FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

This story is the fourth part in an ongoing series, and the second part featuring these particular characters. While it isn't necessary to read the preceding parts to understand what's going on, it might be helpful to have some context. You can read the first part of the series here, and the first part featuring Milo here.

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Despite the insistence of his stomach, Milo found it difficult to actually focus on the contents of his menu. The heat of Syrille's right flank, so very close to his left, distracted him almost as much as the desire to glance over at her. Had she been sitting across from him, her very distracting form would have eclipsed everything. As it was, the bench opposite him was empty, as was at least two more dragons-worth of space on the far side of her, but, then again, so was the rest of the restaurant. There wasn't much reason to sit so close at all, at least not practically speaking. He enjoyed it immensely, of course, and for every impractical reason.

With the lunch crowds already cleared out, the Randy Raven's dining room was closed for a few hours in order to prepare for the dinner rush, so the pair of them had, in lieu of waiting in line for festival food, resorted to another local establishment on the other side of the square from the tavern. Unlike the Raven, Daisy's was a restaurant only, and had neither rooms for rent nor even a second floor. Huffing through his nostrils, he cast a half-interested glance about the place, absently noting kitschy, rustic decor and large windows. The dining room here was larger, brighter, decorated with odds and ends related to the lumber industry, and vastly, gapingly empty. With the entire restaurant to themselves, Syrille had still sat beside him in the booth, rather than across, for reasons it didn't take a genius to guess, and had made him scoot almost up to the wall. Every few minutes, she adjusted her weight in her seat, sneaking a scale's-breadth closer each time.

A smile played on his lips, hanging lightly beneath the hint of a blush, as her wing brushed against his. He liked the attention very much indeed. He just hoped he didn't end up liking it too much. The place was empty, but he still didn't want to be embarrassed, or, for that matter, to embarrass her. Swallowing, he glanced at the two-person crosscut saw hanging on the wall above their booth. Below that hung a framed sketch of a team of loggers. Studying the burly drakes and dragonesses in the image only stirred his excitement further, and a sound something between a choke and a laugh coughed its way up his throat. He gave his head the subtlest shake that he could manage as he cast about for some topic of conversation.

"Does Honeycrest even still have a lumber industry?" he asked, voice only slightly taut with an excitement that was utterly unrelated to the words it carried. Her smirk stretched out broad and tight enough for him to sense it without looking. She shifted again, the heat of her flank growing slightly.

"A little. We mostly export dyed cloth and textiles now, using wool from Suthton. But the owner's grandparents were loggers, I think, hence the theme."

Milo nodded and returned to staring vaguely at the stylized print of the menu, fighting too hard not to squirm in his seat to really pay any attention to what he was looking at. Humming, Syrille set her own menu down and leaned over to look at his, finally pressing her flank to his flank and rubbing their cheeks together with a happy sigh. He tensed at the closeness, grinning and releasing a happy sigh of his own, but also trying to ignore the extra excitement that her touch conjured. He failed of course, and that excitement swelled incorrigibly between his hinds in thick preamble to spilling out of his sheath. He hadn't minded having an erection while wandering around the festival or walking across town, but sitting down in a restaurant felt different somehow. Maybe it was because he'd had some release now, and so he could think straighter. Or maybe he was just being silly.

"What are you getting?" Syrille asked, the innocence in her tone making no acknowledgement of how her right forefoot reached down, found his thigh, slipped to the inside, and started rubbing at the soft, sensitive scales she found there.

"I dunno," Milo managed, faltering as he tried to hold his voice level despite her touch drifting closer and closer to the focal point of his manifesting excitement, "What do you think looks good to eat?"

She waited a long moment before pouncing on his unfortunate wording, pretending to gaze thoughtfully at the menu.

"Oh, you know what?"

A chuckle was the only warning she gave before her forefoot slid all the way over and latched around his tightening sheath, squeezing at it with skillful, rolling digits.

"This looks pretty tasty."

He jumped, gasping, and his treacherous, treasonous hips bucked twice in his seat, pulling his gaze inexorably down to his lap. Her tail ghosted along the back of his left ankle, working its way slowly and sensually up his leg.

