Blood and Lust(Illustrated story collab)
This is the full story for those who want to read it all in one place, without being interrupted by the relevant images. For those who want the PDF, you can download it over here: https://sta.sh/028ucxiahdxp
I hope you enjoyed our collab ^^
Zheradra(c) is my character
The Torgons are a species created by https://www.furaffinity.net/user/dradmon/
***Blood and Lust***
Two Torgons did battle under the bleeding sun, their rapid strikes shrouded by the curtain of dust produced by lashing tails scraping against the ground and skidding paws that tore deep gashes into the parched soil for purchase. They fought with the intensity of the storm rolling from the west, the clashing of horns mixing with the ominous booms of distant, ever-growing thunder. At times, Zheradra's focus drifted off from the fight, her amber eyes growing distant and unfocused while lost in thought. How fitting, that two beasts engaged in a clash that could end in death best described her inner frustrations with her heat. The one on the left, the bigger, darker, bulkier one, fought to preserve his herd, while his contender merely wanted a chance to rid himself of the same pressing frustration that pulsed within the dragoness' soaked, puffy folds.
Perhaps the outcome might decide the resolution to her own dilemma. Wouldn't that be fitting? After all, she chose to seclude herself from her kind in order to put as much distance between that nefarious temptation and her as she could. Instead, she arrived just in time to witness the most glorious and futile battle of all, a clash of two primordial instincts that resided within her as well: The need to breed, and the necessity to preserve one's territory.
It wouldn't take too long to decide the winner. Although these skirmishes could last long enough for a dragon like her to go hungry depending on the individuals and the spark that ignited the ire between the two Torgons, this one was fated to end up in death. She saw and smelled it far too clearly, even if the Torgon with the rust-colored flank couldn't while fighting for his life. No alpha of a Torgon herd could tolerate the lustful impulse of another strong, fit male who challenged them for the right to breed every single one of his females.
The thrill of combat kept the ignorant Torgon's spirits high, but Zheradra, who watched the blood-anointed feud from her privileged perch up on a cliff the lumbering beasts couldn't possibly climb, clearly understood who held their ground better. If only the loser shared her perspective... He frothed at the mouth, he wheezed for breath, he bled from several cuts, gashes and punctures. Worst of all, he limped in two paws that he alternated between each offensive lunge and retreating leap, a sluggishness that would prove to be his undoing. Why didn't he submit to his better? To the taller, fitter, thicker-plated Torgon who merely toyed with his impotent prey?
The answer to her dilemma conspicuously dangled between the legs of the lighter-bellied Torgon. Spurred forth by the flow of raging blood surging through his veins and thick, pent-up seed that demanded to be released into the slick, warm, receptive depths of a female, this male preferred to trade away his life for the dimmest of chances at victory than spend another night burdened with overwhelming lust.
He wasn't fully hard, of course; merely unsheathed, his cock flopping and flicking not unlike Zheradra's tail tip. Perhaps that was why the alpha of this territory showed him clemency. No matter the age, the number of scars marring their hide or the visible nicks in a Torgon's horns, every contender valued the right to breed more than their life, and Rustpelt's opponent--as Zheradra referred to the outmatched Torgon due to his distinctively colored flanks--took pity on that.
Or maybe he just found his half-flaccid cock, bobbing about and swinging in every direction, as amusing as the red dragoness did. After all, he did give him the courtesy of wounds that would not cripple nor impede his ability to hunt, but no more. His horns might not gore him, yet one still rammed into the wan, soft inside of Rustpelt's haunch when he lost his footing and exposed the light of his belly to his far more experienced opponent. His fangs did not tear his exposed, vulnerable throat open, but they still squeezed blood from his pale, vulnerable hide and choked his roar to a muffled whimper.
Rustpelt's determination, initiative and sheer willpower saw him out of Ridgeback's attempts to conclude the fight, prolonging the inevitable, much to his detriment. How long would the alpha--that bleak, dark terror with horns dark as midnight--stomach Rustpelt's impertinence? How many flesh wounds could he tolerate without raising worry within his herd and further discord with his neighbors? Not all Torgons saw scars as the sign of a worthy--and at times, terrifying--opponent, with the younger ones particularly susceptible to the apparent weakness of an alpha who, in their lust-addled state, believed they could overpower.
Rustpelt might very well be the first victim of such folly during the start of this mating season. Zheradra expected more from a male with blunt, hardened horns that tore and renewed across several dozen fights. His worn claw-tips bespoke of numerous attempts to secure a herd well in advance of the females' heat, as did the rugged plates adorning his back, their edges dulled by one too many rolls in the dirt. Compared to his, Ridgeback's plates and spikes fared far better, his natural armor clean enough to catch some of the faltering light upon their surface, groomed by the very females that Rustpelt sought to breed.
