A 9-Step Guide to Milking Your Alien

Your days spent with Newt drift into weeks, and the weeks into months, and before you know it, what began as a temporary distraction from the turbulent journey of life has become something more… permanent. No longer dashed day after day upon the cliff side, you've found yourself a pleasant patch — out at sea, with no land in sight, sure, but pleasant nonetheless. You can see yourself floating here for a while. A good long while. Maybe forever.

But what is a sea without its waves? You find yourself in one now: a minor dilemma, one that you've been attempting to paddle your way out of for a few weeks. And that dilemma is Newt. Well, not Newt, exactly, but something he'd said to you a while back, on that night.

A shiver rolls down your spine. You've been intimate with Newt many times since, but that first time is still pressed vividly in your mind, its memory traceable in the healthy flush of your cheeks, in the way you spring eagerly into each new morning. Seasons come and go (though not here, apparently), standard years pass in the blink of an eye, but somethings really are forever. The way you felt that night, the passion, the catharsis — that memory is one of those eternal shimmers, a sparkling star burning its after image into the void expanse of space.

The problem arose not long ago, when the two of you were celebrating Newt's one-thousand two-hundred and sixty-ninth birthday. It had been a marvellous day, really, even if not everything had gone to plan. Newt was so ecstatic about directly participating in your 'quaint human tradition' that you could have phoned it in completely and he still would have adored it. You hadn't done that, of course. You'd tried really hard to make the day special for him — from the long, romantic walk along the glistening cavern rivers (you'd had to ask him if there was anywhere worth taking him), to the make-do-with-what-you-have picnic (he'd never, in all his years, sought out beautiful surroundings for the sole purpose of eating somewhere nice — the thought simply hadn't occurred to him, he'd said), to the terrible attempt at a chocolate cake you'd struggled together (it had been too gooey on the inside, and burnt on the outside, but Newt had swallowed the entire cake whole and promptly declared it the most delicious thing he had ever tasted).

No, the day had been wonderful. It was the night, when the two of you had returned to your shared chambers, and you'd initiated 'birthday sex'. Another human tradition, you assured him, in which the entire focus would ultimately be upon Newt and his pleasure. This was for him, you'd promised. 'But pleasing you is a delight all on its own,' he'd replied. You were firm. This was his night, not yours, and so you'd set about making it one he'd remember. That was when you first remembered that daunting phrase, uttered so flippantly by Newt, as if it weren't so incredibly vital.

'A male time newt will climax an average of seven times per copulation…'

You tried. You really, really tried. But you hadn't been prepared. You'd only had vague ideas and lofty ideals, supported by no practicality, no plan. Newt came four times that night. A solid effort on your part, maybe, but not enough. Newt had seemed satisfied, but when you'd brought up that you'd just barely gotten him past halfway, he'd simply said, 'This has been the best birthday in my entire life.' Of course, it had been the only birthday in his entire life, but his words had been so genuinely enthused as to make you blush.

But that wasn't all they did. They gave you a spark, a flash of inspiration that you so carefully and privately sheltered for weeks now, both to stoke its embers into a passionate inferno, and to keep Newt from finding out what you had planned for him. Picking up some of Newt's habits, you've begun documenting your ideas, formulating a scientific method as the foundation upon which to carry out your 'experiment'. And, like any good scientist, you've made sure to observe, collect, and collate your data. This has involved, most recently, a strategic and prolonged sexual teasing. For a week now you have orchestrated a series of apparently accidental, coincidental, or otherwise incidentally excusable occurrences to heighten Newt's devolvement into a sexually-focused headspace. These have ranged from a simple increase in the frequency of physical touch — standing closer than necessary while working together, 'accidentally' brushing up against him, kissing him at random times, etc., — to more psychologically sexually suggestive scenarios — being 'caught' changing clothes (you've discovered that, while Newt's unique senses do reveal your body at all times regardless of clothing, your reaction to being seen nude has engaged in him a learned association between nudity (yours specifically) and sex), sharing sexually explicit stories from your past, and more frequent, poorly-disguised masturbation close to sleeping hours. And, to really ensure a thorough testing environment, each night you've initiated the first few steps of copulation and then, on the verge of direct stimulation, you've yawned and settled down for sleep with a prompt, 'Good night, Newt.'

Newt, though quite clearly growing increasingly frustrated, has accepted your apparent dismissal with grace, and respected your boundaries. You'd have thought that, having apparently spent the majority of his many years alone, he might have been quite used to a lack of sexual interaction. But your presence seems to have ignited a fire with him. A desire to be touched and loved, sure (and you wouldn't ever dream of stopping any of that, experiment or otherwise), but also a desire to be taken, to take, to engage in such deep intimacy as to become whole, together, with someone else. With you.

He needs to fuck.

***

You sit in the corner of your shared sleeping chambers, at the small, human-sized desk that Newt has managed to procure for you, making the finishing touches on your pièce de résistance. You can hear him shuffling around behind you, hmmning and grumbling, speaking softly to himself. The fact that you can hear him at all speaks volumes to his predicament. When not actively engaged in conversation, or singing to himself (which is completely adorable), Newt is typically completely silent. Whether its a learned silence, or just something that comes naturally to his species, the fact that he's now making so much noise can mean only one thing: there is something, or rather someone, on his mind. A victorious grin spreads across your face, only to be quickly squashed for fear of giving yourself away.

“Hmmn… Little One?"

“Yes, Newt?" you reply, without looking up from what you are doing.

“Will you be resting shortly?"

“Soon, probably. You don't need to wait for me if you have something better to do."

“No, no, I'll wait. Hmmn... Little One?"

“Yes, Newt?"

“When you are ready, may we… hmmn…," Newt huffs, the fizzing pop of bubbles in a hot spa bath. You lean back a little in your chair, raise an eyebrow, cock your ear. Is he going to do it? Be so brazen as to ask you to fuck him? He's never been particularly shy about sex before, true, but he's never been in situation such as this, either. You've put him off balance, made him unsure of himself. You almost feel bad. “What is it you are working on?"

Ah, you almost had him.

“Some research. I've crafted a finely tuned nine-step methodology in the name of scientific experimentation. I think I'm really onto something here, Newt. All that's left is to carry out the experiment in question. You'd be proud of me."

“I'm always proud of you, Little One. Hmmn… May I ask what your research is about? What's the hypothesis?"

You consider his question for a moment. Not because you can't answer, but because answering would result in all your hard work moving on to its next, most important stage. You could continue this part of the plan a little longer, and doing so might improve the odds of its success, but you really are starting to feel bad. It's one thing to tease Newt, it's another to deceive him. It's something you still find hard to believe, but he seems to care about you at least as much as you care about him. You take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. It's time.

