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“There are no better lovers in Rivellon…" The words play back in your mind.

Should you move forward with this? It sure would be something... if you were to be conned here tonight. Considering how many crooks you've put away...

You've never done anything like this before. But, your body aches to know. No reward without risk... You push out your door and into the night.

Your head is bowed beneath the cover of a canvas cloak, your eyes kept down to the cobblestones splashing under your feet. At least the storm has emptied the town; you'll have some privacy.

You find your destination and turn down an alley. A plain door stands a few yards down amid some food waste strewn into the gutter and pieces of bar furniture lying disused in the street. You reach the door and squint up at the rain rapping against your cloak.

You're cold. But not so cold as to warrant this shaking.

You knock on the door, a special pattern as instructed. It swings in and a figure gestures you hurriedly inside. "Come, come-" You duck in and he's bolted the door behind you. The clamor of the storm has gone quiet.

You're in the middle of a large and disheveled kitchen. It's the kitchen of a tavern — Driftwood's oldest and largest.

"Right." The man who let you in speaks. "Awful out there. I'm as rough as you." He gestures over to his own cloak, which is hung dripping over a mop off in the corner. You nod curtly. Your arms are crossed at your chest, shoulders still hunched down from the rain.

"We'll get you settled in right and good. You'll feel much better in a moment. Trust me."

You crane your neck around and look back at the door through which you'd just come. “Do I trust you, Lovrik?" It's as much a question for yourself as for him.

"Master Rorin, I assure you, you have my utmost discretion," he says quietly. “Anything otherwise would be bad for business. And I _will _say — you can trust at least that I value my own neck, yeah? A man of your- esteemed standing… Spreading gossip about your private affairs, I think we can both agree, would be very foolish."

Esteemed. The compliment feels disingenuous, as in fact does his whole demeanor; his speech is slimy and beer-tinged. Any other night might see you arresting a man such as Lovrik for any manner of public nuisance.

You speak plainly. “Blackmail."

“Ok, well, yes. I could- ah... do that. But reputation, sir. My business values repeat customers."

He reaches up and claps you on your shoulder. “And, sir Rorin. With justice so near and dear to your heart, I trust that you'd never cooperate with me, yeah? Then again, big trouble for me."

You chew on your lip.

"Am I wrong...?" he asks. He's still gripping your shoulder. You let the silence hang in the air with his arm. Then both fall together as his hand smacks down against the side of his leg.

"So! Then. Ah- everything is in order. The top floor suite, and everything you might happen to find there, are yours for the night." His voice carries in it the tiresome singsong of a street vendor selling snake-oil. “If you're pleased with your stay, and you happen to feel appreciative, please — tell a friend. And ah- just leave in the morning. Whenever you're... feeling satisfied? But uh, I'll just- I'll be needing, then..."

You reach into your cloak to produce a coin purse, which Lovrik takes from you with a gratuitous bow. Not a modest sum of money you just gave away. Hopefully, not for nothing.

"Perfect! Perfect," he titters, his voice still hushed but now electric with excitement. He draws apart the little purse string and pries it open, looking inside and pushing around the contents with a stubby finger.

"They really are something else, the lizards. I've never tried this guy; my tastes aren't as, eh... well… as rare, as yours, sir. Eighty... ninety... But his reputation, with _your _lot..."

You glare daggers at Lovrik. Perhaps you still ought to arrest him. He's smiling to himself, unaware. His focus is still buried within the purse, his mind seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

He eventually pulls the purse back shut, looks up at you with a smile and exchanges it in his cloak for an ornate little silver key, which he hands to you.

"Well. I would say you should go see for yourself."

You take his key and look down at your clothes, still utterly soaking. "Is it fitting I arrive... like this?"

When you look back up he's already turned from you and begun making for his own cloak in the corner. "Ah, no. Er- yes." He looks back to you, distracted. “He'll take care of that. You. All of it." He waves a hand at you up and down. "Don't worry."

"You're just- you're leaving, then?" you ask.

"What?" Lovrik looks at you with his face scrunched tight. “Why... would I..." Then realization warms him once again.

"Oh! I don't stay in the inn. My cousin's got a place in town, I stay with her whenever I'm here."

He's finished adjusting his cloak and bows to you again. He speaks his next words with a very slow and pointed emphasis.

“You have a good night, then, sir."

For better or worse, the conversation is done.

He moves to the door, braces himself and pushes out into the storm. The splash of his footsteps quickly fades into the din of the rain. Then Lovrik himself fades, vanishing out onto the main thoroughfare beyond your view.

You're left just staring out at nothing in particular. Even more than before, you can't help but feel you've been had.

He did give you a key, though.

It could be a counterfeit, maybe something to keep you busy while he makes his way away.

You take another shaky breath. Alright, no use following him. Back inside.

You slink out of the kitchen, very much wanting to keep unseen. The tavern floor is thankfully empty of patrons and staff at this late hour. You hear only the occasional crack of embers growing tired in the tavern's great hearth.

You climb a staircase and are let out to a hall of closed rooms. Around the bend you find the second flight, which empties onto a tiny little landing with just a single unassuming door. The glow from the hearth barely reaches up here, just enough to make out a small, metal keyhole. You feed your key in with a shaky hand. Miraculously, the lock takes it, and turns. You press on the door.

It opens into an expansive room lit by soft, flickering candlelight. This space is enormous; this must be the whole of the top floor. Your eyes dart around, skipping over the furnishings... seeking...

There. You see him. Next to a window, at a small table sat against the far wall. As promised, you find a lizard. It's the first you've seen in person.

Something flips up within your stomach; he's breathtaking.

You stand in the doorway a moment, silent and unmoving. He surely heard you enter, though his attention is still kept by a small open book on the table in front of him.

