Chapter 11: The Second Flood
“It’s cute,” she murmured, her voice slurry with exhaustion and affection. “Your utter devotion to me. It’s really, really cute.”
She didn’t move for another long minute, her breath evening out against my neck. Then, with a soft, determined sigh, she pushed herself up from my chest. Her palms slid against my chest as she braced herself, her movements languid and boneless.
She swung one leg over to plant her foot on the floor, but her sole met the slick puddle instead of solid wood. Her eyes flew wide. “Whoa—!”
A sharp, wet skid echoed in the quiet room. She wobbled violently, arms windmilling, a gasp catching in her throat. I lunged forward, my hands snapping out to catch her by the hips, my fingers digging into her soft skin to steady her. Her balance held, just barely, her body a taut line of surprise over the shimmering evidence of her pleasure.
“Slippery,” she breathed, a shaky, embarrassed laugh bubbling out of her. She looked down at the mess, then back at me, her gaze turning mischievous. “You really did make a lake, you know that?”
“My apologies,” I said, my voice rough. My hands didn’t leave her hips. She was standing now, her back to me, my view an exquisite panorama of the delicate knobs of her spine descending to the lush, perfect curve of her ass, still glistening.
“Don’t be sorry.” Her voice dropped, losing the laugh, gaining a low, deliberate weight. She reached back, her fingers finding the hem of her simple cotton t-shirt. In one smooth, unhesitating motion, she pulled it up over her head, her arms crossing as she dragged the fabric away. The sound of the material passing over her ears was a soft whisper.
She tossed the shirt aside. It landed with a wet plop in the deeper part of the puddle near the desk leg, a white flag sinking. She stood there, facing away, completely bare now but for her glasses. The amber light traced the lines of her shoulder blades, the dip of her waist, the pale, unmarked skin of her back.
Then she turned.
Her curly hair was a wild halo. Her glasses were slightly steamed. Her eyes, dark and endless, locked onto mine as she took a slow, deliberate step back, her feet sloshing gently through the wetness. She brought her hands up, running them over her own collarbones, down the slope of her breasts, her thumbs brushing her nipples which tightened instantly into hard, dusky peaks.
“You’re just sitting there,” she said, her head tilting. “All settled. Like a dragon on a hoard.” A smile played on her lips. “But your hoard is wet. And your hoard is looking at you.”
I couldn’t speak. My throat was too tight. The sight of her, naked and proud and standing in the literal aftermath of what we’d done, short-circuited every thought except one: mine.
She watched the realization hit my face, saw my jaw clench, my eyes darken. Her smile widened, becoming something ancient and knowing. “There he is,” she whispered. “There’s my hungry boy.”
Her gaze traveled down my body, lingering on the obvious, painful bulge straining against my jeans. She made a soft, sympathetic tsk sound. “That looks uncomfortable.” Then, with a grace that stole the air from my lungs, she sank down.
It wasn’t a collapse; it was a conscious, liquid descent. She lowered herself onto her knees, right into the center of the cool, spreading puddle. A soft, shuddering sigh escaped her as her skin met the wet floor. She settled back, letting her thighs fall open, the pale, delicate skin of her inner legs framing the dark, soaked curls between them. Her bare cunt pressed into the chill dampness, a faint, slick sound accompanying the contact.
She placed her hands on the floor in front of her, leaning forward slightly. The pose was feline, deliberate, and it pushed her small, perfect breasts together, creating a shadowed cleavage. She looked up at me from under her lashes, her back a perfect, supple arch.
“You made a mess of me,” she said, her voice a low, playful purr that vibrated in the space between us. Her right hand lifted from the floor, fingers glistening with moisture. She held them up, watching a single drop fall from her fingertpe back into the puddle with a quiet plink. “Now I’m going to make a mess of you.”
Her eyes never left mine as she brought those wet fingers to her mouth. She sucked two of them slowly, her tongue swirling around the tips, her cheeks hollowing. A soft, appreciative hum rumbled in her throat. “Mmm. Tastes like me. And you. And calculus.” She pulled her fingers out with a soft pop. “My favorite flavor.”
The combination of her words, her pose, the visual of her kneeling in her own release, was a physical blow to my gut. A ragged sound tore from me. She grinned, a flash of white teeth, and finally let her gaze drop to my sweatpants.
She grinned, a flash of white teeth, and finally let her gaze drop to my sweatpants. The fabric was taut, strained, and the shape beneath it was unmistakably rigid and eager. She watched, utterly focused, as another involuntary pulse of blood made my dick jump visibly against the grey cotton.