“Of course," you say, turning to face Newt, your papers in hand. He's closer than you expected. You might accuse him of peeking over your shoulder, but Newt's sight doesn't function in that way. In fact, you've been surprised to learn that reading any text at all was not a simple task for Newt, ranging from difficult to impossible depending on its texture and medium. No, he is close because he wants to be close to you.

“This," you continue, waving the papers above your head, “is something I've named, 'A Nine-Step Guide to Milking Your Alien'. I think you can gather the hypothesis from its title. What do you think, too wordy?"

“Hmmmilking-…," he swallows, his long fingers tracing a nervous circle around his chest, “by milking you don't happen to mean…"

“Hmm? Mean what, Newt?"

“You know…"

“The meticulous, thorough, and repeated extraction of semen through practical means? Is that what you're implying?"

“Yes, that."

“Yes, that's exactly what I mean. But with my methodology complete, I find myself in need of a test subject. I don't suppose you have any suggestions for where I might find one…?"

Newt practically leaps at you, launching from his neutral squatting position and scampering even closer to you in a frenzied display of desperate enthusiasm. He ends up with his shoulders hanging over your head, neck unspooled so that his face slinks down and back around to look at you directly. His hand rests on your collarbone, kneading.

“Me, me, I volunteer. Hmmn. May we begin? Now? Please."

Raising an exaggerated eyebrow, you shrug off his lengthy digits and stand up. You rub thoughtfully at your chin, quite obviously observing Newt as you do a full circle around him, weighing him up, considering, with many 'hmm's' and 'well…'s thrown in for good measure. He is practically squirming under your judgement, having not yet caught on to your play.

“Very well. Let's begin," you say, with an encouraging slap on his rump. You head to the centre of the room, undressing along the way, indulging in the excitable bubbling sounds he makes in his effort to keep up.

Newt darts ahead of you, circles around on his corner of the pallet, then lays down on his side in his usual position, only this time he is quite obvious in spreading his legs and presenting himself, intentional or otherwise. You can tell how wound up Newt must be by just how noticeable his genital vent is — typically impossible to spot, it now protrudes into a soft valley of slick flesh, the light cobalt of his underbelly just barely blending into the internal soft pinks.

“I'm so excited for you t— I mean, hmmn, to participate in your research, Little One. What do we need to do for step one?"

“Step one," you say, a devilish smirk upon your lips, “has already been completed."

If Newt could blink, he'd be doing so right now.

“What do you mean?"

Clearing your throat, you project your voice to a metaphorical crowd:

“Step One: Implication, and Denial."

“You mean this whole time you've be—."

“Never mind what it means, Newt. Trust in the process! Because moving forward is going to require your direct co-operation, I'm going to need you to pay attention. Now, if you wouldn't mind, fetch the Thuraaxian phallus for me."

His mouth works soundlessly, on the verge of saying something, but he licks his lips and does as he's asked instead. It doesn't take long. You'd intentionally left it in the corner of the room when you'd started step one. Newt had looked over at it every single night since, and you had intentionally ignored it.

Newt returns to his waiting position, Thuraaxian phallus sitting on the floor before him. It wasn't a real one, of course, just a faithful recreation you'd found one day whilst rummaging through Newt's many storage rooms. You hadn't recognised it for what it was, at the time, only later on being clued in by Newt's out-of-character embarrassment at seeing it in your hands. Of course, now that you knew what it was, it was recognisably penis-y — a layered tip crowning a lightly ribbed shaft, ending in a swollen, angry looking knot. You'd laughed then, ribbed him for keeping it hidden from you, but it had quickly been incorporated into your bedroom routines. It was a convenient substitute for when you were too drained, or for when you wanted to give Newt a work out from some more appropriately sized penetration (you can't even feel inadequate next to this thing — Thuraaxian's are huge, it's not a fair comparison).

“Alright, let's start," you say, clapping your hands and rubbing them together as if preparing to grill a nice steak, or do some yard work. Newt tenses as you close in, like a cat eyeing an approaching bird, ready to spring forward at any instant. He watches as you bend over and heft the synthetic cock up; watches as you study it, study him; watches as you size him up and grin.

“Step Two: Plug, and Tease."

The Thuraaxian dildo, made of a naturally cool, metallic material, elicits a full-body shiver from Newt as you rub its soft head along the length of his sex. He tenses even further as you glide it back and forth, back and forth, a master painter with the tool of his trade. His slickness twitches, shudders, and you take the opportunity to nudge the sensitive lips apart, bit by bit, until you can sink the head right in. One of the many benefits you've discovered of Newt's biology is that the necessity for lubricant has become a thing of the past, some strange, far-off world that you struggle to remember. You take advantage of Newt's overproduction of sexual fluids to plunge the dildo in with frightening ease. It's a profound marvel the limits to which Newt seems to be able to adjust to anything — able to take this monster with relative ease, yet also able to conform to your much more modest proportions in a way that delights you both.

As the Thuraaxian cock hilts within Newt's warm depths, just before the knot, he seems to deflate, letting out a crooning groan as he relaxes, no longer able to keep himself upright. With this you've managed to block his tunnel completely, keeping his penis locked away, straining for escape, for stimulation, and leaving Newt like putty in your hands. This is the last bit of denial required for your plan, the last and likely most agonising for Newt to bear, but you're confident that he can do it. You carry with you a confidence founded not in yourself, but in the unclouded and desperate devotion you've found for this beautiful creature. Your desire to please him, to make him happy, goes beyond mundane problems of 'can' and 'cannot'. This will work. There is no other possibility.

It takes a few moments for Newt to recover, squirming in his spot, clearly desperate for further simulation yet unwilling to touch himself, unwilling to ruin your 'experiment'.

“Hmmn, Little One… You don't intend to stop there, do you?"

You place a hand on his knee.

“No. No, I don't. I intend to unravel you. I intended to have you quivering, moaning, entirely under the power of my hands, my tongue, my cock. And I'm not going to stop until all nine steps are completed." Your fingers, just barely gracing Newt's smooth flesh, run delicate trails down his leg, his thigh, inching slowly to his groin. But you pause, and are overcome by a sharp and sudden shame, a flaring of warmth in your cheeks. “That is, if you consent, of course. I'm sorry, I should have asked before… all this."

Newt lifts his head, swaying upon a lust-weak neck, and raises his good hand in a bemusing human gesture you'd taught him just last week — a thumb's up.

“Oh, dear, sweet creature, I consent. I consent!"

He is too pure, too sweet, and his innocent enthusiasm washes away your shame in a flash flood. You resume, spidering your fingertips down Newt's thigh until they reach the crook of his pelvic region. You drag them in slow, consistent circles, threatening to brush against the currently-occupied folds of his slit, but never quite touching. It's clearly working, because he keeps shuffling around, trying (and failing) to grind against your hand, to force your wandering digits to further explore his drooling sex.