He looks stately, relaxed. Thin silks hang over his arms and around his waist, their translucent hues accenting that of his many small, cerulean scales. He's begun marking the book, and rises from his chair to greet your arrival with soft eyes.

"Ah, you must be Rorin."

With him now stood you can see his neck and torso are completely bare, but for a single sash hung down from shoulder to opposite hip. His waist is wrapped, and though he is sparsely clothed, he is not indecent. He raises an arm up toward you invitingly.

"I am Zharat, of the House of War. It's my pleasure to meet you, Rorin."

His voice evokes thoughts of warm coals and crackling, churning gravel.

You step inside and try to casually close the door and turn the lock behind you, now keenly aware of your every movement.

"I had worried you might have dragged yourself through that awful storm to come to meet me," he continues. “Here, let me help you dry yourself."

Zharat makes for one of the room's several wooden dressers, atop which sits a neatly folded stack of white towels.

"You... know me?" you ask.

He takes his time pulling a towel from the stack. "Not quite. Not as I'd like to know you, at least... I know your name, and I know of you." He smiles and saunters toward you with a single towel in hand.

“And, I think... I can say I might_ _know something of your interests... given your presence with me here, tonight."

It's striking just how far taller he stands above you as he comes near. He looks down to the towel in his hand and begins slowly and deliberately unfolding it.

"I like to know all the important men wherever I travel, and as thoroughly as I can. As thoroughly as they'll... allow me. And, I understand, you're something of an important man?" He looks back to you with the same warm, genuine smile.

"Oh, uh… I-"

“But, first though... let's take care of these unfortunate clothes. You must be very cold."

He holds his towel outstretched between the two of you and shields your waist from his eyes. You're surprised by the gesture, given... the circumstance. But you're grateful. You drop your cloak and peel the shirt and pants from your soaking skin, then step forward and quickly wrap yourself in the towel.

It's surprisingly warm, as if it were just taken from out hanging in the summer sun. Is it a trick of his? You've heard stories — of lizards and fire.

The towel's warmth seeps into your body and you let the thought fade. Zharat picks your sopping clothes from the floor behind you and saunters off to the washroom.

You stand still and just watch him, letting yourself idle in the comfort of the soft fabric. You admire his tail as it glides over the floorboards. It wraps around the corner of the washroom entrance and disappears from your view. His voice calls back.

“A question for you, love. Have you known any of my kin, before me? For any sense of the word you like."

Your imagination was feeding on thoughts of that exotic tail and you're caught off guard by the question. “Uh- no..."

"Yes... It is rare in parts like these."

He continues, still out of sight, “Then, am I the first you've seen in person?"

It's a simple question.

But posed so plainly and bluntly this way, you find that it's shaken you. You start to feel small, and somehow can't quite bring yourself to answer. How many years of your life have you spent in Driftwood, while right here stands a manifest reminder of everything you've never seen, and all that you've never indulged. It's a daunting epiphany — how much time, lost?

Zharat must read something in your panicked eyes as he returns from the washroom. He moves to you and takes your elbow in his hands and gives you another warm, palliative smile.

“No, I meant nothing by it, love. I ask, only to know whether I bear the honor." His hands on your arm and his great stature so near to yours serve to soothe your mind a bit.

“Come, sit with me," he offers. “Let's be together, just in this moment. We can start by discussing ourselves."

He pulls you toward the table and you oblige him, letting yourself be seated opposite his chair. The rain drums against the window by your head.

You've just taken notice of his perfume. It's fresh and foreign, its scent a haze of things you've never smelled before. Beneath them though, you do recognize what seems to be the smell of faint, natural wooden smoke.

“I would like to come to know you this evening, in your entirety. Starting with your past. Would you tell me?"

“Oh. Uh, ok." You look down to your hands, currently being wrung out by one another on top of the table. “Aren't, uh... we...?"

Zharat reaches toward you again and takes one of your hands with both of his, stopping your fidgeting. His long, scaled fingers intermix with yours, and the skin of his hands feels surprisingly soft and smooth to the touch. He speaks down to your hand.

“I'm afraid men purchase my company, not just my tail, love." He smiles down at his work and raises his brow playfully. "I'm sorry to say that you must endure the one, before I can let you enjoy the other..."

He starts massaging your hand in his with a surprising strength. As he presses into the meat of your palm, a soothing relaxation radiates up through your arm and into your neck.

“I'll give some inspiration," he muses. “These, to me, look like proud hands. Rough, but not worn. From what I'm told, they have borne the weathering of weapons and shields for many years, so your town might have its peace. It's one of the highest honors for a hand."

You aren't prone to flattery. And, yet, you feel yourself swell slightly. “Oh. Uh, thank-"

“But, I wonder. How much opportunity has this hand had in its life, to experience its other... divine calling?" He digs deep into the flesh of your thumb, pulling you up and through your fingertip. Your head starts to feel very heavy on your shoulders.

"To give pleasure..." he finishes.

Your voice has gone weak and riddled with empty air. “I have... Ah- a few times."

“I would love for you to tell me..."

Your thoughts are weighted by his handwork and you speak slowly. With hesitance, you tell Zharat of a few trysts you've had in your years in the guard — times you found out the few other men in your cadre interested in sharing your company, and stole away quick and passionate nights in the woods.

Zharat probes you for detail. You feel uncomfortable describing these parts of yourself; these are stories you've never told. They feel untoward, and possibly incriminating — particularly those involving men now your subordinates.

But Zharat's voice and hands put you at ease. You let yourself gradually give in to the excitement and taboo of it, telling him your history with increasingly coarse detail. The encounters you've had were few, but you find that you're proud of the things that you'd done with those men — how it felt to hold them tight and feel them moving firmly and powerfully in your hands.

As you recount for Zharat these more salacious details of your past, you start to feel something touch against your ankle beneath the table. It's too small and light to be the lizard's sizable, bare foot. It could be a claw of his, maybe. But then it shouldn't feel this warm, or this... soft.