She dipped her fingers back into the puddle beside her thigh, gathering a thick, shimmering pool of her own release in her cupped palm. She held my gaze as she brought her hand to her sternum.
With deliberate, worshipful slowness, she dragged her wet fingertips down her body. They traced a glistening path between her breasts, over the flat plane of her stomach, through the fine trail of dark hair, until her whole hand was pressed against her own sensitive flesh, marking herself with the evidence of the pleasure I’d given her. She moaned, a soft, shuddering sound, her head tipping back slightly.
Still kneeling in the deepening wetness, she shifted closer. The cool liquid seeped around her knees, a constant, shocking reminder of where she was, what she was sitting in. She didn’t seem to mind; she reveled in it, a little sigh escaping her as she settled her weight.
She leaned in, her face now just inches away. Her warm breath ghosted over my tented pants. I flinched, a full-body twitch I couldn’t control.
Her grin widened at my flinch, a predatory delight dancing in her eyes. “Jumping already?” she teased, her voice a husky whisper. “We haven’t even started.”
Her fingers, still slick from her own skin, found the waistband of my sweatpants. They hooked under the fabric, her knuckles brushing against my stomach. The contact was electric, a jolt that made my hips jerk up off the chair. She applied a gentle, insistent pressure, pulling the soft grey cotton down.
The fabric slid down my thighs, and the trapped, aching heat of me sprung free into the cool air of the room. The movement was sudden, the tension releasing like a sprung trap.
My cock slapped across her whole face, plopping itself hard and insistent over her pretty face.
The sound was a wet, solid thwack of skin against skin. It happened fast, the sheer weight and eagerness of it overtaking her careful maneuver. It landed diagonally, from her left cheekbone across the bridge of her glasses to her right temple, the heated length of me smearing a damp trail over her skin.
She laughed, something light yet horny, a giggle that shook her shoulders and vibrated against my skin. Half her face was covered, her vision obscured by my shaft, her glasses knocked slightly askew. She didn’t pull away.
“Well, hello,” she mumbled, her words muffled against my flesh. She inhaled deeply, her nose pressed into my base. “Someone’s eager to say hi.” She turned her face, nuzzling into the underside of my cock with a deliberate, catlike affection. The head bumped against her ear.
I groaned, a raw, helpless sound. My hands flew to the arms of the chair, gripping the wood until my knuckles ached. “Pritha.”
“Shh, I’m greeting him.” She said it reverently, her voice hushed. She pulled back just enough to look, her glazed eyes peering up at me from around my girth. One lens of her glasses was fogged. A slick, shiny patch of moisture glistened on her cheekbone where I’d hit her. She didn’t wipe it away.
She didn’t wipe it away. Instead, she let her head loll to the side, pressing her entire cheek against the length of me. She held it there, cradling my cock against her face like a cherished thing. A deep, contented sigh warmed my skin.
“Mmm. It’s so warm,” she murmured, her voice vibrating against my shaft. Her glasses were still crooked. “And heavy. I can feel your heartbeat right here.” She nudged the thick vein with the tip of her nose. “Thump, thump, thump. So fast.”
She turned her face, letting my cock slide across her lips, leaving a wet streak. Her eyes, dark and unfocused with want, locked onto mine. “You’re really big like this,” she whispered, a statement of fact filled with awe. “All for me.”
Her tongue darted out, a pink flick that collected the moisture from her own cheek. She savored it, her eyelids fluttering. “You taste like my pussy,” she said, blunt and sweet. “My wet, messy pussy you made. It’s all over you.”
The words, paired with the lewd reality of her kneeling in the cooling puddle, made my stomach clench. A drop of pre-cum welled and fell, landing on her collarbone. She glanced down, watching it trace a path toward her breast.
“Oops,” she whispered, but it wasn’t an apology. It was a promise. She finally lifted her hands, her fingers cool and slick from the floor. They encircled my base, not to move me, but to hold me steady against her face. She rubbed my shaft up and down against her skin, coating me in the shimmer from her cheek.
“You marked me,” she said, her voice husky. “Now I’m marking you back. My smell, my taste, all over you.” She pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the head. It was chaste, almost devotional, a stark contrast to the filth of the situation.
Then the devotion cracked, revealing the raw hunger beneath.
She opened her mouth wider, letting the tip press against her lips. She didn’t take me in, not yet. She just held me there, breathing hotly against the slit, feeling me twitch against her mouth. A string of saliva connected her lower lip to my skin, stretching and snapping.
“You wanna fuck my face, Hardik?” she asked, her words a hot puff against my sensitive head. “You wanna just… use it?”