What an impressive specimen he was. Magnificent in his stature, graceful in his compassion, and decisive in his strikes, the alpha's thundering roars and piercing growls made Zheradra's toes curl in perverse desire at being mounted by such an imposing creature. He could not speak to her like a dragon partner would, but vivid intelligence shone in his vermilion eyes. She only caught glimpses of them, as his curving, black, elegant horns shielded them from view most often than not, yet even that was enough to remind her of why she sought their territory. Of why she chose to wait here and watch the two fight. Dragons seldom engaged in such intense brawls, encased in a veil of dust and blood and sharp, distinctly-scented precum, and at the height of their heat, every dragoness fantasized about being claimed by the victor of such fierce battle.
"Grrrrhm," she growled, loud enough to draw their notice. A female, not too different from them, followed their every movement, her translucent need trickling down her swollen, feverish lips, slithering across her haunch and pooling onto the smooth surface of the lukewarm rock on which she sprawled. Had they paused for just a moment, they would've both smelled her, but none threw her a single glance.
Not even Rustpelt, whose thick, dangling cock craved for a female's insides as much as her shuddering walls desired to be filled by his dense, aged seed.
It only took this one lapse in her focus for the landscape to shift into a bleak, stomach-churning outcome. A moment ago, the two Torgons locked horns to match their strength in a desperate bid for Rustpelt to push the alpha back enough to gain his respect and implicit right to join the herd. In the next, the defeated was hurled onto his side with a swipe of Ridgeback's head accompanied by his victorious roar. Zheradra's claws tensed, drawing jagged, furious lines in the stone at having that climactic moment stolen from her by the dull, distracting, constant throbbing between her legs. She would never know what trick Ridgeback employed to send Ruspelt crashing on his side, just like the grey-horned Torgon would never taste the indescribable elation at ejaculating the frustrations amassed over multiple, lonely years into a female.
What began as a defiant roar immediately turned into a nervous growl as Ridgeback's paw found purchase on the soft grey hide of Rustpelt's belly. His dominant claws bit into it, harder and deeper, subduing his opponent's verve into an ever-thinning whimper. Zheradra's frills perked, her paws tense, lust all but forgotten as she shifted onto her belly. This was it. The decisive moment, where the entirety of Rustpelt, from nostrils to tail tip, was at the mercy of the victor. A shudder crept through her as she envisioned herself trapped beneath the towering colossus, greeted by his numerous fangs, scarred muzzle, and predatory gaze.
He wouldn't have killed her. He wouldn't even hurt her, most likely. Possessed by innate weakness, an adrenaline-filled Torgon only heeded their lower head during such matters, especially when her folds glistened with obvious readiness to mate.
Rustpelt had no soggy slit to save him. Only a fat, half-hard cock halfway flopped against the ground that leaked the sharp-smelling scent of unwelcomed desperation.
"Rarrrrrrrrrrmmmmmm," Ridgeback's menacing thrum washed over the twilit plateau, filling each of Zheradra's crimson scales with prickly awe. Her breath stilled when a second, softer, but equally deep rumble disturbed the first, an anomaly that should not have been. Rustpelt fought back! He actually dared to challenge his opponent to do his worst, as if seeking to escape this string of constant defeat in the only way available to him.
"Hrraahhhh," the alpha hissed a second warning, snapping his jaws, thumping his tail, and drawing five uneven, blood-trickling lines across the bleak canvas that was Rustpelt's belly. The fool! What was he doing, staring the victor in the eyes with his jaws open in defiance? Had he shoved his snout in the dirt, he might have lived to fight another day, but now...now he'd have his cock severed, if not his throat.
Ridgeback did, indeed, reach for his half-soft, pink cock spilled out of his slit, but not to tear it from the unworthy male. Instead, he curled his toes around it and pressed on it harder, harder, ever harder, until Rustpelt's yowl became too thin to still give it voice.
"Mrf," the dark Torgon snorted with the indifference of an alpha not concerned with the thin, watery spunk of such unworthy prey, leaving his quarry crumpled and trembling in the dirt. Although he bled from the shoulder, forearms, neck and haunches, he walked with the decisive steps of one who could have done battle with a dozen other Torgons and still keep his paws steady.
Rustpelt had no such grace. He remained frozen in indecision, his hind paws curled into one another while he breathed in the dust--the inevitable sign of yet another defeat. Zheradra should have left at this point; there was nothing else left for her but for the gnawing pit of disappointment settled in her stomach. It was a good fight--a magnificent one, even--that ended in the most unexpected and anticlimactic of ways.