"Freshly squeezed, huh?" he quipped, trembling, though he felt like the joke was a bit of a reach. Chuckling again, she gave his sheath several quick, tight, pumping strokes.

"Of course," she laughed, playing along, "that's how you eat something juicy like that."

He groaned at how cheesy the exchange sounded, and again at the fact that he'd thought the word "cheesy" in the context of that exchange. While sitting in a restaurant, of all places. She laughed again at the sound, drawing a slow, lusty breath as her stroking coaxed his tip from its hiding place, eager and throbbing. He gazed down, mesmerized by the movement of her claws. Her head pressed against his, cheek to cheek and ear to ear, as she looked pointedly down at his crotch, at what she was doing to it. Something about the mutual fascination goaded a swelling lump of excitement up from his chest that burst free in a quiet bark of laughter. A humming note sounded in her throat in response, and her strokes slowed momentarily, letting her digits squeeze and roll in shudder-inducing sequence.

Grinning in an intoxicating mixture of anxiety and excitement, he looked away from her pumping claws, grabbed his drink, and drained half of it in a gulp. The liquor, though mild, warmed his throat on the way down. He wondered if it might feel similar for her when she...

His hips bucked at the thought, and the first third of his member slid smoothly from his sheath, the first few fleshy barbs springing out to throb in stiff salute, each slightly larger than the last. He blushed. She hummed in her throat and looked back up at him, mouth hanging slightly agape in a way that pointedly reminded him of how she had stared at that toy in the tent where he'd met her. And of the image it had conjured. The personal one. The one involving him. As if that he weren't already imagining exactly that sort of activity. He shuddered and leaned forward, hiding his face with his menu. She laughed, leaning forward herself to press the top of her head into the crook of his chin, and rubbed at his sheath with renewed enthusiasm.

"Oh, fuck," he groaned as another of his barbs slipped free, only for her to find and tease at it with a digit. His jaw dropped open, and he began to pant softly, his excitement drowning his anxiety. His eyes crossed, unfocussed, and drifted closed. The restaurant around them faded to the back of his awareness, dim and unimportant. Words rose only half-unbidden, clinging to his voice as it rode the thick, languid wings of steamy pleasure.

"Syrille, hah, please... don't haaah... stop..."

And she didn't, for what might have been a short eternity, only occasionally pausing to adjust her grip and murmur to him about how she couldn't wait to taste it. Each repetition melted him further, goaded his hips into rolling, heightened his excitement, and quickened his breath. Each stroke coaxed a little more of his member free, and each barb was lavished with particular squeezing, rolling attention as it made its appearance. His breath came in long, shaking gasps, his wings flexed and trembled, heart hammering, legs twitching. The menu tilted, resting against his snout, but he barely noticed through the haze of buzzing heat that radiated up from his haunches.

Suddenly, she flicked the tablecloth so that it covered what she was doing from view and pulled her head away, nipping quickly at his ear to jolt him out of his daze. He shook his head vaguely, muzzy and confused, but grinning, panting, face nearly as flushed as a certain other part of him.

"Ready to order?" the waiter asked, startling Milo almost enough to make him yelp. He stammered helplessly, blushing hard and pretending to be fascinated by the crosscut saw again. Syrille smiled a smile that he could hear in her voice as she ordered for the both of them. Her grip didn't lessen at all the whole time, though the pace of her stroking did slow just enough that he could manage to stop the rocking of his hips. Finally, she handed the menus to the waiter, and they were alone again.

"Fuck," Milo muttered, trembling, "Oh, fuck that was... fuck."

"Want me to stop?"

The waiter hadn't seemed to notice anything, or at least hadn't made any comment, but the relief at that mingled with the lingering thrill of nearly being caught into something that Milo was able to classify only as exhilaration. Adrenaline coursed through him, so different from how it had felt in the woods. The thrill, he supposed, of the chase, but that of the pursued rather than of the pursuer. He liked it, heavens help him. He liked it a lot. The last thing he wanted was for her to stop. Even robbed of the feeble cover of his menu, feeling vulnerable and exposed to the rest of the room, he wanted her to keep going, needed it, craved it. He rolled his hips as emphatically as he dared.

