted. Her lips drop open and with breasts like her own they will move. Silver buckling clinks. The bed starts a clunk to the wall. The bard is surrounded by music.

She promises him later pleasures--that he might swallow that down while she watches--and his own cock, red and desperate, beads and leaks between them, smearing precome and sticky slick across her stomach as she leans across him. She grinds and it is so good, his brow dips and he draws a sharp breath--

Then she moves.

The accompaniment is so lovely, the sounds and sighs and clinking and percussion--he sings with it. Low and melodious and louder as she works. His hands grip and his hips roll up into her thrusts, drag out the pressure and the slide of that wonderful obsidian cock. It punches the air from him as she sinks and when he opens his eyes he sees her, wreathed in dark hair, eyes watching, breasts moving with each thrust--

He gasps, sharp and jagged, his back arching off the bed entirely as she drags that heavy, massive cock over his prostate. He feels suddenly faint, lightheaded, and he wants her to do nothing more than that, again and again. He babbles as much, groaning and singing with his keening moans.

Jaskier's cock in it's neglected state is even more enthralling than first appraisal. Their motion makes it move and drag, no doubt a tease to him. Feeling it hard and slip against their bellies as she ruts into him makes her wonder what it feels like. Shame she cannot fill him while being full. She cannot be so greedy with these thoughts. This is so very, very much more than what she had assumed would become of her evening.

Sweat is gathering on her skin. Lilac and gooseberry perfume becoming more of a richer musk with the tones of sex in the air. The crisp, clean and sweet smell of the bard lending itself. Yennefer cannot stop watching him. Her grasp moves to be at his shoulders, letting her fingernails press half moons to his skin. If she had enough hands one would be for her tits, to follow the trail of slickness back up her thigh.

That tone, that arching of him pulls a gasp of wonder from her. "Again, do it again for me." Though it is more her actino than his own. "Yes, yes." Holding him down and rolling her hips, aiming the blunt cock tip where he needs it most. "Sing for me." Though no song of heartache or sweet kisses. Yennefer wants the avantgard ballad of his lust.

He obeys gladly--the sound peals out of him as she aims, as she drives against his most tender spot. Lights dance behind his eyelids and his breath comes in deep, heaving breaths as his face screws up in sweet, wondrous agony. His cock throbs between his legs, red and purple and neglected--held in a nearly painful grip by that ring.

Jaskier cannot think--he writhes arched and twisting like a cat. The weight and slide of that obsidian cock drives him mad, makes insane heat gather in his gut, at the base of his spine, in his trapped balls and the head of his weeping cock. He sings a symphony of moans, choked and interspersed with cursing, with praises for her, with nonsense.

Her hands keep his shoulders down, keep him pinned, and his own hands shift--they fly up from the sheets and take hold of her hips as she drives in. He cannot--he cannot--tears creep out from the corner of his eyes and, for a glorious moment, he is thrown into a place beyond himself. He goes blind with it, eyes flying open and seeing nothing--the sound that punches out of him is loud and wailing and drawn from the very depths of him.

His limbs shake and tremble and, strain, fingertips digging hard into the softness of her flesh, but he has no nails to puncture with. He holds her in close and curls up, curls forward, with a whine and shiver--his cock strains and twists, jumps and smears against her but it cannot spill. Glorious day it cannot and it hurts so sweetly as his orgasm washes over him and finally releases him.

Jaskier falls back, breathing heavily, panting and gasping--brow sweat-slicked and expression tired and comfortable and laced with bliss. His heart is racing and, as his hand shifts and settles upon hers, where it rests at his shoulder, he drags it down to hold it over his fluttering pulse--like a bird trapped in his ribs, frantic and weak.

Oh she has made him so weak and he could think of nothing he enjoyed more.

He is the one giving all of the vocals, the room accompanying in what way it can. Yennefer orchestrating or perhaps providing the tempo. Her thrusts stay in closer to him, far more concentrated. And what guides her along is the volume, the way his voice climbs and the quality. That need and urgency has her heart racing, every connected motion forward into the cradle of his hips has a low noise of effort. Jaskier's pressing grip could bruise. She loves it.

