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How long has it been since you last knew defeat? For you personally, it would be the battle against that other champion, over a year ago – you fought long and hard, and though you fell, you at least wore down that Metagross for Garchomp to avenge you.

As a team, though, all six of you being overcome? A decade must have passed since the last time that happened.

You did not make it easy, of course. You swiftly brought down that berserker of an Infernape, and the Leafeon that thought to wield its type advantage had been worn down by your sheer staying power, Recover healing your wounds as fast as they could be inflicted, until your Ice Beam’s finishing blow left her wilted and frostbitten. In the end, it had been multiple unerringly accurate Night Slashes from a Honchkrow that had finally overcome your ability to regenerate.

“You fought brilliantly today, Milotic.” Mistress whispers the praise into your ear membrane, voice filled with pride. One hand gently rubs at your chin, the other ghosts its fingertips ever so lightly over your right antenna. You lean into her touch, and she laughs as you push her back a step. “Careful,” she admonishes gently, though of course if she had actually fallen you would have had her safe in your coils long before she could hit the ground.

Not that that has happened in ages; you are far from the clumsy thing you were upon evolution, still unused to the serpentine form. Now you have perfect control of yourself, moving with a grace and precision that puts all but the greatest of contest stars to shame.

“Come on, you deserve a reward,” she tells you, stepping back and gesturing for you to follow. You can’t say you agree – a reward should follow a victory, after all, not a defeat – but you’re not one to turn down your Mistress’ affections, and she has been in a strangely good mood this evening. Perhaps facing defeat, coming up against someone stronger after so long, has reignited some of that passion that had begun to fade in recent years? Regardless of the reason, it buoys your own spirit to see.

You slither along behind your Mistress, over soft carpet and onto warm blue tiles heated from beneath, and watch in anticipation as she shucks her coat, her scarf, the ornaments in her hair, her shirt and pants and socks and undergarments. So many layers humans feel the need to cover themselves with, even in hot and humid places where they must feel stifling, for reasons you’ve never quite understood. The clothes lend Mistress a certain air of refinement, true, but in your expert and completely unbiased opinion, her true glory can only be seen in the nude.

She struggled much to look as she does, the results deserve to be shown off.

There is a wet squelch as she squeezes scented oil onto her hands before rubbing it in, and you stretch yourself out in anticipation of what comes next. She kneels beside you on a thick towel to protect her knees before gently pressing her fingers into your snout, massaging the oil into your scales. You sigh, letting yourself relax and close your eyes, basking in the warmth and softness of Mistress’ skin, the firmness of her touch, the smell of her body. She has washed herself since the excitement of the battle, you can tell, but without using any products that might conceal her natural scent.

“Is that good?” she asks as her hands move slowly over your face, making sure to leave no scale untouched.

“Looo~” You would nod, but she’s still working on your head. Thankfully a simple affirmative is well within her comprehension. Nuanced communication is beyond you, of course, but feelings and desires are easy enough to convey to her.

“Then just relax and let me look after you.” You don’t need to be told, her touch is enough to leave you perfectly pliable. Were you a Vaporeon, you might melt into a literal puddle rather than the metaphorical one you are currently becoming as her dexterous fingers stroke your sensitive antennae, sending little jolts of pleasure through your body. Your tail twitches.

“Miii…”

“Soon, I promise.” You feel her breath before soft lips press against your forehead. This close you can smell her budding arousal, and the knowledge that it’s driven by touching you makes your heart flutter. Her hands reach your neck, carefully avoiding your gills without a hint of trepidation or hesitation. She’s done this enough times that she could be blindfolded and still not so much as graze the delicate tissue.

Time fades into irrelevance, as does thought. There is only the moment, only you and Mistress. Her touch leeches the soreness and weariness from your muscles, leaving a gentle warmth in their place. She stops only briefly to shift further down your body or to apply more oil, never leaving you untouched for longer than absolutely necessary. She softly sings your praises as she presses her fingertips into you, telling you how much she adores you, how proud she is of you, how utterly perfect you are to her. Skin glides over smooth, unblemished scales before applying pressure, squeezing and kneading. You have no battle scars; Lucario and Garchomp like to keep theirs, showing off the evidence of hard-fought battles, but you have always had yours healed by those ever-so-useful human machines. There are no faint ridges, no chips or discolouration.

Mistress wouldn’t mind either way, but your current form is the result of a great deal of effort and care on her part. It would feel disrespectful to let it remain marred.

She’s getting further down now, approaching the last third of your body where cream shifts to patterned pink, blue, and black. Before that, though, her hands slip from your sides down to your belly beneath, reaching the softest, most sensitive scales you have; the ones thin enough and with enough blood vessels near the surface to flush the faintest shade of pink with arousal. The ones slick with dampness leaking from the hot, puffy slit they surround. She’s so, so close now, painfully close, expertly teasing you with the prospect of her touch on your vent.

But, much like your gills, she knows exactly how close she can get without actually making contact. Earlier that had been a blessing – the organs that let you breathe water do not appreciate touch – but this is more like torture.

Exquisite, wonderful, hateful, agonising, perfect torture that will only elevate your eventual release when she chooses to grant it.

You whine and grumble when she starts pulling away from that area to continue the massage, but she is unswayed.

