His tongue slides out, gliding a trail down the bottom swell of my breast, down to my belly button.
And I realize what he’s doing.
His special parts in his beard.
He’s rubbing them against me.
Maybe it’s the drugs heightening my sensations, but when he hooks his fingers into the waistband of my skirt, pulls it from my hips, then past my thighs, to my knees, and finally to the floor, and then rubs his cheek and chin against the waist of my G-string, I almost pass out.
“Mack.” My hand falls to his head, and he grabs it, roughly rubbing it up and down his face, all the way to the fin beard at his chin, where I can feel it.
“Oh shit,” I murmur, but my hand involuntarily fists the area.
A little nub hidden under the long strands of the opalescent fins. But it’s large enough that I can stroke it with my fist, rubbing up and down and up and down.
Mack pushes my hand away and then proceeds on his own path.
He doesn’t pull the G-string from my body. He simply pulls the scrap of material covering my pussy to the side, and he pushes his face into the Y intersection of my legs.
He breathes in deep and his gills flutter.
I squeeze my eyes shut because the sensation of his touch is so powerful that the folds of my pussy are quivering against his mouth.
He rubs again with his face, his chin, his cheeks, the whole time his hand holding the material of my underwear to the side.
Then he brings his index and middle fingers to my labia, pushing on either side of the skin and exposing my clit to him.
He does it again and again in a little pulsing fashion, until the very motion builds an orgasm.
While he’s pushing down the pads of my labia, he slides out his tongue and gives me one long, slow, tantalizing lick from the base of my slit all the way to the sensitive buzzing tip.
The vision below me is too forbidden, too unbelievably dirty and strange and hot to possibly be real. Sweat beads at my hairline. I grab the wig from my head and throw it to the ground, shaking my hair out.
I’m getting a little lightheaded from standing. Black starts to spot my eyes. My posture is swaying.
And then, for a moment, I lose all consciousness.
A flash later, when I come to, my eyes snap open.
We’re in the water. A change in space and time as if guided through a portal.
My senses swim back to me from the distant shore.
Mack is holding onto me; we’re at the surface of his tank. He hasn’t even taken off his clothes. His shirt clings to him, white and clear, stuck to the contours of his frame. I can only see the shadow of the pants below the surface.
“Hold onto the ledge,” he says as he sinks below inch by inch, roughly throwing each of my thighs over either of his shoulders.
He dips below the surface, but his head is between my legs.
My head falls back, and I can’t see anything. All I can do is feel as Mack’s mouth is now on my clit. He’s kissing it under the water. I’ve never had any man go down on me before. The very few men I ever let touch me were fast and rough. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am, as the saying goes.
But Mack is making a meal of me.
I can feel the pleasure senses of my clit sparking, but Mack is holding back with his gently planted kisses.
I circle my hips in the water, which is difficult given his grip on me. Me, with my arms perched on the ledge, my head hanging over the top, my breasts just barely floating at the surface.
And him, with my thighs wrapped around his neck. His face buried in my pussy.
He so effortlessly keeps himself afloat. I guess that’s the benefit of a fish monster going down on you. He can hold himself up in the water. He can hold me too.
And most important of all. He can hold his breath for . . . an indefinitely long time, it appears.
“Agh,” I let out a surprised cry when Mack’s tongue flicks out and over my clit. “Fuck.”
I tighten my thighs around his neck again. I’m not even worried that I’ll hurt him. All I can think about is chasing the orgasm.
“You can’t hurt me,” he told me before.
We’re testing that theory now.
He begins to lick me in earnest, the lapping of his tongue and the pressure of the moving water on my clit almost more than I can bear.
I circle my hips against him as much as I can despite his grip on me. I’m practically humping his face, and I just don’t care. I want what he’s giving, and what he’s giving is a tongue swirling against my most sensitive, vulnerable private areas.
And I want him to have it.
“Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes . . .” I chant rhythmically like a prayer.
