[Holy mackerel, this is intense. This is beyond intense. How is it that a tongue can feel so different than fingers, and different still than she would have guessed it would felt like? She covers her mouth to try to stop herself from making any embarrassing noises, but try as she might, she can't stop the uncontrollable gasping and panting and even the occasional whimper of pleasure and anticipation.]

[She has absolutely no idea what she's supposed to be doing with her body right now. Frankly, it seems to be doing a lot of things all by itself. Trembling, mostly, from the overwhelmingly pleasurable sensation, twitching this way and that in response to the movement of his tongue. Her hands feel the need to hang onto something, and she alternates between gripping the long wing feathers under her back, to palming her own collarbone or stomach, looking for purchase.]

[Between bouts of arching her back and squirming, she watches him, too. At first she was embarrassed to see him down there, but now, to see him so eagerly pleasuring her, gives her an unanticipated erotic satisfaction in itself. She reaches down and combs her fingers through his hair while gazing at him through a haze of reverie, caressing what part of his face she can reach... but when he amps it up again, she grabs his hair in her slender fist -- not to yank, but just to hold on tight as if it's the only thing keeping her grounded.]

[Whenever his tongue threatens to dip inside, the reaction from her hips gets more pronounced, as if they are rising up on their to try to meet him.]