#schmexy

He sighs, then says, “what are your symptoms?”

“Tch—are you kidding?  Cramping, mood swings, craving random shit.  The usual?”

“I see.  Yes, the usual symptoms.  Come.”  He offers you his arm, and you trudge forward, laying a cautious hand on his sleeve.  You accompany him out of his office, down a hallway, to the right, up a flight of stairs.  His kitchen.

“Please, have a seat.  Make yourself comfortable.”

You take a seat at the kitchen island, rest your arms on the counter-top.  He slips off his blazer, and you flinch involuntarily.  He undoes his cufflinks, they clink as he sets them down next to the cutting board.  He folds his cuffs back, then begins to roll up his sleeves.  Your breath hitches.

As he exposes more and more of those delicious fucking forearms, you feel yourself twitch and flutter, and you squirm in your seat.  You bite your lower lip as he pushes his sleeves over his elbows, then wrings his hands together.  “Let me fix you something to alleviate those cramps,” he purrs, “how does some tea and chocolate sound?”

“G-great,” you say, composing yourself, “that sounds great.  Thanks.”

“Very well.”  Dr Lecter smiles warmly at you, then goes to a cabinet and plucks out a box of teabags.  He puts some water into a glass kettle, then sets it on the stove.  He fiddles with the dials, and the burner under the kettle lights up blue.  You watch him work, feeling another cramp coming on.  “Owwwwww… fuck….”

“Are you feeling alright?”  He turns to look at you.

“No, I’m cramping.  ’Fuckin’ hurts.”

“Would you like me to get you some pain-killers?”

“Y-yeah.”

“I’ll be right back.”  He glides out of the kitchen, and comes back a few moments later with a bottle of Advil.

“There you are, my dear,” he says, putting two in your hand, “I’ll get you something to wash those down with.”

You’re handed a delicate teacup with some water in it, and you pop the pills into your mouth, downing them with what’s in the cup.  It’s cool water, and it soothes your throat from all the grumbling and groaning you’ve been doing.  “Thanks,” you say, wiping your mouth.

“Of course.”

The kettle starts beeping, and he removes it from the heat, then pours some of the boiling water into another teacup, putting a teabag in it.  The tag on the end of the string is something fancy, luxurious—it’s black paper printed with gold letters.  Of course he’s got the most expensive tea on the fucking planet, you think.

Dr Lecter opens another cabinet, takes out a little plate, then goes to his fridge.  He pulls a glass container from one of the shelves, then opens it.  He puts something on the plate, then opens another cabinet, pulls something else from a shelf, plates it up.  He stirs the teabag in the cup, then brings that and the plate over to you.  He’s plated up chocolate-covered strawberries, as well as some coated wafers and dark chocolate.

“Wow.  Thanks,” you say, “this is… amazing.”

“This is herbal tea,” he purrs, “pomegranate and mint, with some honey.  It should alleviate the pain.”

You take a sip.  The flavor blooms over your tongue, the warmth pouring down your throat.  It soothes you, pooling warmth in your belly, adding to the sensation that’s already there.  He sits beside you, puts a hand on your back.  He takes a strawberry from the plate, then says, “may I indulge myself?”

“Of course,” you say, blowing on your tea.  He brings the fruit to his lips, bares his teeth, takes a sensuous bite from it, juice dribbling down his chin.  Your stomach ties itself in knots; you’ve always thought he’s hot, but this is pure torture.  He gives you a knowing glance, then licks his lips free of juice.

Your hormones are on high-alert, and you’re much easier to arouse than usual, but this?  This is breaking you.  A soft moan escapes you as he licks the bottom of the strawberry, and his maroon eyes dart to you as you clap a hand over your mouth.

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” you whisper.

Dr Lecter smirks, then says, “it’s perfectly alright.  One cannot help the natural functions of the body.  There is no need to apologize.”

You sip more tea, and he takes another bite of strawberry.  A bit of chocolate cracks, and he catches it expertly in a veiny hand.  Fuck, you think, I need those hands on me.  You pluck a chocolate-covered wafer from the plate, bite into it.  It’s fucking delicious.  Hands-down the best chocolate you’ve ever had.

“Are you enjoying your tea?”  He asks, finishing his strawberry, “and your chocolate?”

“Mmm… yes.  Thank you.”

“My pleasure.  I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

“Hey.  Um.”

“Yes?”

“Uh.  You… you look really nice with your… um.  Sleeves rolled up.”

“Thank you.  But why do you bring this up now?  You’ve seen me like this many times before.”