"That is---just like that. Oh, lovely. So-so lovely." Encouragement has not yet failed to reach him. Jaskier is already flying so very high. The ragged breathing of him--no, them--fits together. His cock is visibly aching and it's so perfect to behold. The silver ring only ceases the physical release. Nothing and no one can keep him from the pleasure he is owed.

His body moves wildly, arching up to her. It plunges the obsidian cock a might deeper and it can go no further. His body can clutch and clench on it's unyielding surface to it's content. It's glossed, heavy mass now warm from Jaskier and friction.

Such a dynamic end befitting a wondrous person. Eyes wild, a shaking mess of a man. She has this power. Yennefer stills. Her thighs, hips, stomach and buttocks ache from rapid to no motion at all. Looking down at him now, the most wrecked and handsome of expressions yet. She breathlessly laughs when there are no words spoken. "Have you come back to me, Dearheart? I lost you in the stars." Moving carefully, so carefully she presses kisses to the corners of each eye. No crows feet, just proof of merriment. That fluttering, wild beat of his heart under her hand. "You're so, so good for me. I cannot believe my eyes." Her breathing hasn't regulated and the words are thin and airy.

He stares at her through heavy lids and catches his breath. The hand on his chest is drawn up to press it against his cheek and saw. He smiles at the delicate drag os her lips by his eyes, on the damp trails the watering of them had left. She is heaving, breathing hard and eager and he leans up to capture her mouth with his.

The heavy weight of that cock within him shifts as he does, grinds harder to his over-sensitive prostate and pulls a thready gasp out of him--he shivers hard but doesn't fall back, doesn't give up her mouth or the gentle movement between them.

"I am still half in the stars, but can you blame me? So many of them linger in your eyes," he mutters, his poetry returning to him with saccharine gusto.

He is not given to moving his partners with force, not unless they have voiced a proclivity for it, but she is wanting and flushed above him and his faculties have returned. The fuzzy haze of alcohol has burned away at last and he is clear and bright and aware. Oh, how he intends to repay her, how he wants to make her call and cry and quiver. His hand on her hip pulls her tighter, his leg catches her thigh to keep her immobile--she is sunk so deep that it is a bit of a trick to flip them, but he is nothing if not clever.

He turns her onto her back, sets her dark hair fanning out over the fur and linen. Like spilled ink atop clean pages. She is held deep, tight against him, but her phallus has no give to it and it steals his breath again with a hard jarring press against him, shifting as they do. He swallows the sound that shivers through him and presses her back against the bed, his lips against hers moving in hard, open-mouthed strokes and bites.

"Shall I return the favor, sweetling?" he asks against her mouth and moves his hand from atop hers so it can hold him up above her. His eyes are bright and clear and his smile is full of hedonistic promise. Thank the Gods' she had a ring for him.

This the most poetry spoken in her bed ever. Though the direct, and yes saccharine, lines from Jaskier make A Meditation on Spring such a relic. These words are alive. And Yennefer knows that there are no stars in her eyes and he is a flutter with ecstasy she still is touched so deeply. Words have a kind of magic to them. Now aware, now vulnerable to Jaskier's charm they are a caress.

"Careful," else he shatter again. Could he after such a reaction? Clearly his attention is peaked.

They tumble together. More full contact, more touch and her body sings with delight. Yennefer's knees feel weak and she still cannot find enough air. The kisses are too good to bother with a true effort to breathe. A flush comes up over her skin, spreading from between her breasts to her cheeks. Her eyes are wide, aware now that what a possibility is before her. "Now. Now please. Yes." He asks so very, very nicely.

Thighs spread open and this time there is more space than before. She feels exposed and does not a thing to change it.

"As you wish," he murmurs against her lips and sucks in a shaking breath as he draws himself off her pretty black cock.

The sensation is a drag, a glorious aching loss, and he feels so very empty without it inside him. He shudders and feels his hole gape around the sudden emptiness. Her cock settles against his stomach and bends forward, tugging at the straps around her legs, her hips as it does. Fortunately, it is not at a steep angle for long, as he moves down from her mouth and--indeed, steps off the bed entirely

Her long legs are so beautiful and curve so sweetly, he slides his hands down them, settles them against her knees, and gives her a mischievous look, smiling as he peers past that wonderful cock to spy her face. He lifts one of her legs, kisses against the inside of her knee, and settles it over his shoulder--it drags her up at an odd angle as he stands, even hunched as he is, above her.