"No," he whispered, tilting his head in invitation for her to press her own against his chin again. His tail twitched beneath the table, flicking and curling with burning anticipation. She began to stroke his sheath in earnest again, though she didn't move to press her head against his. Instead, she watched his face carefully. Very aware of her stare, he shivered, his grin tightening, his eyes crinkling. A thril vibrated down his spine, hit the end of it too hard, and bounced almost halfway back up, lodging itself just above his hips. The sensation pulled downward on the curve of his back, arching his shoulders and tugging at his knit brow.

Her tailtip tickled at his balls, unexpected but very welcome. He stifled a moan into a quiet grunt, shooting her as steamy a look as he could muster. She laughed quietly and returned the look with a thousand times the composure, daring him with her eyes to touch her in return. He knew it was bait, but the alcohol buzzed in his head and arousal buzzed in his loins, and he found that he didn't care nearly enough not to seize the bait anyhow. He reached over with his left forefoot and fumbled for a long moment before managing to grind his palm against her slit and releasing a very flustered chuckle at his own boldness. She bit her lip and hummed a lusty, huffing note, grinning, her cheeks finally tinting pink with the lightest of blushes. He laughed breathlessly, taking the triumph where he could.

Her claws squeezed again, and he huffed out a roughly oh-shaped sound as the rest of his member slid suddenly from his sheath, hot and pulsing. Her grin fell away as she glanced down at it, running her eyes so very sensually along his length that he could feel it like a touch. She bit her lip again, working at it between two fangs and fixing him with a heated, hazy stare. A hungry stare. She was definitely not, he instantly and pointedly knew, hungry for food.

A shiver took hold of his back and shook it delicately, shooting out with tendrilous warmth to tingle through his limbs. His toes curled around empty air. His own voice sang a low, churring note, acting utterly outside of his will.

Suddenly and intensely silent, Syrille pressed even closer against his flank, flexing and stiffening as he pressed feebly at her nethers. The smallest of moans might have thrummed in his chest, or he might have purred, but he was too busy drowning in her gaze to quite tell which it was.

Her tail wrapped around his base, behind his swelling knot, and squeezed, tugging lightly, dexterously. A squeak broke from his throat, only half-strangled by the tattered remains of his abruptly-remembered desire to be discrete. Her questing digits wrapped around his shaft and gripped it firmly, using his barbs like the knurling of a tool handle and tugging upward in an alternating rhythm with her tail. Pleasure spiked, throbbing, jerking his hips into motion.

He ground his own digits against her entrance in desperate retaliation, finding purchase and slipping three of them inside much more easily than he'd expected. The heat and dampness around his claws tightened, and she let out a less-than-subtle moan, eyes fluttering. Her own hips gyrated in her seat, her gaze sharpening with an entirely new intent. Her left forefoot found his clumsy digits and guided them further in. She ground them deeper with a rolling growl, pressing with her forefoot as much as her hips, and squeezed at his member again even as her nethers squeezed around his claws. The soft warmth of her depths surrounded his digits, rippling, tugging, and he flexed into her movements, gasping in surprise when his claws sank in to the last knuckle. With a long, lilting moan that mirrored the rolling of her hips, she ground hard against his forefoot, seeking length that wasn't there to find.

He flexed his little claw, curling it in and knuckling at where he hoped her clit was. He found the mark, and she tensed with a jolt of surprise. Her muzzle found the back of his jaw and tugged at the scales there with feeble fangs, each tremulous breath quivering with a thin whimper that told him how very close she was to plunging over the edge.

But, footsteps approached, unmistakeable, paired with the movement of the waiter in the corner of his eye. With great effort, he resisted the urge to clench at her nethers and topple her into ecstasy. Her teeth released their hold on him, and the heat of her breath drew away from his ear. She hummed at him as if in wordless thanks. He merely allowed a flustered grin to stretch his mouth in response.

