![GrafterXCrafter - [Premium-Novel]Reane and Money can Buy your Preferences part 2](https://cdn35.lewdvault.com/images/lewdvault/204924033/304194/1.webp?secure=L2ehAPmNeceNh36XfN-mng==,1791254892)
GrafterXCrafter - [Premium-Novel]Reane and Money can Buy your Preferences part 2
infoAbout This Title
The light finds the room before I do.
It comes in through the tall windows in long, pale bars, catching the dust and the gold on the curtain rods, and it lands on the carpet the way warm water lands on skin. I am already awake. I have been awake since the house went quiet, since the last car on the street below turned the corner and left only the soft tick of the clock on the mantel. Morning, properly morning, still belongs to me. The bed behind me is unmade on one side. The lamps are off. Somewhere in the adjoining bath the tile is cool, and I have already stood on it barefoot, already pulled the suit from the hook where it dried overnight.
Navy, with the pink racing stripe and the small white marks at the chest. It fits the way a second skin fits when you have worn it enough times to stop thinking about the seams. I smooth it once at the hip, once under the arm, and the glossy fabric answers with a faint sound. My hair is down. It will get in the way. I leave it down anyway.
The orca is where I left it, broad and ridiculous and perfect, belly-down on the rug between the foot of the bed and the windows. Black along the back, white at the jaw and the eye-patch, a pink line for a mouth that never quite closes. The dorsal fin rises higher than my hand when I am seated. In the morning light the vinyl throws hard little highlights, as if it has been oiled. I press two fingers to the curve of its head and feel the give, then the push back. Full. I checked the valve last night.
I sit.
Not carefully. I have done this enough that careful is no longer the point. One knee over, the other following, the suit whispering against the inflated flank, and then my weight settles and the whole animal sighs under me. The fin comes up between my thighs and rests where it always rests, firm and rounded and exactly too much until I shift half an inch and it becomes exactly enough. My hands find the places they know: one on the slope ahead of the fin, one lower, fingers spread. The carpet is warm under my bare foot. The other foot hooks lightly at the tail.
I close my eyes.
This feels nice.
It is not a performance yet. It is only pressure and warmth and the slow rocking the air inside the toy allows, a little forward, a little back, the fin answering every small movement with a steady resistance that travels up through the suit and into me. The room smells like clean linen and the last of last night’s roses on the nightstand. Outside, a bird starts and stops. I roll my hips once, experimentally, and the orca creaks in that soft vinyl way, and the sound makes me smile before I mean to.
I open my eyes and look at the empty side of the bed, then at the door.
You said you might come by in the morning. You said it the way people say things when they are already deciding. I have been listening for the latch since the light changed. If you are in the hall, you can hear the floor. If you are still deciding, you can hear nothing, and that is worse.
I lean forward. The fin presses more firmly. My hair slides over one shoulder and pools on the black back of the toy. I speak to the room, not loudly.
“Want to join?”
The words leave a small warmth on my mouth. I stay where I am, hands steady, and I let the question sit in the sunlit air between the bed and the windows. I am not posing for a photograph. I am simply here, in the suit, on the ridiculous shining animal, and the morning is long, and the door is not locked.
When I hear you, it is the smallest sound: the change in the hallway, the pause, the soft click. I do not turn all the way. I turn enough. Enough for you to see the line of my back, the fall of my hair, the way my fingers have tightened once on the vinyl and then relaxed again. Enough for you to understand that I heard you and that I am not going to pretend I did not.
“It’s so big,” I say, and I mean the toy, and I mean the morning, and I mean the simple fact of you standing there while I am already moving. I rock once, slower, so you can see what the motion does. The orca gives. I give with it. The suit catches the light along my ribs. “You can come closer. I’m not going to stop just because you’re watching.”
You cross the carpet. I feel it more than I see it, the displacement of quiet. When you are near enough that I could reach back and find your wrist, I do not. Not yet. I keep both hands on the orca and I let the rhythm settle into something you can follow with your eyes: forward until the fin meets me fully, back until the pressure eases and becomes a promise, forward again. The vinyl is warm now where my thighs have been. My breath is not quite even. I do not hide that either.
“You like watching?”
I ask it without looking over my shoulder for a full second, and then I do look, because I want the answer in your face and not only in the way you are standing. Morning light is on you. The bed is behind me, wide and unused. The chair by the window is empty. There is nowhere in this room that is more interesting than the small distance between your hand and the curve of the toy beside my knee.
