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It was one of those lonely nights. Too warm to sleep, too tired to read or play. My mind kept slipping in and out of consciousness, but never did I really drift fully into the soft embrace of slumber. Heat affects a skink, and my kind would rather hide in a cool place for sleep. But this temperature crept into my body, warmed my blood. Made me hot.

I really needed to sleep. I'm not a workaholic, but I got things to do and people to meet. It was well past midnight when I began to fantasize more and more about wolves and dragons. Almost felt them caress my body, whisper sweet nothings in my ears, lick my chin and bite my neck. Turn me around, spread my butt cheeks. Sharp claws tenderly tracing the ridges between my scales along my flanks and thighs, making me moan with desire.

But it was all just fantasy. I willed myself to stop it. To think of anything else. Of the bounties I still got to do in my video game. Of the books I ordered, how my favorite series would continue. About that horror game with the aliens and wormy creatures, with their anal probes and butt huggers...

Wait, what? I blinked into the dark of night, not believing where my last trip into half sleep had brought me. Kinky, but not really my taste. Not tonight, at least.

With a sigh, I turned around, rearranged my blanket for supposedly more comfort, stared at a different wall. I'm too old for this stuff, I thought, not believing a word.

Another half an hour passed with the same pattern. Calming my mind, ignoring my hot blood, thinking of pleasantly boring stuff to do and goading my responsibility to think of the consequences of too little sleep. Passing away more or less, unaware of the constant tingle around my backdoor, hungry for a touch, a massage, penetration. Until that stealthy sensation supplied my mind with the forbidden wares, the good stuff, the fantasies and memories. So I came to my senses again, still sniffing the sweat of my lovers, touching their fur, being touched by soft leathery paws, feeling the sweet stretch in my ring. The moment would pass, and I would be once more alone and numb with tiredness.

No monsters. No kinky machines or porn plots or whatnot. Something else was hatching in my mind.

I had had but a few lovers in life. Growing up away from the big cities, add a pinch of bad luck and a shy character, and you won't find too many opportunities for a gay lizard like me. But there was that one old wolf, who really knew what he was doing.

He would always be naked and make you feel like it was the most natural thing in the world. Which, by all means, it was. We would listen to music, watch a movie, talk about nothing at all in quiet voices. There was tea or coffee, and sometimes we smoked. Whatever he did, he made me feel at ease and kind of light headed. The bed was not just the stage for another fucking, but the center of his small apartment, where we would lay down and relax.

With drugs and without, it always was like a trance, a dreamy weekend spent by his side. While I was lying there, to some signal or at pure whim, he would stroke me in different ways than before. His paws touching my thighs, making me part my legs or turn on my side. Sometimes he would just rub my ring and slowly lube me up, while his teeth were set against my neck, neither biting nor threatening, but still stimulating. Or he would put me on my belly, making me lift my tail, so he could dive under it and eat me out.

It wasn't so much that foreplay mattered a lot to him. Come to think of it, I am not sure anything mattered but pure sensation. It was the way he styled the whole act. He'd slowly start, prepare me, make us hard and ready. And then he would guide me into whatever position he preferred at the moment and impale me with his huge dick. That, perhaps, was the only thing about which he could get really rough. That big wolf with his enormous cock, knot not included, impaling his bottoms right away, getting as deep as possible. He's been very experienced, so perhaps he wanted to know how deep he could go without hurting his partner. Perhaps he didn't think at all, and just fucked.

That is how he spent hours on me. Chill out, foreplay, rut, cuddle, doze, repeat. Once I was lose, some days he would be playful and bring up one of his own toys, big toys, seeing how well I rode on my own, or just giving me a nice stretch. Sometimes he would use his hands, once or twice going as far as fisting me, broadening not only my hungry hole, but my horizon of sensual experiences, too.

His way was always relaxed, sensational and lasting. And, fuck sleep, that was what I needed that night.

For an un-erotic split second I mentally went through my inventory and natural necessities. Then I got up and actually went through the quick ritual of preparing my solo.

From my collection I had chosen a simplistic, practical dildo. It had a thick shaft, a pronounced head and was decorated with veins. Visuals are happily of secondary nature when you are a bottom and only care about girth and texture. What really made this particular toy stand out for the night was its sword-hilt feature. The vendor advertises it for doms who like to take more control over their subs. I advertise it for the easy grip on all angles. Unlike so many mammals, lizards come with long backs, short limbs and thick bodies, which doesn't help in most positions. For compensation, we are more slippery and stretchy.