"Can you tolerate such an angle, my lovely?"

Yennefer sits up on her elbows to watch him pull free. The serum from the vial performed true to its reputation. A small portion running from the glassy black surface like melted honey. She shivers right along with Jaskier.

Watching him with so much attention and yet she did not foresee this development. Is he going to leave? Unfortunately that is the first brief thought. Jaskier cannot bare the burden of so very many missteps of lovers before. She straightens and is about to protest when his hands are on her again. The mischief in his grin and pulling her to splay at his direction settles worry in a blink.

Someday she won't behave like this.

"I can." Her knee bends a little to clutch as a response of this kiss. "Show me what you've got." Because now she is dying to know. The obsidian dick is wet and lays hot on her skin. Her hands reach to pull at his hips. Does he need her guidance? Violet eyes lift to his face.

He keeps her gaze and lets her tug him in, her leg propped on his shoulder. He bends forward to cage her in his arms and, with his shift, her knee is pressed up, stretches and shifts so that he can sink straight down into her warm and waiting cunt. He slides in slowly, firmly, and sucks in a deep breath as his swollen, aching cock is enveloped. The is throbbing as he penetrates her and, when his hips sit snugly against her, he turns his head again and nips at the inside of her thigh.

Jaskier savors a moment, adjusts, and frees one hand to ghost along her side. It settles on one of her breasts and he cranes forward, stretches her just a bit farther, and kisses along the other breast as he withdraws. He sinks in as his hand finds her nipple, and withdraws and again.

The pace he sets it almost jaunty--is certainly bouncing and cocky, a jig rather than a ballad. The spring in the snap of his hips is aided by the knowledge that no matter how overcome he is, no matter how his cock and balls ache and pull into himself, he will not crest again before she does. It will be sweet torture, driving into her like this, and he looks forward to every second of it.

He is a musician at heart and his fingers and mouth keep time with the metronome snap of his hips. He could keep a beat in his sleep, could maintain it with the barest focus, and nothing about his stroke or depth falters as he fucks into her. He could keep this up for long hours, so long as he wore that ring. He wonders how long it will be until she realizes that.

Yennefer could not swallow down the whole of his cock. And feeling him sink into her slick cunt she understands more completely that it was a perfect match to him. Lean, long and a good girth. It's an instrument like his lute and he plays up it's attributes. Standing was a perfect action, driving in deeply, hitting harder. "Darling--yes." She is not so floral with poetry and regularly she is not so audible.

Of course Jaskier proves to be a special case. The perfect friction and now teeth, his mouth, his hands. Yennefer surprises herself with a yelp and incoherent murmur. Once he is close enough, her finger lace into his stylishly short hair.

Moving--bouncing--glorious, breathless work. So diligent. And his eyes are sparkling. Can he be so sure that she's the one with stars in her eyes? Teased and pulled with his motion, her knees feel the tension climbing.

"Jaskier--" she cannot complete her thought. It was a want or a compliment. Maybe both? Each time he drives forward her cunt wants to hold him tighter, deeper. Yennefer's nails scratch his scalp, her other hand clawing at his shoulder to either keep him close or simply because she is helpless to do much else.

He smiles against skin as he works in her, as he drives with mechanical precision, with constant, clockwork speed. His fingers tease, his mouth slides and bites, toying with the flesh of her breasts, with the thin skin of her areola. Her nipple hardens under his tongue and he tugs at it.

"What is it lovely?" Jaskier asks as she sighs his name, her statement cut short. His own mind is a haze of pleasure and aching, bone-deep want. His hips snap and slide and drive into her. His cock throbs with each wonderful, enveloping press into her body.

"Would you like a change of pace?" He asks, hums really, and shifts back to standing. Her left over his shoulder is tilted away until only her ankle rests against the rise of it. He mouths along her foot, along the shallow places of her calf, and, standing, he should strike a far more tender place inside her.

All he must do is find it.