“Uh.  I only just… n-noticed.  Today.”

“I see.”

You squirm in your seat, feeling yourself becoming wet.  His velvety voice, his delicious forearms, his proximity to you, his gentleness.  You never really see him like this during your sessions, and this different behavior is really turning you on.  You wonder if he’s like this in a relationship, or even in bed….

Dr Lecter’s asked you something, and you didn’t hear it.  “Hm?”  You pick up another wafer, start munching.

“Would you like me to draw you a bath?”

“Uh…”

“Well, I’ll start the water running, and you can decide if you’d like a bath or not.”

“Um.  Actually, I think I would like a bath.”

“Excellent.  Bubbles or no bubbles?”

“Uh… no bubbles.  Thanks.”

“Alright.  I’ll come and collect you when the water’s ready.”

You blush, then let your eyes follow him out of the room.

“Finish your tea,” he says, smiling.  You continue to sip your tea, then take another wafer.  You don’t really want the strawberries, but you’re really hoping that Dr Lecter will eat another one.  The way he ate that last one was almost pornographic.  He knew exactly what he was doing.

He can probably smell me, you think, since he can sniff out stomach cancer.  You eat a piece of the dark chocolate, and find it mildly spicy and a little fruity.  It’s dark, bitter, and exquisite.  You finish it all greedily, letting the flavors spread on the back of your tongue.  You finish off the tea, then finish the chocolate.

You hear footsteps down the hallway, and Dr Lecter comes back into the kitchen.  “Your bath is ready,” he says warmly.

“Thank you,” you say, sliding off your stool, hoping he can’t tell you’re soaking wet now.  His nostrils flare as you pass him, and you blush a little as he puts a guiding hand on your upper back.  The bathroom has dark-red walls, beautiful tile flooring, and a black marble tub with gold hardware and spigot.  The water is steaming, with rose petals floating on the surface.

“I’ll bring you a towel and a robe,” he purrs, pulling the door mostly closed to give you some privacy.  You disrobe, then step into the tub.  The water is perfectly and pleasantly warm, and very cozy.  You sink into the water, relax immediately.  The water turns a little red at the tissue you’re shedding, and then there’s a knock at the door.

Dr Lecter cracks the door, then says, “may I come in?”

“Yeah,” you say.  You don’t realize you’re naked, in front of him, until he hangs a plush robe on a hook on the back of the door, and a towel on the bar by the sink.  You blush, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“I’m a doctor, I’m used to seeing bodies,” he purrs, sitting on the edge of the tub.  “I’m not leering, I promise.”

“Oh, I trust you,” you say, stretching, poking your toes above the surface of the water, “and besides, I wouldn’t really mind if you leered at me.”

“Is that so?”

“Uhhhhh—”  You’re blushing hard now, realizing what you just said.  “Sorry.  I’m… not myself.”

“I understand.”  He smiles, then reaches out to brush the back of his index finger across your cheek.  “It’s quite alright.”

You shiver at the touch, wanting more, needing more.  “You’re teasing me, Doctor.”

He smiles knowingly, then says, “am I?”

“Tch—you’re a shitty actor.”  You turn away from him, readjust yourself in the tub.  You lean back against the edge of the tub, letting your arms and legs pop to the surface.  Your breasts follow suit, peeking up from the water.

“Whoops—sorry.”  You bring your body back under control, bracing your legs so you’re firmly under the water.

“You mustn’t apologize for a perfectly natural phenomenon,” he says warmly, “it’s a fact that fat floats.  It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

You grimace, knowing he’s got you eating out of the palm of his hand.  You relax again, letting whatever wants to float pop up above the surface.  You flex your toes, spreading them, looking at your nails to see if they need trimming.

“Do you require anything else at the moment?”  He asks, suddenly getting up.

“Hmm, no.  Thank you, though.”

“Not even… some poetry?”

You think about it.  You love the sound of his voice; he could read the phonebook and you’d still listen.  “Maybe,” you say, smiling coyly.

“I’ll be back with some of my favorites.”

“Thanks.”

The door closes, and you reposition yourself, squirming at the sensation of your body’s eager preparation for giving in to Nature’s impulses.  Dr Lecter returns with a thick volume, and you notice his attire’s a little different.  His tie is gone, and the first two or three buttons of his dress-shirt are undone, exposing a slight curl of chest hair.  Your breath hitches at the sight, but you keep it under wraps as he sits on the edge of the tub again.

“Do you like Robert Frost?”  He asks, skimming through the book.