But you don't. Instead, you position yourself further up his body. He's still trying to half sit-up, to watch you, and you put a stop to that by simply pushing him onto his back (or, rather, pushing in futility until he gets the idea and lays back down for you). Straddling his significant girth is a skill you've become much better at over time, allowing you to sit yourself down somewhere around his stomach without worrying about falling off. You flatten yourself down, your nude body pressed against his, your limbs flung in all directions to encompass as much of him as you can. This, admittedly, is more for your benefit than his, but you can't help yourself. You could lay here for hours if he'd let you (and he would), just basking in his presence, his scent. This is comfort, this is home. This is also a massive, awkward, charming creature that you need to bring to orgasm at least seven times before the night is through.

You begin by using that part of you that Newt is so enamoured by (not your cock, apparently). Lips pressed to his sternum, you hold the kiss, then move up, planting another one on his chest. Your stream of butterfly kisses carries on, ever headbound, as you re-familiarise yourself with all the creases and slopes and smooth expanses that are Newt. Does he like this as much as you would? Is he ticklish? Questions for another time.

Through an incidental glancing you find him looking directly at you. His eyeless gaze stops you in your tracks, brings back that blush that you'd only recently disposed of. And then Newt does something he's never done before — he brings his hand to your head, cups your chin and cheek, and runs his thumb over your forehead, combs back your hair, once, twice, three times. Your heart is ticking in overdrive, your legs go slack.

“What?" you blurt out.

“Hmmn…," you hear, followed by a period of silence, of study, and then, “I am merely admiring you. You make me very happy, Little One. Very happy. Thank you for doing this for me."

“But-," you stammer, swallow, “but I intentionally riled you up for a week. Surely you're a little bit annoyed with me." Has he seen through your charade so quickly? Where has the gullible Newt gone, to be replaced by this discerning creature?

His head sways, and the silence stretches on again.

“I trust you," is all he says.

You close your eyes, place your hand against the back of his, press your face into his palm.

“I trust you, too."

You kiss his palm, his wrist, run kisses down his arm, to his neck, this safe space where you've found yourself nestled so often. There are too many shifting coils to his neck to kiss properly, so instead you sit back up, grab his big head with both hands, and bring his lips to yours.

This one is a little different to your first: much gentler, slower. Yes, it still feels a little awkward even after all this time, considering your lips can only encompass the smallest fraction of his mouth, but it doesn't matter. This connection is real, and honest, and beautiful. You slide out your tongue, and Newt slips out his own to meet it. The two of you tangle together, wrestle in a farce of a fair duel that the both of you know is not fair in the slightest. And sure enough Newt is quickly pushing past your lips, burying himself in your mouth. You try to put up at least a half decent fight, but as well a house of sticks stand up to a tidal wive. Newt's tongue delves down into your throat, presses against your inner walls. Just how deep could he go? The thought of him entering one end and coming out the other pops into your head, brings from your stuffed mouth a strangled laugh, which only seems to encourage your partner to kiss you with more fervour, more passion.

He hasn't been this hungry in a while — ever? It's in this moment that you're reminded, once again, how vastly outclassed you are in almost every facet of physicality. He really can just do what he wants with you, if he cares to. But he won't, you know, because you trust him. Still, sometimes he needs a reminder of his strength, and you know just the trick for that.

You reach up and grab Newt's tongue with both hands. You pull it out of your mouth, the slimiest tug-of-war you've ever participated in, and once Newt realises exactly what it is you want, he retracts his tongue all the way back. He at least has the self-awareness to look sheepish, his crystal brows splayed back, head ducked.

“Sorry, I-."

“Shhh…"

You don't give him time to apologise, to contemplate, to pull back from this hazy, blissful aether the two of you have created. Standing on his chest, you mount Newt's big head, bending down over his slightly curved crown with your groin positioned right in front of his mouth.

“I'm going to make you blow, Newt."

“I would appreciate that," he says, the movements of his lips brushing pleasantly against your stiffness, “hmmn, but from up there? How?"

He really should have seen this coming, given the careless revelation of his secret the week prior. It had almost seemed offhand, the way he'd said it, as if it weren't a mistake, but a suggestion. And yet Newt's apparent obliviousness has you electric with devilish energy. He has no idea how much you're about to blow his mind.

Shuffling forward a little more, you hang your head off the left side of Newt's, and so close to the easily-missed fold of skin that is his ear-hole, begin whispering a torrent of reassurances and implications, some sweet, some not-so-sweet, and all of it ravenous with desire. But that isn't all. Your fingers wrap so delicately around the crystal stalks that crown his head, at times like eyebrows, at others like antlers, and Newt shudders so powerfully that you fear for a second you might fall off. This, after all, is Newt's secret weakness. They aren't just for decoration, but rather integral for his peculiar sense of 'sight', making them closer to eyes than anything else. But handling them directly would, as long as you were gentle, send ripples, perception-fuzzing distortions, straight to his brain. It is almost like putting on a blindfold, except one you have direct control over, that elicits shudders and shocks and moans completely at your discretion. It is a testament to his trust in you that this is even possible at all.

“Newt," you whisper, directly into his ear, “you beautiful, beautiful being. Relax, let the world melt away. There is only me, and you, and your cock."

He doesn't respond verbally, but you can tell you're getting through to him by the persistent squirming, the thrusting of his hips into the air, the burbling from his chest. You draw your fingers up along his crystal stalk, very, very careful not to grip it too hard. From what he'd described to you earlier, you know that Newt's state of consciousness has retreated back a step, here but not. His world has become hazy, difficult to comprehend, meaning all there is for him to focus on is your words, your touch, and the perpetually building warmth in his stuffed-full loins.

“You've been wanting this for so long, haven't you. To finally release, to erupt, to let it all out." You reposition, reach over and grab both stalks simultaneously, effectively blinding him completely. You stroke, softly, so soft. “Now is your chance, Newt. Focus on it and nothing else. You need to cum, Newt." Looking down, you can see the dildo bulge outwards, then slump back in. It's ridiculously arousing to watch, but you have to focus on Newt. He's so close, just needs that final push. “I want you to do it for me. Cum for me, Newt, cum for me. You deserve it."

The alien humps and thrusts at nothing, grinding against whatever stimulation he can and making all sorts of sounds that you've never even heard before, and all it takes is one final stroke to push him over that long-awaited edge. Newt lets out a long, deep groan, his incredible tongue lolling out as his entire body shudders. The Thuraaxian dildo bulges out again, once, twice, then is pushed aside completely as Newt's erection forces its way free. He's already climaxing before his spaded tip even exits, cum spewing from his vent like a geyser, and as his throbbing length spears outwards it shoots rope after rope of alien jizz with such propulsion that it even flies over his shoulder or rains down on top of his head, on top of you.

He pumps and pumps, and when you think he's finally done he shoots one last time, just to surprise you, and then finally collapses into a panting mess. It's all you can do just to hold on to his head, a task made no easier by how utterly slathered you both are. You let go of his stalks when you get the chance, and dismount, sitting down on the floor beside him and giving him a much-deserved minute to recover.