I shift my weight and the orca rolls a fraction under me. A sound leaves me that I do not dress up.
“It’s getting intense.”
Not a warning. An inventory. The fin is a constant now, thick and smooth and positioned so that every forward rock drags the suit against me in a line I can no longer pretend is accidental. Heat gathers low and specific. My toes curl against the carpet and release. I breathe out through a smile that feels unsteady at the edges, and I finally take one hand off the vinyl and hold it toward you, palm up, fingers loose.
“Want to join me?”
If you take my hand, I will guide it to the place just ahead of my hip, where the orca is firmest, so you can feel the movement from the outside while I feel it from the in. If you kneel, the rug will be warm under your knees and I will be above you only by the height of the toy, close enough that my hair will touch your shoulder when I lean. If you stay standing, I will keep the rhythm and look up at you until looking becomes another kind of contact.
I do not rush the next rock. I let it build. The suit is slick at the inner thigh from warmth and from the vinyl. The dorsal fin meets me and I meet it back, a small grinding circle that shortens my breath and opens my mouth. I had gum earlier. I find the piece where I tucked it against my cheek, childish and bright, and I blow, not for comedy, for the moment of concentration it asks of me while everything else is asking for the opposite. The bubble swells, pale and round, trembling in the light. It holds. I hold with it. Then it thins and I let it go before it breaks, pulling it back in with the tip of my tongue, and the loss of that small focus drops me straight into the larger one.
“Feels so good,” I tell you, and the sentence is simpler than what is happening under it.
What is happening is this: the morning, the weight of me, the ridiculous faithful animal, the suit that hides nothing about the way I am using it, and you, finally in the room I left the door unlocked for. I roll forward until my chest nearly meets the fin and the pressure becomes a bright, almost-too-much line, and I stay there, breathing, eyes half-closed, one hand braced, the other still offered if you have not taken it yet.
“Stay,” I say. “Or come here. Either one. Just don’t make me do the whole morning talking to an empty doorway.”
The orca creaks. The curtains move. I start the rhythm again, slower than before, deeper, and I keep my face turned toward you so you can see exactly what the next few minutes are going to be if you let them.
I am not asking twice.
I am only not stopping.
*Clips included below:
The light finds the room before I do.
It comes in through the tall windows in long, pale bars, catching the dust and the gold on the curtain rods, and it lands on the carpet the way warm water lands on skin. I am already awake. I have been awake since the house went quiet, since the last car on the street below turned the corner and left only the soft tick of the clock on the mantel. Morning, properly morning, still belongs to me. The bed behind me is unmade on one side. The lamps are off. Somewhere in the adjoining bath the tile is cool, and I have already stood on it barefoot, already pulled the suit from the hook where it dried overnight.
Navy, with the pink racing stripe and the small white marks at the chest. It fits the way a second skin fits when you have worn it enough times to stop thinking about the seams. I smooth it once at the hip, once under the arm, and the glossy fabric answers with a faint sound. My hair is down. It will get in the way. I leave it down anyway.
The orca is where I left it, broad and ridiculous and perfect, belly-down on the rug between the foot of the bed and the windows. Black along the back, white at the jaw and the eye-patch, a pink line for a mouth that never quite closes. The dorsal fin rises higher than my hand when I am seated. In the morning light the vinyl throws hard little highlights, as if it has been oiled. I press two fingers to the curve of its head and feel the give, then the push back. Full. I checked the valve last night.
I sit.
Not carefully. I have done this enough that careful is no longer the point. One knee over, the other following, the suit whispering against the inflated flank, and then my weight settles and the whole animal sighs under me. The fin comes up between my thighs and rests where it always rests, firm and rounded and exactly too much until I shift half an inch and it becomes exactly enough. My hands find the places they know: one on the slope ahead of the fin, one lower, fingers spread. The carpet is warm under my bare foot. The other foot hooks lightly at the tail.
I close my eyes.
This feels nice.
It is not a performance yet. It is only pressure and warmth and the slow rocking the air inside the toy allows, a little forward, a little back, the fin answering every small movement with a steady resistance that travels up through the suit and into me. The room smells like clean linen and the last of last night’s roses on the nightstand. Outside, a bird starts and stops. I roll my hips once, experimentally, and the orca creaks in that soft vinyl way, and the sound makes me smile before I mean to.
