[ The way Venom understands it, much giving and taking has already transpired between them. Venom pumping into Angela with his hips earlier, watching every vigorous thrust send her spiraling into her own orgasm, did not feed his visual and sensual delight as a separate partner. If not for his alien resilience, his twin consciences would have very much been overwhelmed by a secondhand euphoria, derivative of Angela's every pleasured perception. Even now, as she rides him, the pleasure she feels is likewise his: the force of his girth against her walls is a force he needn't imagine, but one he perceives simultaneously.
There's obviously no handbook for this, though. So Venom makes no effort to clarify or explain this experience, instead... letting Angela feel her way through it. Letting her hypothesize as a scientist might, watching her accommodate - conceptually - her every action executed in lockstep with Venom's. And more than the mere sensation of her riding him is Venom's delight in the sight, of her shifting her weight and practically bouncing atop his lap while she labors to fill herself with his length. It's a hypnotic display, a rhythm consistent enough that a second doesn't pass without Venom being adequately titillated, entertained. ]
An appetizer for whom, Angela?
[ Despite appearances, that's a serious question. Because Venom's enjoyment of her ministrations compels him to consider reciprocity resembling her understanding of it. As he watches her lower herself further, securing a better grip on her mount, Venom can only chuckle at her subsequent words. Not out of disagreement, or some disdain for her considerations. Rather... a misguided sense of agreement. Like maybe he agrees too much. ]
Test us, then. Take care of us, like you said.
But don't mind if we keep testing you.
[ Where the lips of Angela's pussy meet the base of Venom's cock, symbiote matter projects upward from his loins - like webbing - to connect to Angela's, coating the space between their sexes. It does not interfere with Angela's movements, like the rhythmic clapping of her backside, but she's going to feel something working within that dark webbing. Not quite a tendril, but like one in the way autonomous movements suddenly palpate her from within the blackness. A warm, smooth, and precise pressure - like that of a tongue - begins to circle her clit, never missing no matter how much her body rises and falls. ]
no subject
There's obviously no handbook for this, though. So Venom makes no effort to clarify or explain this experience, instead... letting Angela feel her way through it. Letting her hypothesize as a scientist might, watching her accommodate - conceptually - her every action executed in lockstep with Venom's. And more than the mere sensation of her riding him is Venom's delight in the sight, of her shifting her weight and practically bouncing atop his lap while she labors to fill herself with his length. It's a hypnotic display, a rhythm consistent enough that a second doesn't pass without Venom being adequately titillated, entertained. ]
An appetizer for whom, Angela?
[ Despite appearances, that's a serious question. Because Venom's enjoyment of her ministrations compels him to consider reciprocity resembling her understanding of it. As he watches her lower herself further, securing a better grip on her mount, Venom can only chuckle at her subsequent words. Not out of disagreement, or some disdain for her considerations. Rather... a misguided sense of agreement. Like maybe he agrees too much. ]
Test us, then. Take care of us, like you said.
But don't mind if we keep testing you.
[ Where the lips of Angela's pussy meet the base of Venom's cock, symbiote matter projects upward from his loins - like webbing - to connect to Angela's, coating the space between their sexes. It does not interfere with Angela's movements, like the rhythmic clapping of her backside, but she's going to feel something working within that dark webbing. Not quite a tendril, but like one in the way autonomous movements suddenly palpate her from within the blackness. A warm, smooth, and precise pressure - like that of a tongue - begins to circle her clit, never missing no matter how much her body rises and falls. ]
We've got considerable control, y'know.