“Little One?" he says, having found some strength.

“Yes, Newt?"

“How did… That was… I've never experienced anything quite like that before. I will… remember this."

“Well that's good. But don't get too comfortable. That was only step two, remember?"

Newt swallows. His fingers dance across his torso and you can't help but smile. He looks so ridiculous, acting bashful while covered in his own release.

“Oh dear. Hmmn. I'm in such a mood… I think you could bring me to release with just your little finger, if you wished. I think my next climaxes will come much easier."

“My little finger, hmm?" You give it a taunting wiggle, one on each hand, flesh and machine. “Well I'll give you a minute to recover an-."

“No. I am ready. What is the next step?"

You glance over and note that, indeed, Newt is ready. His stiffness has not lost any of its rigidity — in fact, he looks even harder than before.

“Very well, then:

“Step Three: Stimulate the Foundation"

You consider taking a minute to clean up — you're covered in still-warm alien cum, after all, but so early into the experiment there really doesn't seem to be a point. You're just going to make another mess. Six more messes, in fact.

There's no time to waste! Straddling Newt's tail comes so naturally to you now — you've mastered the technique; a confident leap followed by throwing your leg over the other side and locking yourself into place with the aid of his thighs.

Newt's cock towers before you, a pillar of hot, pulsing flesh, still leaking the occasional dollop of cum, which dribbles down past his ridges and bumps, and collects in the basin of his slit. His dick begs to be touched, caressed, worshipped, but you don't give in, not yet. You know how this goes — work your way up, and drive Newt crazy in the process.

Still, you can't help but lean forward and give it a single kiss, just to let him know you're not going to forget about it. You kiss your way down the shaft to its base, intentionally skipping the extra-sensitive knot, until your face is pressed firmly in the space where phallus meets vent. It is completely coated, as you'd expected, and it's your job to clean it. You form a diamond with forefingers and thumbs, place it around the base of his shaft, allowing you to dig your thumbs in and pry apart his flesh at your whim. Newt wriggles at the re-invasion of his genital slit, but you don't relent, pulling, tugging, spreading him apart. His innermost flesh, so exposed, calls to you, and you dare not deny it. You slide the tip of your tongue first along the rim, drawing circles that edge ever deeper, pressing against his walls with an intense hunger of your own. Before you know it, your lips have passed the rim of his slit and you are as deep as you can get, tongue prodding at flesh it's not yet had the pleasure of tasting. And the taste is perfectly, undeniably Newt — earthy, and moist, and fresh.

His body is trembling, tail lashing occasionally as you eat him out, trying to throw you off, but you only grip harder, dig in more. Your tongue lashes against both the quivering flesh as well as his internal pillar, creating a doubling of intensity.

“Little One, I'm going to…"

You don't respond. You don't even pay attention. You're too hungry, desperate. Perhaps more than Newt has been sexually frustrated by this whole experiment. This moment, this night, is all that you've been thinking about for weeks. Your fingers dig in further, spread his lips even further apart, allowing you even more access to his most intimate places, and you devour him, voracious.

Newt's body rumbles beneath you, above you, his hips jerking you upwards, and soon enough you feel his warmth rain down upon your back, the last few splatters of his second climax. Your partner cranes his neck down to study you, his cock still pulsing.

“Hmmn, are you okay down there?"

A thumbs up is all he needs to see. He sighs, content, and then, “We can take a break, you know. I don't want you to exert yourself too much for my sake. Do you want to-?"

“Roll over. I'm going to fuck your ass."

“You what?!"

“Step Four: Fuck His Ass"

“Hmmn…"

“What?"

“Is that really what it's called?" he says.

“Look, it's not easy coming up with nine appropriate titles."

“But we're only on step four. Well, I'm not judging," says Newt, judging.

“Thank you," you reply.

“It's a fine title."

“Newt?"

“Yes, Little One?"

“Get on all fours. Err, threes. Now."

Despite his quips, Newt responds as soon as you dismount. He rolls over on to his stomach, caring little for the mess he makes in the process. Adjusting for his disabled limb, your reptilian lover lowers his top half to the floor, forming an inverted arch more dexterously than any of the (admittedly few) humanoid partners you've been with. His long, sinuous body exaggerates the effect, carries his hindquarters skyward. His presentation gives you the perfect view of his thighs and the stiff member hanging between them.

It certainly does the job of arousing your desires to dominate, to inseminate, but there is one minor problem. His back end hovers a few inches above your head. You cast about for a solution and settle upon the chair you were sitting at earlier, which you promptly drag over. Standing upon the chair helps, but still leaves you coming up short, so you're left with the slightly embarrassing necessity of asking Newt to lower his hips. He does, placing his rump about square with your stomach.

“Uhh, a little more, please," you mumble. He apologises, and does so. You cough. “Just a bit more."

“Do you want to try a different position?"

“No!" You lean forwards, on to the balls of your feet, thrusting your hips higher. Your dick grinds against Newt's lower abdomen, just barely able to touch the top of his vent. You could sword fight, you suppose, but that's not quite what you're here for. “Just a little more, please."

Newt mumbles something himself that you can't quite catch. He grunts and repositions, spreads his legs wider, sprawls his front end a little further, and lowers his rump with some effort, leaving his back entrance at the perfect height for you to take advantage of.

“Hmmn," he says, his thighs shaking a little from strain, “I must urge haste, Little One. This isn't a position I can hold for very long."

“Better make you cum quick then, huh?" you reply, giving his length a companionable stroke. Newt shivers in response.

Though he's so graciously arranged himself for your convenient plundering, you still need to lean forward to engage with him, your toes splayed precariously on the edge of the chair. With the desire to not fall off and embarrass yourself further in mind, you grab the thick base of Newt's tail and sling it over your shoulder, using it as a counter balance to keep you grounded.

Now, with all that out of the way, you've still got the problem of entry. Step one (or, Step Four (a)?) is simple — you plunge your cock into its regular holster, that being Newt's wet slit. You sink in as deep as you can go, your turgid length grinding against his internal dick flesh the whole way. You could just go to town if you wanted, and damn do you want to, but, no, that's not what you're here for. You pull out, your length now successfully slathered in Newt's juices and ready for proper anal penetration. The only trouble now is finding it.

Newt's alien anatomy places his back end within the lower edge of his slit, below the cock sheathe. It takes a little bit of work, mostly involving you spreading his tunnel wider, poking your cock head in, digging around, swearing under your breath. Soon enough you find it, a hole without the natural slickness, one that's a little tighter, warmer. It resists your entry at first, tenses, only to suddenly surge as Newt pushes back on you, swallowing your throbbing member halfway. You almost blow right there and then, especially when Newt lets slip another satisfied groan.