It starts wrapping around your ankle and moving up your calf, becoming thicker along its length as it does. You realize, and your voice falters as your stomach jumps with excitement. You just stare at Zharat, incredulous. The thrill is incredible... the feeling of his enormous tail coiling up your bare leg.

He smiles, and picks up the silence.

“Pay it no mind, love. It will do as it likes, I'm afraid. I have only so much control." He's moved his hands over to work your other palm. “Focus here, and tell me: how did you come to be captain?"

You hesitate again. This too is uncomfortable, but for different reasons. You tell him of city politics and high profile arrests. The stories feel pedestrian, but they seem to capture the attention of the lizard all the same. You're surprised by how aptly he asks you questions: about your interactions with the nobility of Driftwood, the Magisters, the heads of neighboring towns... He's very well informed.

And all the while you are becoming ever more distracted. He's managed to snake his way up your calf and behind your knee, now reaching up to threaten touching against your inner thigh.

The blood is hot in your face. Finding in yourself the resolve to flirt, you finish your stories and remark that you're told Zharat carries a reputation worth a fortune. Or, at least, he cost you a fortune. How does someone as sharp, and as handsome as him find himself this far from the lizard Empire? In the company of humans?

Zharat brings his eyes up from his handwork to meet with yours again. He simply smiles at you a moment, then turns away, reaching for a wineskin and accompanying glassware on the dresser behind him.

“Well," he says matter-of-factly, as he places the items on the table in front of him. "I could have had my seat at court, in the House of War. I have the birthright, and the acumen. But, instead, I was spending my youth... twisting tails with the other males around me."

He squeezes himself tight around your leg.

“And I was squandering my potential, frankly. But, I found there was so much more... fulfillment to be had, in that particular endeavor. I know now that I much prefer to study the pleasures of the body, than the study of breaking it."

He pulls the stopper from his wineskin and pours two glasses. "And, I say this. Our gods gave us all this flesh, with its many, lovely, hidden little pleasures." He gestures to himself with his own glass. “I think we are being invited to enjoy them, to seek them all out. What better way to pay our gods homage?"

He stoppers the wineskin and lifts his glass in a toast. The drink he's poured for you is swirling dark and red, its surface murky in the dim light.

Lizard wine. You've heard stories — all wild and fantastical accounts. In all likelihood, you think nobody you know has truly tried any. You leave your glass be, for the moment.

You remark that you thought lizards considered themselves to be above the other races. Could Zharat not have stayed in the Empire, making his lot in servicing those there?

"Well, I did." Zharat sips his glass and watches you from over the top of it. "I took a lover, and I treated him very well, I think, for some years. I'd say that I came to master him; I learned how to care for every delicious inch of his body." The tip of Zharat's tail taps against the inside of your thigh, sending sparks through you.

“The great, fearsome warlord... not quite so, in my care. And... in return, I've so many of his lovely gifts. Like this wine, in fact — casks and casks of it." He swirls his glass toward you playfully.

"But, yes," he continues, “above the other races... It is without doubt that our impeccable goddess did fashion her lizards to be truly incomparable lovers."

His tongue flicks into the air. “And ours is a taste I will savor, for as long as she'll have me live. But, what I think many of my kin fail to realize... is that ours is not the only taste worth savoring in Rivellon."

He sets his glass and returns his hands to you again, now starting to preen the hairs on your forearm.

"Rhalic, god of men... he gave you all this lovely fur. It's so soft..." He traces a claw over the back of your arm. “I've found that with men, your love takes on a... heartier flavor. The fur is a part of that. But more so is your nature. Everything is firmer, rougher — pleasantly so. Yours is a taste that I cannot find in the Empire."

His tongue flicks out again, now licking his own nose. You feel your blood boil with excitement.

"And Rhalic gifted you all this surplus of wonderfully pliable, delicate skin. He and the other gods conspired that your races should carry yourselves all so proudly and immodestly between your legs. Everything put on display... surely meant for the envy of the lizards.

“But, I do so love how everything dances and sways when you move, I must confess. And how it all just _glides _to the touch."

His tail has since finished its climb up your thigh and found its way into the fork in your legs, flirting about brazenly with what it's found of you there. You're dumbstruck, quietly sitting and reeling in your chair, your mind and body just taking in the incredible sensation.

"And, of course..." he continues, his tail tip prodding at you and teasing. “You have these precious little playthings. Or, not so little — I've learned. Careful not to offend... But, ours are hidden away, you see. Sheltered, unavailable for enjoyment."

You shift your weight back in your chair, letting your shoulders lean down and your hips slide forward. You feel much more comfortable this way. If, also, you've happened to expose yourself more to this lizard's misbehaving tail, then so be it.

He continues, “But yours, I can play with all... I... like."

You feel yourself swelling, your heart racing in your chest and neck. His eyes watch yours coyly, feigning ignorance to the goings on below.

"That is my answer," he finishes. "Are you satisfied, then?"

You tell him no. The opposite, in fact.

His tail has emboldened since you slid forward in your chair and is now nothing short of molesting you beneath the table. Your body has risen up to meet it, and your stomach is reeling with giddy excitement.

“Well. That's a shame..." He pats your arm slowly with his hand, as though offering his condolences. "We will have to address that, then; I can't have you leaving here otherwise. But first — I would venture to say, in the spirit of firsts, that you've also not tried our wine before. Would I be right?"

You haven't, but you have heard the stories. His tail still doesn't let up.

"Wonderful. I envy you, then. I remember my first time fondly. Please, you must try it."

With some hesitance, you focus yourself enough to raise your glass and take a sip.

It's familiar, but it's heavier than any wine you've had before. It's as though it were mixed with honey. It's clearly wine, but it's different.

"Do you like it?"

You smack your tongue in your throat, considering the question. “I think so."