“Pritha,” I gasped, my fingers clawing at the chair.
“Tell me.” She dragged the broad head over her lips, painting them wet. “Tell me what you want. I’m right here in my own mess, waiting.”
“I want—” The sentence shattered, lost in the shudder that wracked me as her tongue swiped a broad, wet stripe from root to tip. She didn’t take me in. She painted me with her saliva, a glistening coat over skin already damp from her cheek.
“You want what?” Her voice was a low hum against my thigh. Her breath was hot. “Use your words, baby. I’m listening.” She pressed her lips to the throbbing vein underneath, a soft, closed-mouth kiss that made my hips jerk. A choked sound escaped me. “Just kisses,” she murmured, trailing them along my length, each one a soft, maddening pah of contact. “Is that what you want?”
“No.” It was a strangled plea. My fingers twisted in her curls, not guiding, just anchoring.
“No?” She pulled back, her eyes wide with faux-innocence. The head of my cock rested against her parted lips, nudging, but she didn’t yield. She breathed out, a warm, steady stream over the hypersensitive skin. I throbbed, a bead of moisture welling and slipping down to her chin. She caught it with her tongue, a quick, birdlike dart. “Mmm. Salty.” Her tongue swept over her lips, collecting the taste. She held my gaze, that faux-innocence dissolving into something far more primal. “You’re leaking. And I’m thirsty.”
Her words hung in the air, a dark promise. Then she leaned in, sealing her mouth over the head of my cock.
The heat was instant and shocking. A groan tore from my throat, raw and unfiltered. Her lips formed a perfect, tight ring, and she sucked gently, drawing a fresh bead of pre-cum from the slit. The sound was a soft, wet pop.
She released me with an obscene, glistening click. A thin strand of saliva and my own fluid connected her lower lip to my tip, shining in the lamplight. She didn’t break it. Instead, she held my gaze, her expression one of pure, focused hunger.
She opened her mouth wider, her tongue laying flat. Then she slowly, deliberately, pushed her tongue out. A thick glob of pooled saliva, silvery and viscous, gathered on the center of her tongue. It quivered there, a liquid jewel.
She holds out her tongue letting saliva drip onto me.
We both watched, mesmerized, as the droplet swelled, grew heavy, and finally fell. It descended in a shining thread, landing with a soft, cool splat directly onto my flushed, throbbing head. The sensation was a bizarre mixture of chill and heat, an intimacy so profound it robbed me of breath.
I jolted, a full-body convulsion that made the chair creak. “Fuck.”
She smiled, a slow, filthy curl of her lips. She didn’t close her mouth. She let another dollop gather and fall, then another, coating me in her spit. Each cool splash made me twitch violently, my hips straining upward, seeking more substantial friction.
“You like that?” she mumbled, her tongue still extended, the words distorted. Saliva dripped from its tip onto my shaft, painting erratic, wet trails. “My spit’s cold, huh?” She leaned closer, her hot breath a counterpoint to the cooling droplets. “But my mouth is so, so warm. Want to feel?”
The question wasn’t really a question. It was a whispered threat, a promise of heat. Her eyes held mine, drowning and dark, as she finally moved.
She leaned forward, her mouth opening wider. She took just the tip.
The initial heat was a soft, enveloping shock. Her lips closed in a hesitant ring, a gentle suction that pulled a fractured groan from my chest. Her tongue moved experimentally, a slow, unsure swirl against the sensitive underside. She held there, breathing hard through her nose, her gaze fixed upward as if checking my reaction, as if she was reading a manual only I could provide.
A soft, questioning hum vibrated against me.
She pulled back, letting me slip from her lips with a wet, soft pop. A thick string of saliva bridged the gap, stretching and finally snapping to land on her thigh. She panted, her lips glistening and parted. “Okay,” she breathed, more to herself than to me. “Okay.”
Her hands, still cool from the puddle she knelt in, came up to frame me. Her touch was clumsy, unsure of its own strength.
She aimed me back toward her mouth, her brow already knitted in concentration. Her lips parted, a wet, pink invitation, and she pressed forward until the head bumped against the back of her throat. A guttural gag echoed in the quiet room, harsh and sudden, her whole body jolting from the intrusion. She pulled back immediately, a string of saliva and something thicker—her own mess from the floor—connecting her chin to my shaft.
“Shit, sorry,” she rasped, coughing once, her eyes watering. She didn’t wipe them. The tears just traced down her cheeks, mixing with the shine already there. She grinned up at me, a delirious, wet smile. “Too eager.”