Thinking that he could feel the approaching drake's gaze burning on his scales, Milo turned to stare at the saw yet again, blushing madly and quivering with excess adrenaline. Syrille squeezed once with everything, absolutely everything, as if to remind him of her hold on his malehood, but then relaxed her grip. Rather than stop completely, she tugged lightly, rhythmically at his member, only enough to keep it hard. Mindful of the waiter, he gave her a gentle squeeze of his own in response, but stopped, unable to continue without losing all semblance of his composure, unable to bear the intensely electrifying thought of finishing her off. Not with another drake drawing so close. Not when someone else might see.

Nonetheless, he smiled with the thrill of it all. It wasn't as though anyone working a restaurant during Midyear would expect any less from their horny patrons, so being embarrassed at all was silly. Somehow, that thought did little to lessen the adrenal thrill at the idea of being caught.

The footsteps stopped, and the waiter apologized for taking so long to refill the drinks. Milo turned to face him and nodded, reaching across with his right forefoot to accept both his and Syrille's glasses as though nothing at all untoward were going on beneath the thin, fragile veil of the tablecloth. An inward grin stretched across his mind as he did, cunning, devilish, and impulsive, and he clenched his left forefoot. Syrille jumped with a very indiscreet gasp and blushed, seeming almost as surprised at his audacity as Milo was himself.

The waiter paid the outburst no mind, accepting Milo's thanks and trotting off toward the kitchen. Syrille squirmed as Milo continued to pump and squeeze with his claws, even adding his tail to the mix, drawing it around the edges of her mounds and pressing at the peak of her slit. Each stroke brought his digits out to almost the very clawtip before plunging in up to the last knuckle, travelling in long, deep motions that only increased in speed. She turned away to watch the waiter leave, tensing further with his every movement, each breath coming as a quick, hitching gasp.

He growled deep in his throat, delighting in how she grunted and squirmed, in the faintly glistening sweat beading on her brow. In how, with only his tail and one forefoot, he could seize such utter control of her body. Once the kitchen door finally shut behind the waiter, she moaned steamily, melting into his flank and writhing in pent up tension. Her teeth found his ear again, worrying at it gently this time instead of biting. He shuddered.

"Fuck, Milo," she whispered, "that was bold."

Pride and satisfaction bloomed in his chest, puffing it out and mantling his wings. He pressed again with his tail, rubbing, drawing out a tense moan and a helpless roll of her hips. She laughed a quiet, breathy laugh and added, "That was hot."

He grinned through the heat of his blush and sipped his drink as casually as he could manage, enjoying the warmth of it in his belly almost as much as he enjoyed the warmth of her trembling flesh around his digits. Almost as much as the feeble, distracted stroking of her claws. Another squeezing plunge set her whole body into a long undulation. Again, he thrilled at his control, how he could set her to squirming with but a movement of his claws, like a maestro conducting an entire orchestra with only the merest twitch of the baton. She blew a tight sigh into his ear, rubbing her flank against his. His member throbbed, leaking a dribble of precum, and a quiet laugh sounded in his throat. He took another sip from his glass, managing an even more casual composure this time.

Without the slightest warning, she jerked her tail and forefoot, yanking a gasping jolt out of him that nearly spilled his drink. His thoughts froze for a moment, and he humped with a moan. The friction against the tightness of her grip overwhelmed him further, and he humped again. And he kept humping, grinding his hips mindlessly back and forth on the seat. His eyes slowly closed as he drifted away. He wiggled his claws inside of her in a weak attempt to reassert some control, but he knew that he'd already lost that battle. Giving a low, husky laugh, she reached down, drew his forefoot out of her nethers with a shudder, and nipped at his jaw. He moaned again, thrilled by the sudden reversal.

"I think," she murmured, already sliding from her seat, "that I'll have that juicy appetizer before our lunch arrives."

There was no question as to what she meant, and he blushed, hiding his face behind his forefeet, off-balance and well aware of which of them was taking the lead. The smell of her lust on his pleasure-dampened claws only made his malehood throb harder, even when she let go of it for a moment. He whimpered, as much at the loss of that touch as in anticipation of what was to come, the scales of his face so flushed with blood that they felt scalding against his palms.

