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He hesitates, even with his dick in my hand. I relinquish my grasp for a moment to bend over, exposing my bare pussy to him.
“If you want to fuck me,” I tease him, “I’ll be waiting for you.”
The tub dwarfs me, and I could easily drown in it with a lack of care. I stand expectantly, arms folded.
“Fine,” he growls, approaching me. I’m not sure if it’s possible, but his cock appears even more enlarged now.
As he steps into the tub, my hand caresses his pointy onyx chin. He lowers his face toward mine, and I move my tongue along his fangs, stroking his cock earnestly.
My other hand moves to my left, producing an emerald sponge. I take it and, pulling away, move it over his chest, where blood has discolored his scales.
His form is so immense, this might actually take some time.
“Why does that feel good?” he asks me, the sponge rubbing along his hardened exterior. I can feel it snagging against the hardened areas where his scales interact. “What are you doing?”
“Bathing you,” I tell him, purring. “Do you like it?”
He says nothing in response.
For him, bathing must have been standing in flowing streams, the rushing water crashing against his form.
I take in every inch of him, admiring his natural musculature. I revel in how his chest connects to his shoulders, that little bit of extra cartilage that connects scales to wings. I feel like I’m learning so much more about him, just tracing the contours of his flesh, scales, and bone.
He says nothing as I work, just observing my reactions to his form. I clean everything – his shoulders, chest, stomach, legs, and ass. The head of his cock throbs invitingly.
I kneel again in the water, licking his glans while moving the sponge along the spiky, bumpy, bulbous mass that yearns to penetrate me. He bucks forward, grabbing my hair as his cock reaches my throat.
My hand moves of its own accord, stroking my clit as he fucks my face, my jaw contorting to take in the impossible assault. I can feel my throat tearing from his spiky cock, swaying in and undulating out, but the musk – and I can’t explain it – turns my pain to arousal.
He picks me up in his arms, and we make love. I am still stained with blood from my torso up. But somehow, being filled up by this beast of a man, it only increases my lust.
I can feel him rearranging me, reforming me to be something so much more fitting for his bestial presence. His cock bulges inside me, thrusting forward, pounding into my depths with every upward motion. I am speared by this monster, helpless as my breasts sway and bounce.
I scream out, but it doesn’t feel like my voice. He slows down to enable my climax, nibbling at my neck with his fangs. But he doesn’t stop bucking upward with me impaled on his monstrous member.
I feel like an extension of his cock, here to be filled up and used.
I know that we’re so much more than that, but I still love being his vessel. A creature placed before him for the purpose of satisfying his raw desires and bearing his offspring.
He cries out, and I feel myself filling up, stretching around his seed. I stare into his golden eyes, and we kiss, his seed flowing freely out of me.
30
ZYRANTH
Waking up amongst these clean furs and soft cushions is a different experience than I am used to.
The textures are soft and gentle on my scales, like they have the semblance to be wary of my sore muscles and wounds that have not yet had a chance to heal from the battle against the dead dark elf. They smell floral, though in a much different way to Ariella, and don’t have a scratch or stain on them.
I feel distinctly out of place.
Running my claws over these fabrics I notice how easy it would be to tear them into pieces. They’re delicate, fragile things only held together by a small thread. The furs that surround me aren’t thick and coarse but soft with the hide underneath supple.
“Weak,” I whisper, careful not to wake Ariella who lies next to me. “Useless.”
I wonder about the decorations that adorn these blankets and cushions. Are the pictures drawn on them a necessity? A couple of leaves and flowers on a blanket won’t make them any warmer, and the soft threads can catch on my rough scales and destroy themselves.
“It’s much better to be hearty and strong than soft and pretty,” I say, looping one thread around my claw and knowing I would only need to flex my finger to slice it cleanly.
