A low moan escapes her. She squirms a bit when my tongue grazes her clit again, and I suspect she's sensitive after already coming once. I won't be able to feast on her for hours, then. I need to make her feel good, to leave her dazed and sated and pleased with my performance, so the ceremony can continue, and when we go to bed tomorrow night as husband and wife, she'll be eager for my touches.
Just imagining Iolanthe with her hands on my cock again, that inquisitive, enthusiastic look on her face, is enough to make me nearly lose control. I close my eyes, my breathing ragged as I try to control myself. My cock feels as if it's pulsing in my pants, and I'm a breath away from spending myself like an unschooled boy. I have to focus. Concentrate.
When I've nearly got myself under control again, a hand brushes against my hair. It's Iolanthe, but she's not asking me to stop. She's just…touching me. As if she can't get enough of me.
It makes me wild with hunger. I bury my face in her sweet cunt, licking and tasting ravenously. She cries out in surprise and then makes little noises of pleasure when I find her clit and suck on the tiny bud of it. Her thighs tremble against me, and I tease her with my tongue and my lips, all pretense of taking my time and going slow having vanished as quickly as my control. My mouth is hot and fierce on her clit, and as I work it, I press a finger at the entrance to her body. It's slick and wet, hot and ready for my cock, and I groan against her flesh. By all the gods, she's perfection.
I slowly sink a finger inside her, and Iolanthe cries out. This time, instead of her fisting her dress, she buries her fingers in my hair and twists, pulling as I suck on her clit.
I lift my head, panting. "Should I stop?"
"No! Keep going! I'm so close!" She tugs on my head, desperate. "More…more of your mouth!"
I groan again, going back down on her. I love the quake of her hips that moves in time with my mouth, and I gently drag my finger in and out of her virgin channel. She's tight, but pulsing with heat and wetness, and I want to make this good for her. I don't add more fingers or seek out the spot on the inside of her wall that will make her turn inside out with pleasure. I'll save that for tomorrow, so I don't overwhelm her.
Iolanthe rocks against my face, the breath hissing out of her as she builds toward her climax. Her body tenses against me, the noises she makes more urgent, and when her cunt quivers around my gliding finger, I know she's desperately close. I want to talk her through it, to tell her what a sweet, good wife she's going to be, but I can't lift my mouth. I keep going, moving my tongue in the same rhythm I've been using and never letting up, no matter how much she pulls on my hair.
"Ah!"
The startled, sharp cry is the only warning I get before my face is flooded with her release. With a growl of pleasure, I lap at her, pleasuring her as she quakes and trembles with her orgasm, her channel squeezing around my finger. She writhes under me as the climax goes on, and when she's finally spent, her hands drop from my hair as if she's a puppet with cut strings, and she goes limp. I lift my head, looking up at her, and wipe my wet mouth. "Iolanthe?"
"Mmm?" Her tone is dreamy and soft. One tired hand reaches up to brush over my lips, touching my broken tusk, and her face is flushed red with exertion, her eyes dark. "Agakor…that was…"
I grunt when she trails off. It was, indeed. I shift my body, entirely unsurprised to find that at some point I came all over my pants. Probably when she climaxed. I was so focused on her need that I lost control, and now my pants are wet and sticking to my cock. Tindal is going to laugh his ass off at me…but I can't find it in me to care. "Did I please you, my bride?"
Iolanthe manages a huffed laugh. "Oh gods, yes. Yes, you did."
From the corner of the room, Turnip belches. "I guess that's my cue." She gets to her feet, heading for the doors. I'd nearly forgotten that the chaperone was there, I was so wrapped up in Iolanthe and her pleasure. I can tell my bride thought the same, because she jerks away from me, shoving her skirts hastily back down her legs just as the washerwoman flings the doors to the hall open. "We have a well-pleased lady," old Turnip bellows. "He made her scream like a banshee. Twice, even!"