He pulled both breasts together.
His mouth covered both nipples simultaneously — the press of his lips against the valley where they were pushed together, his tongue finding first one then the other in rapid alternation. She cried out. Her head went back against the stone arch. The tears were running freely. Her legs were spread across his lap. Her skirt was up around her thighs.
He pulled back.
He looked at her.
Her face was wet. Her breasts were exposed in the moonlight. Her nipples were swollen from his mouth. Her dress was bunched at her thighs. Her hips had stopped grinding because she had become aware of herself and had made herself stop and now her whole body was trembling with the effort of stillness.
His hand moved under her skirt.
She felt his fingers against the inside of her thigh. Moving upward. She grabbed his wrist.
"Wait—" she said.
He did not pull the hand away. He let her hold his wrist. He looked at her face. Patient. Unhurried. The patience of someone who understood that the destination was not in question, only the pace.
Her grip on his wrist loosened.
His fingers moved.
They found the fabric of her panties. The cotton was wet. The dampness soaked through, warm against his fingertips. He pressed. Not inside. Against the fabric. Against the outline of her — the soft, swollen, completely evident shape of her through the thin cotton.
She looked down.
She saw his hand under her skirt.
She looked up at his face.
"Congratulations," he said. "You are completely prepared to become a woman."
"What—" She looked down again. "What does that— I am not— I—"
His mouth covered hers. His lips were warm and firm. He kissed her with the patient, unhurried thoroughness of someone who was not trying to go somewhere quickly but was interested in every detail of where they were. His tongue moved against her lower lip. She made a sound — a small, startled, involuntary sound — and her hands pressed against his chest and she did not push.
His mouth moved.
His lips parted hers. His tongue found hers. A French kiss, deep and deliberate, the kind of kiss that communicated intent without words. She felt her knees go soft. She felt her body lean into him without asking her permission. She felt her toes curl inside her boots.
His hand moved.
It found her hip. Her skirt. The fabric bunched slightly under his grip. He kneaded — slow, steady, the fingers pressing into the soft flesh of her hip through the dress. She pulled back from the kiss. She put her hand against his chest.
"Wait—" Her voice was very unsteady. "What— what is this—"
He bit her nipple.
His teeth closed on the stiff pink nub. Not hard. Not gently. The exact pressure of a man who knew where every threshold was.
Her tongue came out.
Her eyes went wide and the pupils went huge and her mouth formed the shape of a scream that had no sound behind it. Her hips slammed forward against his hand. The grind was involuntary and violent and she felt the wetness in her panties become suddenly, dramatically worse — the walls of her cunt contracting, the arousal pouring from her, soaking the cotton, running warm against his fingers.
She shook.
Her hands grabbed his head. She hugged him against her chest. Her face pressed into his hair. Her thighs clamped together around his wrist. She shook and shook and did not understand what was happening to her and did not stop.
"No—" she breathed against his hair. "What— what is happening with me— what—"
"Mmmuwaaahh!!"
"Annghh~!!"
He pulled away from her nipple.
The wet sound of his mouth leaving the stiff pink nub was audible in the night air. A thin strand of saliva connected his lip to her breast. It broke. He stood. His height above her was sudden and imposing. He gripped her skirt. He lifted it. The fabric bunched upward. He did not use his hands. He used his teeth.
The hem of her skirt between his teeth. He pulled. The fabric rode up her thighs. Up past her hips. Up to her waist. He held it there with his jaw. She looked down at him. At the man kneeling before her with her skirt in his mouth. Her hands were frozen at her sides. The moonlight caught the white cotton underneath.
Panties.
Simple white cotton. Printed with small strawberries. Red and green. Juicy little designs scattered across the fabric that covered her maidenhood.
He let the skirt fall from his teeth.
He looked at the panties.
His finger traced one of the strawberries.
"Cute," he said. His voice was warm and filthy. "I like cherries, though. When it comes to popping them."
She flinched.
"Pop?" she whispered. Her voice was small. "What— what do you mean pop?"
He chuckled.
The sound was low and came from his chest. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties. He pulled. Slowly. The cotton slid down her thighs. Down her knees. He pulled them past her calves. He lifted each foot. He removed them completely. He held them in his hand. He looked at them. Then at her.
She was bare.
The moonlight fell directly between her legs. The mound was smooth. Hairless. Not shaved — the skin was too perfect, too unmarked. It was the natural bareness of a girl who had never grown hair there. The pussy lips were small. Tight. A pale pink line. The entrance was a thin, unbroken seam. Virgin.
"I have never seen such a high-class pussy," he said. "At least not expected to see one this soon. You look like a noble woman. Like a princess."
She trembled.
"W-what?" she stammered. Her hands moved to cover herself. He caught her wrists. "I— I am not— I am just—"
"Look at you." His thumb moved to her slit. He pressed. The seam parted. The small, virginal lips opened. The wetness inside glistened in the moonlight. "Look at this innocence. Soaked. Dripping. You are a maiden, Lena. A perfect little maiden. And you are about to stop being one."
He stood.
He unzipped his pants.
The sound was loud. The fabric loosened. The cock fell free. Not gradually. It emerged heavy and thick and already fully hard. The shaft was dark against his pale skin. The veins were thick. The head was swollen and blunt and the size of her fist.
It pressed against her chest.
The weight of it. The heat. The sheer physical presence of twelve inches of demon cock resting against her sternum, the head pushing between her breasts, the shaft pressing flat against her belly. She looked down. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth opened. She could not speak.
He gripped it.
He lifted the shaft away from her chest. He positioned it. The head pressed against her pussy. Not entering. Just resting. The blunt crown against the tight, unbroken seam. He rubbed.
Up and down.
The wetness from her earlier arousal coated the head. The friction was soft and slick and the sound of it was obscene in the silence. He rubbed his cock against her pussy. Back and forth. The head sliding between the small lips. Pressing against the clit. Dragging down to the entrance. Pressing. Not entering. Just rubbing.
She gasped.
Her hands gripped his shoulders. Her nails dug in. Her head went back. The stone arch was cold behind her back.
"Ah— ah— ah— what— what is—"