You take a handful of his massive ass, steady yourself, take a few deep breaths. Your cock twitches like mad, even as you stand completely still. Your body threatens to climax at even the slightest stimulation of a single ball hair. Deep breaths… deep breaths…

“Is everything okay, Little One? I thought you said you'd be quick."

“Yeah, quick, not instantaneous. Just… gimme a second…"

More grumbling from him. You roll your eyes.

After what you hope is a sufficient amount of time, you give Newt a few gentle thrusts as a test and he immediately responds with a deep, encouraging rumble. You pull out almost to the tip (though not completely, for fear of losing your place again), pause, then slowly plunge back in, hilting with a soft, wet 'plap'. You can do this. You just have to make him cum, that's all. He's already squirming, panting. You can do this.

You begin to fuck in earnest, starting with a slow, yet steady rhythm. Grinding into Newt's ass is a little different to his slit, which is the hole you typically mate with (for simplicity's sake, if nothing else) — it's not as slick, of course, though still slippery enough; it hugs your flesh tighter, and those velvety walls have more grip than his cock slit, tugging at you each time you withdraw, as if he doesn't want to let you go. You pick up your pace, your nuts slap against the base of his pillar — plap, plap, plap.

Sweat trickles down your forehead. You really could blow at any second. You try to think of mundane thoughts, unsexy thoughts — taxes, war, what you're going to have for breakfast — but Newt's ass is so prominent, fills your vision so completely, that you are forced to abandon that effort.

“Hmmmmnnnnn….."

Oh, fuck, that's not helping. Your nut surges, and it's all you can do to hold it in, contain it at the base of your shaft. You've gone from tempered, controlled thrusts to frantic, unfocused humping.

Newt's thighs shake like mad, on the verge of collapsing from the strain of this awkward position. Should you stop? It probably isn't helping him achieve orgasm, likely dividing his focus between getting off and the physical strain of maintaining a perfect height for you. Your frenzied dicking isn't that good, so perhaps it's time to give poor Newt a break.

“Newt-."

“Ohhhhhhhmmmnnnn…." You can feel it even before you hear it — his hole spasms, surges out to engulf you completely, clenches and pulls back, again and again in time with the load he shoots out onto the floor. He collapses forward onto the pallet and you, still firmly balls deep in his ass, are pulled along with him. There is just enough time to grab onto his tail as your feet leave the relative security of the chair.

The 'thud' of your impact with the floor is muted and, thankfully, not too painful, but also quickly followed by another impact from above as Newt's heavy tail slaps down upon you. You can do little but groan, and even that opportunity passes when Newt sits up, crushing the air from your lungs.

“Stars above, that was impeccable!"

A gentle tap of his buttocks from a hand weakened by too heavy a weight does not gather his attention.

“Little One?"

Another, weaker tap.

“Little O- oh! Hmmn, apologies, dear one? Are you okay?"

Newt finally releases you from the crushing weight of his hindquarters, giving you the opportunity to greedily suck down great big gulps of air. Your cock slips free with a wet 'pop' and, yes, you must have came sometime during the fall because it is now flaccid and sad. That or it's broken.

Newt's worried attentions are charming, with him bending over you, prodding at you, sounding genuinely worried he might have hurt you. The effect is only mildly spoiled by the proud erection he still sports between his legs, bobbing in time with his affectionate ministrations.

“I'm okay," you manage to say, half wheezing. Newt looks at you doubtfully.

“Did you want to stop?"

“No!" you say, cough, then repeat, “no, definitely not. We've still got five more steps."

He puts his hand on his hip, considering, so you force yourself to jump up and interrupt his doubts. It only hurts a little.

“Step Five: Tactile Attentions"

Newt sits back on his haunches and tilts his head. His dick is no less hard than it has been this whole night. Honestly, it's a little intimidating. The power you'd have with stamina like that… well, a man can dream.

“How would you like me, Little One?"

Good question. You'd initially planned for him to stay on all fours, to get yourself comfortable underneath him and jerk him off that way, but the thought of being directly under Newt so soon after this recent ordeal — especially with his propensity for collapsing mid-orgasm — is not exactly enticing.

“All right," you say, “come with me."

You wrap your hand around Newt's incredibly wet, incredibly stiff cock, just below its spaded tip, and lead him as if by a leash over to the edge of the room. He makes such cute noises that you consider doing a full lap of the room just for show. Maybe next time.

“Okay," you continue, your back now against the wall, your enormous blue boyfriend pinning you against it, “just stay still while I work at it. The wall is just so you can lean against it, in case you get tired."

“Lean against it, or lean over you, hmmn?" There is a playfulness to his tone, one you've only come to learn due to your time spent together. You give him a gentle slap of his underbelly.

“Both, maybe." He has a point. Looking up, you're reminded once again just how different the two of you are. He towers over you, arm resting on the wall way above your head, and that's without him even standing at his full height. The drooling dick he pokes around your face, however, is instead a reminder of your similarities.

You give it your full attention now, taking it in both hands, with which you can barely wrap around it, and even then only around the thinnest part of the shaft. With a firm grip, you work your hands in synchronicity, starting just above his knotted base and squeezing your way up, at which point you let go and start again. It's almost like milking a cow, you suppose, if the cow was about five times bigger than usual, and male, and horny, and not really like a cow at all.

“Using two hands… devious, Little One," he murmurs. Which it must be, really, considering it's something he himself is incapable of. Maybe he could masturbate with his telekinetic devices… you file that question away for another time. You curl your fingers around behind the spade, place your thumbs along the underside where a frenulum would be, and make continuous circular motions, up, then out, then back in again. Newt's commentary devolves into mindless, unfocused babbling, and you're rewarded with the occasional drip of oozing precum, so you must be doing something right.

Without letting up on the attention to the head, you let a hand drift down to the knot. Despite spending a fair amount of intimate time with Newt, this is an aspect of him that you haven't yet explored much of. It always looks so… angry. Like touching it might make it explode, or might trigger some primordial, alien domination instincts within him. But this is a night for testing limits, for pushing boundaries. You give it a gentle stroke, and Newt responds instantly, bucking his hips and almost stabbing your eye out. Definitely a highly sensitive area… what would happen if you…?

“HMMMNNN."

Newt slips halfway down the wall, trapping you with his body. You release the tight grip of his knot and he trembles, breathes out a sigh.

“Sorry, I-."

“Again."

Did you catch that right? “What?"

“Again. Do that again."

“Alright, alright. Can you at least give me some space?"

He steps in closer instead, crushing you between a cock and a hard place. Maybe there was some truth to that 'domination instincts' theory. Fine, he wants to play rough? You can give him rough — two hand's worth. This time, your double-gripped squeeze produces a knee-buckling effect, and for a brief second you worry you've made a potentially lethal mistake, but Newt holds on, just barely, so you do it again, and again, and each time he gasps, juts his hips forward, squashes you further into the wall.

