He presses a third finger inside me, careful and cold and stretching, and his tongue tightens on my clit, and I tip over.
The second orgasm builds slower and breaks bigger. Deeper than the first, my whole body locking and then releasing in waves, his tongue working through every one of them, and I am crying and rocking and sayingpleaseandyoursand things that are not words, and it goes on long enough that I lose the edges of it. I cannot find where it starts or ends, just the continuous obliterating cold of his mouth and his fingers and the specific focused patience of a male who has been waiting six months for this and intends to do it properly.
He lifts his head. His expression is the one I have never fully named. His mouth is wet with me. He still does not wipe it.
"Good," he says, like I have confirmed something he already knew.
He moves up the bed and puts his mouth against my ear.
"On your knees," he says. "Present yourself."
My body does it before my mind decides to. Turns over, pushes up onto my hands and knees, back arching, before I have registered agreeing to it. Some distant part of me observes this as information and files it underno longer relevant.
He moves behind me. Cold hands on my hips. I feel him line up: upper cock at my entrance, lower cock pressed flat and heavy against my lower belly from outside. I grip the headboard.
"Too big," I say. Smaller than I want it to.
"You'll take it," he says.
He presses in.
An inch. Another. The upper cock—thick, curved, cold—and I exhale through my teeth and grip harder and my body opens around him and the vibration starts at base frequency and I gasp. The lower cock presses hard against my abdomen with every forward thrust. Outside. Inside. Both at once. My body has no framework for this and doesn't need one.
"There," he says.
He starts to move.
Deep strokes. The upper cock pulling almost all the way out and pressing back in. The lower dragging against my belly on every thrust. My hips roll back to meet him before I decide to—greedy and undignified and past caring—and he makes a sound above me that is nothing like patience.
I am crying out with every thrust. Just the sounds, happening on their own. My thighs soaked. The vibration constant inside me. Thinking is not available.
The orgasm crests.
"Please—"
He pulls out.
I moan. Involuntary and wretched and my hips press back looking for him and find nothing. The absence is enormous.
His hands shift my hips. Deliberate. Repositioning with the calm of someone who has known how this ends for six months. I feel the angle change: the lower cock, thick and straight, now pressed to my entrance. The upper cock above, curved, pressing from behind against my arse.
I understand what he is doing.
"Wait. I can't?—"
"You will," he says.
He pushes the lower cock in.
Thick. No curve. Blunt fullness pressing into my cunt inch by inch and my mouth falls open and no sound comes out. I feel every bit of it in my stomach. The upper cock finds my arse and presses, cold and patient.
I try to reach back. He pins my wrist.
"Breathe."
I breathe. He works the upper cock in—slow—and the wall between them is impossibly thin and the stretch of both together is enormous and real and I make a sound that is not a word.
Full.