More than a mouthful
Another commission for DracenMarx on FA.
More than a mouthful
Rising early, the pack leader Lewis gathered the small bundle of special equipment and left the bandit camp - heading deeper into the dense forest, looking for a secluded spot far away from everyone. This was one task he didn't want his followers to know about.
Soon, he found what he needed: a thicket of shrubbery that was nearly impenetrable. Climbing a near-by tree, he dropped down onto the mossy ground in the middle of the bushes. Once he confirmed that nobody was around, and that they wouldn't chance upon him, he took out the crossbow and tools from the pack, shrugged off his light clothing, and got to work tending to the weapon.
The naked lizard smiled with pleasure as he looked at the freshly polished crossbow he had spent many hours tending to - making sure the crank-winch was well oiled, the wood buffed to a shine, and the draw string pulled to full tension. It was a weekly ritual for him, to keep his wooden friend well-maintained. It also aroused him in a way that he couldn't explain.
His lizardhood stirred at the thought of the damage the weapon could inflict - remembering how easily it had cut down enemies of his in the past. It was so satisfying to wander through the aftermath of a battlefield - or walk up to the singular body of a messenger or target - and see the powerful bolts lodged firmly in the head of his enemies, or the crimson stains where they had impaled their target.
Loading an extra-long bolt - one without the usually barbed or bladed head - the lizard knelt down, resting the butt of the crossbow in between the branches to keep it steady as he started to lick at the dull cold metal of the bolt's tip protruding over the end of the slide, his tongue rolling along the cold metal before he took the thick bolt into his mouth, lips closing around the warmer wood of the shaft. The thrilling risk of kissing and sucking on a deathly instrument soon had the powerful bandit at full hardness, one hand moving to stroke his swollen dick as he closed his eyes and worshiped the bolt in his mouth.
As he worshiped the deadly projectile, he thought back through all the lives his weapon had claimed - all the wounds, fatal and otherwise, that it had inflicted on those standing against him. And all those who were just in his way when he was bored, a guilty pleasure that had earned him his reputation and place as leader of the bandit pack. Nobody would dare stand against such a cold-blooded killer.
Drawing back from the tip to breathe, a small moan of pleasure escaped the lizard's lips as his hand began to work his lizardhood faster and faster. As he approached climax, he began to suck and stroke the bolt more vigorously, pushing his lips all the way down to the slide so he could feel the now-warm metal sliding down his throat, tickling his gag reflex which he had learned to control for this special pleasure. He continued fellating and deep-throating the deadly weapon passionately as he moved his hand free over the trigger - imagining what would happen if he just pushed on the release lever, imagining the "thunk"-noise the string would make as it pushed the bolt forward, imagining -
THUNK
"CHh-!"
The lizard's eyes shot open, his body falling backwards onto the ground from the surprise and momentum imparted by the dull metal bolt-tip as it pushed its way through the lizard's neck. Pain lanced through his neck as the wet sound of tearing flesh filled his ears - coupled with the vibrating string. The horrific cracking of bone rang out in the secluded forest spot, with no one around to hear it.
Attempting to scream from the agony that consumed his throat, the pillager could hear the disgusting frothing of blood as it rushed to fill his lungs through the sundered flesh of his body, his brain struggling to comprehend what happened, or the bolt sticking out of his nape, the waves of pain and agony clouding any real thoughts. His arms reached up towards the source of his pain - the thick wooden shaft of the bolt sticking into his throat. His feet kicked, toes and tail curling from the agony that gripped him, as his mind went into shock. His mouth closed, teeth digging into the hard wood as his sundered brain finally realised what had happened. The bow had slipped in his grip and the trigger-lever was pressed against the branch. As his vision darkened, he tried to shout again - his dick shooting a wad of cum as the reality sank in. His crossbow had claimed another kill. The dying lizard's eyes rolled back in his head, his entire body burning ice-cold as his brain struggled to stay active without the usual blood-flow fuelling it. Blood flowed down onto the mossy ground, soaking into the soft undergrowth and causing debris and humus to stick to the dying lizard's body as it cowered onto its side, unseeing eyes open to the dense thicket surrounding it. After another minute for the gurgling grunts and pained wheezing, the lizard's life ceased as death finally took him, a weak trickle of urine escaping the cooling corpse.
By evening, the search party had found their leader's body - their once formidable leader reduced to a piss-stained suicide. The second-in-commander kept his face from showing any emotion. This wasn't the lizardman that lead him to a life of pillaging and debauchery.