Quoted By:
You spend the night educating your disciple in the carnal knowledge.
His inexperience shows. For sure, he lacks the awkward, hungry innocence of an untouched virgin boy pawing at your every curve in gleeful curiosity. He has the shadow of an idea within his heart and mind about how to treat a woman, and at the very least he understands how to properly massage a breast. Not a firm grasp nor a kneading like a mound of dough, but rather gentle milking motions that end with a slick tug upon the nipple that sends a spray of liquid joy from your swollen teats.
Oh, but you have so much more to teach him still. You know the weakpoints that most women have, and happily guide his hands across your body to show him each and every one of them. Beyond the breasts and to the flower, how to use his hands to stir up nectar and release a sweet flow of honey.
Gentle. Ever so gentle and not so eager that he rushes with it, because it's always best to play a delicate instrument slowly with dexterity and grace. The wonders of brutality can come later, after you've thoroughly instructed him upon the secrets of what lies beneath the hood of your lower lips. How to rub that little nub with his thumb, while one finger - and later two - slip within the hidden valleys and begin to stir.
Ah, how wonderful it is when he takes <span class="mu-i">initiative</span>, and his fingers curl within you.
That is enough learning for today, you think. He's far from mastering anything you have to teach him, but he has made some progress in the carnal knowledge. It might only be a week or two before you allow him to play with another woman without being ashamed of how he treats her. He's a fast and eager learner.
So you decide to reward that.
Pushing him down, you overwhelm him with three and a half thousand years of experience in milking men dry. The difference is like night and day, you can read him like a book and understand every single weakpoint he has. Behind his ear, at the small of his back, the nape of his neck... to say nothing of the magnificent rod that your flower has enveloped. You use every part of your body to coax him to the edge of the abyss, the boundary of release, the precipice of pleasure...
And then you cut it short with a smirk. You do not ruin it, no, three and a half thousand years of experience does not lend itself to such pitiful ruination and wasted opportunity. No, you rather let his pleasure subside, only to build it back up again moments later. The opportunity to use every trick and technique you know to keep him balanced on the edge of a knife is a delightful treat to a succubus like you. He makes such delightful sounds, a wordless song that begs you to let him finish.
But you do not. Not for a quarter hour, nor a half hour, nor an hour or even two.
