With you licking her.

Olana takes your hand and leads you to a broad, sturdy wooden chair. Once there, she lifts her right foot and plants it on the seat of the chair. Her broad stance spreads her thighs wide.

"You should taste me," she says. She guides your hand to the patch of hair at her crotch, presses it lightly to the tender folds of skin beneath. "Right here."

Her eyes, normally stormy and commanding, now merely hold anticipation.

You kneel before her, finding that her tall stature will make it easy for you to satisfy her request. You place a hand on her left thigh, feeling its strength, its smoothness. When you kiss it, you feel and hear her rumble in appreciation. You kiss again, and again, working your way inside her thigh, seeking her warmth. With your fingers, you part her pussy, and she makes a little soft sound, not quite a gasp. And then when the tip of your tongue grazes her clit, she draws a deep breath, shivering all over.

You hold her broad hips for support and lick her, teasing, soothing, caressing. She moans, placing a hand atop your head, running fingers through your hair. She's wet soon, and when you dip a tongue into her cunt, her moan is deep enough that you feel it in your chest.

Olana's hand on your head urges you closer, and you're happy to. You set a pace, head bobbing, tongue stroking. She sways, groans, drips down your chin. Her hips roll, matching your rhythm. The next time your tongue enters her cunt, she shudders and whispers something in her own language, something flowing and liquid and earnest.

Her motions grow sharper, more erratic. You hang onto her thighs, licking faster, hearing her breath quicken. She holds your head with both hands, rocks her hips, then suddenly tenses and starts to shiver. As you lap at her clit, her shiver becomes a quake, and sharp, helpless grunting noises escape her throat.

Her hips surge forward, and she shouts, bellowing. She jerks and shouts and gasps; her thighs are wet to her knees; your cheeks and fingers are drenched, slippery. She cries out over and over, surrendering her power and her passion into your hands, your lips.

She comes to a halt, at last, drawing a deep, trembling breath. "By all the gods," she says. "If you come to my homeland, the women there will never let you spend a night alone. Not as long as you can do THAT for them."

"Maybe I should retire there."

She gives your head a gentle push, and you look up to see her smiling at you, her dark hair stuck to her face in sweaty curls. "Not until I am done with you."