by Amanda Milo
My belly button. He doesn’t have one; he doesn’t know what one is.
With a clumsy hand, I shove between us and tap the depression on my stomach.
“Hm, I wondered what this belly divot was,” he murmurs. “I’ll ask you more about it later. For now…” his finger skates along the front of my vaginal wall with patience and curiosity. He whispers a touch over an area that makes my body lock up like I’m being hit with lightning.
“I am so pleased: I believe I’ve found it for you,” he breathes—and his rumbly purr intensifies as he continues to coax more shaking, sweating, twitching tremors out of my thrilled system, making me cum for him—and he doesn’t stop when he breaks my body for the first time. He keeps stroking the magic spot he’s found, like it’ll give him extra treasure if he turns it inside out and shakes the hell out of it.
He’s nearly doing just that.
He uses two fingers to tap the sensitized area, making me muffle a scream as I quake from my womb to my toes. Pressure builds and builds and builds—until I feel liquid pulse out of me in time to my convulsing.
Instantly, I slam my thighs together, mortified. “It’s not urine,” I tell him quickly. “I’ve heard of this. It’s—”
“I know,” Halki says, and from the sizzling satisfaction in his eyes as he proudly draws out his fingers and begins to lick them clean, I realize he’s not put off by my involuntary squirt of excitement at all. In fact, he’s clearly proud and pleased.
It’s strangely thrilling.
My inhibitions shrink even more.
He shifts, and his staff spills a trail of hot greasy fluid across my thigh. I tense, thinking that he’s gotten so excited after pleasuring me that he’s spontaneously cum and this will be an end to our session as I’ve often heard the horrified complaint from my tribesisters (‘Those are wasted babies that were just spilled!’). But Halki shifts again, gently humping me, and his cock continues to profusely leak—and he’s completely unworried. The edginess and need in his eyes is not the look of a man who is satisfied yet, and if he’s cumming, he isn’t doing it in spurts; he’s oozing. When I reach between us and brush at it, the fluid is slick and thickens against my finger like jam, sticky and—when I dare to bring it to my mouth—I find it sweet.
“Blazing fires,” Halki chokes.
My gaze flies to his.
His eyes are wide as he stares at me. “You are the most seductive female.”
My cheeks heat, and it’s a struggle not to duck or avert my gaze, but I’m flattered at his praise, especially when I was only curious, not striving to be seductive. There’s something incredibly powerful about being seen as desirable, especially when I’m only being myself.
I dig my shoulders deeper into the bedding, his castings nudging me as I do, and bring my knees up to Halki’s sides. I slide my calves over his back and cross my ankles, locking him to me. Inadvertently, I moan as his shaft fits along my slit, his hot oil mixing with my cream.
Halki hisses and grips himself, fisting his staff at the root. His eyes glitter as he gazes down my body and fixes his eyes on his obscene organ as it thumps against my swollen lips.
He growls.
His thumb finds my clit, and then he leans back enough for his cock to pop up between us, glossy with my wetness and his strange emissions. He prods the head of it at the top of my sex, making me twitch and suck in a breath.
The contact feels nice. And then his feathery accessories wrap around my clit and start tickling it.
Maybe it’s the added stimulation of seeing Halki’s hungry eyes locked on me as he touches me this time, but I screech in languages I don’t even recognize. The little moth-penis-feathers are merciless as they draw out the most intense series of orgasms I’ve ever experienced. He could have started with this. Or maybe not. I was nervous about this part of him touching me, and he probably didn’t miss that fact.
If it matters, I’m reticent about his accoutrements no longer. My limbs are flailing, my neck is arched back, my mouth is open—I don’t even care that I’ve partially fallen against one of Halki’s castings. I even know which one, because dimly, I’m aware of the cool smoothness of the bull’s ring as it steals warmth from my skin.
I’m stammering prayers mingled with effusive statements of gratitude when Halki draws the feathery parts away with clear reluctance.
Gasping, shaking—bleary-eyed and blissful—I try to focus on Halki’s face. My hands ineffectually pet along his arms as he sits up on his heels, angles the head of his staff down, and slides into me with a deep, seemingly endless thrust.