“Come now, Milotic, you know you have to wait. We need to polish every. Single. Scale -” she punctuates the words with light kisses down your spine that send tremors up and down your body “-before we get to that part.”

“Lotiiic…”

“I know, girl, I know.” A shift, and she is straddling your back, her hardness pressed into you, rubbing against you. You feel her throb, a drip of precum leaking onto your otherwise spotless surface. “Can you feel how badly I want you, too?” Then her weight is gone, and she’s beside you once more. “But we both must be patient. Just a little longer, okay?”

“Tic!”

“Good girl.” The praise is enough to mollify you for now, and her hands return to your lower body. At least you’re a bit thinner back there, where torso transitions into tail and your bulk begins to taper. Just a little longer now.

The anticipation builds with every touch, until she’s far enough down that she can enclose the width of your tail in one hand, close enough to the end that your fan brushes her wrist. You can feel her tremble, but she doesn’t speed up or grow sloppy, still carefully massaging every millimetre of flesh she passes. Your body’s state of relaxation wars with the desperate, pounding need in your mind. The scales around your cloaca are damp and sticky, the tiles beneath soaked in snaky cunt juice. Mistress holds your tailtip steady and rubs oil into each individual scale of the fan. Finally, she releases you.

“And we’re done. Now roll over for me.” She hasn’t finished speaking before you’re on your back, staring up at grey eyes and flushed cheeks, cooing an invitation. An instant later, her arms are wrapped around you and her lips are on yours, parting to admit your forked tongue as it wrestles with her tapered one. You can taste the faint hint of mint and chocolate; no doubt she had ice cream after the battle. She pulls back only to dip and plant a kiss on your chin, then on your throat, making you tremble in her hold.

She straddles you again, cock against your chest, and gives a shuddering exhale before rolling her hips. You can smell her need, light and slightly sweet with a musky undertone, and it makes your passage clench around nothing. Soon! She humps, then pulls back, then humps again, sliding a little further down you with every withdrawal, leaving a trail of slickness down your belly. You watch the rise and fall of her chest with every breath, feel the faint tremors that run through her. She squeezes her thighs, her breath hitches, her cock twitches. She’s sat on your tail now, she could slip into you at any moment, but she still holds back! A hand closes around her dick and pumps. She wouldn’t!

“Lo-Milotic!” you cry out, demanding she give you what you need.

“Of course, love.” She smiles, then angles herself down and pushes, and everything is forgiven as she parts slick, silken folds and sinks into your grasping, heated depths. Her low moan overlaps with your own higher-pitched croons of pleasure. Mistress falls against you, holding you tight, reverently kissing your belly. You can feel her throbbing inside you, pushing more feminine precum into your breeding passage. Shakily, she starts to pull out, your tunnel clamping down in an instinctive effort to keep your mate locked in. Then she thrusts again, harder this time, a lewd squelching emanating from where your crotches are pressed together. A shiver runs through you as her cockhead spears deep into you. She repeats, her movements jerky and erratic, the grunts of effort and pleasure issuing forth from her throat finer than any music.

She pushes herself up, throws her head back and moans out your name in a beautiful display of lust and love. Now is your chance – you swiftly push your upper half up and coil yourself around your lover’s body, squeezing her in a serpentine embrace. You need as much of yourself as possible pressed against her, taking in the heat radiating from her soft, sweat-soaked skin. You coo your love for her into her ear, meet her thrusts with your own, constrict as tightly as you can without hurting her. She’s close, you can tell from her trembles, from the way her voice hitches, from the desperate twitching of her cock inside you. You need her to fill you, breed you, even if her seed will never take hold in your womb.

Her thrusts are shallow now, barely any of her leaving your vent on the withdrawal. The sound of wet flesh on wet flesh and the mixed scents of sweat and sex fill the air. Finally, she gives a strangled cry and pushes herself as hard into you as she can manage, throbbing and twitching inside you, shooting load after hot, thick load far into your deepest reaches, your muscles rhythmically milking as much out of her as possible. As your cunt grips at her hilted tool, so do your coils squeeze her body, telling her without words how much you love her, how you need to keep her close.

She goes limp in your embrace, breathing heavily, having spent herself completely. You carefully uncoil and lay down on your back, letting Mistress rest atop you. You didn’t finish, but there is still satisfaction in having her flood your egg chamber, incompatible though you may be. That’s not enough for her, though.

“Milotic, you didn’t-” she shakes her head and gets moving, sluggishly pulling out, thick strands of your juices connecting you both. Down she goes, kneeling on the tile, brushing blonde hair behind her ears to get it out of the way before lovingly kissing your vent. You huff as she spreads you open, exposing your twitching flesh to warm air.

“M-Miii~!” She takes one of your clits between her lips, suckling gently, while her fingers press and rub at the other, sending powerful shockwaves of heat and pleasure into you. It’s not long before your spasming cunt gushes out a veritable flood of girlcum, your tail writhing around, your mind lost in a haze of trembling bliss.

For a long while, you both just lay there, human atop Pokémon, basking in eachother’s presence. Finally she moves, crawling up your body until you’re face-to-face, and draws you into another kiss, this one easy and languid. A thrill runs down your spine at the taste of your own cloaca lingering on her tongue. Pulling back, she looks down at the two of you and laughs.

“I think we need a bath, love.”