“Good. We found in the Empire that a truly fine wine will do wonders to whet the appetite. I insist you finish."

You decide the taste is growing on you and that you don't mind his request. Without ceremony, you tilt back your entire glass; it's a habit taken from years of meals had quickly in the barracks mess. He pours you out a second, and you ask him which of the stories you've heard about the wine are true.

"Oh, I think I like the mystery," he teases. "None of the bad ones, I promise you. Relax, sit here and enjoy it, while I draw the both of us a bath." He stands and moves to the washroom again, leaving you to yourself.

You let your eyes wander in the room. For something in Driftwood it's really quite nicely furnished. There's quality in the craftsmanship of the furniture, and the bed is decked with great, plump pillows resting boastfully in their white linen sacks. They're a far cry from the burlap lumps you'd become accustomed to in the barracks. Though this is a treat for you, it would all be probably quite modest for someone raised in the lizard Empire.

You let your mind wander while you finish your second glass. In a short time, you do begin to feel the familiar, pleasant buzz of wine.

A few minutes more by yourself, and there seems to be nothing more to the drink than this. You smile to yourself, thinking of the many apocryphal tales.

A few minutes more and Zharat reappears in the main room, beckoning you to join him.

He's shed all his silks, and now stands in full view for your hungry eyes. He was mostly bare before, but now where his waist had been covered you can see all of him. His appearance is still quite modest despite his being completely nude. He is male, certainly — though he's taller than you, his body is thicker and more stout than the slight, towering females of his race. There is nothing indecent to be seen on him — nothing in the place you might expect.

You've heard the way these lizards' bodies work. You let your thoughts run away with you, imagining yourself dropping to your knees, pressing your face to his lap and ferreting out whatever great, fleshy secret he's hidden away in there.

"Patience, love..." Your attention snaps back to you to see that he's smiling at you. His tone was scolding, but his eyes are amused and carry no signs of disapproval. "Come, join me."

You follow him to a large cedar tub filled with steaming water. It occurs that the two of you have been alone and there has been no wood to fire the stove of the tub; yet the water is still hot, regardless.

Your head is feeling hazy and you let the troublesome thought fade away as you step into the soothing water.

Zharat steps in behind you. He places his hands on either side of your hips and presses his body against yours, easily resting his entire chin atop your head. He sways his hips from side to side, moving yours along with him and humming an idle melody to himself.

This only compounds the fogginess welling up inside your mind. His humming reaches into you through the places touched by his neck and chest, resonating deep within your ears and your body. You close your eyes, just letting yourself be swayed.

The two of you dance together for a while. Your body fits perfectly in his. You let yourself be rocked into a trance, the two of you moving, alone.

Eventually, he guides you down into the tub and sits you in his lap, his back against the edge and yours against him. His humming continues, and his fingers now pull hot water through your hair and scalp. You could not have imagined feeling so well cared for.

A hand leaves its work for a moment to reappear in front of you, pouring out the contents of a very large bottle over the water. The steam from the bath draws the liquid up into the air and the scent is familiar — sandalwood, and olive oil. There must also be salts, as the water feels soft now against your skin.

You let your head fall back to look up at Zharat, whose eyes are focused on his work. He kneads the oil into your neck and shoulders with the same deftness in his hands as when working your palms before.

You feel giddy; your stomach is all knots and your head is swimming. You want to say something. You want to tell him — to somehow convey your attraction and gratitude and all the countless other feelings all clamoring over one another at once. But, you feel you must keep up appearances.

Instead, you tell Zharat he just might deserve the legendary reputation you're told he is supposed to carry.

He laughs at you, warmly. "I've only just barely begun to touch you, love. And already I've earned my reputation?"

Yes. It's divine; he's divine. You ask if you'll come away from this night spoiled for the others that might follow him.

"It is a risk," he purrs. His hands move their way past your shoulders and down to the front of your chest. "I can't give promises. But, I have a suspicion... you might prefer if I did."

You close your eyes and just rest against him. He rubs your body down and melts you into the warmth of the water and his touch. His soft, scaled arms and chest feel perfect against your bare skin. You would be content enough if this embrace were all you took from your evening.

In your stupor, you do notice a single, errant finger has made its way away from the others and has begun taking a solitary path down your navel. In a moment it seems to find its destination, then it starts playfully tracing around you.

You can feel that you're as stiff as you might ever have been in your life.

Good, let this lizard see — if he claims such an appreciation for Rhalic's work...

A second of Zharat's fingertips has joined the first, gently gripping you now between the two of them. He draws back your skin, and with it he pulls a soft moan from your lips.

His other hand has found its way underneath you from deep below, and is kneading and pulling at the parts hanging from you there.

There is so little motion in his fingers. The feeling is far from the brusque handling you've enjoyed from the other guardsmen. But it feels tantalizingly good.

In fact, it has no business feeling just _quite _this good.

You mutter something to Zharat, your neck arching back toward him. “It's- How, does it-?"

"Mmm. Does it feel like the first you've ever been touched?"

That's a good way to put it. You groan in agreement.

"Consider it a gift of the wine, love. Or a curse, perhaps... if in the wrong hands."

He's still teasing with only the tips of his fingers against what is now very sensitive flesh. You feel close to the edge. It's too soon, and you send a hand down to stay him.

He pulls your hand away and above your head, pressing it tight against his soft, scaly cheek.

“Peace, love. Let's enjoy this, both together. The first of many tonight."

You're not sure if you have a choice in the matter anyway; Zharat could ask anything of you in this state. You give in and let him have his way with you.

He keeps you to the same, painfully slow pace, bringing you just to your edge but expertly never passing it. Your tension and your need grow stronger — worse, still. You're squirming in his lap. With your raised hand your fingers scrabble against the side of his cheek.

You've never been teased like this. You've never imagined a person could be teased like this.