I had only a little bit of lube prepared on my star. Collecting a good dosage on the tip of my toy, I lay on my side and closed my eyes. Sighing audibly when the cold stuff touched my ring, I slowly rubbed and pushed the tip against it. In my mind, I could see a wolf's face, his warm eyes, the tenderness in his posture. I gasped when the tip entered me, but resisted the impulse to shove it further down. No rush tonight. I wanted this to take as long as possible.

The tip slipped in and out continuously. Occasionally I applied more lube to the toy, but most of the time I just rubbed my ring. Late in my lusty youth had I fully embraced the immense pleasure the ring alone can provide. Stimulating the prostate is a piece of cake, but apply patience and careful pressure to all those nerve-endings in your tail-hole and your body will sing. The feeling began quietly, almost numb. Perhaps no surprise, given my physical condition. Every penetration of the tip was a little pop of pure joy. But the real magic happened in the muscle and thin skin that I kept rubbing with the dildo's head. Not too long after I started, warmth spread and filled my backside. It crept into the root of my cock and slowly further up my shaft, becoming a glowing sensation all on its own. I was already panting. In. Out. Just pressing, no shove. A tingle, a pop, twitching my cock. I had fallen into a little trance there and for a while pleasured myself with nothing but the tip. And dawn was still far away.

I found myself on my back, ready like a passive bottom to get it in the missionary position. It's a little more difficult when you have to also perform the active part. But thanks to the sword hilt, I could reach between my legs and pump the toy in a stabbing fashion without much effort. Not yet, though. The tip was still inside me. I carefully pressed down and focused my mind all on that peculiar sensation inside my body and the additional information the now sensitive nerves on my anus supplied. I could visualize the head slowly creeping forward, parting my tunnel. At the same time, I felt every vein, ever ridge on that thick shaft, and the way it's girth slowly spread me further apart. After one inch and a hundred sparks of sexual fire, I pulled the toy back. Let the tip pop out and rest between my butt cheeks. Again, slowly penetrating my ring and going in, reexperiencing that first inch and adding another.

Worshipping the toy that way, I worked myself all the way down to the hilt. The shaft alone measured above ten inches. It truly was a long way. Sometimes I reached down with my free hand to grab and stroke my dick. But being a connoisseur of anal sex, it did not really interest me. The pang of penile stimulation was nice, but merely distracting from the real show. I only took it to make myself more horny and keep the erotic experience at a maximum. The rest of the time, I completely ignored my member.

Also I didn't get down to the hilt directly. I took my sweet time. Sometimes I'd find a special spot inside me and tease it. I'm not talking about teasing by toying with impulses of desire. These spots are wells of sensuality. An angle, a grind, a shove or just pressure, it really depends on the situation. But all of these things can milk one of those spots off every drop of bliss, overloading the nervous system, drugging the body and clocking the mind. That is what I did. And when a spot went dry, I pulled the whole toy out and started all over again, inch by inch.

The hilt on my sword toy even came with a cross-guard, which was sort of a disk between hilt and shaft, maybe an inch wider in diameter. I got my first fit of "losing-it" when that disk slapped against my pelvis. That feeling is almost as sweet as a knot knocking my door, while at the same time the tip, deeply buried within my bowls, spread something I call the second ring. I didn't feel the latter, nor my tail hole or the shaft grinding my tunnel's walls. I only felt that little smack of the cross-guard rocking through my pelvis, sending a minute shockwave into my prostate. Something in my mind dislodged from all conscious thought and issued a single command into my body recursively: Repeat.

I heard no sound, felt no surface and might just as well have been floating in space. Maybe I cried out like the little slut that I am, maybe I grunted like a wild beast or roared like a mighty dragon. I would not know. All I registered was that hammering of the sword's guard against my pelvis, threatening to invade, breaking my body and terrorizing my prostate with tsunamis of stimulation.

Eventually, my arm gave out and a sharp sting in my guts reminded me to be more careful. My backside may be insatiable, but not invulnerable. I lay there, suspended. My heart was racing. Every beat of blood was a wave sent down my body, crashing into my pelvis and prostate, triggering tiny booms to ripple through my hips and up my spine. A sonar of pleasure. It didn't last long, though. It was time for my left arm to work out.

I had rolled over and onto my side, a little more comfort for a little less potential to get rough. That was alright. My body was still in high heavens, though keeping still would cause clawing need for stimulation. I took the toy in a forward grip, reaching out behind me and began slow shoves.

