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She digs her nails into the sheets, desperate for something to ground her. Her mind is an exhausted scream of pleasure, just this side of pain. She's going to come. She's going to pee. She's going to come and she's going to pee. Oh god, she might actually pee? Things have never been quite the same since she gave birth to Trixie!
This will be her third orgasm in half an hour, and Lucifer has been determined to work her through her hesitation about her refractory over-sensitivity. Really, she's just along for the ride — she passed her comfort zone two orgasms ago. Her heart is pounding, she's sweating, she can barely catch her breath, she thinks she might be crying, she has utterly lost awareness or control of her body beyond chasing the high that seems just around the corner and out of reach. She's reduced to a writhing mass of soul, flesh, and fluids.
The devil in question moans, tightening his hands around her thighs as he works her with his tongue and his mouth and his...nose? Is that his nose? It's too much, she thinks, almost hysterical. She might die, or at least explode — the too much-ness is fizzing under her skin like irritation, or simmering rage. Or bees. She laughs helplessly at the thought, though it turns into another gasp of pleasure.
If she opens her eyes — which she does, quickly, staring wildly at the top of his head — she can see him undulating on the bed below her, working his hips into the slippery silk sheets, teasing himself just enough to both satisfy and keep himself on edge as he works her. Go—ah, that's hot.
Lucifer seems to sense her wandering attention and redoubles his efforts, removing one hand from her thigh to join his mouth. The noises he's making — the noises her body is making — are wretchedly filthy, and make her flush hot on the neck and chest even as they stoke her pleasure higher. Shit, she thinks, I'm so close, and she really might be crying now; her moans sound like desperate sobs in the quiet air.
The pleasure that has been steadily building starts to coalesce — the throb of her clit and her lips in time with Lucifer's rhythm, the sweet spasm of her womb, the sparks that move through her limbs, all centering on the pressure of his fingers and his tongue inside of her. She clenches her fists, her toes curl, she's almost there—holding her breath as her neck goes lax—his fingers drag on a delicious spot—"Please!" she wails—oh, there—
She screams her victory to the world as her mind whites out.
There is pleasure all around her, just pleasure; she floats in endless bliss, devoid of all sensation. Images drift into her mind and vanish just as quickly, and she surfs indolently on the border between dreaming and awake, moving with the tide. Somewhere, far in the background, at the edges of her awareness, Lucifer is still gently touching her, slowly, satisfied.
The world comes back to Chloe in a rush, and her body collapses on the sheets, completely wrung out. Her labia are totally numb, past pleasure and pain both. She can tell, because Lucifer is still idly licking at her, his fingers still inside.
"Luc—" she rasps, but her voice is wrecked, so she tries pushing at his shoulder. He meets her gaze, dark eyes burning, his own body still writhing, until she shudders under the force of that attention, and relents. He pulls his other hand up from where it had been — grasping his cock, oh, her mouth waters — and bats her hand away. Well, he'll figure it out soon enough, if she stays quiescent like this. She can feel the building weight of his own desire, stealing her breath — there's no way she can fuck him right now, but the desire to make him come still sends a warm rush of want and affection through her whole body.
Then he pulls back the hood of her clit and presses directly on it.
Her back cracks as it arches, desperate to get away from the intense pleasure-pain of it all, and her foot jerks out, heel connecting directly with his forehead. His head snaps back, his chest lifting off the sheets.
She sucks in a startled breath, apologies instantly forming on her lips, but an abortive gasp-groan rips from his throat. He's shuddering? There's cum landing on her stomach. There's a lot of cum landing on her stomach.
She blinks, too shocked to say anything, or even move. One breath, then another. Lucifer slowly lifts his head and opens his eyes. His face, when he finally refocuses on her, is just as shell-shocked.
Painful silence reigns for a few seconds. What is there to possibly say after that?
Lucifer, in the end, is braver than she is. "Well," he says, and licks his lips. Another couple of seconds pass. "That was certainly new."
"You just—" Chloe starts, but her courage fails her. "That hasn't..."
"Happened before?" Lucifer finishes. "No. I daresay, Chloe, you are the only one who can both give me such spontaneous pain, and make it pleasurable."
She winces. "How's your neck?"
Cautiously, he tilts his head one way, then the other, bringing his hand up behind his head to rub at his spine. "I think...I shall live to dine another day," he smirks. Chloe lets her head fall back onto the pillows with a groan. If he's making puns and innuendo, they're going to be okay.
Exhausted, no longer worried, she lets herself sink back into satiation, and stares languidly at her reflection in the ceiling. After a beat, he presses a gentle palm to her leg, with no intent except to reassure both of them that he's there, to revel in the act of touching. Then the sheets rustle and the mattress shifts as he gets out of bed. Her eyes drift closed. Only what feels like a second later, and the mattress dips next to her arm; he's back, leaning over her. She smiles at his beloved face. Her heart is so full. He's pressing a warm, damp cloth to her stomach, cleaning her up, and buoyed by the swell of emotion, she reaches a hand up, brushes it against the scruff of his short beard. His eyes are soft, their usual warm brown, no trace of burning desire or hellfire in them. She loves him. She loves him so much.
She blinks again, and she missed something because he's sliding into the bed next to her, rolling her onto her side so he can wrap his arms around her. What did she miss? She must be falling asleep.
"I think my limit is three," she murmurs. It's very important that he hears this. She's not sure why.
"Hmmm?" He presses a kiss to her shoulder.
"Three, um..." What was it again? Right. "Three orgasms. That's it. Stop trying to give me more than that or I won't fuck you."
He laughs, and she grins too, to hear it. "Alright," he agrees, "no more than three orgasms for every one of mine."
"Or I'll bruise your head again."
"Or you'll bruise the devil's head again."
"'swhat I said."
"Goodnight, Chloe."
She's warm. She's safe. She's beloved. She sleeps.