Scene 24 — Ridge Worship.md

You're on your side in the afternoon quiet, the cave warm and amber-lit, Kai beside you, when the want arrives. Low and unhurried. Semi-arousal with nowhere it needs to be.

You've been thinking about his slit. That brief tease during the grooming session — the taste you got, barely anything, just enough to leave an impression that's been sitting in the back of your mind ever since. Clean. Oceanic. Addictive in a way you hadn't expected.

You don't announce it. You just shift position and start moving down his body.

Kai's breathing changes the moment he feels the direction you're taking, his hind legs parting slightly with an ease that is pure instinct. He rests one paw against your head fin — not guiding, just present, confirming contact. His tail curls loosely to the side.

You settle between his spread hind legs and press your muzzle close.

The scent hits you first.

It's concentrated here in a way it isn't anywhere else on his body — salt and clean water and something distinctly him, layered with an underlying sweetness that goes straight to the hindbrain and registers as *want more*. You inhale slowly and deliberately, letting it fill your senses, and feel your own arousal shift from ambient to specific.

Your tongue traces the length of his slit in one long exploratory sweep. Base to tip. Feeling where the lips meet, the subtle give of them, the way they part just fractionally under the pressure of your tongue. Natural lubrication coats the outer edges and you lap it away, tasting him properly, cataloguing the flavour the way you'd memorise something you intended to return to.

Kai makes a quiet sound above you.

You work slowly. There's no urgency in this — you're here because you wanted to be, doing this because the want arrived and you followed it, and now you have all afternoon and nowhere else to be. Long licks along the seam. Gentle pressure to coax the lips further apart, feeling where they yield, feeling the warmth radiating from inside. More lubrication wells up to meet your tongue and you take your time with it, not rushing toward anything.

His cock begins to emerge. You feel it before you see it — the slit parting slightly more as the tapered tip presses toward the opening from inside, blood flow responding to your attention. You watch it slide free, sleek and pale pink and already slick, curving slightly with that prehensile quality that means it knows where it wants to go.

You move up.

Your muzzle drags slowly up the length of his shaft — nose, lips, the flat of your tongue — feeling the smooth skin of it, the specific texture of cetacean anatomy that has no human equivalent. His cock has a gentle curve you follow with your tongue from base to tip. You swirl attention around the tapered end, tasting the pre that beads there, sweeter and more concentrated than the baseline lubrication, and feel Kai's whole body shudder in response.

Then you come back down.

All the way down, past shaft, past the base where cock meets slit, back to where the lips are parted and slick and warm. You press your muzzle flush against him here and make out with it — open-mouthed, unhurried, lips working against the outer edges of his slit while your tongue pushes inside.

Kai's paw tightens on your head fin.

The interior of him is smooth and warm and tight, and the taste in here is different from the outer surface — richer, more concentrated, the natural lubrication coating your tongue as you explore. You feel his internal walls around your tongue, that close yielding grip. Your nose stays pressed against the outer lips and the base of his cock while you work, maintaining external pressure while your tongue searches deeper.

You know what you're looking for.

The ridge. He showed you exactly where it was when he was working you with his digits — that cluster of internal nodes along the anterior wall, the specific geography of his prostate accessible from inside the slit. You curl your tongue deliberately toward that surface and press.

His whole body goes rigid.

"*Fuck*—"

There. You hold pressure there, exactly there, working in tight circles the way he showed you on your own body. The internal walls clench around your tongue, gripping and releasing in pulses of response. His cock throbs above your nose — you can feel it without seeing it, the weight and heat of it where it rests outside the slit while your tongue is buried inside.

You keep the pressure steady. You don't rush. You work his ridge with the same unhurried devotion you've brought to everything else, feeling every response he makes through the tight warm channel around your tongue, letting his sounds and his body's reactions guide you. His hips shift in small seeking motions. His breathing has become ragged, interspersed with sounds that have stopped being words.

When he comes it happens from the inside out.

You feel it — his internal walls clenching hard around your tongue, the ridge swelling under the pressure of his orgasm, the rhythmic contracting of his genital tract that you're pressed directly against. His cock pulses above, warm liquid heat splashing your nose and the ridge of your head fin, but your tongue never leaves his slit. You stay exactly where you are through every wave, every aftershock, feeling the whole thing happen from the inside, his body working itself through the peak around your mouth.

The contractions slow. Ease. His cock gives a few last weak pulses and begins to retreat, sliding back toward the slit, and you feel it pass close to your face as it tucks away. You withdraw your tongue gradually, press one last soft kiss to those swollen outer lips, and then crawl up the length of his body without a word.

He's a mess. So are you — his release is in your nose, on your head fin, smeared across your face where he splashed you. Neither of you address this. You simply press yourself against his chest and he pulls you in immediately, his forelegs wrapping around you with an urgency that has nothing composed about it.

"You made me cum from inside my slit," he says eventually, voice completely destroyed. "Your tongue on my ridge. I felt it from inside."

"I know," you say. "That's what I wanted."

He makes a sound against your head fin that is not fully under his control.

You lift your muzzle and begin cleaning the cum from his face in long slow strokes — not because it needs doing urgently, but because you want to. The same tender attention you'd give any grooming. His eyes close. His whole body settles under the care of it, the tension of his orgasm's aftermath draining away, and when your tongue finds the wet track of tears on his cheek he makes that sound again, smaller this time.

You clean those too.

When you've finished you settle back against his chest in the natural position, limbs tangled with his, neither of you in any hurry to untangle or clean up properly. His heartbeat is solid and steady under your ear. His paw moves in slow patterns down your spine.

"That's correct, my love," you tell him, and mean it simply, without elaboration.

His forelegs tighten around you until there's no space between you at all.