“Oh, yes,” you say, “I love Frost.”

“I’ll begin with one of my favorites, Mowing.”  He clears his throat, then begins,

‘“There was never a sound beside the wood but one,

And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.

What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;

Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,

Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound—

And that was why it whispered and did not speak.

It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,

Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:

Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak

To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,

Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers

(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.

The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.

My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.’”

You look up at him, and tears are welling in his eyes.  “It always reminds me of my childhood,” he says, “and that… that period in my life is one I would rather forget.”  He sniffles, then thumbs through the pages, finding another poem.  “Ah, here we are, Birches.

“‘When I see birches bend to left and right

Across the lines of straighter darker trees,

I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.

But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay

As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them

Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning

After a rain. They click upon themselves

As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored

As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.

Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells

Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—

Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away

You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.

They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,

And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed

So low for long, they never right themselves:

You may see their trunks arching in the woods

Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground

Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair

Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.

But I was going to say when Truth broke in

With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm

I should prefer to have some boy bend them

As he went out and in to fetch the cows—

Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,

Whose only play was what he found himself,

Summer or winter, and could play alone.

One by one he subdued his father's trees

By riding them down over and over again

Until he took the stiffness out of them,

And not one but hung limp, not one was left

For him to conquer. He learned all there was

To learn about not launching out too soon

And so not carrying the tree away

Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise

To the top branches, climbing carefully

With the same pains you use to fill a cup

Up to the brim, and even above the brim.

Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,

Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.

So was I once myself a swinger of birches.

And so I dream of going back to be.

It’s when I’m weary of considerations,

And life is too much like a pathless wood

Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs

Broken across it, and one eye is weeping

From a twig’s having lashed across it open.

I'd like to get away from earth awhile

And then come back to it and begin over.

May no fate willfully misunderstand me

And half grant what I wish and snatch me away

Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:

I don’t know where it's likely to go better.

I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,

And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk

Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,

But dipped its top and set me down again.

That would be good both going and coming back.

One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.’”

You smile up at him, blushing.  “That’s one of my favorite poems,” you say, “it’s so nostalgic and beautiful.  Makes me feel like I’m a kid all over again.”

Dr Lecter smiles, then says, “I’m glad.  It makes me happy to see you happy.”

“Um.  is this… still… therapy?”

“No.  Since you are feeling under the weather, I shall mark you down as ‘absent’ for this week’s session.”

“But… I’m here.”

“It will be our secret.”  He puts a finger over his lips, smiles.  “Besides, who else needs to know?”  He sees the doubt in your eyes.  “Unless, of course, a significant other…”

“No,” you say, suddenly curling up small, “no, there’s no one.  I’m solitary… as an oyster, as the saying goes.”  You laugh nervously, out of embarrassment, not because you think it’s funny.  It isn’t funny.  You’re miserable, being all alone, and the only reason you go to these sessions is so you don’t feel so fucking lonely.

“Shall I read you another?”

“Yes.  Please.”

“Very well.”  Dr Lecter flips through the book again before he finds another one to read you, and begins: “Another one of my lonely favorites, Ghost House.

“‘I dwell in a lonely house I know

That vanished many a summer ago,

And left no trace but the cellar walls,

And a cellar in which the daylight falls

And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield

The woods come back to the mowing field;

The orchard tree has grown one copse

Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;

The footpath down to the well is healed.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart

In that vanished abode there far apart

On that disused and forgotten road

That has no dust-bath now for the toad.

Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;

The whippoorwill is coming to shout

And hush and cluck and flutter about:

I hear him begin far enough away

Full many a time to say his say

Before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star.

I know not who these mute folk are

Who share the unlit place with me—

Those stones out under the low-limbed tree

Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad—

Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—

With none among them that ever sings,

And yet, in view of how many things,

As sweet companions as might be had.’”

He heaves a long sigh, then says, “it’s so beautiful, but so dark and fleeting.  Ah, it makes me nostalgic for things I can’t quite recall.  Do you know that feeling?”

You nod, feeling the bath water starting to get cool.  “Doctor?”

“Hannibal, please.”

You blush, testing the name out in your head, as you always do.  This time, Doctor seems to sound better among moans and cries of ecstasy.  But you’re not about to deny him the intimacy of being on a first-name basis.

“Hannibal,” you say slowly, “um… the bath-water’s getting a little cold.”

“Would you like me to replenish the bath with warmer water?”

“No, thank you though, I think I’ll get out now.”