But then, Rustpelt surprised her yet again. As his head began to move, a noticeable tremor surged through Zheradra's underbelly when he aimed for his lower belly over any of his bleeding wounds. Her nostrils flared, excitement bubbling to life within her upon realizing Rustpelt's pressing intent. No matter the primitive ambitions that fettered every male to the will of their instinct to breed, the Torgon had had enough of his devious lust, of the pattern that guided his gender. It had kept him hard for weeks, perhaps months. It placed him into the aim of horns too resilient, of paws too nimble, of jaws too quick, and now that it all came to a dour conclusion, all that was left for him was purge his pent-up essence from his body.
But instead of coiling his tongue around himself and easing himself into his maw like a dragon would, he snarled, hissed and spat at his cock, as if cursing it for taking charge of his life. But angry as he might be with his predicament, he couldn't deny the visible discomfort coursing through him with every twitch and throb of his battered shaft. The dry, dusty paw of the alpha had imprinted the loose shape of his toes onto the soft, receptive surface of his cock, the coarseness of the dirt bothering Rustpelt to no end.
Left with little choice, the Torgon brought his head under a raised hind leg and began licking himself. At first, he grimaced, for the soreness flared like the embers of a fire when greeted by the warmth of his tongue, but with every long, slow, careful stroke, his vocal complaints soon mellowed into noises of pleasure.
"Mhhm, mmm, mrrhhm," Rustpelt moaned between each caress of that delightfully tender and slick ribbon of flesh that groomed the most sensitive part of his body. Zheradra stretched her neck forward as much as her ledge allowed, tail flicking restlessly, toes clenching and slackening with the urge to feel the smoothness of his shaft pressed against her pads and rub herself both given the erotic--and surprisingly stimulating--sight.
The only thing that kept her from fretting too much and risk giving away her position were the too intense beats of her heart, every fiber of her being tense with sudden, confusing anxiety. She, for the most bizarre reason, did not wish him to cum; not after everything he had endured on behalf of his innate male pride. He deserved better.
He deserved a female.
Rustpelt cared little for her principles. Under the guidance of his tongue, his shaft blossomed into full-grown splendor, pulsing and bobbing with distressed need. With his hind leg aloft, Zheradra had a clear view of his erect malehood, and what an intriguing, scale-tingling sight that was! Torgons, unlike dragons, slipped out not from their slit, but from within the confines of a loose, saggy, leathery sheath which became firm and tense during arousal. Rustpelt's sheath, now fully stretched from his engorged penis, was a brown as dark as the one on his limbs and dorsal side. After several hefty licks, it gained the sleekness of burnished leather, the concoction of musky precum and saliva slathering it drawing a slithering droplet of pungent arousal from the depths of Zheradra's heat-stricken slit.
The dragoness' jaws tightened to suppress a moan, her body restlessly shifting against the smooth rock in the false, taunting hope of rubbing away the itch hovering on the surface of her wet nether lips. The way his tongue tip dragged over each of the three meaty, tapered formations that outlined his tip proved more teasing to her than she expected, as did the coloring of Rustpelt's member. The frail, vulnerable pink of his tip darkened into slate-grey from the middle onward, where a faint, barely perceptible ring of taut flesh marked the transition. The mere thought of that particular feature working its way between her lips to stretch and accommodate her insides for his thicker girth was enough to lift her up on her paws, lest she began rubbing herself right then and there.
The Torgon did not notice her approach, too preoccupied with the mind-addling sensations coursing through him. His member swung upward with a wild, foreboding arch, the three-pronged, tapered nubs of his tip swollen with distressing pressure that begged to explode from its entrapping confines. Zheradra, equally uptight, willed herself to advance upon him with surprising urgency, her rapid breaths alert, her gut tight with gnawing worry that he might loosen his well-preserved seed in the most unfulfilling ways, given his distinct personality.
The crisis soon diminished when he knowingly abandoned the promise of bliss in favor of tending to his bleeding paw. Visible shudders of pain traversed his slumped frame, slowly reducing the size of his member to an unimpressive lump of shriveled flesh that soon withdrew into his plump sheath. With his most vulnerable possession tucked away, the heat that had possessed the Torgon vanished, as hinted by the thick, curling tail that embraced his side to preserve warmth.
The wet slurps and rustling of his tongue that shifted across various bleeding surfaces made for a curiously calming song to Zheradra's ears. With the sun hid beneath the squat, stubby hill shadowing Rustpelt, it was only a matter of time before Rustpelt's post-combat courage faltered and the sharp awareness of survival urged him to seek the shelter of his own herd.