And although he coaxed my body to admit him, I still wasn’t prepared for how it would feel to be stuffed full of Halki’s organ earlier. Unbelievably, it feels even bigger than it looks. My breathing is affected as he drives in, separating my insides.
At once, I’m excited as well as feeling overpowered by the sheer thickness and iron-hardness of him.
And then he begins to draw himself out. The slide is slow, long, and feels so good it hurts. I gasp his name as my insides begin to flutter through his retreat.
Something snaps in my dragon. He plunges inside me with a rough thrust that makes his sack slap below the sensitive, stretched place where I’m joined to him.
I cry out, and he clutches me and rides me harder. His pupils have spread until there’s almost no evergreen iris to be seen. It makes him look crazed. To complete the impression, his lips are slightly parted, his sharp teeth bared.
The illicit tempo of his stones spanking my ass intensifies. It’s wild. It’s primal. I love it, love everything about this—his weight, I love the smell of him, I love the way he handles me, with frenzied reverence. With burning need.
He’s breathing raggedly, his special oil glands along the sides of his member more evident than ever as streams of unguent wetness exit with every rapid withdraw of his hips, the overfilled spills running down my crack as he crams himself inside me again.
And again.
Hands slide to my hips where fingers dig into my flesh, his dragonman’s nails pricking me in ten buzzing places—and Halki gives a grunting, powerful thrust, grinding us together.
I bite my lip, moaning.
He nuzzles my cheek with his nose, hips slowly parting from mine.
I sigh and relax, sinking into the decadence of the physical stimulation.
Without warning, he bangs himself back inside me and explodes.
I cry out at the sensation of intensely hot dragon sackjuice spraying forcefully against my walls.
Halki bites my shoulder, his teeth sinking deep.
He keeps me pinned underneath of him in all ways—by his heavy body, his piercing rod, and now his fangs.
Spray upon spray of semen fills me up, hitting my insides in pulses, setting off strange pleasure quakes low in my belly.
His special penis antennae pet me softly, a sharp contrast to his claiming holds on me everywhere else.
After a lifetime, he withdraws his teeth and laps lazily at my shoulder like he’s a lion of the mountains, cleaning his well-used mate.
It feels weirdly good.
He sighs atop me, relaxing. I squish under him, absorbing his weight with a satisfaction I never knew was possible.
We lay this way, panting—and yes, with me slowly suffocating.
I should tell him to move, but I can’t drum up the wherewithal to care. If I die like this, it will have been worth it. And now I get it, what Yatanak’s always said about the sacrifice of dying during lusty sex being a price he feels like paying. I get it now.
A rattle starts up behind Halki’s sternum; his purr shakes right into me, the vibrations only loosening my bones even more.
My hands play along the muscles of his sides, my fingers falling in the trenches carved between his sawing ribs, digging in when he inhales, enjoying the way he exhales a shuddery breath.
When I drag my nails up towards his shoulders, Halki groans and drops even heavier atop me, burying his face in my throa
t. It’s an oddly vulnerable gesture; there’s a tug on my heart as my whole body fills with warmth just to have him resting on me like this.
After a moment, he falls off of me and rolls to his back, dragging me on top of him.
Our hearts pound against each other, gradually calming as they sync beats. And all the while, Halki’s gaze stays glued to mine, his hands caressing me tenderly. Soon, they touch me possessively. And when he’s urging me to position myself so that I’m skewered astride him, he’s baring his teeth, and his oil-glazed staff is sliding into my thoroughly shocked slit.
To think that it started the morning a virgin, for all intents and purposes. It’s had quite the awakening.
...More like attacking.
His eyes capturing mine, I’m sure he can see my shock. “Again?” I croak. “Really?”
When he smiles, Halki’s teeth glint. “Welcome to mate fever.”
CHAPTER 20
Nalle
When the sun dominates the sky and ‘the lusty taskmaster of a moon is gone,’ as Halki puts it, we emerge from our lodgehouse. It’s only been a night’s worth of heat, but Halki looks thinner, and I’m a cum-filled, sticky-swollen mess when I greet my tribe. Halki’s gripping my hand less like he’s holding it and more like he’s shackling it to keep me from getting away.