“Of course.”  He gets up and closes the door most of the way.  You rise from the tub, pull the plug, and step out.  You towel off quickly, slip into the plush robe he’s left for you, and pull the door ajar.  He’s leaning on the doorframe, thinking about something.  The book of Frost poems is held between tight, blanching fingers across his belt.  He’s hiding something.

“Is something wrong, Doct—Hannibal?”

“Hm?”  He looks up, keeping the book where it is.  Definitely hiding something.  “Oh, no, nothing’s the matter.  Er… it’s getting late, perhaps you’d care to stay for dinner?”

“Uh… sure.”  You pull the robe more tightly around yourself, then realize something.  It’s his.

“How does soup and bread sound?”

“Oh, delicious,” you say, trying not to salivate at the sight of him, “I’m not very hungry yet, though.”

He nods, smiling, letting his crows’-feet stick out.  Your stomach squirms, seeing each fold and wrinkle from his smile go to his eyes.  You love crows’-feet, and his are gorgeous.

“Is something the matter?”  He asks, nostrils flaring.

Shit.  You’re wet again.  “Uh, no,” you say, rubbing your thighs together, “nothing’s the matter, Doctor.”

“Please, it’s Hannibal.”

“Sorry.”

“No need to apologize.”  He offers you his arm, and you’re tempted to bite it.  His soft, gently tanned skin looks so inviting, you wonder if he’s like that all over.  You want to rip his fucking shirt open and run your hands all over him, sit on him, ride him—

“Something is definitely irking you, my dear,” he purrs, still clutching the book, “or else my acute senses deceive me.”

“N-no,” you admit, looking at the floor, “your senses are… c-correct.”

“You don’t have to hide your true feelings from me,” he says, “besides, it’s inevitable that I find out sooner or later.”

That damn nose of his!  You’re upset with your body for betraying you like this, yet you can’t wait to see where this goes.  You’re wondering if he’ll give in, too, when you see he’s removed the book and is thumping its cover against his hand.  Now you know why.

Damn, you think, he’s as easy as I am—if not easier!  He’s hard as a rock!  And here I am, embarrassed that I’m sopping like a fucking sponge.  Damn.  Your eyes refuse to leave the strain against his slacks, and he catches your gaze.  You flick your eyes back up to him, biting your lip without even realizing it.  You’re blushing, and he smiles.

“Do you like what you see?”  He purrs.

His words make your knees weak.  Yes, you think, feeling yourself salivating, oh yes, yes, I do like what I see.  I want it, I need it.  Please, Doctor…

You realize you’re mouthing the words as you’re thinking them, and he’s an expert lip-reader.  You stop, realizing at the same time he does what’s just happened.  His maroon gaze flicks to you, then over his robe—the robe you’re in, his robe, the robe you’re naked under—and smiles deviantly.  “Doctor?”  He teases, setting the book down on a coffee table in the hallway, “I thought I said ‘Hannibal’.”

“Y-you did,” you manage, tearing your gaze from his excitement, “but… I… I’ve always kinda had a thing for… authority.”  You smirk wryly, then latch your gaze back to his face.  He’s blushing.

“Would you care to indulge yourself in this… ‘thing’ for authority?”  He shifts his weight, and you see the tent against his zipper twitch a little.

“Absolutely,” you say, eyes shamelessly resting on his fly, “absofuckinglutely.”

Hannibal smirks, then backs you up against the wall.  A strangled moan escapes you before he’s captured your lips in a greedy kiss, broad hands sliding to the tie around your waist.  He smells like wine and cologne and pure, raw hunger, and he pushes himself against you, squeezing you between him and the wall, as his tongue invades your mouth.  He’s breathing hard through his nose, soft whimpers escaping him.

Another moan squeaks out of you as you feel something warm and hard press against your belly.  He pulls you roughly into his embrace, devouring your mouth and tongue, hands sliding to your ass and pressing your pelvis against his.  You wrap your arms possessively around his neck, gladly accepting the relief of him grinding on you.  It feels so fucking good to have at least some pressure on your needy pussy, even if it’s not nearly enough to satisfy you.

“You want me?”  He breathes, pulling away briefly.

“Yes,” you murmur, taking his lower lip between your teeth, “I’ve wanted you since I first set foot in your office.”

He chuckles, pushing your hips against his, grunting.  “Feel so fucking good,” he rasps, biting your neck, “want to be inside you.”

“Fuck, Doctor…”

Greedy hands paw at the tie around your waist, loosen it, push the robe off your shoulders.

