Chapter 27: Teaching Caroline the cow girl
Logan’s hands settled firmly on Caroline’s hips as she sank down onto him, the water still cascading over their shoulders and running in thin rivers between their joined bodies. The tiled bench was warm against his thighs. Her inner walls fluttered around the thick length of him the moment she took him to the root, a soft, involuntary sound escaping her throat. She was already oversensitive from the orgasms he had pulled from her against the wall, and the new angle drove him even deeper, the head of his cock pressing insistently against that swollen place inside her.
She tried to set a rhythm—small, cautious rolls of her hips at first. Logan let her. His thumbs stroked slow circles over the soft skin just above her hip bones while he watched every micro-expression that crossed her face. The steam had thickened further; droplets clung to her lashes and the upper curves of her breasts. When she rose a few inches and sank back down, the wet sound of their joining was louder than the shower.
"That’s it," he murmured, voice low and steady. "But you’re rushing the descent. Feel every inch on the way down. Don’t drop."
Caroline’s cheeks flushed deeper. Even after everything he had already done to her, the quiet instruction still made her shy. She nodded, biting her lower lip, and tried again—rising higher this time, the flared head of his cock stretching her entrance, then lowering herself with deliberate slowness. Logan’s fingers tightened just enough to guide without forcing. The Perverted Hands skill turned the light pressure of his thumbs into something that sent bright sparks racing along her nerves; her thighs trembled and she clenched hard around him.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, fighting the urge to thrust up into that tight heat. "Good girl. Again. And this time keep your eyes on me."
She obeyed. Dark, glazed eyes met his as she rose and sank, rose and sank. Water streamed down the valley between her breasts and pooled where their bodies met. Logan’s hands slid upward, cupping the undersides of her breasts, thumbs brushing the stiffened nipples in the same unhurried rhythm she was trying to maintain. Every pass of those skilled thumbs made her breath hitch; the skill multiplied the sensation until it bordered on overwhelming. Her movements grew less coordinated, hips stuttering.
Logan leaned forward and caught one nipple between his lips, sucking gently while his tongue flicked. Caroline’s head fell back with a broken moan. The dual assault—cock deep inside her, mouth and hands on her breasts—pushed her closer to another peak far too quickly. He felt the warning flutters and eased off, releasing her nipple with a soft wet sound.
"Not yet," he said against her skin. "You’re going to learn to ride me properly before you come again."
She made a small, frustrated sound but nodded. Logan’s hands returned to her hips, lifting her until only the head of his cock remained inside, then guiding her back down in a long, controlled slide. He set the pace himself now—slow, deep, relentless. Every time she tried to speed up he held her still for a beat, forcing her to feel the stretch and the pressure against her front wall. The skill made even the lightest adjustment of his fingers feel electric; her clit, still swollen and neglected, pulsed with every shift of her body.
Minutes stretched. The water never cooled. Caroline’s thighs burned from the controlled motion, yet the pleasure kept building in heavy, rolling waves. Logan’s voice stayed low and continuous, praising, correcting, teasing.
"Tilt your hips forward—yes, just like that. Feel how the head drags right there? Good. Now grind when you’re fully seated. Circles. Small ones."
She followed every instruction, cheeks burning, soft whimpers escaping each time the angle made his cock press perfectly against the sensitive ridge inside her. The contrast between her professional experience and the way he was dismantling her with patient teaching only heightened everything. She had taken countless men, yet none had ever slowed her down like this, forced her to feel every ridge and vein, every subtle shift.
When her legs finally began to shake in earnest, Logan decided they had stayed in the shower long enough. He stood in one smooth motion, still buried inside her, and carried her the few steps to the glass door. Caroline clung to his shoulders, legs locked around his waist. He shut off the water with one hand, then stepped out onto the cool tile of the bathroom floor. Water dripped from both of them in steady streams.
He set her down only long enough to grab two thick towels from the heated rack. Without a word he wrapped the first around her shoulders and began drying her with slow, thorough strokes—neck, arms, the soft undersides of her breasts, the curve of her waist, the insides of her thighs. Every pass of the towel was deliberate. When he reached the apex of her thighs he pressed the soft fabric against her still-throbbing folds for a lingering second, just enough pressure to make her gasp. The skill turned even that brief contact into a bright flare of sensation.
Caroline’s hands rested on his chest while he worked. She was quiet, breathing unevenly, eyes half-lidded. When he finished with her he dried himself with far less care, then scooped her up again and carried her through the open doorway into the bedroom.
The air was cooler here. Soft lamps cast warm pools of light across the large bed. Logan laid her down on the edge of the mattress and reached for the bottle of massage oil waiting on the nightstand—something lightly scented, expensive. He poured a generous amount into his palm, warmed it between both hands, and began at her shoulders.
The oil made his touch glide. He worked the tight muscles of her neck and upper back first, then moved lower, palms sweeping along her spine in long strokes. When he reached the small of her back he lingered, thumbs pressing in slow circles. Caroline’s soft sighs filled the quiet room. He continued downward, oiling the full curves of her ass, the backs of her thighs, then gently turned her onto her back.
Fresh oil. He started at her collarbones and worked lower, coating every inch of skin. When his slick hands cupped her breasts the skill made the lightest squeeze feel intense; her back arched and a soft cry left her. He spent long minutes there—rolling, lifting, brushing the nipples with oil-slick thumbs until they stood tight and glistening. Only then did he move lower still, oiling the soft plane of her stomach, the sensitive crease where thigh met hip.