Okay, maybe you're not quite cut out for this level of rough. Time to tell him off. You open your mouth, and are promptly blasted with a face full of alien cum. You don't even get a chance to wipe it off, not with Newt still so close, still rutting into your hands. All you can do is close your eyes and cop it, hope it doesn't plug up all of your breathing holes. Eventually he pulls back, gives you a few blessed moments to cough and wipe your splattered face.

“Come on, Newt, at least give me some warning!"

He responds with some confusing noises, garbled sounds like a bubbling brook, that eventually turn into something approaching language.

“Next… Next!"

“Next what?"

“Next step! It's a… double… hurry… next step!"

A double? What? What is he even talking about? A double… orgasm? You struggle for a moment, but judging by Newt's panting, half-pained posture, he appears to be struggling more.

“Okay, okay, umm, next step:

“Step Six: Oral Extraction"

You waste no time — or, rather, Newt doesn't let you waste any time, pressing his still-throbbing length needily into your face. Careful not to go anywhere near his knot, you re-grasp the alien shaft and press your lips to its midsection. You had planned to take this slow, but you also hadn't planned around a double… climax? Questions bubble around your head, more things to ask Newt about later, but for now you have to give him your complete attention.

Running your tongue along his shaft is something you've long since become enamoured with. The sheer heftiness of it, the gentle give of spongy flesh, the slight tang — it's an experience you could only ever have with Newt. You glance up, trying to gauge his reaction to your lips, to your tongue. His brows are pinched, his upper lip raised, and if he had eyes they'd be scrunched shut — it's a look of intense focus, bordering on sexual agony.

Your kiss your way up, tongue caressing each individual bump along the way, until you are forced to confront the challenge of fitting your mouth around his spaded tip. Not that you haven't done it before, of course, but it's always something you've worked yourself up to. But not today. One quick flick of the urethra is all the preparation you allow before trying to shove as much of the head in your mouth as you can. Once again you give thanks for the relative malleability of his flesh, which allows itself to be compressed, to conform to the limits of your under-equipped human jaws.

His cock isn't even in your mouth for a second before he starts pushing into you again, pressing the back of your head against the cave wall. You don't particularly want to risk a concussion, so you give him what he wants, taking in as much of his rod as you can, slathering it with your tongue, then raising up on your toes for some traction. You also cheat a little by jerking his shaft as you suck, not that he would notice in his current state.

“More," he says, almost growling, “faster, quick! Please…" That last comes out as a whine. You've never heard him whine before.

You try to speed up to limited success — there's only so much room for movement on your end. You're about to tell him so yourself but all thought promptly flees your mind when he picks you up by the ankle, lifts you until you're hanging upside down above his cock, and then begins pistoning you up and down at his own frantic pace. It feels like you're being shaken down for change, only it's not money he wants, but to cum down (up?!) your throat. It takes everything you have just to keep breathing, to keep lucid, to keep your eyes from rolling back into your head.

Whatever capacity for rational thought you still held onto quickly recedes when Newt's incredible tongue wraps itself twice around your cock, slithers up past your testicles, and wiggles its way into your ass. It's a complete and utter assault on the senses, you don't know whether to feel annoyed, distressed, or incredibly turned on. He's never been like this with you before, not once. It's a side of Newt that fills you with… not fear, but a cautious curiosity…excitement?

You're pretty sure that Newt's thorough anal tonguing and dick-squeezing brings you to orgasm at some point, but like before it's lost in the overwhelming nature of the moment. He groans and hunches over, and you have all of a second to prepare yourself as your alien lover begins drowning you in an apparently endless flood of cum. Despite how quick this climax is after the last, it lacks for nothing in volume. You swallow almost none of it, letting it all dribble back down around Newt's cock and splatter over the floor.

Newt pulls you off of his pole, his spaded tip pulling free with a wet 'pop'. He places you gently on the floor, and then at least has the decency to sit back on his haunches and run his fingers nervously across his chest. His erection, at last, flags at least a little, but not to a degree that you could call soft. It's still drooling profusely.

Rubbing at your sore throat helps with the recovery, as does spitting up the occasional bubble of jizz. You look at Newt, who would be looking away, if he could.

“Well?"

“Hmmnn…"

“Hmmn? What do you mean, hmmn? What was that!?" Your indignation is only slightly spoiled by the absurd cum-soaked mess of your nude body.

“Apologies, Little One. I may have gotten… carried away. I can understand if you wish to stop."

Your sigh is deep, but relieving. He sounds genuinely apologetic, at least.

“No, no. It's fine, we can talk about it later. Just give me a minute, then we can keep going."

Newt grins.

“You humans truly are a tenacious species… but perhaps, I can make up for my inconsiderate display by taking the lead on this one. I want to show you, hmmn, something… I've been meaning t-to for a while, a-and I— Oh, hmmn, sorry, I-…"

He's drawing in on himself again, tucking himself down into a ball of unrealised anxiety. You take his hand, cold and clammy (and a little slippery), and pull him back out before he's too far gone. You're not about to let a sweet moment like this spoil your night.

“Alright," you say, “I like that idea. Let's try it, then."

“Step Seven: Whatever the Hell Newt Wants to do"

Newt goes silent for a while, still holding your hand. He's looking down at you, or towering over you, rather. What's going through his head? Sometimes he's as easy to read as a children's picture book, all big smiles and bright colours, and yet at other times you can't pierce that placid blue shell no matter how much you wish to.

“Sit," he commands, having gathered up the courage, perhaps, or simply made his decision, “here." He's pointing to your usual spot, at the base of his tail, and of course there's nothing for it but to obey. It's a strange situation you find yourself, at once both apprehensive and excited, so ready to see this new aspect of Newt you hadn't known of until now, but also not wishing to spoil it.

“Little One, hmmn, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask that you don't share what I'm about to show you with anyone."

“Newt, I live alone. With you. Who would I even tell?"

Newt leans over you, shaking his finger in your face. The effect is softened by the bobbing of his erection, which also shakes right in front of you.

“Hmmn, Little One, I'm serious… you must promise. At least… until I'm ready. If that situation ever arises. Hmmn."

“Okay, all right, I promise, Newt. I won't tell a soul." And you mean it, truly. Even if it turns out to be something silly, you'll take it to your grave if you have to. But the solemness with which he's treating this is quite interesting. What could possibly be this important, yet also involve, ultimately, getting him off?

“I know you won't," he says, finally smiling again. “Close your eyes and take a deep breath, Little One, it may come as a shock at first, but please endure it. I believe you will be… impressed with the results. Do you consent?"

You grab his hand and kiss it.

“Of course."

You close your eyes and breathe, just breathe.

