Beguile

29 Simple thoughts turn red

I never thought I could be so talkative, even in my own mind.

Before, my thoughts were simple—how blue the sky is, how creepy bugs are. Even when chaos erupted around us, my mind was filled with practical concerns, like how to survive, what to eat, who to trust. Suspicion swirled around constantly, a dark cloud over everything. But now, now I was different. Now I was praying.

It was strange—me, praying. I didn't even know who I was praying to. Maybe it was the spirits that lived in the trees and the wind, or maybe the souls that inhabited Lucas and Elle's bodies, twisted and corrupted as they were.

I didn't care who it was. All I wanted was for some great being out there to hear me, to intervene, to somehow make this nightmare end. To muffle the obscene squelch my pussy made with each movement, each touch.

Kurt's fingers were rubbing my core at first, tentative and slow, as if he was exploring something fragile. Even then, I could feel myself leaking, a wetness that made me cringe with embarrassment.

I swear this is my first time being touched by a boy; if it weren't, my body wouldn't have reacted like this—like a virgin so desperate that just the smell of a boy could make me leak down there.

His fingers were cold and trembling, yet he played with me so slowly, teasingly, despite the way his breath was already tumbling over itself. I could feel his chest rising and falling against my back, could hear the faint hitch in his breath as he tried to keep himself under control. But I wasn't in control anymore.

"Kay," I practically begged, my voice trembling as I put my hands over his, trying to make him go further, deeper. His name slipped out again, mingled with a breath that burned with the heat building inside me. The itch down there was unbearable, the soaked feeling making me squirm. All I wanted was for his large, rough fingers to enter me, to scratch that itch, to give me the release I was desperately craving.

"Wetter," he whispered, his voice so low it sent shivers down my spine. "I want you wetter."

"It's enough," I said, my voice strained, trying to keep some semblance of control. I didn't want to sound like I was begging, even though that's exactly what I was doing. I could feel the shame rising in me, the fear that his accusations would become true. I wanted to prove that I wasn't someone who slept with just anyone, that I wasn't the whore he'd called me. But what I was doing right now? It wasn't really helping my case.

His fingers continued their slow, torturous movements, and I couldn't help the way my hips began to move against him, seeking more, seeking relief. My mind was a jumble of conflicting thoughts—wanting him to stop, wanting him to keep going, wanting to prove him wrong, yet craving the very thing I feared would confirm his accusations.

"Please," I whispered, hating how desperate I sounded, how much I needed this. My body was betraying me, my mind a whirlwind of shame and desire. I couldn't believe this was happening, couldn't believe I was letting it happen. "I want you, Kay."

I finally said it. The words slipped out, so genuine that I felt him stir, as if he couldn't believe it. It sounded like an answer to his confession, but I didn't care. All I could think about was how much I wanted him inside me.

"Slowly," he murmured, though it felt like he was convincing himself more than me.

As his hand moved closer, my body trembled in anticipation, every nerve on edge. He hadn't even touched me yet, but I was already soaked, leaking with desire. My hands pressed against the wall, my legs stretched out, praying that the spirits would protect me because this time, I was so wet that every movement promised to echo like soap on gloves.

When I felt his finger enter me, it was overwhelming. He added another, and the tightness grew. A third finger, and it felt like too much, too full.

"It's tight," he muttered, voicing both of our concerns. A groan escaped my lips as I felt like I might tear. I'd always thought girls were supposed to be stretchable. This was how I learned that books were poor mentors.

"Am I hurting you? Should we try another day?" He buried his nose in my hair, starting to withdraw, but I gripped his hand, stopping him.

"No," I breathed, my voice shaky but resolute. I needed him to scratch that itch deep inside me, and I didn't care about the pain.

"But this won't do," he murmured, suddenly turning me so that my back pressed against the wall. Even in the dim light, I could see the large bulge tenting his trousers, straining as if it hurt. My mind wandered to the thought of that hardness inside me, imagining how it could scratch me all the way to my core. But it seemed like he knew what I was thinking.

"Not that," he said, briefly grabbing his bulge, letting me see just how hard he really was. My breath caught in my throat. But before I could react, he sank to his knees, pulling my pants down with him.

"What are you doing?" I gasped, my eyes widening as he looked up at me with a dark, determined gaze.

"My tongue is softer than my fingers," he replied, his voice low and husky. Then, without waiting for a response, his tongue flicked out, and I gasped so loudly I swore it echoed across the river. The sensation was entirely different—wet, soft, and overwhelming. Every swirl of his tongue around my entrance sent shivers through my body, and the wet, intimate sounds filled the air, making me tremble against the wall.

When he pressed his tongue deeper, I couldn't help but moan, my hands clawing at the wall behind me as my legs threatened to give out. He explored me with agonizing precision, every flick and swirl sending jolts of pleasure up my spine. His tongue dipped inside, then retreated, only to return again with a firmer, more insistent pressure. The wet sounds of his tongue working against me echoed in the quiet, mingling with my gasps.

He kept up his relentless pace, his mouth moving with a skill that made my thoughts scatter. The way he licked me—so thoroughly, so expertly—made me feel like I was unraveling, thread by thread. My body responded without hesitation, pushing against his mouth, craving more of the maddening sensation.

Then, he found a rhythm, his tongue alternating between long, slow licks and quick, focused strokes that made my hips jerk forward involuntarily. He hummed against me, the vibrations sending shockwaves through my body. I was lost in the pleasure, unable to think of anything else but the feeling of his tongue moving inside me, around me, devouring me.

His hands gripped my hips, steadying me as he licked deeper, harder, the pleasure building inside me like a wave threatening to crash.

It was too much, and yet not enough—I wanted more, needed more, and he seemed to know that, too.

My breath came in ragged gasps, my body trembling, on the edge of something vast and consuming. All the while, his tongue never stopped, never slowed, as if he was determined to drive me over that edge and watch me fall apart. And as the tension coiled tighter inside me, I knew it wouldn't be long before I did.