Like I could. I’m walking bow-legged, my hip is complaining just enough to give me a proud little thrill—and when we round the curve of the path and everyone comes into view, my entire tribe gapes at us, all of them at their fires with their morning tea.
Then they break out in applause.
What follows is a gauntlet of good-natured snickers and ribbing and ribald comments that nearly make my dragon blush as we wind our way to the latrine and a morning bath.
We’re only slightly waylaid when Kulla shouts that she’ll trade me a skein of Qiviut yarn for a ride on Halki.
Qiviut yarn?
I stutter to a halt. I throw my head back and order Halki, “You’ll only have to do this one time.” My eyes widen as I rub my hands together with glee. “Unless she offers me another skein.”
I’m mostly teasing.
Mostly.
Halki snorts smoke at my face, bends at his knees, and plants his shoulder into my solar plexus, tossing me up and over himself until my view is his back and his fine ass. “You don’t get to trade me for yarn, female.”
Secretly, I’m pleased he wants no one but me. Still, I pretend to fight about this, shaking my head at him even though he can’t see me. “You don’t know how amazing this stuff is, Halki!”
“More amazing than a Great Crested Merlin?” he asks, sounding disbelieving. “More amazing than me?”
And he has every right to question the notion. As I stare down the meaty, muscled expanse of his powerful back and proud haunches, I know I will never want to give this up.
I sigh happily. But I inject regret into my tone like I’m conceding valuable, rare things. Like Qiviut. “Okay.” I lightly fondle the part of his butt that isn’t covered by the loincloth. “Only if she offers me three skeins.”
He brings his palm to my butt. I jump, expecting him to spank his handful, but he doesn’t. He just cups me. It feels… too nice for public. At least my dress is long enough that I look as decent and dignified as one can in this position—you know, being shouldered by a dragon who doesn’t want to be studded out for yarn.
“What is Qiviut yarn?” he asks.
I exhale a dreamy sigh. “Only the most sumptuous of wools. Halki, it’s so soft, you’ll be amazed when you feel it.” I slap at the hands of my tribesisters who are trying to touch Halki’s barely-covered rump as he parts the crowd. “Mine!” I snarl at them, making Halki rumble in approval.
Kulla waves her skein of Qiviut as we pass her, hoping to tempt us. It’s nearly working for one of us.
“Is it softer than the center of you?” Halki asks, distracting me as I reach out for it.
I pause, trying to twist around him to see his face, but I can’t. He adjusts his hold on my thighs, his hand warm, his scales rough on my skin where my dress doesn’t reach. “You mean my heart?”
“No.” His hand that he has over my hind end slides down until he’s cupping me in front of everyone, making me yelp and shove my palms into his back, bracketing his spine, trying to rear up on him. “This,” he says. “This part of you right here.” He squeezes.
I throw my hand over my mouth to stifle the embarrassing moan I make in reaction.
He shoves up my dress. He ignores my shout. “I don’t think anything is softer than your center,” Halki informs me, sharing his opinion so innocently that it feels extra lubricious as he shoves his finger between my thighs and dips inside me.
My tribesisters kindly disappear as my dragonman violates me all the way to the latrine, then the bathhouse where he takes me hard enough to make me scream—and no one interrupts us to make further offers.
This might have something to do with Halki’s bone-shivering growl of, “And you would trade this—”
(The bathhouse shakes on its foundation from the force of his thrust—and my moan is loud and tortured and filthy.)
“—for mere yarn?”
(Clearly, my dragon has never touched wool like Qiviut. But he’s made his point. Even for Qiviut, he’s convinced me not to trade him.)
...Not that I really would have. And about halfway through a punishing thrust that makes me nearly sing for him, I assure him of that fact.
His answering grin tells me that he knew I was only goading him all along.
He ruts me until I can barely remember my name. His though, I never lose the capability to moan.