Legs over his strong shoulders, and the whole of her self to be ravaged does not lend herself to be the most coherent. It's a beautiful madness. Tension drawing tighter in her gut. Every pull and press of his cock and the way her skin warms and prickles to his attention.

When he is more upright again is when their bodies align just so. Yennefer can't clutch him so she has a hand in the bedding and another at her own tit. The next thrust in Jaskier's perfect sense of timing is punctuated by a moan. That's the right place. He's found it. And for every strike there after she is moaning for it. For him. His name has way more syllables than it ever had.

Verbal confirmation is grand but the hold around his cock is a ripple of tension until she is shivering. Her stomach, her legs both tighten and try to hold him somehow. A job well done for a cocksman such as himself.

He smiles as she moans and rocks against him, shivering and tense as he finds the spot he'd sought. His hands rove her legs, sliding and stroking the length of them as he fucks into her, delighted and wholly focused. Well. As much as could be expected.

His cock was so hard it pained him, throbbing and full to bursting--it was flushed an angry sort of red against the slick pink and flush of her cunt. Each gliding stroke is a cruel, torturous tease--each thrust had his balls tense and his cock jerk and no relief came to him. The heat in his gut wound higher and higher, stealing reason and words, and his poetry became little more than hushed compliments and repetition of her name.

The world narrowed and, the fluttering of her around him, the way her head tossed and her hands gripped the bedding, palmed her own breast--this was all he could focus on.

"You are a symphony, lovely," Jaskier praised, tender and awed, and his hand fell between them to rest above her cunt, to press down just so and keep that spot in hard contact with his cock.

There's a kind of poetry in wordless sounds. His voice is obviously more appealing to the ear, crafted and sculpted though the way he guides her through, they make such a duet. Desperate climbing moans and her own that have taken to tumbling free. His cock in it's restricted state may as well be obsidian, so hard.

Her brow furrows and her lips part. Exertion and such kind words heat her skin. The touch of his hand on her body, holding her as a victim to his impeccable tempo also gives her something to cling to. She can hardly rock up to meet his thrusts now. Perhaps it is just as well because Jaskier's tireless focus sends her off. Yennefer's legs try and pull close, either to him or around him, whatever. The rush overtakes her thoughts and her eyes slip shut. Held just so, fucked just right her cunt quickens. Their meditation on spring has so very much more nectar.

She clenches and flutters around him, shivering as a rush of liquid soaks him, makes her impossibly, gloriously slick and wet around him. He shudders as he drives into her, as he works her though, and his strokes shift, gentling even though they don't slow. The angle of his cock is less severe, more idle, and he wonders if she will bat him away or suffer it until he can pull another peak from her.

"Wonderful, perfect, glorious," he murmurs, eyes closed and brow furrowed--between each word he kisses along her leg, along her calf, until her knees are at his shoulders once more.

The poetry he would write about this would be filthy and lilting--a hundred sonnets devoted to how she moves and feels and the clever twinkle in her eye and the glistening of the shining black phallus still mounted to her hips. He is tempted to stroke it, just to occupy his hand, but settles instead for resting his fingers around the base of it and smoothing over the leather straps.

"I would adore an encore, if you would be so kind," Jaskier requests, softly, teasing, against her knee. His teeth graze the skin there and he tries, so desperately tries, not to focus on the aching strain in his loins.

Opening her eyes again, the world is in a soft focus as she blinks away what might be tears or simply sweat. Slick below and the rest of her gleaming in sweat. Jaskier too. Her dutiful, handsome companion.

Still on the move, still gliding. Sweet and thoughtful lover that he is, no longer driving her completely mad though playing over her flayed nerves. Aching and nearly tilting into the most delicious of pains. She would be the kind to suffer through. Half curled up once more, she grabs for him needing to be closer, close enough to kiss and feel his breath.

"Of what sort? For you? For me?" There is no losing party. And truly to fuck him or be fucked is a delight. Right now this side of a release, she wants more. Always more.

Before she gets distracted again, she must speak. "You are still bound, dearheart." In a lesser state of movement he feels hotter, almost throbbing and in case he needs any persuasion, Yennefer wills cunt to clench as tightly as she can manage.

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