txolops Chapter 509- Sabrina getting what she Likes
Chapter 509- Sabrina getting what she Likes
She was going to kill him.
That was the first thought.
The second thought arrived approximately half a second later, when she registered her situation in full — both wrists bound above her head by something cultivation-woven that she could ’feel’ the qi threading through, her arms stretched upward, her feet spread and anchored to nothing physical but held apart by the same force that held her wrists, her body hanging between two tall garden trees in the lantern light like a problem that had been suspended for later consideration.
Her clan vest was still on.
Her lower garment — a fighter’s wrap, close-cut — was still on.
The panty beneath it was still on.
For now.
These facts she catalogued rapidly, the way the tiger clan catalogued threats, assigning value and priority.
"What does it mean."
Her voice came out considerably more level than she felt.
She looked at him.
He was standing in front of her with his hands behind his back and the expression of a man who has arranged something to his satisfaction and is now reviewing it.
"What are you going to do."
"Don’t try to break it," he said.
He tilted his head.
"The binding."
A pause — the kind that contained something in it, something he was deciding whether to say.
"You might not remember," he said, "but you and I have met before."
Sabrina’s eyes narrowed.
"What."
"Like this," he said. "First meeting. You had me in something similar." The corners of his mouth moved. "You nearly killed me."
"I’ve ’never—" She stopped. Searched her memory with the urgency of a woman who has recently learned that her memory has gaps. "I’ve never seen you before the tiger clan mountain."
"I already told you."
His hand moved.
Forward.
Found the front of her lower garment, the outline of her pussy beneath it, and ’grabbed’ — not rough, not gentle, the specific grip of someone demonstrating that they have access to a thing.
"What—" Her hips pulled back — involuntarily, immediately. Her tail went rigid. Her canines came out. "What are you doing — STOP—"
"Don’t you want me to fuck you?"
"What?’ I would ’never—"
"Then why," he said, his grip not moving, his voice carrying the particular reasonableness of someone making a logical observation in the middle of an unreasonable situation, "are you allowing me to tie you?"
Silence.
The garden lanterns swayed.
A catkin somewhere behind him made a very small sound that it immediately converted into a cough.
Sabrina’s jaw worked.
Her eyes went sideways.
Far sideways.
Away from his face, away from his hand, toward some specific point on the garden wall that had suddenly become very interesting to her.
"You bastard," she said, to the wall.
"Free me and I’ll kill you."
His thumb moved.
A single stroke, along the outline of her, over the fabric.
Her lip disappeared between her teeth.
Her breath came out through her nose, controlled, the specific control of someone using a technique.
A technique called ’not letting him see’.
The technique was failing.
The fabric was failing worse — the specific warmth building under it, the way cloth darkens when something beneath it decides to stop cooperating with dignity.
"Aren’t you horny," he said.
Flat. Observational. The voice of someone checking a fact.
"Shut up."
His chuckle was low and private and she hated the specific sound of it — hated that she recognized it now, had it catalogued, could anticipate the shape of it before it finished forming.
His fingers found the edge of her panty.
Moved it.
Just to the side.
The silver hair there caught the lantern light — fine, pale, the particular untouched softness of something that has never been disturbed before now — and he looked at what was beneath it with the unhurried attention of someone who has found something they were curious about.
Pink.
The inner folds, barely parted, carrying the specific color of something recently aroused against its will — the same pink as an ear when someone has said the embarrassing thing too accurately.
He leaned forward.
Sabrina’s eyes tracked the movement.
"What — what are you—"
His mouth closed over her.
"HAAHH—"
The sound came out before she could prevent it — too large, too genuine, filling the garden space with a quality of sound she had never made in the tiger clan’s tournament halls, had never made anywhere, the sound of a nervous system receiving something it was entirely unprepared for despite having had all available information.
His tongue moved.
She felt it in her thighs, in her spine, in the specific pressure of the binding at her wrists that she was now gripping rather than fighting.
"Wh—what are you—stop—just—"
She couldn’t finish a sentence.
Every time she started one his tongue found something that dissolved the second half of it.
"Stop—" The word came out wet. Her head dropped forward. Her silver hair fell over her face. "You — bastard — just — if you’re going to do something just do it already and stop — stop this—"
"I told you," he said, against her.
The vibration of the words landed directly where the words were spoken from and she made a sound that was not language.
"You’re horny." He resumed. "But I want you ’desperate’."
"I’ll kill you," she said, into her own hair.
"—Mmmph—"
The tongue moved again and the kill-you-portion of the statement evaporated entirely.
Her tail was doing things completely independent of her authority.
It had gone from rigid to swaying to — currently — curled, the tip tucked up near her own hip, the body language of a tiger clan member in a state that the clan’s formal vocabulary politely categorized as ’beyond the scope of combat assessment’.
His tongue found the specific place.
The one.
"Hiekk~—!!"
Her hips pressed ’forward’ — against every intention, against every principle — her thighs trying to close around him and finding the binding wouldn’t allow it, the frustration of that denial only compounding what was already happening—
PAH — his hand, flat on her inner thigh, holding her exactly where she was.
Open.
Unable to help herself.
Unable to close or retreat or collect any of the dignity she was leaving in scattered pieces across the garden floor.
"Stop — stop stop — I’m going to — you bastard I’m — nnh~—"
She squirted.
Not delicately.
The way a tiger clan woman squirts when she has been denying herself for a significant period of time and something finally overrides the denial completely — substantial, immediate, across his face without apology, her whole body locking in the binding as the orgasm hit her from the inside out and shook her the way a wind shakes a tree that thought it was rooted.
"AANGHH~!! — ’you—’ — bastard — ’stop now—"
Her head hung.
Her chest heaved.
Her thighs glistened with what was now unmistakably everywhere.
He stood.
Wiped his face with the back of his hand.
She looked up through the silver curtain of her hair with an expression that was doing three separate things at once — fury, shame, and a heat behind the eyes that neither of the first two could fully suppress.
"Stop. Now."
"You said ’just enter me and fuck me already."
"I did NOT—"
"You said it," he said, "approximately thirty seconds ago while begging, right?"