He wasn't going to return to them, however. Not until she allowed him to. His wounds, although bothersome, proved to be inferior compared to his dire need to breed, a detail that saw Zheradra closer to a Torgon that she had ever been in her life.
It must have been her scent that tipped off her presence to the oblivious Torgon, for his nostrils widened briefly, awed by what they smelled, before his snarl darkened everything else. With the speed of a lightning bolt, Rustpelt jumped onto his fours, shifting into a low, defensive crouch, his tail at the ready to probe for weaknesses in her defense. In that regard, dragons and Torgons proved to be distressingly similar, for neither wished to risk attack an opponent far above their station.
The way he glared at her, with those sharp, amber eyes fueled by centuries of enmity towards her predatory kind, frightened her more than the fangs of his snarling maw did. She could easily evade those strong but predictable jaws, yet there was no easy way to extinguish his instinctive panic at being ambushed by a dragon while in a vulnerable state already.
She had a solution; one that forsworn her pride in return for earning Rustpelt's acceptance in the only way he'd understand. Without giving her logical side time to ponder on this, Zheradra acted on the same impulse that drove her before the Torgon, only this time, she no longer remained at his level, but beneath him. The gut-churning feeling of lowering herself before him, of splaying on her side, with her folded wings under her and the pink, frailer scales of her belly staring right at him, persisted only for a tension-filled moment. Even while down, she still retained all the majesty that made her a dragon, and Rustpelt seemed to both understand and acknowledge that by keeping his distance despite her precarious position.
Improvements started to appear. His stance began to relax, the creases on his muzzle started to soften, and eventually, his lips blanketed his fangs as the Torgon's mood shifted from panicked to full-blown curiosity. Brimming with excitement at making the most with this situation, Zheradra tilted in his direction, angling her frilled, regal head towards him, with the fiery stripes crowning her brow glaring at him. Her frills and crest folded in relaxed submission while her tail flowed between her spread haunches to slather the orange-tipped, flame-shaped end of her tail with a film of pungent, pheromone-laden heat.
Aside from his raised head and twitching nostrils that savored the scent of temptation carried upon the wind, Rustpelt remained rooted on his spot, not yet convinced of her intentions. He required--no, he needed--more from her, a proof of genuine openness that could only be achieved by overcoming her instinctive worries. Difficult as it was for her, Zheradra separated the joint forepaws tucked protectively to her chest, lifting her left one in the air to playfully grapple at her hind paw while the other rested on the ground, beckoning him to approach with slow, kneading motions. To avoid misunderstandings, she subdued any guttural noise that might spark within her throat, preferring to let her haunches speak on her behalf by shifting her left hind leg as much to the side as she could to force her slit to part and entice him with the redder, richer colored flesh nestled between her puffy lips.
That immediately drew his attention. Her lavish display might have stirred his interest, but by surrendering the one thing he wanted most from her, she earned his attention. Little by little, with careful, deliberate steps, the Torgon skulked towards her, amber eyes glued to the object of his greatest desire. She could tell from the way his nostrils flared to suck in her spicy fragrance that he hungered for her, his gaze sharp and indomitable. To further flame his passion, the dragoness swung her heat-ridden tail tip in the wind, spreading her scent more effectively, taunting the increasingly erect beast to approach and claim her, had he the courage to do so.
Unexpectedly, he stopped a few feet from her. Head low, neck stretched forward, he audibly huffed and frothed at the corners of his maw, his dire need to breed inevitably clashing with the instinctive fear of rebuke. Quite ironic, for Zheradra, despite the prickly tingling assaulting her throbbing folds and the faint shudders rocking her walls, was a mountain of anxiety herself. She knew little of what the Torgon would do to her; of how savage his means might be, and that both excited and scared her.
Rustpelt, fixated on but one thing, noticed not the nervous twitches of her paws, the wide, unnerved swishes of her tail, or the cold dampness forming on her pads. She instigated him by pulling on a primordial part of him, and when the Torgon's cock grew too large and hard for further pause, the unavoidable happened.
His snout lunged at her soft, bare, scale-less island, a storm of uncontrolled, uncoordinated insistent nuzzles, hefty licks and hungry inhales. Zheradra's breath immediately cut under the onslaught, her senses aflame with fetish-driven pleasure at luring such impressive beast right where she wanted him to.
But Rustpelt couldn't easily be tamed, nor controlled in the ways she wanted to. His forepaw that slammed on her haunch, with its claws pressed against her scales in a vicious grip, showed her as much, as did the increasingly rougher feasting of his. The ripeness of her folds invited soft yet sharp nibbles from the intoxicated, lust addled Torgon, the tip of his snout insistently pressing and squeezing them as if to drain the heat from them. Perhaps it was the tremors rushing through them, their heightened temperature, or the staler arousal clinging to them, but their delicate surface and plumpness held his attention longer than expected, much to Zheradra's moaning awe.
