FREE USE in Primitive World

Chapter 168: Chapter 168: Armpits Of A Goddess

Sol pulled back from her wet, silk-covered breast, the wet suction sound echoing obscenely in the quiet expanse of the throne room. He lingered for a moment, watching the way the damp, translucent fabric clung to her hardened nipple, rising and falling with her frantic, shallow breaths.

Isylia was panting, her head thrown back against the obsidian throne, her face flushed a deep, molten gold. Her hair, usually a halo of perfect solar rays, was fanned out in a chaotic disarray. She looked ravaged. She looked messy. She looked incredibly, tangibly real.

“You are…” Isylia wheezed, trying to find her breath, her chest heaving against his chest, “a glutton. An unthinking glutton. You have stained my clothes. You have bruised the flesh. Isn’t it enough? Aren’t you satisfied, yet?”

“Satisfied?” Sol rasped, his voice rough with a hunger that seemed to have no bottom. “I’m just getting started.”

He shifted his grip. Instead of reaching for her breasts again, he slid his large, calloused hands up her arms, tracing the smooth, glowing muscles of her biceps until he reached her wrists. He wrapped his fingers around the delicate, glowing bones.

“Lift your arms,” Sol commanded, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against the cold stone of the throne.

Isylia glared at him, her chest heaving beneath the damp silk. She wanted to refuse. She wanted to summon a star and incinerate him where he stood. But the laws of the Void were absolute, and Sol held the key. She was trapped, powerless, and pinned by a mortal who looked at her not with reverence, but with a terrifying, consuming hunger that she was finding harder and harder to resist.

“Why?” she hissed, her hands clenching into fists against his chest.

“Because you’re hiding,” Sol said. “And I want to see everything.”

Isylia blinked, her solar eyes narrowing in confusion and defiance. “I will not! I am not a marionette for you to pose! I am the—”

“Then I’ll do it for you.”

With effortless strength, Sol forced her arms up over her head. He pressed her wrists flat against the high back of the obsidian throne, pinning them there with one large hand. The movement stretched her entire torso, lifting her breasts higher, tightening her core, and exposing the pale, vulnerable hollows of her underarms to the cool air of the sanctum.

Isylia squirmed, trying to bring her elbows down, but she was locked in place. “Release me! This posture is undignified! I look like a prisoner of war!”

“You are a prisoner,” Sol reminded her, leaning in close until his nose brushed the sensitive skin of her shoulder. “My prisoner.”

He buried his face in her left armpit.

Isylia gasped, her body going rigid. “Sol! What… no! That is… that is a crevice! It is not for…”

She resisted for a moment, her muscles locking, but as he leaned in, his heavy body pressing against hers, her strength evaporated. She let him pin her.

He moved his face close to the hollow of her underarm, a vulnerable, intimate spot usually hidden by the folds of her celestial robes.

He inhaled deeply.

He expected the sharp tang of sweat. He expected the ozone smell of her power or the cold scent of starlight. Instead, he was hit by a scent that was heavy, sweet, primal, and overwhelmingly thick, laced with raw pheromones that triggered a primitive, violent need in his hindbrain.

It wasn’t sweat; it was nectar. It smelled of wild, sun-warmed honey, rich as liquid amber and heady as a blooming night garden. It was the scent of a goddess’s biology reacting to the presence of a mate.

“You smell…” Sol murmured, his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin, making her shiver violently. “…intoxicating.”

He opened his eyes, looking at the smooth, concave hollow. It was pale, flawless, and glistening with a faint, dewy sheen of moisture.

“Don’t,” Isylia whispered, her voice tight with humiliation. She turned her head away, squeezing her eyes shut. “Do not smell me like a beast. It is… undignified.”

“How do you expect me to resist this intoxicating scent?”

“I don’t know, just don’t.”

He didn’t just smell it. He tasted it too, it would be a pity not to.

He extended his tongue and dragged it slowly, deliberately, up the length of her inner arm, ending right in the center of the hollow and licked the smooth, concave hollow of her armpit.

“AAAAH!”