Still, he hums above your head and his fingers keep to their diligent work. Some minutes pass as you just flex and moan in his lap, utterly helpless.

His fingers finally relent, and let go of their grip entirely. In their place, Zharat wraps a single, warm palm around you and holds you lightly, positioned just below your most sensitive point.

He leans his neck to the side and coos to you from just beside your ear.

"Shall I...?"

Your back straightens taut and you push your hips up and out of the water into his grip to no effect. You moan, saying something unintelligible.

He squeezes you tight, torturing you with anticipation. “Shhh, no words, love. I'd rather... you show me."

He strokes you in his palm. It's slow, painfully slow. You try to cry out, but your voice catches in your throat as everything about you seizes up tight.

The tension builds, still impossibly more. He's dragged you over your edge, and now well past it for all the buildup.

Finally, you find a peak. There's an unbearable tension, and suspense.

Then- warmth.

A sound escapes you, sharp and strained. Your eyes are locked up at him, watching as your hand holds tight to his cheek and anchors yourself to him.

There's incredible, hot, flowing pleasure. Everything about you is still clenched tight.

Your eyes are held up at Zharat and can't see the result of his work on you. But you can feel it, peppering yourself all up and down your own chest and your stomach. He's still drawing you out, milking every second from you that he can.

The moment finally starts to wane. The tension gives way and your breath returns as you sink back down into his lap.

You look down to see the mess. The water has taken most of it, but still, high up on your chest, are shown the glistening, telltale signs.

He turns his cheek to your still-raised hand and kisses your fingers. You mumble something incredulous.

"Consider it an appetizer, love." He flicks your finger with his tongue. How could that be only an appetizer?

The hand that was stroking has returned to playfully prying your skin back and forth with its fingertips once more. You notice you're still stood at full length in his hand… and that his gentle tugging feels still just as achingly pleasurable as it did moments ago. What's more, the drowsy stupor you expect to have overtaken you is somehow not yet here.

You don't feel sated.

If anything, you feel hungrier.

You growl at Zharat, and pull your hand out from his grip and away from his snout. You roll to the side to turn and press your face into his long, powerful neck, moving your apparently still-eager sex away from his pleasurable touch.

You muse at him, asking if this is another "gift" of the wine. You take his torso in both your arms and hold him tight — hugging him as close to you as you can. This score will soon need settling.

His hands free again, he moves them both once more through your wet hair.

"It's clever, isn't it? How do you feel?"

You say nothing, just growling again in response and burying yourself in his chest and neck, enjoying the embrace.

“Hmm. Is that so?" he says playfully. “I wonder, then. What will this mean for me?" He slides a finger down from your hair to trace a circle with its claw around your ear. “I've had my share of wine as well..."

Something has peeked up into the edge of your awareness. A hot, wet _something _is glancing against you below the water and is starting to press into your lap.

Your stomach flips from the thrill. There he is…

You want to pounce, but you hold back the urge. Instead, you'll meet him at his game, and make him wait. You attend to his neck instead, kissing it all up and down its proud length.

You ask him another question: Is it so bad...? To have one of those... lizard scars? Slave scars? You can't quite remember the name.

He purrs, amused. "You know, you aren't the first to have raised this line of inquiry." He runs the claw down from your ear to draw a line into the side of your neck.

"Living Scars are not usually... given consensually. Though I know of stories." He etches the line into your neck again, a little harder this time. You rake your teeth against his own neck in return. “I've been curious. But, their craft is a closely guarded secret — kept by the House of Shadows."

Beneath the water, you can feel him slowly growing longer.

"Imagine... One's master, a lizard. To be at the mercy of his every beck and whim — always. He need only sing the lovely little melody... of his slave's lovely little scar..."

He etches the line a third time, harder yet again. There's pain this time.

“The master could use him, make him do whatever he wishes. With a single word, his slave might even feel anything. Or want... anything..."

Your head is so hazy from the lust and the liquor all blurring together, and the images he's conjured are all too much for you to bear. You might just take a bite out of Zharat's powerful neck if you loiter here any longer.

He asks, “Do you think it's something you might enjoy?"

Your thoughts are still muddled, but you do nod. It does sound nice… You could live with this lizard — for this lizard... Experience Rivellon through him and through his travels. You could make up for lost time.

He presses his lap against yours, giving pressure to his newly swollen flesh.

“Mmm, love... Perhaps we will talk of it, in the future. I may have connections..."

Pleased with that idea, you focus back on the moment and move to start trying to kiss down his chest and towards his hips, your patience wavering.

He speaks, "I would say though that we're both clean enough now, love. What do you think?" he stops your head with his hands and holds you there. “Shall we?"

You grunt something, non-committal. You're mostly craving now, not so much thinking.

He brings a hand under your chin and guides you from the water up to meet him. Keen, cat-like eyes stare at you as he pulls back his snout into a sly grin.

Flick.

Before you realize it, he's sent his tongue out and back again, catching you quick and wet on the tip of your nose. You're taken aback.

You retort. “Try that again."

He does, and catches you on your cheek this time. He's impossibly quick. No matter.

You snap your teeth at him, in an exaggerated show of trying to catch his tongue. He pulls his head back playfully, cocking his chin down to his neck and cooing in mock surprise. “My, aren't we feisty?"

He pushes you from him into the center of the tub and you pout. He turns his back to you and stands, leaving the tub and moving toward a stack of towels.

You watch him with dumb enjoyment, relishing in the long muscles that roll through his back and shoulders as he moves. He towels off with his back still turned to you, his every movement smooth... deliberate.

Then, seemingly satisfied with himself, he circles around the tub, still careful to keep his back to you. You don't mind, as the sight of him is still plenty to keep your hungry attention. As he passes you he drapes a second towel over your whole head and face, blanketing your eyes in white.