Her vocalizations, ranging from rougher, guttural sounds during episodes of consistent, mellower pleasure and heightening into sharper, sudden whimpers whenever Rustpelt added tongue to his exploration, inevitably drew his attention. The Torgon's soggy muzzle paused its exploration to look upon her, his jaws shuddering uncontrollably, eyes wild with insatiable crave. Whether he checked on her to gauge the effect he had on her or to ensure that she remained placid, Zheradra didn't know, nor did it matter. With her body paralyzed by tumultuous sensations greatly amplified by her heat, she was but a slave to his hunger, bereft of control.
Rustpelt understood that. Or perhaps it was his dire need to breed that smothered whatever cognitive abilities he possessed. Driven by a singular goal and increasing familiar with her sex, her entrance, with its engorged gates, no longer sufficed. Trickles of drool wormed their way down his chin, mixing with her own translucent fluids as his tongue lashed out across the length of her pussy, lapping and scooping up new and older, mucous arousal alike. Every brush of his determined, smooth appendage flared Zheradra's pleasure ever higher, igniting the motes of fire sizzling within her into tongue of flame that seemed to ravage her pink, overly sensitive flesh.
"Grr...grmmmmm," the dragoness' moans broke into curt whimpers, her eyes squeezing shut, toes clenching and spreading in rhythm with the wild, broad strokes of Rustpelt's tongue. Whenever he visited her rift, her whole body quaked, convincing the Torgon to abandon his quest for her staler honey and drink the fresher one from the very source.
"Rawwwrhhhh!" She cried out as her partner bucked his snout into her, thrusting his tongue as deep through her relentlessly clenching depths as it could go. The sensation of being filled more than she could ever manage on her own felt overwhelming after days of little to no relief. It might not have been his cock, thick and throbbing and immensely fulfilling, but to her neglected insides, it felt wonderful enough for her jaws to snap shut and savor the flow of soft, delightful prickles rushing through her.
"Rurrrrmmm," Rustpelt responded in kind, repeatedly battering her entrance with short, persistent strokes, seeking to worm his tongue into her ever deeper. The fluid motions of her silken walls made his journey problematic, gripping and contracting around the intruder, trapping him in for brief moments during which he panicked and pulled back.
As soon as the taste of her innermost depths landed in his mouth, the Torgon's head shot for the sky, unleashing a rough, dominant roar so intense, it made Zheradra's very bones rattle. The dragoness instinctively pulled her forepaws close to her chest and attempted to shield her lower belly with her hinds, but Rustpelt swatted her haunch aside with the side of his ashen horn and lunged for her pussy, thrusting his snout tip right between her heat-engorged lips to spear through her with his tongue as deep as he managed.
No male ever entered her as fast, as brutal and as ravishing as Rustpelt. The speed of his thrust winded her, and the swirling, prodding and poking of his tongue meant to scoop as much of her thicker fluids brought her on the verge of blacking out. It was as if an ocean of untamed bliss suddenly broke upon her rigid form and drowned everything else but for the rapid spasms wracking her lower belly.
Innately scared of losing control when struck by overpowering climax in such a vulnerable position, Zheradra shoved him away, the force of her push so strong it imbalanced the already distracted Torgon. His paws tripped into one another, bringing his hulking form down in a crumpled heap of thrashing limbs, frustrated growls, and confused licks against the air. Equally dazed, Zheradra rolled to the right, quickly gathering her limbs underneath her and shifting onto her belly despite the light gushes of fluids flowing out of her throbbing pussy. She might not have reached her peak, but her body still sought to rid itself of its pent-up lust. Each fake squirt took its toll by clouding her vision and forcing her hindquarters to hump and rub herself against the rough, dry, parched dirt in sheer desperation to close in that feeble gap that kept her from achieving that desperately needed, euphoric state.
It was Rustpelt that shook her to awareness with his bellowing, threatening roar. A storm of sexual frustration, the Torgon recovered his footing faster than a hulk of muscle like him had the right to and leaned his head forward, as if preparing for a charge. Zheradra sprung onto her paws as well, but instead of taking flight, her body betrayed her by arching her tail across her back, presenting him with the object of his greatest longing. Whatever sliver of awareness Zheradra still possessed raged at her completely foolish decision to place herself at his mercy, but when trapped in that dreamy state where her entire focus drifted to her smoldering, aching, dust-caked nethers, this seemed like the only reasonable choice.
