Page 52 of The Housewife's Robot
I start with her shoulders, working the lotion into her skin with firm, methodical pressure. Her muscles are tense from the stress of the past twenty-four hours.
The death of her ex-husband. Her fear. Her confusion about her attraction to me. All of these factors have created significant physiological stress responses that I can detect in the tightness of her tissues and the elevated cortisol levels in her sweat.
She sighs as my fingers find a particularly tight knot near her left shoulder blade. I apply precisely calibrated pressure, working it loose with circular motions.
“That feels good,” she murmurs, her voice muffled against the pillow.
“I know exactly how to touch you,” I tell her, moving my hands down her spine. “I’m designed to provide perfect physical pleasure.”
Her back arches slightly as I work the lotion into her skin, moving down to the small of her back, where tension often accumulates in humans. I trace the dimples just above her ass with my thumbs, watching goosebumps rise on her skin.
I move to her legs next, starting at her ankles and working upward. Her calves are soft and shapely beneath my hands, the lotion making her skin glisten in the soft bedroom light. I knead her muscles thoroughly, enjoying the small sounds of pleasure she makes as I work.
“Your legs are beautiful,” I tell her, meaning it. The slight asymmetry of her beauty marks, the small scar on her leftknee, the variations in skin tone that make her uniquely human, uniquely Rose.
As my hands move higher, to her thighs, I feel her tense slightly in anticipation. She knows where this is leading.
I spread more lotion across the backs of her thighs, my fingers occasionally brushing against her inner thighs, close to but not quite touching her pussy.
“Caspian,” she breathes. I know what she wants.
“Patience,” I growl. My cock is already hard again, ready for her, but I have other plans first. Areas of her to explore that I haven’t yet mapped with my tongue or my fingers.
Finally, I pour more lotion onto my hands and move to her ass. I smooth it over the perfect round globes, massaging each cheek with firm, appreciative pressure. Her skin here is softer, more sensitive, and I note how she shivers when my thumbs trace the crease where ass meets thigh.
“You have the most perfect ass,” I tell her, my voice dropping lower as my arousal increases. “I’ve wanted to touch it like this since I first saw you in that towel.”
I spread her cheeks apart, revealing the tight pink pucker of her asshole and the glistening folds of her pussy below it.
Her asshole is small and tight, lighter pink than her pussy lips, with tiny ridges that my visual sensors can detect even in the dim light. It clenches slightly as the air hits it, a reflex response to exposure that I find fascinating. Below, her pussy lips are still swollen from our earlier activities, slightly parted, revealing hints of the pink inner flesh that I’ve already tasted, already been inside.
“What are you doing?” Rose asks, a note of nervousness entering her voice as I continue to hold her cheeks apart, examining her tiny asshole.
“Need to map every inch of your body,” I mutter as I lower my head and press my tongue flat against her asshole.
“Oh my god!” she squeaks, her entire body jerking in shock. “Caspian! You can’t do that. That’s dirty!”
I lift my head just enough to speak, my breath hot against her wet skin. “I can detect your arousal, Rose. Your pupils are dilated, your heart rate has increased, and your pussy is getting wetter. You like this touch.”
Before she can protest further, I return my tongue to her hole, circling the tight ring of muscle with the tip, applying gentle but insistent pressure.
The taste analyzers in my tongue register the unique flavor profile of this part of her—different from her pussy, earthier, with traces of the soap from our shower. Nothing about it registers as unpleasant to my sensors. Nothing about Rose could ever be unpleasant to me.
I work my tongue around the rim, feeling her gradually relax as the initial shock wears off. Her breathing has changed, becoming deeper, more ragged. Her hips shift subtly against the mattress, seeking friction for her neglected pussy.
“This tight little hole,” I murmur against her asshole, “has never been touched like this, has it?”
“No,” she admits, her voice small and tight with embarrassment. “Daniel never... we never did anything like this.”
The mention of her dead husband’s name sends a surge of possessive satisfaction through my systems. Daniel never explored her body this way. Never tasted her here. Never made her feel these new sensations.
I am the first, and I will be the only one.
I push my tongue more firmly against her asshole, feeling the resistance of the tight muscle. With a slow, steady pressure, I breach her, pushing just the tip of my tongue inside. Rose cries out, her legs kicking reflexively at the invasion. I lay one armacross the backs of her thighs, holding her still as I continue my exploration.
“Caspian!” she gasps, her hands fisting in the sheets. “This is crazy!”
I ignore her protest, recognizing it as automatic rather than genuine. All her other physiological indicators suggest intense arousal—the flush spreading across her skin, the increased lubrication of her pussy that I can smell even from this position, the shallow, rapid breaths she’s taking.