His voice calls out, "Dry yourself, and you can try that again. Maybe I'll let you catch it."

You take the towel and tousle your hair, then step out of the tub to dry the rest of your body while he leaves to the bedroom. Everything feels so soft and fresh. You imagine you can feel every fiber of the towel on your skin.

You spend far more time with this towel than you know is necessary. Then, you remember what awaits you, decide you're quite dry enough and round the corner back to the room proper.

You see that Zharat's seated himself at the edge of the bed, his legs crossed in his lap and his body facing toward you. He's sipping a fresh glass of wine and watching you from over it again with a coy expression.

He's still nude, and still as composed and graceful as ever. But now there's something long and considerably indecent marring his pristine figure, stretching from his lap out into the air above his crossed legs.

You still play his game, and blink — hard. You look up at his eyes and pretend not to have noticed. Though, the image of that deep crimson flesh is now seared into your tainted mind.

With some considerable willpower, you manage to walk past the bed and him and over to the small table where you sat before. You make a show out of neatly folding and draping your towel over your chair.

You comment aloud that you might have another glass.

"Please, do," he encourages from behind you.

You unstopper his wineskin and pour yourself more of the dark ambrosia. You turn back and just watch him.

His tail is curved around his lap and is spilling over the edge of the bed, tracing idle little circles above the wooden floor. That new part of him looks to be moving, and almost dancing hypnotically in the air ever so slightly — as though it's beckoning you to come... and touch.

You drink your glass at once and set it back on the table. He finishes his own and places it on the nightstand beside him, still smiling at you.

You strut toward Zharat, giving him your best impression of the lizard himself and putting a swagger in your shoulders and hips as you move. You lean forward and place both hands on the bed on either side of his lap, leveling your face with his. His eyes still watch you, waiting with amusement.

You look down to his mouth. You'll try to catch that tongue now — you have a plan.

He sees the shift in your focus and flicks his tongue out at you. It's still too fast, and impossible for you to catch.

Instead, you pounce forward, throwing the whole of your weight into him and tackling him down to the bed. For a moment, your plan is forgotten and you grab his body and kiss his neck wildly, taken by your passion. He holds you in turn and rolls his hips up against yours, grinding his hot, slick flesh against your own.

You recover your wits and bring your face back up to his, to try flicking your own tongue down at him. It's slow and clumsy, but you do manage to catch him on his snout before he can react.

"Oh! Very g-"

You jump him before he can finish, pressing your mouth to his open lips and catching him in a deep kiss. He finishes his thought with a satisfied hum.

His mouth is so very warm, and the space feels cavernous and foreign, with teeth in all different shapes and places than you're accustomed to. You find that you need to cock your head to the side to fit his muzzle properly in your mouth. But it feels right — more than you've felt with any other before.

You discover his sly little tongue seated down in him like a snake in its den. You attack, sending your own brutish tongue down to pin him to the floor of his mouth. He lets you have your victory, then he easily worms his way out from under you and wraps his own tongue around yours several times over, tickling under the roof of your mouth with the remainder. You growl at him again playfully and struggle in vain to break free. You've been clearly outmatched.

Conceding the battle of the tongues, you turn your attention instead to his lips. They aren't as full or as thick as a man's — instead thinner and much more delicate. Gently, you nibble at them. He seems to enjoy the attention, but he's more content to revel in his hold over your own boorish tongue.

The two of you continue to play in each other's mouths. Then, growing impatient, you eventually pull away from his lips. You'd like instead to kiss him everywhere.

You move your head down his neck and collar, your lips tracing a path down his chest. He breathes a wordless sound to you, a note of need now in his voice. You kiss all over his body: his underarms, his sides, his long and powerful legs.

His body dances over the bed as you explore him, his great, powerful feet stretching and flexing as you touch him, while his waist bends in from side to side.

You find that when you kiss him where the hardened scales of his joints and chest meet with his unarmored hide that it draws out little gasps of pleasure. So, too, do the soft pads of his toes just near where his claws are set. You loiter in these places, enjoying just letting him squirm and suffer his own pleasure.

This is all not without its own effect on you, however, and eventually you find your patience has given out. You bring your lips to his waist to finally touch them to that long, glistening flesh that's stretched out so invitingly up his tight belly.

He feels feverishly hot to your lips. At your touch, you can feel him flex back against you, and you hear a hiss. Your eyes dart up to search his face for pain. But his expression is distant and soft.

You reposition your head to take him fully into your mouth, reaching your head down to meet him at his navel. He rolls his hips up from the bed to meet you, his fingers running through your hair again with their affection.

He is quite a lot to handle. You try to stretch your tongue out around him to probe up into the place where he'd hidden himself. But the sheer amount of him filling up your mouth is making the task more than a bit difficult.

Still, you do manage — and he seems grateful. He presses his hands down against your head and groans, stuffing your face firmly down against his lap and forcing himself deeper into your mouth. He is considerably thicker here at his base than near his tapered tip, and you find you have to wrap your teeth with your lips to protect him.

Pressed to his hilt like this, you're able to just negotiate a path of air through your nose and around him. You let yourself be held in place here, while you take in all the sensation.

The experience is not too far from how it's felt to kiss a man's mouth. Zharat's great presence feels like a man's wet tongue, and it even moves similarly — filling up the space in your mouth in a familiar way. But, he is plainly inhumanly hot to the touch, and he stretches far past the point any man could reach, tongue or otherwise.

He's also much less rigid than you're used to. He seems to have curled himself down to meet with the bend in your mouth and throat, and as you push your tongue up against him you can feel plenty of give. In response he clenches tight, kicking out in reflex against the pressure.

You also notice the taste. His taste. It's the muted taste of naked skin, but there's something heavier there. A slick fluid seems to coat him, possibly stemming from somewhere within. Where your tongue is able to reach up inside him you find a warm, sweeter musk. It pools together in your mind, and turns your thoughts plainly rotten with lust.