She settled beneath the table and found his shaft with her tongue, humming lustily to herself as she bathed it in her saliva. Her claws found his balls and hefted them, rubbing and fondling. The pleasure pulled a sharp breath through his teeth that he released as a slow rumble in his chest. She planted a gentle kiss at the underside of his shaft, nuzzling it and tugging at his balls. The sensation pulled his gaze inexorably down, peeking through his claws at her sultry deeds. His legs kicked as her tongue flickered over the stiff, fleshy barb closest to his swelling knot. She chuckled again and touched her lips to the barb, then pulled his shaft into a deep, pleasant, open-mouthed kiss around it. Her tongue worked at the barb almost experimentally, wildly, frantically, bending and pushing it with merciless intent. His jaw locked up as tension gripped him at the sudden and intense stimulation, building and building in his belly and throat until it unleashed itself in a sharp, quiet yelp and a spasming jerk of his hips.

Again, she laughed, leaving the one barb only to move on to the next and give it the same treatment, alternating between suckling at it and kissing deeply around the shaft while lashing it with her tongue. Another soft cry and a dribbling spurt of precum escaped him simultaneously, the pre dirtying the scales on the side of her face in a way he suddenly found impossibly erotic. Another pulse followed, adding to the effect. Suddenly, the white-dipped coloration of her muzzle looked like an entirely different thing to his horny mind, and he grunted, jerking his gaze away in the ridiculous fear that she would know what he was thinking. The image wouldn't leave him though, and he shuddered hard as she moved to the next barb.

Another dribble of pre enticed her to skip the rest of his barbs and go straight for his leaking tip, suckling hard. His face twisted itself into a deeply-pleasured snarl that hung there until another burst of pleasure pulled it back into a grin. The noises she made were almost absurdly loud and lewd, dragging a moan through his teeth and setting him back to panting. He took another pull of his drink, wondering again about the sensation of its heat travelling down his throat and how that might compare to what she seemed to be after. His wings shuffled tensely. His claws dug at the table, hips rocking, mind racing, shaft throbbing. Her head bobbed, and he lost himself to the ecstasy, all conscious thought drowning for a moment as he drifted. Her claws wrapped around the lower part of his shaft, stroking, adding to the overwhelming heat and pressure of it all.

A long, low moan lilted from his throat, shaking lightly with every mindless flex and thrust of his hips. Everything began to tense, pressure building, far too fast. He moaned at her to slow down, that he was too close, and she did, wonderfully, blessedly, not stopping, but slowing her ministrations enough that he could find his breath and a little space for articulate thought. Laughing quietly around the head of his member, she let him drift back from the edge for a moment, only just barely treating him to furtive, staccato touches, just enough to keep everything warm.

Milo floated back to himself, and not an instant too soon either. Just as Syrille began to pick up the pace and intensity again, he heard the kitchen door open, followed by the sound of footsteps. He slouched further into his seat, tugging at the tablecloth so that it again covered his loins, even as Syrille bobbed her head and filled her muzzle with his member. Her tongue lashed, and starbursts sparked across his vision. He scrabbled at her shoulders with his hinds, pushing gently, trying to tell her without words to let up, but she only bobbed again, and again. Moving by a will of their own, his treacherous hips rewarded her by humping into each bob. He adjusted again, sliding more upright so that it would be more difficult for him to hump. She made a sound of protest, but he squeezed the base of her neck meaningfully with his hindclaws, and she relented, taking his member into her muzzle almost up to the knot and simply holding it there in glorious warmth and moisture.

The waiter approached, balanced on his hinds with two plates perched on his fores. He gave Milo a long look as he set them both down.

"Where'd your date go, sir?"

"Down," Milo's voice supplied through the slickest, smuggest grin he'd ever worn in his life, speaking without missing a beat and certainly without consulting him first. The waiter raised an eyeridge and snorted, grinning. Syrille wrapped her tongue around his shaft, humming a laugh so quiet that he only knew about it because he felt it vibrate through his member. He squirmed, blushing hard, mortified at himself, and added quickly, "...the street, that is. Down the street. She went down the street to... powder her muzzle."