Newt's thumb traces your jaw line, runs up your cheek and flutters across your eyelids with a gentleness that should not be possible for a creature his size. It ends its journey on your forehead, where it presses down firmly. He wraps the rest of his fingers around your head, and simply holds you there, keeps you still.

It's an odd feeling, like you're a product about to be put on display, and the shopkeeper is making his last inspection. The moment carries you away, silences the buzz in your head. It's amazing how much of Newt you can sense, even with your eyes closed. The sturdiness of his tail between your thighs, his burbling brook-like breaths, his rainy-day scent (perceptible even through a heady layer of sex smell), and if he wasn't currently stopping you, you'd be tasting him, too.

It's like… — liquid fire flashes through your veins, your synapses, each nerve and tendon, each joint, your bones, your blood, your cybernetics, all of it exploding in this one single, infinitesimal moment of rapturous cacophony. It hollows you out, and then evaporates in an instant. You open your eyes.

It's like you are in two places at once — here, yourself, your body, but also there, sitting in front of you, looking at you, looking at yourself. You can feel it, feel him, not as something separate from yourself, but as an also-you, another you. His gut… guts?… are churning, bubbling away endlessly; his heart beat is slow, slower than your ticking; his limbs are cold, and full of so many joints, except for his one, limp hand, which is simply not there at all; his vision… doesn't compute well with your brain, it's too alien, like a distracting fuzz over everything you see, but one you can dismiss with minor effort.

But there's more, more that you struggle to comprehend, swimming beneath the surface. His thoughts, feelings, appearing like glints of silverfish in a fast-moving stream. It's so very strange, to be exposed to feelings that aren't you own, to have them affect you, infect you, reverberate back and interact with each other, entwine, until it is hard to determine which is yours and which is Newt's. One feeling, above all else, is undeniable. Warmth, not the physical kind, but something different. As he studies you, as you study him in turn, the warmth quickens, becomes more vibrant, radiant, blanketing everything else. It's a warmth you could be sucked into, be obliterated in, and welcome it.

“Newt?"

“I'm sorry, Little One, this is not… hmmn, standard practice. I've never done it with a member of another species before, so it may not be perfect. What we are doing is, hmmn, not a thing that is done. I-… I…"

You can certainly feel that, a deep sense of shame, of uncertainty, that threatens to wash away the warmth. You refuse to let it affect you, to affect this magical moment.

“Newt… it's beautiful. I can feel you! I can feel everything!" Your gaze drifts down, and you swallow. “Oh, I can… feel everything." His stiffness has stirred your own into full and furious life. You're rock hard and dripping already, and it's entirely because of Newt.

“It's difficult to maintain synchronicity with a human, Little One. It seems I must retain physical contact until we are more accustomed to each other. Hmmn. Would you mind… taking care of… us?"

Us. The word sends an unexpected jolt through your chest. It is a nice word. But there's no time to ponder that right now. You've got a job to do.

Tentatively, you reach out for Newt, wrap your hand around his length. The feeling is so bizarre at first that you immediately let go. Another breath, and you try again. It's as if a ghost has imitated you, enveloped your cock in its phantom grasp, and as you slide your hand up, it does the same. It feels like you're not even touching him, just jerking yourself off while he watches, but that's not it, either. He can clearly feel it, feel you, even rewarding you with a dollop of precum squeezed from his tip, to dribble down over your hand.

Well, if you can feel what's happening to his body, then perhaps… Newt lets slip a moan when you grasp your own cock, grind your stiff head into your slick palm. With no reason to let up, you take it one step further still, and masturbate both him and yourself at the same time. It is fucking weird, like getting a double handjob, from four different hands, except it's even more than that. The stimulation from one slips into the other, creating a feedback loop of pleasure that drives you both rapidly towards the edge.

“Oh fuck, Newt, I can't…" you plead, panting, but he doesn't respond. He's too wrapped up in whatever it is he's doing with your head, too full of you to pay attention to you.

You're so close already, and you've barely even started! There's no way you can leave it like this, not without pushing the limits while you still can — who knows when Newt will give you another chance to do this? You shuffle forward, raise up on your knees, and press yourself directly against him. With the tips of your fingers and thumbs pressed together, you form a tight tunnel, squeeze the both of you just barely into it, and thrust. If before was a full-on handjob, then this is… indescribable. There is entirely too much going on in your head right now, too many sensations all mixed together, impossible to unpack. Your dick, so dwarfed by Newt's own, may as well have been one and the same, equal in every way.

“Oh, Newt…"

The words don't even come out right, half-garbled because you're drooling, unfocused. His cock, your cock, tenses, spasms, and you climax together. The two of you gasp in sync, moan, shoot your loads together so that they mix, fall back down over both of you. He's panting, you're panting, as you slide back down into a sitting position and then, all at once, it is gone. The connection disappears and you are left disappointingly yourself and yourself only.

“What was…"

“Syncing. It connects two parallel biological time streams, hmmn, treats them as one. It is a method of bonding between… between… hmmn…"

“Hey," you say, attempting to give him an out, “we've still got one left, don't we? How about we save the talk 'til we're done?"

“Okay," he replies, smiling, “what's next?"

With all the bravado you can muster, you stand tall on Newt's tail, give him your cockiest smile, and say:

“Step Eight: Anal"

He snorts, and his rumbling laugh almost throws you from your tenuous position.

“Really?" he asks, “just 'Anal'?"

“Yeah, what's wrong with that?"

“Nothing, nothing… hmmn, not that I am complaining, but we did already do this, didn't we?"

“No, no, no," you reply, shaking your head, “that was 'Fuck His Ass', as in, me fucking you. This is different: you fucking me."

He changes from amused to concerned in an instant, reaches a nervous hand towards you, leans forwards.

“Are you sure that is wise, Little One? We may not be compatible in that way, and—."

“It's fine, Newt. You think I've been doing nothing while I was teasing you all this time? I've been practising specifically for this. I'm ready."

“I don't want to hurt you," he says, frowning.

“I know, Newt, I know. I'll take it slow, and I'll stop right away if I can't handle it. Deal?"

He slouches back, grumbles, considers, and then finally acquiesces with a sigh.

“Please be careful. I don't call you Little One for no reason."

It's flattering, really, just how much he cares about you. It's good to have that flattery to focus on, to stamp down on the butterflies, startled into nervous flight by the thought of what you are about to do. The ascent past the obelisk of his schlong is as good a pilgrimage as any other, a test of fortitude, of perseverance. He watches you closely the entire time, as closely as a creature with no eyes can, his hand always hovering halfway between the two of you, ready to catch you, to stop you, if need be. But this isn't something you want his help with — you said it yourself already, you've been practising.