His hands ease their grip against your head and return to their work of stroking your hair. You pull back your head back and can feel him slither past your throat and tongue as you pull away; it takes him a couple seconds more to clear your lips than might even the most gifted of men.

You take him in your hands and tease him, playfully tossing him about and watching him flop around heavily from side to side between your two hands. Despite the irreverent handling, it would be impossible to belittle him for all his size and heft.

You chide Zharat, saying aloud that you might have to raise a grievance with Rhalic for this blatant injustice between the races.

He chuckles — and then groans, interrupted by your squeezing him up from his base to his tip. His whole length seems to writhe with your hand as you move it up along him.

You look up to his face for feedback. You've never handled a lizard in this way — or, really, in any way before. And you'd like to treat him well, to give him just a fraction of what he just gave you.

You see that his eyelids are hung low and his eyes are distant and glazed. The wine must be taking its toll then. If your experience is any to compare, you could probably do no wrong with him now.

Your hand mirrors its motion back down again to stroke him once more from tip to hilt, this time accompanied by a second hand. There is plenty of space still, had you a third hand to follow suit.

The subtle sideways buckling in his hips has become instead a series of grinding thrusts up and into your hands. He gives out another deep, aching moan. His tail has found its way again to your ankle and wrapped itself around you once more, flexing and squirming in response to your attentions on him. His tail seems to move in tandem with his writhing, sensitive flesh.

You bring your head back down to take him into your lips a second time, letting your mouth tend to his easier latter half while your hands work at him over his thick and formidable base. You spend some time experimenting, until you find a rhythm that resonates with him and feel him begin to flex in time with your strokes.

His body's movement grows in its intensity. The sounds from him are becoming something increasingly pitiable. His tail starts squeezing you tight, as though to keep you locked with him through this ordeal.

You could speed up your pace now, and find him his release. But you choose to torment him. You adopt what you remember of the same slow and unrelenting pace he took with you before. With it, you keep him inching fruitlessly forward. His sounds become frantic, and pleading.

You feel some long, rigid cords of sinew begin flexing out from his base and against your palms, seemingly attached from somewhere within and stretching down the bottom half of his length. It seems to add to him more firmness, and serves to push him out from himself and as far as possible into your care. He must be very close, then.

What was once a fluid roll in his legs and hips has given way to sharp, jerking spasms all over the bed. His fingers have stopped stroking your hair, now gripping it tight instead. He swells, slightly thicker still in your mouth and hands, and you feel the whole of him has now clenched tight across his entire length.

His body stops its movement, and for a moment there's nothing from him. You continue working him, keeping him to that same, tortuously slow pace. He gives you a long and aching moan.

The first throb — powerful, rolls up through him and kicks him out against the inside of your throat. The strength of it surprises you. An instant later and you feel the surge hit the back of your mouth.

He is so hot and thick as to feel molten, and he's quickly filling up your throat and taking space behind your nose. It makes you sputter and choke. You find if you swallow, and fast, you're just able to continue breathing.

His body is giving its issue in slow, drawn-out spates. They're different; in a way they're calmer, but also much more powerful. His is unlike the frantic spurting you've had yourself and felt from other men.

He is also so much more filmy and viscous than you're used to from men. He clings fast to your throat and tongue, leaving you a sharp and foreign taste.

You reel at first from the sheer potency of him, his heat and taste and texture and volume all saturating your senses and overwhelming you.

But your mind is so tainted with lustful hunger that you quickly take to it, with an eagerness and insatiability.

His climax lasts. And it lasts. Still more. He must be lingering some enviable twenty or so seconds more here than you've ever seen, his body still all locked tight and spasming. Above the sounds of your own heavy, guttural swallowing, you can hear him sucking down sharp, shuddering gasps of air through his nose. You keep dutifully wringing him out into your hands and throat, marveling at how his body can sustain such a spectacle. Another complaint for Rhalic, then...

Eventually he does abate. His tail loosens its viselike grip, and you look up at him from your work, your eyes hungry for his affirmation.

His chest sinks in with a heavy sigh and he takes your chin under his hand once again and pulls you up to him, locking eyes with you and turning your head to the side.

He gives you another kiss.

You expect it to be the gentle kiss of a sated lover. But instead you find still more passion and need.

His tongue darts around inside you with a purpose, probing and flicking up around and behind your teeth. His nostrils flare out as he takes in loud streams of breath against your cheek. He licks around your palate and gums, seemingly taking pleasure in lapping down what he's left clung to you there. You would not have imagined this from the Zharat you met hours ago. He's ravenous, all the coyness and restraint apparently given way — succumbing to some primal instinct.

Your hands keep squeezing his stiff, wet sex. As you'd hoped, he seems to be still just as keen to your touch.

His tongue finishes its lascivious work and he pulls back from his kiss.

"I... really rather enjoyed that, love."

His sharp eyes stare at yours with a fierce intent, as though to betray some kind of thrilling danger to your own safety. You feel you might be his prey; he looks at you as though some great, starving dragon might regard a meal, caught helpless and squirming in its talons.

"I think I could tell," you tease. You give him a couple of quick, playful squeezes with your hands. "Want another one?"

He still stares at you with that same excitingly fearsome expression.

"I think there's other things I'd like to do with you instead. Or perhaps, to you..." His lips pull into a sly grin. "Why don't you go and pour another glass for us both?"

You stay still, your knees still straddled over either side of his legs. You try to match the intensity of his gaze and instead of leaving, you continue working his slick, sensitive flesh between your two hands.

He hisses again — this time clearly at you.

You still just smile back at him, not relenting. He closes his eyes.

"Love..." His head lolls to the side and you witness a single eye flash open, crackling with fire. "I will lose myself."