Isylia shrieked… a high, startled sound that echoed in the temple. Her body jerked, her hips bucking off the throne in pure shock. The sensation was something she had never experienced in her eons of experience. It tickled, it burned, and it sent a direct line of nerve stimulation straight to the sides of her breasts.

“That is… that is dirty!” she cried, her face burning. “Why would you… oh!”

He ignored her protest. He pressed his face into the hollow and kissed the sensitive skin, biting gently on the tendon, swirling his tongue against the smooth, damp warmth. It was a neglected area, overloaded with nerve endings that had never been touched, let alone worshipped like this. The sensation was confusing… too intimate, too animalistic. It sent a jolt of heat racing down her side, straight to her core.

He licked the nectar from her skin. It tasted sweet and salty, a divine ambrosia that made his mouth water. He lapped at her like a starving man, his nose burying deep into the soft give of her flesh.

“You taste incredible,” he groaned, the vibration of his voice humming against her ribs.

“Stop it,” she whimpered, her head lolling to the side, her resistance melting into a puddle of confusion. Her fingers curled, scratching weakly at the stone of the throne. “You are… dirtying me.”

“You’ve never been touched here?” Sol murmured against her skin, feeling the frantic pulse beating beneath the surface. “Have you? Eons of existence, and no one has ever tasted you.”

“Because it is forbidden!” Isylia gritted, tears of overstimulation leaking from her eyes. “No one dares to have any thoughts like this regarding a goddess.”

“Well, I guess it’s gonna be my honor to be first.” He mumbled, not pulling back.

He switched tactics. He stopped licking and started kissing. He pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses into the hollow, sucking gently on the tender skin, then gradually increased the strength, sucking stronger and stronger.

“Ah!” Isylia gasped, her back arching. The sharp pinch of pain amidst the wet heat was a catalyst. A moan tore itself from her throat, unbidden and raw.

Sol moved to the other side. He kept her wrists pinned with one hand, using his free hand to caress her side, his thumb digging into her ribs while his mouth attacked her left armpit.

He was thorough, treating it with the same starving devotion. He explored the shape of the muscle, the texture of the skin. He nuzzled her, rubbing his cheek against the dampness, coating himself in her scent. He wanted to smell like her. He wanted to mark her.

“You are mine to enjoy,” he whispered into the hollow. “Every part of you. Even the parts you hide.”

Isylia’s resistance was crumbling into incoherent whimpers. She hung from his grip, her body limp, her mind unable to process the sheer intimacy of being tasted in such a hidden, vulnerable place. The friction of his stubble, the heat of his mouth, the shame of being tasted in such a raw way… it was breaking her composure.

“I am a Primordial…” she babbled, her voice trembling. “I am the Weaver… you cannot… oh, Void…”

“You are a woman,” Sol corrected, licking a drop of moisture that ran down her side. “A woman for me to enjoy today, nothing more, nothing less.”

Sol pulled back to look at her face.

She looked wrecked. She was a mess. Her face was flushed, her chest heaving, her lips parted, swollen and bitten red. Her neck was marked with a bruise. Her arms were pinned above her head in surrender. She looked less like a primordial goddess and more like a woman thoroughly conquered.

Sol’s gaze dropped to the ruined, wet peplos clinging to her body. The fabric, once a majestic garment, was now a translucent wet with his saliva, wrinkled, clinging to her damp skin like a shroud, that obscured the view he desperately wanted.

“This,” Sol muttered, tugging at the damp silk with his free hand. “This is in the way. it’s time to unwrap the gift.” His eyes darkened as they swept over her form.

Isylia’s eyes widened, realizing his intent. Panic blazed in the solar swirls of her irises.

“Sol no.,” she warned, her voice trembling.You cannot. This raiment is a manifestation of my station! It is woven from the concept of modest—”

Sol didn’t listen. He let go of her wrists, allowing her arms to fall, and grabbed the neckline of the dress with both hands.

RRRIIIIIP.

The celestial silk, tough enough to withstand the vacuum of space, surrendered instantly to Sol’s brute force. He tore the bodice down the middle, the fabric shrieking as it gave way.