“I’ll take you right here, right now,” he growls in between bites, “you’re all mine now.”

“Yes!”

His arms disappear from your shoulders; you hear a belt clink to the floor, a zipper being undone, fabric shuffling, then his vest pressed against your bare core.

“Hey, no fair!”  You pull on his hair, eliciting a long moan from him.  You smirk, then add, “we both gotta be naked.”

“Fine, fine,” he pants, frustrated, “then we’re going to my bed for this.”

“Whatever you say, Doctor.”  You’re snatched up in his arms and hauled off, slick and shedded tissue running down your thighs.  A door opens, and you’re thrown onto a bed.  Hannibal hastily pulls off his vest, then slips off his dress-shirt, stands over you.

“Mmm…”  He parts your thighs, sliding a finger up between your folds.  You cry out, trying to buck up against his hand, but to no avail.  He sucks your slick off his fingers, groaning at the taste, thumbing his cock with his free hand.  “Fuck,” he growls, “you taste divine.”  He drops to his knees in front of you, gazes at you over your belly.  “So ripe, so ready.”  He opens you with two deft fingers, teases you with hot breath.

“Doctor!  Please!”

“Can’t wait to taste that forbidden fruit.”  He leans forward, nuzzles in between your outer labia, licks a stripe from bottom to top.  You squeal, moan, cry out, tears welling in your eyes.

“FUCK YES!  PLEASE!  MORE!”

“Mmm… you’re delicious….”  His lips close around your clit, sucking.  You briefly see stars, but he pulls off too early.

“Fuck you!”  You try to kick him, but he’s pinned your legs expertly over his shoulders, and you’re helpless.  All you can do is feel.

“Patience, mon cheri, patience.”

His dexterous tongue sneaks down just past your lips, and you groan.  “No, no, please…  OW.”

Hannibal’s nose brushes against you, face pulling away.  “What’s wrong?”

“D… don’t, please.  It’s painful.”

“I’m sorry, my dear, I didn’t know.”

“It’s… OK.  Just… eat.”

“As you wish.”  His mouth plunges back inside you, devouring you with abandon.  Teeth scrape across your tender flesh, catching on your clit just right, making you buck up against his mouth and pulse around him, shattering.

This is definitely the best orgasm you’ve ever had, no question.  And he doesn’t just let you ride it out, either.  He’s praising you, dragging his teeth over you, suckling, licking, humming.  It’s torture, and you don’t want it to stop.

“So good for me,” he mumbles, pressing his tongue flat against your skin, “so perfect and beautiful… and so reactive.”  He lets his nose bump your clit again, coaxing a long, almost screaming moan from you.

At last, he pulls his soaking face out of you, and you see he’s not only blushing, but he’s got a little red around his lips.

“What the hell…?”

“Your lining tastes very good, mi amore,” he purrs, crawling over you.

“Uh… what the fuck.”

He chuckles, smirks, rests on you.  He nuzzles up under your chin, kisses your neck.

“You… ate my… uterine lining.”

“Yes.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Can’t I indulge myself a little?  Just a little?  You said I could.”

“Yeah, but… isn’t that…?”

“Yes, yes it is.  But don’t let it worry you, or frighten you, it isn’t as if I go around, eating people all the time.  I just wanted a little taste.”

“OK.  But that’s fuckin’ weird.”

“You taste good,” he purrs, trying to convince you that it’s perfectly normal.  “Believe me.”

“So… you’ve done this before?  With other women?”

“No no no, meine schatzi, but you do taste good.”

“So… no basis for comparison?”

“None.”

“OK, good.”

He tsks at you, nuzzles your neck.  “So jealous, so possessive.  I didn’t think you were like that.”

“I can be. Will you… call me that again?”

“Mon cheri?”

“No.”

“Mi amore?”

“No, the… the other one.”

“Oh.  meine schatzi.”

“Haaaaaah… fuck… say that again.”

He chuckles into the crook of your neck, then murmurs, “meine schatzi.  Schatzi…”

“Are you… German by chance?”  You’re grinding up against his erection.

“No.  I’m Lithuanian.”

“Oh.”

“I can speak to you in my native tongue, if you’d like.”

“H…how many languages do you speak?”

“Quite a few.  I’ve lost count.  Have a kink for German, do you?”

“Yes… especially when it’s spoken by you.”

Hannibal chuckles again, grinding back against you, biting your neck.  “What was it that… oh, I think it was Kennedy? when he came to Berlin… what was it he said?”

You giggle, then say, "Ich bin ein Berliner.”