When I’m dressed (and Halki is more or less dressed in his loincloth), we exit the bathhouse and make our way to the center of our village, where everyone is going about daily chores. Chores I’ve neglected. I look around with concern. “How’s our bum lamb doing?”
Fenna huffs. “What do you mean your lamb? Every feeding that little thing expands more and more. Soon it’ll be a fat, spoiled ball of wool.”
“Good!” I say, relieved.
“Is the orphan’s dam still producing milk?” Halki asks hopefully.
He hasn’t been able to stop talking about it. Well, that’s not quite true. It’d be more accurate to say that when he isn’t pinning me down and driving into me hard enough to make me go blind, and when he isn’t dragging me on top of him and urging me to ride him faster, then he’s talking about food.
Breeding and food. They seem to be the main drives of a dragon.
Of course, eating and sex aren’t mutually exclusive. I learned that lesson well and thoroughly.
A dreamy sigh catches in my throat when Halki glances at me sharply, his eyes hotter than a moment ago. It’s as if he can read the turn my thoughts took.
“Here, dragon,” Fenna says, marching to us and shoving an earthenware pitcher into his hands. “Sheep's milk. Still warm.”
Halki carefully uses his clawed, mostly-human fingers to lift the clay lid and peer inside. “Oooh, thank you,” he murmurs. And then he brings the pitcher lip up to his mouth and tips it back like it’s sweet mead, not milk.
When he runs his tongue as far as it will reach inside of the upturned, emptied pitcher, Fenna grimaces. “That was my pottery, but you can keep it.”
Halki makes an appreciative noise, and fits the lid back onto the pitcher before running his tongue over his upper lip to clean away his milk mustache. “You are very kind.”
Fenna sniffs and eyes the pitcher he tongued. “Yeah. You dragons bring out the ‘kind’ in me a lot lately.” She’s grumbling by the end of her statement, and then she whirls around and stalks off.
Wincing, I call after her, “Thank you for taking care of the lamb!”
“Whatever!” she calls back.
“We’ll owe you!” I shout.
“She can have the next bachelor dragon we come upon,” Halki offers. He glances at me and points to the pitcher held by the
handle in his other hand. “I feel wretched for not thinking of you first. Did you want some?”
I bite back my smile. “A little late to ask.” When he begins to look ashamed, I pat his scaly, broad shoulder. “It’s all right, I’m only teasing. I’ve grown up with a lifetime of sheep’s milk. I’m glad you enjoy it.” I glance around us, chewing on my lip. “Where are your brothers?” I ask him out of the corner of my mouth.
Halki surveys our tribe with a superior air. “You’re missing two clan sisters.” Then he grins. “They must have mated them.”
“Whaaat,” I say, bug-eyed—because I didn’t even notice I was missing tribeswomen. I have to scan over everyone again to see which two are gone.
Sassnitz is nowhere to be seen... and neither is Västra or Ingrid the goose. Oh no...
“I’m going to hunt,” Halki announces. “A Crested Merlin can go the full length of a heat without eating, but I’d prefer to hunt during these times when I don’t feel nearly as mating-maddened. Currently, I’m sated.”
I snort. “You should be, you beast.”
He growls smugly to that and snaps his teeth, making my skin shiver—and not because I’m scared. He squeezes my hand and gives me a bright smile. He also hands me his prized pitcher for safekeeping. “Another casting will be joining our collection. We’ll have to arrange them with care. Last night, you were so overcome with fever that you managed to push the ones we have off of the bench.”
“I remember,” I murmur. I remember being ‘overcome’ several times, in fact, but then Halki would stop the activity to retrieve them and set them beside us again.
As far as I’m concerned, I’m a champion at biting my tongue when it comes to my mate’s attraction to dried vomit.
“Happy hunting,” I tell my dragon, tugging him down to me for a farewell kiss.
Kissing is something we haven’t really done. Halki prefers nibbling, nuzzling, and biting whenever his mouth gets close.
But without sex clouding his thoughts, I’m able to get a quick peck to his surprised lips.
When I pull back enough to refocus, my throat closes up so fast I squeak.