Contractual Obligations Pt. 01

Arsa doesn't realize what she's doing until the pointed end of Grace's shoe guides her hand away from her throbbing cock. She was stroking herself—and who would blame her? Except for Grace, of course, who, her hips rocking with imminent longing, uses her heel to pin Arsa's hand against the floor.

"No," she says.

And Arsa obeys. Letting Grace's body consume the whole of her attention, Arsa traces her tongue upwards, splitting wide those lips and exulting in the tangy sensation of arousal across her taste buds. Inexperienced, but swollen with zeal, Arsa is rewarded with Grace's generous cry of pleasure as her tongue peaks against her captor's cunt, slipping under the hooded flesh that hides her clit.

Slick with want, stomach clenching with denial, Arsa seeks to sublimate her own pleasure on the body of this woman, losing herself in trying, and failing, to find the angle that allowed her access to that slick button, that dense bundle of nerves that provided such obvious approval, that confirmation of her effort. Grace's heated panting increases with each inaccurate swipe of Arsa's tongue, the near misses forcing tremors out of the woman's legs that stab her feet downward, and her heel into the back of Arsa's pinned hand. But still the Skint suckles, kneads, and swipes every inch within her reach, demanding, begging to hear that sound, just one more time...

So it's with a pained whimper that Arsa finds herself removed from this hidden treasure. "No," says Grace. "No." Lips groping at thin air, she butts her forehead against Grace's bracing palm, but she is denied, made to watch as Grace lowers her hand to her cunt, pressing the pads of two fingers down against her hidden clit through its thick hood, their glossy nails glinting in the light as she moves them in an eager frig. Voice quaking, overflowing with manifest passion, Grace says, "Fuck me."

Arsa surges her head forward. Lips meeting lips, she stabs her tongue out and through in shallow, needy strikes. Each jab of her tongue through the immodest defenses of those hungry lips draws a strangled cry from Grace, or a slap of her palm down against the desk, or a jab forward of her hips. The scramble of Grace's fingers against her clit clips manicured nails against Arsa's nose, but the demon hardly notices. The slam of Grace's hips against her face batters pubic bone against Arsa's throbbing lips, but still she refuses to relent. Grace's heel grinds against the back of her hand as if it could puncture down and through, but Arsa never falters—what use does she have for a hand? She would sacrifice it all, everything, to add even a single ounce to the overwhelming pleasure of the woman above her, that trembles just beneath its crescendo, warbling just before the finish line, and sending an arcing shock, like lighting, through Arsa's demonic bones with every contraction of Grace's magnificent, dominant cunt.

"Please—" Arsa gasps, her lips smearing in useless circles against the woman's need, no longer able to focus against the waves of pleasure that crash against the shoals of her being. "—Please!"

Unsure of what to expect, having heard only stories, Arsa is overwhelmed by the flood of passion that explodes from this woman, arcing through the rooms like gossamer strands of energy, invisible to human perception, but all too real to this Skint, one hundred and seventeen years old, but still quite young by any demonic reckoning. As Grace screams her orgasm to the ceiling, Arsa can only mimic the sound in anxious confusion, unsure if she experiences her own climax or if she is merely reeling against that of the woman above her, whose grip in Arsa's hair plasters her lip-to-lip, and whose knees around her lissome body clench as if they will never, ever let go.

And really, why should she want them to?

But eventually, regretfully, she is freed. Grace's spasming fingers unfurl from their death grip in Arsa's hair, their owner needing both hands to brace herself against the desk before she collapses beneath the burden of sitting upright. Arsa falls back, resting her ass against the flats of her feet and hugging her arms around her stomach, body ringing with bemusement, still unsure where Grace's climax end and hers began... or if she even had one at all.

They're apart only for a few scarce breaths. Seeking warmth, Grace guides Arsa's cheek to the inside of her thigh. Arsa rests quietly in this embrace, eyes closed, exulting in the novel sensation of Grace's now gentle hand stroking affectionately across her head, smoothing out her mussed hair into place and setting right.

As their twinned gasping slows, it's Grace who speaks first. "Tell me," she asks, "wasn't that better than some sorority girl with a Ouija board?"

The air stinks of their sweaty effort. Even as her rasping breath slows to a manageable pace, Arsa fears the next one will throw her again off that brink, into that hungry oblivion. She stares at the floor, at the caked blood of the summoning circle smeared beneath her knees, and shakes her head, spilling sweat-dampened hair over her horns and in front of her eyes. "How should I know?"

Grace throws the last of her effort into a chuckle. "Would you like to?"

The question alone radiates a wanton ache through her weary body. Arsa bobs her head in a silent, eager nod.

Grace lifts her chin with a single finger, bringing Arsa's gaze to her smoldering, predatory eyes. "Well then," Grace says, "welcome to Harris, Harris, and Clay."