“That’s right.  You know what that means?”

“‘I am a jelly donut,’ right?”

“Correct.  And I happen to be a fan of jelly donuts.”

“Oh shit.”  You’re laughing now, despite the pleasure building between your legs again.

“Want me again?”

“Mmm… always.”

“Mouth or cock?”  He brushes his lips past your collar-bone, then nibbles his way to your sternum.  “Actually, I might stay here for a while…”  His hands come up and cup your breasts, squeezing a little.

“D-Doctor…”

“Yes, meine schatzi?”

“Mmm…. hng… um…”

“What’s the matter?”

“P-pinch me… please…”

“I’ll do better than that, mon cheri.”  His lips clamp down on your left nipple, sucking.  You buck up extra hard against his hips, almost bringing him inside you.  He resists; teases and titillates you with his teeth and tongue instead.

You’re panting and moaning by the time he switches sides, and your left nipple is sore.  But a pleasant kind of sore.  He pauses before he takes your right into his mouth, asks, “wait.  You don’t want me to get you pregnant, do you?”

“N-no,” you whine, trying to force his mouth down over you.

“Shall I slip on something?”

“N-no… here.”  You put your hand on your sternum, rub a little.  “Here.”

He chuckles, then clamps his mouth around you.  “M-hm.”

The vibration goes right through you, soaking you again.  “Haaaah, fuck…”

You’re achy and inflamed by the time he lets you go, and then he crawls up over you, sitting on your ribcage.  You’re very surprised by what lies against your sternum.

“Wow…” you murmur.

“Impressive?”

“Uh… unusual, is what I was gonna say.”

“Bigger than you expected?”

You gulp.  “Uh, yeah.  Wow.  I’m really glad I had you do this instead.”

“Of course.  I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You reach out and gently poke the leaking head that lies between your breasts, and Hannibal shudders.  “Fuck, don’t tease, mi amore,” he whines, thumbing your oversensitive nipples.

“Et tu, Brute.”

“Right, right.”  He pushes your breasts together, then thrusts up in between them.  “Oh, fuck… this is good.”

Your hands slither down to your hips, and you spread yourself, fingers plunging in, furiously rubbing your clit.  The weight of him sitting on your ribcage feels so right, and you appreciate being weighed down like this.  You feel helpless and so perfectly at his mercy, it’s delicious.

“Oh… stretch-marks…” he moans, dragging himself against your tender skin, “feel so good….”

“Oh fuck, Doctor… Doctor…”

“Schatzi, schatzi…”

That tips you over the edge.  You feel yourself clench around your fingers, pelvic muscles squeezing to keep the moment lasting as long as it can.  Pleasure blooms and burns across your skin, making your eyes roll back, seeing the Milky Way behind your eyelids.

He follows quickly, snapping his hips wildly and making inhuman, beastly noises.  You barely have time to tilt your head back as he releases all over your chest and neck, coming with a cry.  He releases you, red marks on the outsides of your breasts, and a very sticky mess all over your upper half.

“Let me,” he says, scooching down on you, “let me clean you up.”

His tongue meets your skin, and you groan.  He laps his cum off of you, sometimes biting you, sometimes leaving a hickey on you, always running his hands over your hips and sides, rippling goosebumps over your skin.  “I’m glad I stick to a fairly fruity diet,” he says between licks, “otherwise I wouldn’t be able to do this.”

“Mmm.”  Images of pineapples and mangos flash across your mind’s eye, then he adds, “pomegranates seem to help, as well as the usual fruits.”

“Huh.”

“They’re… symbolic to me.”

“Oh?  How so?”

“They remind me of the heart.  They bleed when you cut them, and they resist the knife.  But when you open them up, they’re beautiful and so full of life.”

“So… you’re saying…”  You dig your fingers into his hair.  “You’ve… cut open a human heart before?”

“No no no, mi amore, a pig’s heart.  Fresh out of the carcass.”

“Huh.”

“It made a very interesting dinner piece, I must say.  It tasted good, too.”

“I’ll bet.  You’d make an interesting dinner piece, too, and I’ll bet you taste delicious.”

“Oh?  Is that your way of asking for me to shove my cock down your throat?”

“Mmm… maybe.”

“I need to rest first, schatzi, then you can have me.”

“Alright.”

“Mind you, my refractory period isn’t very long—fifteen minutes or so.”

“Oh.  Wow.”

“Yours isn’t very long, either, mon cheri.”

“Stick to schatzi, OK, Doctor?”