You have him right where you want him now, laying beneath your half-squat, his length sliding over your cheeks. While you'd normally demand lube for such an effort, the sheer amount of ejaculate Newt has already provided, spilled out from over six previous climaxes, should prove sufficient. His cock won't sit still, smacking against your back door with every twitch, intimidating even as it seeks entrance. You can tell, even through his concern, that Newt is becoming increasingly turned on by the prospect of taking you. It's pretty hot by your own assessment as well, of course, but without the blessing of a Time Newt's sexual stamina you are, unfortunately, far too spent to sport your own erection. That's not such a bad thing, though, because you're going to need every ounce of focus you can afford for this.

Reaching back behind you, you grasp Newt's member and run your hand up along it, gathering a heaping dose of sexual fluids as you go, which you use to slather over your hole. Thanks to his previous oral ravishing, your ass is already a little pliable, allowing you to slip in with ease, to spread his seed around within. You grab his cock again, just beneath its spaded tip, and guide it to its goal, let it rest against your entrance.

Breathe.

You push back against it, to little effect. You pause then try again.

Breathe.

A different tactic, perhaps? Instead of pushing down, you try guiding him up into you. Newt responds, raises his hips to assist. Squeezing his cock head into a more slender, pointed shape almost does the trick, tickling your hole, teasing it, but still it refuses to enter.

Breathe.

Time then to combine the two. Squeeze, pull, and squat, all in deliberately measured harmony, a delicate balance that could prove disastrous if tipped too far one way or the other. You close eyes, breathe out through your nose, and focus on the intense intimacy of this physical connection. Your air runs out and there is a brief moment of doubt, a flash of disappointment that it was all for nought, and then, just as quickly, he is inside you.

“FUCK!"

“Little One! Are you okay?" Newt's worry has him leaning forward, but to you his turbulence is akin to a ship at sea, in a storm, that also happens to have its mast stuck up your ass.

“Stop! Don't move!"

Newt goes completely still, turned to stone by your command, and so do you. All you can do for now is focus on your breathing, try to ignore the fist-sized monster in your rear end. Though certainly grateful for its spongy firmness, Newt's cock must have immediately unfurled after squeezing through your ring, leaving you completely and utterly full. “Just… gimme a minute," you say through panted breaths.

And so the two of you remain, frozen, locked in stationary copulation while your ass is given the time to adjust. It's such a bizarre situation, so perfectly unsexual, that you can't help but laugh.

“This isn't exactly what I'd had planned."

Newt shocked silence also turns to bubbling laughter, which he tries to stifle quickly so as not to jostle you too much.

“Hmmn, I can't say I'm too surprised. I appreciate the effort you've gone to… feel free to disengage at your leisure."

“No way! Just… don't go any deeper and we'll be fine."

“Are you sure…?"

In response, you test the give of his shaft, lift yourself up just a hair's length. It's not exactly pleasant, but it doesn't exactly hurt. It's simply a complete fullness that you haven't quite experienced before, even during your practice with toys. Sitting back down leaves him pushing against your inner limit rather quickly, but there's some room there, enough to provide a modicum of stimulation, to please him. Hopefully.

It takes a while, but you and Newt eventually settle into a steady, if awkward, rhythm. He thrusts occasionally and apologises often, with you guiding the process through controlled squats, like bouncing down a gravel road. It's quite possibly the worst sex you've ever had, not that you've had much, really, but the fact that it's possible at all gives you hope. With more practice, and more lube, and maybe some of Newt's scientific genius at work, this is something you can really see working in the future. But for now…

“You are in some discomfort. Hmmn. Do you wish me to finish, Little One?"

“We can't finish yet, Newt," you say, grunting, “I want this to work."

“I understand. What I mean is, do you want me to finish. Inside you. Right now."

“Wait…" You have both palms pressed down on your thighs in a position that is determined yet vulnerable, which gives your indignation less of a sting than you intend, “what do you mean right now? You can do that? Just cum whenever you want?"

“Well…" Newt scratches at his chin, suddenly bashful, “not whenever, exactly, but I do have, perhaps, a higher degree of control than you do. Hmmn. Besides, you are… very attractive to me right now, so it shouldn't be too difficult…"

His words are like a balm for your bruised ego, even if it's possible that you've never felt less attractive than you do in this moment. You grin as you say, “Okay, fine, but we'll have words about this later. Go on then, cum for me, Newt, for the last time tonight."

“With utmost pleasure, Dearest One."

It's unclear exactly how he does it, but you can tell he's focusing on something. His breath is held, his hand hovering at a particular angle, and the crystals on his head shimmer, or… no, instead of scattering light, they seem to drink it in, becoming darker. He lets slip a small, barely audible sigh, and then…

You realise your mistake instantly. Yes, you've managed to fit his cock head in, and yes you could maybe even handle a bit more with further practice, but what you stupidly haven't planned for, haven't considered until now, is the direct and obvious consequences of riding him to orgasm. Newt's first shot of cum fills you to your absolute limit and then some.

“Wait, stop! Pull out!"

But he's too distracted by climaxing to notice. Newt bucks his hips, and his second blast follows, bloating your tunnel to an almost painful degree. Your squirming groans accompany a frantic rocking back and forth, lifting first one hip, and then the other, and it is only through sheer determination you manage to unplug yourself from his erotic volcano.

You fall forward, face planting into his chest as he writhes in the final throes of his orgasm. It showers down over you but by this point it is beyond notice, beyond care. Its only now, hollowed out, dripping cum, covered in sweat, that your mind catches up with what your body already knew — you're beyond tired. You close your eyes and soon Newt calms down beneath you, the two of you settling into a panting silence.

You stay like that for a while, lulled into the pre-passage of sleep by your hard-earned exhaustion. Aches and groans become soft sighs and gentle breaths, and your arms wrap snugly around Newt's impressively sized torso. You yawn and prepare to pass out, content in a job well done. Well, perhaps just a nap for a short while before you start cleaning up — and there is a lot to clean up. You're on the verge of nodding off when Newt's fingers brush the back of your neck, stroking gently.

“Dearest One?" he asks, softly, as if uncertain whether to disturb you.

“Yeah, Newt?" you reply.

“I will let you sleep, but before you do, I am curious. You said this was a 'Nine-Step Guide', didn't you? But we only completed eight of those steps. What was the next?"

Another yawn is pulled from your core, calming your head, stilling your nerves. You smile.

“Step Nine: Confess"

“Confess?" he asks, shocked.

“Yes," you say, plant a kiss on his chest, and then, “I love you, Newt."

His hand freezes on the back of your neck, he opens his mouth soundlessly, struggles to find the words to say. And then he relaxes. Instead of resuming his stroking, he runs his thumb back over your head, through your hair, and presses it against your forehead, and once more sends that rush of fire through your veins. This time you are better prepared for it, welcome it.

Newt doesn't respond because he doesn't need to, you can feel the answer in his chest, in your chest, vibrant and warm and all-encompassing. You let the waves of his warmth wash over you, let yourself be swallowed by them, sink into their embrace. You drink it in deep, and are at peace. You have finally found home.