"Ah," the waiter laughed, blushing a little himself, "nice one. I see what you did there."

Milo's mortification twisted and bloomed into something shaped more like a thrill, adrenalin pumping like fire through his veins again. The fact of a possible witness so close filled him with the sudden urge to seize Syrille's horns in his talons and muzzlefuck her senseless. He resisted with a shudder, barely, but found to his surprise that the idea didn't really frighten him. Letting his hinds fall again, he curled his tail around her neck and shoulders, tugging at her rhythmically, desperate for her to move, hungry for more depth, for more risk. She only half-complied though, stroking his shaft silently with her coiling tongue without moving her muzzle. He sighed, more to disguise a gasp than in any sort of response.

"Anything else, sir?"

Milo smirked, letting his hips move just a little, barely holding in a gasp at how the movement shifted his member inside of her squeezing muzzle. She began to suckle gently.

"No, thank you," he managed, surprised at the evenness of his own voice. The waiter nodded, said something about enjoying the meal, and left.

Milo's feeble attention turned to the plate in front of him, and his stomach made an insistent gurgle that melted into the slowly growing sound of the blowjob happening beneath the table. He shuddered again and ground his hips forward, sighing in slight disappointment when she moved her head with his hips instead of letting his knot press against her lips. He looked down again at the sandwich that lay before him, cut across the middle, each half pinned with a toothpick. It steamed attractively, smelling of seasoned beef and pork. His stomach grumbled at him again, and he reached for a piece of the sandwich, but faltered. The food in front of him looked and smelled absolutely delicious, but there was no way that he could eat it. Not now. Not right now. Not with his malehood enveloped in the slick heat of her maw, with her tongue slithering over its every inch, wrapping around it and pumping at it. As if to confound him further, she at last began to bob her head again, alternating it with the movement of her tongue and sucking at him hungrily. Another moan escaped his ever-weakening grasp.

There could be no mistaking the sounds beneath the table, were anyone there to hear them, a thought which trailed a shudder through his every muscle. His stomach grumbled at him again, growling this time, distracting and insistent. Caving to its arguments, he ventured a bite of his food, but barely tasted it. He was aware only distantly that it tasted as good as it looked. Hunger kicked in though, seizing control of his claws and jaws, and he took another bite, and another, scarcely noticing as his focus centered once more on the girl beneath the table.

As if aware of his attention, she massaged at his knot with her claws, and suddenly, it was his turn to undulate, his body rocking involuntarily as that most sensitive part of him was squeezed. He bit back a gasp, swallowing desperately at any number of sounds that wanted to escape him, only succeeding in holding back a few. He thought he could feel his balls swelling in her still-massaging grasp as he tensed and relaxed in obedient time with her touch.

Another bite went down, followed by a gasp as soon as he'd swallowed. The heat in his belly expanded, boiling, tightening, growing, writhing as though it were a thing as possessed of a life of its own as Milo or Syrille themselves. She pulled her head back to suckle only at his tip, tonguing at the back of his flared head as he twitched helplessly in her grasp. He lost all control of his voice with a shudder, and it began to spill continuously, shapelessly through his teeth. A jolt of pre rewarded her efforts. She moaned victoriously around his member, another loud and unmistakable sound.

With a sudden spike of adrenalin, he shot an unfocussed glance at the door, certain that more patrons would come in at that very moment and hear him whimpering, see how his body curled and straightened, read the thrilled grin on his face. But no one did. No one did, and, to his shock, he was actually rather disappointed by the fact.

Look at me, he wanted to tell them, perhaps pausing for a smug bite of food, I have a pretty girl under the table who's eating an entirely different sort of meal.

Another sip of his drink chased another distantly tasty bite down, mirrored beneath the table by another shuddering spurt of precum. She moaned and swallowed at his tip, giving his balls a gentle tug that earned her yet another pulse of his liquid arousal. A long, feral groan rose and fell in his throat as his hips rolled. She continued, unabashed, unfaltering, lavishing her hungry attentions upon him without the slightest hint of hesitation. He writhed in bliss.