I open my eyes and look at the empty side of the bed, then at the door.
You said you might come by in the morning. You said it the way people say things when they are already deciding. I have been listening for the latch since the light changed. If you are in the hall, you can hear the floor. If you are still deciding, you can hear nothing, and that is worse.
I lean forward. The fin presses more firmly. My hair slides over one shoulder and pools on the black back of the toy. I speak to the room, not loudly.
“Want to join?”
The words leave a small warmth on my mouth. I stay where I am, hands steady, and I let the question sit in the sunlit air between the bed and the windows. I am not posing for a photograph. I am simply here, in the suit, on the ridiculous shining animal, and the morning is long, and the door is not locked.
When I hear you, it is the smallest sound: the change in the hallway, the pause, the soft click. I do not turn all the way. I turn enough. Enough for you to see the line of my back, the fall of my hair, the way my fingers have tightened once on the vinyl and then relaxed again. Enough for you to understand that I heard you and that I am not going to pretend I did not.
“It’s so big,” I say, and I mean the toy, and I mean the morning, and I mean the simple fact of you standing there while I am already moving. I rock once, slower, so you can see what the motion does. The orca gives. I give with it. The suit catches the light along my ribs. “You can come closer. I’m not going to stop just because you’re watching.”
You cross the carpet. I feel it more than I see it, the displacement of quiet. When you are near enough that I could reach back and find your wrist, I do not. Not yet. I keep both hands on the orca and I let the rhythm settle into something you can follow with your eyes: forward until the fin meets me fully, back until the pressure eases and becomes a promise, forward again. The vinyl is warm now where my thighs have been. My breath is not quite even. I do not hide that either.
“You like watching?”
I ask it without looking over my shoulder for a full second, and then I do look, because I want the answer in your face and not only in the way you are standing. Morning light is on you. The bed is behind me, wide and unused. The chair by the window is empty. There is nowhere in this room that is more interesting than the small distance between your hand and the curve of the toy beside my knee.
I shift my weight and the orca rolls a fraction under me. A sound leaves me that I do not dress up.
“It’s getting intense.”
Not a warning. An inventory. The fin is a constant now, thick and smooth and positioned so that every forward rock drags the suit against me in a line I can no longer pretend is accidental. Heat gathers low and specific. My toes curl against the carpet and release. I breathe out through a smile that feels unsteady at the edges, and I finally take one hand off the vinyl and hold it toward you, palm up, fingers loose.
“Want to join me?”
If you take my hand, I will guide it to the place just ahead of my hip, where the orca is firmest, so you can feel the movement from the outside while I feel it from the in. If you kneel, the rug will be warm under your knees and I will be above you only by the height of the toy, close enough that my hair will touch your shoulder when I lean. If you stay standing, I will keep the rhythm and look up at you until looking becomes another kind of contact.
I do not rush the next rock. I let it build. The suit is slick at the inner thigh from warmth and from the vinyl. The dorsal fin meets me and I meet it back, a small grinding circle that shortens my breath and opens my mouth. I had gum earlier. I find the piece where I tucked it against my cheek, childish and bright, and I blow, not for comedy, for the moment of concentration it asks of me while everything else is asking for the opposite. The bubble swells, pale and round, trembling in the light. It holds. I hold with it. Then it thins and I let it go before it breaks, pulling it back in with the tip of my tongue, and the loss of that small focus drops me straight into the larger one.
“Feels so good,” I tell you, and the sentence is simpler than what is happening under it.
What is happening is this: the morning, the weight of me, the ridiculous faithful animal, the suit that hides nothing about the way I am using it, and you, finally in the room I left the door unlocked for. I roll forward until my chest nearly meets the fin and the pressure becomes a bright, almost-too-much line, and I stay there, breathing, eyes half-closed, one hand braced, the other still offered if you have not taken it yet.
“Stay,” I say. “Or come here. Either one. Just don’t make me do the whole morning talking to an empty doorway.”
The orca creaks. The curtains move. I start the rhythm again, slower than before, deeper, and I keep my face turned toward you so you can see exactly what the next few minutes are going to be if you let them.
I am not asking twice.
I am only not stopping.
*Clips included below:
Comments (0)