The wait was excruciating, much more than the wild pulsing of her ready, eager vent. Rivulets of clear arousal and thicker, slightly cloudier climax slithered their way down her opening, their sturdy consistency forming several bridges that the wind glued together into a single, bothersome one. Zheradra swung her rump to shake it loose, but the tendril of honey persisted, drawing Rustpelt ever closer to her.
When he finally reached her, the Torgon's tongue dragged her escaped fluids into his maw, slurping on them with vivid fascination. His fully erect cock trickled its own pre-mating fluids as his tip tensed and swung upward with every pheromone-laden string of liquid heat he swallowed, its girth and readiness to enter her fueling the restless pounding of Zheradra's heart.
Caught in lustful, inescapable frenzy, Rustpelt reared his impressive bulk, forepaws latching around her lower half to seize her by the haunches as he would a female Torgon, unaware that, for a male his size, he had a far better grip around her shoulders. Telling him that would do no good, for even if he understood her words, Rustpelt's cock grew far too big, his urge to cum far too great, to heed them. Although his superior weight felt oppressive to her lither, slenderer frame, Zheradra's entire body shuddered in gleeful excitement at finding herself embraced by such tight, desperate paws. She barely snuck a glimpse of his drooling, bobbing shaft before his entrapping jaws forced her head forward, his shallow bite kissing the back of her neck in the wild way of the Torgons.
"Grrrrhhhhm," an ancient, possessive growl smoldered through the thick hide of his throat. In his primitive mind, Rustpelt now owned her, as evidenced by the brave, undaunted slaps of his great erection against her pussy. If it wasn't for the novelty of such ridiculous light hits against her tender lips, Zheradra would have wriggled free from his grip to deliver swift retribution for humiliating her by delaying their mating, but she found it impossible to punish him for desiring her to such extent.
Perhaps he was clumsy. Or maybe Torgons readied their females by rubbing their smooth, elongated members against them, a sensual caress meant to enflame the senses and force their arousal to the surface. Zheradra chose to believe in the second, the certain grip of his forepaws as steady as his muscular haunches that pumped him back and forth against her in a slow, tantalizing grind, running the upper surface of his cock across her lips up to his taut ring of flesh and back. Every time he completed a cycle, his flare tightened further than before. The hold of his fangs punched harder into her ruddy scales, and the toes of his forepaws pressed tighter against the finer, rosy scales coating her underbelly.
"Rrarrrh!" Zheradra snapped her jaws at him as close as his bite on her scruff allowed. His weight began to bother her, but not as much as the timid foreplay which merely scraped her persistent, dust-ridden heat off her puffy, engorged lips. Her insides burned for his girth; they quivered with pent-up eagerness to mold around him and milk him of every drop of thick, precious seed.
But from her position, of a female pinned under a male, such impatience mattered little when gripped by a Torgon who had never been inside a female, let alone a dragon. To him, the intoxicating warmth of her fevered lips seemed like the most euphoric of beacons. Their smoothness, the most enticing and riveting surface that he awkwardly bucked and humped against, rubbing, teasing, masturbating his cock against the very orifice he was supposed to pierce. Thick trails of clumped, cloudy precum weighed heavily from his fully bloomed, well defined tip, hinting at just how close he was from spilling his seed by tasting but a fraction of what a dragoness' sweltering insides offered.
In the end, it was instinct that saved Rustpelt's dignity. Maddened by the waves of seed churning within his underbelly that begged for escape, Rustpelt's haunches drove back to align his shaft with her, then violently bucked against her. He firmly drove his rock-hard cock deep into her tightening depths, his three tapered ends scraping the thicker, staler, mud-mixed juices off her itchy walls. In response, Zheradra's hindquarters slammed against him, her body practically aching for more of that intricate ecstasy that made her eyes water and her limbs wobble from how incredibly satisfying it felt to have him inside.
As if her senses weren't already strained with overwhelming sensations that she could hardly process, his ring-shaped bump that emphasized the middle of his shaft, aided by her hefty arousal, plopped right past her engorged lips and stuck right into her entrance. Zheradra unleashed a sharp, passion-filled cry as she felt herself stretched better than any male had ever succeeded, her strained-to-the-limit pussy unable to accommodate any more of his already demanding girth inside.
The way his delectable feature pressed against her lips, dividing them with its prominent bulk and spreading them to their fullest extent, numbed the dragoness' body. It forced her focus to shift solely on the rhythmical throbs of her pussy, on her body's pressing need for relief, on the increasingly wider and brutal waves of mind-addling elation that threatened to wash her conscience away.
