Collective worship

Jo pants, trying to find the words, to shape the need into a command. Her body is trembling violently, a bowstring pulled taut and released without firing.

"Not… not there," she gasps, shaking her head. Her hands finally release the rug, and she brings them to her own face, as if to cool her burning skin. "I need… I need something else."

She turns her head, her unseeing eyes searching the space where she knows Cathy is kneeling. The memory of Cathy's bold, honey-sweet tongue, her tender exploration, floods her mind.

"Cathy," Jo whispers, the name a plea.

"I'm here," Cathy's voice is immediate, soft, and full of unwavering support. She is right beside her.

Jo reaches out a trembling hand, and Cathy takes it, lacing their fingers together. The contact is grounding.

"My… my armpits," Jo breathes, the words feeling both shocking and utterly right. It is a place of intimate vulnerability, rarely offered, rarely seen. A hidden, secret hollow. "Please, Cathy. Worship them. Like you did with the honey. Make me feel… make me feel clean and dirty all at once."

A soft, collective sigh ripples through the room. The request is so uniquely Jo, so specific in its desire for a sensation that is both tender and depraved.

"Anything," Cathy whispers, her voice thick with devotion. "Anything for you."

Cathy shifts her position, moving to kneel beside Jo's torso. She looks down at the offering. Jo’s arms are still raised slightly, bent at the elbows from where her hands had been on her own face. The pose naturally exposes the delicate hollows beneath her arms.

Jo’s armpits are a landscape of exquisite vulnerability. The skin there is paler than the rest of her body, almost translucent, so fine that the faint blue tracery of veins is visible just beneath the surface. It is a place of incredible softness, a hidden silk. A soft, downy trail of light brown hair, fine as corn silk, dusts the creamy skin, slightly darkened and damp now with a fine sheen of nervous perspiration from the intensity of her arousal. The scent that rises from them is uniquely Jo—a clean, base note of lavender soap from her shower, now layered with the warmer, muskier, utterly intoxicating fragrance of her excitement and fear. It is the scent of her vulnerability, offered up.

Cathy’s breath catches. It is an intimate, trusting offering, and she feels a surge of protective, adoring desire.

She doesn't dive in. She begins with reverence. Her left hand comes up to gently cradle Jo’s right elbow, supporting her, holding her in this **** pose. Her right hand, she brings to her own mouth, and she spits delicately into her own palm, warming the saliva.

The sound is obscenely intimate in the quiet room.

Then, with a tenderness that makes Jo’s heart ache, Cathy brings her wet, warm palm to Jo’s left armpit.

The contact is electric.

Jo jolts as if touched by a live wire. The skin there is hypersensitive, a network of raw nerves rarely exposed to anything but the whisper of fabric or the quick pass of a razor. Cathy’s palm is warm, slightly rough, and wet. She doesn't rub, but simply presses, allowing the heat and the moisture to seep into Jo’s skin, anointing her.

A low, broken moan escapes Jo’s lips. Her head rolls back on her shoulders, exposing the long, pale line of her throat. Her back arches off the rug.

Cathy holds her there for a long moment, letting her adjust to the sensation. Then, slowly, she begins to move her hand. It is a slow, circular massage, the heel of her palm pressing into the soft, giving flesh of the hollow, her fingers splaying out to gently abrade the incredibly sensitive skin at the very edges, where arm meets torso.

"Oh, God…" Jo whimpers. The sensation is unlike anything she has ever felt. It is not directly sexual, but it is everything. It is a wave of intense, prickling warmth that radiates out from the point of contact, flooding her chest, tightening her nipples, and pulsing straight down to her already soaked core. Her right hand, which had been lying limp, curls into a fist.

"Cathy…" she breathes, her voice a ragged thread.

"Shhh," Cathy soothes, her own arousal evident in her husky tone. "I've got you. Just feel."

Cathy shifts her attention. She withdraws her hand and, before Jo can mourn the loss, she lowers her head.

The first touch of Cathy’s tongue is a revelation.

It is not a tentative flick, but a broad, flat, slow lick from the very bottom of the hollow all the way up to the point where the soft hair begins. It is a claiming. A devouring.

Jo cries out, a sharp, guttural sound. The feeling is explosive. The wet heat of Cathy’s mouth, the slight roughness of her tongue, the incredible softness of the skin there—it combines into a sensory overload that short-circuits her brain. Her hips jerk off the ground in an aborted thrust.

Cathy moans against her skin, the vibration traveling straight through Jo’s body. "You taste… incredible," she murmurs, her words hot and damp against the damp skin. "So clean… and so… you."

She does it again, another long, slow, deliberate lick, savoring the unique flavor—lavender, salt, and the pure, musky essence of Jo’s arousal.

Jo is dissolving. Her earlier self-consciousness is incinerated in the furnace of this new, shocking pleasure. Her left hand comes up to tangle in Cathy’s blonde hair, not to guide her, but to hold on, to anchor herself in the storm.

Cathy takes this as encouragement. Her worship becomes more intense, more focused. She nuzzles into the hollow, her nose buried in the soft down of hair, inhaling deeply before her tongue finds a new rhythm—shorter, faster flicks, concentrating on the very center of the armpit, where the sensitivity is most acute.

Jo is sobbing now, great, heaving breaths that are half pleasure, half agony. The sensations are too much, too intense. Each flick of Cathy’s tongue is a lightning strike, each one arcing directly to her clit, which is now throbbing in time with her frantic heartbeat.

Her right hand, which had been fisted, uncurls. Driven by a primal need, it slides down her own trembling body, over her quivering stomach, through the sparse, wispy brown tuft of her pubic hair, and into the dripping wet heat between her legs.

The moment her own fingers make contact with her swollen, aching flesh, she screams.

It is a sound of pure, unadulterated relief. Her back bows off the floor, her body rigid with the shock of the dual sensations. Cathy’s wicked, worshipping tongue in her armpit, and her own frantic fingers circling her clit.

The combination is devastating.

Cathy feels the violent tremor that wracks Jo’s frame and redoubles her efforts. She sucks gently on the tender skin, drawing it into her mouth, worrying it with her lips and teeth in a way that is just on the right side of pain.

Jo’s fingers on her clit are not elegant or practiced; they are ****, seeking only the friction that will tip her over the edge. She is panting, her cries becoming a continuous, high-pitched keen. She is so close. The pleasure is a white-hot coil, winding tighter and tighter at the junction of these two wildly different points of stimulation.

She is a creature of pure sensation, lost in a feedback loop of her own making. Cathy’s mouth on her armpit sends shivers to her core, which makes her fingers work faster, which makes her whole body tremble, which seems to inspire Cathy to worship her even more fervently.

The room is filled with the wet, slick sounds of Cathy’s mouth, Jo’s ragged breathing, and the soft, **** sounds of her own hand working between her legs. The other girls are silent, watching, their own arousal a palpable heat in the air, but Jo is beyond noticing. There is only the building pressure, the electric connection between the hidden hollow under her arm and the hidden hollow between her legs.

She is their altar, and in this moment, she is also her own most devoted priestess, bringing herself to the brink of a shattering, very profane communion.