The heat of her muzzle was divine, but the sounds... oh, gods above, the sounds! Almost more than the actual touch, the moans, the laughs, the tiny, grunting growls of hunger and desire, not to mention the wet, sucking noises made by the deed itself, they pressed and pulled, coaxing him into desperate, needy movements as though physically dragging his body about. Were they really as thunderously loud as they seemed? Were they all intentional? Did the risk of being caught thrill her as much as he had discovered that it thrilled him?

He thought about how she had tasted in the woods, about the sounds that she'd made. About how she would sound trying to keep quiet and hold herself back while he laid beneath the table, in control, prodding at her inside and out with his muzzle, his tongue, his claws, his tail. He imagined her blushing heavily, wearing a shaky grin as she tried to eat without gasping. He imagined her failing to stifle a cry as his tongue found that secret bundle in her depths and worked it over mercilessly. His hips jerked hard, earning a sharp grunt and a long moan from beneath the table. He rather wished he was the one down there, he realized. This was fine though. She would have to eat her meal eventually, after all.

Grinning, he jerked his hips again, purposefully this time, and began to hump in earnest, reaching his forefeet down to rest on her head and encourage her to lean into his movements. She complied with a low moan, and he lifted his claws back up again with a long, shaking hiss, splaying them tensely atop the table to steady himself while continuing to move his hips. Her tongue slithered and writhed across his pumping shaft, poking out of her muzzle and slipping its very tip into the edge of his sheath. And again. And again, and again, coiling and uncoiling around his bulging, throbbing knot and slipping into his sheath at a slightly different place with his every thrust. A series of low, pressurized grunts leaked up from his chest as he squirmed, utterly at the mercy of her enthusiastic ministrations. His tongue lolled out, and he began to pant again.

Shaky talons brought the last of his sandwich up to his mouth, and chased it with another gulp of liquor, finishing the glass. The heat of the alcohol was cool compared to the heat of his scales... and of his lust. And especially compared to the heat of her muzzle and the heat that pulsed through his malehood, spreading slowly outward, tightening his balls and flexing his legs with a tingle of fiery electricity.

His spine curved and tightened, reducing his thrusts to the shortest and most desperate of movements. The buzz of alcohol over his thoughts mingled with the slurry of raw pleasure spreading through his veins and blurred his vision. He felt a wash of precum flow through his shaft, a precursor of the torrent to come, of what lay on the other side of the precipice he teetered upon. Syrille moaned heavily with desire, but slowed, as though tasting his closeness. She nearly stopped her movements, bobbing and pumping just enough to hold him captive there on the very brink.

His wings mantled tensely, his hinds stiffened, and his forelimbs straightened out, locking at the elbow, every joint flexing and seizing up so that the weight of his haunches lifted entirely from the seat. Air rushed beneath him, cool and fresh, as he teetered quite literally, though his mind was too far consumed to appreciate the literal mirroring of the metaphor. Syrille giggled, a sound nearly as intoxicating to him now as his drinks had been. The desire to finish nearly toppled him physically and metaphorically, but he clung to the edge, savoring the anticipation.

Movement to the side drew his attention. The waiter replaced his glass with a full one, and gave Milo a look that said he'd known exactly what was going on the whole time, and also that he very much approved. A tremulous grin stretched Milo's open mouth, more thrilled than anything else. He thought the waiter might have winked, but his vision blurred far too much to tell for sure as thoughts of thrusting and finishing won out and he fell back into his seat with a forceful lunge of his hips.

Syrille grunted and released a muffled cry of delight as he melted completely and utterly into the primal whims of his body. His ankles crossed and locked together, pressing down against her shoulders even as his right forefoot found her horns and pulled her sharply into his forceful, juddering thrusts so that her lips slapped against his knot. Thoroughly overwhelmed, his left forefoot splayed over his eyes and snout as he collapsed atop the table with a tooth-clenching snarl, eyes crossed and unfocused, head swimming, whole body pumping as the first explosive gout of seed surged forth, filling her maw entirely and squirting out from the corners of her mouth.