I couldn’t form words. My hand found her hair, not pushing, just touching, feeling the damp curls against my palm. She watched my face, reading the tension there, the way my jaw was locked tight. Her expression softened for a second, all genuine concern. “Okay?” she mumbled, her voice hoarse.
I nodded, a sharp jerk of my head. “Don’t stop.”
That was all she needed. Her focus snapped back, a hungry intensity reigniting in her gaze. She leaned in again, slower this time, letting her tongue lead. It was a flat, wet slide from base to tip, collecting the mix of fluids there. The sound was a long, sloppy schlllp that made my toes curl against the floor. She took me deeper on the next pass, her mouth a hot, clumsy sheath that fit awkwardly around my girth. She couldn’t take it all—I felt the undeniable resistance as her lips pressed into the midpoint, a soft barrier of flesh and limitation.
A frustrated whine vibrated against me. She pulled off, gasping. “Fuck, you’re big,” she breathed, not as praise, but as a factual obstacle. Her hands came up, slick from the puddle she kept kneeling in, and wrapped around what her mouth couldn’t cover. The contrast was stark—the cool wetness of her fingers, the searing heat of her mouth as she descended again. She established a rhythm, amateur and earnest: a suck, a pull with her hands, a gag, a retreat to spit haphazardly onto my stomach.
Spit pooled in her mouth between strokes. She let it overflow sometimes, a cascade of silvery drool that dripped onto my balls, onto her thighs, into the puddle beneath her knees with soft plinks. Other times she held it, her cheeks bulging, before releasing it over my length in a deliberate, glistening pour. The puddle was a constant actor—a chill seeped into her skin, a sticky tackiness that tugged at her knees whenever she shifted. She used it, dipping her fingers back in to wet her hands, smearing the cooled evidence of her own orgasm up and down my shaft.
“You taste like the floor,” she mumbled, her words slurry around me. She didn’t seem to mind. Her hips were moving in tiny, unconscious circles against the wooden planks, grinding her sensitive flesh into the wetness there. A soft, continuous squelch accompanied her motions, a debauched soundtrack. “Taste like me. All over.” She sucked hard, a hollowing of her cheeks that made my vision blur. “You wanna come?”
“Not yet,” I gritted out, the muscles in my stomach cramping with the effort to hold back.
She heard the strain in my voice. Her eyes, glazed and teary, sparkled with a new, wicked understanding. A slow smile stretched her slick, swollen lips. “Okay,” she breathed, the word a hoarse promise of torment. “Okay, baby.”
The words were a hot puff against my wet skin. Her hands, slick and cool from the puddle, tightened their grip on my base, but not to pleasure. To use. She dragged the slick, dripping head of my cock straight up the center of her face, from her chin, over her parted lips, across the bridge of her nose between her glasses, right up to her forehead.
It was a crude, claiming stripe. A cold, wet shock.
She did it again, back down, painting a wider path. Then she used her other hand, the one already slick, to smear the gathered mess across her cheeks. She rubbed it in, with the heels of her palms, with her fingertips, like applying a lotion. She coated the apples of her cheeks, her temples, the delicate skin under her eyes.
Gleaming streaks crisscrossed her skin. Her glasses were spattered. Her eyelashes stuck together in wet clumps. A thick glob of spit-slicked pre-cum clung to the corner of her eyebrow, quivering.
She looked up at me, her face a glistening canvas of our debauchery. She was panting, her breath coming in short, excited huffs that fogged the lenses further. A string of saliva and something else—thicker, pearlescent—dangled from her chin, stretching and finally breaking to land on her collarbone with a soft tap.
“There,” she gasped, her voice raw and triumphant. “Now I’m yours. Really yours. You’re all over me.” She grinned, and the expression was unhinged, blissful, utterly lost. “Can you see it? Can you see your mess on me?”
I could only nod, my throat sealed shut. The visual was catastrophic. The cute, smart girl with her film magazines and calculus, kneeling in a puddle of her own making, her face deliberately soiled. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown, her mouth hung open in a perfect, slack-jawed ‘o’ of overwhelmed sensation. It was the ahegao face of manga, but real, raw, and achingly amateur. She had no technique, only a worship so intense it became self-defilement.
“You’re pretty,” I choked out, the words entirely inadequate.
She beamed, as if I’d given her a diamond. “I feel pretty.” She ran her tongue over her upper lip, collecting the taste. Her body gave a sudden, violent shiver. The cool air on her wet skin, the insistent throbbing between her own legs where she ground against the floor, it was all too much. Her careful control shattered.