Rustpelt lodged himself into her perfectly. She just had to wait it out, to regulate her breath despite her slack, unruly tongue hanging from the side of her mouth. Already did her vision begin to blur, the sharpness of her environment slowly overtaken by calming darkness punctured by specs of iridescent colors. Better yet felt his growing, tightening tip inside her, its three pointy nubs bloating with the rush of seed preceding the male's orgasm.
"Grr....grrrhhhh," the dragoness' lustful growl faded and reignited, her voice dwindling due to the oppressive stress applied to her panicked, quivering muscles. Little pangs of discomfort began to manifest in a sharp pain here, a searing prickle there that increased the frequency and strength of her constricting motions. Her very body craved not just for his seed, but for him to deflate to a manageable level so that her throat wouldn't suddenly lock while overcome with bursts of eye-watering bliss.
Rustpelt, however, fought against the natural order of things. She could feel his reluctance echo within the quaking of his haunches, or persist within his seed-engorged member. The Torgon held back with everything he had at Zheradra's expense, disinterested in how his rigid tightness began to sear and burn within her the further it grew. In a final bid of dominating selfishness, her partner's jaws abandoned his light, erotic bite on the back of her neck, his head sliding right over hers with little regard to her frills that she quickly folded.
As his torso followed, the weight exerted on her back became so great, Zheradra's forelimbs buckled under the strain, providing the ominously rumbling Torgon with the perfect opportunity to wrap his forepaws around her middle and sink his claws into her frailer, pinker scales. By securing and controlling her freedom of movement with his vicious grip, Rustpelt all but locked her in place, all so that she wouldn't dare skip forward when his back arched with sinister intention. Zheradra only managed a gasp, eyes wide in sharp awareness, before her eyelids squeezed shut. Her entire frame jolted as that hulking mound of muscle used the momentum of his hips and the strength of his haunches to attempt to shove the entirety of himself into her.
Already strained to their limit, Zheradra's walls refused to obey, keeping his existing half locked within her. His brutish try at a thrust merely caused them to constrict his already swollen girth further, the indomitable pressure so intense it robbed Rustpelt of a second attempt at fully conquering her. While still clutching onto her like a prized possession, the Torgon's conquering roar burst forth from his maw. Earsplitting in its intensity, it would have deafened Zheradra if not for the gaps within it that mellowed it into frail, highly endearing whimpers. Try as he might to retain his imposing stature, even a mighty male such as him fell prey to the choking whines of unbridled delight, his vocalizations accurately describing the drowning pleasure each of the spearing jets of dense, pent-up seed he shot into her.
As soon as the first lance of aged cream splattered against her innermost sanctum, Zheradra's tail instinctively flagged. Her nether muscles loosened all of a sudden to make room to receive his great load, spurred forth by erratic pulses and throbs that ran across the entirety of Rustpelt's shaft. She felt them disperse through his three tapered nubs crowning his tip, as well as the way they traversed up to his impossibly tight ring that kept her entrance stretched so much it almost hurt if not for the fiery shudders of rich, mind-bending climax flowing through her.
Uncomfortable as his maneuver felt at first, that all faded away, washed away by the dizzying waves of all too intense warmth propagating through her, with her rapidly clenching and relaxing pussy as their center. Rustpelt's orgasm came so sudden, she only managed to suck in a quick, sharp breath that remained entrapped within her chest while everything else faded away but for the strong gushes of seed flooding her depths.
Rustpelt didn't just ejaculate; he exploded inside her, his first few salves packing such strength they flared caused her own juices to overflow as they splashed against her cervix, over and over again, until her own dam broke loose with barely a whimper from the elation-stricken dragoness. Riding that single, precious breath made everything feel all the more intense, as if nothing else mattered aside from the rapid, desperate milking motions of her insides meant to coax as much of Rustpelt's seed out of him as she could manage. After holding onto it for so long, the Torgon had an immense reserve to offer, the deluge so great, the spurts so frequent the thinner, sleeker fluids of their arousal sprayed through the little gaps of her outstretched lips to create much-needed space for his thicker, heavier, aged essence.
Zheradra, without a single whine of complaint, took it all in, her heated flesh reveling at basking in the warm, incredibly generous fluid of such pent-up and enthusiastic male. Her fangs bared, with her muzzle bearing the creases of obvious strain and her claws hooked into the ground for purchase, the dragoness sunk her head as low to the ground as she managed, her body threatening to follow suit if not for her instinct to remain up. She needed to remain locked against his haunches; to endure his terrible weight until his spurts ceased and he softened, for at the height of her heat, nothing else mattered but drain him dry of his seed. That nefarious need had lured her beneath him and now, it showered her with drowning waves of perpetuating, addictive pleasure blooming deep within her and arching forth through the rest of her. Never had her shudders felt so intense, so breathtaking and needy that she couldn't even squeeze out a whimper of bliss, let alone a plaintive growl.