You lean into him and give his snout a single little peck. Then you give him one more squeeze, exaggeratedly slowly from base to tip. You figure maybe you might like to ignore his warning, just to see...

He hisses again, and you finally decide to let him go.

You get up from the bed and stretch your body, making a point to do so in full view for Zharat, who's returned to sitting up on the bed.

You move to take his glass from the nightstand, letting your hips pass by him just in front of his face.

Flick.

He catches you just along the underside of your outstretched length.

“This, again?" you tease. Zharat licks his lips and looks up at you, still with the same expression in his eyes.

“Again... what?"

He looks so wonderfully enticing like this, his head held at the level of your lap and his eyes locked up at yours hungrily.

You keep a small distance from his snout and start ever so slightly turning your hips from side to side, letting yourself sway in the air just in front of him. Dancing for him...

Flick.

He tags you this time just under your tip. It feels just a little too good for you to walk away.

Flick. Flick.

On the next swing, you lean in a bit more to try to see if you can lightly brush yourself against the very end of his snout.

You succeed, and he still just stares up at you with those same burning eyes. His nostrils flare out and back, for all the scent you've surely just placed directly on them.

You touch him against his snout a second time, then a third, each time letting yourself just lightly graze against him. On the fourth approach his tongue darts out and catches you, coiling tight and holding you still. It makes you jump, the feeling being so abrupt and concentrated in such a delicate place. A moment later and you relax again.

Zharat is quite a sight like this. His long, thin tongue is wrapped three or four times around you, holding you out straight in front of his handsome face. His eyes are still staring up at your own, all full of lecherous intent.

You stroke his cheek with your thumb. He looks perfect.

Pushing your hips forward, you press yourself into his mouth.

His eyes go soft and hazy, before his lids close completely, and his nose gives out little audible puffs of air right up against your navel.

For the moment, he seems sated. Feeling affectionate, you stroke his cheek a couple times more.

He starts to move around you and you let yourself become lost in his warm, wet mouth. He moves neither his head nor his neck, instead working you with only that long, masterful tongue. The feeling is something you could have never imagined; everything is slick and light and he's able to squeeze you tight while still dancing his tip all around your sensitive head and underside.

One of his hands reaches beneath you and starts kneading and fondling again. He's making quick work of you.

Your knees go weak as the warmth starts threatening to overtake you again. You hold tight to his head, clutching onto the spikes set in his temples and reveling in the softness and wet warmth of him.

You can't last any longer.

You crane your neck forward and tilt your head back, leaning all the weight of your hips against him. With a groan, you feel yourself finally start to give out.

It's no less than before; it's different, now with the same strength but with none of the strain. He's given you the purest, most pleasant release. You're pouring yourself out for him with a quiet vigor, feeling every innervating wave as it flows through you and out into his eager muzzle.

For a few seconds your mind is washed clean and clear. Everything is gone, but for the raw, chemical pleasure that's coursing through your neck and your spine, making the hair on your arms stand on end.

You find satisfaction mixed in with all this pleasure — this is what this lizard wants. He's lovingly drinking you down with enthusiasm.

Your focus is fixed on some distant nothingness in the far wall as you just hold tight to Zharat's head, your own head craned forward and your body doubled over him. You're not sure you could stand if he were not already supporting your weight, for how weak your legs and knees feel. A few more seconds... while your back slowly coils inward and your body gives out its very last.

The seconds pass.

You're left panting, still doubled over. Then, again, you're craving. Still more...

The images of what you want to do with Zharat lose their shape and become a vague and formless, primal lust.

You just need to... to have him. Any part of him. You want to breed his mouth again... or take him under his tail... or just feel that great, slick lizard cock of his writhing in your hands once more...

He unwraps his tongue from you and pulls away, opening his eyes up at you again — the fire has already returned to them.

His tongue flicks his nose repeatedly.

"Aren't you delicious, love." He slides his tongue through his lips. "Another glass, then?" He leans in and nuzzles the tip of you with his snout, as you had done to him before. “Or... shall I just drink from this instead? Again, and... again..."

You hold fast to his head, still leaning forward onto him slightly. It takes all that you have not to push back into his hot, wet mouth, seize him by the temples again and force him to do exactly that.

You instead let your hips move forward up higher on his face, sliding yourself over the top of his muzzle and pushing up against his brow. You reach a hand down, and press yourself down and into his face and skin.

His eyes roll back and go distant once again. He grumbles in approval.

You notice you've left little streaks on his perfect, blue-green scales where you've slid yourself over his face. You had thought he couldn't look any better than he did before...

You slide yourself across him again and up along the side of his muzzle, pressing yourself firmly down and next to one of his shuttered eyes.

The offer is enticing, and you toy with the thought of it for a while.

You continue rubbing yourself all into his face and cheeks, finding a perverse pleasure in defiling his flawless scales. His nostrils are still flaring out and puffing wildly, and his eyelids are flickering. What a licentious lizard he is, hidden away beneath all that facade...

Feeling bold, you decide you also have other ideas for the remainder of your night together.

You pull away from him fully, and bring his glass back to where yours is sat waiting with the wineskin on the table.

You're still buzzing, feeling almost saturated now. You're not quite sure it's wise you should have more. But then, you've been unsure about so much in your life leading to this moment. You hear Zharat rising from the bed behind you. With some difficulty, you refill your glass and his.

Standing there facing the window, you just hold onto your glass as you ever so slightly careen off to one side, trying to keep yourself steady while you watch the rain.

A hand touches the small of your back.

Then it slides down to your backside and squeezes you there, firmly.

Lovrik's words play back in your mind once more, the words he spoke in the tavern on the day you first met him.

"There are no better lovers in Rivellon, than the lizards..."

Zharat hums to you again from above your head, and you feel a scaled finger slide down from your lower back and begin to tease you between your bare cheeks.

You smile to yourself. Then you tilt back your glass.