FREE USE in Primitive World

Chapter 167: Chapter 167: Milking A Goddess

The contact sent a jolt through her, but it wasn’t submission that flooded her veins… it was pure, unadulterated revulsion mixed with shock. Isylia froze, her eyes widening behind closed lids as the reality of his arousal pressed unmistakably against her lower stomach. It was hard, hot, and relentlessly demanding… a profane weapon seeking entrance to her sacred temple.

But the freeze lasted only a second. Then, the mighty Goddess returned.

“Remove that… thing… from my person immediately!” Isylia hissed, her voice vibrating with supreme disgust. She didn’t melt; she stiffened like a statue of diamond. She tried to scramble backward on the obsidian seat, her hands clawing at his chest, trying to pry his heavy body off hers. “You rub against me like a lowly beast in heat! Have you no shame? No concept of the sacrilege you are committing?”

Sol leaned in instead of backing away, his smirk widening. The words brushed past him like a summer breeze, more entertaining than wounding.”Sacrilege?” he mused, leaning his weight forward so she was pinned between his chest and the hard stone of the throne. “I call it worship.”

He began to rotate his hips, slowly, deliberately. He ground the thick, throbbing ridge of his cock against the soft dip of her belly, rubbing his hardness against her through the layers of fabric. The friction was molten hot, even through the cloth, the heat of her skin scorched him, searing through his restraint.

“You dare call this filth worship?” Isylia spat, her face twisted in a sneer of absolute contempt. She looked down at their joined hips with the same expression one would use when stepping in sewage. “You are smearing your base, mortal lust all over my divinity! It is repulsive! You are… ugh!”

She cut herself off with a gasp as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. He inhaled deeply, smelling the scent of a goddess, before opening his mouth and biting down on the sensitive cord of muscle where her neck met her shoulder.

Isylia stiffened, her whole body going rigid. She didn’t moan. She made a sound of sheer, incredulous outrage.

“Beast!” she screamed, yanking on his hair, trying to pull his head back. “You act as if you are eating a beast! You mark me? You dare mark the surface of the Divine with your saliva? It is unclean! You are unclean!”

“I’m marking what’s mine,” Sol mumbled against her skin, sucking hard on the spot, determined to leave a bruise on her perfect, glowing skin. A mark of her inevitable corruption.

“I am not yours!” Isylia panted, her chest heaving against his hands. “I belong to the Cosmos! I belong to the Eternal Order! I do not belong to a sweat-drenched savage who thinks with his—”

Sol silenced her by grinding his hips forward again, harder this time and adjusted his grip on her breasts.

He squeezed.

Of course, he didn’t do it gently, nor did he do it with reverence. He kneaded the divine flesh deeply, his rough, calloused fingers digging into the incredible, impossible softness that she had tried to keep hidden beneath her celestial robes.

It was a tactile shock that nearly broke his mind. They weren’t just soft; they were fluid, like holding handfuls of warm light and heavy cream. They possessed a supernatural weight to them… substantial, dense, and yielding all at once. As he squeezed, the flesh spilled over his fingers, molding perfectly to his grip as if her body had been created solely for his hands.

“Get your hands off!” Isylia shrieked, batting at his forearms, her nails scratching uselessly against his skin. Her solar eyes blazed with the fury of a dying star. “Do not mold me like common clay! I am Isylia! I am the Sun! I am not some random wench for you to grope!”

“You feel better than a wench,” Sol growled, his voice thick with obsession. He ignored her blows, captivated by the way the celestial silk of her peplos strained against the swelling flesh under his thumbs. “Honestly, you feel… unreal. A goddess is really different from a mortal.”

He squeezed again, harder this time, testing the limits of her elasticity. He dragged his thumbs inward, pressing them deep into the giving flesh until he felt the hard, frantic thumping of her heart beneath the muscle.

“Stop it! It is deforming!” Isylia raged, her chest heaving violently against his palms. “I am a goddess! My form is absolute! You are polluting my body with your clumsy, mortal grasping!”

“Your body is soft,” Sol mocked, circling his palms to weigh the heavy globes. “And it seemed to like my grasping.”

“It does not!” she yelled, her face flushing a deep, furious gold. “It is recoiling! My very essence is screaming in horror at your touch!”

“Are they?” Sol smirked darkly.

He shifted his grip, his fingers bunching the thin fabric. He located the centers of her breasts… the hidden peaks that were betraying her divinity. He clamped his thumbs down directly over her nipples.

Isylia’s scream died in her throat, replaced by a strangled, high-pitched whimper that sounded humiliatingly human.

Her nipples weren’t recoiling. They were hardening. They pushed back against his thumbs like diamonds, swollen and stiff. The contact sent a jolt of biological electricity through her that bypassed her divine mind and hit her vessel’s primitive nervous system.