She squeezed his balls with a forefoot, impossibly managing to slip a digit into his pucker and wriggle it, driving him even deeper into spasms of bliss. He pulled her harder into his next thrust, limbs shaking, eyes shut tight with the strain, and she loosened her muzzle just enough to allow his knot to pass her lips, sealing it in the unbelievable heat and softness of her maw. Incredibly, she managed to swallow the next pulse, and the next, as he continued to make short, helpless thrusts into her mouth. But after that, his every surge filled her utterly, his seed squeezing around his member and spurting out between her tight lips before she could quite get it all down, spilling more and more as she fell further and further behind. His jaws snapped feebly at the air, chopping his long moan into shuddering segments.

That digit in his pucker wiggled again, working itself deeper while another worked its way inside, and he mewled, renewing the force of his thrusts and raking trembling claws across the table. She gulped desperately at his member, grunting, whimpering, and laughing around his pulsing flesh as his pumping hips papped against her snout and his swinging balls slapped against her chin. He growled blissfully, the sound descending into a shaky purr amid the throes of his pleasure.

Finally, finally, finally, his climax slowed, and he regained some control of himself. Sitting up straight so that he could look down at her, Milo gave Syrille a few last, insistent thrusts with his softening member before tugging back on her horns and pulling her off of his malehood with a long, lewd schlick. He gazed at her a moment, at the thick, cloudy seed dribbling sloppily down her chin and jaw. A shaky, thrilled smile pulled the corners of his mouth, and he cradled her head in his forefeet for a long moment. Then, he tilted her head back and pressed gently at the joint of her jaw.

"Let me see," he whispered, not quite able to find his voice yet. And she did, opening her mouth to show him the full extent of the mess he'd made. A laugh sounded in her throat, smug and satisfied at how he shuddered. The sight of his climax coating her tongue, teeth, and the roof of her mouth, how it gleamed and glistened as she showed it all so very shamelessly to him, sent a thrill running through his member. It bobbed and flexed with a straggling dribble of seed. Had she seen that, he was certain she would have had him back in her maw, trembling and groaning as she suckled another load from his loins. As it was, she couldn't see it. But she could feel him tremble.

Her digits wiggled and came out of his pucker with another lewd sound, and he shuddered again as she snapped her jaws shut. She chuckled, panting, and slowly crawled back up into her seat. The waiter, still watching, claws hovering treacherously close to his own bright red, throbbing malehood, caught her attention, and she blushed intensely, glancing sheepishly at Milo. Milo grinned, reached over, and squeezed at her nethers, startled somewhat by how very slick they were. His claws came away coated with arousal. She shivered, blushed even harder, shot him a very sly look indeed, and turned pointedly to the waiter, opening her mouth to give him the same display she'd given Milo.

The waiter shuddered himself, muttered something unintelligibly horny under his breath, and fixed Milo with a stare.

"Nice," he breathed, and then he winked and was off, walking a bit awkwardly due to the stiff arousal between his hinds. Milo watched him waddle for a moment, then turned his attention to Syrille.

"You wanted to get caught," he said, not really asking. She laughed quietly at the accusation.

"Not particularly, but that doesn't mean I didn't like it."

She dabbed her face clean with a napkin, a process which took the better part of a minute, and tilted her head at him quizzically.

"What about you?"

That was the most intense and draining orgasm I've had in my entire life, he almost said. But he didn't. That wasn't what she was asking anyway. Instead, he cleaned her arousal from his digits with a long, lewd tonguing. She shivered again at the display and gave a quiet moan. The sound of the front door opening and several patrons walking in drew Milo's eyes to the entrance. He grinned a cunning and devilish grin, already sliding down under the table.

"Not sure," he murmured, rubbing the lust-dampened insides of her thighs with his claws, "But I'm going to try and find out."

She sucked in a gasp as his tongue slipped in, punctuating it with the sound of talons clenching at the wooden tabletop. A thrill raced through his veins, and he trailed a light, flickering tonguetip over her clit. Her tail wrapped tremblingly around his shoulders as she gave a muffled squeak above the table. Grinning slyly, he tilted his head and got to work.

Her barely restrained noises filled him with an incredibly heated delight as the sound of footsteps and casual conversation drew inexorably nearer to their little booth.