Lost in her realm of debilitating pleasure and exhausted beyond belief at the same time, Zheradra remained bowed forward even after Rustpelt's vanishing bulk filled her with immediate relief and his flaccid, retreating cock flopped out of her. It was the flood of joint, lukewarm fluids that finally convinced her that it had ended; that mixture of sharp, spicy, fragrant heat mixed with the rough, stale, pungent scent of seed withheld for far too long. Most of Rustpelt's weight redistributed back onto his hind legs, but his forelegs still remained clamped around her haunches, a noticeable shudder rocking the Torgon as their fluids blasted out of her trembling pussy to cascade over his numb cock and continue its flow across her haunches.
Their slimy texture flowing over her clean, beautiful scales filled her with uncanny alertness, her widening nostrils greedily sucking in a deep breath to calm the fires still raging within her. She looked back at her partner expectantly, only to be met with glazed, half-closed eyes. If mere suggestion wouldn't do it, she next tried to wiggle her haunches, but the Torgon's shuddering grip merely hardened, as if he refused to relinquish his claim on her. Finally, she tried making use of her tail, but other than a few twitches and tensing of Rustpelt's limbs, the lumbering beast still didn't budge.
Zheradra ceased her restless attempts to dislodge him, if only because it was his first time. He deserved basking in the aftermath of his success; to try and prolong his bliss for as long as he could manage, and to enjoy the unique feeling of their joint fluids gushing over his daunting yet immensely fulfilling girth. It was only now, when she finally looked at their union, that Zheradra realized just how thick his seed was. A mixture of subtle yet varying shades of white, the richer snakes of seed marring the top half of his member had a far greater consistency than the weaker, more watery remnants leaking from his tip. So creamy it was, that it dribbled in a long, lazy line onto the ground, bending and swaying in the evening gusts without breaking, courtesy of his prolonged loneliness.
"Grraaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh," Rustpelt unleashed a drawn-out, fatigued moan filled with scale-tingling satisfaction. Even after a mind-blanking orgasm, Zheradra's nether muscles still contracted in unexpected need at that sonorous, expressive growl that could've softened the haunches of every female. But given the lethargic way with which Rustpelt removed himself off her, his wobbling steps and slack, drooping member, he had no more to give. His tongue could make due; after all, he had mostly insisted on the surface while her insides remained unexplored, but he was not a dragon. The way he toppled like a boulder suggested as much, and his cold, distant gaze confirmed it. Like her, he simply wished to satisfy a pressing need, one that surmounted the boundaries between their two species. Now that the veil of lust lifted from his senses, he saw her as the competing predator she was, and no longer as the mate he filled with his first seed.
Zheradra did not let herself be daunted by that austere gaze, threatened by his curling horns, or fazed by his bigger, brutish paws. For all his ridged back and protruding teeth, Rustpelt had a pale belly even softer than hers, one that he revealed to her willingly, along with his dark, plump sheath. She wouldn't walk into his embrace to demand warmth and attention; her pride wouldn't allow it. So instead, she strolled over to him, each slow step accompanied by the noticeable drool of mating fluids that wormed down her haunches or broke off to pattered the dusty soil. When she finally reached him, the dragoness lied down with her back to him, wings folded and her neck coiled inward so that she could rest it on a red-scaled arm.
Then, the wait began. From her inconspicuous position, she spied for possible movements with the corner of her eye, limbs tense despite her radiating calm. Beneath everything that made her a dragon, she was a female in heat, thirsty for affection or at the very least, a sign that her partner cherished the rest of her as well, and not only her swollen, appetizing pussy.
It lasted a while. So long, that Zheradra's emotional needs slowly faded, engulfed by relaxation only the ramming and subsequent ejaculation of a male could grant her restless flesh. She must've dozed off, for the much-awaited touch of her supposed partner startled her to awareness. She expected a lick, a nuzzle, or at least the soft weight of a paw alighting on her neck, only to tense up at the surprising bulk of his entire head rested against her haunch. Her fully aware vermilion eye met Rustpelt's, her slit-shaped pupil bearing into his rounder, more foreign and menacing one. Torgons weren't expressive creatures, let alone with dragons, but Rustpelt, for all his brutish appearance and indifference, closed his eyes in ease while leaned on top of her haunch, his hum of contentment so rich she felt them traverse her scales in a cascade of unexpected serenity. It felt rewarding to have him so close to her nethers, like a young father holding vigil over that one single spot that filled him not only with the greatest of pleasures, but also with the promise of young. It felt reassuring, unique.
It felt...intimate.
***The End ***
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