After attending my pelvis so hard, I moved my attention back into the depth of my bowls. Feeling my walls extend around the shaft, nudged and rubbed by its many ridges, provided a constant, smooth sensation. Without force or speed, and well lubed up from the previous effort, I let the whole toy slide neatly into my rump and just as smoothly all the way out again. Back in and out again. Again and again.

It became a physical mantra of my lust. Where before I worshipped every inch and all it's details, I now venerated the schlong as a whole. From the layout of it's geometry and anatomy, over to it's individual feel and role in coitus, with my imagination providing the breath, pulse and drive of it's fictional owner.

I must have switched positions now and then, for I remember a great variation of them. On my side as I started, legs spread or together, on my belly or on my back, doubled over with my feet over my head. What mattered was my imaginary lover and his long, long shaft, his easy going, his need to breed.

I came several times. Not in the classic, messy way. It's more of a dry orgasm with no touching of the penis. The thrusts build something up, an indescribable feeling growing in my hips. At some point my muscles clench and I feel no fatigue or tiredness. I even forget to fantasize. My toys motions become faster, sterner, and I keep on using as much of the length as there is to use. I would aim for nothing, just get in and in and in again. Pulling out becoming a mere necessity to shove all that sweet, horny fiction-meat deep back into my ass. My hips spasm and maybe I lose some drops. I collapsed, spent. And then continued my mantra.

When I grew tired of that and my spirits came back to me, I decided it's time to start the show down. My right arm had recovered and all those dry orgasms had given me an apatite for more attention on that one most important spot there is: my prostate.

So after worshipping all that wonderful prick, I returned to using just the tip and a little bit of shaft. It's mostly a matter of angle. Perhaps I was losing patience, if that is adequate to say after over an hour of constant shoving and thrusting. Or there was nothing more to tease out of my entrance. But I got to the point right away, pun intended.

How to describe the experience from focusing on the most sensitive part, the very G-spot of the male, after having stimulated so thoroughly all else in that region? A beacon of delight. An erupting volcano in the middle of fireworks. An infinity of dry anal orgasms, fading in and out in never ending waves.

What I had left of endurance, I spent on my prostate. My movement ceased, declined and came to a halt. Drunken on sex, I realized eventually that the toy was deeply lodged inside me, but it didn't feel like a toy anymore. Weirdly, it felt like a part of me. Its mass and pressure wasn't so much as a penetrating object anymore, but all those sensations a part of my being. With that thought came yet another desire. I wanted more.

Not more thrusts and angles, not more stimulation and sex. Just more of this wonderful fill.

By chance, it was only a matter of shifting around a bit, letting myself slide down the mattress and onto that toy. It's hilt had caught in the bed sheet, braced like a lance. A hand found my member and started to jerk. Unconsciously putting tiny bits of pressure onto the lance, I impaled myself. And kept pawing off. My second ring hardly complained when the head went well passed it. My anus cheered happily as the sword guard pressed against it, pressure still growing.

I mentioned before that the guard was an inch wider in diameter, compared to the shaft. That difference of girth came without any form of climb. From my puckers perspective, it was a circular sheer wall, rising beyond the known territory. But I was giddy, greedy and beyond rational judgement. I razed the wall.

It went in and neatly locked behind my star. I yelped. Not I in general, but that part of my sentience which is usually associated with the waking mind, which hadn't been paying attention to anything other than being drugged on sex, toys and illusionary lovers. I had not realized what I was about to do when I shoved down that hilt. And thus was caught off guard, pun not intended, when the sudden stretch and fill threw me over the edge.

My cum sprayed, in that order, my belly, my chest, my left arm, my right arm, my neck, my face and everything within five inches circumference of my pillow, including the wall above my head. Five cataclysmic spikes wrecked my body. I don't know why I always run dry all ride long and cum like a waterspout fountain at the end, but hell I love it.

During that climax, which seemed to last an eternity, I had a ton of silly word plays on swordsmanship running through my mind, the strong taste of my seed on my tongue, their smell on my nostrils, and the satisfying gratification of a thoroughly plowed, ground, stretched and filled to the choke bottom side.

When I regained control over my body's upper half, I gingerly pried the sword out from the death grip of my hole. Not only to rescue one of my favorite toys, but, as much as my prostate relished the sharp press and fill, most else of my intestines cried out their quickly increasing sensitivity. It did hurt, but in that bitter sweet way that triggered another squirt of juice spitting from my tip.

I had a moment to appreciate how very, very used I felt from the hole through my prostate and deep inside me. The experience of sexual happiness and lingering arousal was so strong that I wondered how I was ever supposed to find sleep under such conditions,.

Then I passed out.