“It’s not a good habit to lie so much,” Sol whispered, rubbing his thumbs rapidly back and forth over the hardening buds. The friction was a clash that sparked heat, threatening to engulf him whole. “If you hate it, why are you pointing at me? Why are they getting so hard, dear Goddess?”

“It is… it is a defense mechanism!” Isylia stammered, her arrogance faltering for a split second as pleasure stabbed through her chest. She tried to arch her back to escape his hands, but that only thrust her breasts deeper into his grip. “My body is… hardening to… to resist your assault! It is armoring itself against your filth!”

“But to me, it feels like they’re begging to be sucked,” Sol corrected cruelly.

He squeezed with a punishing rhythm now, kneading her like dough, claiming the weight of her, forcing her to feel the reality of his possession. Every squeeze sent a fresh wave of sensation crashing into her resolve.

“You are delusional!” she cried, tears of frustration and overstimulation pricking her eyes. She looked at him with profound hatred, but her hands had stopped hitting him; they were now gripping his biceps, her fingers curling into the muscle as if to anchor herself against the storm of sensation. “I am a Goddess! I do not beg! I demand you cease this— ahhh!”

She broke off again as Sol pinched both nipples simultaneously through the cloth, twisting them slightly.

“You demand nothing,” Sol said, leaning in until his nose brushed hers, his eyes burning with a terrifying mix of lust and dominance. “Right now, you’re just soft flesh in my hands. And I’m going to see just how much of this ’armor’ I can melt.”

“Melt my armor?” Isylia scoffed, though her voice was an octave higher than usual, trembling as his thumbs continued their ruthless assault on her hardened nipples. “You could not melt a snowflake, let alon—”

“Is that so?” He didn’t let her finish leaning back slightly, admiring the view. The celestial peplos, a fabric woven from starlight and divinity, was stretched taut across her chest due to his rough handling. It acted like a second skin, outlining the heavy, perfect curve of her breasts in high-definition. And right at the center of each globe, a distinct, diamond-hard nub pressed against the silk, straining the delicate weave.

“It looks better this way,” Sol murmured, tracing the outline of her areola with his index finger. “Like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. But I think I like the wrapping paper too much.”

…

Saying this, he leaned forward and pressed his face into her stomach, blowing hot air through the fabric. Then he opened his mouth and licked a broad, wet stripe on her stomach and slowly moved up, kissing the swell of her breast through the dress. He sucked the fabric into his mouth, wetting it, making it translucent.

Isylia let out a strangled noise… a whine that she tried to turn into a growl. She yanked her wrists against his grip.

“Get off!” she cried, her voice wavering. “You are slobbering on celestial silk! Do you know how hard this is to weave?!”

Sol ignored her. He licked the hardened peak of her nipple through the wet cloth. He bit down gently, engulfing the nipple.

“Ah!” Isylia cried out, her head falling back against the stone. “That… that stings! You dare bit a Goddess!”

“I’m going to do worse,” Sol promised, pulling back.

Then moved onto the other nipple.

Honestly, the sensation was really divine. Even though there was a piece of clothing between them, the silk added a layer of friction, a texture that dragged against her sensitive nerve endings with every movement of his tongue. He sucked hard, pulling the fabric into his mouth along with her flesh, creating a tight, vacuum seal.

“NNNGH!”

Isylia’s head slammed back against the obsidian. The friction was unbearable. It felt like he was sanding her nipple with velvet.

“Stop! I order you to stop this instant.”

He ignored her feeble request and swirled his tongue rapidly, the wet cloth rubbing back and forth over the hardened nub. Isylia’s hips jerked upward, her body trying to escape the sensation but only succeeding in grinding her crotch harder against his thigh.

Seeing this, he mumbled, without letting the nipple go. “You talk too much for a woman getting milked,”

He bit down gently through the cloth. The fabric cushioned his teeth, allowing him to bite harder than he would on bare skin. He tugged, pulling the nipple away from her body, stretching the breast tissue.

Isylia let out a high, keening noise, her toes curling. The pleasure was sharp, biting, and immediate. It bypassed her ego and hit her biology like a sledgehammer.

“I am not… being milked!” she sobbed, her arrogance cracking under the sensory overload. “I am… enduring… a biological assault!”

Sol released her left breast with a wet pop. The fabric remained clinging to her skin, perfectly outlining the swollen, erect nipple underneath.

The front of her dress was soaked, clinging to her skin, outlining every curve. She looked ravaged. Her face was a mask of conflict… furious eyes, flushed cheeks, parted lips.

Sol stood up. He released her wrists. Isylia immediately crossed her arms over her chest, covering herself, glaring at him with watery eyes.

“Are we done?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Have you defiled me enough?”

“Not even close,” Sol said.

…

“Lift your arms,” Sol commanded, his voice a low rumble.